#and packing mostly masculine clothing when she leaves

[autism-swagger]

I sincerely hope you all know that when I say "baby butch Jackie Taylor who died before he had a chance to realize/explore it" I'm not just pulling that out of my ass. Literally just look at the outfits she wears over the course of season 1.

Are they the most masculine things ever? No, of course not! But when you compare them to the outfits we see her wear before the crash, when they're still in Wiskayok?

It paints a very interesting picture.

[betweenthepoems]

Finally got myself to actually draw a decent pic of Loki. Coupled with an older pic I’ve made of Sigyn.

Note that those are my interpretations of those deities as the characters for my Wattpad YA novel project. This is meant to be a retelling but with some major changes to the Norse lore filled with some extra details from me, so look at them as if they were OCs.

OK, with that out of the way, here’s some stuff about each of them:

LOKI:

AFAB, genderfluid, but mostly stays in masculine forms, although isn’t shy about being born as a girl. Will punch, however, if someone brings it up in an insulting manner.

Even if he’s male at the moment, still has some feminine traits in his looks. More beautiful than handsome, like in some old shoujo manga. For this pic of him I specifically used a panel of Lady Oscar from Riyoko Ikeda’s The Rose of Versailles as a reference.

This Loki is half Aesir, half Jotunn and a shapeshifter, capable of changing every part of his body as he wishes… except his eyes that always stay the same, showing who that person really is. That wouldn't be much of a problem if he didn’t have very unique eyes. Their odd colors and shape, coming from his Jotunn DNA with some mutations don’t help him with appearing as a good person or not standing out from the crowd.

Exhibits traits similar to that of ADHD. In universe they say he has bees inside his head. Also an extrovert.

Using high school tropes, he’s more of a class clown with some believing he’s a hopeless case.

Homeless by choice, but sometimes crashes at one of his few friends' places. This includes Eir’s, whom he sees as the closest thing to a mother figure and teacher, Thor’s, Sigyn’s and Balder’s.

Before Sigyn, Loki wasn’t ever in a serious relationship, at best flirting. Other than with her, the closest he was with Balder, but had to shut it down because of Frigg’s disapproval. Balder is still open to starting again.

SIGYN:

Autistic and an introvert, very fond of being left alone. Takes pride in being independent and doesn’t like asking for help unless she really can’t do something alone.

Hates being touched without permission, especially touching someone else’s bare skin with her own. She finds it gross, with all that pores secreting stuff and living, moving flesh underneath.

Recently she had survived being mauled almost to death by a pack of hungry wolves, leaving her with both physical and mental scars as well as chronic pain in one of her legs and hand. Despite this she still tries to live as she used to, even if she needs to take some limits into account.

Sigyn is a demigodess. She used to live as a hermit deep in Migdard woods, believed by local humans to be a cryptid, but now, after the attack, lives in the outskirts of an Asgardian village in Thor’s domain.

Being half god, half human, height wise she’s in the middle: at 175 cm not as tall as the average goddess but taller than the average human at the time of the vikings. The best way to describe her is as if someone made a lifesize clay sculpture of a girl and then, when the material was still soft, stretched out some body parts and toned down to the absolute minimum all feminine traits. She’s still looking like a girl, but could pass as a young man by just wearing male clothing.

Sigyn likes to keep her hair short and would cut whenever it became possible to tie them into a ponytail. That’s because she finds them hard to maintain and bothersome getting everywhere even when tied.

[all-alone-he-turns-to-stone]

TW imagine the Scott tells Malia of how he got bit and how he got bit and told Malia how the pack works and who he's lost and how he met Allison.

How It All Started

Summary: Ever since the nogitsune, everyone’s been feeling quite down with grief. Except for one person, ex coyote, that has a craving to learn. One day, when Stiles needs some time for himself, he sends Malia to Scott. And there, Scott tells her the story of how he met Allison, and how he became a werewolf.

Word Count: 1288

Pairing: None really, mention of Siles x Malia

Characters: Malia, Scott, Stiles

Warning: Mention of death, grief, guilt

A/n: Thank you for your request and sorry it took so long!! Hope you enjoy!

If you liked it, don’t forget to leave a feedback!

In a small town in California, it was calm for once. No enemies had been reported, at least, none that needed the attention of the few supernatural people that lived there.

Needless to say, it was calm. And it was boring.

It was Christmas break, finally. Most teenagers were happy to have a break from school, excited for Christmas but for others… It was a time for grieving. Not many knew, but they saved the world, back in October. 

But they lost people along the way.

Scott was a mess ever since he lost Allison. Everyone tried to cheer him up, Stiles stopped by his house everyday and sometimes, Melissa had to kick him out, that was how much he spent time there. Scott appreciated it, but he needed time alone, mostly. But he knew how much Stiles felt guilty for what happened to Allison, and part of the reason for his presence with him was to heal himself.

Everyone needed healing.

In the midst of the grieving teenagers was a newcomer. Spending all of her childhood stuck in her coyote form made her miss so many things, and now, she wanted to know, learn, she wanted to catch up all the years she lost.

At first, it was not too bad, having her all around. She would show up uninvited at Stiles’ house, to cuddle, to ask him questions, to talk or to learn, and it didn’t bother him that much. But then, she showed up while he was in the shower, and the scream that left his mouth was so loud and not masculine… Shame took a reddish color on his face.

That was why, the day after…

“You want me to babysit Malia?”

The hyperactive teenager was pacing in his best friend’s room, his hand gesticulating the words that weren’t leaving his mouth.

“Not really, more like, entertain her? I mean, my dignity took a real bad stab in the back when she walked in my bathroom and saw me naked, okay? I mean, she already saw me naked once, in Eichen House, but that’s not the point, the point is, Scott, I need a break!”

Scott closed his mouth that was left agape. Damn, his friend talked fast. “She saw you naked before?”

“That’s all you got from everything I said?” Stiles exclaimed, indigned, his hands in the air. “God. Unbelievable. I can’t believe you’re my best friend.” Stiles rolled his eyes and walked to the door. “She’s waiting in my car, I’ll let her know you’ll spend the day with her today.”

“Stiles! Wait!” But it was too late, Stiles was already gone, his car making an infernal noise as he pressed hard on the accelerator, and Scott was left with…

“It’s nice here.”

Malia Tate.

“Listen, Malia,” Scott squeezed the bridge of his nose between two fingers and sighed. It wasn’t her fault, he just wasn’t in the mood to babysit the werecoyote.

Malia sat down on the floor, making herself a nice, comfortable pillow with Scott’s clothes. “Yes, I’m listening,” she declared once everything was perfect.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked, walked closer, and detailed what she did. Before she even answered, he knew. 

“A nest,” she said like it was obvious and totally normal. And it was normal, after years of being an animal, it would take more than a few months for her to forget her old habits. “So, I’m listening.”

“Listening to what,” Scott sighed again and sat down on his bed, avoiding looking at the werecoyote currently making herself at home in his room.

“Everything.” Scott took a quick glance at her. “I want to know everything, about the pack, how you got bitten, and Allison…”

At the mention of the person he loved and lost, Scott seemed to close on himself like in a shell. It was still fresh and painful, like a cut that wouldn’t really heal.

“I don’t…” Scott started. He didn’t want to talk about it, not to her, not to anyone. Talking about it, about her, it would hurt. And it already hurt enough.

“Scott…”

Scott lifted his head, surprised to hear Malia’s voice softer. Usually, it was rough, pressed, like she was always in a hurry to do everything at once and tell all the words she couldn’t say when she was stuck in her animal form. 

When Scott met her gaze, he understood. She lost people too. There was the same pain, guilt and anger in her eyes. She would understand.

So Scott sighed again, made himself more comfortable, and started telling Malia the story of how the hunter and the werewolf fell in love and how they started the most forbidden relationship.

“But first,” Scott’s gaze was on the ceiling as he recalled the events that happened so long ago. “I have to tell you how I turned into a werewolf. It was a normal night when a certain person you know well climbed the vine near my window to tell me he found half of a dead body.”

Malia was drinking his words like his story was the only source of water in the whole word. She listened, attentively, her eyelids barely fluttering, scared of missing a single thing Scott would say. She learned the story of the bite, how they defeated the alpha that turned out to be Derek’s uncle. How Scott discovered he was a werewolf and how Allison, the girl he fell for, was the daughter of the hunter that wanted him dead. How he lied to her at first but then, she knew about him, promised her dad she wouldn’t date him anymore… But did it in secret.

Scott told her everything. And without him realizing, talking about it to someone he didn’t really know, it made him feel better. To share his story, to be listened to and understood, it helped him.

When Scott finished his story, he didn’t look at Malia at first. Truth be told, he forgot she was there, listening. He got so caught up in his memories, living them once again, falling in love for the first time with Allison, the fear of losing her, of losing control… And then losing her… He lived those memories again.

“That was…” Malia ended up breaking the silence, and Scott finally gathered the courage to look at her. She had tears in her eyes, but a smile on her face. “A really good story. You really loved her.”

“Yeah,” Scott agreed with her.

“And she really loved you. A lot.” 

Malia sighed, slapped her thighs loud, and jumped on her feet. 

“I…” Scott didn’t know what to say. He didn’t expect to feel so much better after talking to her, and he also didn’t expect her to be so understanding. He really misjudged her and had to fix his mistake. “If you want to be part of the pact…” Scott changed the subject before tears would fall again on his cheeks. He didn’t want her to see how broken he still was. “There’s some rules to follow.”

“Rules, perfect,” Malia hastened to say, clearly excited at the prospect of joining his pack. “Anything.”

“First,” Scott lifted a finger, “you leave poor Stiles some dignity. Knock before entering, or call, but don’t break in his room.”

“No breaking in Stiles’ room, got it,” Malia nodded, frowned, and shook her head. “Why?”

“Okay. Before any other rules, I need to teach you about personal space and privacy. I know, as a coyote, you don't need to think about those things.”

“No,” Malia agreed quickly, like it was obvious.

“This will be a long night, I hope you’re ready,” Scott laughed when Malia sat back down on her makeshift nest.

“I have all night.”

Teen Wolf taglist: @stixnstripesworld

Forever taglist: @nitnat6245 @b3autyfuldisast3r @eevvvaa @wickedinspirations @fictional-affairs @cryptichobbit @awkward-and-indecisive

[okay-victoria]

Random Personal Rant

For anyone somehow here not from the original thread, this started off me getting asked what finishing school is and me getting shit off my chest that is only mildly relevant about how I could both be of the social class that gets sent to finishing school and grows up on welfare.

With an understanding that in many parts of the world it wouldn't qualify as so, as far as the US goes, my dad is from what counts as a very old money family from Baltimore & Philadelphia. Both his siblings went to college and one now owns a major hedge fund, and his sister is married to a C-level executive at a huge conglomerate. His parents went to college. His grandparents went to college. All eight of his great grandparents went to college. My dad...did not go to college. He was not about that life, and while I don't mean it as an insult, when I say his primary occupation until I was ~5 was a drummer in a mediocre band I mean that he opened for a lot of great acts, and if you lived in the Boston to Atlanta area in the 80s you may have heard him play, but he was never a huge national name. But he wasn't an amateur band playing for free at some random local gig either.

My mom grew up on a chicken farm in a Mennonite family in Pennsylvania but also completely rejected her heritage and became a model, sort of like my father, of mediocre status. Not Giselle Bundchen, but had national contracts and if you have a Graco ad/box from 1990-1993 you might see both me and her on it. They met because my mom's friends placed bets, one each, on who could sleep with a member of their favorite local band first and my mom picked my dad and...my mom was actually supposed to go be a model in Tokyo and found out she was pregnant with me and couldn't go 😂

So, after my parents had two kids back to back with a third on the way and determined they needed lifestyles more in line with having three children, they became much poorer than they originally were because my mom stopped working and my dad, with a barely-passed-high-school education but needing a true "day job" worked day labor in construction. My dad's father was too proud to give us money/help if my dad didn't beg for it; despite having eventually four young children my dad never did so we ended up on all the state assistance programs one could imagine. My grandma jokes that dinners at my parents house were BYOC - bring your own chair, because we didn't own any.

My mother and paternal grandmother had no such pride issues and I live in eternal gratitude that my welfare childhood was not as crappy as it should have been because my grandmother would have my mom accompany her on grocery runs and buy us food without my father or grandfather knowing, and every Christmas and birthday my grandparents/godparents could give us the one big ticket gift all the kids wanted that year. But, on the other side, I once got stung by a bee inside my mouth because my brother threw a hairbrush through a cracked window at me and broke it and we couldn't afford to fix it for about two years and a hornet got in one day and rested himself in my coke can (my parents were the very American type that fed me coca-cola in baby bottles at age 8 when I was jealous of my younger siblings lol).

It is hard not to believe in "toxic masculinity" when two men warring over dumbass pride issues would rather their children/grandchildren go without food than suck it up and decide 'help' isn't the worst word in the English language, and you know you've only been saved by two women who came from totally different backgrounds and entirely disapproved of each other but reached out the hand to shake when it came down to toddlers getting the short end of the don't-bend-the-knee stick. It wasn't that either of the men were bad people, I loved them both and got along great with both, but on a societal level I feel they were socialized in a very fucked up way if that was the end result, as both claimed "male pride" in these instances [my dad took multiple thousands of dollars I'd saved from working during college from me during the 2008-2010 financial crisis and didn't tell me and that was the reason I was given for why I hadn't been informed/asked, because it would be too emotionally difficult for an adult man to ask a young woman. My graduation present was them repaying me 1/3 of the money they'd taken from me without asking because I'd like, trusted them when it had been in a joint account that was a holdover from when I was <18 and couldn't have my own bank account].

While in some ways my parents on the surface achieved the American dream of going from nothing to a bunch of money, the real factor in play was that my dad's father was the bank. My parents had no credit and couldn't get real loans. My dad worked construction and during the two major periods that flipping houses was very lucrative, he never had to get an actual loan or pay actual interest, he just had to ask his father to pay out cash and then repay him at a flat 2% interest rate that didn't even accrue over time, just...whenever you are ready, repay the value of the loan + 2%. Because my father was doing something productive, in these instances, my grandfather was happy to pay, because it wasn't giving away money, it was loaning it. I had a very weird situation of mostly being poor but like also getting taken to the "big donors" events at the Kennedy Center and my grandparents regularly buying me a dress as a child worth more than my mom's wedding dress and also needing to pretend I fit in with these people.

And look. When I say "these people"...honestly, by and large, most wealthy people, whether inherited or not, are not the assholes you want to imagine. Most of them are extremely nice. Most of them are generous when it comes to the less fortunate who are in their personal sphere of being. Most of them are just really out of touch. The 100% kindest of all of them that I know once relayed to me that she thought people would be happier if once a year they did what she did...go to the airport with a purse packed full of absolute necessities, buy a one way ticket to the most appealing destination on the flight board, buy your clothes and book your accommodations after you'd arrived, and come back after you felt you'd 'centered' yourself. She didn't understand why there were so many unhappy people who weren't taking this very obvious route to being happier. I didn't quite know how to explain that saying "most" people couldn't afford to do that either financially or from a job/career angle didn't even cover it, as "most" sounds like 70% instead of 99.7%.

I was both my parents eldest son and eldest daughter in the worst combination possible. I was the eldest son because I was the most stereotypically male of all my siblings, in everything from desire to physically fight the battles I was given to dislike of shopping/fashion to lack of emotional connection to my relationships, so I can now fix your average household plumbing/drywall/electrical issue better than most "city" guys I interact with and remain less clingy to them in the process. I was also very much the oldest daughter from a responsibility perspective, I managed our household and from age 10 - 24 managed the finances of our family business, my mom almost died giving birth to my youngest brother after a ruptured uterus that should never have happened in the first place if we had adequate insurance to get her a non-emergency C-section (I was just past 9 years old at the time) and I was informally withdrawn from school for two years to take care of the family when she couldn't because there is no paid parental leave in the US and we got double-fucked by the medical industry because she got a bad "mesh" put in and then had to have a further surgery to repair that which we also had to pay for and didn't have the money to win a lawsuit over.

I don't know quite how to put this, but in the deepest fuck you of the universe, my rich-immigrant-ggggg grandfather's money led to him owning banks, insurance companies, etc, and the family cashed out in a big way when their ownership was bought by and merged with what is now Cigna, one of the biggest US healthcare insurers, and my nuclear family specifically got screwed by the American health insurance industry, but anyway, we were the people selected for that karmic comeuppance so if you want to feel schadenfreude at my expense, I'll allow it without begrudging the sentiment, my family might have fucked up your family’s life too, not just their own.

I got up twice a night to feed my brother because my dad had to sleep unmolested in my room to get to work and my mom was too weak to carry my brother or even hold him against her while she nursed so I had to hold him up to her. Adjusting to living in a city and hearing lots of random noises all the time was not easy when I'd had mom sound instincts from age 9.

I learned to drive the fall my youngest bro was born because my mom couldn't and I had to get my middle brother to preschool and go the grocery store on my own. While I hold absolutely no ill will towards my father or grandfather for this and given that about 1/3 of my paternal family either has an autism diagnosis or should, I fully feel the struggles they both went through to be communicated with, my father wouldn't ask for help, and my grandmother that lived 20 minutes away couldn't give enough help because my grandfather refused to do a single dish on his own as that was outside their "marriage contract" type agreement and she couldn't ever stay with us overnight when there wasn't a clearly-communicated need, so they let the burden fall on a 9 - 11 year old child and that really shaped a lot of my life in both good and bad ways. My youngest brother is 22, and we have only just climbed out of the medical debt his birth left us with between my dad's life insurance and my oldest brother and I paying for the extra cost of out-of-state college tuition.

The irony of all of this is that because my father died before his father, when my grandmother dies, my siblings and I will all inherit enough money (as a non-blood relative my mom, despite keeping her vows to part at death and not having remarried in eight years, is cut out entirely) to make this a non-issue, but my grandfather couldn't conscience spotting his unluckiest child some money in the end of days to pay for my youngest two brothers' education and take that worry off my father as he was dying. The day before he died I had to hold him down in bed to keep him from trying to climb in his truck to go to work because he was so anxious about trying to provide for us in spite of his father having fuck you money, because his father didn't think it was fair to the other siblings (who, at the time, still owned a major hedge fund and were married to a C-level executive of a huge conglomerate). A day and a half later I went back to my job because at the time I was then the sole provider for the family and didn't want to risk asking for the standard week's bereavement leave when I knew I was capable of showing up at work the next day and was fresh out of college so hadn't built up a reputation yet.

My father worked the day each of us was born, so I suppose it is only fair and he smiled at the choice. In spite of what it may seem, I gave a baller and very heartfelt speech at his funeral to all his rich friends that over and above everything, he'd taught us how to be happy with our own lives no matter what, and multiple of them emailed my mom in the aftermath to say they'd reassessed their relationship with their children in light of it, although...tbh I kind of doubt that lasted and they probably changed nothing 😅. The last good talk I had with him, two weeks before he died [his liver was going and it sent toxins to his brain that de-personed him after that and he no longer recognized me as his daughter, but as his sister], I reassured him that though we would all be sad he'd gone, we'd live on just fine without him because that's how he'd raised us, and according to my mom that was what gave him the final bit of peace he needed. Although honestly, I don't think I will ever see the strength in another human again that it took my grandmother to sit next to him and stroke his hand and tell him to close his eyes and imagine he was happy on a beach and die, for God's sake, because he was unaware and in pain and just prolonging it for our sake by then.

