#it’s almost worse now that I’m looking my dysphoria in the face

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Transgender all fun and games until the despair hit you

[sarahowritesostucky]

Art in banner is by @hopelessartgeek, who makes a ton of amazing Stucky art!

📖 "Medically Necessitated" Ch 1

Rated: Explicit Pairing: Bucky x Steve Tags: a/b/o, age gap, past rape, rape recovery, trauma recovery, pregnancy, medical trauma, hurt/comfort, mentions of CSA, religious fundamentalism, first time, gender dysphoria, male omegas are intersex (peen & vagine) Summary: After a medical emergency brings him into the ER, Bucky escapes the religious cult he's been raised in. It's up to Steve, nurse practitioner and omega sex & repro specialist, to see him through a medically supervised heat.

1. Jori

Steve meets Bucky under less than ideal circumstances.

T.W. This fic contains occasional mentions of Steve's patients, who deal with issues of csa, sa, abortion, ptsd, and other traumas. Bucky is in the immediate aftermath of a rape at the story's start.

Steve hates sedating patients for procedures, but unfortunately in his line of work it’s often necessary. The only thing worse than when he has to sedate patients, is when he wishes he could sedate a patient, but for some medical reason he can’t. Like now.

“Shhh,” he soothes, petting over his patient’s leg when he feels her starting to tremble again. She’s laying back on the table, legs spread under the privacy blanket he’s given her. Steve settles his gloved hand in the crease where her thigh meets her hip, digs his thumb purposefully into the flesh of her lower belly from over the fabric of her pink hospital gown. There’s a tertiary gland in the low belly/upper mons that is the first of the omega sex glands to develop. And when stimulated properly, it can help to calm them down.

Unfortunately for Steve’s patient, hers won’t be fully developed for a few more years yet. He tries to get at it with his thumb anyway, hoping that if he can just graze it, it might help keep the girl calm until the procedure they’re doing is finished. He’s got her on the highest dosage of lorazepam allowed for a patient her age, but she’s still conscious and there’s nothing he can do for that other than comfort her verbally, using his alpha Voice that, in any other context, would be utterly inappropriate. “You’re doing so good,” he whispers.

Jori blinks her sleepy eyes up at him, another sluggish tear falling down her face. “Is it almost over, Mr. Steve?”

Steve takes a quick look at the machine’s readings, then forces a pained smile for her. “Yeah, Honey. Only a few minutes left. I’m so proud of you, you know that? You’re my best patient ever. Being so brave. Just a little longer here and then we’ll be finished."

They’re in the pediatric exam room, where the walls are painted in cheerful colors and the gynecological equipment is disguised to try and make it less intimidating. Steve likes his job as an omega sexual and reproductive healthcare practitioner, but there are some cases, and some elements, that he really, really wishes didn’t exist. Marjorie Goldberg and this exam room are two of them.

Seeding machines should not come with pediatric-sized attachments.

“Is she okay?” Mrs. Goldberg asks urgently, shooting up from her seat as soon as Steve steps out into the waiting area. Clint is sitting next to her, his OmCare badge clipped onto his jacket, and he stands when she does. Steve takes a deep breath and walks over.

“Marjorie is okay,” he tells her. “She shouldn’t need any more treatments after this one. She’ll need to be on medication for the foreseeable future, though. She needs to get into an intensive therapy program as soon as possible. We’re sending that information to her DCFS caseworker. I’m also recommending monthly checkups back here or at a licensed clinic for at least the next six months.”

“For more of this?!” Mrs. Goldberg takes an angry step forward.

“No. Just to check her levels and monitor her progress,” Steve says, tone clipped. “Nothing invasive, just blood tests and external ultrasounds to make sure everything’s okay.” His eyes flick to Clint, who is watching the woman like a hawk.

Clint is one of the OmegaCare social workers employed by the hospital. He’s there because the Goldbergs don’t currently have custody of their daughter, and it’s been a very … testy situation, with all parties involved.

Mrs. Goldberg is insisting on being as present as she’s legally allowed to be, not missing any appointments, lingering in the waiting room each time poor little Jori has to endure a treatment. She’s not allowed to see Marjory without supervision, and she isn't currently the one in charge of her daughter's medical care, but she's asserted her right to stay informed about it all, and since Steve is temporarily the senior N.P. on the pediatric omega GYN ward, that means it's his side she's a thorn in.

Mr. Goldberg is the reason the treatments have been necessary. He’s in prison now.

“You couldn’t even let me in there to hold her hand!” Mrs. Goldberg is saying, voice raised in anger.

Steve looks her dead in the face. He’s got little to no sympathy for this woman. “That’s not up to me, Mrs. Goldberg. You know that. DCFS is evaluating the nature of your relationship with your daug—”

“She needs me!” Mrs. Goldberg yells, outraged, though obviously on the verge of tears, too. “I’m her mother, for Christ’s sake!”

“And he was her father,” Steve bursts out, unable to contain himself anymore. “And we all know why I just had to be in there, therapeutically inseminating his seven year old daughter!”

Mrs. Goldberg stands there, red-faced and quietly crying. Steve feels near-instant regret hit him when Clint shoots him a what the fuck, man?! look from over the lady's shoulder. Steve swallows guiltily. That’s the kind of reaction that gets you administrative leave, if the client makes a big enough stink about it. By the sound of her pitiful crying though, Mrs. Goldberg is just feeling guilt and misery, hopefully not thinking about taking action against an NP who has just—very loudly and unprofessionally—yelled at her. Steve is supposed to be able to keep his shit together better than this. But then again, this isn’t really his wheelhouse.

He specializes in trauma cases, but the kids usually fall to his colleague, Dr. Connors. Steve is one of only a few staff who are qualified enough to cover most of Connors’ caseload while the man is out on maternity leave. Steve’s happy for the guy, sure—he’s just given birth to two healthy pups after a difficult pregnancy. But Steve’s starting to lose sleep (what little he gets to begin with, these days) to the nature of the work. He’s not cut out for the kids.

He clears his throat and mutters an apology to Mrs. Goldberg, looking at his clipboard rather than her wet face. “Marjorie’s still recovering from the sedation we gave her.” They’d tried for stronger drugs at first, aiming for full or at least twilight sedation, but the little girl had had such violent seizures that it was rendered impossible. “It’ll be another half hour or so until she’s ready to go back to her foster home.”

Mrs. Goldberg sniffles. “She’s alone now?”

“She’s with a nurse,” Steve says. He looks at Clint, nods, then turns to get away from the situation.

“Doctor Rogers!” the woman calls out, her voice all water-logged and choked.

Steve stops walking with a sigh. He doesn’t much bother with correcting people on the 'Doctor' thing anymore, finding it to be a waste of breath. “What?” he says curtly, not turning back around to face her.

“I didn’t know.” Her voice is pleading, tearful and urgent. Maybe she wants him to believe her or feel sorry for her or something. Maybe she just needs somebody to tell her that it’s not her fault. “I swear I never knew what he was doing to her. Not for sure. I swear.”

Steve’s hands tighten on his clipboard so hard that he feels it creak. “Right,” he grits out, forcing himself to continue walking away. “‘Not for sure’.”

Steve leans over the countertop of the nurse’s station and hands Sam a stack of charts. “Four and seven discharged. Five and six were admitted. Still waiting on the attending for eight.”

Sam nods, more bug-eyed than usual. He’s on his fifth coffee now. He takes the charts and starts putting them away. “Kay kay kay.”

“No more coffee,” Steve warns him, and Sam scowls.

“I’m fine.”

“Mmhm.” This is the tail end of the second shift for both of them. Sam’s a nurse on the om-psych ward, and given that Steve handles almost exclusively trauma cases for om-obgyn, he and Sam’s cases tend to intersect a lot. They both also draw the ire of their department managers pretty frequently, so they’re often sentenced to either clinic duty or shifts in the ER together. That’s how they became such good friends, and it’s where they are now.

“How was the shift on pediatrics?” Sam asks, though he sounds like he can already guess the answer. Steve’s been in a foul mood ever since he switched to his ER scrubs and clocked in.

“Awful,” he grunts. “I can’t keep doing the kids. It’s killing my soul. I’m going to my unit head tomorrow and telling her,” he decides. “She can’t force me to do it. I’ll tell HR it’s a mental health issue.”

Sam laughs. “Then they’ll send you my way. I’ll recommend shock therapy.”

“I’d take it over what I had to deal with today.” Steve gives him a brief recap of the Goldberg situation, and Sam loses all his humor.

“Shit, man.”

“Yeah.” Steve can’t say he isn’t really, really grateful to be alpha sometimes. Or at least grateful that he’s not omega. If anybody drew the short straw in life, it certainly seemed to be them. The fact that a grown man could rape his own daughter was bad enough, but then add to that the fact that because the girl was omega and her father alpha, she’d been forced into pre-pubertal heat too, her little body confused and trying to do what it thought it was supposed to do—to the detriment of her health in every way possible.

Steve sighs as he thinks about the abortion he’d had to perform on her. That kid was going to be on meds and in treatment centers for months, maybe years. Probably in therapy for the rest of her goddamn life. “I told them I’d be happy to testify at the guy’s trial,” he tells Sam. “In a medical capacity, if they needed it.”

Sam scoffs. “You are well spoken.”

“Very fucking eloquent.” Steve knows he needs to stop talking about this. It’s keeping him in a foul mood. He runs his hands through his hair. “Ugh, Sam. Distract me. Give me something to do.”

“Like what? Oh, hang on.” He leans over to the computer, clicking the mouse a few times as he navigates the screen. “Dispatch called in a code blue. Adolescent male, nonresponsive. They were doing chest compressions when the call came in.”

“When?”

“About ten minutes ago. So they should be here soon.”

Just as he says it, the doors to the ambulance bay bust open and several paramedics come wheeling in a gurney. Steve goes over to assess. The lead paramedic begins rattling off info to Steve as they move the gurney over to a bed: Adolescent male omega, presented with fever and respiratory distress. Pulse is thready, BP eighty over sixty.

The smell gets Steve right away, and an even stronger waft hits the air when they transfer over to the bed. The omega reeks of heat, but it’s sour and unhealthy smelling—unfulfilled, infected. Besides being inherently unpleasant, Steve’s body is responding to it, his dumb dick perking up like it thinks it can be a hero and help the situation. He tells the nurses to grab him blockers, and the new beta intern gets shoved in the direction of the supply cage.

Steve begins barking out orders. "Okay let’s get a line in him. I want a blood draw, full tox screen. Why isn’t he on oxygen yet? —Paxton! get the fuck off your phone. What the hell, man?”

“Sorry!" the intern says as she returns from her run to the supply cage, wringing her hands and just generally looking terrified of Steve’s ire. “We’re out of dermals.”

Steve ignores her, too busy rattling off IV meds and doses to the nurses. He'll have to wait until he can raid another cage for a transdermal patch to shut his dumb dick it up. He tells the intern to prep the crash cart, just to give her something to do. The boy on the stretcher looks to be in his late teens. He’s wearing jeans and a tee shirt that’s already been cut open. The nurses pull the scraps of it off him while Steve re-checks his vitals. When he shines his penlight in the kid’s eyes, he regains consciousness. He starts to struggle, afraid.

“Hey there,” Steve says, talking in his 'Nothing’s Wrong Here, Folks™️ voice to try and keep the kid from panicking. “I’m Steve, I’m an NP at Mercy General. You’re in the hospital. Can you tell me what you remember?”

“No family came with us,” the medic murmurs in Steve’s other ear. “Call came from a private residence. It was crowded but nobody wanted anything to do with us. They shoved him at us and told us to leave.”

Steve nods. That means it’s likely a drug situation. “What’s your name, Honey?” he asks the kid.

The kid blinks, still confused. “Bucky,” he says, “What happn’d?” He sounds bleary, like he might fade out of consciousness again.

Steve barks at one of the nurses to get him hooked up to the monitoring equipment. “That’s what we’re going to figure out,” he tells the kid kindly. “Bucky, can you remember if you took anything today? Any medicines or other substances?” He watches as the kid’s blown pupils flick around. The scent of frightened omega gets worse and Steve fights not to wrinkle his nose. One of the nurses relays the kid’s high temperature and pulse, his low blood pressure.

Two seconds later, he starts seizing. Steve holds his head steady while one of the nurses shoves a plastic guard between his teeth. They turn him on his side and the smell of urine hits Steve’s nose. As he’s holding the boy still, he puts his face near his neck and gets a better sense of his scent. What he smells makes his own heart rate tick up in alarm. The seizure passes and Steve tells the nurse to cut his remaining clothes off. Bucky’s barely conscious, emitting a low keening sound when Steve looks between his legs. “Fuck,” he curses.

There’s rampant infection, the fact that Steve can tell without even doing an exam is worse than alarming. He tells them to prep heavy duty antibiotics. “I need to do an internal,” he says. With the infection as horrible as it looks, there’s no way he’ll be able to touch the kid while he’s conscious. “Knock him out. And get a rape kit.”

They get him stabilized, on antibiotics and anti-seizure medication. Steve locates a blocker patch in one of the other supply cages to slap on himself before he heads in to do an internal exam on the unconscious omega. He finds impacted slick glands and prostate gland that are so enlarged and inflamed that Steve’s kind of amazed they haven’t ruptured. An ultrasound reveals an illegal IUD. Steve removes it. The boy’s hymen is obviously newly torn, and there are signs of recent tying. He's been raped by at least one alpha—violently, if the bruising is anything to go by. They swab what Steve would bet are foreign fluids from both his stomach and genitals. Steve meets with two cops and a social worker from OmCare, hands the rape kit over and tells them his findings. “Let me know if you contact any family,” he says.

So far, it seems like this boy has no one.

They admit him under “Bucky”, using his designation and admittance number (ꭥ-47202) in lieu of his unknown last name. Since he’s stabilized and since his medical problems seem to mostly be between his legs, he’s moved up to Om-obgyn Inpatient and officially put under Steve’s care. Steve is able to snag his department head and beg her to pull him from all pediatrics cases. She agrees, but makes the call that Bucky should remain on the adult wing. So he’s still Steve’s patient.

In his current state, Steve can’t do anybody much good for much longer. He’s nearing nineteen hours on shift, and even with the aid of several espressos, he doesn’t have much steam left in his body. He knows he could go home, but his next shift is scheduled for eight hours from then, and he really wants to be there when the kid wakes up. So rather than go home, he grabs an empty bed and crashes.

When he wakes, he checks the time on his phone and inhales deeply. At least he got a good six hours. He heads to the nurse’s station and gives the charts for their hall a lookover, then goes to the room where they’ve put the male omega from the night before: Bucky.

His eyes are closed when Steve walks in. Steve tilts his head, taking in the boy's features. He looks better now, more stable, less pale. And he smells better, which gives Steve a hint that the antibiotics are already helping. The notes on Bucky’s chart from the overnight nurse have him nodding in vague approval as he reads. “Okay,” he says quietly to himself. “Good.” Not good good, but much better compared to the state he’d been in last night.

When Steve looks up again, the boy is watching him.

Steve smiles gently. “Hey there. You’re awake.” He walks over to the bedside. The boy struggles to push himself up and Steve halts him, showing him how to instead use the controls on the bed rail to come up to sitting. “Don’t want to overexert yourself,” he says kindly. He pulls up a chair to the bedside and sits on it. “I’m Steve,” he says. He’s long avoided using his last name with patients because they always wind up calling him “Doctor Rogers,” and Steve isn’t an MD and it just gets awkward after awhile. “You’re in the hospital. You were brought into the ER late last night. This is the omega ob-gyn ward you’re in now, and I’m going to be your attending.”

“Attending?” the boy says, voice craggy and dry. He winces and puts a hand to his throat.

“It means I’ll be looking after you,” Steve clarifies. He gets up and goes to fill a cup of water.

“I’m Bucky,” the boy says. “You’re a doctor?”

Steve returns to his bedside and hands the cup over. Bucky takes it. “Small sips,” Steve warns. “I’m a nurse practitioner. In New York we can do just about everything the docs do. But like I said, you can feel free to call me Steve.”

Bucky nods, no affect to him. He seems almost resigned, Steve thinks. He hasn’t asked about any loved ones and Steve hasn’t missed that either. “What happened?” he asks.

“Well I was hoping you could tell me that,” Steve says, purposefully keeping his demeanor non-confrontational. “You’re sick. You have some infections going on. And you were in very bad shape when they brought you into the ER. You had a seizure.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “I did?”

“Mmhm.” Steve leans forward a little and asks, “What do you remember happening yesterday, Bucky?”

This is where the omega goes still and clams up. He refuses to give an account of anything, saying that he has no memory of the previous day. Steve is trained in how to interact with assault and trauma survivors, but he doesn’t make any headway with the boy. Bucky clearly believes that being open and honest with strangers will put either him, someone he loves, or someone with authority over him, in trouble.

Steve backs off, hands him a room service menu so he can order something cool for his throat, then goes to page Sam.

When Sam comes out after spending almost an hour with the kid, Steve straightens up from where he’s been loitering at the nurse’s station. “What’d he say?”

Sam blows air through his lips. “It’s a doozy.” He tips his head down the hallway. “Walk with me. I’ll tell you over my next espresso.”

Turns out, Bucky has been living in an isolated religious sect that doesn’t believe in, among other things, male omegas’ reproductive rights. More precisely, they pretty much just don’t believe that male omegas should exist, think that they’re an ‘abomination unto the Lord’, or something like that. Steve looks up the Wikipedia page on their group, and is neither pleased nor particularly shocked at what he learns.

Short of murder, they espouse beliefs and practices that do everything possible to stop male O's from existing. They try to prevent nature from taking its course on the limited number of male O's born in their group, forcing them to live instead as regular beta males via a combination of drugs, surgeries, and social pressure. They call themselves the Children-of-God’s-Kingdom.

Steve’s heard of them before, but he’s never had anyone like that come through his ward. “Oh man,” he says, when Sam rattles off the things Bucky's told him. “So, a cult. You’re telling me he’s in a cult.”

“He doesn’t even know who his real parents are,” Sam says gravely. “They live communally. All the wacko parents sign custody of their kids over to their grand poobah.”

Steve scowls, feeling outrage for what’s been done to this poor kid in the name of religion. “Well they managed to almost kill him,” he snaps quietly, mindful of where they’re standing. “And it's almost a guarantee that he’s been sexually assaulted. We ran a rape kit last night.”

Sam doesn’t look surprised, just mad and caffeinated. Steve asks him if he got an age out of the boy, and Sam tells him regretfully, “Eighteen.”

“Fuck.” Steve shakes his head. Omegas don't reach their majority until nineteen. “We’ve gotta report it to social services before somebody from the cult shows up trying to claim him. Trust me: one look at his charts and OmCare will take custody.”

Sam nods. “He also said there’s an IUD inside him and hormonal suppressants implanted.”

“Yeah we got the IUD out. I’ll get the implant out today. Which arm?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

Steve nods tersely, wondering if the poor kid got to have any say over the things his so called ‘family’ did to his body over the years. Likely not. As a physician who is very well educated on the considerable risks, Steve has always heavily discouraged his omega patients from trying to use drugs and devices to suppress their natural cycles. But, much like many other unhealthy choices, birth control and suppressants aren’t technically illegal for omegas over the age of twenty one.

But Bucky is only eighteen, just now entering the ripest years of an omega’s reproductive life. Steve grits his teeth when he thinks of what further damage might’ve been done to this poor kid, had he remained in that cult for any longer. “I’m gonna go check in with him,” he says, taking a step in the direction of Bucky’s room.

Sam stops him with a touch to his arm to let him know, “He seems honest enough, but he’s anxious not to get anybody from his group in trouble. He wouldn’t name names. And you can bet he’s gonna be all kinds of warped about his designation, being raised like that. Tread carefully.”

Steve nods, angry. No doubt the kid’s been told his whole life how he’s an affront to God, has ‘unholy urges’, or some horrible shit like that. “Guess he’ll be up your way before long, then,” he tells Sam, before walking off.

Steve knocks lightly on the doorjamb to make his presence known. “Hey there.”

“Hi.” The omega is sitting propped up in the bed with an extra blanket and pillow now. He’s got water and a half-finished Italian ice cup on the bedside table. Steve notes the almost completely untouched breakfast platter and nods. Kid must be nauseous. He’s looking sheepishly up at Steve as he approaches. “You sent a shrink in.”

Steve pulls the chair back in to sit close to the bed like he had before. “That’s nurse Wilson,” he says. “And yeah, he came to try and get you to feel safer about talking.” The kid—Bucky—nods while looking down at his lap, and Steve asks, “Did it help?”

Bucky shrugs. “He said I don’t have to talk about anything if I don’t want to.”

Steve’s heart clenches as he remembers the rape kit they’d done on him, the torn hymen and the swollen — “That’s right, Honey,” he says. “You don’t.” He puts his hand on the bed, not touching him, just the thin hospital blanket next to his legs. “But I’m hoping you’ll tell me certain things, so that we can get you healthy again.”

Bucky looks very uncomfortable, but to his credit he seems to push through it. “Look, um, Steve?”

Steve nods.

“I heard the nurses talking. About my family.”

Steve straightens up. “Your family?” He’s hopeful he’ll be able to get information about the kid’s abusers, but Bucky disappoints him by saying,

“The ‘Children’ I mean. They’re my family.” He chews his lip and looks down at his knees. “Look, I know … I know it’s not normal, the way we live. I know other people are different, live differently.” Quietly, almost so quiet that Steve doesn’t hear it, he says, “People in the outside world don’t say bad things about us.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” Steve prods gently.

“Omegas,” Bucky whispers. “Boy omegas, anyway.”

Steve hates to see the self-loathing on the kid’s face, hating himself just for how nature made him. “Bucky,” he says carefully. “I want you to know that most people believe that male omegas are perfectly natural and normal. Both female and male omegas are beautiful and important.”

Bucky’s cheeks darken. He’s clearly uncomfortable talking about it. “I know. I’ve run away a couple times, spent time around … around normal people. I've watched tv shows.”

“That’s good, Honey.”

"Yeah. I —" Abruptly, Bucky’s face pales and his eyes get wide. Steve tenses. Bucky leans over and snatches the breakfast tray off the bedside table and gets it in front of his face just in time to barf all over the room service order of scrambled eggs and toast. Steve winces and gets up to help him. When it seems like he’s done retching, Steve takes care of the mess and returns with a couple of the hospital’s barf bags. “Here. Just in case.”

“Thanks. Ugh.” Bucky grimaces. “God. I feel so awful.”

“I know, Sweetheart.” Steve sits forward in his chair. “That’s because you’re sick. I need to ask you some questions to figure out what we’re gonna do to treat you and get you all better, okay?”

“... Okay.”

He tries to smile encouragingly. “Alright. I know it’s hard to talk about, but it’s important you answer honestly so I can help you, okay?” Again, Bucky nods, and Steve asks, “When did you have your first heat?”

Bucky looks mortified—beyond the usual discomfort of a teenager not wanting to talk about their body, or sex. He’s ashamed of himself, Steve realizes. But he manages to answer with a quiet, “Eleven.”

Male omegas tend to go into heat earlier than their female counterparts, their bodies needing more time in estrus to fully mature. Steve nods encouragingly, trying to show Bucky through his open expression that nothing about this should be shameful. “Okay, and how many heats would you say you’ve been able to cycle through naturally without birth control or suppressants?” Steve does some quick mental math: 7 years x 12 months … That’d be close to 84 heats, assuming he's always been regular with his —

“Oh never! Or, I mean ...” Bucky makes a face and corrects himself. “Not since the first one, anyway.” He looks miserably down at the blanket covering his legs, like he’s remembering something awful. “Just that first time,” he repeats quietly.

It’s a terrible answer, and Steve forces himself not to visibly react. He doesn’t want to scare the kid. He notes the information on the chart. “Okay. I removed your IUD last night. Do you know which arm they put your suppressant implant in?”

Bucky nods, pointing to his left bicep.

“We’re gonna take that out today. I’ll give you a local injection to numb everything. It won’t hurt.”

He nods, looking wary of the prospect. “So then I’ll … I’ll get my heats and stuff?”

Steve hums sympathetically and tries to reassure him. “It’ll be fine. You’ll feel a lot better, I promise.” Bucky doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking resigned and dejected. Steve hates it. He imagines the years the poor kid has spent hearing The Children’s vitriol, hearing despicable horror stories about pathetic, desperate, disgusting male omegas in heat, how it’s something to be avoided at all costs. Steve frowns and moves on to the unpleasant part. “So, one thing we did last night that you probably don’t remember, is we collected swabs of fluids and tissue. For evidence, in case somebody had hurt you.” He waits until he can see that Bucky gets what he’s saying. The poor boy’s eyes widen and his lips part and he gets very tense. Steve reaches out to grasp his hand, then adds, “I think somebody did hurt you, and I’d like it if you could tell me so that I can make them pay for what they did.”

Bucky shakes his head, tears breaking from the corners of his eyes. “No. No, I don't want to talk about this.”

Steve’s heart breaks, but he has to press the issue at least a little bit. “Honey, the thing is, this is important for me to know. Medically, it’s important for me to know, because you know what happens when an omega is suppressed for years and years and years, and then alpha semen gets inside their body?”

Bucky flinches hard at those words, but Steve holds fast. He gives Bucky’s hand a reassuring squeeze, leaning further forward and holding it in both of his large hands, enveloping it. “What happens,” he explains, trying to be gentle in how he says it, “is that it can trigger your body to try really, really hard to go into heat. And when your body can’t do that, that’s when you can start to get into really dangerous complications. Like having seizures and going into shock. Your organs can even start shutting down.” He instantly sees the terror in Bucky’s features and he hates it, wishes so badly that he didn’t have to be so honest with him. But federal legislation requires it. "That's why you had a seizure last night. It's why you're so sick."

Bucky’s lips are parted, not knowing what to say. “But I … I never … I didn’t know that?” He looks scared as his eyes flick around the room, always returning to Steve like a beacon. Vulnerably, he stutters, “Is ... is that happening to me? Organ failure?”

Steve knows he can’t lie to him, so he takes a deep breath and says, “I did conduct an internal exam and an ultrasound on you, when you were sedated last night.” He can see the humiliation in Bucky’s features as he realizes what this means. Steve presses on, “Many of your reproductive organs are inflamed or infected, from trying to make your body do what it’s supposed to do, but can’t.”

“Because of the suppressants,” Bucky murmurs.

“Yeah, Honey. Because of the suppressants.” Steve wishes so badly that he didn’t have to inform him, “There’s ... a chance that you could be unable to have children. In the future.”

The omega keens high in his throat, a noise that he has no control over and which Steve’s nature also has no control over how it instinctively responds to it.

One of Steve’s hands leaves Bucky and flies up to his own neck, where the expired sup patch is still adhesed to his skin. He grits his teeth, thinking that he most definitely needs a new one.

