#male identified person wearing heels/skirts/braids

[jasperswhumpjourney]

Hands: Doll

There was less focus on hands than I intended. We are going through a heatwave currently, can you tell? Also longer than I intended at 2792 words.

CW: Slavery, Whump, pet whump, caning of hands, caning, heatstroke, dehydration, stress positions, male identified person wearing heels/skirts/braids, female whumper, male whumpee, a/b/o dynamics,

Measuring the passage of time was not knowledge Jasper was privy to. He didn’t know how long he’d been in this position, only that it had been a long time. Long enough that his stretched out limbs and back were aching from the strain of it.

Not that that said much, as Jasper was constantly exhausted and aching.

This Mistress, his second owner, was very specific in her likes. Specific, but easy, theoretically. All Jasper ever had to do was stay in the positions and wear the clothes she placed him in. That was easy enough, right?

Then why did he always fail at it so thoroughly?

This position, however, was only made more difficult by the fact that she had hung things from his stretched out arms. Two thick winter coats, each heavy in their own right. He was a coat stand today, one that had to work to be attractive and pleasing. One that also, no matter what, could not let those coats touch the floor.

When he was first placed in the hallway, positioned with his arms in front of him and stretched out, the coats slung over the fists of his hands, it was dark. He knew that from the window he had passed on the way here, it had been dark outside when he started. However there were no windows in this hallway, and no way to even use that as an estimate.

It had been a long time though, it had to be. His arms were past aching, almost numb with how they were locked into place. His feet were similarly numb, unable to move them even to shift his weight, but in his back built a sharp ache that made it hard to breathe. The heels he wore were high, thin things, hard to balance on and and sending sharp pains up his legs after a while.

Jasper’s world was usually freezing cold, and a thick fur coat like that of the ones in front of him an unachievable hope. Now however, he was too hot. Sweat dripped from his body. Precious moisture that would be difficult to replace. The warmth in the room was only exacerbated by the thick fur covering most of Jasper’s arms. The lace of the petticoat he wore itched, and the layers of ruffles only made all this worse. Mistress had allowed his hair to grow out recently, and the ends of his braided curls tickled his neck.

His tongue stuck in his mouth, dry and gritty, and his head swam. His starving stomach, for once, wasn’t the forefront of his attention, squeezing and making its emptiness known. It was the thirst and the ache and the determination to be good. To be pleasing.

Very rarely it happened; where he was able to obey his Mistress’ demands until the end. Those times ended with simple, brief praise. The most precious thing he could receive, the greatest reward. It was something he craved over water (what he wouldn’t do for a simple mouthful of water right then!), food, or even relief from this stressful predicament.

Somehow he had missed the sound of her approach. She always wore beautiful shoes that would make pleasing clicking sounds on the floor as she walked. Beautiful heels, but never anything like the ones she put on Jasper’s feet.

Mistress was already in front of him when he realised she was approaching. It startled him, but he was too frozen in his position to react with more than a widening of his eyes. His heart sped up, not with fear, but relief and excitement. She was back! She was here! Not only that, but this had to mean this was over. He had succeeded in pleasing her! Maybe she’d bestow him with a kind word before allowing him to rest.

He wasn’t sure what all she’d do, in his time as her pet doll he had only been successful twice before, only to almost immediately ruin it the next day. A kind word. Water. Rest. It was too much to hope for all three, but maybe one of them?

Instead of addressing Jasper, Mistress touched a coat covered fist and slowly pushed it to his side. His right arm was straight out still, horizontal, but now to his side instead of in front of him. The movement sent shocks up his shoulder and he couldn’t help the slight tremble that broke out while he tried to lock his arm in the new position. Before he was fully adjusted, she did the same thing with his left arm.

Jasper almost dropped the coats.

The new position burned his muscles and made them shake precariously. The disappointment was a heavy weight too. He wasn’t done. He hasn’t been successful. Yet. He hoped at least.

Only barely, did Jasper manage to keep his arms up and balanced enough to keep the long coats from touching the floor. Once his position steadied and his arms locked again, Mistress walked away again without a word.