That type of obsession my grandfather had with assessing his children and grandchildren on the basis of economic productivity and a very black and white idea of "fair" is one you don't easily forget, I promise you. My hedge fund uncle is currently positioning himself to screw us out of our inheritance because of janky writing in the will and I'm doing my fuck all best to gain the wherewithal to go toe-to-toe with this cold motherfucker in court as the oldest and representative member of my happily much nicer and softer younger brothers who I want to remain that way not because I even care that much about the money, I know what bills affect your credit first and what you can put off paying and all of us have good enough career prospects to do our own thing, but just because I want to give the middle finger to a man that was a multi-millionaire and drew lines on his milk and orange juice bottles when I came over so he knew if I drank what my parents couldn't afford when I was approximately six. Anyway, ask me why I support major reforms in wealth taxation. I don't care who it goes to, just not that guy, you feel?

Having expendable income was very exciting for a bit after I started working but once I got to the hateable point of assessing my annual bonus and internally complaining that I'd spent the money I should have spent on a Sauternes cellar to drop five digits on bedset materials (to be fair they are drop dead gorgeous, very comfy and the factory pays a living wage for people to handmake the sheets/duvets/pillows to people in San Francisco, which is not cheap, so maybe I did more good than harm with that), I two seconds later nodded to myself and went "the government needs to confiscate more money from me". The narrative is always that the "undeserving" will use it for dumb things they don't need like iPhones or refrigerators...?...but like...I could also have gone to Bed Bath and Beyond and bought a very nice sheet/comforter set for at most a tenth of what I paid so am I really spending it responsibly either....?....who is going to get more joy out of this misspent money....?....not me, that is for sure, I probably would have had more fun going to BBB and laying on all the demo beds and buying something there.

My lifelong dream, which may become possible if/when I do have something of an inheritance, is to provide food security for one of the many towns in the US were most residents don't have it. It's the thing I remember the most distinctly over the years. I never could quite believe it when I got to the point that I could just...pay to eat at a restaurant. One of the most disappointed my mother has ever been in me is when I was twenty five and confessed I actually had no idea how much a gallon of milk cost in a city grocery store besides that it was probably between $1 and $5, because I didn't have to know. For now I make a weekly drop off of my excess produce to a mom group I met under somewhat weird circumstances but I was walking through the cut-through that went through the low-income housing back to my apartment at like 2 AM on a Saturday and these moms were out there partying and smoking weed with their kids all strapped in strollers around or the older ones watched by a rotating member of the group and I felt very safe and like these moms had a very good vibe of both living their own lives [seriously for mental health parents but in most cases specifically mothers need to be able to keep up relationships with people their age] but keeping their children safe and accounted for while doing so and trying their fuckin' best against all the odds to figure out how to make that happen when life had dealt them a shit hand.

...anyway, looping way back to the original question of what finishing school is, when I was almost done with middle school my dad had built a legit construction business that then very quickly took off because we lived in a commutable zip code to the now-rich-in-their-own-right people he went to high school with who trusted him to redo their homes. We eventually moved to that zip code but I stayed and commuted back to my old high school. But, i was a pretty wild kid which my father appreciated for a long while because I would follow him around on jobs and enjoy doing physical labor, but once I was mid-puberty and also he had to maybe show me to his high school friends that did not fly.

I snapped - not broke, snapped - my left thumb and my parents had to trap me like a wild animal to get me to go the hospital. Then I got a deep cut that partially injured a tendon in my leg and at eleven I tried to beat the shit out of my dad to prevent him from picking me up to strap me in the car and go to the hopsital. Next I got a deep splinter due to my eternal-barefoot tendencies and it wouldn't come out so got infected and I refused to go to the doctor [another weird back story but I was minorly sexually assaulted [[to be clear, not raped or anything big traumatic]] when I was eight and had to stay in hospital for a week and my parents couldn't be with me all the time so I have a permanent heebie-jeebie about going to the hospital, not true anxiety, I will go if I know I need to and I don't breathe heavy or anything, and I'm actually not permanently weirded out by sex or anything, just doctors in hospitals specifically I kind of unconsciously try to justify not needing to the extent I can rationalize it] and my dad was tired of my antics so he was like "fine if you don't go I will slice your foot in half with a Swiss Army knife to get it out" and I called his bluff and laid down on the floor, stuck my foot on his lap, and he didn't really know what to do when a barely fourteen year old girl called his bluff so my brothers watched in fascinated but horrified awe as I got my foot sliced open spectacularly so that the infection/splinter could come out and I didn't even make a sound out of spite despite it being quite painful to my recollection almost twenty years later.

They saw me cry from pain exactly one time when while trying to break up a fight between all three of them (it was over ice cream) I got pushed and my ankle got dislocated and what actually made me cry was snapping it back in place and they realized it was not a joke. These dumb assholes that I love have ragged on me for "skipping" chores the day after I was in the hospital because the day before that I had to spend 18 hours running Thanksgiving as a good sub-hostess like I didn't have a serious infection that needed treating and couldn't rest because none of them were up to any task beyond peeling potatoes.

After the Swiss Army knife incident, my dad's discussion of sending me to finishing school became real, which I knew when my mom made me take a walk with her and talked about it. Finishing school is like...etiquette school....? In ye olden day when finishing high school was not the norm for anyone, wealthy men finished high school and wealthy women often went to "finishing" school to have a combined education on being a proper lady but also being able to hold a decent conversation with your presumably-educated husband, so it wasn't entirely etiquette non-academic. It was more just like "what a rich man wants in a wife" school, which was sort of household management and knowing enough about cleaning/cooking to correct the staff if they fucked up, how to be a polite hostess, and how to not entirely bore him when you were alone together and had done your five minutes of sex or whatever so actually had to have a conversation. In modern times it has obviously expanded to be less bleak.

I said miss me with that, I can be a girl on my own, so I went full throttle into the girliest sport they offer in high school and ever since have gained the inestimable advantage of knowing how to also use femininity to my advantage, which I am very grateful to my parents for making me learn. It would be great if we lived in a world where that didn't count, but it did/still does, and they really set me up to operate in all the worlds.

It is weird for me to tell the story to Internet strangers because it's one of those things that makes your parents sound terrible and abusive in the general tone of the Internet nowadays, and while I support gender nonconforming children I don't remember my childhood or parents that way. But, I feel like the bits and pieces of my life I've given don't always make a ton of sense together without the context, so here it is, and in the end, I think a number of parts of it are areas where you can probably understand where it makes me have the opinions I do when I write.

Anyhoo, this makes my life sound far worse than it is, I actually have a great life and I am not unhappy with it at all and feel I was on the whole blessed with many more turns of luck than unluck, so, please, do not take this as a depressed artist rant, it is more like a rant of a very energetic person who rants about a lot of things all the time and didn’t need to come out but just did because the question was asked and the time was right with my life being in a bit of flux to think about how I got where I am and where I want to go and why.

Always remember no matter what problems it seems like I have, if I didn’t solve them on my 2 year round the world traveling hiatus I took from working, it’s my own fault, I definitely had the time and money to solve them and just chose not to.

[sjw-publishings]

Stay Straight Babe

“Im so glad I still have my lovely boyfriend with me during Quarantine, Amirite Cherry?”

“Yeah...hehe, so glad to have Sammie with me too...”

Anton, the Drama Queen laughed with his lesbian shy bookworm bestie as they discussed about theatre and all about. Of course, they would’ve invited their lovers along, but they were too busy being techno geeks and talking computer games in their gaming rooms.

“Did you have lunch yet?”

“Yeah, tried takeout from that famous Chinese restaurant downtown! Was super good!”

“Oh my god! Me too sistah!!!”

“OooooooAHHHH!”

A large groan came from their study, where his boyfriend’s currently at. Anton naturally looked concerned for his boyfriend.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know! But something came from Sammie’s room too...”

“Yeah! I gotta check Kenny, Brb!”

Ending the call, Anton left the bedroom, and headed his way outside the study, about to open the door, but then a loud masculine voice rumbled from behind the door.

“Samantha? You’re just such a great fri... girlfriend... eungh so hot...”

Samantha? Who is that....But more importantly, why would his friend...boyfriend be moaning to a lady? Is he...cheating on him? But that can’t be, his geeky nerd cutie is as queer as a three dollar bill! But still, he had to check it out....that deep voice certainly did not sound like a nerd’s...

“SO HOT!”

As Anton walked into the room, his eyes widened at the pile of clothes and tossed garments on the ground. Large XL sandblasted jeans, track pants, sneakers. Tons of sports posters and trophies decorating the shelves, and a large television screen playing the latest soccer match...though for some reason, he vaguely recalled seeing football and baseball at intervals.

But it definitely did not look like a study room...despite him initially thinking that it was. Alongside a couple of dart boards, some sports equipment, and a pool table, seemed like a recreation room...but since when could they afford...

“oooooOOOOAAAAAAHHH!”

A large moan came from the couch, as Anton came to the front of it, all his eyes focused on was an incredibly muscular asian hunk man-spreading in bliss, dressed in a white tee with an iconic sporting good logo in the front, left hand gripping his cellphone while his right hand dug deep into his clean white boxers. The man panted out of relief, and relaxation, like a weight lifted off his shoulders. Whispering into branded phone with his deep husky, asian tone.

“Stay Straight Babe~”

CLICK!

So hot...NO! Anton get a hold of yourself! Who was this Asian man? Where was his roommate? He had to get questions, even if this...extremely hunky cutie, looked so sexy dazed and looking up.

“What?...Who are you!”

The Asian man snapped out of his trace, eyes opened...but ever so slightly. He was asian after all, but he was chill...in control. Still leaning back on the couch, he looked at Anton, puzzled, before looking down at his exposed boxers and then back at the stranger. His mind cleared up in an instant, forcing out a-

“Kevin Lang, Fag!”

The man said it, and gave that signature sarcastic response from only a jock bully like him. Smirking condescendingly, he was in charge, and that theatre gay started to tremble.

“Listen Queer, I know you’re thirsty and all for men during this. But some of us got girlfriends who we can’t visit. So stop being a WUSS and deal with it.”

“I...wasn’t...I...”

Now this really pissed him, not even caring about the stickiness on his right hand, or that he had a pitched tent. All he knows now is to deal with this gay of a roommate who spied on him and his girlfriend. The tall 6ft 2 jock cornered Anton to the door.

“Go jerk to your boyfriend or something...oh that’s right! Even a FAG like you doesn’t have one!”

Anton was in tears, he remembered the countless dates that he had, alongside the taunts made by this douchebag Kevin who somehow managed to wolf his way into his life throughout college. He had to get out of there..., quickly opening the door and running back to the bedroom, locking it.

“I...I have to call Cherry...”

As he typed for her number, a sudden ringing notification popped up for the name Chelsea. Must be a typo when he was saving Cherry’s contact right? Cause that number definitely was Cherry’s.

“Anton....”

“What happened?”

Almost suddenly, his mind shrugged off of whatever his homophobic roommate had said. His best friend was weak right now, he had to help her.

Gripping ahold of the phone, he didn’t notice the warm tanned spot spreading on his palms, down his wrists every second as he held the cellphone.

“Samantha...called me a dyke.”

“Samantha?”

“You know! My roommate, the one that’s dating yours!”

It made sense now, the two of them bonded over how much they despised their roommates bullying...and the strangeness of how the douchebag jock and queen bee couple somehow always interfered in their respective love lives...

Clutching the phone tighter, his wrists tightened as definition thickened his forearms. Curling his biceps subconsciously, toning strongly till they were the size of baseballs.

“Yeah Kevin was such a douche, had to defend myself from him tryin’ to whoop me...”

“Yeah, had to backflip and dodge Samantha’s attacks. Didn’t feel good knowing she still holds a grudge about me being a dyke.”

Heh, he knew his best friend could handle herself. She was still a cheerleader in training, but could whoop Samantha’s arrogant butt anytime. Must also be her half asian genetics like his.

Sitting up straighter, Aiton’s broad shoulders filled out his sweater, which almost ripped if it was not for that white stain sealing up the cracks. That white stain...which came from Kevin...right? Was there a stain?

The white coloration spread all across the attire, shrinking up the sleeves to simply resting just below his shoulders, accentuating his large biceps which he proudly admired. Alongside his large back which occupied his entire bed...wait, didn’t he?

Taking a closer look at his bedroom...wait, looking DOWN at his bedroom. He was on the upper bed of a double decker, with training equipment at the side and a couple of sports memorabilia which looked reminiscent of the recreational room.

Yeah of course that douchebag Kevin had to have most of the room with his crap...though it was not all bad. He worked out quite often during his spare time...outside of that artsy degree he had no idea why he took...did he take an artsy degree? He shrugged, doesn’t matter, he worked out.

Anyways it showed, leaning back and taking full charge of the entire bed. At least he was the alpha HERE! Listening to what his best friend spoke...though she was mostly talking about drama with her roommate, not the kind of thing he was interested in.

But he always liked her voice...

“At least...I think I like girls? But that was an accident! I don’t like Samantha!”

Aiton nodded, unsure of what to say, but felt...pretty cool about it. Crossing his legs, as he saw those large trunks that trained...almost like for years. They which reached the end of the bedside, as those khakis lengthened and stretched into XL sweatpants...gotta snatch that back his junk from Kevin later, but not now. He was cool, now. Kicking off his large trainers which went-

CLUNK CLUNK!

As they hit the floor, wiggling his size 12 feet beneath those white socks. Kevin could insult him all he wants later, it was his room too. The fledgeling Jock can say whatever he wants to anybody, and he says-

“You were like ‘I think I like girls’, sounded pretty dyke to me.”

Aiton smirked, teasing the cheerleader from across the phone. He always liked doing that, he was in charge after all.

He knew how icky the two cheerleaders felt towards homosexuals...but then again, wasn’t he a bit rude towards them as well? Not as bad as Kevin but an occasional joke here and there meant nothing right?

“Who you callin’ dyke, Fag?”

“Who you callin’ Fag, Dyke?”

Okay...maybe he didn’t like being called Fag either. But it was just insults between him, Cherlse, and Kevin and Samantha. Anyone else and they answer TO HIS FISTS....except maybe ladies...especially hot babes.

He began to palm himself, and as he kneaded his hard rocket, he sneered in disgust over a rainbow wristband on his wrist. He blinked, in its faggy place was a white sports watch. His rocket doubled up in size, while darkening in tan, its always time to be a Jerk, just like his Bro Kevin.

“You know i get weak when you use my own words~”

Cherlsea opened up her phone webcam, and Aidon did the same. Both smirking at the other. The Jock knew it was always ladies first, but he was a Jerk so-

“Oh damn...she’s hot!”

“Of course I am, do I still look pretty dyke to you~?”

Watching her seductively pose on her bed, it felt like ages since he had seen a woman like that! In that revealing tank and double Ds he could just!

SQUEEZE!

“Oooaahhh!”

Squeezing his own chest, feeling rock solid muscle layering his nipples, pectorals filling his sports shirt massively like the man he was. Feeling those abdominals as a well deserved 6 pack emerged from years of crunches.

“I....I NEED RELEASE!”

“So hawt~”

“I...I AINT A FAG!”

“Course you aren’t hunky~you are so hawt, ooooooaaaaah!”

The Queen Bee’s second in command had let out her mating’s call, the asian babe was too much for the Douchebag Jock’s right hand man, and vice versa. As their desires linked up, with the help of a fortune cookie they ate prior, they were about to finally be set into motion.

Each of them felt a tight stinging to their holes simultaneously. As the Asian Jock’s butt hole tightened, the Cheerleader’s lady hole expanded. Like a trade of preferences, but that is not all.

As testosterone pumped in the man, churning larger sacks, as he watched his babe’s hair lengthen, his shrunk, and BUZZED off the sides and back, leaving a stylish gelled top, maintained with a pair of shavers, scissors, and his Bro. Not actually brothers, but they were asian , jocks, and total jerks. Wouldn’t be surprised if they were related.

Speaking of Asian, his tan had bathed his facial features alongside the rest of his body. Cleansing the GAY away from him as his jaw hardened into a fierce square. His lips snarled in momentary disgust, before his raising his cheeks, as that scowl shifted to an arrogant smirk as he watched his girlfriend do the same.

“Ooooaaaaaah~”

His brows complimented his prominent features, as they frowned, closing his eyes as his girlfriend’s moan was too much to bear...he needed RELEASE! RELEASE!

“OAAAAAAAH!”

Aidan Long expelled a thick goo from below, as his eyes gave way to a thin fierce asian dark brown. Staring into the ceiling in a haze...before the sounds of his lover’s panting sent him back to reality.

“Man...that feels good, but still miss our hot damn ‘Dragon and Empress’ sessions before all this happened.”

“Yeah totally...stuck with bestie the whole day is fun and all but...she and your douche roommate keep doing it all day.”

“Caught him jerkin’ off too jus now...”

“Whaaaaaat! Omg same, saw Samantha doing that too!”

“Course...nothin’ beats my empress...”

“Same for you too...my long muscular dragon.”

Almost instantly, the doors slammed open. Of course, Kevin had the spare keys to the bedroom too, and he was sneering right at the door.

“AND YOU SAY IM A FAGGOT!”

“SHADDUP KEV! YOU GAY!”

“NO YOU GAY!”

“NO YOU GAY!”

“HAHAHA!”

The two jocks laughed arrogantly, before sneering at each other. The two of them were thirsty, and they understood and respected that.

“Ohhh almost forgot, mwah mwah mwah!”

“Mwah mwah mwah back to you GAY!”

Kevin left the room, most likely going to order more of that Chinese take out or something. Doesn’t matter to Aidan though...he was friends with the man, but he wasn’t INTO INTO him.

“I swear this stay at home thing is turning me gay...”

“Oh there’s nothing wrong with some bonding sessions. Me and Samantha are pointing each other’s nails later on, and that isn’t DYKE!”

“Yeah, should probably binge watch soccer with that douche. Felt like We haven’t did a sports marathon in ages!...No homo of course.”

The two of them chatted for a while more, loving the company of the other intimately as they teased one another like the lovers they are.

But they eventually have to go to other stuff. And by stuff he wants to do, is CHILL.

“Love you hunky, talk to you l8r!”

The Jock simply posed to the camera,and spoke.

“Stay Straight Babe”

[mommymooze]

Big Girls Have More Fun

You were always a very big girl. Your mother had complained when giving birth to your brothers that their shoulders were so wide it was a miracle that they ever made it out. When the midwife had problems getting you to leave the warm comfy space known as your mother’s womb, Mommah cried because it was going to be another boy. She and Father were so happily surprised that after all these years they finally had a girl. Weighing in at almost 10 pounds, you were also the biggest of her children. Everyone who saw you when you were little thought you were a big boy. It didn’t help that you had plenty of hand-me-downs from your brothers so your clothes were always masculine. You were bald headed until you were two, until your (h/c) hair finally started to grow in. Mother always styled your hair so cutely with lots of ribbons and bows. Being the girl and the baby of the family, you did have a few beautiful dresses that you wore on special occasions, but you preferred the tough pants that were from your older brothers. Girls clothes never fit very well in the shoulders, so your dresses were custom made. Having 6 children’s feet under the table did not call for a lot of extra money for clothing, and you preferred your older brothers castoffs anyway.