Steve is salaried higher for his usefulness as an alpha on this ward, but then again, he’s not usually dealing with eighteen year old boys who have no clue what independent sexual decision making is. “It’s okay,” he soothes him, voice swooping low and smooth. He starts up a deep, dominant rumble in his chest to help calm the boy. “We don’t know anything for sure yet, okay? You were very swollen when I looked at you. Your body needs a chance to rest and heal before we can know what we’re looking at, long term.” Steve can smell the intense distress of the omega at the possibility of no longer being fertile. Even if it’s something Bucky’s never considered before, it’s the boy’s innate nature to become defensive if such a thing is threatened.

“Is this all because of —” Bucky cuts himself off, clearly struggling. He won’t even meet Steve’s eyes as he forces himself to ask, “Is this happening because I had sex?”

Steve goes very still, his advocate training kicking into gear. “Did you have sex?” he asks gently. "Or did someone hurt you? Because it's not sex if you're not a willing participant. Then it's assault." Given what he knows about the cult Bucky’s been in, he finds it extremely unlikely that the boy would have had willing intercourse with a penetrative partner. Male omegas in that situation would be groomed to believe that that part of themselves was shameful and to be repressed at all costs.

In the bed, Bucky is looking tinier by the second, drawing into himself. He shakes his head frantically. “N-no. No. I said no.”

Steve watches him sadly. “Okay, Honey. Okay. Did somebody force themself on you?” Bucky starts to make that high keening sound again, the sound of an omega in intense distress, and Steve hurriedly adds, “You don’t have to tell me who it was. You don’t, I promise. Okay? But if somebody hurt you, you should blame them, not have to call it sex or feel bad that —”

“Mmn, mmmm mnn.” Bucky is shaking his head fast, face red and pained and looking like he wants to disappear into the cracks of the earth. “No,” he breathes, “Nno. I said no. They did it. The ... those guys. They did it.”

Steve's heart sinks all over again. More than one. He's dealt with cases of gang rape, but never with a patient so young. And never with a virgin. Fuck.

Bucky's scared eyes flick back to Steve’s face. “Oh god. Is that why I’m sick?” He cringes as if it’s the worst, most humiliating thing in the world. “Because they got their … their stuff inside me?”

Steve nods reluctantly, so sorry to have to tell him so. “It’s not your fault, Baby. It’s got nothing to do with you or how you feel about them. It’s just biology. Your body responds to it. It wouldn’t even be that strong normally, but after being suppressed for so many years, it’s almost like an allergic reaction.” Steve winces. “Your body’s overcompensating.” He can see how the poor boy’s about to burst into tears, so he gets up from the chair and sits on the side of the hospital bed, pulling Bucky’s hand and his whole lower arm against himself. His chest is emitting a low grade alpha rumble, but it’s only on the periphery of his notice. “Bucky,” he tells him tenderly, waiting until the boy looks up at him. “Hey, I’m sure there are so many things you’ve not been allowed to know about your body and how it works.” Bucky blushes hard but Steve presses on imploringly, “Most importantly that there is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of with your designation. It’s normal, it’s natural, it’s beautiful, and it’s yours.”

Bucky’s eyes spill over with more tears. “I wish I didn’t grow up there,” he whispers, and then he pitches himself forward at Steve’s body, crying, hanging onto the front of him and stuffing his face in his chest, against his lab coat and scrubs. “I hate them!” he gasps, voice choked with sadness. “I h-hate them!”

It takes everything in Steve to not say 'Me too'. Instead he just rubs the omega’s back and lets him cry against his body, telling him that everything is going to be alright now, everything is okay, he’s safe.

Because if Steve knows anything, it’s that he’ll kill to keep this kid away from the people who did this to him.

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[cocogrrrl]

Hi! Can you do a TransMale!reader and Kyle fic where reader feels really dysphoric and upset while the two are in public because of stares 😭

And then Kyle corrects someone when they misgender reader 😭

It would cure my dysphoria 🥺/j

-📌🎀

real men

you arent feeling the best, and when you get purposefully misgendered, you only feel worse

kyle broflovski x transmale!reader cw: transphobia, gender dysphoria wc: 1050

an: as an enby person i feel like this was more self indulgent than anything, i hope this captures what you're looking for anon 😭

Somehow, something hits you at the worst of times, and then you feel like every single wave within you is crashing, and there is no way you can stop it. The particular stare of some people, the way you overhear how others talk about you, how they refer to you. It’s a reminder that you’ll never be who you want to be.

To many people, you just escaped the person you were. You weren’t actually trying to reshape yourself into the person you’re meant to be—you were just destroying yourself. You were stupid in their eyes.

In a way, sometimes you felt like they were right.

Were the new clothes, new name, and new identity all worth it? Because at the end of the day, one wrong move and people will know or be reminded of who you once were. Sometimes you believed that it’s no use—the changes you made—because all you want is people to accept who you were, which they didn’t.

“YN? Are you okay?” Kyle’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts, waving a hand in front of your face.

You two were spending time together in the back of the school during your break, and you hadn’t realized that you completely spaced out.

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine, just a little tired.” You laughed, brushing your thoughts off. You didn’t want to worry Kyle at this moment. He doesn’t deserve to hear you wallowing. He’s worth more than that.

“Are you sure?” He said, raising a brow at you. You think he knows what’s going on, but you can’t tell.

You really didn’t want to bother Kyle or your feelings in fear of opening a dam, so you did your best to swat both away. “Yeah.”

“Did you get enough sleep last night?”

“Eh, I couldn’t sleep. I think it was 3 AM, and I was still wide awake” That was true, at least. You had trouble sleeping, and Kyle knew that very well. A double dose of sleeping pills could barely get you through the night.

“How much time do you have left before your next period?”

“Uh, 20 minutes.” You said, looking at the time on your phone.

“You wanna sleep first?” He offered, patting his shoulder.

“I had coffee a while ago, so I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep.” You smiled, shaking your head but still resting your body on Kyle’s side. What can you say? You’re a clingy person.

As you heard people making their way through the school grounds, getting to their next class, Kyle scrolled on his phone as you relaxed your mind and your body. Your thoughts eventually settled, and you felt a little lighter. You hadn’t realized that you were feeling better.

Until one person showed up.

“And here, you can see the covetous jew with his gay ass girlfriend,” Cartman said, waving his arm at you two from a distance like he’s some tour guide and you two are attractions at a zoo. He was showing and befriending the freshmen around since no one in his grade wanted to hang out with him.

“Dude, can you shut the fuck up?” Kyle rolled his eyes as he placed his phone down. “He’s my boyfriend, by the way.”

“I don’t get what you mean, Kyle. YN’s is so obviously a chick! She’s got tits and everything.” He spat, motioning to your parts.

“First of all, he’s a boy regardless of what you say.” He let out a frustrated sigh, closing his eyes tight as he relieved his annoyed feeling. He knew better than to start a fight right now. It’s not what any of you needed. ”Second of all, didn’t you identify as a trans woman when we were younger?”

He scoffed in reply as his jaw hung so low it was almost comical like it was saying ‘How dare you bring that up?!’ “No, I so fucking didn’t!”

“There was one time you dressed up as Britney Spears once and danced with a cardboard cutout of Justin Timberlake. Butters still has the video.”

“No, he doesn’t.” He mumbled, sounding defeated.

“Yes, he does, and I will call him if you don’t quit it.”

“Whatever, the video’s edited anyway.” He grumbled, motioning the group of freshmen to follow him as he would go on to find his next victim. 

Kyle let out a deep breath once more, the tenseness in his shoulders dropping once Cartman had left the scene. “Are you alright?” He looked at you sympathetically, putting a hand on your back.

“I don’t know…” You replied, your gaze now directed on the ground.

Your thoughts of earlier had swarmed back. They couldn’t just be swatted away. There’s always something that’ll rock the hive.

You just hated how he was just spreading that fact. It means that you wouldn’t even have a chance of appearing like a boy to others now. It feels like you were always destined to be a girl because of shit like this.

“I’m sorry he did that.” You could sense a hint of frustration still lying under his voice.

“It’s out of your control. I think it’s inevitable.”

“Don’t think that way. You aren’t worth his time or his bigotry.”

“I just wish people saw me as a guy.” You exhaled, bringing your legs up to your chest as you balled your body up.

“A lot of people do. It’s because you are one.”

“Yeah? That doesn’t stop shits like Cartman telling others that I’m not a real man.”

“Real man, this real man that. Who’s to define what makes a man anyways? Definitely not him.” He laughed, hoping to ease a little bit of your stress. 

“YN, you are a boy, okay? Just because you don’t fit into the construct that the fuck built in his idea of gender, it doesn’t mean that you are any less of a man. It’s his fault that he can’t seem to recognize the man you really are.”

You turned your head from buried in your lap to his view. You felt a smile creep on your lips. Even if people like Cartman would always be around, at least you had your boyfriend to be by your side despite everything. “Thanks, Kyle.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” He hummed, bringing you into a hug.

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

MAX: It's Nice to Be Cared For PART 3

Here's the final part of Max's fic. I'm actually really happy with how this came together, so enjoy some Max and Rowyn.

------

DAY 3

Max groans, waking from their nap to find the pounding headache and pulsing pressure the same as when they fell asleep.

Rowyn sits on the living room floor, notes spread around him, on the table, and circling him on the floor. The only differences lie in the level of chaos, the fact that Rowyn is now muttering to himself as he scans the papers, and that Apple is now pawing at some of the papers on the ground, pushing them around.

When Rowyn notices Apple’s efforts to add to the chaos, he sighs, gently pushing her away, and then again when she tries to resume her paw-pushing.

“Apple, please, go play with something else, huh girl?” he mumbles to the cat, sliding the papers back into their place, and running his hands through his hair in annoyance.

Max smiles at the scene, and might have rolled their eyes if they didn’t know it would spike the pain in their sinuses.

“What are you doing?” they ask curiously, and Rowyn jumps, quickly turning to find Max awake.

“Fuck, you scared me,” he says with a breathless chuckle, before frowning as he looks at the mess of notes, “I have a big test in one of my biology classes this week, combining shit from different units. I’m trying to organize all my notes, and find all my tests and papers from this semester to study.”

This doesn’t surprise Max, seeing as Rowyn is the most driven person they know and is also a serious overachiever, so they just hum in response, watching as Rowyn resumes his search for whatever note he was missing.

Rowyn suddenly straightens, turning back to Max, and frowning.

“What?” they ask self-consciously, not sure what Rowyn’s looking at, and feeling a twinge of dysphoria from their voice being higher with the congestion.

He squints at them, as if considering a problem, then asks, “Are you feeling better?”

They sigh in relief, and answer “Not really, but I don’t think it’s getting worse.”

They hide a yawn behind their hand, sighing at their lack of energy and the tightness of their face that makes it hard to think.

Rowyn groans, standing up and stretching, before abandoning his papers to sit next to Max, who melts against him almost immediately.

Rowyn catches their forehead in his palm, feeling the expected heat of a fever meeting his hand, and he’s relieved to find that it doesn’t feel warmer than earlier, but the lack of progress is also slightly concerning.

They feel a tickle in their nose, and bite back a groan, before snapping forward with a sneeze that sends a burning pain across their whole face. They reach for the tissue box they put by the couch, and blow their nose. When that fails to help with the congestion, they discard the tissue, and swipe at their nose in annoyance.

See, the result of Max’s call to the doctor’s office yesterday was to essentially wait and see what happens. Theoretically, if it’s a viral infection, it will go away on its own, otherwise, they’ll need antibiotics. So unless things improve, they’re stuck in a waiting game.

Today is much the same. The same headache makes every thought feel slow, the same heavy ache that makes every movement feel arduous, the same stuffiness filling their face, the pressure so intense that even breathing causes a flare of pain.

Even with the variety of symptoms currently impeding them, they’re insanely grateful not to be battling the illness by themself, the presence of their friends an immense comfort.

Another half-sneeze forces them forward, offering no relief, but inescapable nonetheless. Their fingers flash through some fingerspelled curse words as they struggle to manage the pain flickering through their head.

They are disrupted from their thoughts by Rowyn, who shifts, turning to look more closely at them, before sighing softly and saying, “Damn, you’re really uncomfortable, aren’t you, M?”

Max shrugs, tucking their face against Rowyn’s shoulder.

“What would help?”

Max just shrugs again, before sitting up a little straighter, and, sounding close to tears, asks “Can I take more meds yet?”

Rowyn checks his watch, relief clear in his voice when he says “Actually yeah, what do you want?”

“Whatever will stop my head from pounding,” Max answers through a yawn, whining when the motion aggravates his head.

Rowyn lets out a sad chuckle, eyes full of sympathy before returning with the meds, and explaining, “Advil will help with the fever and headache, and there’s a decongestant to help with the pressure.”

Max sighs with relief, quickly downing the pills, and curling up again, Rowyn returning to his spot next to them.

“You can keep working,” says Max, gesturing to the papers still covering the floor.

“That’s okay, Colin’s been bugging me to take more breaks anyway,” he answers with an eye roll, and Max hides a grin behind his hand.

When Rowyn’s phone dings, he glances at it, and says “Speak of the devil,” with another fond eye roll, as he taps on the message to respond.

“Would you tell my boyfriend I’m taking good care of you?” he says with a groan having read the message, the fourth in as many hours asking after Max.

Max laughs, fishing around the blankets for their phone, ignoring the notifications littering their screen, crafting a reassuring message for Colin, who answers immediately, asking how they’re feeling.

Sending another vague and reassuring message, they switch over to Netflix, and put on a show. Snuggling against the arm of the couch, they’re unsurprised when they realize they’re starting to fall asleep, instead appreciating the escape from the pain.

Half an hour later, Max wakes to find that they feel marginally better, less congestion and much less fuzzy from fever. They have a moment of victory before they realize it’s likely attributed to the meds and not an actual recovery.

They’re surprised to find Rowyn still sitting next to them, until they realize he has his eyes glued to a textbook.

They reach out their foot, and poke him with their toe, “So much for that break, huh Ro?”

He startles from his reading, looking over at them with his signature glare, “Thought I’d at least try to be productive,” he says, matter-of-factly, and Max just smiles.

After a few minutes of silence, Max interrupts Rowyn’s studying again to ask, “Hey, Ro? Where’d the cat go? Would she cuddle with me?”

Max tugs a blanket tighter across their lap, scooching down on the couch with their head on the armrest, while Rowyn goes on a hunt for the cat.

Rowyn returns with a half-asleep Apple purring in his arms, and he gently places her on Max’s lap, crouching down while he gently scratches the space behind her ear. She leans into his hand, purring a loud squeaky purr, eyes closing in pleasure.

Max smiles softly as she stands, turning in a circle before flopping down on their chest, tail wrapping over her nose.

Glancing over at Rowyn, they find him watching Apple with a lovesick expression on his face, before he seems to snap back to attention, looking over at Max and standing up.

“Okay, what else do you need? Do you want to put a movie on? Or a book? Or music?”

“No, I’m okay. I don’t need anything. Might just go back to sleep,” they say with another yawn, the warmth of the sleepy kitty lulling them to sleep.

“Okay,” Rowyn says softly, settling back on the floor with his papers, glancing over to his friend every so often.

---

The next time Max wakes up, it’s to Rowyn’s half-exasperated-half-annoyed voice floating in from the kitchen.

“They’re fine, Colin, you don’t need to be checking in every hour.”

Their cheeks heat with the idea that Colin’s been checking on them so often, and they feel a wave of affection for their friends. They’re both unsurprised by the intensity, and shocked at the authenticity, finding comfort in the reminder that they have people who want to care for them.

They hear Rowyn groan, before exasperatedly saying “I have looked after people before Colin. And Max is a ridiculously easy patient, unlike you.”

Max is frustrated to find that their headache has hardened considerably, making it harder to focus on the half-conversation they can hear. At some point, Apple moved down to their lap, and burrowed into the blanket, before falling asleep again.

Max can picture the open expression on his face as he laughs, the look he only really has when talking to Colin and everything seems to fade from his mind leaving him softer and gentler.

They tune back into the conversation when they hear their name again, “-knows what they’re talking about, we have to trust them.”

They feel another burst of love for their friends, and they’re still contemplating how nice it is to have comfort, concern, and trust from those around them, when Rowyn returns.

“Hey, didn’t know you were awake. What’s that look for?” he says, noticing the soft smile on their face.

“Nothing, just thinking,” they answer with a gentle shake of their head, but the motion aggravates their head, and they stop, leaning forward to put their head in their hands.

They jump when they feel a hand on their shoulder, and they sit up again, squinting against the brightness and focusing on Rowyn, trying to understand what he’s saying.

“-feeling any better?”

They process the question for a minute, then say “I felt better for a while, but I think the meds wore off, I’m feeling worse now.”

“Ah, fuck,” mutters Rowyn, his attention shifting to his phone as he tries to look up solutions, and Max lets their mind wander.

“Okay,” Rowyn says suddenly, and Max snaps back to attention, “I’ll go get you some more Advil, and then you should have a shower. Hopefully the steam will help reduce the pressure in your sinuses, and then you can have another decongestant.”

Max gives a feeble thumbs up, pushing themself up a little more. Apple squirms at the movement, and stretches, letting out a small mew as she repositions.

After taking the pill, Rowyn makes him drink a whole glass of water, citing that “Hydration is important, Max.” He then pulls Max up from the couch, leading them to the bathroom with a hand on their elbow.

Rowyn turns to them, arms crossed and looking slightly uncomfortable.

“Okay, so, don’t turn the fan on, keep the water on as hot as you can and see if the steam helps at all. You don’t have to actually shower, but it’s probably a good idea. Do you…” he visibly hesitates for a moment, wringing his hands and debating his next words, “need help?” he finishes awkwardly.

“No.” Max says firmly, the thought making them squirm uncomfortably.

Rowyn looks at him for a moment, uncertain. With how unsteady Max feels, it's definitely warranted, but he seems to understand it's not something he can help with.

“Alright. I’ll be across the hall, call if you need me. If you feel like you’re going to pass out or something, sit down, and turn the water off.”

When Rowyn leaves, Max droops, head going back into their hands, and they sigh heavily. They know Rowyn is right, the steam will help, but they dread the process of showering, with how heavy their limbs feel.

Shivering, they slowly peel off their layers, climbing under the hot spray of the water, and letting the water wash away some of the pain in their muscles, and soothe some of their discomfort.

After a few minutes, they start to feel the effect of the steam when their nose starts running for the first time all day. They’re intensely relieved to feel the pressure lessening as fluid finally starts dripping from their nose, and they turn around in the water letting it wash away.

When their face finally feels a little better, still tender but less strained, they take one more breath through their recently cleared nose before turning off the water, and stepping out of the shower.

With the absence of the hot water, they feel a sweep of steamy air across their body and they stumble, feeling lightheaded. They clumsily sit down, leaning against the shower wall and close their eyes. Zoning out for a moment they lose track of time.

When they next open their eyes they’re confused to find themself on the bathroom floor, until the day’s events come flooding back. Their head pounds with renewed vigor as they sit up again, and they hear a similar pounding against the door.

“Max?! Answer me, damnit! Okay, I’m coming in,” comes Rowyn’s voice, sounding frustrated, but they know it comes from concern.

“Wait,” they start, groaning as their voice barely has volume.

They clamber over to the door, and say a little louder, “Ro! I’m okay.”

“Max?” he says softer, “What happened? Are you actually okay?”

They huff out a laugh, “Yeah, m’okay. Steam helped. Lost myself for a minute, but I’m back.”

Once they’re finally settled back on the couch, Rowyn says, “I guess showering with hot water while you have a fever was a bad idea.”

“Eh, the steam definitely helped,” they say tiredly, starting to drift back asleep.

Rowyn runs his hand through Max’s still-damp purple hair, sharp eyes watching as they close their eyes.

He sighs, running his hands over his face and frowning in concern. They still look really sick, and their fever’s definitely worse now.

---

Upon waking up, Max finds their nose still miraculously clear, and their headache is noticeably lessened. They rub their hand along their forehead, pushing against some of the remaining pressure, sighing in relief.

They make their way to the kitchen, standing in the doorway for a moment to observe the chaos that is their life.

Rowyn is bent over a cookbook, clearly running through the recipe, before measuring something and adding it to the pot on the stove.

Jamie stands at the stove, stirring something in the pot, and looking off into space.

Colin yammers away, voice unusually quiet, and Max realizes it’s because they were sleeping in the other room.

When Rowyn starts chopping a carrot, Colin darts in and steals a piece from over his shoulder. Rowyn calls a reprimand after him, and he responds by flicking half the carrot piece back at him, Charlie laughing as she dances around them all unloading the dishwasher.

Max smiles at the sight, and laughs a little. Colin’s head snaps over to look at them, face breaking into a grin.

“Hey Maxi,” he calls gently, bounding over and putting his hands on their shoulders, “You look better than this morning.”

Max shrugs a shoulder, and leans into Colin’s hold. Colin responds by dragging them forward, “Come sit down, dude.”

Max smiles, surrounded by the warm laughter of their friends and comforted by their presence. And soon enough, there’s soup, which turns out to be a much better way to breathe in steam, something Rowyn points out ruefully.

[courtof-storms]

A Meeting With the Fey, part 4

previously: 1 2 3

Lance almost immediately looked at Serra with a look of concern but shook his head and replaced that look with one of happiness and hugged her. Serra smiled and hugged him back before kissing his cheek, gently scratching his back as she did so.

“You have any loose ends to tie up out there?” Helena asked, Serra slowly pulled away from her boyfriend and gave her a quizzical look.

“What do you mean?”

“You do realize joining us means leaving everything you know behind. We aren’t exactly welcome in the mortal realm, haven’t been since the purge.”

“Oh, right…” Serra replied, a bit disappointed as she hung her head.

“Yeah, that’s why we give you a day to take care of anything you have to before you actually join us, to give you time to settle everything so you don’t have any regrets.” Helena informed Serra before getting the cigarette from behind her ear and placing it between her lips.

“Right, yeah, that makes sense now.”

“You sure you still want to join now that that’s been made clearer?” Helena asked Serra, slightly raising her eyebrow in curiosity.

Serra took a bit to truly think her decision through before giving the fey woman a small nod. Helena gave a small nod in response as a look of concern slightly showed again on his face.

“Alright, I’ll just say one other thing, joinin’ us won’t magically fix what problems you may have, if anything it's possible it could make them worse. I know you say anywhere is better than with your parents but I just want you to really know that it won’t make everything better.”

“I understand that.” Serra replied. Helena and Lance gave each other a knowing look before Lance walked over to Serra.

“You sure you’re ready to guide someone through all this, Lance?” Helena asked. Lance only nodded in response as he put an arm over Serra’s shoulder and guided her towards the door.

“Remember no smoking in my place Helena.” He told her, giving the woman a slight look of annoyance before opening the door and walking out. Helena shrugged and followed them out, closing the door behind her.

The three of them walked down the stairs and made their way to the street before separating. Helena walked off to the right, lighting her cigarette as she did so while Lance and Serra walked off to the left with Serra reversing the route she took to Lance’s place. The two walked in silence for a bit before Lance finally broke the silence.

“I’m sorry again for how I left.” He said, nervously scratching the back of his neck and unwrapping his tail from his left thigh.

“I’m just glad you’re ok, though it was dumb to leave without saying goodbye or that you’d be ok.” She said, resting her head on his chest.

“Yeah, if I could go and do it over I would.”

“I know, but you’re ok now.” She said, repeating the most important part of her statement from before. Lance sighed and tightened his grip around her shoulder and kissed her forehead. Serra smiled and walked with him, humming softly.

“So, how’s life here, any better than outside?” She asked after a minute or so.

“It’s…definitely something else. I’m still trying to get used to it, but so far it’s better than the outside by far. Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss my home from time to time.”

“Ah, I get that. Guess what?”

“What?” Lance asked. Serra stopped walking and got on the tips of her toes before giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“I love you.” She said in a singsong voice. Lance smiled and gave her a quick peck on the lips.

“I love you too.” He replied, a smile forming on his face as he was saying those words, making his lucious brown eyes look even more captivating. The two walked the rest of the way until they got to the same street that Serra arrived in.

“Just…keep this one thing in mind babe, joining the court won’t just magically help with your dysphoria. Sadly the fey here can’t shapeshift like they could in the stories we grew up with.” He told her. Those words caused her to pause a bit before replying.

“Oh, so I have to stay on estrogen?” She asked, a tinge of dejection in her voice. Lance nodded sadly. Serra stood there quietly for a minute or so debating her decision until finally speaking again.

“Alright, I can do that. Are there any surgeons here who can help with surgery once I wanna get it?”

“That’s actually the good thing, there are alchemists here who can help you go through the process without surgery.” He told her. She gave a big smile when she heard that and hugged him tightly.

“So how do I go back to the mortal realm?”

Lance knelt down and bit his thumb, drawing blood before marking the area in front of him and drawing a makeshift ring of runes and saying a prayer in the same language Helena used when she brought her to the court before going back to common at the end.

“...Of this I pray you.” He said, before reaching for Serra’s left hand and drawing a symbol on the back of it with his blood and kissing her gently on the lips for a few seconds and pulling away.

As he finished drawing the rune on the back of Serra’s hand a light blue light began to form inside the ring of runes until it filled the entirety of it and the air above it started whirling around. The spinning air soon caught the stray dirt and leaves as they started spinning above the portal. Lance looked Serra in her majestic green eyes before speaking again.

“Be safe back in the mortal realm and try to come back safely.” He told her, lightly running his fingers through her hair.

“I will be, you have nothing to worry about.” She replied, gently cupping his cheek with her hand.

“Oh, real quick before you go,” Lance started before rummaging through his pockets and pulling out a piece of paper. “This is how you get back to the court for after you settle things in the mortal realm. Bring the ritual items to the lake and say the prayer over them before midnight. And above all else, don’t tell anyone you’re going to the court, just tell them you’re moving and leave it at that.” He told her, giving her the paper before taking off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders.

Serra took the paper and put it in one of her pockets before putting her arms through the sleeves of the jacket that was too big for her. “I’ll remember that, thank you babe. I’ll be back here soon, don’t worry.” She told him.

“That’s all I can do until you come back.” He replied before kissing her forehead and giving her a small wave.

“May the darkness protect you.” Lance told her as she stepped through the portal and stood there as he watched, praying for her safe return.

[leighsartworks216]

Period Pains

Darkiplier x AFAB!reader

My period just started today and it’s killing me and instead of thinking about how I want to rip my uterus out, I’m writing this drabble

Warnings: talk of period stuff, if this subject will give you dysphoria please don’t read, just some fluff

Word Count: 843

Masterlist

When the sun rose and the birds began chirping, Dark awoke expecting to find you curled into his chest. Often he’d wake up closer to you than he ever believed possible, the blankets a tangled heap tying you together. But today, his arms were empty and the side of the bed opposite his was empty.