He wouldn’t be able to last the same amount of time he had before. Not without rest and this new change in position. Knowing her, this is what she would expect. Jasper’s eyes itched with the want to cry, but were unable to produce the moisture to do so. He was going to fail. Again. And there was nothing he could do about it, but try his absolute best to obey until the very last moment.

At one point, Jasper stopped sweating. To him, it was a relief. No more loss of water, no more drops tickling his legs and coming close to making him fail. The way his head pounded and he suddenly felt himself sway, was not. Nausea built up quickly, and before he knew it, his stomach heaved uncontrollably. Miraculously, the coats only barely brushed the floor before he was able to regain control of himself. It didn’t matter, however. The coats touched the floor. He had failed and he would be punished after this.

It would be worse, however, if he gave up then. Jasper was determined to not fail again, to not dirty Mistress’ coats further.

--

Jasper woke with a violent start.

The world was heat and painful pounding wracking through his existence. He couldn’t really feel his body, not in any specific way. Just that the pain and the heat were overwhelming. It was a struggle to breathe in the thick, humid air.

This horrible heat almost made him grateful for the times when he was cold and shivering, even though they were both truly terrible experiences. The cold would still burn his lungs, making it hard to breathe, but the thick air felt like he was being smothered.

The next thing Jasper realised was that he was on the floor. He felt the brush of soft fur from the coats in a heap next to him, and it all came flooding back. He wasn’t supposed to be lazy and sleep on the floor, he was supposed to be good and hold Mistress’ coats up to keep them clean!

Jasper tried to push himself up onto his feet so he could try and salvage the situation. However when he tried, he found he was too weak to do so. Just moving his limbs at all felt heavy and threatened him with unconsciousness. He only stopped trying when his stomach heaved violently again. Nothing came up, there was nothing to come up, but it was painful and sapped what little precious energy Jasper had left over.

That was how Mistress found him. Unable to even grovel at her feet properly, though that didn’t prevent him from trying. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t see further up than her knees, he knew she was displeased with him. There would be no rest, no water, no relief.

“What a useless coat stand you are,” Mistress commented, lifting her foot to give him the opportunity to kiss and apologize to her respectfully. Jasper didn’t hesitate, appreciating her kindness greatly. He pressed desperate kisses to her shoes, pink sensible heels that had to be more comfortable than the thin stilettos he wore.

The world was wobbly and tried to spin around him, tried to make him fail at even apologizing to Mistress for the disrespect. He sobbed tearlessly, desperate to apologize and make it right.

--

Jasper didn’t feel time pass, but it seemed a moment later Mistress was yelling at him. He missed something — missed what had caused her to switch from letting him apologize — to her shrill voice tearing into him.

The world was still violently swaying and trying to spin, and he was so, so confused by what was going on around him. Jasper didn’t know what he could do to mollify her sudden anger. He couldn’t even understand the words she was hurling at him, they were muffled and warped.

The world went blank again, refusing to settle or stay in any one place. The desperate struggle for air, the overwhelming nausea, the heat; that’s all his existence was.

A sharp taste filled his mouth and Jasper felt his chest loosen, just a slight amount. His lips were pressed around a clear blue plastic tube. He didn’t struggle, not even when the bitter metallic taste filled his mouth again. By the time the tube was pulled away Jasper was able to take in air easier, his head much clearer, though the nausea was still an overwhelming pressure.

“... useless… keep alive… expensive…” Mistress’ words were fading in and out, but the anger and contempt in them were obvious. As the world came back to him, he could pick through more and more of what she was saying, and could piece together what happened a bit better.

Jasper hadn’t been able to breathe, and he had been allowed use of his inhaler. Not only that, but Mistress had administered the medicine herself, instead of leaving Jasper to gasp uselessly. A true kindness, especially after he had failed her and dirtied her things. He knew the medicine was expensive, and he knew he wasn’t worth the cost of it. It was by his Alpha’s grace that he continued to breathe.

“... disappointing fuckpet. Are you awake yet?” He saw her hand move and felt the sting on his cheek, but it took several moments for Jasper to realise that Mistress had slapped him.

“Y-yes M-mistress,” his voice was rough and broke; Jasper’s mouth and throat had been dry before, but the layer of medicine only made things worse. He was sitting up, leaned against one of the hallway walls, and Mistress was in front of him, standing over him.