Always chasing after your brothers and their friends, you were as much of a boy as they were. Instead of dolls and dress up, you preferred wrestling and play fighting. If someone said you couldn’t do something because you were a girl, you had to push yourself until you could climb higher, run faster or swim farther than any of those silly boys. Mother tried to get you to wear makeup when you turned 13, hoping that some feminine influence would stick. They found out all to quickly that most of the powders and eyeshadows made your face break out until you looked like a chipmunk. Since you would not wear dresses, when you were older your mother convinced you to wear loose-fitting long-sleeved blouses that had a bit of frill around the neck or cuffs. This was to make you look more feminine because…well because you had muscles. No tea parties for you. It was much more fun to hang out with one of your brothers. Your oldest brother was a carpenter so helping lift stacks of wood, hammering nails and learning to build things was fascinating. Your next brother was a bricklayer. Helping him move pallets of bricks, stir the bonding material to go between the stones and hand him bricks as quickly as he could lay them was always fascinating. It was so satisfying seeing a line of bricks suddenly become an entire wall by the end of the day. The middle brother was apprenticed to the blacksmith. This was your favorite brother to work with. He would let you pump the bellows and work on basic metal pieces and he would finish them. Your fingers were a bit smaller and more nimble than his, so he had you assembling pieces together he would hammer in the rivets to join them into the finished work. He taught you how to make shoes for horses, some in different lengths and widths. You really loved hammering on a piece of metal, molding it into something new and useful.

Shortly before you turned 18 your parents were killed in a tragic fire. Having nothing left to keep you home you had heard of the Academy at Garreg Mach. With the blessings of your brothers you headed out to become enrolled and most importantly, to see what you could make of yourself. The atmosphere at the school was exciting. You had been homeschooled by your parents. Taught the basics reading and writing, a bit of etiquette (though your brothers still attacked every dinner like a pack of ravenous wolverines.) You were invited to join the Golden Deer, a mostly wild and boisterous bunch except for Marianne and Ignatz. It was a perfect fit for you. Raphael was just like one of your big brothers and loved to spar and wrestle with you. You found Leonie to be a great friend, easy to hang out with because neither of you were extremely ‘girly’.  That word was more for Hilda and Marianne, who would dress up and fix their hair for hours, complain about getting dirty. Still, they were still sweet and became good friends. Even Lorenz could behave himself and tolerated in small doses.

Claude was the ‘leader-man’ for the deer. He certainly was mischievous, playing pranks or generally annoying at times. Much of the time he follows their Professor, Byleth, always asking questions and trying to get more information than Byleth probably wants to supply. You arm wrestled him once. He’s an archer, great upper body strength, you thought he would be a challenge. But he lost pretty quickly, telling you that you should stick to someone more of Raphael’s or Caspar’s build.  It was really strange when one day Claude and Byleth are called away on a special mission. A few of the other students, the heads of the other two houses and Hilda are not seen for a couple weeks. Some of the knights filled in for teaching when they are available. Otherwise the Deer are thrown in with Professors Manuela and Hanneman for most of the classes.

You are thrilled to get extra training on brawling from Catherine and Alois. Alois is okay, great at brawling, but his jokes are something hard to stomach. Being a brawler meant you were always well armed. Ugh. Catherine is a ton of fun, she is built a lot like you. Broad shouldered and incredible upper body strength. She is a plethora of knowledge. She’s constantly giving tips on the best holds, the best way to take someone down. Knowing that you would come across a lot of male opponents as there were few female brawlers such as you two, she gives tips on distractions, specific grabs and holds that were very effective against men. Some of it feels like cheating, especially the sudden fake flirts and the like, but any weapon in a battle for your life. The other students may not have enjoyed the few weeks without Professor Byleth, Claude, and Hilda, however you are having a blast.

Byleth and all of the missing students return without a word as to what happened while they are gone. You decide to trail Claude today because he’s acting extra suspicious. He stops at an area close to the sauna, not far from where Byleth’s room is located. He is talking to that shifty merchant guy that hangs out over there at times. Your curiosity gets the best of you and you approach greeting Claude loudly.

“Hey (y/n) talk about timing! I can use a strong pair of arms if you have a few minutes.”

Instinctively you point to yourself. “Me? Sure, I’ve got a few.”

Claude grabs your arm and pulls you behind the merchant showing that there is a hidden entrance to somewhere underground. The air is cooler down here, but a bit stuffy. After a couple turns down the corridors you are met by a tall guy with a deep voice and purple hair. The two are speaking in low voices, you can’t make out what they are talking about. The new guy looks as you so you give a little wave of your fingers. The two men lead you down several more corridors, you feel like you are going in circles now. Finally, they stop and the new guy pulls out a key and opens the door, ushering everyone inside.

“Glad you brought Muscles here, Balty is a bit busy at the moment.” Says new guy.

“I want a look see before I hand over the payment. I’m sure you understand.” Claude says with a grin.

Yuri grabs a dagger and works on a board, loosening it to reveal the contents of the box is a large cache of lances.

Claude pulls one out and invites you to take one in hand.

“Dagdan construction.” You spin it, twirl it and look it over carefully. “Decently made.”

“Who made you the judge, friend?” Purple hair snips.

“Apologies. Worked as a blacksmith for a time. Repaired lots of stuff from lots of places.” You place the weapon back in the box. “I’m (y/n)” you give a bit of a smile introducing yourself. You really get a good look at purple hair. Is he…wearing makeup? It looks good on him. Your face grows into a bigger smile.

“Yuri.” He says. At least he grips your hand firmly.

Claude puts the weapon back in the box, so you grab the board that was pulled off, put it back on and hammer it into place with the butt of your dagger from your belt. You pick up the box (use your legs not your back) and hoist it onto your shoulder. Yuri silently escorts you and Claude back to where you first met him.

“Glad to do business, friend.” Claude gives Yuri a tap on the shoulder.

“Always.” Yuri turns to you, “Come visit sometime. I’ve got a friend who would probably be interested in a spar or two.”

“No prob!” You wave with your free hand and follow Claude back to the surface.

-----------------

A few weeks later, after the Golden Deer have returned from a successful mission, Claude pulls you aside.

“Can you spare some time, friend? I have a special sparring match you might be interested in.” Claude’s eyebrows waggle a bit, a half smile on his face.

“Spar? I’m always up for a challenge. So what’s up?” You answer, it’s been a while since you’ve been in a good match, and the Professor has been teaching you some cool moves and holds that you want to try out.

“Remember Yuri? He’s got a friend that just loves to fight and grapple. Thought you two should be introduced. Maybe teach each other a thing or two?” Claude informs you as he leads you down into Abyss. He leads you to their tavern and you see Yuri seated there with a big dark haired guy wearing chains across his chest. His chest is very muscular and well developed, certainly a brawler like yourself. Claude introduces you to Balthus. The both of you reach out for a handshake, you grasp each others hands and it immediately turns into an arm wrestling type of match to see who can squeeze the others hand the hardest. After a minute you both stop and laugh at each other.

“Way to go, Pal!” Balthus laughs, slamming his large hand down on the table making everything on it rock and wobble.

“Good to meet you too.” You say back to the big guy, a shy smile coming across your face.

Yuri is the next to speak. “So friend, we thought it was time to introduce the two of you. Are you interested in a friendly competition to perhaps determine who is the better brawler?” The half smile on his face lets you know there is some sort of mischief behind this invitation, making it all more enticing to accept the invitation.

You agree to the match. Yuri slaps you on the back. “You won’t regret this, come on.” He says as he leads you off to who knows where in Abyss. You’ve turned left and right and gone through enough doors you do your best to simply keep up and stay with him until he’s led you to a small room. Hanging on a hook is a soft gold tunic and short pants.

“You weren’t exactly dressed for this, hope you don’t mind we’ve provided clothing for you. I’ll leave you to get yourself ready. Be back in a minute.” He says as he closes the door behind him.

Just what kind of a setup have you gotten yourself into?  You wonder as you put on the clothes. You do a few squats, throw a few punches and hooks. They are easy enough to move around in you suppose.  Just before your mind starts to spiral wondering what the heck is going on, Yuri appears again, grabbing you by the hand. He’s leading you to a door that he pulls you through then slams the door shut behind you.

You find yourself in a well lit but small auditorium. There are rows of benches filled with people of the Abyss. On the opposite side of the dirt floor area you are in is Balthus, wearing pants like yours, but in a shimmery gray color. He looks like someone spread oil all over him, his muscles are shining in the light. He’s waving and blowing kisses to the audience.

A voice booms loudly into the room and the crowd quiets, “And now for the main event, our own Balthus vs. (y/n)!”

WTF? This was going to just be a wrestling match. What is this horse and pony show?

“Brawlers, meet in the center and shake hands. Start at the ring of the bell.“ the voice booms in the room, bouncing off the walls with a slight echo. Balthus wiggles his fingers in a “come here” sort of gesture.

As soon as your hands touch, the bells go off and he’s grabbing you trying to throw you to the ground. You grab his wrist, twisting it behind him, kicking at his knee to get him off balance. He tries to use his free elbow to jab you in the side as you pull him back towards you shoving your knee in his ribs. The crowd surrounding you is yelling and jeering, throwing garbage at you for trying to hurt their champion. For good measure you grab the back of his head with both hands, smashing his face to your knee.

The grappling goes back and forth for a while. You’re able to grab him and throw him against the ground, then he grabs your foot, pulling you off balance and you land face first in the dirt.  Next he’s got an arm pinned behind you, so you pull him quickly over your back to flip him down into the dirt. Most of it is arms flailing, smashing into the other to get a good grip and really pull the other into a good position for a finishing move. You’re still confused as to how all of this is happening. Claude and Yuri have some explaining to do.

Balthus is smiling. Smiling! As he grabs you around your waist and flips you upside down dropping to a seated position forcing you into receiving one hell of a piledriver to your skull. You were able to brace a bit on his thighs, so your neck wasn’t broken, but you were going to have a hell of a headache after this match.

The crowd is now screaming “Bal-tie! Bal-tie!” and stomping their feet so hard the ground feels like it is shaking.

He flings your legs to the ground and leaps up to give you a hard elbow drop, but your instincts kick in and you’ve rolled out of range. Once he hits the ground you’re behind him, knees in his back, your right arm grabbing him under the chin pulling it straight back. Balthus’ neck is straining against the pull. He’s stuck in your powerful chinlock.

“Tap out or I break it!” You scream.

You feel the slaps on your calf as you let him go and fall back on the ground. The crowd is booing and screaming and throwing rotten food at you. You struggle to your feet, raising your fists in the air. Your head is screaming at you, bruises in places you haven’t had in a while as you limp back to the door that let you into this goddessforsaken place. You bang on the door once, “Let me in before I bash it down.”

The door opens a little as you smash it open into the wall behind it.

“Great going there kid! I knew you could do it!” Claude is beaming at you until you grab his shirt and pull it tight around his throat and shove him against the wall and as far off the ground as you can get him. “Gah!” he screams as he’s holding on to your hand, trying to take some of the pressure off of his throat.

“What. The. Hell. Was. THAT!” You are seething with rage. Your teeth are grinding so hard he can hear the crunching as your eyes are fixed on his, burning with hellfire.

“Calm. Calm d-down (y/n).” He stutters, patting your fist still holding him up on the wall. “Let’s talk. C’mon. You had a great fight, just like I promised.”

You let go and he drops to the ground sitting against the wall. You move to a nearby bench, taking a seat you close your eyes and shake your head. The Claudster had manipulated you into this. You should have known.

Claude gathers himself back together. Standing he brushes himself off, straightening his collar as best he can considering most of it around his throat is now shredded material.

Yuri pokes his head in the door. He looks at Claude. “You’re still alive? I’m surprised.” The violet haired man takes a small step into the room. “Catch, Tiny!” he laughs as he throws a bag at you, coins jingle inside as you catch it. Before you can look back he’s closed the door.

“Tiny?” you ask.

“That’s what everyone said when you walked into the arena. She’s so tiny compared to Balthus. Your head doesn’t even come close to his shoulder. Now they’re calling you the Tiny Terror.

[toindeedbe-agod]

random hcs for the deeply complex modern au i still thinj abt sometimes

neil:

hes in keatings class n hes a peer tutor for one of his lower grade classes AND in mr keatings secret club (dead poets society)

dads still forcing him into a career path n he gets so stressed trying to stay on top of all of his classes n he started emailing mr keating late at night, first it was like Teacher Approved venting but now he sends him memes at 3 am. mr keating always responds.

he n charlie got "married" in kindergarten

endlessly watches howls moving castle. he pretends that he only watches broadway bootlegs or artsy gay films but he literally watches howls moving castle in class all the time

hes on good terms with all his teachers so sometimes hes allowed to just... leave and take a nap in keatings class. keating repurposed the classroom closet to be full of soft things n a quiet space for kids because hes a good goddamn teacher

unironically still listens to be more chill

has a secret tumblr account bc his dad only lets him have a heavily monitored instagram

adores rent but pitts is rhe only one who will watch it Willingly with him anymore bc when he made them all watch it they were all so devastated. charlie didnt talk to him for 3 days

todd:

just moved here, hes neil's neighbor. charlie also lives in the neighbohood, and knox spends more time around there than his own home

his brothers the all star american boy meanwhile todd won the spelling bee in 3rd grade and gets star stickers on his creative writing assignments

has had like 3 interventions from teachers and he has to be like im really not super depressed i promise im just quiet

draws on himself a lot. hes not a spectacular artist but like... neil loves it

unfairly good at soccer but was too anxious to try out for the high school team

rlly rlly likes samurai jack. he keeps it a secret but hes absolutely obsessed

has a tik tok n most of his videos are of the dead poets its very sweet. he manages to get on the weirdest sides of tik tok tho, involving prison tik tok, serial killer tik tok, cartel tik tok, glitchcore tik tok, and one memorable time, bdsm tik tok

half his playlists r full of hozier.

shares his spotify premium with neil

that cool guy at school whos parents dont care about him so he can do whatever but unfortunate hes lame so he does nothing about it

charlie:

tik tok famous

keating lets him grade papers, and doesnt say anything when charlie fixes his friends mistakes, and once let him get away with erasing cameron's name from his paper so he had to redo the assignment

adopts freshmen

advertises parties on his snapchat

throws parties but not at his own house

horror movie fanatic.

obsessed with the sonic movie

his phone is full of selfies and really cursed memes

all his contacts have emojis

calls mr keating mom with confidence

has a massive crush on jim carrey meeks thinks its the funniest shit in the world

on a first name basis with the principals

meeks:

ppl paypal him to do their work for them

goes randonauting with pitts n sometimes charlie

little witch boy, but on the downlow

rlly into bugs

has every single streaming service but also watches more stuff online than charlie does

teaches all the boys abt queer media and teaches underclassmen or anyone who needs to know abt actual sex education despite being ace

office aide so hes rlly tight with the principals

watches a lot of bad tv from the 80s

has a terrible taste in music

eats sticks and rocks and mud

has 2 pet rats. secret rats. their names are rice and piss

says he shoplifts to look cool but has never stolen anything more than 2 dollars

has a rlly overbearing mom like he loves her but jesus christ please get a life other than watching over ur child all the time hes trying to be cool

hosts all the dead poets on holidays when he can. halloween is a blast

cant drive. none of them are very good at it but he doesnt even have a license

pitts:

so mad that thats his name

owns 4 different radios

actually in robotics. all the poets try to come to his matches, despite meeks being the only one who even vaguely understands it

2nd best driver. picks up neil if he ever gets stranded somewhere by his parents. it happens a lot.

owns a car

has been hunting a lot?? he doesnt even like it

bakes for the poets

takes cooking lessons sometimes, he likes to be self sufficient

likes to get into what all his friends r into so he can talk about it with them :) pitts is such a good guy id die for him

always packs snacks n stuff to feed to the boys throughout the day bc neil is physically incapable of eating at lunch time and the rest of them forget a lot

has a respectable amount of twitter and tik tok followers. is unaware of the significance of this. he just likes giving ppl helpful advice

gives good life tips and has high grades but hes stupid. set his hair on fire on a dare but it was mostly an accident. crashed a car into a brick wall. consistently has a burn on his hand

knox:

twitter bio definitely has "sad boy" in it

no thoughts, head empty

disaster in heelys and a cute top

LOVES tik tok

hydroflask full of pepsi

wears skirts bc fuck toxic masculinity

either shows up to school in a fit meant for the met gala or a hoodie and pants that are half on. there is no inbetween.

has tutoring after school like hes not behind in class or struggle too badly but he doesnt grasp what teachers fucking say half the time so they cover what he may have missed. good teachers. ideal world with teachers who care. jk only keating and his math teacher do it meeks helps with science

watched a livestream of a tv screen with the little blue ray video thing bouncing around for 6 hours and missed it when it hit the corner and cried about it for a day and a half

broke his wrist sophmore year in a heely related incident

has a snap score of like 30,000 idk i dont use snapchat i just know ppl who dont shut the fuck abt their snap score being like 30,000

goes thrifting a lot! barely owns fitting clothes

he n chris are bffs she taught him how to skateboard. is skateboard a verb? taught him how to skate using a skateboard

oh yeah. skater girl chris.

has a lot of anxiety about the state of the world anyways hes a vegetarian and tries to be zero waste to manage it. like he knows its corporations but it makes him feel good

plays lacrosse!

[tthael]

What are your thoughts on trans eddie? I love it bc I'm trans and eddie is like one of my comfort characters. Since you're the best writer I've ever seen I'm curious on your thoughts.

Thank you, that’s so nice! I also have some Gender Trouble (transmasc isn’t quite the right word) and I think about gender dynamics a lot, and I think Eddie in particular has an interesting relationship with his masculinity in canon that makes him ripe for this kind of analysis.

Back when I was mostly interested in Hobbit fanfiction, I read a lot of good fics that played around with the gender dynamics of the characters; so while I know that genderswap fics can be a hot button issue because of transphobia and accompanying dynamics, I do like those stories when they’re well-written and taken seriously. For instance, this Dwalin/Nori fic by @thorinsmut features a genderfluid pirate captain and an identity porn romance during the Golden Age of Sail (https://archiveofourown.org/works/1861419) and it’s one of my all-time favorite fanfictions (content warnings for violence against animals, discussion of sexual assault, explicit sex, and a genderfluid character experiencing dysphoria). I tend to prefer always-a-different-sex fics, but I’ve also read a couple of a-wizard-did-it fics, like this Coulson/Hawkeye fic by amireal (https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173773) from back when I was into marvel (content warnings for internalized homophobia, explicit sex, and workplace harassment). I myself have had an idea for a while about a Hunger Games genderswap fic where, because 1 girl and 1 boy are always sent to the Games, Katniss can’t volunteer to go in his sister’s place, but he can volunteer to go in Peeta’s place because he plans to die to save Prim.

So, if we accept that gender essentialism treats children assumed to be girls and children assumed to be boys differently (which it does), I think that a transman!Eddie would have a slightly different experience growing up. Canon Eddie has a sort of glass closet going on and a lot of his childhood bullying is homophobic, and it’s implied that this is because he’s not performing masculinity to the expected level. Also Sonia’s abuse focuses on illness, injury, and contamination. She wants Eddie to be “safe” (goes into hysterics when he tries to get his feet scanned at a shoe-store because of the radiation), but she also wants him to be “clean” and “good to his mother.” Especially in the 90s miniseries and the Muschietti movies that take place in 1989 and 2016, a lot of that is coded to involve the AIDS epidemic, needles, and fears of transmission, which means that there’s an element of homophobia to Sonia’s influence. Also, Sonia canonically sex-shames Beverly, calling her “a dirty girl” and saying that she knows all about her, specifically singling her out of the whole group of Losers. There’s an element of sexual protection to her emotional abuse, as well as just a general unwillingness to let Eddie leave the house or get free of her control.