He searched the room first, but wherever he looked there was no sign of you.

His body cracked and creaked as he finally dragged himself out of bed. He no longer groaned and winced at the pain that rippled through his once-dead shell, though some days were worse than others. Today, he was grateful it was only a dull pain. It would have been completely unnoticeable had you been there.

The only sound throughout the small house he resided in with you was his footsteps as he padded down halls, peeking into doors. Your vacancy was beginning to worry him. He could feel afterimages of himself re-checking rooms, looking around frantically, grabbing at the walls to propel themselves forward. They were startled away when a beep sounded out from the kitchen.

Dark, in all honesty, didn’t remember walking the rest of the way there. If he teleported, he didn’t think too much on it, because he was too focused watching you pull out a tray from the oven.

“Dearest,” his sudden presence made you jump and almost drop the tray, but he had the good sense to wait until you were holding it over the stove to speak, “what are you doing baking at this hour?”

You awkwardly turned off the oven as it began to beep again, and pointed to the clock on the wall. “It’s only 7:23.”

Even though his eyes were completely dark, you could tell he rolled them. “You know what I mean.” He gestured around the kitchen to the mess you’d left out, not judgmentally, but certainly accusatorially. “Why did you get up so early to make brownies? I would have been happy to help you when we woke up, together.”

“Uhm, well, you see,” you fidgeted with your hands, talking almost a mile a minute, “I woke up at like 3 and I was really craving chocolate so I got up and I had a little bit of candy, but then I remembered we had brownie mix in the pantry so I just sorta impulsively decided to make them.”

Dark’s brow furrowed. “You don’t usually have cravings that strong, dear.”

You fidgeted even more, but now you wouldn’t meet his gaze. You played it off as though you were simply grabbing a knife to cut the brownies.

“My love, tell me what’s wrong,” he cooed. When you turned back toward the brownies, Dark was standing in front of them, worry pulling his face down and colors flickering to each side of him. “Please talk to me.”

“I want to it’s just...” You felt warmth rise to your cheeks as you looked away from him once again. “It’s really embarrassing to talk about.”

“My dear,” he began, firmer this time. One hand wrapped around your waist as the other cupped your cheek to get you to look at him. “I love you. No matter how embarrassing something may feel, it will not stop me loving you. Now, tell me what is wrong so that I may help you as efficiently as I can.”

You took in a deep breath and fiddled with the front of his pajama shirt. He waited patiently for you to find your voice. When you did, it wasn’t at all what he had been expecting.

“I got my period last night,” you murmured. “Now I just have really bad cravings and cramps and I wanna cry but I don’t have any reason to and-”

He shushed you softly. “It’s alright, love. One thing at a time, yes?” Once you nodded, he kissed your forehead. “We’ll have brownies for breakfast, and I can supply you with any other foods you may be craving throughout the week. If you wish to let out your over-active emotions, I suggest we watch a film. Finally, you should take medication for your cramps, and I would be more than happy to cuddle with you if that would also help. How does all that sound?”

Something wet touched his thumb and he looked down at you, worried he had messed up somehow, because, sure enough, you were crying. He removed his hand from your waist to cup your cheek, using his thumbs to brush away the tears that fell from your eyes and slipped down your cheeks.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry, I-”

You shook your head, sniffling. The hand that wasn’t holding a butterknife held the back of one of his hands, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m okay,” you assured him. “I’m okay. It’s just- No one’s ever offered to do so much for me when I’m like this.”

“Dearest, you deserve the world.” He pressed several kisses to your forehead and your wet cheeks. “Especially, when you are like this.”

[marsbutterfly]

Rather Be

Summary: Gender dysphoria is a term that describes a sense of unease that a person may have because of a mismatch between their biological sex and their gender identity.

Wattpad! | AO3! | Part 2

A pair of usually whiskey brown eyes meet yours when she walks through the door, except this time they are clouded by the ocean of tears that dare roll down her face.

You touch her cheek, feeling as Hanji nuzzles herself against your hand desperately looking for some sort of comfort.

“What’s wrong?” You ask in a gentle tone, almost as if you are speaking to a stray animal while trying to earn its trust.

“Do you promise to still love me no matter what?” She asks, her hands and lips trembling as she looks at you with desperation in her eyes.

“Sweetheart, of course.” You reply, taking her hands on yours and planting a heartfelt kiss on her left thumb. “There is nothing you could say that would make me love you any less than I do right now.”

“Are you sure?” Hanji asks in between hiccups. You sigh, pulling her close to your chest and hugging her tightly.

You don’t want to admit it but a part of you fears what she has to say. Your mind wanders to awful places and you begin to question your entire relationship, fearing that maybe she has cheated on you or worse.

Tears now form in your eyes as your hands begin to tremble, holding her so tightly you can hear her breath becoming shallow.

“Y/N you’re starting to hurt me.” She says, a small smile now forming on her lips.

“I’m sorry.” You say, sharing a smile of your own, “So what did you want to tell me?”

“I think…” She begins to say, voice barely audible as she finishes her sentence, “I think I’m non-binary.”

You fall silent for a few seconds, maybe even minutes, and you can’t help but smile in relief. Hanji looks at you while tears still shine brightly in their eyes and you can tell they are still scared of how you will react.

Their bottom lip trembles as their breathing becomes irregular. To show them everything is ok, you take their face in your hands before planting several kisses all over their cheeks and lips. You don’t stop until they show you a smile of their own.

“Do you still love me?” They ask and you roll your eyes before laughing warningly.

“Of course I do!” You reply, wrapping your arms around their legs and spinning Hanji around. Their laugh is contagious and you can’t stop yourself from laughing with them. “What can I do to help you feel more comfortable?”

“Maybe you can cut my hair for me?” They ask and you nod, excitement rushing through your veins as you place them back down on the ground. “I would like it to be a lot shorter than it is right now.”

“Fuck yes, I will cut your hair!” You say, clapping your hands together. “What else?”

“My breasts have been bothering me for a while now, could you maybe help me choose a binder?” They ask, a blush covering their face as they gesture around their torso. You nod, taking their hands and lacing your fingers together.

“I would be honored to help you choose a binder.” You reply with a smile, “If you would like, we can start saving for top surgery.”

“I actually already started saving a little bit.” They say, their face now completely red in embarrassment, almost like a little kid who has done something bad. “I hate the way that I look right now.”

“You are beautiful, love.” You respond, ghosting your fingers above their cheek. “I want you to feel like you are beautiful, no matter what. I will help you!”

“Really?” They ask, a shine in their eyes.

Instead of responding with words, you realize that actions would speak louder so you take their face into your hands once again, pulling it close to yours until your lips are sealed together in a passionate kiss.

Through your action, you are able to pass along that there is not a single inch of you that bears any ill will towards them, in fact you know how much courage it took for them to share with you how they feel.

You want to show your support, how you will do anything and everything in your power to make sure they are comfortable in their own skin. 

“I love you.” You say, placing your forehead against theirs and with a bright smile they reply.

“I love you too.”

[aggravatetheaxe]

BO SINCLAIR X TRANS MAN / MAN ALIGNED READER COMING OUT - Pt. 1 - Under Your Skin

This title is SAFE FOR WORK. Pt. 2, Over the Moon, will be NSFW. I'll link that here when it's written!

You met Bo while you were still presenting as a woman. Suffice to say things have changed, and you can't keep your secret from him any longer. You have no choice but to tell him or leave ... but what if he makes you leave anyway?

CW: descriptions of dysphoria that get very intense, deadnaming/misgendering, mentions of murder and mortal peril, it's 2005 and Bo is from the south so just be advised it's not all fluff and rainbows (but there is payoff, this isn't straight angst, it's just a journey)

Soundtrack: x

Words: 4,175

Part Two

Masterlist

***

Your shoulders were stiff. Your throat was dry. Your leg was bouncing, the only thing you could do to release the nervous energy juttering through your body.

You were going to tell him.

You'd put it off for months now, not quite sure how to say the words. Then, when you'd arranged them in your head, fear had kept you from saying them out loud. But you couldn't wait anymore. You couldn't live like this any longer.

You'd been hiding the secret for too long. Every time Bo called you by your birth name or made some quip about you being his girl, your heart shriveled just a little more. It had gotten to the point where you didn't even want compliments from him ... you didn't want to talk. You didn't even really want to sleep with him, didn't like to think about him looking at you as a woman during sex.

He didn't know, of course. But that almost made it worse. He couldn't stop hurting you and you couldn't yell at him for it. It was always the same: you lost control, you got frustrated, wouldn't tell him why, he'd get frustrated, you'd fight ... it was a mess. You knew all that was putting a strain on your relationship.

So it had to be tonight.

It had to be tonight.

You had everything planned. You'd already gone into town with Lester and picked up some stuff for a nice dinner; there was a fresh, cold six-pack of Bud in the fridge; and Rocky III was sitting in the VHS player, ready to go. Once he was relaxed, you'd talk to him.

You'd convinced yourself so fully that you'd stick to the plan that when you heard his truck pull up and your heart leapt into your throat, you nearly cried. Fuck, not again. Not another night. You were supposed to be stronger than this.

Stomping boots on the porch. You heard the door swing open from the kitchen. "I'm home."

He didn't sound like he was in a particularly good mood, but it didn't sound like a bad one, either. That was good news, at least. Things must have gone okay down at the shop. "I'm in here!" you called back.

Bo appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, tracking a little gravel into the house as always. He leaned against the doorframe with one hand on his hip, gesturing with his chin. "Hey, sugar. What you got there?"

You looked down at the meal you were plating. "I thought I'd try a pot roast? I dunno. I don't think it came out very good, but I guess we'll see."

He didn't say anything. You glanced over your tense shoulder to see him simply staring at you, like he was trying to read your thoughts. You could sense the gears in his head turning behind those clever blue eyes of his. He knew there was something wrong; you were guarded.

For a moment, you thought he might say something. That familiar little bit of irritation was beginning to creep into his face, right around his neck and jaw. But after a few seconds, he simply said, "A'right," and straightened. "M'gonna go change."

"'Kay." As he stomped up the stairs, you finished getting the food ready and brought the plates to the living room. Bo usually ate at the table—"I ain't a savage"—but you could tell he liked eating on the couch. It was like a special treat. And clearly, you were short on charm at the moment, so you'd have to use your environment to your advantage.

You pulled up two tray tables and set the food down, then fetched the beer. By the time everything was set up, Bo was coming back down the stairs.

Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to look at him. He was wearing jeans and a red flannel, sleeves rolled up. At this point, he didn't care about you seeing his scars. You hardly noticed them anymore.

He came closer and slowed to a stop, forehead wrinkling as he eyed your set-up. "What's all this about?"

"I was thinking dinner and a movie." You paused. "I thought Rocky might get the taste of my cooking out of your mouth."

You succeeded in making him laugh a little, crow's feet crinkling, but as he took a step closer, his smile faded. "Did you do somethin'? Is somethin' broken?" He glanced quickly, running his gaze over the clutter his parents had left behind.

"Nothing's wrong," you reassured him quickly, stepping back into his line of sight in the hopes of distracting him. "I just thought, you know, we could have a nice night. Like ... romantic?"

He stared at you for a moment. Then, his gaze lit, a toothy smile appearing. "Romantic, huh? Well hell, sweetie, why didn't ya say so?"

He clearly thought you meant sex. In fact, the way he was looking at you, you thought he'd jump you right up against the pool table if you let him. Your dysphoria made sex so unbearable that you'd been avoiding it when you could lately, and you were sure he missed it.

You were lucky he hadn't gotten mean yet. You guessed that was a testament to how much he must like you. But who knew if he'd like you after tonight?

Quickly, you shoved a beer into his hand, redirecting his attention as you slid onto the couch and clicked play. He slid into place beside you, relaxing back with his legs spread.

You both picked at your food—you because you were way too nervous to eat, and him because ... well, you assumed it was because he was waiting for you to initiate the "romance." He did eventually finish his meal, though, complimenting you with one of his "So good, baby"s and a boozy kiss.

The movie droned on, and eventually, he wrapped an arm around you. As he did, you relaxed, if only a little. You wanted to settle into him ... you wanted it more than anything in the world. You did love him. But who did he love? The woman he thought he was putting his arm around wasn't you.

"What's wrong?" His tone was firm and sudden after such a long stretch of silence.

You blinked at him. "Nothing."

He wasn't buying it, and he didn't look impressed. "There's no point in lyin'a me, darlin'. I know when somethin' ain't right." Then, with a little edge to his voice, "You know I get pissed when you brush me off."

"I'm just..." You sighed, setting your beer aside and rubbing your forehead. "I'm just tired, that's all."

"Let's go to bed, then." In one fluid motion, he stood and turned off the TV. "Hope you're not too tired," he added quietly.

It was equal parts insult, warning, and come-on, and it exhausted you as much as it panicked you. You weren't ready to tell him just yet. You'd figured you still had a few hours, but ... well, if you pissed him off now, all this nice set-dressing had been for nothing. Then you'd either have to tell him while he was in a bad mood or spend another night as someone you weren't.

Biting back a sigh, you stood, too. He was waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, and let you go up first.

"Nice view from back here," he said smoothly. "Almost wanna tell you to start runnin'."

Shit. You needed an excuse to buy yourself a little time. "Can you shower first?"

You knew the question ticked him off because he didn't answer it. He followed you to your shared room, grabbed a towel, and left for the bathroom in heated silence.

The shower would make him feel better. It always did. He'd scald himself like he liked, then come out much calmer. Hopefully. You changed and took your place in bed, sitting under the blankets with your pillow propping you up. Waiting.

You were wrong about the calm. When he came back into the bedroom—red-skinned and completely naked, towel occupied in his hair—he was scowling at the floor. You waited for him to yell. It was inevitable.

When he did finally say something, his tone was quieter than you imagined, though simmering. "Why are you doin' this to me?"

You didn't respond, mostly because you had no idea which this he was talking about.

"Hurts my pride, y'know." He began toweling his body. Rather roughly, you noticed. "My girl don't wanna fuck me. You know how that feels as a man? You think I wanna have to— hurt you?"

A pause. "Bo..."

"Am I gonna have to get it somewhere else? Fuck, Deadname."

You shrank in bed. That name made you feel rotten to the core. It was like poison slowly choking your veins. You had to do this ... but you couldn't. But you had to.

Bo was unaware of the war going on inside of you as he turned, leaning against the dresser, arms back to clutch the edge. "Is it someone else?" You could tell he was murderous just thinking about that possibility, gaze aflame, jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break teeth. "Is it Vincent?"

"What? No!" Why he'd think that when you'd only ever expressed mild concern for Vincent's well-being, you had no idea. "There's no one else, Bo, I just—"

"Then what's a matter with you, huh?" He raised his voice. "Am I too rough, am I too— Jesus Christ, you gotta at least tell me what the damage is!"

Your conflicting emotions threatened to overwhelm you. You yelled back, "It's not you!"

"Then what the hell is it?!"

"It's me!"

He opened his mouth to shout back, but only managed, "What in the f—" before he lost steam, searching your face helplessly. Something about the way you looked must have given him pause. You meant what you said. Desperately, desperately. It was you. You were the problem.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low, glare pointed. "You been off all night. Hell"—one of those incredulous laughs that betrayed his genuine anger—"you been off for a while. Least you can do is tell me what the fuck is goin' on."

He was right. No turning back now. You took a deep, grounding breath. "Okay."

A moment of hesitation. Did you want him close or across the room like that, just in case? Eventually, you decided you needed him close. You patted the bed beside you.

Bo grabbed a pair of boxer-briefs, stepping into them on his way over. His expression was still twisted sourly, but you could sense him relax as he sat in bed next to you. He didn't meet your eye, simply looking down at the sheets. Beneath the anger, a begrudging expectation simmered. Did he think you were going to break things off?

That thought spurred you into taking his hand, squeezing lightly. "I love you so fucking much."

He glanced to the side. At length, he mumbled, "You, too."

You took another deep breath, trying to keep your voice from shaking. "There's something I haven't told you about me. And it's really been stressing me out lately. That's why I've been acting so weird." When he didn't reply, you continued, "It's been making it ... hard to be close to you. I don't like the way lying to you makes me feel, and I've been ... scared, so fucking scared, Bo."

He glanced at you again, brows drawn, this time with confusion rather than anger. "So what is it? What the hell can be so big an' important that you can't stand bein' around me?" A pause. "I mean shit, Deadname, you know I kill people for a livin'. My fucked up twin turns 'em into wax. You know about the fuckin' dungeon—what could be bigger'n that?"

That fucking name. You couldn't take it anymore. Your voice cracked as you whispered, "You need to stop calling me Deadname."

"What? Why?" He frowned deeply. "That's your name, ain't it?"

"It's not the name I want to be called."

You could almost hear the gears in his head turning as he tried to figure out what was going on. "Okay ... so it ain't your real name. Why you goin' around using a fake name?" His gaze turned flinty and cold. "You're a cop."

"No!" You held up your hands. "No, I didn't lie about who I was, not ... not in the way you're thinking. I was born with that name; everything I've told you about my life and where I came from, all those things were true. I never lied about any of that."

"Then what is it?" He was getting angry again. "Spit it out!"

Well, since he asked... "I don't want to use that name because ... it's a woman's name. And I'm not a woman. I'm a man."

Bo stared for a few seconds, then scanned you up and down once. His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "You were ... born a man? Then how come your name—"

"No, no." You pursed your lips, taking his hand hesitantly again. "I was ... I guess for simplicity's sake you could say I was born a girl. I was born with a vagina, I developed breasts and started my period naturally. But I'm not a girl. Like, in my head. In my brain, I'm actually a man."

He didn't believe you. You could see it in his face. But you weren't planning on giving up that easily. You knew what he'd be thinking; you'd planned this whole thing out so carefully, chosen your words so precisely.

"It's not ... a delusion or anything. It's actually more common than people think. It's called being transgender. When you're born one gender but you want to be another."

He frowned, obviously completely lost. He wasn't getting it. He just didn't fucking understand. And you were growing desperate.

"Bo." Your throat was raw, tears threatening your eyes. "Every time you call me your girl, or you refer to me as a woman, or you use that name ... I fucking hate it. It hurts. It hurts so goddamn bad to know you're not seeing the real me. It makes me not see the real me. I look in the mirror and I just want to ... tear my skin off. Sometimes I just wanna take a knife and— and fix me. Cut out whatever part of me makes it hurt so bad. I just want to be seen as who I am so bad."

"Okay." You didn't like the way he was looking at you, but the anguish in your voice had at least moved him to speak. You could see in his eyes that he was working overtime to puzzle this out. "So, what? What're you gonna do? What's it mean for us?"

"Well..." You had to break eye contact, staring down at his hand. "What I'd like to do is start living as a man. You know, dressing like a man—which I already pretty much do—going by a different name, maybe cutting my hair. You could call me 'he' ... I might even get medicine later on down the line, like hormones, to make me look squarer. Maybe even surgery."

"You gonna get a dick?" The almost mocking tone of his voice made you want to shrivel up and die. He seemed to pick up on the change in your body immediately and shifted his tone. "I'm askin'."

"No, that's not a thing. But I'm gonna be a man regardless." Finally, you released his hand, though you still couldn't look at him. "What that means for us is ... up to you, I guess. It'd mean you were dating a guy. I mean, you have been this whole time—"

"I didn't fucking know," he cut in firmly.

A jolt of fear lanced your heart. "I know. That's my fault; I didn't tell you. I was ... scared."

"Scared of what?" he pressed, tone growing aggressive.

"I don't know. Of you being mad. Or not loving me anymore." You glanced up. "I love you. Seriously, I do. More than anything. I still want to be with you, just ... as a man."

There was silence. A horrible, stretching, heavy silence that made you want to hang your head and cry. After a while, Bo rose from bed, going to the dresser and pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, all in that silence.

Was he ... leaving you? No, he wouldn't leave his own house, he'd make you leave. Or kill you. But he certainly wasn't opening his arms to you. Waves of sadness crashed over your chest, so intense you thought you'd throw up.

He seemed to contemplate the dresser for an extended period. Then, he glanced over his shoulder, just barely. "I need ta' think."

And with that, he was out the door. He didn't come back to bed that night. The next morning, you found his pillow on the couch.

***

Vincent was next on your list of people to tell. It turned out he was a big help, bigger than you could have ever realized he would be. You had to explain yourself, but he took it in stride, calling you by your new chosen name and even helping you come up with a sign for it.

« Did you tell Bo? » he eventually asked you.

"I told him last night." Your eyes were still puffy and red from your night alone, and the morning following it. You still hadn't seen him, but you could hear music blaring from the garage, so you at least knew where he was.

« How did he take it? »

"He isn't speaking to me."

Vincent paused. His wax face was blank as always, but you could tell he was considering something. « Did he yell? »

"No ... he just said he would think about it."

A low grunt, and Vincent nodded. « Then let him think. »

And he did think. He thought about it every night from then on. You could see him thinking during meal times, when you brought him lunch down at the shop, when he was watching TV. You noticed him zoning out in the middle of reading sometimes: paperback crunched and folded in one hand, other hand pressed to his grim mouth, those blue eyes glassy and staring at nothing. Thinking.

He hardly ever spoke to you outside of necessary communication. Before bed, he told you goodnight, but it was ... heavy. He didn't roll over to touch you or hold you anymore. The distance was yawning and heartbreaking, especially when you were alone. The silence was so pregnant with unsaid words and all his damn thoughts.

You wanted to ask if he was mad, but you didn't dare. He didn't seem mad, and you knew a thing or two about his moods. This seemed ... different. So you simply didn't say anything.

And then, one day...

"Hey, handsome."

His voice practically made you jump out of your skin. You, Vincent, and Bo—and sometimes Lester—divided who would have to go into the houses in Ambrose to dust and clean, and today was your day. He'd snuck up on you in the middle of oiling some of the rigs like he'd taught you.

"Uh. Hey." You managed a hasty smile, uncertain you'd actually heard him call you what you thought he had. "What're you doing here?" After a week of him barely speaking to you, it seemed odd that he'd start now.

Bo took a few steps in, looking away and reaching to fiddle with a knick-knack on a nearby side table. "Just thought I'd come check up on you. You are my, uh ... boyfriend, after all."

You stopped dead in the middle of spraying WD-40, staring over your shoulder. What?

When he felt you staring, he lifted his gaze. There was an uncertainty there, discomfort, along with a challenge. "What?"

"Nothing." You turned back to your work. After a few seconds, you added, "Thank you."

He didn't respond, but he eventually sidled up to you, surveying your work. "Not half bad. Yeah, you're doin' real good." He reached up to adjust his hat, and you could feel his gaze on you. "We'll make a man outta you yet."

You couldn't help it—your face burned. "Girls can maintain machinery, too, Bo."

"Yeah, I know that, but you—" An edge of irritation entered his voice. "Now you're just confusin' me."

You set down the WD-40 and turned, searching his face. By god, he really was trying, wasn't he? It was almost cute how bad he was at it, but he was trying. Vincent had been right.

"You never asked my name," you eventually muttered.

"Vincent told me it. Y/N." He said it again, rolling it around on his tongue. "Y/N ... in'erestin' choice. I guess it suits ya." A pause, and he lowered his voice. "Gonna take me some gettin' used to."

"That's okay," you said quickly. "As long as you're trying."

"Yeah, well..." Bo paused before reaching out, brushing his fingers through your hair. "Gonna miss all this."

You leaned into his hand. "I might not cut it. I haven't decided yet."

He grunted, continuing to brush his fingers through your hair. You could see his expression drift back to that thoughtfulness you'd gotten used to seeing. Eventually, he said, "Guess this makes me gay."

He sounded so begrudging and yet so decisive that you almost laughed in his face. Thankfully, you were able to bite back your reaction. "You don't have to be. You can be whatever you want. But ... if you stayed with me, it would mean you were attracted to at least one man, yeah."

"Fine." He pursed his lips, huffing through his nose. "Bi-sexual or whatever."

"You don't have to put a label on it right now. You've got time." You hesitated before taking his large hands in yours, bringing them to cup your jaw. "This ... you know ... it isn't something that has to happen overnight. I'm not asking that. It's a process for both of us ... a lot to get used to for both of us."

"Sure the hell is." He scoffed and shoved his hat up his forehead, scratching his hairline. "Now I want you to tell me somethin'. Why were you so damn scared of tellin' me?"

You took a breath. "I mean ... Bo."

"What?"

"I'm in the south ... alone, no family ... in a town where you could kill me if I pissed you off and no one would ever know." He made a face, but you pressed: "You know where I come from. Things are dangerous there, and things around here are even—"

"You think just 'cause you're in the country folks are gonna treat you different?" He sounded offended.

"Bo," you said again. "Let's not kid ourselves. How many guys do you know who would beat my ass if they found out? If they found out I liked other men, even."

"Couple assholes. But they ain't gonna bother you with me around. B'sides, plenty a' gays around here, like any other place ... they're just drillin' and weldin' and workin' the factories." He fixed you with a look. "Country don't mean stupid."

"Did you just quote The Stand?"

"No," he said hastily, taking his hat off and shoving it in the back pocket of his Dickies. "All I'm sayin' is ... I'm not some dumb animal."

Your shoulders sank, heart softening. "I know you're not, baby. But you have been known to, y'know, murder people. You can understand why I was scared, can't you?"

His mouth twitched, but reluctantly, he mumbled, "Yeah, I guess." A pause. "I can't promise I won't never hurt you, Deadn— Y/N. I know I can be real careless with my words on occasion. But I won't kill ya. Don' know if I could reconcile that shame. And, uh ... I love you."

Your heart swelled, and you leaned forward, hugging him tightly around the middle. It wasn't long until you felt his strong, warm arms enfold you in return, one hand tangling in your hair. His heartbeat was steady and comforting beneath your head, and the heat radiating from him relaxed every muscle in your body.

The two of you stayed that way for a while, hugging tightly while the TV droned in the background. Eventually, he shifted and spoke, his voice rumbling deliciously against you.

"Now if you don't mind," Bo started casually before dropping into a purr, "I'd like a kiss from my handsome lover."

You couldn't help but grin up at him. "You sure?"

"Lay it on me, big boy."

Maybe you were evil for loving him despite it all. Maybe you were complicit. Those weren't your judgments to make. But as you craned your neck to kiss him and euphoria exploded through your chest, you knew one thing for certain:

You were you.

***

Part Two

Masterlist

Tip Jar

[helpimhyperfixating]

May we have 6taro telling FtM reader that “You are a man, through-and-through.” Calling reader handsome, and other masculine compliments. Maybe Joot saying “I know you’re a man, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a dumbass.”

I need some comfort rn 🥲 tysm ♥️

Of course!! I do hope you are feeling better anon! I hope this helps!! I don’t really have experience with this but I tried and hope I didn’t fuck something up. Go be awesome! ❤️❤️

You Are - Jotaro x Trans! Reader

Word Count: 1484

Walking through town with your husband, Jotaro, the two of you were happily spending your day off together.

The sun was shining as you walked hand in hand. The day so far was pretty relaxed and fun. You and Jotaro had just walked around sightseeing, later on going to a small café for something to drink and some small baked goods. Afterwards the two of you walked deeper into the city, window shopping.

It still surprised you how much of a fashionista Jotaro could be. It might not always be the most conventional things that he picked out and wore, but he always put some thought into it, even finding enjoyment in doing so. And, though he’d never admit it, window shopping was something he very much liked to do.

And thus you gladly came along to help, occasionally pointing to some clothing items stalled out in the windows that you think he might enjoy, or answering his questions when he asked what you thought of a particular thing.

Jotaro was thinking of maybe updating his current outfit a little, since the snakeskin pants seemed to garner a bit too much attention for his tastes. Even though he didn’t care most of the time.

Your laughter rang through the air at Jotaro’s deadpan face after you had pointed out some neon orange pants to him. He sighed and tipped his hat down with his free hand, saying his famous words, making you laugh even more.

You suddenly realised how much noise you were making and tried to stop yourself, a big grin still on your face while Jotaro rolled his eyes and just tugged on your arm to take you past the shop with the terrible pants. You snickered at his childish behaviour and your eyes just happened to roam around when something caught your attention.

You didn’t know if it was your imagination or not but it felt like those two across the street were staring, discreetly whispering to each other. Your smile fell a bit and you looked around but no, you and Jotaro were the only ones in this vicinity. And then, crossing the street just ahead of the two of you, a couple walked past hand in hand. More specifically: a man and woman.

Unconsciously, you stiffened up, your smile now completely gone and tightly squeezing the hand you were holding. Jotaro looked at you, taking in your expression and furrowing his brows at what he saw; you were staring off in the distance, seemingly lost in thought but with creased brows. You were just smiling so brightly a few seconds ago and Jotaro turned to see what you were looking at.

“Hey.”

You faintly heard the voice but were too lost in thought for it to really register and Jotaro cursed softly to himself.

It was plain as day to him that you were starting to get dysphoria. He had been with you long enough to see the signs. Not much else would suddenly make you do a 180 like that and it hurt the 40 year old that it could still creep up on you like this.

Something was suddenly plopped on your head, breaking you from your almost trance as you jumped, your vision dark as something heavy was on your head and blocking your eyes.

“Jotaro?”

“C’mon, let’s go home.” He started coaxing you along, going back to where you parked the car and you sort of just... followed.

Realising his hat was still on your head, you reached up to take it off and give it back, but Jotaro didn’t even turn around as he continued dragging you along while saying, “Leave it. You can keep it on.”

Meekly nodding, you just left it as it was and allowed him to whisk you away with him, hiding your face behind the brim.

Reaching the car in no time, the two of you got in and you decided to take this time to put his hat back on his head after all.

Jotaro sighed softly as he looked at you but as soon as it was on his head you were looking down at your lap and picking at your hands.

You loved Jotaro, you really really did. But sometimes, when these thoughts came up in you, it was just hard to look at him. He was the picture of the ideal man. Handsome, muscular, strong, reliable. And, in these moments, you just felt like you were anything but. And looking at him could hurt.

Your hand being grabbed brought you back to the present as Jotaro held it firmly while pulling it a little closer to himself, keeping his wrist on the gearstick. He wasn’t looking at you, just giving you a moment to yourself while still comfortingly holding your hand.

Three of his fingers were still curled around yours while he used his thumb and pinky to move the gear stick, getting out of the parking spot and driving away, back home.

- - - -

The moment the door was closed and the rest of the world was shut out, Jotaro wasted no time in pulling you towards him. His arms tightly wrapping around you and pulling you against himself as he tightly held you.

“Put it out of your head.” He softly spoke and that broke the floodgates, your head falling onto his shoulder as you hugged him back, finding comfort in his hold.

Jotaro just simply held you, his right hand moving up eventually to card through your hair as he lightly scratched the back of your head.

Only once you had slightly calmed down and pulled back did Jotaro let go.

“What happened?” He questioned and you raised your head a bit to look up at him.

“Across the street there were these two... And, I don’t know, they were just looking in distaste.” You softly spoke, remembering the looks on their faces as they looked at you, only making you feel worse. Jotaro replied before you could spiral further however.

“They saw two men walking hand in hand. Homophobes are never gonna stop.” He said with a bit of distaste, clearly angry with those people.

At this you bit your lip and shook your head however. “No, I think they noticed that I... was not born this way.”

The moment you said that, Jotaro gripped your shoulders, actively making you look at him as he held a stern gaze. “Y/N, there is nothing to notice. You look like a man, you sound like a man, you act like a man, you are a man, through-and-through.”

“But there is so much wrong with me! And I’m not the one you fell in love with those years ago... Maybe you would rather be with a wo-“

Jotaro didn’t even let you finish your sentence as he grabbed hold of your face, forcing you to look directly into his eyes. And he didn’t even bat an eye as he spoke, “Y/N, I am gay. And by fuck am I gay for you.”

“But you used to-“

“-Exactly. I used to. I am no longer attracted to women just like you no longer are one. You are my husband. Don’t let your brain or anyone for that matter tell you otherwise. And I wouldn’t even want anyone else so don’t ever entertain that thought again.”

He almost sounded genuinely offended as he said the last sentence and his confession had you swallowing the lump in your throat, your heart thumping loudly. It was clear that Jotaro was waiting for a response so you nodded while your lips turned up ever so slightly at his words. “So, we’re not getting a divorce anytime soon?” You joked a little weakly and Jotaro scoffed.

“We are not getting a divorce fucking ever.” A small silence fell and Jotaro’s eyes softened before he broke it. “Y/N, I love you. You’re handsome, good looking, you’re strong and so fucking manly it kills me sometimes.” His hand ran over your arm, his eyes following the movement before he looked at your face again. “I am so proud of who you are and who you’ve become.”

“I-“ You couldn’t even say anything beyond that, just closing your mouth again, and Jotaro re-gripped your head to get your eyes on him again.

“I know you’re a man, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a dumbass.”

“So right now-?”

“You are a real big fucking idiot, yes.” Jotaro confirmed but the tiny quirk of his lips near the end and the loving look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

“Ouch.” You remarked, but the small smile fighting its way onto your face could not be denied.

“I love you, Y/N.” With that, Jotaro wrapped his arms around your waist while you automatically put your hands on his hips as he connected his lips with yours and kissed you.

[broken-stardust]

Budding Sunshine

Summary: Reader has something to tell Spencer.

Category: Dad!Spencer with TransMale!Reader Angst/Fluff

A/n: this is for a fathers day thing my friends are putting together but I also love the idea of Spencer being the supportive dad I didn’t have at first

Content warnings: misgendering, bullying, homophobia, transphobia, f slur, (used once) dysphoria

Word Count: 1.4k

Within a week of his daughter getting her hair cut short, he noticed her mood drop exponentially. The day of, she had a new confidence about her, almost like she was a completely different person, but now, sitting at the kitchen table doing her homework on a Friday night, Spencer could tell something was off. Her shoulders were slouched over, her shirt halfway untucked, and it looked as if she'd been crying. It didn't take a profiler to tell that she was hurting. She always came to her dad when she needed help with something, but this past week she'd been distant. 

Maybe she was just at that age, Spencer told himself. She was 13, of course. He'd read enough parenting manuals to know that children begin to grow distant when they hit puberty. He knew the science behind it, too. As a young person matures, they want to figure out who they are as an individual, and they need a level of independence for that. 

Still, Spencer couldn't help but worry when he heard a little sniffle come from the table while he cooked dinner. Determined to help his daughter through whatever it was that was bothering her, he lowered the flame on the macaroni and cheese and took a seat next to her. Even if she told him to leave her alone, which was a strong possibility, he had to at least try. 

"Hey, Sunshine," he said. "What's up?"

~

I looked up from my geometry homework when I heard my dad's voice. I tried to wipe away my tears as inconspicuously as I could, but I knew it wouldn't work. He gently took hold of my hand as I reached for my face and placed it back down on my lap, opting to dry my tears with his hand instead. 

"Hey, Dad," I squeaked, grimacing at how high my voice came out. I looked anywhere I could to avoid eye contact, eventually picking up my pencil and focusing back on my homework. "How's it going?"

My dad sighed gently and plucked the pencil out of my hand, taking my hand in his instead. I looked up at him then, seeing concern swirling in his eyes. I almost started crying again just from knowing that I was making him so upset. 

"You know you can talk to me, right?" he said. 

Of course, I did. I'd come to my dad for every problem I'd had in the past. This just felt... different. If I told him, he'd look at me differently. Things would change, and I didn't want them to. I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded instead. He opened his mouth to say something, but I decided that I should just say it and get it out of the way. So that's what I did. 

"Ithinkimaboy."

There were a few seconds of silence which felt like hours before my dad said "what?"

"I-" I took a deep breath. "I think I'm a boy," I said more clearly. 

Another moment passed as my dad processed the information I'd just dropped on him like a bomb, and I suddenly wished that I had been in its path, blown to smithereens so I wouldn't have to witness the aftermath of my confession. 

"Alright."

The word hung in the air between us like a wrecking ball swinging side to side, ready to knock either of us down. Well, really it was just ready to knock me down. 

"Alright?" I repeated, dumbfounded at my father's reaction. It wasn't that I didn't expect him to be supportive; I knew he would be. I just hadn't expected such a calm reaction. 

"Yeah. You know, 0.6% of the American population is transgender. People are figuring out their gender identity and coming out at younger ages these days, so it's not surprising that you're having these feelings at your age. Puberty and the development of secondary sex characteristics can often lead transgender individuals to realize that they are, in fact, transgender." 

"Dad!" I giggled, squirming at the mention of puberty. "That's gross."

He laughed right along with me. He laid a hand on my shoulder and leaned in to kiss the top of my head before rustling my hair. With that, the light-hearted moment was gone, and my face fell as I remembered the real reason I was so upset. 

"That's not why you've been crying all week though," my dad observed, still playing with my hair. "Is it?" I shook my head and willed the tears not to come rolling down. "What's wrong, Sunshine?"

"Well I was really happy with my haircut," I fiddled with my fingers as I spoke even though I knew it was a dead giveaway as to how anxious I was. I couldn't help it. 

"Yeah, you were," Dad recalled with a smile. "You were basically bouncing off the walls."

"I was really excited to show it off at school." As I continued, the tears I'd been willing not to spill began to pour out of my eyes. "My friends asked me why I cut it so short, and I decided to tell them I'm trans..." I trailed off then, unsure of how to get the words out of my mouth. 

"It didn't go so well, did it?"

I shook my head and wiped away my tears, only for more to slide down my pink cheeks. 

"They said I was disgusting," I sobbed. "They called me a faggot."

Dad pulled me in for a hug and whispered words of affirmation into my head as I wet his shirt with my sorrows. My muffled cries slowly got quieter as he played with my hair, and eventually, I was the one to pull away. 

"This has been happening all week?" he asked. The worry in his eyes was abundant, and my heart broke a little. I knew what he'd gone through in school, and I knew he hated seeing something like that happen to me. "Have you told anyone?" he asked, but he already knew the answer. 

"I didn't want to get people's parents involved," I explained. "Things get worse when the adults step in. I thought I could handle it."

Dad shook his head slightly before resting it in his hand. I could tell that he was trying to think of a plan for how to deal with this. I had a feeling I wasn't going to like it. 

"Monday morning, we're going to talk to the principal together."

I was right. 

He explained to me that we weren't going to complain about the bullies; we were going to come out and ask that my information be changed in the school's database. He wanted all the teachers to know to call me by the right name and pronouns. And if kids were going to be assholes, I could deal with it now that I had him on my side. 

"I assume you do have a name you want to go by?" he asked eventually as we hatched our plan. I smiled. I was waiting for this. 

"Yeah," I beamed. "Can you please call me Y/N from now on?"

"Y/N," he repeated slowly as if taking in the information, soaking it all up so as not to forget it. "I like that name. It suits you."

If I hadn't been smiling before, I sure was now. Hearing my dad use the name I'd chosen for myself made my heart soar. 

"Thanks, Dad," I said with a smile. 

"Sure thing, Bud," he said in return. 

I'd been tear-free for at least ten minutes now, and one single word had just ruined that streak. With three simple letters, my dad broke down what seemed to be the walls of a dam behind my eyes, and I was suddenly crying again. I could see the panic in his eyes as he rushed to comfort me. 

"Hey, hey," he said rubbing soothing circles on my back. "What's wrong? Did I say something wrong?"

I shook my head with a big dopey smile glued to my face. 

"I just really like the nickname Bud."

My dad let out a huge sigh of relief when he realized I was now crying happy tears. He was about to say something when he was interrupted by a loud screeching sound coming from throughout the house. The fire alarm. 

"The mac and cheese!" I yelled, and he turned around, running to turn off the flame under the now burnt cheesy pasta. As I opened the window to air out the kitchen, Dad reset the fire alarm. 

"Do you want to start it over again?" I asked. He looked at me with tired eyes. "Or we could order a pizza," I offered instead. 

"That's my boy," he said, pulling me in for another hug.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Here to Misbehave (Pt. 21 | S.R.)

Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Finale |

Summary: Unfortunately, a new case couldn’t have come at a worse time for Reader, who’s starting to feel that dysphoria Spencer’s always warning her about. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Adults w/ Age Gap (10yr), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, BDSM, Daddy Kink, D/s relationship, degradation, brief mention of consensual dub-con, aftercare included, Sub Drop! Word Count: 6k

MASTERLIST

—————————————————

The television was playing for itself, the sounds only serving as the background soundtrack to Spencer’s lips as he kissed his way down my neck and over my shoulder. I wanted to be angry or annoyed, but each time his mouth met my skin, my body gave in to him.

And when you gave this mouse a cookie, he took everything else with it. Within a single second of my hips rocking back against him as we lay together on the couch, Spencer’s fingers dug into my hip, forcing me against his painfully obvious erection.

“Spencer!” I whined while my hips continued to move with him, “You said you would watch the movie.”

I had known it was a lie when he said it. We both knew it was always going to end like this. But at the same time, I enjoyed teasing him over the fact that out of the two of us that night, he was the one who couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

“Then tell me to stop,” he slurred between his kisses that were sure to leave bruises behind. “Tell me that you don’t want me to do this.”

We both also knew there would be no protest from me, and yet Spencer deemed it necessary to continue to shift the odds further in his favor. The same hand that had pulled me to grind against him pushed forward at a torturous pace until it slid into my underwear.

Once the soft whimper left my mouth, he knew he had won. He’d barely even touched me, and I was already a mess. The flashing colors on the LCD in front of me looked just like the backs of my eyelids. I could hardly tell if my eyes were even open anymore.

“How quickly you change your mind when I do this,” Spencer breathed into my ear as he finally slipped a finger inside of me. “I might be flattered if I didn’t know any better.”

It wasn’t the first time we’d had sex since the disaster; it had been a few weeks since, although it had felt like a lifetime. A lifetime that led us back to where we’d begun, wound so tightly together that my mind couldn’t follow his hands or his lips as they traveled wherever they could, memorizing the way each muscle tensed and twitched in response to his ministrations.

“Please, I—“

“Please what?” he ordered, “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“Whatever you want.”

There was nothing else to say. It was, apparently, both the right and the wrong answer. I say that it was right because I felt his cock twitch against my backside, and I heard the way the breath shuddered from his lungs. But it was also wrong, because I could hear his teeth clack shut and grind together as he growled, “Do you know what you’re asking for, little girl?”

I wanted to be a brat— to remind him how well-acquainted I was with his methods, and that he’d really mostly been all bark and no bite— but something in the rough drag of his finger against my walls made me pause.

So, I said nothing. That wasn’t the right answer, either.

Everything about him became more feral with every passing second. His breath fanned against my ear and burned my already heated skin. When he spoke, the words felt similarly laced with a heat and rage that almost seemed foreign, “Do you have any idea how many filthy, disgusting things I’ve dreamed about doing to you while I couldn’t touch you?”

What was I meant to say? My throat was closing around any options, insistent that my mouth could only make mistakes right now. I could hardly coordinate my lips to my mind, let alone say something witty. And Spencer hardly seemed in the mood for my usual bratty behavior.

My mind flashed back to the last time he was like this. At the time, it had been a result of something terrible. But this time? I think it was actually a part of something beautiful. Despite the trouble that had originally led to him shoving my face into the sheets so he could find some relief, I couldn’t deny that it had felt good to be that reprieve for him.

I couldn’t imagine how good it would feel this time, with no hurt between us except the kind I trusted him to administer.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

“I have a better idea,” he answered quick enough for me to question if he had actually read my mind. Removing his fingers suddenly, I swear I heard a laugh as he whispered, “Let me show you.”

My vision rocked as my body flipped, and before I knew it my hands were scrambling to grab something, anything, to regain control of the situation before I tumbled off the couch. But I should have known better; Spencer wasn’t going to let me fall.

Just as my nails dug into the cushions, he dropped his weight onto my back. I struggled to breathe for a number of reasons, including the fact his fingers had once again found their way into my underwear.

“Remember the last time you let me use you?” he chuckled, bringing his other arm up to cage me in even closer. “You looked so fucking pathetic. Shaking and begging, even as I split you open.”

The only thing I could do was whine and wonder how he managed to maneuver the little space between me and the couch. If he was still worried about hurting me, he didn’t make it obvious. Nothing about him was gentle; he was ruthless and insistent in the most satisfying ways. As he ran his finger back over my sex, a groan rumbled through his chest.

“And you pretended like this isn’t what you wanted? You’re a filthy liar. You’re practically dripping, little girl.”

“Please—” I tried to appeal, but he must have heard it in my voice. I didn’t want him to stop any more than he wanted to. And he didn’t. With all the force I knew him capable of, Spencer’s free hand covered the back of my head, which he promptly shoved down against the cushion.

“I don’t want to hear your stupid fucking excuses,” he spat, his words laced with greed and vitriol that made my stomach and heart do flips in my chest. “Give me your safe word right now,” he ordered, “before I change my mind and leave you a disgusting, whimpering mess right here.”

I turned my face just enough to breathe, loving the way the friction felt on my already flushed cheeks. “S-Starship,” I said through a pleased gasp.

“Look at that. You aren’t completely clueless,” he laughed.

There were no words for how it felt to be crushed beneath his weight while his fingers worked inside me. I still couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t want to, either. It was just another reminder that he didn’t need his hand around my neck to take anything away from me. I was helpless to his whims, and in that cage, I’d never felt freer.

Still, his hands managed to switch between doting and domineering, and he almost seemed merciful when he cooed, “So then what’s your excuse for lying to me? For pretending like you weren’t begging me to do this?”

“I don’t have one, sir,” I slurred, my lips dragging on the cushion with every movement. I could hardly focus on that, though, when Spencer’s weight was lifted from my back. My lungs quickly tried to fill with deep, desperate gasps.

“Wrong answer, little girl.”

The oxygen I did manage to bring in left just as fast when he grabbed my hip, lifting my bottom half until my knees were settled on the couch and my arms were bent by my head. Even when he started to tug my pants and underwear down my legs, he kept his other hand thrusting rhythmically between my legs. I could feel how close I was to losing myself completely to him. I didn’t even fight it, letting all the keening cries and whimpers fall from my lips without any hesitation.

“I’m sorry, daddy,” I sobbed, keeping my face down as hard as I could while I started to shake. But then his fingers stopped, slowly dragging out of me and dragging a wet finger down my leg.

“‘Daddy’ isn’t going to get you out of this one,” he growled.

The burning in my body was unbearable. I couldn’t even push myself back against him or appeal to him in any way. His hand splayed over one cheek dug into the skin and I felt the crescent shapes as they dutifully marked my skin. They were followed by the snapping sound of a firm slap against skin.

There would be so many marks, but all I could think of was how I wanted more.

“I’m sorry,” I cried again, trying to look up at him with that pitiful pout he loved to see.

“No,” he corrected, “You think you’re sorry now, but you aren’t. You will be, though.”

There was no other warning, no further preparation for the feeling of him stretching me open. He was kind enough to move slowly at first, although that tenderness was contrasted by the way he left welts in the wake of his hands, which trailed down my back at the same torturous pace.

Once we were entirely connected, he let his hand drift over my jaw, brushing my hair out of my eyes. I couldn’t keep our gazes together for too long. It felt dangerous, like looking directly at a predator. A challenge to his authority.

But where else could I look, if not at him? My eyes immediately fell forward at the reflection of the two of us in the glass panes of the entertainment console. What I saw sent a shiver down my spine as my desire reached impossible heights.

Spencer felt it, too.

“Go ahead and watch yourself,” he said with equal parts cruelty and kindness, “Watch what you make me do to you.”

So I did. I watched the way his hips carefully pulled away just to snap forward again, burying himself in me and eliciting a pained cry from my throat. Each thrust went just like that, with him bottoming out with a small jolt of pain. I couldn’t complain though, not when I saw the way his head fell back and a moan tore through his chest.

He was beautiful like this. Completely unhinged, animalistic, and… different. Every time I’d found myself at the receiving end of his pent up rage, I wondered which of his personas he related to more, the cool collected FBI agent or the sensual and cocky dominant. Or hell, even the awkward, insecure dork he was at his most comfortable. I was sure that my answer changed with the days, but I couldn’t ignore the freedom we both seemed to achieve in moments like this.

“Spencer,” I whined, my legs pressing back against him. I just wanted to feel him all. I wanted to take him in and keep him safe in my arms. But he was in a less than romantic mood, and before his name could fall again, he cut me off.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Daddy,” I corrected. My eyes left the reflection long enough to glance up and spot his cheeky little smirk.

“Good girl,” he praised. The words caused even more pleasure than the rest of him as he continued to fuck me into the couch. “That’s the only word I want to hear from you. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut.”

I tried to nod, but his hand returned to my head, pushing me harder into the cushion. Immediately, my instincts kicked in, causing my whole body to squirm underneath him. It wasn’t that I was necessarily trying to get away from him, but for a brief moment, I struggled to regain some control. But that seemed to only encourage Spencer’s desire to completely dominate every inch of me.

His hands only got tighter and his movements rougher as he sighed, “Enough. I want to enjoy this.”

Eventually, that fight left me. My body settled into the couch and felt the warmth of his thighs pressed against me and the still growing friction of the fabric on my skin. I focused all attention on the way we looked, lost in each other and the bliss we were creating on a dreary Friday night.

I had no idea how much time passed, but it felt like a lifetime that would never be enough. Every inch of me was brimming with love. I could feel it, the tingling covering me like a sheet. With each thrust of his hips, I felt impossibly closer to Spencer.

But the fight started to leave him, too. That darkness had spread between the two of us and dissipated in the process. All that was left was the two of us, tangled together with his movements beginning to falter.

“That’s it, little girl. You’re doing so good,” he groaned, his jaw clenching shut as he tried to fill hungry lungs without stopping. “I’m almost done. Just hold on a little while longer.”

“Yes, Daddy,” I replied, surprised by the tremble in the words. We were both so tired, so ready to fall apart and come back together again in the aftermath.

And that’s exactly what happened. Spencer waited until he felt the telltale tremors right before I peaked. He rubbed the marks he’d left moments before and repeated my name over and over until I was on the brink of tears and something else.

“That’s it, little girl,” he whispered again, “Let go. Daddy’s got you.”

The words were like magic. With just five words, Spencer brought me with him over the edge. He dropped his hand to mine still gripping the couch, holding onto it as his body tensed above me.

I could feel each muscle as it twitched before it calmed. I could feel everything, every point of contact all at once. I felt the way he filled me from inside and dug his teeth into my shoulder. I wanted to take that moment in forever, to never be farther away from him than I was right then.

But we couldn’t. Time rudely continued without our permission, and once he regained his strength, he pulled out of me so gently I had to laugh at the juxtaposition.

“Don’t move yet, beautiful. Stay right here,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss onto my head before he left me shaking and panting on the couch. Thankfully he had the decency and self-preservation to hurry before we made too much of a mess. Lord knows I didn’t want to spend our time together removing any hint of what we’d done in our time alone.

Then again, I did love the way he cared for me after. There was no way to really describe it— the love that was in his touch during the aftercare. I soaked in the pure elation I derived from his adoration, closing my eyes and trusting him to put me back together.

After he’d dressed me and positioned me just like a doll, my eyes finally opened again.

“Does anything hurt?” he asked, already busy working to massage my tired, angry muscles.

“No,” I murmured. I didn’t realize just how tired I was until I could barely get through the word. The panic set in again, and Spencer narrowed his eyes as he sat me up to inspect my face from a closer distance. It seemed silly, though, to look down at him on his knees in front of me right after he’d done everything he could to dominate me.

But then here he was, worshiping and worrying over me.

“Are you okay?”

“Mhm, just a bit delirious,” I explained through a yawn.

“I’ll take care of you. Lay down,” he urged as he helped me back down on the couch. When he kissed my forehead that time, I could tell he wasn’t just trying to show me affection.

My suspicions were confirmed when he wordlessly left my side, only to return with a thermometer and a bottle of water. Through laughs, I slurred, “What are you doing?”

“Taking your temperature,” he said like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Sexy.”

He laughed with me, then, although I could tell it didn’t do much for his nerves. “I want to make sure I didn’t aggravate your wound,” he muttered with more guilt than I thought was possible. It broke my heart, to hear him speak through such a pathetic little pout. It was my turn to lay on the praise, although we both knew I’d never be quite as good at it as he was.

“I’m okay, Spencer. Seriously. I’m just tired and…” my words fell off as I tried to put the feeling into words. That comfortable, buzzing blankness that came from only the most powerful catharsis. I ran my fingers over his cheek while I thought, and giggled at the way he pressed harder into my touch. The words came to me so naturally then.

“I’m just thinking about how much I love you.”

With a small nod, Spencer accepted my answer… with some conditions.

“You have to drink a whole bottle of water and give me at least ten kisses before I let you sleep,” he shyly mumbled against my palm that he’d dragged over his mouth.

“You drive a hard bargain, old man,” I whispered, tossing my arms around his shoulders. He caught me before I fell, just like he always did. Together, the two of us stayed twisted up as we stumbled through the halls to my room. I truthfully had no idea how he managed to have any coordination, but I was grateful for it.

Once he had me tucked into the sheets, he took a moment to appreciate the sight before him. I tried to give him something better to look at, but all that I could muster was a dopey smile and a bit of a laugh. He still seemed to appreciate it, nonetheless.

“Stay awake. I’ll be right back,” he instructed, pulling the blankets up around my shoulders one more time before he pointed to the bottle on the bedside. “And drink that water!”