So if we reverse this dynamic and Eddie is a transboy, I think that the pressures he would experience would involve him not performing femininity correctly as a child, because he’s a boy. Eddie would still be very polite and somewhat soft-spoken and dreamy, and he’d be squeamish about bullies belching in his face and Richie playing in the sewers, just like he is in canon; but I think that his discomfort with his traditionally “feminine” responses would come from him instead of externally now. I’d have him lean harder into his traditionally “masculine” interests--cars and trains and other vehicles of getting away from his mother--and I’d have Sonia be even more aggressive towards Bill, Stan, and Richie, to the point of them not ever daring to enter the house the way they do in the 2017 movie because I think Sonia would be just as revolted by the idea of Eddie going around with a pack of boys as she is by Beverly in canon. I think that Sonia would be very invested in Eddie’s appearance, probably pressuring him about his hair and the way that he dressed, probably preferring him to wear skirts and nice clothes instead of things that he could wear to ride a bike or go running around in the Barrens in. I think that there would be a greater element of sexual shaming and body- and weight-policing to Sonia’s abuse, with elements of her wanting to protect Eddie’s “virtue” from “those dirty boys.” @pineapplecrushface wrote an always-women AU Nightingale (https://archiveofourown.org/works/24979312) and while Richie and Eddie are women in this story so it’s not the trans Eddie fic you are looking for, I think that the mentions of Eddie’s childhood bedroom seems pretty accurate for the environment that he would grow up in if he were assigned female at birth--a pink canopy bed and looking for clothes that don’t make him “feel like a cupcake.”

Actually, I think that this might look a lot like Carrie. I know that other people have already talked about the similarities between Sonia Kaspbrak and Margaret White, but Margaret’s abuse tends to orient not just around control but also around sexual maturity and perceived virtue.

I don’t know when or to what degree Eddie would transition--I don’t know if he would take the opportunity to do it while Sonia was still living, though I believe he’d be financially stable enough to afford it very early on. It would all depend on how the writer wanted to handle Eddie’s adult life--is he married to Myra? Does Myra know that he’s trans? Do he and Myra have a sexual relationship? Does Eddie know that he’s attracted to men? Is Eddie out before he gets the call from Mike and goes to Derry? What kind of transition does he want to have, if any? There are so many things to consider and I think it would all depend on what kind of story the author wants to tell--for me, I’d probably write a story where Eddie happens to be trans, and I’ve read some good fic to that effect--Rapacious from the Very Start (https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853020) by InkandOwl (I tried to find their tumblr to tag them and couldn’t) is one of my favorites, though tbh when I read fic I’m looking for explicit sex and that seems to be the core of this series.

But yeah, I’d be down for trans Eddie fic. I think that there’s a lot to unpack there, from how Eddie’s “gazebos” confrontation with Sonia would take place because the primary issue there would not be the idea of keeping Eddie compliant and in the house as a mama’s boy, it would be the idea of keeping him locked in a tower like the witch in Rapunzel because Sonia keeps treating him like a princess; to the idea of needlephobia changing from a threat involving AIDS contamination to perhaps something empowering and self-authenticating like T injections. And Eddie’s such a well-rounded character anyway, I think that there’s a lot of room to dig into his bickering with Richie and his outward aggressiveness and see how much of that is stress and how much of that is the idea that masculinity never shows weak emotions and how much of that is Eddie is quick-witted and thinks arguing is fun. There are also several parallels between Georgie and Eddie, particularly in their relationship with Bill; I think that as a kid, Eddie would think that Big Bill is just the best role model in a real little-brother kinda way, and Sonia would be super threatened by that because she’s Eddie’s mother, Eddie’s supposed to want to be like her.

I think in general I’d be down for most trans fic, as long as it was well-written. In the book there’s an interesting passage from the perspective of Richie’s mother where she reflects on how much she wishes that she had a daughter, because she doesn’t understand Richie and Bill, and she’d feel more confident if she had a daughter she could do things with like baking cupcakes. And I think that a trans Bev would change the way that she experiences abuse from her father, who in the book prefers her to behave in a feminine way (stops being angry at her when he thinks she’s afraid of spiders, because “all girls are afraid of spiders”; becomes irate at the idea that Beverly is playing with boys; obsessive over her virginity) but would behave differently if he thought he had a son and that Bev was transgressing masculine rules.

Anyway! *hammers fist on desk* Bring me my all-trans Losers AU!

[abusedandromeda]

Since this is my vent blog and I’m allowed to talk about whatever, I’m gonna talk about my first and last suicide attempt cuz I just feel like if I talk about it, I’d feel okay I guess

It’s been about a year and a half since it happened(April 4, 2019). It was an award’s night for the school. The thing is that it was supposed to be a normal day. I wasn’t really too hyped for awards, I was actually happier to finally force myself to wear a suit, and egg donor wouldn’t tell me otherwise! At least that’s what I thought. We didn’t even know what the fuck she was angry about, but I just know that us wearing that outfit, looking masculine, was the last straw. Like an hour before then, we were trying to shop for clothes and I said I wanted to wear a suit or something like that and she said it was fine, but we could also tell that she was in a bad mood and she just decided to take it out on me. I was so happy in that outfit, but she didn’t care how it made me feel. She never cared about what made me happy, just how I looked in front of her.

(Excuse the shit formatting, tumblr’s a bitch)It was white floral dress shirt with loose dress pants and black marching shoes. We had decided at the time to wear my tight swimsuit to flatten our chest because at the time we didn’t have a binder and we tucked our shirt in. I was so happy. It filled me with confidence, I felt handsome, don’t y’all know how rare that is? But once she saw us, she just blew up at us. It wasn’t like the usual shit she pulled like “that shirt’s too tight, change it” or “cover your legs since you didn’t shave”. She just yelled at us, throwing all her frustrations onto us. She called us fat, said we looked ugly in that suit. Said to stop “going along with this lgbt+ bullshit”(this was before I came out btw). I don’t really remember the entire one sided shouting match, probably because one of my hivemates was co-conscious with me(I think it was Aurora because she was too tired to convince me to not attempt suicide), trying to protect me, but I just couldn’t let them even if I had wanted to.

I could remember the worst part of it though. She cornered me in a room and we were forced to undress and get dressed in front of her, in a feminine attire that she gave us. We couldn’t say anything to her, like “can you please leave?” because I think, according to one of my hivemates, she had hit me and we were afraid of getting hit again. I felt dehumanized and humiliated, I felt like an animal. She just watched me as I got dressed. I felt disgusting. All those months, years even, of personal body acceptence, telling myself that my body was perfect with all its scars and stretch marks was just *poof*. All gone. I felt so disgusted in my body because I knew what she thought of my body, she’s told us many times as a kid and even tells us to cover up my scars, cover up our muffin top and fat. I just can’t describe the disgust I felt in that moment, nor can I use the analogy without disrespecting someone else’s trauma, but I just felt so exposed and disgusted and dehumanized.

But it unfortunately didn’t end there. She dropped me off at the ceremony(I don’t remember being dropped off so I must’ve switched with someone at the time), but when I came to, I was sobbing in a stall in the girls’ bathroom, stuck in a black frilled top without a bra and I think some floral pants. I kinda cried there for a while, but sucked it up. It wasn’t the worst we’ve been through honestly. If we could survive egg donor shaming me for cutting myself multiple times and survive being guilted for running away, then we could survive another random barrage of insults, something we knew we dealt with weekly. At least that’s what I thought...

We didn’t really care to smile for the award we had gotten. “Most Improved mathematician” it said. Even now I still have it, and it feels like an insult, like a small “you got it but at what cost?”, a middle finger to ALL of our faces. We’ll skip to the moments just before it happened. Aurora, one of my protectors, said something about having to stay with sperm donor. We were okay with that, so we started packing . If it weren’t for the somber mood that hung in the air, I would’ve laughed along with my hivemates. They always knew to treat it like it was any other day, any other joke, and I was happy to joke with them. I’m not sure how to describe it, but it was like a bittersweetness in the air, like acceptance but happiness that it was over.

But it wasn’t. It started with a phone call telling us to “get the fuck out of her house”. We shrugged it off, she said it a million times before(believe us, we’re “getting the fuck out of her house” soon). But next was a phone call from sperm donor, telling us to “go to sleep” and “it’ll blow over”. We tried to tell him that we had to get out of her house, but it didn’t work. He just hung up on us. Confused, we tried to unpack our bag before we got another phone call, from egg donor. This time, she accused us of shifting blame onto her in a way to make one of them feel bad or make HER look bad. It was fucking hilarious, how she’s worried about her self image above all else, but not the feelings of her own kid. One of my hivemates tried to tell her that we’re just telling it how it was, but in the end, she just told us to get out.

There were too many phone calls being thrown back and forth, with Sperm donor saying we should “go to sleep” and egg donor saying we should get out if her house. I was so confused, because in this situation, it was clear neither of them were talking to each other. It was a double bind. They just pulled back and forth and back and forth, never caring about how I felf. I was also scared, scared of what would happen if she came home and we were still in her house. I didn’t know what she’d do, but I was scared to stay in that house. And yet all he said was “go to sleep”. But mostly, I was heartbroken. Egg donor made it obvious she didn’t want me at all, she just saw me as a punching bag, something that could be used before being tossed out. And sperm donor..I knew he didn’t care about me. Instead of comforting me, he just told me to go back to sleep. Even when I was clearly hysterical, he just told me to go back to sleep and hung up on us.

I even wanted to run away and die outside, but I don’t know...I don’t know what stopped me honestly. And my poor hivemates were feeling how panicked I was. I couldn’t think, my hivemates were arguing over what the hell we should do and how shoukd they calm me down. And then I decided right then and there: There was a strap for my DS case that was sturdy enough to hold my weight and I could use the door to my advantage. Before they knew it, I locked my hivemates away from the controls of the body and started fronting. I can still hear them screaming at me as I prepared, but I couldn’t hear anything. I was so mixed with confusion as to what to do, fear because of the person I was supposed to trust, and finally...acceptance that my own parents didn’t want me.

So, I used one end of the strap and made sure to close the top of the door on it. Then I used a box, a treasure chest to be specific so I could stand on it. It crumpled a little under my weight, but held as I put my large neck into the make shift noose. I can only thank any God out there that I was hysterical, because I didn’t do the preparations right. Now I could hear them. Hell, I could even see them in headspace from the body’s vision. They were all clawing and pounding at the barrier; screaming, begging, pleading for me not to take this life away yet. And Aurora, my poor adoptive mother, could only look on as she was too weak to do anything.

It was too late. I kicked the box and their screaming reached a new climax and then...nothing. The makeshift noose had slipped. Sometimes I make jokes about me being glad I was fat, but in reality, I didn’t adjust it properly. I let my guard down and my hivemates came swarming in. They were just sobbing around me, holding me so tightly to the point where it hurt. I don’t remember who put everything away(It might’ve been Quinn and Windfall), but in another impulsive act, I took control and I reached out to a close friend of mine who had saved me from suicide before. I think I accidently almost triggered a panic attack from himself as I was sobbing to hard to say anything.

They told me that they’d get off work and talk to me after. For once, it felt genuine that night, so I decided to finally sleep. It wasn’t exactly a good sleep. The sheets felt cold and uncomfortable, like I was in someone else’s bed. But I could finally live for another day in the security of my hivemates. And to think it was all because I demanded freedom to wear whatever the hell I wanted. So that’s my story. If y’all made it this fae, thank you for reading. I’m fine now and I don’t plan on attempting any time soon

[jossisarose]

BASICS

Name: Joss Alex Rose

Alias: Joss , JossIsARose (Social Media)

Pronouns: They/Them & He/Him

Age: 29

Date of Birth: November 13th

Gender: Genderqueer (AFAB)

Sexual Preference: Queer

Occupation: Costume Designer and Professional Cosplayer

Personality

Positive

creative

driven

independent

Negative

fickle

withdrawn

jaded

FAMILY

People

Mom: Millie Rose

Twin: Marley Rose

Pets

Cat: Lena

PAST

Hometown: Plant City Middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, Florida

triggers: instance of misgendering and reference to Joss’s dead name early on, stalking, violence, rape, self harm, substance abuse

[dead name mention] Joss Rose wasn’t always who they are now. Once upon a different time, Joss was Jocelyn and “she” was troubled. Or so people liked to think. Born the youngest of a set of twins, to a single mother, Joss never really fit into gender norms, or societal norms, for that matter. Whether it was going without a bra until long after most girls started wearing one, a disinterest in anything outside of their art, or an increasingly morbid sense of humor, Joss was an outcast from day one. Small town life was often the bane of Joss’s existence.

As a child, Joss enjoyed Little Mermaid, but more importantly, Little Mermaid II: Return to the Sea. Joss related to Melody on a level that they didn’t quite relate to Ariel. It sparked a love of all things mermaid, and all things Disney, in them and their art portrayed this. Their mother, Millie, taught them to sew and crochet, two activities that seemed to be the only “feminine” thing about their interests. They would alternate between drawing and painting to crochet and sewing, often designing their own clothes. They weren’t necessarily nerdy, but they had their loves. Mostly it was things like Harry Potter, Doctor Who, or other such media, but they also had a love of sports, predominantly hockey. They were a huge Tampa Bay Lightning fan and would often go to games when they had the chance. They were an excellent runner and ran track all throughout middle and high school.

However, in school they did often struggled with anything involving a majority of their body being seen by other people, but especially changing for PE and track. The idea of getting changed in front of other people unnerved them. It was when they felt most vulnerable, most exposed. It was also when they felt the least like themself. Seeing a female body under typically masculine clothing really hurt, but living in a small town, that was only known for a festival based on strawberries that often invited country and Christian musicians, being anything but straight and cisgender was asking for trouble. More trouble than Joss needed.

In high school, as their sense of self wavered further they withdrew into themself, their passion for costume design became even more apparent. They started cosplaying, attending conventions all over the state of Florida, as a way to be themself, without being themself. They tended to cosplay male characters, taking pride in their ability to pass a male, but refusing to think anything of it, in terms of how they felt. It was this that led them to find a college with a crafts department, where they could major in costume design.

They skipped eleventh grade and then received an early acceptance letter to Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, PA. With permission from their mother, and a number of legal officials, Joss took off. Moving from small town life, to big city, took Joss by surprise. They were in a place where people who weren’t straight and cisgender were more widely accepted, which made trying to find themself much easier. As a freshman, Joss began to experiment, with a lot of things. Between sexuality and gender identity, they found out a lot more about themself than they were ever expecting. This included the realization that they were trans.

For Joss, the idea of being anything but a female made perfect sense. They tried a lot of things over the next few years, in an attempt to figure out just who they were. They knew they didn’t identify fully as male, and definitely had no intentions to transition, but for the longest time couldn’t figure out just how they felt. Outside of gender being a completely social construct, they needed a label. It came in the form of the terms “genderqueer” and “non-binary” as well as the idea that there was an area between female and male. To Joss, being both agender and male made more sense and they quickly began to explore it as a full identity.

By the time Joss graduated, they had legally changed their name, going with a gender neutral name, as a way to alleviate the pressure from being misgendered, which quickly became a sore spot. Given their more feminine features, being called by male pronouns was a difficult thing to get across, especially given their decision to not transition. When they discovered the singular they as a pronoun, Joss jumped at the chance to use it. While it’s still hard to get people to use it, and they often encourage people to use male pronouns if unable to use it, the singular they felt right.

While in college, between balancing a job with the Pittsburgh CLO and cosplay commissions, their career as a cosplayer, youtuber, and twitch streamer took off. They won a number of cosplay contests and with their youtube channel they really became a household name in the Pittsburgh convention scene. Shortly after graduating from college they were a featured cosplayer on Syfy’s Heroes of Cosplay. They would then go on to be one of Twitch’s first partners and earn the money needed to move out to LA.

Once stationed in LA, Joss went headfirst into life as a streamer and cosplayer. Between winnings at cosplay contests, being invited as a guest to larger and larger conventions, their streaming, and their cosplay commissions, Joss was able to establish a life for themself. One that allowed them to take on international conventions and get their name even more known around the world. In 2015, they were invited as a guest to San Diego Comic Con, and took on a job as a costume designer for Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. Thus sparking both their spot as a returning guest to SDCC, NYCC, and a job with DC as a costume designer for their films and consultant on their shows.

[stalking tw / violence tw] However, after a number of years in LA, Joss found themself overwhelmed by a growing fame that was starting to trouble them. They were more frequently recognized in public and with that came danger. Joss ended up being stalked repeatedly and it ended in a number of physical altercations and the cops being called. After over a year of court battles and a restraining order, Joss decided to leave LA. Their initial destination wasn’t Clover City, TN but they had someone who had commissioned a costume dress from them for some big pageant and was informed that the town could use someone with their talent. It was close to Nashville but just far enough that Joss didn’t think they’d have to worry about being recognized too often.

In the two years they’ve been in Clover City, Joss has flourished. They’ve done more work for the DCEU and found their place in the world again. Just famous enough to be recognized when they visit bigger cities for conventions but just the guy next door with the great sewing skills to everyone in town. The perfect balance they’d been missing in their life while in LA.

[rape tw / self harm tw / substance abuse tw] Under the seemingly perfect surface, however, Joss is starting to fall apart. While it’s been two years since they escaped the hell that was LA, Joss has only now started processing everything that happened to them. Including the fact that part of the court battles involved reliving multiple instances of rape. In trying to cope with it all, Joss has started being self destructive, both in the form of self medicating and self harm. Doing anything they can to stop the way their hands constantly shake and the nightmares that plague what sleep they get around their busy schedule.

Joss maintains various forms of social media that pertain directly to their career. Their twitch channel is often filled with in-cosplay gaming, cosplay building, and even live convention coverage. Their youtube channel is full of cosplay videos, tutorials on everything from how to sew to how to pack cosplays for conventions without breaking them, and everything in between.

When they’re not working, Joss spends their time running, watching hockey, hanging out in clubs, playing video games, or hanging out with their cat, Lena. They run at least one marathon a year, but typically more, and have even run the Boston and New York marathons. They have a giant comics collection and an annual pass for both Disneyland and Disney World. They’re also an avid swimmer.

CREDITS

Syfy’s Heroes of Cosplay (2013) - Cast Youtube (2014) - Hit 1 million subscribers Twitch (2014) - Became partner Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice (2016) - Costume Designer Wonder Woman (2017) - Costume Designer Birds of Prey: And the Fabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn (2020) - Costume Designer Wonder Woman 1984 (2020) - Costume Designer San Diego Comic Con (2015 - Present) - Featured Cosplay Guest New York Comic Con (2016 - Present) - Featured Cosplay Guest

APPEARANCE

General

Face Claim: Melissa Benoist

Eye Color: Blue

Hair Color: Brunet & Blond

Height: 5'8"

Biological Sex: Female

Gender Identity: Genderqueer

Gender Expression: Androgynous

Other

Tattoos: tbd

Scars: tbd

Piercings: Ears and Nose

Hair Cut/Style:

Joss typically wears their hair loose around their shoulders, but will occasionally pull it back into a braid or low ponytail.

Clothes/Style:

On a regular basis, tends to stick to more of a punk-lite style, mixing comfort with style. They enjoy wearing beanies, leather, and anything with studs. If they go out, they definitely tend to wear a lot of necklaces and/or bracelets. When it comes to formal wear, they really like suspenders and bowties.

Make Up:

While Joss doesn’t always wear anything more than concealer/foundation to correct for sitting in front of bright lights while on stream, they appreciate a good lipstick and are rarely seen without black nail polish, at least outside of cosplay.