I tried to listen— really, I did— but I mostly ended up almost spilling the water down my chest as I sat up to sip at it. I had to focus all my energy on the first order to stay awake, and I was dangerously close to failing at it when Spencer walked back into the room with a thermos in his hands.

“What’s that?” I laughed, pleasantly surprised by how nice the warm cup felt against my still shaking hands.

“Hot chocolate.”

“…Why?” I mean, it was appreciated, but it was strange. He hadn’t treated me quite so sweetly since the first week I came home from the hospital.

And while I understood he felt guilty, I wasn’t helpless. If anyone looked that way, it was the man who was barely able to coherently reply, “Because you need it.”

“You look exhausted, old man.” Mirroring his previous actions, I covered his forehead with my hand. He didn’t lean into it that time, though. He just slumped into the bed beside me, curling into a ball at my side.

“I really am,” he admitted.

It was a rare thing to hear, and so I wasn’t going to try and convince him to stay up for my sake. I would finish the drink he’d made and simply enjoy the way it felt to have my boyfriend clinging on to me like a magnet.

“Go to sleep,” I basically ordered, following it up with a much nicer, “and let’s sleep in all morning.” Then, deciding that was too nice, I tacked on, “I’ll even let you make me more hot chocolate.”

Spencer’s laughter shook both of our bodies, and I pulled him even closer. Like the few inches would help the sound last longer in my memory.

“How are you feeling? Seriously,” he asked again, looking up at me through half-lidded eyes that barely kept open through his yawn.

“I’m fine. Just like I told you I was.”

“Okay,” he conceded hesitantly, “Tell me if that changes.”

“Promise,” I said, letting my hand run through his hair and enjoying the way his whole body wiggled from the attention. He looked up at me from his position with his head resting against my heart just as the goosebumps spread over his skin.

I almost let him off the hook. I almost let him drift off to sleep then, but that look he flashed me filled me with such an undeniable, uncontrollable love that I couldn’t let him forget the very order he’d given me.

“You owe me more kisses, you know.”

We didn’t keep count, but I was certain we passed ten by the time we both fell asleep.

—————————————————

There was nothing quite like being woken up by the horrible buzzing of Spencer’s phone. I understood that the whole point of having the ringtone and vibration set to be so loud was precisely to be annoying enough that it couldn’t be ignored, but it didn’t mean I had to like it. Especially not that morning.

I barely remembered the night before, still stuck in a sleepy haze, but I was able to recognize that, for whatever reason, his phone was on my side of the bed.

“No! It’s Saturday!” I whined, tossing in the bed so I could throw my arms over him, “That’s not fair!”

“I know. Life isn’t fair,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes and mostly ignoring me as I draped over him. “Give me my phone.”

Glancing back at the offending device, I noticed for the first time just how hard my heart was beating. Not only was it loud in my ears, but it also caused a vague discomfort in my stomach.

“Do you really have to answer?” I asked quietly.

“You know I do,” he responded in that stern tone of voice that never accompanied anything fun. 

I relented, taking his phone gently and handing it to him without another word. He stayed in bed for a second longer, his hand running over his face to try and wipe the exhaustion off. I watched him from my position shrunk under the covers.

When he finally put the phone down, he sighed, “Shit. I have to go.”

Spencer sat up so quickly that my hands that were settled on his stomach slid from their spot before I could try to hold him tighter. The chilly morning air caused goosebumps to burst all over me, but I ignored the chattering of my teeth as I threw my entire body over him.

“Wait!”

To his credit, he didn’t really try to fight it. With another heavy sigh, he dropped his body back onto the bed and closed his eyes. I could feel the annoyance quickly building, but I suppressed the sadness it caused. I tried to stay lighthearted, leaning over him with a soft plea, “Kiss me before you go.”

“I know that voice,” he warned, sitting up and grabbing hold of me. For a split second, I thought I might get what I wanted, but then he just picked me up, plopping me back down onto the bed beside him.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said.

My heart leapt into my throat, and I could feel my pulse just as hard there. It felt like I was suffocating on the words that couldn’t make their way out. In fact, everything about the situation felt bizarre— like there were some invisible high stakes. Like I needed Spencer to look at me and touch me or else I might actually shatter to pieces in my bed.

The bed that he was leaving.

Jumping up from my spot, I threw myself at him for the second time that morning. I caught onto his arm with a heavy enough grip that I almost succeeded in forcibly dragging him back into the bed.  

“Come on! It won’t take that long,” I appealed, my voice growing more frantic with every syllable, “If you’re going to leave for god knows how long, they can wait an extra... 15 minutes!”

There was no pause or sympathy when he replied, “Cut it out.” He just pried my hand off his arm and continued on his way through the rushed version of his morning routine.

“What are they going to do? Leave without you?” I called.

“Yeah, they might.”

I was getting nowhere. I didn’t even really know why I was so persistent, but the only words that were forcing their way through the blockage in my throat were words I didn’t want to say. They were words that made me feel weak and clingy and stupid. I knew he could hear it in my voice, too, although to him I’m sure it sounded more like my normal whining.

“So let them leave,” I mumbled, dragging myself from the bed and padding over to him as he threw on a shirt. “Then we would have plenty more time.”

Spotting my next move in the mirror, Spencer placed a forceful hand on my chest to stop me from wrapping my arms around him. “Stop it, (y/n),” he said slowly and lowly, “I am not playing with you. I don’t have time for this.”

A chill ran down my spine that was immediately replaced with a burning heat in my face. I wasn’t blushing, and I wasn’t angry. It was a terrible, horrible, indescribable feeling. The feeling of being forgotten.

But that wasn’t fair, was it? He was just trying to go to work, so why did I feel so empty? It wouldn’t be the first time the BAU had interrupted our plans.

“I just want to be helpful,” I muttered under my breath.

Spencer had already looked away.  

“Then get back in bed.”

I looked over at the disrupted covers and had the sinking realization that no amount of comfort items would make me feel better. The very idea of returning to his bed without him brought honest to god tears to my eyes.

“B-But if I do that then you’re going to leave me,” I blubbered. I’d never felt more pathetic. My boyfriend was almost at the end of his patience, and my hands were still clinging to his shirt and leaving even more frustrating wrinkles in the fabric.  

“Well, I’m doing that either way, so you might as well not throw a tantrum.”

He wasn’t wrong. If I’d taken a step back and looked at myself, I would have seen how ridiculous I was being. My brain was screaming at me to let him go, to just climb into bed and cry by myself until I got over it. It wouldn’t take that long, right?

But I’d never felt like that before. I’d never wanted to cry like that before.

“Please don’t leave me,” I whispered into the sleeve of his shirt before he gently nudged me away again.

“What?” he said with a tired sigh, “I can’t hear you when you whine like that. Please just get back in bed. I know you’re tired.”

I stared at his profile, recognizing the exhaustion clear in his eyes that could barely stay open. His jaw was clenched shut, and his hands were sluggish. He was tired, and it was all my fault. I’d kept him up taking care of me, and now I was making his morning worse, too.

I didn’t know how to make it better. I didn’t know what to say or do to show him that I appreciated him, but that there was something else inside of me trying to break its way out. It was working, too, as the sadness started to pool in my eyes. I buried my face into his back, my arms wrapping around him and halting his movements again.

It was the last straw for an exhausted, annoyed Spencer. Pulling my arms off him, he finally turned to face me. His hair was still ruffled and his voice crackly from the interrupted sleep.

“What has gotten into you?!” he shouted, unable to control his crankiness any more than I could control what happened next.

“I don’t know!” I yelled.

His eyes went wide as I crumpled forward, sobs taking up all of my breath as I covered his shirt with tears. I clung to him tighter than I had all morning, giving everything to the last attempt to stop him.

“I just really, really don’t want you to leave!”

Spencer became absolutely panicked, his arms wrapping around me faster and tighter than I thought he would be capable of in the current state.

“Oh, little girl,” he cooed, stopping me from falling to the ground with a bit of a chuckle. He clearly didn’t mean to laugh at me, it was more like one of those self-deprecating laughs he gave when he realized how stupid he was being. But he wasn’t being stupid, I was.

So why was he being so nice?

“I didn’t realize, I’m so sorry,” he whispered into my hair. He began gentle strokes along my back while the two of us moved back to the bed. He waited until I stumbled backwards and took my seat before he looked at me.

With all the tenderness he could muster on an early Saturday morning, he swept my messy hair from my face and told me, “I’m not mad at you.”

“What’s wr-wrong with me?” I sniffled and choked, not even bothering to clean my face. His hands were already busy trying to wipe away the tears.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with you.”

I almost believed him. He let out a soft, stuttered breath before he kissed me. Then, as he had before, he kissed me again, and again, and again. He kept laying the tiny pecks all over my lips and cheeks until I was able to flash him a half-hearted smile.

“This is totally normal and it’s going to be okay,” he assured with one final kiss on the lips.

It felt like things were going to be okay when it was just the two of us. But then Spencer looked down at his watch, and the rest of the world joined us in his room. It was too small for everyone to fit.

“I’m going to get you in trouble,” I whined as the tears sprouted anew, “This is so stupid! I’m being so stupid!”

“Stop that. You’re not stupid.”

Then, with perfect timing, that horrible ringing of his phone was all I could hear.

“Shit!” he cursed under his breath, pulling the phone from his pocket. Even though Spencer didn’t point out to me exactly what was happening, it was clear that he thought it was serious enough to consider the one thing he was so dead-set against a few minutes earlier. He looked down at his phone that was still ringing, then back up to me.

“Just go. I’ll be okay,” I said with as much confidence as possible under the circumstances.

It didn’t work. 

“No, you won’t,” he corrected. There was a pang of guilt present in all his features that was only getting worse. Before I knew it, he had his arms around me. “This is my fault, I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s fine,” I laughed, my mind already trying to find a way to shove the sadness down long enough that I could see him off with a smile. “I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl.”

Spencer laughed, too, although it was obvious that he didn’t buy my usual act. I’d blame it on the therapy that I’d started to attend, but the truth was he’d noticed my tells long before that. He was just willing to ignore them up to a point. This, clearly, did not qualify.

“No, I’m not doing that to you.”

He didn’t say anything else before he stepped away. He let our fingers linger together until they couldn’t reach anymore. Even that made me miss him, despite him barely standing a few feet away. I figured he didn’t want me to hear the other half of the conversation. So, I just sat there, crossing my legs with my hands between them and trying not to look as embarrassed as I felt.

“Can I—“ he muttered into the receiver. I didn’t meet his eyes, and soon heard him continue more confidently, “I’ll meet you there. I’ll take a commercial flight.”

My body perked up at the implication, and a dopey smile covered my face as I realized just what he was sacrificing for me. But then any sign of happiness was crushed by the guilt that immediately followed. He had shirked off so much of his job for me. I was just always this big, annoying inconvenience. He was important, and I was monopolizing his mind and his time just so he could wipe away my tears.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said before clearing his throat, “And uh, Hotch? I don’t need a room. I’ll get my own. Yeah, everything is fine. I’ll explain when I get there... Alright, bye.”

“What are you do—?” I started the second he hung up the phone, but Spencer shook his head, raising his hand to cut me off.

“Come with me,” he said, rushed and exasperated.

After a brief moment of silence, I laughed. I figured it had to be a joke, or some offer I was always meant to deny. But when he just kept staring expectantly, hopefully, I blubbered back, “W-what?”

“Come with me, on the case,” he repeated with a scrunched up smile, “I want you to come with me.”

“Can you even do that?” I asked cautiously, covering my chest with my arm. I think he could see how badly I wanted to do it, but he had to realize how uncomfortable the request made me at the same time. I mean, how would he explain it to the team? Would he keep me a secret? What was I meant to do while they were working?

Spencer saw the questions rolling through my head. He came back to me, his hands cupping my face and making me look up at him. “I don’t care,” he whispered, “I won’t leave you like this. I can’t do that.”

I inspected his face for a long while. I let the silence settle over us and tried to find a reason to say no. I searched for the courage to say no and the stubbornness I used to have. But then my mind flashed back to the only arguments we’d had. They always revolved around this, around our insistence that we handle things alone.

Why? I reminded myself, I’m not alone. I don’t have to be alone.

So, with a trembling lip, I mumbled, “O-okay.”

“Okay,” he returned. And for a second, the tension melted from him. Closing his eyes, Spencer let out a deep breath and pulled me closer in a small hug that didn’t last long enough. But once it was over, I realized why. He had practically dragged me off the bed by both hands, guiding me over to my closet and pulling out my barely-used suitcase.

“Hurry up and pack a bag for at least five days. Anything you forget we can just get there.”

I nodded, releasing his hands yet again. Except this time, it wasn’t a goodbye. It was something entirely different. It was taking another step into the future with Spencer Reid. It was thrilling and strange and welcome.

Welcome, I repeated in my mind. It wasn’t a word I would have used comfortably before. As I packed my bag, I felt my boyfriend glancing over at me every few seconds. Like he was waiting to see how I assimilated into his life. I found myself hoping that I was passing the test, although I knew this wouldn’t ever be a normal occurrence.

“Are you ready?” he asked. The question brought another heavy feeling into my stomach, but this time it wasn’t necessarily a bad one. I looked down at the suitcase in my hands, and then back up to him.

Am I ready? The question was meant to be about our impromptu trip; I knew that was all he meant. But as I stood there contemplating a future with Spencer Reid, I asked myself if I was ready for a number of things I hadn’t ever seriously considered.

Am I ready? I prompted myself again.

“Yeah,” I said with a relieved sigh, “Yeah, I think I am.”

 —————————————————

| Part 22 |

[soft-boi-eli]

Ok ok! Good uhm.

Ok since body dysmorphia has been kicking my butt lately i wanted to request something with Schlatt where basically the reader Starts getting really insecure because of their body. Pushing and pulling on their stomach etc. They also start binding unsafely with like really tight bras because they can't afford a binder and they end up fucking up their ribs really bad. They end up in the hospital and a very worried Schlatt visit's them and lectures them about how they shouldn't have done that and about how worried he was. So when they get back home there is a gift on the bed, turns out Schlatt bought them a binder.

The reader would be Non-binary and afab.

Also a little message for pretty much anyone who is insecure about their body/has body dysmorphia because of their chest, don't bind unsafely. That can really fuck up your chest and make you actually being happy with your body even harder.

Hell yes. I love this idea thank you icarus! Writing has been rude to me lately and I needed inspiration. This has hit it exactly.

Pronouns:nonbinary (dont think any were actually used in this so yeah.)

Tw: AFAB reader, swearing, insecurity, mention of surgry, mention of blood, mention of hating self, pain. Again angst to fluff. It is reflecting on how I have felt about my body before because I needed to make it seem kinda real.

PSA: please dont bind safely. It's dangerous and can lead to serious health consequences. I know hating your body sucks but I dont want anyone to get hurt because they dont listen to their lungs, they dont take off their binder, or if their bras are way too fucking tight. It can and will hurt you. So please bind safely!!

Happy birth-what the fuck?!

Lately your brain was giving you more dysphoria then ever. Telling you your body was too big, your boobs were too noticable, and you hips are too feminine.

What brought this on? Someone simply said your dead name. It made your dysphoria hit you like a truck.

After that day everything went down hill. Your stopped streaming, telling your followers that you were going on a mental break, you didn't really talk to friends, your brain could put words together. And you most importantly barely texted your loving supporting boyfriend schaltt, not wanting to break down in front of him.

You never had the time or thoughts of getting a chest binder. It was your biggest mistake honestly.

Deciding against chest binders and wearing alot of tight bras to flatten you. But it didnt work. So you got tighter bras. And they did work. But you didnt read up on how to bind safely.

This lead to the predicament now. In front of your mirror you were pinching and pulling at your skin. There was too much. All you wanted to do was cut it off with scissors. But decided against it due to the fact of all the blood that you would loose.

Your chest, smaller then it was yas, was still visible after your 3rd bra. You decided to add a 4th and tighter one hoping it would completely hide your boobs.

Your body made you want to puke. It made you feel disgusting. But you never told schaltt that. Afraid that he would say that you looked as gross as you thought you did.

Only 5 minutes after the 4th bra you felt excoriating pain in your ribs. And worse of all a harsh pop. That immediately brought red flags. It hurt to breath. Your head fuzzy and light headed.

Your only reaction, to call for an ambulance. Dialing the three numbers as you whimpered in pain you held onto your lungs. "911 what's your emergency?" "I cant breathe. It hurts so bad. Please help." "Are you by yourself?" "Yes. I need help please." "Ambulance, firemen, and police are on their way. Ambulance is 2 minutes out."

You didnt know if you had 2 minutes. "They can break the door down if I dont answer." That's all you said after collapsing.

Next thing you knew your door was busted off its hinges and you saw two paramedics. They were quick to transfer you to the ambulance, cutting through the four bras that held your chest.

It help get air to your lungs but it barely helped.

"We have a collapsed lung. ETA 2 minutes." The paramedic back there with you spoke to the walkie talkie.

Collapsed lung? Was that the harsh pop? God, was the bras that bad of an idea? All that was going through your mind was how you possibly could get worse. The instant you got into the trauma bay was way worse. With no time to numb you and your O2 stats dropping they had to cut between your ribs and shove a tube right next to your left lung. Draining air and excess blood blocking your lung from inflating. And before you knew it you were off to emergency surgery for getting a shard of bone out of your chest cavity.

The last thing you remember was counting down and falling asleep.

When you woke up your boyfriend was next to your bed, hands engulfing one of yours.

It looked like he had been crying before falling asleep on one of your legs. Taking your free hand through his hair you smiled lightly. "I'm sorry for all of this ram boy." He grunted lightly and moved his head back into your hand. His messy hair was thick and nearly matted. It made you wonder how long he's been sitting there. You loved him and felt so selfish for doing this to him.

"I cant believe I did all this and for what? To cause you and everyone pain? All because i couldnt afford a chest binder and deciding that I might as well try another way. I should have been safer huh?" You didnt expect an answer back. Just his quite snores.

"Yeah. Not really fuckin selfish more like kinda dumb. Your body doesnt show who the fuck you are (y/n). Your heart does. And your heart isnt say boy or girl. Its saying you are you. A person who uses pronouns they them. A person that love everyone and cares for their friends. A person who love me and jambo so deeply."

He took a breath.

"You normally are quite smart. Saving up for one would of been a better idea instead of doing such a stupid thing. Asking for my help. Because if I knew I would of helped. I would of found one just right for you. I would help you remember to take it off after 8 hours. Even would of found a way to make you feel more like you."

You could hear his heart break.

"But now you're here, four broken ribs, a healing lung, and stuck in the hospital for another week at least."

You felt so guilty. He was right. You should of told him. He would never have seen you like you saw yourself. He never cared about how you looked. He only cared for your heart.

Tears falling down your face you continued to massage his scalp. "I could of lost you. You are my rock. When I cant keep up my normal antics and feel like I'm at an all time low. You are there to pick me up." You had to stop the sob from coming up. "I'm just so happy youre alive." He looked up.

His red eyes were making your heart ache. "I wont do it again I promise. But I cant just ignore the feeling of dread whe. I look down and realize I present so much like a girl. I dont wa t to be one." Schaltt nodded and kissed the hand he was holding. "Then let me help you. I wont let this happen again. Just please. Come to me. Talk to me. I'm here like you are for me."

You gave a small nod.

This man knew his way to your heart. He was so sincere about this. "I will. But promise me you wont look down on me if I end up feeling like that." You just needed to make sure you knew he would never but you needed his words. "Mever sugarbabe. Never in my life have I looked down on you and never will."

God the week was long, him and the doctor explaining safe binding that you cant fully bind for at least 6-8 weeks. Schlatt telling you his reaction to finding your apartment swarmed with police and firemen and you no where to be seen.

He was practicing on saying happy birthday to you. But was cut off. "Happy birth-what the fuck?!" He was so concerned and even more so when you were in hospital.

When you did go home he helped you through the door, and watched you as you saw the small package on your couch.

Opening it you saw a chest binder. Specifically the one you were looking at. Looking over to schaltt with tears in your eyes you walked up and hugged him lightly minding the pain in your left side. This was the best gift.

The only gift you had been wanting for the past week or two. "Now you can be safe. But no binding till your doctor says so or I swear to god I will personally smite you down." You had to try so hard no to laugh or the pain would of been hell. Kissing his cheek you smiled.

"Of course schaltt. I will make sure to not wear it till I'm healed dont want to get blood on it ya know. Also it would hurt like a fucking bitch."

He chuckled and ruffled your hair. "Alright now go sit down. I'll get you some soup ya dork."

This was going to be a great time. That was until the pain fully came back. And then this is going to be a mediocre time.

Please pardon spelling errors. I havent proof read. And I am on mobile for almost all stories. But thank you so much for requesting this became something that I could write and it helped me alot. Now I might take a while for other things too and i apologize that's cause i am starting school soon. Also family issues. So yeah might take a bit. Dont know how long though. I'll try to keep them coming but if not you know I'm studying or helping my mom and grandma.

Eli out.

[i-write-newsies]

A/N:

(Y/N) - Your Name

(L/N) - Last Name

(N/N) - Nickname

(H/C) - Hair Color

(D/N) - DEEZ NUTS!! /j Deadname

(E/C) - Eye Color

(H/L) - Hair Length

(Y/A) - Your Age

Ships Included:

- Jack x Davey

- Spot x Race

- Finch x Smalls (Platonic)

- Albert x Elmer

-Katherine x Sarah

- Spot x Reader (Brotherly Platonic)

- Race x Reader (Brotherly Platonic)

Summary:

You have always dreamed of living in the world of your favorite characters, to escape from whatever rotten life you have and make friends with the people you love. One day, fate decides to give you a chance. But when you're not prepared to be rushed into that universe, it becomes a roller coaster of balancing good and bad emotions and events.

Good luck, Reader!

!!TW!!

~ SELF HARM

~ TRANSPHOBIA

~ MAJOR INJURY

~ ABUSE

~ ARGUING

(Y/N) POV:

I'm (Y/N) (L/N). I'm (Y/A) with (E/C) eyes and (H/L) (H/C) hair. At least it used to be (H/L). I cut it all off today. I can tell my mom just found out because of the loud cursing and stomping. "GODDAMMIT, (D/N)!!" she yells. What scares me the most about this situation is the fact that I'm kinda used to this. I hear her coming up the stairs to my room and rush to the door and lock it. As expected, the door handle starts rattling violently, "(D/N) YOU LET ME IN RIGHT NOW, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SH!T!" She starts banging on the door, stressing the lock.

I sigh. Today was one of the worse days. I slip on my noise-canceling headphones and press play on my musicals playlist, consisting of:

- Waving Through A Window

- On My Own

- A Little Fall Of Rain

- Angel of Music

and of course...

The entire Newsies soundtrack.

By the time I get to 'Seize the Day', it's twilight outside. I lift one of my headphones to check if my mom is gone. I hear nothing. I look out the window and don't see her car. Perfect.

Unplugging my headphones and letting the music play, I walk over to my dresser, open it up, and reach deep in the back. Aha!

I pull out some bandages (A/N: DO NOT ACTUALLY BIND LIKE THIS OK BYE). I take off my shirt and try not to look in my mirror, fearing what sort of feminine body I may see. I start wrapping my chest to the point that it gets a little hard to breathe. This kinda hurts, but my dysphoria is stronger than my need for comfort and, let's be honest, safety.

Slipping my shirt back on, I look into the mirror and smile, satisfied with my flat chest and somewhat choppy short, (H/C) hair. I jump onto my bed and plug my headphones back into my phone which is now playing Santa Fe. Santa Fe honestly makes me think. I'm only, what, (Y/A)? And I still go through all this BS. I need out. Somewhere my mom can't tell me I'm female. Somewhere like...Newsies. I mean, Race is canonically trans, right? Not to mention all of them are definitely fruity. They'd accept me. The fresh, bandaged cuts on my arms are the only things keeping me in reality right now

As the song ends, I realize that I've been crying. God, why am I stuck in this wretched place? The question as well as thoughts of Newsies reverberates in my skull, a sort of white noise until I fall into a much-needed sleep.

"Aye, kid! Watcha doin sleepin on the street?"

"Especially in a place this..."

Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω

Jack POV:

I yawn, rubbing sleep from my eyes as the circulation bell drones on an' on. I let my eyes adjust to the view of the sunrise from my penthouse in the sky.

As I try to get up to get ready, a pair of arms drag me back down. "Jackieeee" a half-awake Davey groans, "come back down, it's freezing up here." "Dave, we gotta get to work. The boys can always count on me being at the gates early, so if you don't get up, I'm leaving you behind." This seems to wake him up a little more, "Alright, alright fine." he shivers as he gets up. I throw him his top shirt and vest and he desperately claws them on to gain warmth. Carefully, we climb down the ladder.

"What'd I tell ya, Dave? Even in the middle of summer, the night's always freezing." Davey rolls his eyes and does a little shiver "I know, Jackie, now c'mere and warm me up" I grin and move in closer, holding his hand, as we start walking to the gates. "Still not warm enough!" Davey said in a singsong-ish voice. I sigh and feign annoyance, leaning in to give a short but sweet peck on the lips. I think he's satisfied now. We're not usually this lovey-dovey, but I think we're both touch starved and subtly begging for a hug.

Davey, being the amazing boyfriend he is, stops by Jacobis to get us some breakfast. "Dave, you really don't hafta-" "I insist, Jack. After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he says in an almost snobbish voice. I give him a small smile. That's my smartass Dave.

As we get to the gates, I notice a small figure leaned up against it. By now, the sun has come up some more over Manhattan 'n Dave 'n I don't have to walk as close to warm ourselves up. The figure seems to be sleeping, a newsies cap over their eyes. I think it's a kid. Maybe a new newsie looking for work?

I crouch down in front of him lift his hat, and start tapping his shoulder, "Aye, kid! Watcha doin sleepin on the street?" "Especially in a place this..." Davey notes. The kid seems to wake with a start. He rubs his eyes, and I chuckle a little "Whatsa matter? Ya look like youse seen a ghost." He doesn't seem to find this funny and repeatedly switches from looking at me then Davey with some confusion and shock in his eyes.

"I um-" he stutters over his words, "Aye, aye, kid, calm down, you ain't in trouble or nuttin." He takes a few deep breaths. "Okay... I'm (Y/N). I'm just freaking out because This isn't where I fell asleep, and- and I just- feel like I know you..." "Well, (Y/N) it sounds like you're one of da Newsies now," I say with a grin, "Now, we gots ta give you a nickname, we rarely eva call someone by their real name, 'cept Dave 'n Albert of course," The kid stays silent, clearly still shocked from waking up in a foreign place. "I feel like I know you.." he says, barely discernible. "Maybe ya do, maybe ya don't, Dave here's the only one good with faces." The kid looks up at Davey, who seems deep in thought, "(N/N)" he exclaims, "Ah, sorry, what I meant was your nickname should be (N/N)!" "I like it! But why (N/N) exactly?" I question, "Well, *insert reason why here*" "Well ain't you a clever boy, Dave!" I say, ruffling his hair. Davey shies away, "Jack! Now I have to fix my hair!" he complains, "Sorry, sorry." Davey then leaves to fix his hair in front of a shop window nearby, leaving me and (N/N) alone.