[incarnateirony]

Alchemical Overview, Cont’d

Okay so -- tumblr went weird and glitched out on a conversation I was holding with @drsilverfish and some others (x) So reposting the commentary and adding some bits, re silverfish’s “The Alchemy of God-Wounds and Marks in S15“ post. Just continued thought share and some notes for audience that might feel like they’ve missed something in what has realistically been a conversation with Dabberens about the nature of existence and personal agency for at least two years.

Okay so phew! Before I responded to this I wanted to make sure I had read all of your referenced meta since I've been so in and out lately, even if I hadn't replied to it all. I have some thoughts I'll include here relevant to your "Jung's Answer to Job" post, (x) and the general operative understanding of your "Raising Hell map and script" (with some additions I had attached x), but pulled together in this more direct and current post of yours. And frankly a lot of old stuff, just so people trying to pick up aren’t lost referencing some conversations as far back as two years ago re: union (x)

Because first of all wow what a RIDE. Now that I’ve had time to sit down, let me mostly heavily nod at everything you have to say; it might be redundant to talk about the feminine principle, from the old concept of general union on this old like S13 post (x) (Look at that it’s us talking about it. Some Things Never Change Dot Gif) or more recent pieces like my Citrinitas/Reno video (x) balancing the elements you’re raising while trying to help visualize the process not just in color but a torch passing of the proverbial light involved as the moontells her secret -- the light is not her own and is reflected from the soul one builds into with the yellowing in awareness. I find, for those reading meta as much to learn as anything, some suddenly understand the balance of this in process.

A great deal of that was the torch of Mary, which Dean had unwittingly even passed the light to Amara, after long ago sharing it with Cas -- before he lost that light and fell into his father’s shadows, before his father had his marriage renewed and gave away the stone to send John back in golden light. Cas now stands, confused, hearing Dean throw away everything he said the day Castiel chose to fall for him, in every sense of the term, but still tried to stay before, while being thrown recklessly at another dark door, in the wake of the death of his son, Castiel walks away after his own time in the red.

While Dean was steeping in the dark, Castiel carried on the torch saving people with Sam and calming the commoners, not just running death missions, and he’s keeping on with it after walking out; he won’t be thrown into the maw, but that alone spawns its whole character based web of what all processes Dean struggles with in his head over what Castiel even is to him, Chuck’s rank and position minded, even after the absence of Mary, is this something he’s even been toyed with, is that real - Castiel tried to affirm it but now that he walks out Dean packed it up and rolled on.

This is a great deal of backdrop, but now far enough back that it’s worth tapping in review in entering these conversations. The colors were also screamingly loud in several overtly named alchemical episodes, another of which was a Yockey-Speight episode: Optimism, and the opposed Nihilism; Ouroboros and Absence followed, -- “not evil, but the absence of good.”  (Lmao just read x)

I would call what’s going on more than mildly reliable in regards to the amount of purpose to the general process is actively being given with as much direct reference to the rest as there is, and in general review before doing the full meta dive; I have to say, well DONE gents.

That brief general spurge aside, I can not emphasize *enough* how important to the idea of the Sacred Marriage or the Holy Eucharist is the fact that it quite literally can be depicted as you know, copulation, so the fact that it was vocalized Chuck tried to send Lilith to seduce Dean in the ways of old, and it simply didn’t work on Dean so plan B whatever -- with all of this other *stuff* going on, the loudness of that is wild in that “cancelled” yellow/red transition. Which just as much has pitched a flash of awareness on Dean bound to deepen in 15.06. (In fact here’s some more Sacred Marriage stuff from earlier this season in no particular order [x] [x] [x] and a bunch of posts of those tarot cards about the Art-Lovers transition after Death that I’ve been spamming repeatedly and y’all are probably tired of)

I can’t say how ecstatic I was to have a conversation with Fitz about the use of color, boldest with Dick Speight, but also passed to others like Tapping -- and how equally excited she was about it too. But as for how loud it bounces, just click (x). In fact it loudly surged in Yockey eps. Hard to say what level of that is coincidence really.

In fact, Ashley’s room captured it very loudly. The yellow was hard to miss, but Dean sat in dark clothes, them both on lead blackish blankets and stark white sheets; Dean’s yellowing is upon him at both the start and end of the episode as Sam and Dean stagger through Chuck’s own manufactured story, Lilith and all. This was focal on Dean and seems so; Sam is running another path entirely as you’ve pointed out.

Each character has been facing their own reddenings as you show, a level of dangerous awareness coming with it at many things that are actually surfacing as their own textual burdens to face -- his literal tie to Chuck, rather than Dean facing reflections of the father; Sam’s duty is to subvert the author itself, even if a great deal of that comes from Castiel as Chuck’s roving blind spot. Other metas of course explore that, so not getting deep into it here; Sam has stayed on point despite some violent awakenings for now and what a weird reversal of yellow eyes this all is in the way of the Sins of the Father (can’t find my old post on that but I’m sure @drsilverfish has one similar; if there’s one thing you’ll notice it’s us lobbing back and forth about this for a few years in the referenced posts).

Castiel’s reddening comes from a mix of facing some fairly raw patches with Dean in their relationship as has been covered amply, and general issues of belonging or believing, as well as just general wellness and self care -- his own agency, which is actually a huge step to be leading on ahead of the humans and yet again asserts him as an agent of free will, and sings true of the gorgon blindness to his antics as far back as season 4 (x).

Now round this conversation back up to how I opened and have reminder of even Bobo himself cropping up when I posted Walk Through The Fire to like it; released after 15.03, sung true two episodes later, “He was never going to stop”, but this is, per Lilith, exactly what Chuck has wanted them to see. Just as much as he’s questioned Cas in his life even most of the battle with or for his brother, it’s all just *A LOT*.

Dean’s reddening is mixed with the result that Sam’s shadows stare into, and a great deal of that leaves the question of the blank space.

The hermetic process literally does not work without the 3 prime substances in harmony (x).The intentional Absence of Castiel is a heavy topic many others have meta’ed to death but the danger right now is that a torch has been taken out of their lives. Dean’s most explicitly, but it’s not like it doesn’t effect Sam, but that’s an entire other conversation. But Castiel’s absence quite literally drained and part of Dean’s own coming upon him will be what the absence of Cas does to both him and them -- him and Sam. (x) And just about all reddenings come in the awareness of the importance of this triad in subverting the author, facing the father, brandishing free will and making Man god of his own fate once the existential crisis blows through.

I think what I’m mostly pointing out is a long running set of harmonics of these colors specifically floating Dabb-Berens-Yockey, and Yockey repeated on his way out the door. It’s worth shuffling through and seeing what Cain parallels really do swing us full circle to exploring that arc from a different angle; a Cas, without his powers, walking out in agency before Colette falls to Cain’s drive, or Rowena’s, or-- Dean’s. Or for now the heavyhanded werewolf brothers -- literally what Chuck wanted them to see. “I can’t stop Samuel.” “Tell me that you can stop.” “I will never stop.” - Cain; “He was never going to stop!” cried the young wolf.

Just as much as the queer narrative itself, general agency is upon the Winchesters right now, if perhaps some parts self improving alone and others in parts; but the color scheming bouncing through all of this modernly is absolutely fantastic. Nothing like Castiel’s reddening charging down the phallic demon of marriage blowing a horn and reflecting Dean’s soldier issues, their dead child, and Dean’s insistance to barge into the dark that Castiel had no interest in opening the door for, but by Dean and Belphegor was shoved towards. He still refused, and left as Amara did, and you’re right, the masculine absolutely does need the feminine, but Sam had his half of the sacred marriage display, and now we’re waiting on another. This should be a fun ride.

And seems to echo back to the Lat project Reflection sequence of crucifying the ego (x); but also finding the anima, the goddess, that has been removed from the animus (PLEASE read the post on SPN’s use of Anima, Animus, the Self and the Shadow) -- Dean literally has to stake up that snake of his daddy issues that climbs him, and Castiel his autonomy issues, and they their general connection; and Sam becoming the living concept of the God Man, Chuck and he having part of each other, reflecting the Yellow Eyed Demon who tainted him, and by which he was to become a demon; and now that, with God. How fascinating both Azazel’s wound and Amara’s bond to Dean were so similarly placed all that time ago, really.

** General disclaimer please do not take as some sort of indicator for a particular XYZ level of thing that tends to vary on people’s wants for textual or physical canon I just mean in the general breadth of it, we’re dancing such a loudly and beautifully painted line.

This post doesn’t even begin to grace on Jack’s mercurial or orphic role in this all (x), but that’s almost an aside that needs its own address.

Wonderful post, silverfish, and just wonderful work from the crew.

Oh and in final regards to the reddening, y’all are probably tired of hearing about my lateralus project that I build midseason last year to spec but “The Patient” -- and what parts turned out in season 15 so far -- may be worth entering into discussion with even some nice retroactive flare from Dabb before he really took over from Carver. So, obnoxious but kinda mandatory plug

Of course, and another old video I may recommend for those parting it together, especially with Chuck starting to twist the world around in front of our eyes, is my “the Shadow” video that resonates with a lot of this, because I remind you of many things alongside it – like heaven had its own physics where Dumah knew Jack was long gone because his burger was cold, and now, Dean recites Chuck making them live their “greatest hits.” So beyond just the idea of “face thyself” in the below video, think also on matrixes of control.

[lesbianmonsterlover]

Beauty and the Beast, Part 1

I’m absolute Beauty and the Beast trash.  We’re going with my own take on the tale with a female beast.  This is going to have a fluffy as fuck relationship, some smut, and a happy ending, but yeah I had to make this angsty in places so just be forewarned.

Per period standards you wear dresses and have long hair, but otherwise as usual I try to leave the rest of your appearance to your imagination.

----

Deep in the woods, down an overgrown and forgotten road, lies a castle.  If you were to ask the surrounding towns and hamlets who their liege was, they would answer that they had none, they never had in fact, and they were lucky enough to govern themselves for the most part.  In this castle lives a queen, forgotten and bitter, ruling over nothing but empty halls and bleak gardens.  As an arrogant young woman, left to rule early by the untimely death of her father, she spurned an old hag who had come asking for shelter.  Turning away her ugliness, declaring that such a visage had no place in the gilded halls of her palace, she watched awestruck as the hag morphed into an enchantress of such perfect and ethereal beauty the queen began to weep.  

The queen begged for forgiveness on bended knee, but the sorceress looked down her nose at the gesture.  She saw the queen for what she was: hardened, vain, cruel.  So the sorceress cast her curse.  The castle and its inhabitants would be forgotten by the world, left to rot for a century.  If the queen could learn to love, truly love, and earn the love of another in return, the curse would be broken.  So the servants all became avatars of their work, left sentient and mobile enough to keep things running.  The queen was cursed with a twisted, dark visage to match the cruelty and malice hidden within.

Nearly nine feet tall with a shaggy coat of auburn fur, matching the hair of her human form.  Her face was unrecognizable, like some cross between a cat and a goat, with rams horns curling over her ears.  Her eyes, at least, were the same cool green they had always been, although as the years went on she became less thankful for the burden of knowing that what she saw in her reflection truly was her own face.  She was broad at the shoulder and at the hip, with a feminine waist and figure, although the hugely muscular arms that came from helping to propel herself with her knuckles were new.  She dressed mostly in masculine clothing now, her father’s old shirts and trousers altered to fit her frame. Of all of the changes this curse wrought, this she was the least upset over.  Even as vain as she was, she had always hated gowns and preferred the elegant lines of men’s court dress.  Having an excuse to don breeches and shirts was the only silver lining she could find.