(N/N) seems to want to say something, but as soon as he opens his mouth, he shuts it just as quickly. I try to fill the awkward silence, "So, what's wit' da bandages, kiddo?" He freezes, "Nothing, just a ploy to get people to buy more papes..." he trails off. I have a feelin' he's not tellin' the truth, but I go along with it anyway, "Ha! What an idea, I wonder how I neva thought a' that before." he smiles, seeming satisfied with the praise. Davey returns from the shop window, "Alright! Ready to start the day?" (N/N) nods, and so do I.

Newsies start gathering, some glancing at (N/N) and some anxiously peering through the gates. I look at the headline for today: New Newsie Price! "Aye, Dave, you seein' this shit?" "Language- and yeah... what in the world was runnin' through Pulitzer's head when he thought of this??" I look at (N/N), whose mouth is a thin, pale line but whose (E/C) eyes are glinting with determination. "Heh, kid, what's that look for?" He looks at me, a little startled, but quickly regains that same tough expression, "I have a feeling that this ain't some silly little joke. And I'm worried 'bout the kids that may get hurt in the crossfire." I laugh, "Youse just bein dramatic! Surely, they wouldn't be as dumb as to underpay their own employees." I walk over to Weasel and slap down a penny "100 papes please!" "That's gonna be dime, Kelly."

My heart almost stops, and it takes all my strength not to break down in front of the boys. I fake a laugh, "Surely you're joking." "100 papes costs a dime, take a look at the headline." I hit the money box out of anger, "Then we'll just take our business to Brooklyn." Someone pipes up, "The same thing's happenin' there." "Then we'll go to Rushing!" Specs jogs over, seemingly out of breath, "I'll save ya the walk; it's the same everywhere."

Fuck.

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Y/N POV:

A sharp pain in my chest temporarily distracts me from the situation at hand. Ah. I almost forgot. I still have to bind. This sucks. I feel a pair of eyes on me and turn just in time to see Racetrack Higgins avert his eyes. I give him a confused look and turn back to Jack singing "The World Will Know" I forget all about his weird staring and get back into the determined beat from before.

Soon, the newsies and I make our way to Jacobis for some...water I guess? I do happen to have some extra money in my pocket so I think I can treat all the boys to some seltzer. I sit down on a hard wooden chair in a slouch. The room is buzzing with excited talk of the strike. I give a small, sad smile. These boys have no idea what they're getting themselves into. Crutchie sits next to me serving a wide smile just as Jacobi enters with a tray full of waters, "And here's one for you, and for you, and for you- who's the big spender that ordered everyone seltzer?" shyly, I raise my hand, "That's me, sir." "You know these cost a quarter each, right?" I pull out a handful of quarters with a cheeky smile "and I got more where that came from." The boys go wild, "Where did ya get all that money, kid??" Davey, being the concerned mom, asks "Please tell me you didn't steal that." I shake my head, "I used to live comfortably, but my mom kicked me out for...reasons." my grin falters for a second, but no one seems to notice.

"Well!" Jack stands on a table, "Here's to the strike! And, of course, (N/N)" He gestures towards me with a wink as everyone cheers. As Katherine enters, I start to zone out and stare at a speck of dust on the ground. After all, I know the plot all too well. I perk up, though, as soon as Jack asks who's goin' to Brooklyn. My hand shoots up, "I nominate me and Race!" I exclaim. I look over at Race, who's staring at me, blushing and jaw dropped a little. I grin at him and look back at Jack, who's a little shocked. "A-alright! Me and Dave'll take the Bronx, I guess."

*Timeskip to after the restaurant scene*

I walk down the Manhatten alleys blindly, no clue where I'm going, when I hear someone come up behind me. "Hey, (N/N)! It's me, Race." I smile weakly, "Oh, hey." "I always sell my papes at Sheepshead in Brooklyn, so I know where to go."

It's almost completely silent except for the clicking of our shoes on the paved roads. "So... how'd ya get here as a Newsie, (N/N)?" "Well, Jack 'n Davey found me sleepin' on the street just this mornin'" He laughs, "Wow! So you got used to the Newsie life real quick!" "Yeah, I did.." I let out a small chuckle as well. Race pulls out a cigar and clamps it between his lips and goes to light it but hesitates. "Uh- Wanna cigar?" "Wow, Racetrack Higgins giving me one of his own cigars? I'm flattered!" I joke, "But, yeah, I need smoke." He digs into his pocket and hands me another cigar, "You eva' smoked before?" he stares at me as I put the cigar in between my lips. I grin sheepishly, "No." "Okay, maybe we should stop for a second. Coughing while walking ain't the most fun thing in the woild."

We lean up against a wall as Race lights first his, then my cigar. I inhale and immediately spiral into a coughing fit. Race smacks my back, "You good, (N/N)? I ain't neva' seen a fella cough that hard on the first puff." I roll my tear-filled eyes and continue coughing.

Once my coughing fit subsides, I feel a wave of relaxation. "God I should do this more often." I groan, Race grins, "Yeah, once you get past the whole blowin'-your-brains-out part of smokin', it's real nice. Anyway, shall we continue?" he gestures to the streets ahead. I nod my head and take another puff, "Yeah, it's gettin' kinda late and we do NOT wanna wake up the Spot Conlon." Race nods in agreement and we hurry along. Even though I know Spot is kind of a softie, that doesn't stop me from being intimidated by his prowess.

We reach the Brooklyn lodging just as Race's cigar burned out. Race takes a deep breath and gives three solid knocks on the door. A kid younger than me answers the door, "State ya business" "I'm here to let Conlon know about some very important news." The kid squints his eyes but responds "I'll ask him if he's willing to meet with anyone right now. Who should I tell him is askin'?" "Race. Higgins." He says somewhat awkwardly.

The kid closes the door. Race and I stand quietly waiting for the OK to see Spot. Suddenly the door swings open to reveal Spot. "Ra-" he notices me and coughs, "I mean- Higgins, would you like to step in to discuss the important news?" I almost laugh at the way he went from totally in love to distinguished gentleman. I shoo them away, holding in laughter, "don't worry, I'll wait out here and give you lovebirds some space." (A/N: or should I say sprace) I see them both go tomato red.

I sigh as they head inside. I take a drag from the cigar and start thinking. How did I end up in the newsies universe and act this calm about it? This feels so surreal. But I want to stay here forever. Far away from my sh!tty mom and all my responsibilities.

Lost in my own head, I barely notice as Racetrack storms out of the lodging, clearly pissed. "C'mon (N/N), we're leaving." he grabs my hand and angrily powerwalks to the next street over. Once we're there, he lets go of my hand and sighs harshly, walking slow. "I assume it didn't go well?" I ask, already knowing the answer. "Not. Well." "Wanna talk about it?" he shakes his head and starts walking "No, thanks. I think we's better get to bed before Jack gets worried." he stops. "Do you have a place to sleep?" I look down, "Not really..." "Well!" he grabs my hand again with a big grin, "Looks like youse bunkin' wit' me." I start to protest, but realize it'd get me nowhere with this stubborn SOB, so I let myself get dragged along. Oh, well. I might as well get rest for the strike tomorrow, goodness knows I need it.

As I settle down into the rough sheets, the gentle snoring rocks me to sleep with thoughts of the strike. One thought flashes through my mind before I fall asleep; God help us all.

I wake up to someone poking my face. My eyes flutter open and I almost fall off the bunk at the sight of Race's face right in front of mine. "JESUS CHRIST, RACE, YOU SCARED THE SH!T OUTTA ME!" He backs off, putting his hands up in surrender, "Sorry, sorry, it's just that Jack said you had to be up and out in 10 minutes so we can have an organized strike or whateva'" Race rolls his eyes, "I'm startin' ta think that Davey's rubbin' off on 'im a lil' too much."

I groan, tempted to slide back under the covers, but get up anyway. I slept with my clothes on so I don't have to do anything about that. As I look into an old, rusted mirror and comb my fingers through my now tangled hair, I feel another sharp pain in my chest, accompanied by a dull throbbing. I really should have taken off the bandages while I slept, but now it's too late. I take one last look in the mirror and, ignoring my eyebags, quickly head out the door to join the others. As I get to the gate, everyone's waiting with anticipation, faces grim but hopeful.

Everything happens in a blur. One moment we're striking, and the next we're beaten into a pulp. I manage to soak a Delancey in the eye when suddenly a familiar sharp pain fills my chest and wince, faltering. Morris takes this as an opportunity to knee me in the stomach, forcing me to the ground, where their take turns kicking my chest and body with those damn steel-toed boots of theirs until my clothes are torn and the cuts on my arms reopen. Suddenly, there's a small crack as my body swells up with pain and the taste of metal enters my mouth. I let out a blood-curdling scream as the pain registers in my brain. In my blurred vision, I see the Delancey's walk away, ready to torture their next victim; Crutchie.

I try to get up and reach out, try to scream at them not to hurt him, but all I can do is weakly move my hand in their direction and spit out blood. Suddenly, a small but rough hand reaches out and drags me into an alley. "Dammit, (N/N) what were you thinking?! Fighting in a gawddamn binder, and a makeshift one, no less!" "R-..Race..?" "Not now, (N/N) I have ta get youse to safety foist." I watch as he chews on his nails in thought, "Dammit! The only way back to tha lodge is through the Delancey's again!" He sighs. "Brooklyn it is..." He gingerly picks me up and carries me as fast as possible to Spot's turf.

Setting my feet on the ground and propping me up against him, he bangs on the door. "Spot!" Please! This is serious, I need your help!" I can hear the tears in his voice. Spot flings open the door, obviously very concerned. He's confused for a second, then looks at me and his eyes go wide. "GET THE MED KIT AND A COT OPEN, WESE GOT SOMETHING HORRIBLE THAT'S HAPPENED" he yells behind him. Race, now more calmed down, takes me in his arms again, but seems to refuse to look at Spot, who looks away as well, but more in shame.

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Race POV:

I watch as some of the Brooklyn newsies take (N/N) and lay him on a cot, anger surging through my veins. I take a deep breath "I'll take care of him. You guys don't have to worry about it." As they leave the room, I look down at (N/N) and can't help but feel guilty. Like this is my fault. I only got away with a black eye, but he got all this?

I regain my composure and start by taking (N/N) shirt off. I can already see the bruises starting to form and cringe. I take off his binding bandages and see his chest expand immediately. Poor kid. He must have been hurting in more way that just one. I take the gauze from the wooden box and gently wrap his torso with it. Maneuvering around his arms, I notice something. The bandages on him arms. When he was wearing them before, Jack said it was a marketing ploy, but now I see red bleeding through the white gauze.

I unwrap (N/N)'s arms and gasp. Hundreds of tiny, but deep cuts litter his forearms and wrists. F#ck. He was hurting so much more than I could have ever known. I wrap them with fresh gauze and treat the rest of his wounds, stepping back to admire my handiwork. That's when I start to cry. Full-on tears falling, face in hands crocodile tears. I turn my head with a start to see Spot, standing over me with a hand on my shoulder, looking apologetic "I'm so sorry..." Suddenly this sadness turns to rage. I grab him by the shirt collar and drag him outside to an empty alleyway. "SORRY?? SORRY, MY 4SS! (N/N) AND SO MANY OTHER 'HATTEN NEWSIES ALMOST DIED OUT THERE BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T WANT TO JOIN UNTIL YOU KNEW WE WOULDN'T "CAVE" WELL, WE DIDN'T CAVE, AND LOOK WHAT F#CKING HAPPENED! AND DONT YOU SAY SORRY TO ME AND EXPECT ME TO FORGIVE YOU JUST BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, THAT'S FOR CROW TO DECIDE." Spot seemed silent at first, but now I could see his anger building up; "WADDAYA THINK WOULD O' HAPPENED TO MY BOYS, HUH?? I WANTED TO WAIT TO SEE IF WE WOULD BE THE ONLY ONES FIGHTIN IN THIS BATTLE AGAINST PULITZER."

I open my mouth then close it. He has a fair point, but doesn't he trust me and the udda newsies not to bail in their hour of need? I sigh, pinching my nose. "I'm sorry Spot, I just-... I just wish you trusted me a bit more..." I look up at him to see tears in his eyes. "OH, SPOT HONEY, ITS OKAY, I'M NOT MAD, DON'T CRY, DON'T CRY" I shush him, pulling his head into my chest, which isn't tough considering his height.

As he lets go, the adrenaline rush from today dies down. God, I'm so tired. My knees nearly buckle and Spot notices, "Aye, aye! Tony, you doin' okay?" I nod at him, but the bags under my eyes are making them droop, "Race, honey, you need to get some sleep, okay?" I shake my head but soon fall into Spot's arms as my legs give way. "Fine..." I mumble. I can feel him grinning, "Good, we gots an extra bed for youse to sleep in." I sigh, grateful. I can feel Spot picking me up, the rhythm of his boots tapping along the ground, a pause and shift as he opens the lodging door and kicks it closed behind him as I fall asleep.

I wake up in a cold sweat. (N/N). I need to see (N/N). I need to check if he's okay. I climb out of the bed Spot laid me in and let my eyes adjust to the dark before maneuvering around all the other sleeping kids. I make my way as quietly as possible to where (N/N) is resting. I crouch down and take his hand in mine. How could I let this happen? And how did I not notice his suffering? I press the back of his hand to my forehead, closing my eyes. My body is so tired right now, but my mind is too tortured with guilt to let me sleep.

By the time my thoughts finally leave me alone, the sun is rising in the sky. I'm finally drifting when- "Race?" I turn my head to the voice, "Oh, jesus, you look horrible!" Spot exclaims, "did you even get any sleep last night?" I shrug, to be fair, I lost count of the hours. Spot sighs, "Race...go sleep. At least for a few more hours. I can watch (N/N) if that makes you happy," I nod, rubbing my eyes. I stumble back to my bed amongst all the Brooklyn newsies and fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow.

My mind dreams of talkin' cigars and bloody bandages. I see Crow propped up against the wall, smokin' a cigar. "(N/N)! (N/N)! Oh my god, I'm so happy that you're okay!" (N/N) doesn't answer, I slowly starts walking towards him, "(N/N)...?" he starts laughing. Softly at first then roaring, and the laughing turns into a heavy coughing fit. As (N/N) coughs, red smoke pours out of his lungs and clouds my vision. I swipe at the air, trying to brush away the fog, "(N/N)?? (N/N), where did you go?!" suddenly, the smoke clears and I see (N/N) bruised, damaged, bleeding body at my feet, I gasp and step back. (N/N) slowly turns to face me, and in a painful, teary, almost sickly whisper asks, "Why did you let this happen?" Tears start spilling down my face, "I- I didn't me-" "You did this to me Race. Race. Race. Race! Race! RACE! RACE!--

Spot POV:

--RACE WAKE UP!" He wakes up with a gasp. He looks around wildly, tears dripping from his chin. I've never seen him like this. He must care for him like a brudda. To be honest, I'm worried as well, not only about (N/N) but now that we know 'Hatten isn't gonna back down and we join the fight, what's gonna happen to the newsies in general? Kids could get hoit. Bad.

"Spot?" Race starts sobbing, clinging to my shirt fabric, "Please...tell me it'll be okay..." I can't. Race, I don't know if it will. I almost start sobbing on the Spot ( A/N: heh...), but I hold my composure and smile at him, "It'll be okay, Tony...we're all gonna be fine" He seems to believe this, at least a little bit. "Now, don't you gotta meet up wit' da udda newsies?" He retracts his head from my chest, eyes wide. In a nasal voice, he goes "AW SHOOT, I 'MOST FORGOT" I watch him with a small smile as he rushes to get dressed like the goof he is. God, I love 'im.

Race POV:

Silence. I got there too early. Fuck. I can't just be alone with my thoughts, but at least I have some extra money to... I don't know? I walk up to the bar, where the owner of Jacobi's is cleaning out glasses. I sigh and sit down, "Got anything to help forget? At least for a little while...?"

"Ain't you a little too young for that, kid?" I give him a look and push my money over the counter to him. He quietly collects it, "So what can I get ya?" I'm silent for a bit "Fireball." I say with some demand in my voice. He disappears behind the counter and comes back with some shot glasses and a Fireball bottle, pouring it out into the glasses as I watch. I notice as he sighs, "Feel betta, kid." Can't promise that.

I pick up a shot glass, watching as the orange liquid spins around in it. I take in a breath of spicy cinnamon before letting the liquid slip down my throat, leaving a trail of a burning sensation. Soon, one turns into another, and another, and another and before I could comprehend it, the room starts to spin and blur. Eventually, the room fills with newsies, mumblin' 'bout how crappy the strike went. I do my very best to fit in and not act drunk, but the time zooms by and I find myself singin' 'bout bein' the king o' new york. At some point in the blurry memory, Katherine suggests getting drunk and I throw my hands up and cheer. More free Fireball! But then she clarifies that it was a metaphor, to which I am very disappointed.

The rest whizzes past me and soon I'm stumblin' my way to Brooklyn. I knock heavily on the lodging door, then lean on it. Unexpectedly, the door opens and I'm left to fall flat on my face at the feet of my boyfriend, Spot Conlon. "Race! Darlin', you okay? Youse fell flat on ya face!" He extends a hand that I receive and pulls me up. I giggle, "Ahhhh, my Spotty! Always carin' 'bout uddas. Pshht! Yeah, I'm fiiiine." I flop my hand down to wave off his concern. He wrinkles his nose, "You reek of cinnamon....and alcohol." He widens his eyes and I let out anudda giggle, "Race! Tell me you didn't jus' get drunk!" he whines, I grin, "Okey, 'you didn't jus' get drunk'" I imitate him in a deep voice and he sighs, "Jesus Christ, Racer.." he grabs my hand pulls me inside, eventually laying me on a bed, face red with a giggling fit. "Goodnight, my liege," I giggle some more, "and you my Prince," he gives a small smile before covering me with a blanket. I fall asleep before it's up over my shoulders.

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I wake up with my head feeling like it's going to explode.

Fuck Life.

I groan and sit up. "Mornin' Sleepin' Beauty" Spot smirks and hands me a cup of water, "Shut the fuck up" I whine and grab the glass, "Ooh feelin' feisty today, huh?" I shoot him a look that could rot a squash with one gaze. He holds up his hands in defense, "Alright, alright, my bad," He shrugs. I sigh and take a sip of water, which turns into me chugging the whole thing. "You betta get ova this hangover fast, hon" I groan, not ready to do anything at all today, "We gots the meetin' wit' Jack."

End my life.

"No, I don't think I will," "fuuuuck did I say that out loud?" I let out a small wail, and Spot chuckles a little, though you can tell there's somethin' on his mind still, "Yeah, ya did sweetheart." I grumble something incomprehensible and look down, red. He smiles, "Get dressed and drink as much water as possible, okay? We can't have you hungover for the big meeting, right?" I nod...which causes my head to hurt. Ow.

I sigh and decide to take my sweet time getting dressed. This sucks. "Spotty!" I call, then cringe after a new wave of pain hits, he pokes his head through the door "Yeah?". "I don't have the energy to deal wit' all dese gawddamn bandages. Help me?" He blushes a bit but agrees to help me bind. All I focus on is not hurting my head again. Spot ties the bandages and stands back to admire his handiwork but quickly notices my cringin'. "Do you want somethin' cold?" he asks gently, I nod as gingerly as possible.

*Timeskip to after the newsies meet n greet bcuz I'm power-finishing this at 12am and my mental health is steadily declining*

My hand shakes as I bring a fresh, unlit cigar to my lips.

Jack. That sellout, that traitor.

A sharp pain knocks me out of my angry thoughts. Ah. I burned myself.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, "Racer.." says a gentle voice, "You okay? that's your 3rd cigar in the past 2 hours or so." I look up to see Finch leaning over me as I sit on the ground, a concerned look on his face, "You're gonna run out all too soon" I give a bitter laugh, "Yeah, I guess I will." Finch can see that there's not much he can do to help me. He gives a weak smile and turns to walk away.

I see Davey run off somewhere. I wonder where they're going? I sigh and turn my head back down to the ground. Who cares? Without a leader, the strike'll just fall apart and Pulitzer'll win. Who was I kidding when I bragged abt being da "King o' New York"? I'm just some nobody kid without a nickel to my name. The bigger guys always win, so what's with me tryin'?

Jack POV:

I can't let any more kids get in this much danger. I visited (N/N) today. I found out about all his... injuries, as well as whatever he was born as. He's been through so much before all this, he doesn't deserve it.

It's my fault for being so ignorant. For not noticing anything was goin' on. My fault for inciting this stupid strike. For getting all these kids hoit. and Crutchie...poor Crutchie, locked up in that godawful place. I know he ain't helpless, 'e's a cheeky little bastard, I'll give him that, but the Refuge breaks down even the biggest of smiles and smothers the brightest of people. I will never forget that hell I went through. I went in a cheeky fightin' kid with a deep, strong flame, and came out with the embers barely glowing. It took years just to spark it up again. I'm terrified as to what'll happen to him.

I lean over the railing of my penthouse, not even noticing as it shakes and squeaks, making way for a young boy a little younger den me. "-Jack! JACK!" "Jesus Christ, yeah??? Oh, it's you, Dave..." I look away shamefully, he's probably here to chew me out and tell me we're done and gone. "What the hell was that?" I wince, I knew it. "Waddya mean 'what the hell was that?'?" "You know what I mean, JACK KELLY." I'm fucked. "YOU BETRAYED US FOR MONEY?!" "I WOULDN'T HAVE FELT PRESSURED TO IF I WADN'T DEALIN' WIT' A FLAKER!" Davey gives a bitter laugh and balls up the front of my shirt in his fist, tugging me towards him. "Ohoho! And if I wasn't your 'best friend' you'd be lookin' at me through one swollen eye!" "Oh, yeah? Well, don't let that stop ya, huh? Gimme your best shot!" something soft roughly pressing against my lips. The only thought at the moment is; 'Well, this is new... and passionate, 'specially from Dave' there's a heavy, awkward silence.

I back away from him, knocking over my drawings in the process. One specific drawing rolls out seemingly by fate. It taps on Davey's shoe and he looks down. His eyes widen a little as he reaches down to get it. "Is this.. the Refuge?" he puts a hand over his mouth, "weren't you stuck here once? Rats, cockroaches everywhere, 6 kids to a bunk? Holy fuc- I mean fudge." If the moment weren't this tense, I might've laughed. "Jack..." I feel a hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to tell me if you're not ready." I shake my head and he drops his arm understandingly. "Either way, we could use this. Heck..." Davey seems deep in thought before his face lights up, "We could make our own newspaper!" I look at him in disbelief, he notices, and speaks again "think about it, Jackie! Kath's a real talented writer! This art could change the perspective of hundreds! We could write to tell all the workin' boys to go on Strike tomorra'! And we could expose Snyder in the process!" Hey, that's not too bad..."But, Dave, how're we gonna print it?" His face falls, "I didn't think about it...we're banned from every printin' press in New York.."

Oh no. Ohhh no. "No. Noooo." I whine, Davey chuckles, amused "what?" "I know a printin' press that no one would ever think of!" Davey grins, "Then what are we waitin' for?" He puts my drawing back into the case, and slings it over his shoulder, getting ready to climb down. Suddenly, a thought strikes me, "Wait-" "Yeah?" "Dave- what are we exactly? Like I know how we act to each other n' everything, but we've never really said out loud what we are..." Davey giggles, "Jackie-" "No! Tell me right now, are we... in love? Boyfriends, I guess?? Or am I just something for your own experimentation?"

He cups my face in his hands, "Jackie..." he kisses my nose, "Of course I love you! And yes! We are in love! Dating! Boyfriends! Whichever way you want to define us!" Soon we're both grinning ear-to-ear and blushing. "Now!" he exclaims, hopping up, clearly on a high from the whole kiss and convo, "Let's get to it!" I laugh and stand up as well, following my over-enthusiastic boyfriend down the ladder. As Davey said; Let's get to it!

(Y/N) POV:

'My head hurts...' I think groggily. I try to open my eyes, but my vision is blurred and wonky. I sit up. Nevermind. Everything hurts. As my vision starts to clear, I see a very tired Spot Conlon sitting in a chair in the corner of whatever room I'm in rubbing sleep from his eyes. He fixates his eyes on me for a second, and I can see the sleepiness and confusion in his eyes turn into shock and joy. "(N/N)! Ohmygod! I'm so glad you'se awake!" I can see him go to wrap me in a bear hug before holdin' himself back after he remembers all my injuries. Wait. My injuries. "Does this mean you know about...?" I vaguely gesture to my arms and Spot nods sadly, "And..." I cringe and gesture to my chest, now only lightly bound with medical tape, but tighter than needed for a typical injury. I smile to myself. That must've been Race. He's like a perfect older brother, not only thinkin' about my physical health, but also my mental well-being.

Spot notices the look on my face and sees me lookin' down at my chest, he chuckles, "Yeah, Race decided on that. He wanted you to feel as comfortable as possible while you heal." I start grinning even harder. Spot spoke up again "Don't forget that even boys born seen as boys don't have perfectly flat chests, so binding as tight as you did wasn't necessary or safe, for that matter." I give him a look, is Spot really trying to be the cis savior right now? He gives me a look right back, "What? I know what I'm talking about." He lifts his shirt up to reveal two scars on his chest. I gasp, "But you're only *insert years/months* younger/older than me! How did you even know that this was an option, as well, how did you do it?" He smirks, pulling his shirt back down, "Thought so. Anyway, I don't really know. I needed them off desperately and randomly thought of it. As for the how, Buttons is AMAZING with scissors and blades. Like, scary amazing." He shivers. I blink. Damn.

He gives a shy grin "Do I really pass that well?" I look at him enviously "Of course! But... how do you look so...masculine?" "Well, I tried my best to copy the behavior of other boys I saw. And the whole working out didn't hurt." I nod, taking a mental note. Behavior, got it. Can't promise sticking to a workout, though. Spot scoots closer, taking my hand in his, "But the most important thing to understand is- behavior, body type, and a powerful reputation doesn't define being a true boy. What does is what's in here-" he taps my head, "-and here." he points to my heart. Spot looks me in my eyes, "You could wear dresses, skirts, use a 'girly' name, hell, even go by she! and you'd still be a boy in my eyes." I feel my eyes water, and Spot opens his arms to me with a sincere look. I fall into his arms and cry tears of joy. Spot and Race are the older brothers I never had, helping me at every fork in the road of my transition.