It had been nearly ninety years since that night, and her time was growing slowly to a close.  It had been three decades since a human had even set foot in her castle or on its grounds, and none of them could leave the bounds of their land.  It had been years since she had even left the castle grounds and ventured out into the surrounding forest, still technically part of the estate.  She’s walking the garden when the sound of muffled sobs near her rose bushes draw her attention.  A human woman is huddled on the cold ground, the first frost taking hold and leaving nothing but freezing hard earth.  Her face is in her hands, head bent and hair loose from its plait and curtaining her.  When the human sniffles and wipes her cheeks, the queen gets her first look at you, eyes glassy with tears and face slack with grief.  You’re still so beautiful, and she’s intent on wooing you to break this wretched curse.

~~~

You had never really fit in when it came to the other townsfolk of your small hamlet.  You had your father, your horse, and your books, and that was enough for you.  Well, mostly.  It would have been plenty had it not been for the others in such close proximity.  While it’s convenient to live within such close proximity to the market square, and therefore the book shop, you still feel incredibly out of place.  

“Ah, my sweet lovely bride, there you are!”  Oh, and there’s also Gerard, who you really wish had just died on the front lines at war instead of coming back lauded as a hero.  Not only did this inflate his already massive ego, but the hero worship he received made him feel entitled to the attention and affection of any woman he so desired.  It just so happened he desired you.  You’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve spurned his advances, getting progressively sterner with each no you’re forced to give.  You’d have thought after the first few times he’d move on to someone else in the village, but he seemed absolutely stuck on you.  

The glares from other eligible women that come with the attention from Gerard make you even more reluctant to go into town. You had a hard enough time interacting with others out in the world without the constant heat of glares on the back of your skull.  Honestly, you wish those glares really would set you on fire.  Maybe then at least you’d be rid of Gerard, what with the disfiguring scars that would be the result.  “I am not your bride, Gerard.”  Your deadpan reply and flat stare do nothing to deter him.

Perhaps, if you were interested in him in the first place, his attention would be flattering.  You cannot deny that he is an attractive man, tall and muscular with an angular face and masculine jaw.  His clear blue eyes are cold though, and calculating.  You want love, desire, passion, the things that your parents had in their marriage.  He wants you because you’re beautiful, not because you’re you.  “Come now, don’t be so difficult pet.  What more could you want in a husband than myself?  Rich, powerful, handsome.”  The way he purrs the last word makes the two girls peeking out from the baker’s shop sigh and swoon.  It just makes you sigh...in exasperation.  

“I don’t know, Gerard.  Love, respect, intelligence?”  Your biting remark makes him scowl at you darkly, grabbing your jaw painfully with one of his large hands.  

“Listen here, pet.  You can refuse me now, but your father won’t be here to protect you forever.  What then?  We all know unmarried women of your station are worth less than nothing.  Or do you want to wind up out on the street?”  He shoves your face away like it burned him, scowling as he gruffly calls for his footman to follow him.  You cup your tender chin and walk back home, foregoing a trip to the bookstore today as you had planned.  You try hard not to let what Gerard said get under your skin, but it isn’t as though he’s wrong… Still, you have your father, and your home, and as long as you have that you have the hope that you can hold out for someone who will love you.  

Returning to the little cottage you shared with you father you were immediately struck by how quiet it is.  This is unusual, especially considering that at this time of day your father should be wrist deep in his latest noisy project, humming along to some internal song that only he can hear.  Instead you find him slumped over the table, still breathing but not conscious.  You’re rushing, and do what you can to make him comfortable on a pallet on the floor while you run out to get a doctor.  

Sadly, along with the doctor you find Gerard, and he insists on coming along.  A stroke is what the physician called it, and there was the possibility that your father would never wake.  Gerard gave you a pitying look, but tried to twist it to his advantage.  “See, pet?  What are you going to do now?  How will you care for him?”  You kick him out with a teary glare, and the physician helps you get him situated into a cart in order for your father to be taken to the local clinic where he’d at least get round the clock care.  

When you wake up the next morning, you’re worried.  If nothing else, your father was at least cared for.  There was enough money stashed to keep him at the clinic for months, but not much else.  You’d get by on your stash of preserved food for a few weeks, but what would you do for money after that?  It is with this thought on your mind that you pack a bag with enough to get you through the day and take off on your horse into the forest behind your village.  Instead of taking the well worn road out to the larger village a few hours ride from here, you decide to take a detour down an overgrown path.

You remember walking this little road as a child, but cannot seem to remember where it leads.  You stop for lunch at the side of a small stream, allowing your horse to graze and drink while you relax with your feet dipped into the cold water.  When you mount back up the sun is well into the sky, although not quite at midday, and the air is warm enough that you can remove your cloak.  The fresh cool air is nice, and you take your time following the path until it ends at a rusted wrought iron gate.

When you dismount and walk up to the gate, curious, something spooks your horse and sends her bolting back the way you came.  You run after her for a while, but as the sun crests in the sky at its highest point you know that you’re going to have to find somewhere tonight to hunker down in order to make it back to town tomorrow.  With any luck, your horse will have made her way back without you and she’ll be waiting when you return.  

The walk back to the gates is long and by the time you reach them again the sun is dipping below the trees, casting long foreboding shadows.  When you try the rusted gate it pops open with a groan that shakes your ribs, just enough for you to slip through.  The walk from the gate is lined with beautiful and terrible statues, the lifelike marble women being embraced and devoured by demons.  Gooseflesh raises on your arms, but it isn’t like you have much of an option anyway.  You cannot be out in the forest at night without protection, and your cloak and bag are still draped over your mare’s saddle.  Rubbing your arms for warmth you continue trekking up the path, although you’re distracted by a branch off of it that leads to a garden full of rose bushes surrounding a fountain.  Sitting on the fountain’s edge you sigh, gazing at the blood-red roses peeking out from the verdant green.  

You aren’t sure when you begin crying, but a chill wind cools the tracks of your tears along your cheeks.  When you lift a hand to wipe them away, more come unbidden, until you’re heaving on the stone with great, body wracking sobs.  It takes a few moments for you to calm, memories of your mother’s casket, covered in roses.  Your father’s limp body slouched on your shared table.  It would be so much easier if you could just disappear.  

The crunch of gravel under heavy feet makes you startle, sniffling and trying to compose yourself before you call out.  “H-hello?  Is there someone there?  I’m lost, and looking for a place to stay for the night.”  You call out to the wind but hear nothing back, but you still follow the sound as best you can.  There’s nothing there, although if you were a tracker you may have noticed the huge, clawed footprints disturbing the chilled grass.  You follow the path back up to the huge castle, standing trembling in front of the giant wooden doors.  

As soon as you place a hand on it, it opens as if by magic.  “Hello?  Is there anyone there?”  The way your voice echoes around you is haunting, and you can almost feel the tingle of something otherworldly in your bones.  “Hello?  Please, if there’s someone here, I need help!”  You shiver at the breeze that passes through the castle, but the murmur of voices and a faint flickering coming from down the long hall to the East seem to draw you in.  “Hello!  Please, I’m lost in the woods and need a place to stay for the evening, until I can find my way back in the light of day.”  

The murmuring you thought you heard stops, but the faint flicker of a fireplace still glows in the distance, growing ever closer as your feet click solitary footfalls onto the marble floor.  You enter what looks like a sitting room, with one huge fireplace along the back wall, two wing back chairs in front of it with a small side table between them.  There’s a chaise perpendicular to the two chairs on one side, and a settee on the other with a huge black waistcoat draped over it.  You marvel at the size of it, surely whatever man wore this must be the biggest person in the world.  It looked to be in good condition, if a little frayed at the buttonholes, and importantly much like everything else in this castle it was without a speck of dust.  

“So, you’ve decided to let yourself in then.”  The voice makes you gasp, and as you turn to greet whoever owns that voice you stumble.  Falling, you’re prepared to hit the unforgiving stone with your skirt-covered bottom but you’re surprised to feel a cushion beneath you instead.  It’s an ottoman, a sentient ottoman, and it gives a rough bark like a dog before scurrying away with you firmly seated on its back.  It settles down by the fire, with you still on it, and you’re frozen there with confusion.  You look back over at the doorway, finding a hugely imposing figure standing there silhouetted in the darkness.  “Has no one ever told you it is rude to impose yourself on others?”

The voice is somehow feminine, but that seems impossible considering the size of the figure before you.  Surely they are at least as tall as the door frame, if not taller, and nearly as broad across.  “I’m sorry to intrude, I was out for a ride when my horse bolted without me on her.  There was no way for me to make it back to town before nightfall, and surely out there alone I would freeze to death.  Please, I apologize for my rudeness, but I would appreciate a place to stay for the evening.  I do not have much to give you, but I will do my best to repay you as you need.”

There’s a low growl from the shadow, and then a rough laugh.  “A place to stay, hm?  Are you sure you’re any safer in here than you are out there, girl?”  The shadow steps out into the ring of light emanating from the fireplace and you gasp when you catch your first sight of the beast.  Your heart is beating like a rabbit and your breath coming in fast gasps.  The snarl and scowl on their face bares huge teeth at you, but their eyes are full of more fear and self loathing than they are burning hatred.  Something about their eyes draws you in, there’s the same burning desire for love and acceptance deep in there that you can read much like your own.  “Well?  Nothing to say then?  Too scared to run?  To scream?”  But you simply fix her with a shy smile, pulse still nervously flitting in your neck.  

“I’m not going to run from you.”  You aren’t prepared for how cute she looks as her face goes slack with confusion, like a lost puppy.  “I just wasn’t expecting you, that’s all.”

[nationaldvam]

After the New Year a few years ago, I bought myself a copy of Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. It wasn’t a book I actually felt I needed; if anything, I’m almost annoyingly tidy already, a veritable Roomba of a human. I’d moved fifteen times in the decade since I’d turned 18, each time trying to shed whatever I no longer wore.

I bought Kondo’s book mostly as a ploy to get my boyfriend, Rob, to clean out his nightstand. Our courtship had been a steady reclamation of his less-tidy space by my relentless wave of tidiness. (Whatever’s going on in Marie Kondo’s brain that makes her say “I love mess!”, I have it, too.) His nightstand, though, was The Place He Put Things. A place I ached to clean.

The book arrived, and after weeks spent suggesting he read it, I finally decided to live by example. I did as Marie Kondo prescribed: I emptied my closet and bureau into a pile on the living room floor, separated their contents into a peak of jackets and a peak of dresses. One by one, I picked items up and asked myself whether they sparked joy. If they didn’t, into the discard pile they went.

I didn’t take me long to see it, what the discard pile was. It was only the skirts, only the dresses, only the flowers and lace and sparkles. It was everything I’d bought hoping that some colleague might say: Isn’t that cute?

I burst into tears, shame filling me entirely, and then I laughed about the fact that this book had made me cry, this silly, stupid cleaning book.

For months — well, years — I’d carried around a stack of telling moments in my mind, ones I’d shuffle periodically, ones I knew told me something but something I didn’t want to acknowledge to myself, let alone admit. For example, there was this one moment back before I’d quit my job. I had worked at a start-up media company. It was the sort of office that looks fun and has fun snacks and there’s pressure to dress up on fun holidays like Halloween. One Halloween, I’d come as Ace Ventura.

After lunch they were giving prizes to those who’d really gone above and beyond costume-wise, myself not included. I stood in the crowd next to a colleague who’d come dressed as her boss. Earlier her costume had gotten a big reaction, though, because it was her dressing as him: sneakers, jeans, glasses, of course the hoodie. Everyone laughed. Now we were standing around, drinking booze, eating sugar. I told her I liked her costume and she looked embarrassed.

“I feel so awkward. Don’t you feel awkward?” she asked.

I didn’t get what she meant.

“Dressing like a guy!” she said.

“Oh,” I said, and without thinking added: “I always dress like a guy for Halloween, or at least a lot of the time.”

(I mentally flipped through prior Halloweens: My first costume, at age three, an authentic lederhosen. In elementary and middle school, I’d dressed as a male nerd, a male tourist, Charlie Chaplin. When I was in grad school in Iowa, in my mid-twenties, I’d won second place at a roller derby halftime costume contest dressed as Justin Bieber. When I said “Justin Bieber” into the judge’s mic, someone in the crowd shouted, “That’s a chick!”)

“That’s funny,” I said to my colleague, “I haven’t noticed that before.”

Which was funny, because just getting dressed, day-to-day, I struggled with, always. Most mornings my bedroom floor would be lost beneath tops and skirts pulled on and torn off. I’d apply eye makeup or lipstick, then remove it, then change my mind again. I’d pause at the door and cringe and end up back in my room, eyeing the clock, and pull the shirt from the day before from the laundry. It had always been like this.

Back then, I was always sweating. At work I sweated through shirts and cardigans and sometimes jackets, too. If I thought about the sweat it seemed to get worse. In the summer especially I’d go hide in the bathroom a while, wait until the whole joint was empty so I could crouch with my pits beneath the hand dryer. Sometimes I told myself little lies about how I was getting better, generally — getting better at having style, getting better at faking confidence.

I knew deep down this was all a fiction. If anything, I sensed I was getting worse at even leaving the apartment. It grew harder to dress for work; I eventually wore the same few items over and over: a black maxi dress, lace-up sandals, a jean jacket to mop up sweat.

But then I sold a book, and realized that to finish it, I had to quit my job. This meant no more office or coworkers. It meant I didn’t have to leave the house at all. This idea — never having to dress for work again — was appealing for reasons I still couldn’t quite explain.

Now with no office to go to, I rarely dressed, and if I did I wore sweatpants. The days I did go out, for an appointment or a meeting, I might force myself to dress up. Tripping down a cobblestone street one afternoon in heels, I wondered who the hell I was trying to fool.

I eventually ran out of the one makeup item I still sometimes wore, red lipstick, and now found myself incapable of making the trip to Sephora to buy more. The place had always make me melt with nervousness, but now, so unpracticed at being in public, I felt somehow incapable of going inside. I finally convinced a friend to come with me. I found myself trying to explain to her that doing something like buying lipstick was very hard for me. I don’t think she understood what I meant. I don’t think I understood what I meant.

A few days later I wrote about the lipstick incident in a blog post. I published it hurriedly, before I could talk myself out of it. In the post, for the very first time to anyone, I acknowledged what that day I termed “my gender stuff.”

A month later, kneeling and sobbing before my Marie Kondo discard pile, it felt silly, sure, that this book is what had finally done it, but I also couldn’t unsee my actual preferences: so much of the feminine clothing I owned did not spark joy.

I donated it all. I hung and folded the items that remained: flannel shirts, baggy jeans, t-shirts. I had kept a few dresses and heels and feminine winter coats, ones that had seemed really special when I’d bought them. I knew Marie Kondo wouldn’t have approved of my choice to keep them. Each day I passed them and they stared right back at me.

During the months that followed, I steadily shed feminine things. One day, all my makeup: gone. Another day, all my earrings: gone. (My ears had been pierced when I was two!) I tried to do as Marie Kondo said and thanked these items for what they’d given me. I guiltily threw them out, and then felt wonderful.

One August day, I donated the last of my heels and dresses, the ones that had once been my absolute favorites. I happened to run into someone I knew in line at the thrift shop, and he offered to take my box of things to donate. I put them in his trunk and watched him drive away. I didn’t say to him, nor could I have articulated, that I was throwing out the last of me pretending to be a woman.

Walking away, I felt joy, an almost ridiculous joy. I also felt terror, like when a cartoon has walked off a cliff and is standing blissfully on air.

A few days later, Rob and I happened to be flying to another city on vacation. I packed a mostly empty suitcase. When we got there, I said, I’d force myself to go shopping.

Rob knew I’d gotten rid of a lot of my clothes, and I’d begun to talk about gender, but, like me, he didn’t know where I was going with any of this.

The first store was GAP-like. To my left were waifish white mannequins wearing blouses and skirts, cashmeres and scarves; to the right were slightly bigger ones in belted khakis and button downs.

I walked straight ahead, wanting to turn right but afraid. I broke left through the dresses, feeling immediately disappointed in myself, Rob following behind.

I swerved back to the right, hurriedly walking through the men’s things now, wondering if anyone was on to me. I looked at a pair of pants, willing myself to pick them up. How would I ever figure out my size? How could I ever work up the nerve to walk back to the dressing room? I felt like I was going to throw up or pass out. I marched back out the glass doors, with Rob behind me.

We found a café and I cried and tried to tell him some of my story, the first I’d ever told anyone any of it, really. I recalled being three and learning my bedroom walls were painted green because my parents had expected me to be a boy, a fact I had always loved. I recalled how the nickname I’d had since birth, Sandy, was a name for boys and girls both, another fact I had always loved.

“For as long as I can remember, this is who I’ve been,” I explained to him: internally not-female, or not just female, though I didn’t know what this made me instead.

“I love you,” he said, “I support you.” He seemed less surprised than I’d have guessed he be. What fear I had that he would love me less if I were honest about it all was quickly dissolving.

I finished an iced tea. I felt better.

We resolved that I could try going into a second store. He held my hand. I nervously felt along the side that had masculine things. The woman behind the register was wearing a ballcap herself and didn’t seem bothered. I went into a dressing room and tried on item after item. Every time I emerged, Rob beamed.

I couldn’t afford to buy much of anything that day, so when he took out his card, I didn’t stop him; I’d never felt so grateful.

That evening, we went on a date. I wore a new button down, trousers, Oxfords. We moved down the street, his hand in mine, which was shaking, so terrified by the question of what we must look like to others.

Nobody much noticed, or if they did and cared, they didn’t show it. This, I’ve since learned, is often the way of things.

Before that night, I realized, I had never before been both “dressed up” and comfortable.

“You look hot,” Rob said, and unlike how I’d always reacted to such sentiments, I didn’t want to swat away his compliment like a gnat.

The best feelings are the converse of this cisgender othering: the moments of communion, however brief, I share with other queer and trans people out there in the world. Like last June, I walked down Sixth Avenue during the NYC Dyke March, one body in a long splay of bodies, bodies with voices, bodies with drums, and I felt, for the first time ever, like I was surrounded by my peers.

That year I didn’t leave the apartment much because there was always work to be done, and because what would I wear? Because what was I even doing? Because sometimes I’d cry so hard.

I had learned words for myself, words like nonbinary and trans, but I couldn’t yet imagine saying these words about myself to anyone. Trump was elected. The apartment was high in a building with a terrace. I’d stand on it barefoot and study the traffic on the avenue below.

That year I read books — books for the book I was writing, but also books about gender, books I’d finally let myself get after years of not buying such books. When I finally read Julia Serano’s Whipping Girl, I reflected a long time on my choice of Halloween costume that time at work, Ace Ventura. Serano reminded me that the entire plot of Ace Ventura: Pet Detective turns on the “reveal” of a transgender woman. At the movie’s climax, Ace outs a trans woman for the “fake” that she is — literally spinning her around to show her tucked genitals — at which he and everyone else vomits profusely, including Dan Marino and the Dolphins’ mascot, a dolphin.

I recalled other transphobic — specifically transmisogynist — cultural artifacts that attracted me when I was younger, realizing in fact that so much of the comedy I loved growing up hinged on the joke of crossdressing: Mrs. Doubtfire, Monty Python, Little Britain. Also the joke of gender non-conformity, in the case of It’s Pat. I probably loved these things both because they brought up the topic of gender, which did greatly interest me, and because they shamed me, bullied me away from acknowledging my own truth.

Sometimes I would be forced to leave the apartment. I’d put on new clothes, ones that made me feel a flutter of pride. Friends wouldn’t recognize me. Strangers would stare. Or they’d call me “sir” and I’d be stunned but also unsure whether I wanted to correct them. I also felt that these were the first times I’d ever dared to show myself honestly to the world.

Sometimes I’d run into someone I knew — a girl from back home, a guy from grad school. I’d see them avoid my eyes, sure that they didn’t know me. I’d feel hurt, and then I’d see them realize, say something like, “You got a haircut.”

Sometimes I’d have to attend some event or occasion I hadn’t since the change, like a job interview or funeral. Attempting to dress, I’d fall apart, totally lose nerve. Rob would stand with me, tie my tie, wipe my tears. At that funeral, some relatives didn’t recognize me, and others thought I was my brother. But then they did see it was me.

“Sandy!” they said. After, I’d feel a supreme relief, like at least now they know, even if they don’t get it.

I worked up all the courage I had and made an appointment at an actual barbershop. For years I’d gone to a salon that smelled like chardonnay and chemicals, pretended the whole time I wasn’t having a panic attack.

In the barbershop the men didn’t seem to notice me. I got the cut I wanted. I exited feeling something like pride, rubbing the buzz on the back of my neck. Walking through the park on my way home, I stopped and did something I’d never much been tempted to do before, which was post a selfie. I shook with nerves.

I never used to picture myself in middle or old age, but now I do. That began happening after I came out. Another new thing I started to feel was that I love myself. Not just how I look, my haircut, my style, though I do love those things. I now love my body itself to an extent I’d never have imagined was possible. Before I hated everything about me, body included, totally, powerfully, if for reasons I couldn’t quite spell out.

Presenting myself now, in a way that’s honest about how I’ve always mentally straddled the gender divide, I also feel the cruelty of gender-segregated spaces more sharply. I hate the TSA and avoid changing rooms. Cis women in bathrooms sometimes look shocked or horrified when they see me, or they make frowning remarks (like “This the men’s?”). I contemplate going into men’s rooms but frankly, I’m too scared of men. If I’m being honest, I avoid being in public still, as much as I can.

These days, I’m called “sir” and “ma’am” with equal frequency. Sometimes people think I’m male at first and then realize I’m not, usually when I talk, and sometimes I then see a wild anger in them. In those moments, I feel my vulnerability. Though in other senses I feel safer; I am no longer constantly catcalled, as I was before — that drumbeat of male violence, muffled. All the time I feel how arbitrary these categories are. All the time, I know this is all just about power.

Some who see me now are excited about my apparent difference. In a restaurant, a waitress ran over, grinning, nearly shouting, “What are you?”

The best feelings are the converse of this cisgender othering: the moments of communion, however brief, I share with other queer and trans people out there in the world. Like last June, I walked down Sixth Avenue during the NYC Dyke March, one body in a long splay of bodies, bodies with voices, bodies with drums, and I felt, for the first time ever, like I was surrounded by my peers. I felt really quiet that day, like no words would work. I still find myself unable to describe that feeling of having community. Suffice it to say, it sparked joy.

I’m 31 now, and living a life that a few years ago I couldn’t have imagined. My book’s paperback calls me Sandy and they/them. Rob and I married and moved to an old farmhouse in the country. I now have two floors of rooms to tidy. I often wander delightedly for hours, scrubbing and straightening and vacuuming cat fur and flies and once, with a whoosh — to my great surprise — the skeleton of a baby mouse.

Rob and I write out our chores on a big spool of brown paper by the fridge, to ensure we contribute evenly. I am proud of us, of him, for how we’ve managed to share the responsibilities of maintaining this home. And yet, through all this change, a constant remains, bulging with wires and papers and who knows what else, the one place I’ve accepted I’ll never tidy: his nightstand.

[luckyspike]

Adventures in America, Ch. 6 - In which Adam learns about the formation of shelf clouds (literally, this is not a metaphor)

and this chapter took so long because in order for adam to learn about the formation of shelf clouds i had to learn about the formation of shelf clouds

thank you to wikipedia, and the 5 hours of meteorology youtube videos i watched, as well as the many, many hours of storm chasers i watched

reminder that this fic is not on AO3 yet bc tbh i want to finish it first but here’s the link to the other chapters

or follow this link to my fanfiction tag

ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5

-

Four-thirty in the morning, and it was still dark. Generally, Adam wasn’t a fan of getting up before the sun, but generally, Adam was not hunting tornadoes. He rolled out of bed the minute the alarm went off, silenced it, and moved to turn on the light. Lucky beat him to it.

“You ready?” the other boy asked, dark eyes bright and eager. “You ready to go?”

“Absolutely.”

They threw on clothes - whatever they could find - and stuffed the few things they’d actually unpacked back into their bags. Adam paused only to send a text to his friends - ‘Day 1, here we go!’ - before he and the other student walked quickly into the parking lot, their excitement poorly-disguised. They arrived at the truck and stopped. It was dark. Rachael and Noel were absent. Lucky frowned, and looked at his phone.

“Oh. We’re early.” He dropped his bag to the ground, and sat on the asphalt next to it. “Oh well, better early than late.”

“Sure,” Adam agreed, leaning back against the truck and wondering if maybe the extra 15 minutes of sleep might have been worth it. He sighed and looked around. In Tadfield, the streets would have been empty at this hour. But in Austin, by the airport, cars came and went. At a lower volume, certainly, than they might in a few hours, but still, the road was not deserted by any stretch of the imagination. He wondered, distantly, where all those people might be going. 

“Hey, Adam.” Lucky held up his phone. “You wanna do a snap?”

“Oh, selfie? Yeah, sure.” He crouched down next to the other boy, Lucky beaming through his beard and Adam holding up a peace sign while his blonde hair spilled over his face and shoulders. It probably would have been a good picture, had it not been so dark that the only discernible thing was two dark shadows crouched in front of a slightly reddish shadow that may have, with better lighting, looked like a truck. Undeterred, Lucky nodded approvingly and captioned it ‘day 1 fuckers!’ before sending it off, presumably to a group of friends. 

“I should probably take another one for my parents and stuff, too.” This was done as a selfie only, Adam standing back up to look to the east instead, watching the sky turn purple with dawn. Although Adam didn’t like to look over anybody’s shoulder, he did note that the caption on the second photo was a tamer ‘Bright and early for storm chasing day 1!’. He smiled. 

“Your parents are cool with this, huh?”

“Eh.” Lucky shrugged. “My dad is. He’s like super stereotypical masculine dude - his only concern was that I didn’t plan on taking a gun with me.” He rolled his eyes, while Adam tried not to look too shocked. Well, that was America for you. “My mom was kind of worried, but like, we always watched those storm chaser shows when I was a kid, so I think she’s excited too. She told me to send a ton of pictures.” He looked up, over his shoulder, to Adam. “Yours?”

Adam shrugged a shoulder. “They felt like it was a good opportunity, they just felt it was maybe more dangerous than needed but … eh.” He laughed. “I was more worried about my godfathers trying to stop me, but they just let me go.” He frowned. “Which is kind of weird, actually, ‘cause they seemed really worried at first, but I did tell them it was really not that dangerous, so I guess they believed me.”

Lucky was watching him with a puzzled expression. “I don’t have any godparents. Well, I mean, not that I’ve stayed in touch with. I think my parents picked some of their friends or something. But you know yours?” He thought about it. “Was your family really religious or something?” And then he winced. “Yikes, actually, that’s really personal. Sorry, don’t feel obligated.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I mean … kind of.” He snorted. “It’s weird, but I guess we’re kind of religious in a way. They taught me a lot about religion, anyway, but like, I dunno.” He shook his head. “I was heading for trouble when I was younger, and that’s sort of when they started hanging around more, I think at first to help me? But now they’re just kind of cool weird uncles.”

Lucky nodded appreciatively. “Nice.” He picked up a stone from the parking lot and chucked it, idle and bored. “I learned most of my religion from, uh, well, we had a nanny and a gardner until I was like, eight, and it was mostly them.” He laughed. “So weird, honestly - the gardner was like, a monk, I swear to God, and my nanny was actually like, a literal Satanist, like pentagrams and the whole thing, but they ended up getting married after they retired together.” Adam frowned. That was … odd. “Nanny used to like, tell me to destroy all lesser humans and stuff, and then she’d hand me off to the gardner for a few hours and he’d be like all into love of all living things or whatever.” Oh, she. Adam relaxed. A little.

Very strange.

“Up and at ‘em, eh, boys?” Noel’s voice rang across the parking lot, loud and clear even over the steadily-increasing airport traffic. “Excited for the first day?”

Adam nodded and Lucky said, “Yeah!” Rachael, tagging behind, laden with camera bags and an oversize travel mug, offered up a weak and drowsy smile. “Lots of driving on the agenda today, guys. Hopefully will get us into position to see some stuff this afternoon. But first -” she wagged the mug in the air, “we need to find a Dunkin.”

Lucky made a face. “You’re a Dunkin devotee?”

“What’s your brand?” She was packing her things into the bed of the truck, and Adam and Lucky followed suit. “Please don’t say Starbucks.”

“... Well.”

She sighed and laid her hand on his shoulder. “So I have to teach you more than just storm chasing this trip, I guess. It will be my cross to bear.” The truck started up, and Rachael brandished her mug like a sleepy knight charging into battle. “To Dunkin.” She trod around to the front passenger seat, and Lucky laughed, shutting the bed cover and heading to his seat. 

Adam waited until they were in the truck and on the road before he asked, “What’s Dunkin?” He thought it over, trying to remember where he’d seen the name before. Online, certainly, but in relation to … what?

“Oh.” Rachael was watching him in the rearview mirror. “Oh, Adam. Oh, you sweet, summer child.” She turned around, slinging her arm across Noel’s shoulders. “Do you drink coffee? Or tea?”

“Both.” He considered it. “Coffee’s nice in the morning.”

“Dunkin Donuts has the best coffee in the world. Hands down, best.”

“Sometimes they burn it,” Noel said, already flinching away from the playful slap she aimed at his shoulder. “I said sometimes! Not every time!”

“Never. They never do.” She looked to her phone, where a GPS was chirping out directions to the nearest Dunkin. “I will convince you boys by the end of this session that Dunkin coffee is superior to any other coffee, and not to be unappreciated.” She sighed. “It is better than Starbucks, mark my words.” Lucky hummed, uncertain. “What’s your preferred brand, Adam?”

He thought about it. “Uh, well. I dunno. Costa is what we have in town, and that’s pretty good, but I don’t think there’s any of them over here. Starbucks is okay, I guess, in a pinch, but my godfather makes the best coffee.” He shrugged. “He’s super into it.”

Rachael nodded. “Oh, well, obviously home-brew rigs are going to beat out chain places every time.”

“She does make an amazing cup of coffee,” Noel agreed.

“But no, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Costa.” Rachael looked thoughtful. “I’ll have to try it some day. I’ve always wanted to visit the UK, so I’ll put it on my list of things to do for that trip!”

Adam laughed. “There are definitely better things to do in England than go to Costa. If you’re serious about going, I can give you a list of stuff if you’d like.”

Noel turned into a parking lot, and Rachael yawned. “Ah, sorry. Yes, I’m definitely going to take you up on that. But first, coffee. You alright taking the first leg driving, Noel?”

“As always!” He hopped out and waited for the rest of the party to join. “The donuts are also fairly good here, so if you guys want breakfast this will probably be our stop. They have sandwiches an’ all that, too.”

“I do like their hashbrowns,” Lucky added, half a step behind Adam, hands in his pockets. “You have to have a donut though, Adam. Just to try one. It’s like … I mean, America runs on Dunkin.” He laughed. “Or at least that’s what their commercials say.”

Ultimately, Adam selected a donut for breakfast, as well as a cup of coffee. He debated getting the hashbrowns as well, but on reflection it seemed likely that this would not be his only opportunity to eat at Dunkin, and he decided to save it for another day. Rachael paid for him - “The first hit is free,” she said solemnly - and they took their leave.

The coffee was pretty good, Adam thought, sipping at it on the way back to the truck. Maybe a little too sweet. But good. Wouldn’t be the worst thing to drink for the next six weeks, anyway. He assured Rachael he thought it was delicious, and they loaded back into the truck.

Rachael spent the first portion of the drive north looking at her computer, studying the weather maps, and drinking her coffee. She and Noel talked in low voices about where to go - maybe a bit more east? Or stay westward? - and the truck rolled on. Adam, a stranger in America, watched the desert of Texas go by, pink and gold in the dawn and then bright and brown in the harsh light of day. Lucky, in spite of drinking his coffee faster than anybody probably should, was asleep within the first hour, leaned against the window with a string of drool running from the corner of his mouth. Adam considered taking a photo of him on Lucky’s own phone - it was laid on the seat between them, idle - but decided against it, instead pulling out a book about supercell formation and other weather patterns, and starting to read.

Rachael and Noel switched drivers after a few hours, stirring Lucky from his nap. With the students more awake, and no driving duties at hand, Noel took the opportunity to talk Lucky and Adam through the weather tracking software on the laptop, and discussed what they were looking for. “You want to see a big, cool system meeting with some warm air where there’s a lot of moisture,” he explained. “So here’s the barometric pressures as they stand now, and the current radar. Either of you have an idea of where we should go for ideal storm tracking?” Adam and Lucky, each with their own notebooks, did their level best to calculate the possible and likely movements of the systems. Adam considered his work and, eventually, penciled in a careful ‘x’ over a part of the map where it appeared two states met on the north side of the Oklahoma panhandle. Lucky had already finished his own calculations, and they passed their notebooks forward. 

“Alright, let’s see here.” Noel turned around, one notebook in each hand and laptop open in front of him, comparing each of their calculations to his own model. Adam shifted nervously. He was pretty sure with the jet stream so far south, they wouldn’t need to go as north as Lucky had calculated, but then again he hadn’t been confident about the low-pressure area … “Both good maps,” Noel concluded at last. “But I think today we’re going to end up closer to Adam’s.” He turned back to them, smiling, and passed the notebooks back. “Partially because we won’t be able to get that far into Kansas without losing daylight, sorry Lucky, but I don’t know … we’ll have to see. Time will tell.”

“Part of storm chasing,” Rachael added in, “is guesswork. Doesn’t matter how good your models are, doesn’t matter how correct your math’s been, the weather always seems to end up surprising us. It’s part of what makes it fun! And scary, sometimes.”

“Oh, which reminds me: safety briefing.” Noel turned around, suddenly serious as the grave. Adam nodded attentively, shutting his notebook and folding his hands on top of it. “We’ll go through some of Rachael’s lightning equipment afterwards, because eventually you two are going to be doing a lot of work with that, but we need to talk safety.” He sighed and rubbed his neck. “It’s not all fun and photos out here. Let’s talk the anatomy of a storm. Lucky, you first, go over what you know about inflow and outflow, and why that’s important.”

The safety “briefing” actually lasted an entire 3 hours which, honestly, Adam appreciated. They discussed the anatomy of a supercell, the places where you were more likely to get caught off-guard by a rain-wrapped tornado, the places where lighting is more likely to be active, where and how hail forms, and how to best stay safe while studying storms. Noel showed and taught them about the ‘bear’s cage’, and made it very clear that for the most part they would be avoiding that portion of the storm, as neither Noel nor Rachael had a death wish. At the conclusion of his briefing, they stopped for lunch - fast food, which Adam viewed as a particular treat, not having much selection in Tadfield - and switched drivers again.

As they entered the Great Plains region, Adam was taken aback by just how flat everything was. Miles and miles stretched out on either side, level and grassy in the places where it wasn’t level and covered with farmland. Cows - so many cows - grazed and stood and slept and stared at the highway, sometimes, and although Rachael’s instruction on lightning and atmospheric electrical activity was truly interesting, Adam found his mind wandering. 

“Adam?” he was startled from his reverie and study of the plains of the Texas panhandle by Lucky. He turned to find both the other student and Rachael smiling at him. 

He blushed. “Oh, sorry.”

Rachael shrugged. “Don’t worry. It’s a lot of information. We’re probably a few hours out yet, too - are you tired? We can take a break and you can have a nap. We have you both at our mercy for the next six weeks anyway, right?”

Adam laughed. “Yeah. I might nap. Uh, if that’s okay, I mean.” Rachael waved a hand, the universal gesture of ‘go ahead’. Lucky nodded too, slouching back against the seat and stuffing a bundled-up sweatshirt between his head and the window. He was asleep in minutes, eyelids fluttering as he dreamed. Adam leaned up against the window, too, wishing he’d had the foresight to pull a sweatshirt or something out of his own luggage as a makeshift pillow. Still, even without, he found a comfortable position between the headrest and the side of the cab, and drifted off to the sound of the road beneath the truck. 

He wasn’t sure how long he slept, but he didn’t dream, and when he woke up, it was because Lucky was nudging his shoulder. “Hey, dude. We’re getting there: look!”

“Whazz?” Adam blinked, bleary, and then remembered what he was doing. He focused his eyes, rubbed a bit of sleep from them, and looked to Rachael, or at least her shoulder. Her laptop was open on her lap, Baron running. Although he could only see her face in profile, she didn’t look happy.

“Check out the clouds,” Lucky said, pointing across the back seat and out of Adam’s window. “Look. Cumulonimbus.”

Noel glanced out of the window at the clouds. “Yep, for sure. Capped, though. How’s the radar looking, Rachael?”

“Not great,” she replied, glumly. “Honestly it looks like … I hate to say it, but it looks like it might fall apart.” She ran a hand over her hair, pulling a few dark strands loose from her already-messy ponytail. “It just isn’t hanging together like we want it to be.” Turning in her seat, she set the laptop on the center console, the better to show the students in the back seat what she was looking at. “You see this line of storms here? Ideally, I would have liked to see them consolidate more, but they’re spreading out into a squall line.” She pointed to one of the still-consolidated blobs on the radar. “That’s going to be a low-precipitation system, but it might be a good one to see for your first day.” She scowled as she zoomed out. “Look at that - the storms to the east look much better.”

Noel shook his head. “That’s the business, unfortunately. And things might change - you get hooks in squall lines, sometimes.”

“Well, I didn’t want to start these guys out on a bust day.” She studied the radar again after pulling the laptop back onto her knees. “I guess this looks somewhat favorable here, up by Sturgis. No hook, though.” She sighed. “Still might get some lightning and hail, though. You guys want to practice a little with the lightning equipment?”

Adam nodded eagerly. He was disappointed, a little, that the storm was falling apart, but still, a big storm and some lightning would be exciting. Maybe hail. The biggest hail he’d ever seen wasn’t even pea-sized, but he’d seen videos and photos of much larger and he figured it might be cool to see that in person. Providing the windscreen didn’t shatter. He’d seen videos of that, too. He also, he considered, might not want to be out in the hail, setting up monitoring equipment, especially if it was very large.

“Alright. Onwards to Sturgis, then.”

They arrived in Sturgis in the mid-afternoon, moving from blue skies and fluffy cumulonimbus clouds into a giant wall of white and gray. “Shelf clouds,” Rachael said, tracing across the front of the cloud formation. “Adam - what’s the difference between shelf and wall clouds? They look similar, but they’re not the same thing, yes?”

“Right.” He answered slowly, deliberately, making sure he responded as accurately as possible. “Shelf clouds typically form at the front of a storm line, where wall clouds are usually at the back. The shelf cloud is usually because the uh … The downdraft -” Rachael nodded encouragingly, “- Right, the downdraft at the leading edge of the storm cuts under the warm, moist air and forces it up which makes it have the wall shape.”

“Right! Good start for description of a shelf cloud. So a wall cloud - ?”

“Is … is due to uh, en, uh …” He flapped a hand, as if grasping for the word. “En-something, um …”

“Entrainment.” Rachael nodded. “Yeah, that’s right, good start, keep going.”

“Okay so entrainment is when the warm, moist air gets drawn up and like, starts to push out the colder air. And then the warm air continues to gather moisture and condenses into a cloud. It usually happens really quick, and in supercells wall clouds usually rotate due to the mesocyclone.” He was on firmer footing there - he hadn’t done all that reading on supercells that morning for nothing. “Usually they’re under the rain-free base of the storm, not on the leading edge.”

“Right!” She turned back to the windscreen and gestured to the clouds ahead of them. “So these are shelf clouds. They’re still in the distance a little, but what should we expect as we get closer, Lucky?”

“Gusty winds,” the other student answered quickly. “As the cold downdraft shoots forward over the warm air.”

“Right. And what will the clouds look like?”

That was tougher. “If it’s very strong winds,” he said slowly, after a break for thought, “then uh, like the clouds will be kind of messy at the leading edge, and there might be scud along the ground, right?”

“Yep. In really strong storms you can get straight-line winds, vortices along the ground, and gustnados. Which are not tornadoes, right?” She grinned as the boys in the back seat each fixed her with looks of varying puzzlement. “Yes? Either of you know the difference between a gustnado and a tornado?” Neither did, and Rachael was more than happy to explain. Adam diligently took a few notes - outflow, not inflow, and straight line winds versus cyclonic activity - and let Lucky read them over his shoulder. 

“I’m not sure I really understand straight-line winds,” Adam said, when she’d finished her explanation. “I’ve read about them, but can you explain more what -”

“Yeah, for sure!” She continued on, going through the details of a straight-line wind, and how that might be more likely in a squall line than a supercell. Noel would chip in on occasion as well, although for the most part he drove deliberately, watching the clouds, taking measures of the surrounding roads and towns, and following the highways to some nebulous destination. Rachael would add a direction to him mid-lecture sometimes, after consulting Baron, and then would return to the rapt students with more information.

“This is a lot of information,” she added at the end of her lecture. “I’m glad you’re taking notes, but I don’t think many people could remember all of this after one day. We’ll go through it a few times over the weeks, alright?”

“Perfect,” Lucky said, a little glassy-eyed. “Adam, do you mind if I copy your notes? I left my notebook in my bag.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Noel pulled over on the main highway, as if arriving in some predetermined destination that only he knew, and put the truck into park. “Seems as good a place as any to wait for it to roll in, huh?”

“Not a soul around.” Rachael kicked her door open and jumped to the dusty ground outside. “Great place to practice with the lightning instruments. And we can hang out in the car and watch the storm, as long as it’s safe, yeah?”

Adam and Lucky were already hopping out of the car and headed toward the back gate. Under Rachael and Noel’s tutelage, they set up two of Rachael’s field instruments - a high-speed camera station and a small portable weather monitoring station - and fixed them into the ground with spikes. “Not any good if you can’t find your data-gathering instruments,” Rachael laughed. “Learned that one the hard way early on.”

“Before she met me,” Noel added, and she rolled her eyes. “First chase with me and I asked her ‘so you just let the tornadoes take your high-speed cameras every time?’ and she stared at me like I had three eyeballs all of a sudden.”

“I only ever lost one to a direct hit,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest and then, suddenly, wrapping them around herself more tightly. A cold breeze, no, a cold gust blew toward them, kicking up the dust and tossing it into their eyes. “Yep, there’s the gust. In the car, guys, unless you want to experience hail first-hand.”

Two minutes later, and Adam found himself wincing in solidarity with the truck as marble-sized hail hammered the roof and the windscreen. “We use special glass,” Noel shouted to them, over the noise. “It still breaks sometimes, but I have a guy that puts it in for us when we need it.” Lightning forked across the sky, and a blink later a crack of thunder split the air. Lucky jumped, right hand clenched on the door handle and left wrapped tight around his phone, forgotten. “You get that?”

“I don’t think it was a clear shot.” Rachael had her window rolled down as far as she could without letting in undue amounts of hailstones, her camera pointed out toward what had thus far been the most active part of the storm. “Working on it.”

“She can sell these shots,” Noel shouted. “Honestly, taking students and stuff is a good steady source of income, but sometimes the lightning shots are what makes a season for us.”

“No pressure or anything.” Rachael leaned back as the hail pinged off the side of the truck and into her neck. “I dunno, I think there’s too much hail and rain here.”

“You wanna move? We could run east and see if we could get ahead of it.”

She shook her head in response. “Nah, not today. Let’s wait for the worst to pass and then we’ll grab the instruments. The remote might’ve got something.” She didn’t look away from the storm, but she called, “How you two doing? You’re awfully quiet.”

“This is wicked,” Adam said loudly, over the hail, wide-eyed and watching the storm surge around the truck. It almost looked like snow on the road, the hail was falling so heavy and fast. Lucky, still glancing at the lightning shooting through the sky above, had recovered from the shock of the thunder enough to bring his phone up and start taking video. Adam, prompted by that, pulled his own phone out and started recording. “Marble-sized hail,” he explained to the video. “Just outside of Sturgis, Oklahoma.” He’d have to send it to the group when he got back on wi-fi, he resolved, before he stopped the recording and tucked his phone back into his pocket. Definitely the whole extended family of The Them - the core four and the rest of the Nahpocalypse crew - and his sister. He would decide whether or not his parents should see it later. 