(A/N: I noticed that a big issue in trans fanfics was that the cis person was always the one to condescendingly teaching the helpless trans kid how to bind properly. I decided to make both of your mentors trans, had them both know what they're talking about, and made sure that you weren't completely useless or clueless, only that you needed guidance seeing as (Y/N) is a trans kid with no former knowledge about his transition. As well, I kinda wanted this fic to be of help to any newcomer trans men. Anyway, on to the last of the story!)

"So how are your ribs feeling?" Spot asks after we both calm down, "A little sore, but pretty much moveable. Is it really this painful to bind? I mean, the past few weeks I had the binding stuff on was my first time." "It shouldn't, I mean, lookit Race. He seems energetic and flexible even when he's binding." I think he sees my insecure face because he speaks again, "What I mean to say is- if you have more experience binding, you'll know how to mix mental and physical comfort. Either way, what fucked up your ribs wasn't the binding, it was the Delancey's. Not saying the way you were binding wasn't bad and wouldn't have caused lasting damage, of course."

I see Spot have a flicker of thought behind his eyes, he pulls out an obviously stolen silver pocket watch with the initials H.A. engraved on it to check the time. "Almost time..." he mutters. I give him a suspicious look, "Almost time for what...?" he looks sheepishly at the ground, "Nnnnnothing." I let out a noise halfway between a snort and a scoff, "Uh huh." "Fine." he sighs, "All the newsies and workin' boys is comin' together today. We'se hopin' ta finish up this strike Once And For All."

"Let me guess, I shouldn't go because I'm still healing." He nods, "Spot!! I need to do my part in this strike! I can't miss the most important day of my life." he gives me a weird look, "You don't even know what the outcome'll be, plus I promised Race that you wouldn't get hurt." "Please, I've been bedridden for WEEKS. And I won't get hurt" I protest stubbornly, he sighs exasperatedly "FINE, but I'm gettin' you right outta there at the foist sign o' danger, okay?" "Okay!" I say, content with the compromise. "We should prolly get you up and used to legs again before the strike--" my stomach rumbles harder than Les when he sees the chocolate croissants in the Pastry Shop window, and that's seriously saying somethin', "--and something to eat, too."

Spot holds my hands as I get out of bed and basically learn to walk again with wobbly legs. You could just paint my back with spots and call me a baby deer. Once I get my legs to work with me, Spot leads me to a tin tub. I give him a 'seriously?' look, "What am I doin', goin' ta church?" he laughs sarcastically, "Ha, ha. (N/N), you haven't cleaned yourself since the last time you were conscious. I also need to refresh your bandages since those haven't been touched since Race changed them in the foist place." "Fiiiine" I growl.

Spot unwraps my arm and chest bandages, but when it comes to me taking off the rest of my clothes, he looks away (not even for my privacy, but just because he is highly repulsed to the idea of naked bodies) I add enough soap suds on top of the water to cover my body so he's comfortable.

He grabs some soap and lathers up my hair with it, soon rinsing it. He also lathers and rinses my face, removing the built-up dirt, grease, and sweat, which accumulated surprisingly quickly for only spending a month, or was it two, here. Spot brings out a small piece of scrap fabric and a bottle of some liquid, then gently grabs my arms. "This might burn a little," he said empathetically. He dampened the cloth with what I am assuming is disinfectant and started pressing it against my healing cuts. I tried to hold in my pain but let out a small hiss when the cloth reached the deeper cuts on the backs of my arms. Spot stopped temporarily, letting my arms adjust to the sting a little, before continuing. Once he's finished, he hands me the soap and leaves the room to let me bathe myself in peace and picks up my dirty clothes and old bandages. "Holler if you need anything!" he yells on his way out.

I create a lather in my hands and stand up so I can actually wash my body. The air is chilly compared to the bathwater, so I do my best to be quick as I let my soap hands travel gingerly over my body. I look down, and for the first time in a long time, I don't feel ashamed. Spot words echo in my mind as I smile softly; 'You could wear dresses, skirts, use a 'girly' name, hell, even go by she! and you'd still be a boy in my eyes.' I guess, for now, I'm confident in my masculinity.

I sit back down, enjoying the warmth, and rinse myself off. I step out of the bath and look at the grey-ish brown-ish water. Ew, was I really that dirty? As the cold air envelops me once more, I realize I don't have a towel. Or clothes. "Spot!" I call out, "Yeah?" I hear a faint voice, "I need a towel and some clothes!" I answer. There's quiet, then a series of rustling sounds that slowly get closer. The door opens a crack and I see a tan, muscular hand slide a pile of clothes and a towel in my direction. I smile gratefully, "Thanks, Spotty!" "Aye! Only Race can call me dat..." "Okay, fine."

I dry my hair as much as possible, before continuing to my body. There's not much actual rubbing rather than patting because of my injuries, so when I get my pants on and slip my button-down onto my shoulders, they get a little damp. "Spot?" I call out again, "Do you think you could help me with my bandages?" "'Course!" He casually picks up the chest bandages and binds it pretty much perfectly- Tight enough to make a difference in my chest size, but loose enough to let my ribs heal. Spot then starts re-bandaging my arms, "Can I ask you a question, Spot?" "Sure, (N/N)" he says nonchalantly, "Why is it you are repulsed by fully naked bodies, but you're perfectly casual and fine about helping me bind my chest when I'm half-naked?" he clears his throat as if he was ready to spin a whole story, "Well, Race used to live with me and we started trusting each other a lot more than when we first met. He trusted me enough to teach him the best way to bind, and he trusted me enough to feel comfy without a top on when around the house, so I'm kinda desensitized. But when it comes to people being naked or bein' overly suggestive, I just..don't like it. At all."

'Asexual,' I think, 'Knew it."

"Anyway, you ready to fight off the bulls and get our rights back, (N/N)?" He stands up and offers a hand to help me up, which I receive. I catch my reflection in the dirty bathwater. I can see crystal clear, that I am dapper, strong, and ready to kick some Delancey ass.

But first, Lunch.

Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω

I arrive at the strike on Spot's shoulders, hyped for the happy ending they all worked so hard for. Spot sets me down gently and scans the crowd for someone. It seems he found them because his face lights up. I see Race run over to us. "(N/N)! Oh my god, I'm so fuckin' glad that you're awake! Especially today of all days!" however, his enthusiasm is soon replaced with concern, "But is ya sure yer okay? You must've woken up just today, so are you feeling good? Yer injuries don't hurt too bad, you're not dizzy, hungry, thirsty?" "Calm down, Tony, I gave him a bath, changed his bandages, gave him food n' water, even a pep talk, so you don't need to worry!" Race takes a few deep breaths, "Okay, okay, yeah I'm fine. But that's great!" He engulfs me in a firm, but gentle hug. I look around the crowd and see some familiar faces, Katherine seems to have brought another girl with her, who I'm assuming is Sarah, Davey's sister. I see Albert and Elmer tightly holding each other's hands. I see Finch and Smalls exchanging jokes as a form of distraction. I look back at Race and Spot, who are being so romantic, it's almost gross. Almost.

The adrenaline still hasn't left me so when people start getting as excited as me, it just hypes me up even more. We look up at the window of Pulitzer's office and see Jack and a few others standing there, waving. I wave back vigorously. Not too long after, Jack, Davey, Pulitzer, and The Governer appear on a balcony, Jack at the front. "Newsies of New York City..." cue the pause for dramatic effect, "WE WON!!" The crowd of newsies roars with joy. I watch as Crutchie limps out and beats Snyder's ass as the abuser is dragged away, I don't understand why so many people see him as an angel, it's obvious that he's a cheeky lil' rat bastard.

Suddenly, it's like everything is in slow motion. I look around once more and see Katherine and Sarah kissing, same with Albert and Elmer, Finch and Smalls are hugging each other tightly. I look back up at the balcony and see Davey and Jack gettin' it ON. I look once again to Spot and Race, who just finished kissing. Spot reaches down and hoists me onto his shoulders to cheer. And as I take in this momentous victory one sense at a time, I realize in a moment of pure bliss-

I finally found my true family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Word Count: 8190

(A/N):

This took VERY LONG (approx. one month, I just finished after working from 9 pm to 5 am) I know it was supposed to be a simple one-shot, but since there was no one to help narrow down and shorten the plot for me, I got carried away. I am, however, pleased with the length of it. This may be the longest fic I've ever written. As well, I hope any underlying advice or tips mentioned in the story helped you to understand/realize something.

I would love it if you were to vote, give me some constructive criticism, and/or request something for me to write! Don't forget- I live to write that one fanfic you can never find.

Love y'all!

~ Race

[celosiaa]

you can talk to me

Summary: Jon may or may not be questioning his gender.  Either way, Martin is there to listen.

CW: dysphoria, periods, panic, self-deprecating thoughts, food mention

for a prompt from @transcendentalbf! <3 hope you all enjoy!

Sasha: you wanted channa masala, right?

Martin: yes! got it in one!

Sasha: of course I did! be back in 15

Martin: <33

Setting his phone back on the desk, Martin tips back in his chair and lets out a sigh, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.  Though it’s been nearly three weeks since he’s started living in the archives, that doesn’t mean that he’s gotten used to it—if anything, the long hours of being constantly on the lookout for anything creeping or crawling across the floor has only served to heighten his pre-existing anxiety.  It’s so lonely here. The low ceiling of the basement seems so vast when you wander beneath it in the dark—and even now, with his friends promising to return with lunch for him shortly, he can’t help but feel the weight of their absence.

Christ, Martin.  You’re pathetic.

Can’t even handle a bit of pain.

As if the thought alone had caused it to happen, the aching roar of his cramps flares up once more, causing him to bend over the desk to breathe through it yet again. It’s just so embarrassing—he’s been on T for years now, surely the bleeding would have stopped—but alas, no such luck to be had.  Of course he would be one of the people for whom it gets worse.  Of course.

I’ve got to text her.

Martin: hey, do you have ibuprofen? didn’t want to look through your desk without asking!

Sasha: course! middle drawer. you okay?

He wants so badly to lie to her, say it’s fine—but he can’t really do that after asking for pain relievers, can he?

Martin: fine!! just having some cramps is all, it’s okay!

Sasha: aw, I’m sorry, Martin :/ need anything else? I can stop by the store later if you need

Martin: not yet. might soon though

Martin: I’m sorry.

Martin: please don’t tell Tim

Sasha: I would never. and don’t worry about it! it’s no trouble. I’ll get you some stuff later, alright?

You’re a burden you’re a burden you’re nothing but a burden

Martin: thanks, sash. you’re the best!

Sasha: <3

Returning his phone to its place on his desk, Martin has to stop to take a few deep breaths—heart pounding with embarrassment over the entire discussion.  He knows it’s alright, knows Sasha means it when she says she doesn’t mind…right?

Jesus, stop it.

Just…take a walk, and  you’ll feel better afterwards.

Standing a bit painfully on swollen legs, Martin swallows a few of Sasha’s ibuprofen before he makes his way toward the stairs, hoping for a chat with Rosie while waiting on lunch.  At the very least, he could get some sunlight, escape from the windowless basement for a while.  He could only hope that the worms aren’t too bad up there.  

The lift dings its arrival to the main floor, where Rosie immediately turns to greet him with a warm smile.

“Ah, Martin! How are you, my dear?” she says as he approaches, looking genuinely glad to see him.

“Can’t complain!” he beams, leaning against her desk with one elbow.  “You doing alright?  Staying out of trouble?”

“You know I’m not,” she laughs, swatting playfully at his arm.  “But neither are you, I’m sure.”

“Got me there.”

Martin can’t help but smile back, pleased at the thought of bringing happiness to someone’s day, satisfied to listen to her stories of cats and knitting circles and whatever soaps she’s been watching on telly.  It reminds him of his mum, a bit—the nicer parts of her, anyway.

“Oh, that reminds me—“ she bends down beneath her desk to pull out a thin package, handing it over to him.  “This was delivered for Jon this morning.  Probably listed the Institute on the order form by accident again. Would you be so kind as to take it to him when you go back down?”

Holding it in his hands, Martin can feel the shape of the thing within it—some sort of soft fabric, stamped on top with a return label indicating a very nice clothing brand.

Date clothes.

He’s got a date.

Even as his heart sinks, Martin curses himself for it—it’s none of his business, Jon wants nothing to do with him, has no interest at all—after all, how could he? How could he when he’s…well, him?

“Stop making this about you, Martin,” he hears his mother say, closing his eyes against the memory.  “You’ve always got to spoil everything, don’t you?”

“Martin? You alright, love?” Rosie asks quietly, and Martin looks up to see her worried face—hand coming to rest lightly on his arm.

Damn it.

“Oh, ha, of course, Rosie!  S-sorry, it’s just—“

He backs away from the desk, pressing the call button for the lift.

“I’d better get back downstairs, then.  Don’t—don’t want to keep Jon waiting.  For his package, I mean.”

The lines of Rosie’s face only deepen, staring concernedly at him as he steps into the lift.

“Oh—alright, dear,” she says, a bit surprised at his sudden retreat.  “Come back and visit sometime, alright?  I’ll make us tea on your next break.”

“That sounds lovely,” he replies, forcing a wide grin to his face, flooded with guilt that she feels the need to make tea for him, when that’s supposed to be his responsibility.

“Nasty child, always making things about yourself.”

God, stop it.

“I’ll see you later then,” he continues with a wave, begging the lift doors to close quickly and hide his face.

—

Breathing deeply a few times before Jon’s office door, Martin finally gathers the courage to knock.

“Come in,” comes Jon’s baritone from behind the door, and he swings it open with a gentle creak.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt—Rosie had a package for you at the desk,” Martin says in as cheery a tone as he can manage, holding out the floppy package to Jon.

At once, Jon’s eyes go wide—he snatches it from Martin’s hands, setting it quickly out of sight with a blush rising to color his cheeks.

“Oh, th-thank you, Martin, erm—must have, must have accidentally sent it here,” he stammers, hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck, no longer meeting Martin’s eyes.

Just get out just get out

“It’s no trouble,” he replies, and it’s far too happy, too sharp, too loud to be natural. “Sorry!  Sorry.  I’ll just be going, then.”

He closes the door on Jon’s shocked face, clearly surprised that Martin had not kept trying to make conversation, as usual.  Stepping away from the door, he tilts his head back against the tears springing to his eyes—Jon was so clearly flustered by the package, confirming what he already knew: he’s seeing someone else.

Stop it stop it stop it

Furious with himself, at the hollow cavern of his chest, he turns toward the break room—determined to at least make this lunch normal and pleasant.  

Just be normal.

For once, just do it right.

—

Though the hour is just barely approaching 8pm, Martin is more than ready to settle in for what he hopes might be some half-decent sleep.  He’d been on the lookout for worms all day, as usual, but had really found very few—and certainly none within the sealed doors of document storage.  Even if the air feels a bit stuffy, it’s nice to have a bit of added security that those things couldn’t possibly reach him in here.  Or so he hopes.

It’s as if the cot has its own gravitational pull, beckoning him to just tip to the side, to let it all wash away into sleep—the only problem being that he cannot yet bring himself to take off his binder.  To put it mildly, it’s been a day, even with the lovely lunch Tim and Sasha had brought him, even with the warming cup of tea he and Rosie had shared. The idea of kicking his dysphoria into an even higher gear  is enough to set his heart pounding again, so much that every time he tries to just take it off, your lungs will thank you—he can’t get past even touching the hem sitting tightly against his ribcage.

Leaning back against the concrete wall, he smacks the back of his head against it a few times in frustration, before ceasing at the pain reverberating through his skull.

Just take it off just take it off just—

He pulls it up just a little higher.

Nononononono I can’t I can’t I can’t—

Bringing it back down against his pounding pulse, he forces himself to take deep, grounding breaths, shuddering and hitching a bit as his frustration builds up to form a lump in his throat.

Pathetic pathetic pathetic—

His thoughts are interrupted by the buzz of his phone against his thigh.

Sasha: hey, Martin—I popped some tampons and pads into your desk drawer.  saw your door closed and thought you might not want company right now.

Sasha: and I got you some ice cream.  double chocolate fudge.  I’ve left it on the top shelf of the break room freezer.

Sasha: hope you’re alright—love you <3

Oh god.

Martin feels his eyes welling up as soon as he starts reading, the tears causing the words to swim almost too badly to see.  God, Sasha—she always knows what to say, just what he needs—and he barely had to say a word about it.

Martin: love you too, Sash.  you’re unbelievable.  I can’t wait to tuck in!  love love love you <3

Sasha: good man!  I don’t want to see any left by the time I get in tomorrow.  goodnight, handsome <3

Oh god oh god oh god

He can’t help but clutch the phone tightly to his chest, allowing a tear or two slip down the side of his cheeks with a soft smile.  “Good man,” “goodnight handsome—“ even if he knows she’s saying it because of the dysphoria, it means everything to him that she would even think about it. That she would even notice it.

That she cares enough to want to make him feel better.

Dizzy with happiness, Martin slips out from under the covers and heads into the archives to retrieve his ice cream.  

—

Spoon and his wonderful frozen gift in his hands, he makes his way back to document storage—knowing that if Jon were there, he’d be livid to see him take any sort of food or drink into a place where such precious pieces of spooky history are kept.  In spite of himself, he lets the corners of his mouth turn up at the thought, imagining how terribly cross he would be, hands on his hips, shouting up at Martin, who stands a foot taller than him—

There’s a light on in Jon’s office.

Surely he’s…not…

Worry pooling in his stomach, Martin pads as silently as possible over to the partially-open door, peering inside just in case, hoping against hope that he’s not going to find more worms, or someone covered in worms, or Prentiss herself—

His heart leaps into his throat at once.

Inside the room, he finds Jon—with no worms in sight, no injuries—staring at the full length mirror on the wall.  Hanging from his frame is a loose and flowing dress, thin shoulder straps drooping down into a dark navy ‘v’ across his chest, blue and white striped skirt falling graciously around his hips and to the floor.  Slits in the fabric run from the hem up to his knees, giving the entire piece such a feeling of freedom—and the look on Jon’s face says he feels just the same.  His eyes sparkle as he moves about in the skirt, feeling the fabric against his legs, reaching up to let his hair hang loosely over his bare shoulders.  It’s lovely, it’s soaring, it’s—

Intensely private.

Oh god, I shouldn’t be here.

Desperate to leave as silently as he came, Martin takes a step back—right onto a worm wriggling beneath his foot.

“AAGH!” he yells, dropping the ice cream and spoon at once, scrambling backwards to grab a book from the desk behind him, smashing into the horrible little thing until it is well past dead.

“God, sorry,” he pants, swiping a hand across the sweat of his brow, setting the other to rest over his chest as he bends over to catch his breath.  “Sorry, I must have scared you, I just saw the light on, and I—“

When he looks up, he’s greeted with the sight of a man frozen in place—eyes wide with shock, and…fear?  He stands with his back pressed against the opposite wall, no breath visible in the movement of his shoulders as he stares back into Martin’s eyes.

“A-are you alright?  Jon?” he asks carefully, taking a cautious step forward.

He receives no reply in return—the only movement visible to him the shakiness of his legs.

“You don’t look w—oh, Christ,” Martin yelps, rushing forward to catch Jon as he starts to slip to the ground.

It strikes Martin suddenly that he still hasn’t seen Jon take a breath—and he begins heaving at once, lungs gasping for oxygen.

“God—that’s it, just take a breath, just--just take a breath,” Martin encourages nervously, sweeping his eyes over him for some sort of injury.  “Are you alright?”

Jon does not reply for a few moments, eyes still blown wide and wild, before at last turning them up to meet Martin’s gaze as his breaths begin to slow.

“Y-you—“ he begins, before his eyes sweep downwards for just a sliver of a moment. “You’re wearing…a binder.”

Oh, Christ.

With a start, Martin looks down at himself—only just realizing that he’s crouching in his boss’s office, wearing nothing but his boxers and a skin-tone binder.

“O-oh, God, I—“ he instinctively brings up his arms to cover himself.  “S-sorry, I just—I didn’t mean—“

“N-no, Martin—that’s not—that’s not what I meant,” Jon assures in a anxious rush, reaching out to touch his arm—before hurriedly jerking it back.

“No?”

“No, I—“ he cuts off again, pressing a hand over his chest as he takes another grounding breath.  “I’m really—I’m actually…relieved.”

Now Martin is properly confused.

“You’re…relieved?”

“Yes, I—“ he looks up, laughing a bit wetly before continuing.  “I suppose you…you wouldn’t…I suppose you would understand. Perhaps.”

“Understand…”

It hits Martin like a train, now that the panic of a possible crisis has been averted: the dress.

“OH!  Oh, I—I’m so sorry I burst in on you, Jon, I didn’t…I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that.  On purpose.  I can leave you alone?  Or to change, if you feel uncomfortable.”

“I—I think I would like that.  To change, I mean.  You can—“

He drops his gaze to the floor.

“You can come back.  If you want.”

For a moment, Martin allows hope to swell in his chest—before quashing it rather forcefully.

“O-Okay! Sure, I’ll just—I’ll be back in a mome, I’ll just…put some clothes on.  Right.”

Elegant exit made, Martin briefly allows the shock to wash over him before dashing back to document storage—popping on a pair of pyjama trousers and a band t-shirt, sure to grab a canister of CO2 for proper protection this time.  On his journey back, he spots the ice cream he’d flung to the floor at the sight of the worm—a bit melted now, perhaps—but if anything warrants some slightly-melty ice cream, it’s the conversation that he thinks Jon wants to have now.  Turning on his heel, he grabs two spoons from the kitchen, and by the time he gets back, Jon’s office door has been propped back open.  He knocks against it lightly all the same.

“Jon? Alright if I come in?”

“Y-yes—erm, have a seat, if you’d like,” he says from his desk chair,  now back in his typical work-day cardigan, hair pulled into a bit of a messy bun.

“Right, sure,” Martin replies, settling in the chair opposite him and offering a smile. “Feels like I’m about to give a statement or something.”

To his complete surprise, the corners of Jon’s mouth actually turn up a bit at this—and though he still will not meet Martin’s eyes, something about the openness of his expression tells Martin to mark this moment as one to remember.

“I suppose it must feel rather like that,” he agrees, beginning to fiddle with a pen on his desk, staring intently at it.

They sit like this for quite a while—letting the silence settle, as Martin tries to intuit whether or not he ought to say something.  Worrying at his bottom lip to keep himself from speaking, he tries not to stare at Jon, wanting him to feel comfortable, just wanting him to know that he’s there for whatever he needs to say.

It’s the most unnatural thing in the world for him to do—but it appears to have been the right decision, as Jon at last begins to speak.

“I haven’t,” he begins, before clearing his throat.  “I’ve never worn a dress before.”

Ah. So it is what I thought.

Leaning forward against the table, Martin tilts his head in an effort to let Jon know that it’s okay, you can look at me, you’re safe here—but he’s not quite ready yet, and Martin is certainly armed with patience.

“I think that’s great, Jon!  I think that’s really great that you tried it,” he begins, hoping that this is what Jon needs to hear in this moment.  “Do you want to—I mean you don’t have to, but—do you want to talk about it?”

Brows furrowing, Jon stops twiddling the pen long enough to glance up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I just…I mean…how did it make you—feel?” Martin clarifies, and Jon nods in response.

“Ah, I see. I—erm—“ and away he looks again, back to staring at the pen, perhaps more nervous than Martin has ever seen him. “It’s…difficult to say, I suppose. I’m not quite sure yet.”

“That’s okay, that’s perfectly natural,” Martin is quick to assure, running a hand over the bits of stubble that have crept up over his chin.  

He remembers this, remembers the doubt, the exploration of what he did and did not want, what he did and did not feel—it was far from easy to do, and he’s starting to think it’s much the same for Jon.  

Perhaps I ought to start at the beginning

“Are you—and you don’t have to answer this, but—are you…thinking about your gender identity?” he asks, watching Jon’s body language carefully.

He seems to curl up further into his seat, shoulders hunching in a way that makes Martin’s own hurt just looking at them.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Jon mutters, hugging his arms tightly across his chest. “I’m…hesitant to say, really, I just…”

He sighs, leaning back into his chair and closing his eyes, arms braced against each arm rest.

“I happened to see that dress a few months ago, and it wouldn’t leave my mind, and I had some extra money to spare, and…and I bought it.  I don’t know why.”

All of this spills from Jon in such a rush that it winds him, still not opening his eyes.

“That’s okay, Jon.  Really. You don’t need to know why right now, okay?  This kind of stuff can be complicated,” Martin soothes, letting out a little huff of laughter.  “Believe me, I understand.”

At this, Jon opens his eyes again, bringing them up to meet his ever-so-slowly.  Once they land there, though…Martin has a feeling that they will be fixed on him for the rest of this conversation, though he cannot put a finger on why.

“Would you tell me?” Jon asks in a near whisper, leaning against arms which he’s propped up on his desk.  “I mean—I would like to know how you found out, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah. Right.  Erm…well, I suppose I was pretty young when I started to figure it out. I’d never…I’d never really felt like me in my body, you know?  The long hair, the school uniforms, just…it wasn’t right.  At least not for me.”

He pauses for a moment, half expecting Jon to interrupt, to tell him he’s heard enough—but Jon still appears transfixed, as if he’s drinking in every word he has to say.

“But I didn’t really understand what that meant until secondary school.  I was…well, let’s just say it was an upsetting time for me all around, right?  One day I felt upset enough to chop off my own hair in the bathroom.  And it was long by that time—nearly down to my waist.”

He laughs briefly at the remembrance, running a hair through his now-shorn locks.

“I cut it off—and it was like some small part of me started to understand.  I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  I tried to dress in what I thought boys should wear, walked around dressed like that to see what would happen—and the first time that someone called me “Mister Blackwood,” I just…it’s was like a great big wave of relief. It was like someone finally saw me. Like I finally saw me.”

Pausing there, he looks back up at Jon’s face—still reverently focused on his own. It sends a chill up his spine, in not an entirely unpleasant way.

“Thank you, Martin,” he murmurs at last, lowering his hands away from his face to stretch out across the table.  “Thank you for telling me.  That’s very…insightful.”

“Is it?” he replies, leaning towards him once again.  “Can you tell me why?”

He can almost hear the gears turning in Jon’s head—the lines of deep-seated thought clear on his face.  After a rather long silence, he begins to speak again, voice more certain than it has sounded all evening.

“The feeling of it.  What you said about not being able to get it out of your mind, I just—” he breaks off to sigh, frustrated with the way the words are stringing together.  “I’m not saying I understand completely, because it’s obviously your experience and not mine, but…”

He swallows, setting his face with such strength of intention that Martin finds himself bracing for the impact.

“I liked it. The dress.  I liked the fabric, I liked the way it…the way it looked on me. I…I liked feeling…feminine, I suppose you could say.”