-

When the message dinged onto Crowley’s phone late that night, he and Aziraphale studiously watched Adam’s video of the hail and the storm. “Well, he doesn’t sound afraid,” Aziraphale said. “That’s good.”

“What’s he got to be afraid of?” Crowley reclined his seat and took his phone with him, swapping from the video to some game or another. “Hail wasn’t even that big. We’ve been through bigger storms than that.”

“Not while avoiding miracles,” Aziraphale replied, testily. He had not enjoyed the storm. Crowley hadn’t either, but only because the demon had spent the majority of the time threatening the 4-Runner that if it dared allow the windshield to crack, there would be absolutely horrific repercussions. Aziraphale had had to cut him off when he’d started getting into really descriptive methods of car torture. 

Crowley made a noise of vague disagreement. “There were loads of humans out in it. Weren’t even scared.”

“Because they don’t know better.”

“Or because there wasn’t anything to be worried about.”

Aziraphale relented, slightly. He sat back in his seat, watching the motel across the street with disinterest. The red truck in the parking lot shone in the light. “And you didn’t sense anything evil about it?”

“Not in the slightest.” The music from the game paused. “Why? You get anything?”

Aziraphale frowned, and shook his head. “Not … exactly. But I’m uneasy about this whole thing, Crowley. Not just the weather, bad as that is, but … something feels wrong.” He crossed his legs. “I can’t put a name to it, exactly, but there’s just a strange feeling about all of this.”

“Yeah, two kids you like a lot are in a truck chasing tornadoes. Gives me a weird feeling too, angel.” He propped a foot on the steering wheel and crossed his other ankle over it. “S’called anxiety, not sure you’re familiar with it.”

“I’ve known you for 6000 years, of course I’m familiar with anxiety.”

“That was unfair.” Crowley sniffed, only theatrically offended, and the game resumed. “I have a condition.”

“Which I am familiar with, my dear demon. You’ve made my point.” He waved a hand. “Either way, that’s not the feeling I’m talking about. It’s … Well, it’s almost like we’re being watched. But I don’t sense any goodwill, and you said you’re not sensing any hatred or anger, so?” He made a vague gesture, and then settled his elbow on the windowsill, chin in his hand. “It’s a bit hard to describe.”

Crowley looked to him over the rims of his glasses. “You know, now that you brought it up, I’ve noticed it too. Just thought it was being out of England, though. Or a demon thing.” He shifted in his seat. “We’ll have to pay attention tomorrow.”

“Yes. Yes, quite.” He glanced sidelong at Crowley. “You don’t notice it now, though?”

“There’s a cow about 600 yards that way staring at the road,” Crowley said, pointing to the west. “Only thing watching us around.” Aziraphale hummed a noise of agreement, and settled back. “Do you ever get bored of your games?” he asked, at length, gingerly sliding the seat back and propping his feet on the dashboard. The 4-Runner’s engine purred and the fuel gauge needle, which had been on ‘E’ since early that morning, fluttered. Crowley glared at the radio. “Don’t you start that. Bad enough the Bentley loves him.”

“Jealous?”

“Possibly slightly.” Crowley tapped the phone screen a few times, and then groaned. “‘Course I get bored of this stuff. But, you know.” He let his head fall back. “Can’t read, didn’t pick an audiobook yet, and I’m not interested in the thing you’re reading right now, sorry.” He unpaused the game. “I’ve got a few podcasts but, eh, you probably wouldn’t like them. Suppose I could get out some headphones,” he considered, after a moment. 

“What’s a podcast?” Aziraphale asked, hands folded on his stomach.

Crowley looked at him, eyebrows raised, although he wasn’t sure why he was surprised. Aziraphale had yet to even get a mobile, and his technological comfort zone didn’t go much past 1945. “Like a … ah, like a radio show? Can be about anything. Educational, entertaining, unsolved mysteries, ah … interviews …”

The angel looked intrigued. “Like a radio play, you said?”

“Some of ‘em, yeah.”

“Let’s try it.”

The game paused again. “Really, Aziraphale? Go on, I know you’d rather read your … what’s it called? Mainlander? The one with the time travel lady, right?”

“Outlander, yes.”

“Right. You can read your book, I’ll put headphones on if I feel like listening -”

Aziraphale pouted. “But I’d like to listen to one.”

The demon looked dubious of this assertion. “Really? You’re serious?”

“You like them, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then pick one you’d think I’ll like and we’ll listen together.” Crowley looked shocked. Aziraphale sighed, and reached across the center console, hand outstretched. Comfortably, Crowley slid his into it. “You listened to me read an entire Outlander book, even though you hated it -”

“I didn’t hate -”

“Let’s try a podcast, Crowley.” He squeezed the demon’s hand. “You like the funny ones, I’m sure.”

Crowley watched him for a minute, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, and then cautiously, closed his game and flipped to a different app. “If you’re sure.” He chewed his lip. “And, uh, yeah. I prefer the funny ones.” He considered the options, squinting at the enlarged print on the screen over the tops of his glasses. “Right. What’re you in the mood for? Murder, dungeons and dragons, advice, ah … no, that’s technology, you wouldn’t like that one, ah, oh, and history.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows had gone up when Crowley had started listing the options. “I thought you said you preferred the funny ones.”

“I did do, yeah.”

“Murder?”

“It’s a comedy murder podcast.” Crowley caught a glimpse of his expression, and snorted. “It works but we can skip that.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Hm. What kind of history?”

“American, mostly.”

“Do that one.”

“Right.” He tapped something on the screen, and then handed the phone to Aziraphale. “Pick a title that looks interesting. Just tap on it when you want it, and then tap the little triangle in the bottom left.” There were a few quiet minutes while the angel browsed, and then he grinned. “Do you have any idea what ‘whalesplosion’ might be about?”

“At a guess,” Crowley sighed, “an exploding whale?”

“I suppose we’ll find out. I wonder how it relates to American history.”

“Never paid as much attention to America,” Crowley agreed, adjusting himself in the seat to hold Aziraphale’s hand more comfortably, while the other laboriously hit ‘play’ on the podcast. The 4-Runner, which had never linked its bluetooth capabilities with Crowley’s phone, and indeed hadn’t really wanted to, nevertheless did so, projecting ‘You’re listening to the Dollop on -’ over the top-of-the-line speakers* with beautiful crystal clarity.

[*Which it hadn’t had, until Crowley had sat in it.]

Twenty minutes later, and Aziraphale and Crowley both were laughing, exchanging incredulous looks, and wordlessly agreeing that they really should be paying more attention to America. And that they would certainly be choosing a second episode at the conclusion of the first one.

-

Now with Chapter 7!

[zeroconnectionn]

alternate music video for Sucker by Jonas Brothers feat. jaime and brienne in fancy clothes chase-dancing each other through a museum. I’m keeping it under the cut because it’s super long (it’s just text... in bullet points again bc i can’t write unless it looks like lists... mayhaps there is a drawing at the end...)

so pretend this is one of those music videos with an obnoxiously long introductory scene where the music starts late in the video. We see doors being pushed open and Brienne storming out of it with tears in her eyes, Jaime following closely behind her, calling out to her. 

When he catches up, he starts apologizing for something that happened inside (he’s not at fault). Maybe they bumped into nasty Lannister relatives at the function or maybe the press was annoying them with questions about their relationship, either way it soured her mood and she just wants to go home.

(btw Jaime’s looking sharp in a fancy suit and Brienne is in a tailored dress that fits her perfectly because obvs Jaime got the measurements right!)

We see them walking briskly down the street, Brienne assuring him she’s fine (she’s not) and stops to hail a cab. Jaime doesn’t want the night to end yet, not like this at least, so he looks around to find a place they can be together a little longer, away from people. He spots a museum across the street and grins, tugging her arm and walking them there. Brienne groans and shakes her head all the way there. Jaime tells her ‘Trust me, it’ll be fun’. They approach the man at the counter who tells them they have 30 minutes before the museum closes. Jaime pays for the tickets, thanks the man, and ushers Brienne into the first exhibit. To their relief, they seem to be the only ones there.

Jaime starts cracking jokes at everything he sees, animatedly gesturing at things as an attempt to cheer her up and distract her. Brienne offers him an appreciative smile but stays mostly quiet and crosses her arms, distant and still feeling insecure from earlier events. Jaime sees this and sighs. He doesn’t want her to think that he’s uncomfortable with being seen in public with her, like he’s ashamed to call her his girlfriend. Like he doesn’t enjoy her company. He plots a way to save their night (and possibly their relationship).

At the second exhibit, he tells Brienne he has to go the men’s restroom but actually goes to see the man behind the counter for a favour. When he comes back, they walk around the exhibit in silence, examining things separately. Brienne sighs, a little frustrated and turns to him, "Can we please go now?". Jaime stays silent but holds a finger up, motioning her to wait. Brienne looks at him confused but before she can ask, pop music starts playing from the speakers. Jaime grins at her. And Oh, she Knows that look too well, he's planning something. Brienne watches him closely, one eyebrow raised.

Jaime, still grinning, walks a few paces away from her, then turns around and does a dramatic popping arm wave and passes it to her. He raises an eyebrow at her, encouraging her to accept the wave. Brienne scoffs at him, bewildered but secretly amused. She turns her back to him and walks away. For a second, Jaime’s worried he's pushing things too far tonight with the sudden dance, afraid she’ll leave. As his arm lowers, Brienne rolls her (BEAUTIFUL MUSCULAR BARE) shoulders and cracks her neck. A pause. And she tentatively extends her arm, bends it 90 degrees and does a robot wave, passing it back to him. Sucker starts playing, ‘We go together’. Jaime's face immediately lights up, captivated by her and her trust in him. Brienne looks at him embarrassed but determined, wanting to give this a try.

And they dance. Brienne totally does that Pick Up Gown/Skirt And Sway It Left And Right like Emma Stone did in La La Land. There are also disco moves, attempted hip hop moves, a little waltz here and there (Jaime leading and dipping her effortlessly, sometimes Brienne twirls him), looking at each other while doing the side shuffle from The Breakfast Club

When the chorus hits, ‘I'm a sucker for you, you say the word and I'll go anywhere blindly’, they’re running around exhibits, touching things they're not supposed to, Jaime twirling her, Brienne teasing him, Jaime chasing after her, Jaime doing the splits and failing (and Brienne laughing at him)

Everything is magical and playful, bokeh lights everywhere. In one of the hallways, they do the back and forth shimmy towards each other. In another exhibit, they sit on a bench and do something like the tap dance scene in La La Land

Also like.. the best thing about brienne's dance moves is that it's based off her longsword training. The way she spins her body and arms? Her wrist and feet? She's channeling her training, but it’s a little different from Arya’s water dancing. Brienne’s movements are more masculine and powerful but it makes her feel so good because it's what she's familiar with. And Jaime loves it, heart eyes and admiration 24/7. But Brienne also dares to step out of her comfort zone and try more feminine movements, because she Wants to and Jaime + empty museum is giving her a safe space to explore that side of her. "And you're making typical me break my typical rules" <3

For our viewing pleasure (lmao), their movements start having more finesse and we watch as they transform into skilled contemporary dancers. We see Brienne grabbing his tie and pulling him towards her, pressing her palms onto his chest to push him away, Jaime’s hands running down her sides before she slips out of his hold, Jaime picking her up and pressing her close against him, LOTS of almost-kisses, and the finale... Jaime on his knees crawling towards Brienne as she grips his tie tightly in one hand and a high heel on his shoulder WITH LEG PEEKING THROUGH THE DRESS AAA 

This dance is totally trying to parallel their fight in the books.... it’s just.... sex guys....

Eventually, they stumble into the lobby and Jaime is tryna steal a kiss but the song abruptly stops. We see a security guard staring at them with a flashlight. He tells them the museum closed 10 minutes ago and they need to go now. Brienne and Jaime awkwardly apologize and leave in silence, Brienne covering her face in embarrassment... but once they're outside, they burst out laughing uncontrollably, sides hurting. Jaime wipes a tear from his eye and fishes out his phone to book them an Uber. We see Brienne touch his wrist and shake her head, "I have a better idea”. She smirks and juts her chin towards a building down the street. Jaime gives her his famous s7 “fuck loyalty?” confused look

In the next scene, the song continues with the chorus “I’m a sucker for you” but this time they're in some downtown club, wearing the same clothes, pressed closely to one another, beaming and bopping to the music. Time seemingly slows down, we see Brienne and Jaime doing shots and letting loose, having so much fun on the dance floor. And even though it’s packed, their eyes are only on each other.

As the music fades out, the scene transitions to the next morning, we see Brienne drooling and sleeping naked under the covers, hair disheveled, their clothes scattered on the floor. Jaime, equally disheveled, rises up quietly and presses a kiss to her temple. He walks to the kitchen to make them coffee and as he’s waiting for the water to boil, we hear a shit ton of notification sounds from his phone. He unlocks it and it's from.... everyone. He opens his chat with Tyrion first. "Had fun last night??? Father is gonna be so pissed. Proud of you two". Confused, Jaime scrolls down and opens a link Tyrion shared. It's an article about him and Brienne's night at the club from the night before. The title is something like "Lion of Lannister parties hard with Mysterious Tarth Girl". Whoever wrote it (in my head it was Ellaria Sand hehe) said very interesting but glowing things about Brienne, which amuses him. He’s not at all surprised by how fast the media works by now but he’s grateful for the pleasant change in the way the media is reporting their relationship today. 

He scrolls through the gallery of pictures attached to the article and stops at a somewhat blurry but candid picture of Brienne, looking confident and free. He stares at the picture for a solid minute, drinking in every detail. Her arms thrown up, legs bent, eyes wild, toothy smile. Brienne living in the moment. Brienne being herself. Brienne happy. Jaime doesn’t think twice before saving that picture and making it his lock screen picture. As he switches back to the messaging app to reply Tyrion, there's a loud crash and scream coming from the bedroom. "They said WHAT about me!?" Jaime shakes his head as he laughs, pours them both a mug of coffee and walks off screen with their mugs. The music video ends.

I have no life so I also drew this!!!!!!!!!

Also for whatever reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about music related AU’s like:

Music and Lyrics AU: Jaime, the former 80′s pop music heartthrob and Brienne, his neighbour who’s looking for more jobs to pay her rent. Imagine them writing and singing Way Back Into love again

Pitch Perfect AU: Brienne, the new Barden Bellas recruit and Jaime, the leader of the Treblemakers. Everyone knows they’re in love except them.

The Office’s Jim & Pam Wedding March but it’s Jaime and Brienne and Sansa + Tyrion (together or not together, up to you) planning it

Lip Sync Battle. Who wins? What are the two songs they perform? How extra were they?

[noxacclaro]

How to recognize domestic abuse and react

10% of people are in an abusive relationship. 20 to 40% of women have been raped. 60 to 80% of people have been sexually harassed at one point in their live.

TALK ABOUT IT. IT SAVE LIFES. AVOIDING THE SUBJECT GIVE MORE POWER TO ABUSERS.

Because life is not about physically functioning, but about not having to fear what the next day will bring, and feeling respected and respecting others.

I've found this article on mayoclinic.org. I've modified it to fit all genders (since it was mainly talking about men abused) and add others things, but otherwise it's still mostly the same.

"Abusive relationships always involve an imbalance of power and control. An abuser uses intimidating, hurtful words and behaviors to control his or her partner.

It might not be easy to recognize domestic violence against men. Early in the relationship, your partner might seem attentive, generous and protective in ways that later turn out to be controlling and frightening. Initially, the abuse might appear as isolated incidents. Your partner might apologize and promise not to abuse you again.

You might be experiencing domestic violence if your partner:

Calls you names, insults you or puts you down

Prevents you from going to work or school

Stops you from seeing family members or friends -its called isolation and it stop you from getting help. It's really really dangerous if you let it be

Tries to control how you spend money, where you go or what you wear

Acts jealous or possessive or constantly accuses you of being unfaithful

Gets angry when drinking alcohol or using drugs

Threatens you with violence or a weapon

Hits, kicks, shoves, slaps, chokes or otherwise hurts you, your children or your pets

Forces you to have sex or engage in sexual acts against your will

Blames you for his or her violent behavior or tells you that you deserve it

If you're gay, bisexual or transgender, you might also be experiencing domestic violence if you're in a relationship with someone who:

Threatens to tell friends, family, colleagues or community members your sexual orientation or gender identity

Tells you that authorities won't help a gay, bisexual or transgender person

Tells you that leaving the relationship means you're admitting that gay, bisexual or transgender relationships are deviant

Justifies abuse by telling you that you're not "really" gay, bisexual or transgender

Says that men are naturally violent"

Don't listen. Nobody have a say on who is in your bed. What is happening in your bedroom stay in your bedroom. It's private. If the person/s is/are in age and consenting it's nobody's fucking business. Even your family's or your friend's.

"Don't take the blame

You may not be sure whether you're the victim or the abuser. It's common for survivors of domestic violence to act out verbally or physically against the abuser, yelling, pushing or hitting him or her during conflicts. The abuser may use such incidents to manipulate you, describing them as proof that you are the abusive partner.

You may have developed unhealthy behaviors. Many survivors do. That doesn't mean you are at fault for the abuse.

If you're having trouble identifying what's happening, take a step back and look at larger patterns in your relationship. Then, review the signs of domestic violence. In an abusive relationship, the person who routinely uses these behaviors is the abuser. The person on the receiving end is being abused."

Being abused do not make you weak. It mean that someone, one day, decided to not respect your consent, your statue of a living being and make your life hell. If you want to, you can get your life back. It will not be the same, you'll have changed, but you'll do. And you'll be happy.

"Even if you're still not sure, seek help. Intimate partner violence causes physical and emotional damage — no matter who is at fault.

Children and abuse

Domestic violence affects children, even if they're just witnesses. If you have children, remember that exposure to domestic violence puts them at risk of developmental problems, psychiatric disorders, problems at school, aggressive behavior and low self-esteem. You might worry that seeking help could further endanger you and your children, or that it might break up your family. Fathers [and mothers] might fear that abusive partners will try to take their children away from them. However, getting help is the best way to protect your children — and yourself."

Don't leave your children. Even to put yourself in security. Take them with you. If you bring the affair to the court, you'll be depicted as hysterical and dangerous to your kids. It's and error to absolutely not do.

"Break the cycle

If you're in an abusive situation, you might recognize this pattern:

Your abuser threatens violence.

Your abuser strikes you.

Your abuser apologizes, promises to change and offers gifts."

The cycle repeats itself. It will not stop, and it will go worse. No-one, even the worse of the criminal, deserves it. Even if the abuser show remorse, it will. not. last. It's either a psychological pathology (and the abuser can only heal far from the victim with a medical team) or it's of pure want to hurt and control. Either way, if you stay, it will only. go. worse.

"Typically the violence becomes more frequent and severe over time.

Domestic violence can leave you depressed, anxious and at increased risk of problems with alcohol or drugs. Because men are traditionally thought to be physically stronger than women, you might be less likely to report domestic violence in your heterosexual relationship due to embarrassment. You might also worry that the significance of the abuse will be minimized because you're a man. Similarly, a man being abused by another man might be reluctant to talk about the problem because of how it reflects on his masculinity or because it exposes his sexual orientation.

If you seek help, you also might confront a shortage of resources for male victims of domestic violence. Health care providers and other contacts might not think to ask if your injuries were caused by domestic violence, making it harder to open up about abuse. You might fear that if you talk to someone about the abuse, you'll be accused of wrongdoing yourself. Remember, though, if you're being abused, you aren't to blame — and help is available.

Start by telling someone about the abuse, whether it's a friend, relative, health care provider or other close contact. At first, you might find it hard to talk about the abuse. However, you'll also likely feel relief and receive much-needed support.

Create a safety plan

Leaving an abuser can be dangerous. Consider taking these precautions.

Call a domestic violence hotline for advice. Make the call at a safe time — when the abuser isn't around — or from a friend's house or other safe location.

Pack an emergency bag that includes items you'll need when you leave, such as extra clothes and keys. Leave the bag in a safe place. Keep important personal papers, money and prescription medications handy so that you can take them with you on short notice.

Know exactly where you'll go and how you'll get there."

If you've been isolated from your old friends and from you family, even if they're mad at you, go to them. If you explain, if they loved you once, they'll take care of you and help you get back your life.

"Protect your communication and location

An abuser can use technology to monitor your telephone and online communication and to track your physical location. If you're concerned for your safety, seek help. To maintain your privacy:

Use phones cautiously. Your abuser might intercept calls and listen to your conversations. He or she might use caller ID, check your cellphone or search your phone billing records to see your complete call and texting history.

Use your home computer cautiously. Your abuser might use spyware to monitor your emails and the websites you visit. Consider using a computer at work, at the library or at a friend's house to seek help.

Remove GPS devices from your vehicle. Your abuser might use a GPS device to pinpoint your location.

Frequently change your email password. Choose passwords that would be impossible for your abuser to guess.

Clear your viewing history." If you want to avoid attracting the attention of your abuser, clear only the things they would see as incriminating.

"Where to seek help

In an emergency, call 911 — or your local emergency number or law enforcement agency." The 911 is an international emergency number. You can use it anywhere in the world and have someone at the other end. "The following resources also can help:

Someone you trust. Turn to a friend, relative, neighbor, co-worker, or religious or spiritual adviser for support.

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800-799-SAFE (800-799-7233). The hotline provides crisis intervention and referrals to resources.

Your health care provider. Doctors and nurses will treat injuries and can refer you to other local resources.

A counseling or mental health center. Counseling and support groups for people in abusive relationships are available in most communities.

A local court. Your district court can help you obtain a restraining order that legally mandates the abuser to stay away from you or face arrest. Local advocates may be available to help guide you through the process.

Domestic violence against [people] can have devastating effects. Although you may not be able to stop your partner's abusive behavior, you can seek help. Remember, no one deserves to be abused."

[Again]

TALK ABOUT IT. IT SAVE LIFES. AVOIDING THE SUBJECT GIVE MORE POWER TO ABUSERS.

Because life is not about physically functioning, but about not having to fear what the next day will bring, and feeling respected and respecting others.