In this moment, Martin is not sure he has ever felt such a surge of affection for the person before him—which is saying quite a lot, all things considered.

“I’m really happy for you, Jon!  Thank you for sharing that with me, I know that’s not always easy.”

Jon’s only response is a curt nod, his penchant for decorum and professionalism shining through even in this moment of relative vulnerability.

“Could I ask you—have you thought about pronouns?  Or names? I mean—I’m happy to call you however you want to be called.  Or perhaps even to try something new out, if you want.  Just to see,” he quirks up a little smile at him, pleased that Jon feels comfortable enough to look back at him.

“Erm—I suppose I had thought about it a bit,” he says as he wraps his arms around his middle again, a gesture that Martin knows to be one of self-comfort.  “I…I don’t think I would want to change my name. Not now, anyway.  I rather like how it sounds.”

“That’s alright!  I…I think your name is lovely, if that matters,” Martin replies—flushing as he realizes what he’s just said.  “Erm—anyway, what about pronouns?  Do you want to keep using he/him?  Or do you want to try something else?”

Again, Jon seems perfectly at ease to think about this in silence for a bit—turning away and twirling a loose strand of his hair with his right index finger.  That all-too-familiar twinge in his chest returns with a vengeance at the sight, endlessly endeared to everything about him.

God, stay focused for one moment, Martin.

“I—would you mind to try they/them?  I don’t—I don’t think I want to try it around the office yet or, but…would you?  Try it?”

“Of course!” Martin breathes at once, hand reaching out instinctively to cover Jon’s own where it rests on the table—and to his utter shock, Jon does not even flinch at the contact, nor try to pull away.  “Of course I will, Jon.  Do you want me to try it now?  I can say some sentences so you can feel it out.”

“I…yes. Yes, that would be lovely, Martin,” Jon replies softly, still not moving his hand away.

“Right. Erm…okay.  This is Jon. They work at the Magnus Institute. They’re the Head Archivist, and their work is very important.  I like to bring them cups of tea in the afternoon, and they wear cardigans almost every day,” he pauses there, reading the smile creeping up on Jon’s face like the sun breaking through the clouds—and knowing in that moment, that they must have gotten it right.

“So?  How did it feel?”

The smile takes on a full-bodied appearance now—eyes sparkling dark and gentle across the table, boring into his own with such depth of meaning that Martin is not sure he could ever fully take in.

“Yes,” they reply simply, smile spreading even wider.  “Yes, I—I rather liked that.”

“I’m really glad, Jon!  I mean—I would have been glad even if you didn’t like it, of course—the important thing is that you tried it out,” Martin stammers, nervousness somehow creeping back into his words.

“Thank you, Martin.  I’ve…greatly enjoyed this talk,” Jon says, at last pulling their hand away from beneath Martin’s to point it at the forgotten tub of ice cream, currently sweating a circle of moisture on the wood of their desk.  “I think you might want to get back to this before it melts, however.”

“Oh!  Oh, right—I forgot I sat it there!” Martin replies, grabbing it quickly and rubbing a sleeve over the damp spot it created on the wood.  “I actually—“

No no no, stop.

Don’t make it awkward

Don’t ruin it don’t ruin it don’t—

“Would you like some?” Martin presses on, against every voice that tells him to do the contrary.  “I—I actually brought two spoons, I thought…I thought maybe you could use a pick-me-up. After I barged in on you like that.”

The expression Jon gives back to him now is a mixture of things—incomprehension, confusion, disbelief—and perhaps, just perhaps, a small bit of delight.

“You don’t—you don’t need to do that, I—“

“I insist, Jon. Please have some with me,” he interrupts, handing him one of the spoons.  “Sasha told me to have it gone by morning, and there’s no way I can do that myself.”

“Well,” Jon replies, taking the spoon from him with just a whisper of a grin.  “I suppose we’d better get to work, then.”

“Let’s.”

[werevulvi]

You know how often I ask myself, why can't I just be normal? It's quite a lot. I wanna talk about something I've never told anyone before, aside from a few strangers online. I've suppressed this my whole life, since childhood. I've acted with anger towards others with the same thing as me, told them how it's offensive and awful. Refused to allow myself to even think about my own urges and desires. It worked for a long time, until I wrote my book this summer, a fiction story about a couple who end up disabled from their dangerous work as assassins. My intentions were just... to try to give good representation and explore something I knew very little about.

So I did a lot of research into my characters' disabilities, and even briefly pretended to have those specific disabilities at home alone, just to get an idea of what it's like to manage daily life with them. It was just a writer's thing, just being a dedicated writer, I told myself, as I researched those disabilities far more in-depth than I did about assassins...

At one point, I would cover my eye with a makeshift eye patch, as one of my main character's loses an eye, and I... it brought forth what I had suppressed my whole life, and I can't suppress it anymore as a result of that. The bottled feelings have escaped and I can't put them back in again.

I think I have Body Integrity Identity Disorder (BIID.) There, I said it.

It's a very rare mental illness that makes you want to become disabled, usually in some very specific way. Most are males, and most desire amputation, but it can pertain to wanting blindness, deafness, or I guess, any conceivable disability. There's only been a few thousand reported cases, but it's also said to be a very secret disorder, so numbers are probably not accurate. It's very poorly researched, poorly understood, and still not recognized as an actual disorder. So you can't be diagnosed with it currently, and there are no set criteria for it. However, it will be in the upcoming ICD-11 (the International Classification of Diseases.) It will then also be re-named to Body Integrity Dysphoria (BID) as it's being recognized as a form of dysphoria, and as a neurological condition.

And now for the obligatory life story:

I don't remember when it started, but as a child, I'd say roughly age 5 or 7, I was obsessed with fictional characters that had a distinct scar over one eye, and either blind in that eye or entirely missing it. I would on occasion play around with a hand covering one eye, and wished I could have that for real. For a long time, I didn't know why I was so obsessed with that. If I was just admiring that kinda physical feature, or wanted it myself, or both. Throughout my teens and adulthood thus far, I've made a lot of drawings of people with only one eye, and scarred faces. I wrote another book back in 2013 with one of the main characters being a woman with a large scar across half her face. I've always been a little too fascinated with facial deformities, having only one eye, and facial assymmetry. And I've tried to express it with assymmetrical makeup looks (not made to look like I'm injured) throughout my teens and 20's.

So it's been with me for a very long time, even though I've tried super hard to suppress it, and tried to tell myself that I should just be happy to have a mostly abled body. But that wish/urge/whatever it is, has never gone away.

When I first heard of BIID, back in 2016 or so, I was angry, and thought of people with it as despicable. I was in deep denial of how much I could relate to them. Didn't want to think of that. But since learning more about the condition, and listening to others who have it, and learning it is actually a real condition... I guess that has helped me eventually come to this point that, well fuck... it me.

Up until recently, I thought it was just a self-harm desire, as I used to be a cutter, but now I understand that the self-harm was not the intention behind what I want with that, but merely the means to achieve it. Kinda like how I wanted to cut my own tits off before I had my double mastectomy. It wasn't about specifically wanting to injure my chest, but to not have tits anymore, and I much preferred the much safer way of doing it, through proper surgery. However, wanting half my face re-arranged is a little bit harder to achieve through elective surgery, even if surgeons were allowed to treat BIID through surgery. So I do not think my desire to get rid of my left eye and surrounding tissues is about wanting to harm myself. It's about wanting to have and live with the result of such an injury. Although I get that might be very unimaginable.

So then, have I ever made any attempts?

Yeah... I have. Once, I think it was when I was 22, I took a blade to my face, but chickened out, and ended up only making a very superficial cut on my cheek, which I was then extremely ashamed of. I didn't want for people to find out I had made it myself. Since then, I've stopped self-harming and have no desire to make a second attempt. I'm scared I'd fuck it up and cause damage I don't want, or... not enough damage. And I'm worried I'd be beyond myself with shame if I would take out my own eye and then other people would show sympathy for my injury, knowing I'd have caused it myself. I just kinda wish it would happen accidentally somehow.

So, to clarify, my BIID targets my left eye and left side of my face. Why left? Honestly because I'm deaf since birth on my left ear, so it would be extremely inconvenient to be deaf on one side and blind on the other. Much more manageable to have one side be blind-deaf and the other fully seeing and hearing. But at first it didn't matter to me so much which side of my face would be affected. I have no desire to become an amputee or fully blind. I also don't have a fetish for disabled people.

Would I date a disabled person?

Yes, but that's because some attractive people just so happen to be disabled, and I wouldn't think I'm particularly judgemental, not that I find their disabilities in and of themselves attractive.

I try to quell this desire, to lose an eye and half my face, by on occasion wearing an eye patch in secrecy. I know it can worsen my vision, but why on Earth would I mind that? It's kinda what I want. But my mom almost caught me wearing it today as she came by for a quick visit, and I have worn it at the grocery store, and out and about in my village. It feels so damn right, yet so fucking wrong...

Let's tackle this question as well: Do I feel like an ass towards disabled people?

Yes and no. Thing is, I'm already disabled myself. I'm not an abled person to begin with. I live on permanent sickness compensation, classified unable to work, for life, with little to no chance at improvement, due to my autism and adhd. I have the energy levels of an old cellphone that drops to 2% battery ten minutes after being fully charged every time. And I hate it. I hate that there's so much in life that I'll probably never be able to do. So disability, is already part of my life, and always has been. So why then would I want to become more disabled, instead of less? Well, yeah that is what I want...

I've faced a shit ton of ableism since childhood, and I actually think that's why I got BIID. Because my actual disability is invisible and not taken seriously in society. And I think that's what I deep down want: to just have my disability be visible and taken seriously. Physical disabilities are taken more seriously. I've even heard that straight from the mouths of people who have both mental and physical disabilities. How often have I not been called lazy for something I've been literally unable to do, just because I "look" capable? How often do I get to hear I "don't seem autistic?" How often do I get told that autism is not even a disability, but merely a personality trait and being socially awkward? How often do I get told I would be able to work if I just tried harder? All. The. Fucking. Time.

I think that's why, ever since I was a child, I've wanted to have a physical disability, which is fully visible, and cannot be ignored. And what's more visible than the face? We interact with it the most. Because I don't really want to be less capable or lose a lot of movement, I just want for my already disabled existence to be visibly disabled.

So that's a big reason for why I think I have BIID. Which is to say, I don't feel like I'm being an ass towards disabled people, because I'm already disabled to begin with, merely wishing I was more disabled and in a more visible way. Had I been abled to begin with, I think that would have been different, but even abled people with BIID don't choose to have this condition. I read a quote from a person with BIID, who got the amputation he wanted, and he said basically that he didn't know what's worse, having BIID or being disabled. I can relate to that. And I think that is the irony here, that simply having BIID is like being disabled in and of itself already.

That said, however, I do understand why disabled people would be greatly offended, angry, or otherwise insulted, by people with BIID. Honestly I cannot understand why they would not be. I'm greatly offended by people who say they wish they were autistic! And I'm offended at myself for wishing I had a facial deformity and only one eye. Why do I want this!? I keep trying to shake sense into myself. It's what's causing my shame and wishing I could just be normal. No disabilities, and no wish for disabilities I don't have. That'd be great.

There is one more aspect I also feel the need to tackle: Transabled.

BIID has recently been rather often labeled as "transabled" in the same vein as "transracial" (wanting to be another race) and transgender. As a transsexual, this comparison is of course something that I have not missed. I'm painfully aware. This is how I see it, alright: Although I do feel like my body integrity dysphoria is incredibly similar to my sex dysphoria, I feel like it would be extremely rude and tone deaf to identify as for example vision impaired, deaf or an amputee, without actually having those disabilities. And I do not know if anyone actually does this. As far as I've seen, some people with BIID may pretend to have the disability they want (like with me walking around with an eye patch despite having no medical need for it) but they don't lie about it, or they try hard to avoid ending up in a situation where they'd feel pressured to lie. So I dunno how much validity there even is in anyone with BIID genuinely identifying as transabled. But regardless of that, I think it's absolutely abhorrent to identify as disabled in ways you are not. And I'd never tell anyone that I'm missing an eye when I do not.

So, I really do not like the term "transabled" and much prefer the BIID and BID terms. I do not like BIID being conflated with being transgender, although I want to very carefully say that the two conditions are so incredibly similar, that... I think that's another big reason I ended up with both. That I've always felt a strong disconnect from my body, which has merely expressed itself in a wide array of ways, ranging from sex dysphoria to body integrity dysphoria, dissociation and even having previously identified as otherkin. I don't think that's a coincidence at all. But then what caused all of that? I don't think there is a simple answer, but a multitude of reasons, and it may even connect with my autism as well as my trauma.

So, I'd say most likely it's caused by a cocktail of neurological and social issues. I was just clearly meant to be a broken person, making the most of my life with the sucky cards I was dealt, and on good days... I guess I'm kinda okay with that. At least it's not boring. Let's end on that not super tragic note. Feel free to ask me anything, if you’ve got any questions.

[officerjennie]

Hello can I please request hugging for a very long time as a platonic bonding prompt with any pair of witcher characters you fancy (characters from the witcher that is)

Hey so I’m feeling rather self-indulgent so I turned this into a trans!Eskel piece, with him coming out to his family and receiving nothing but love and support in return. Extended platonic hug bonding coming from Lambert.

CW: Trans!Eskel coming out to his family, brief descriptions of gender dysphoria over certain pronouns and other nouns (woman, female wolf, etc.), fears of not being accepted (but he ends up accepted anyway), Lambden mentioned (with potential relationship troubles). WC 3k+

--

Eskel had never been so nervous to see his youngest brother.

All things considered, everything had gone well so far. It had taken over a year to tell both Geralt and Vesemir - he hadn’t had the courage to tell the lot of them at the same time, the last winter coming and going without a whisper of who he really was, until he stayed behind and lingered in the keep even up until Lambert had taken his arse elsewhere.

In a lot of ways, Eskel had assumed Vesemir’s reaction would be the worst, simply because the wolf was old and Eskel had no way of knowing what the world had been like when he had been a pup. But his expression had been soft, his eyes alight with humor, and the only thing he’d said on the matter was “No female wolf after all, huh.”

Eskel had rolled his eyes, shoulders sagging with relief, leaving it at that. The lack of disappointment or flair had done well for him, and that had been one down.

Telling Geralt had...well, he hadn’t had time to really plan out when to tell him. One day he’d been on the path on his own, riding by a field of rather tempting goats and kids that just begged for their little heads to be scritched - and the next he found himself saddled up next to his brother, having ran into him near the coast and decided to hunt a rather nasty little group of cockatrices together.

It had slipped out by accident, a correction at the wrong noun used to describe him. Eskel had flushed and looked away quickly, knowing the question would come and not sure if he was ready to answer it. But he did, and though the silence was deafening the arms that soon wrapped around him showed him nothing but support and comfort.

Those two had been easy, even if his nerves had been fried. As he should have come to expect by now his family had shown him nothing but support, letting it be well known that it didn’t matter what name he went by or who he was - because he was theirs, their family, and now their brother.

Lambert, though...

The day had slipped past him, his hands shaking every time he thought of seeking him out. It had been an early homecoming for the both of them, and this winter Lambert had come back alone, leaving his ‘kitty cat’ somewhere out in a fishing village for some reason he vagued out instead of explaining. A spat, no doubt; it happened every few years for them, but there was no question in his mind that they’d be fine. Two hot tempers in the same room sometimes just exploded despite their best efforts, and a bit of space and time between them would sweeten their reunion.

But it meant that Eskel was left in the keep with Vesemir, who knew, and Lambert, who didn’t. And he saw the questioning look Vesemir had sent him when Lambert obviously didn’t know, making the usual jokes that made Eskel’s stomach clench, calling him the name that made him question everything that he was and at times almost sending him mentally downwards.

It wasn’t his fault. Lambert didn’t know. But it made Eskel both want to avoid him and also go punch something, and neither of those would be good for him in the long run.

So, here he was. For the nth time already this winter, though the snow had yet to even reach their ankles outside. Standing outside of Lambert’s room, listening as the telltale sound of a sharpening stone ran across the blade of a sword on the other side, as Lambert hummed to himself like he loved to pretend he never did - and while Eskel tried desperately to get his hands to stop shaking and his heart to quit beating so quick.

He had to tell him. Needed him to know. Lambert was in a lot of ways the most loyal of the lot of them. Sure his temper got him in trouble, and yes he loved to be a little shit and make sure they all knew he was one, but there wasn’t another person better to have your back in any situation. It didn’t matter if you were in the right or wrong to Lambert if you were his family because he would fight teeth and nails for you either way.

But his temper. His bloody temper, and his trust issues. A breeze sent the curtains in the hall sussing against each other as Eskel raked a desperate hand through his own hair, thinking once again about putting this off and waiting another day, or week, or fuck, until next winter.

They all had their flaws. For many reasons, Lambert has issues with trusting others and had an inferiority complex that kicked up at the worst of times. Really, Eskel had no doubt that Lambert would accept him in the end, that he’d see him for the brother he’d always been and perhaps even manage to not make jokes about it (he never meant to be cruel but Lambert sometimes didn’t know where the line for cruelty was, and his head was thick). 

What worried him was his initial reaction. How Lambert would feel knowing he was the last to learn, even though it had not really been intentional. How he might feel to have been kept out of the know for years even if he wasn’t the only who hadn’t known - and Eskel wasn’t sure how to even explain that he himself hadn’t known for decades, only knowing that certain words made his skin crawl, that being called a woman had always made him blank and feel...outside of himself. For so long he’d not had the words to describe it and for a long time after he’d been afraid to, even to himself, even within his own mind, and his throat had constricted around the confession every time he’d thought to bring it up.

The breeze was too cold, biting at his cheeks and nose. But it helped him breathe, that fresh air, helped ground him with the feel of ice cold in his lungs. He...wasn’t sure how to do this. After doing it twice already, he still wasn’t sure, wasn’t certain. Doubts still tried to eat at his mind and heart but he knew he deserved this - he deserved to be who he was around his family, around his brothers, and there was nothing wrong with wanting to share that with them.

It was terrifying nonetheless, and he’d faced down monsters over twice his size before. Alone.

Finally, he gathered up his courage and knocked on the damn door, rapping his knuckles twice out of habit. The humming stopped instantly but the rasp of rock against steel didn’t pause, Lambert’s grouchy tone snarking out “It’s about time, thought you stand out there all damn day.”

Despite how nervous he was, Eskel rolled his eyes, taking that as the invitation it was and entering his room. He shut the door up tight behind him to keep the chill out, the warmth from the fireplace slowly spreading over his chilled cheeks, pleasant enough an atmosphere for one of the most terrifying conversations he’d ever have to have.

“Finally gonna spit it out?”

Lambert was sitting on the edge of his bed, sharpening tools and a cleaning kit spread out haphazardly across the mussed up blanket around him. His armor was tossed on the floor about him, parts polished and parts still scuffed and dirty from the road, a few of his knives and his silver sword still in their sheathes at his feet, too.

It was a little irksome, how randomly he’d decided to go about his polishing and cleaning, but Eskel really couldn’t micromanage the cleaning and upkeep of his weapons. At least he was doing it; that’s all that mattered.

“Need any help with that?” Didn’t mean he couldn’t offer. 

Lambert didn’t bite, though, a scowl showing just how unimpressed he was with Eskel’s deflection - even if it was a genuine offer. “Getting tired of you lurking out there every other day, so out with it. What do you want?” His eyes turned sharp for a second, stone pausing in its glide across the blade. “And this had better not have anything to do with the fucking cat, it’s fine, I’m fine, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Not about the fucking cat.” Eskel held up his hands in a placating manner, watching the tension instantly melt from Lambert when he did. Getting him to talk about his own issues was worse than pulling vampire teeth and he was really not in the mood for that. Not in the slightest. “I’ve got...well, my own shit to talk about.”

That caught Lambert’s interest, his face flashing in a complicated mess of emotion before it settled on something guarded. But Eskel knew him well enough to catch the hint of disbelief in his voice as he said, “Surprised you’re not waiting for Geralt then.”

Eskel shifted his weight to his right leg, actively making sure he didn’t look away. “No, this is something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“The fuck d’you think I did?”

“Not-” He was going to make a right mess of his hair at this rate, running his hands through it so much. “Not about you, Lambert, with you. Tell you something. Just...talking. If that’s alright.”

Lambert gestured towards a spare seat near Eskel with his sword, casual, as if both of them weren’t nervous now. It wasn’t like they never talked - they talked plenty, but serious conversations happened rarely if ever unless something was wrong. The last time they talked anything like this had been when Kaer Morhen had been ransacked, which had been so many years ago Eskel struggled to remember the exact amount.

He took the offered chair, slouching in it with his arms crossed and making himself as cozy as he could be. The heat from the fireplace was a bit too much for him now that the bite of winter was entirely gone; he’d always been the wolf that preferred the cold the most, or at least the one that could handle heat the least. It was one of the reasons he’d stayed here for so long to help Vesemir make the most out of the rubble and ashes, grumbling as much as the next over the snow but at least able to function in it.

The sound had returned. Scraping of stone against steel, a steady rhythm, one that helped steady Eskel’s heartbeat. It was mesmerizing in that way anything familiar and repetitive was, something that helped ground him when his mind wanted to panic with all of the ‘what ifs’ it could imagine. He was grateful for the otherwise quiet Lambert’s patience allowed them, though he knew it wouldn’t last, closing his eyes and breathing while he calmed his thoughts.

It wouldn’t be that hard. Couldn’t take that long. All he had to do was say it and it would be over with. Questions might come, hurt feelings might follow, but it would be done and they could move on. And better to do it before Lambert’s thin patience ran out on him.

“Lambert.” His mouth was a bit dry, words not coming easy to him. Eyes open now as he watched his brother’s hand glide across the flat of the blade resting in his lap, concentration written in the furrow of his brow but the twitch of his mouth told him Lambert was listening.

All he had to do was say it. That’s all. The rest would come after.

Stone against steel, grounding him. He breathed in as it ran down the blade, out as it reached the end and lifted once more. 

“I’m not a woman, Lamb.”

His eyes flicked down to the armor and weapons that lay at his brothers feet, heart picking up as it no longer had a rhythm to try and match. The fire crackled to his left, popping and hissing, one of the pieces of wood getting ready to fall in on itself any minute.

“What are you, then?”

“A man.” He licked his lips, eyes blinking faster than normal, his heart not letting him look up to see what might be on his brother’s face. What emotions might be flashing there, what response he might have, delaying it as long as possible.

“Kitty cat had a sister, you know?” Eskel’s stomach clenched at the word, his arms squeezing tighter around himself. “Not by blood, but by school, or however you’d call it - he called her sister, s’my point. I met her once when the bastard dragged me all the way down south to the coast, worst fucking decision of my life. The journey, not meeting her.”

Lambert’s deep breath is what made Eskel finally look up, seeing his brother’s face flushed, his jaw clenching in that way it always did when he was forced to deal with sticky things like delicate conversations or emotions.

“Maybe it’s not my fucking place to say it, but he told me and she knows I know it. Doubt you’ll ever meet her anyway, but she’s- ya know, not- she wasn’t always a woman? Or, she was, but didn’t live like one, dressed and talked and walked like a man.”

Oh. Eskel swallowed, sitting up a little more in his seat, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

“So, fuck, I get it. I mean, I don’t, I don’t get it, but I understand what you’re saying.” He huffed in frustration but Eskel knew him well enough to know what at; words had never been his strong suit. “Feel free to fucking deck me if I slip up. She certainly had no problem with that.”

“Knocked some sense into you?”

That earned him a grin, Lambert finally meeting his eyes again. “Bitch knew how to fight, too. Thought I might have been in love.”

“Surprised you didn’t stay then.”

“Turned out she’s gay, so.” Lambert shrugged, giving his sword a once over before reaching for the sheath that had been laying on the bed next to him. “Guess I’d be barking up the wrong tree on that one.”

“Have to stick with your own cat then.”

The humor flickered away for a moment, Lambert scowling as he placed his now sheathed sword down next to his armor. “Yeah, well. Yeah... Might have...fucked up a little bit on that one.” Before Eskel could say anything, Lambert’s head jerked to the side, his hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Can we just- can we not talk about that? I’d rather stick to the ‘supportive, loving, dashing, best brother’ thing.”

“Right, yeah. That’s fine.”

There was a pause between them, a tinge of awkwardness in the air as they both fidgeted, not entirely sure where to go from there. The fire fizzled and popped, sending some embers out that landed on the stone floor, thankfully no where close to anything that could catch fire. It was all that spoke in the room besides the sounds of their heartbeats and breathing.

Lambert was the one who broke first, something making his leg bounce where his arm rested on it. “You didn’t think, ya know, that I wouldn’t- that I’d, I don’t fucking know, not? Support you, I mean.”

“I...” Eskel swallowed hard, thinking. “I didn’t think you wouldn’t, Lamb, but I wasn’t sure how the conversation would go. Didn’t know if you’d think I had been hiding it or not telling you on purpose.”

“Fuck, like I’d have any room to talk.” He scowled as he bit one corner of his thumb, chewing at a hangnail for a second. “When have I ever talked to any of you about feelings or whatever.”

It was true, but Eskel knew better than to take it at face value. Lambert was sensitive in a way he loved to hide and pretend he wasn’t, but they all knew him better than that. 

But there was no reason to think on all the ways the conversation could have gone poorly. It hadn’t, the air was clear between them, everything (or most everything) out in the open. But the hurt hadn’t left Lambert’s face since Aiden had been mentioned, by name or not, and that had Eskel’s chest hurting again.

What had his foolish Lamb done this time, he wondered. 

There was no way Lambert would accept any sort of comfort, but as Eskel shifted in his seat some more, not quite yet feeling the relief he’d hoped he would after their conversation was over, he had an idea as to how they might get some together.

“Feel free to say no,” he started slow, staring down at his own fingers and picking the dirt out from underneath them. “But I, well. This has been a lot for me. Talking about this. You might if we maybe...hug? For a while?”

It was probably pushing it, to take on ‘for a while’, but Eskel honestly found himself hoping Lambert said yes even for himself. 

The scoff was a bit expected, but the lack of a verbal ‘no’ was good. He looked up to find Lambert on the edge of an answer, confliction written all over his face, his hands clasped together and that one leg bouncing away as he started at nothing.

“Fine,” was the only answer he got, and Eskel took it quickly. And maybe it was pushing it a bit further when he wrapped Lambert up into his chest instead of the other way around but Lambert didn’t try to get away, tucking up under his chin and eventually relaxing into his brother’s arms the way he hadn’t since they were little and the nightmares had been too much.

He wasn’t sure how long Lambert would allow him this, would allow them both the comfort of each other, but he relaxed into it and decided to savor the physical touch as a reminder of their familial love for each other. However long Lambert would let him, he’d stay just like this, with the fire crackling on and the two brother’s embracing each other, the smell of home around them.