Mistress looked livid, and Jasper couldn’t blame her! She hadn’t given him a hard task, and yet he not only failed, he’d slept and used up expensive medicine in his attempt. His failure was so crushing, he couldn’t help but let out a whine and force himself to kneel in front of her, face pressed to the floor. He didn’t know what words made it out of his mouth, let alone which were understandable through his dry throat.

It was clear his message had gotten across — penitence, please please punish me, let me atone — when her fingers sank into his braided curls and dragged him up and along in the direction she wanted. His knees, bruised already, scraped and bumped painfully against the flooring as she dragged him.

The plush chair in the hallway was mostly decorative. It went with the art on the wall, the fancy wallpaper, and the rich wood flooring. It was a rich red, with golden embroidered threads in an intricate pattern. Jasper was hopeful of what this meant, that his Mistress would sit in the chair and spank him as he lay across her lap. He could handle that punishment. He certainly couldn’t touch such a fine thing with how dirty he was, crawling on the floor and covered in salty dried sweat.

A spanking he could handle, but the thin cane that was leant against the chair… that would be harder. He couldn’t help the noise that escaped his throat when he saw it, the polished wood gleaming maliciously.

Instead of sitting down in the plush chair herself, Mistress pulled Jasper around it so that the thick arm of the chair was in front of his face. She grabbed his hands and pulled them so that his arms rested on the rich fabric, his palms up and hovering over the seat of the chair. When she moved away he knew better than to move from where he was placed, but without her support his trembling became obvious.

This wasn’t good. Her plan was becoming clear, and Jasper didn’t know how he would survive it.

“Last chance, omega.” Jasper froze and ducked his head, ice cold anxiety flooding through him. She didn’t like calling him that, much preferring to call him Doll. “Do. Not. Move.”

Jasper’s arms were already aching and tired, and the support of the chair helped him stabilize the tremors of both fear and fatigue. He had just managed to still them when the cane drove an angry line of fire across both palms. It was a desperate struggle to keep them in place, to fight the instinct to pull away from such pain.

There wasn’t a chance to recover between strikes. The next came down again across his palms, but in a different place. He couldn’t move, this was his last chance to be good! It was so difficult to keep his hands in place.

Mistress’ initial focus were his hands, laying painful welts across his palms. Not only was it unbearably painful, but it was hard to maintain the position with his hands hovering above the seat. Red lines cut through Jasper’s palms, occasionally overlapping. Blood surfaced to each welt, just under skin threatening to split.

The first strike of the cane that didn’t crack across his palms was a surprise. Jasper didn’t flinch, locked into place and trying his best not to move any muscle, let alone his aching arms. It did throw him off; the choked off cry was glaring evidence of that.

However, as she focused attention on his forearms, that was a whole different pain. There was support, and it would be harder to lose his position; Jasper was grateful for these mercies. The force she brought the cane down on his forearms was more aggressive, the “whump” of the cane hitting the thick cotton of the embroidered chair was intense.

It didn’t end there, Mistress traveling down Jasper’s forearms to his palms, and back up again. It didn’t end until Jasper was a sobbing mess, still tearless from the lack of water. Several of the welts on his palms and inside his wrists had broken open and were sluggishly bleeding, threatening to stain the delicate embroidery. Jasper couldn’t move, he hadn’t been given permission, couldn’t do anything but feel the warm blood slowly slide down the sides of his arms.

The cane came down again, but this time it rested on Jasper’s trembling palms and didn’t move. It was a thin, light thing that Jasper barely felt but had to work hard to balance and not drop from his trembling.

“When I come back,” Mistress started, pulling his hair until he could see her face, how serious she was. “You better not have dropped this. If you are very good,” Jasper couldn’t help the small intake of breath at this. He would be good! “I’ll allow you to be my towel rack for my morning bath.”

Mistress’ eyes were a clear blue and gleaming, a soft smile on her lips. Jasper imagined what a reward being her towel rack would be, how pleased she would be with him to allow him this. Especially after he had utterly failed at keeping her coats clean.

Jasper’s hair was tugged on, pulling his head up further but not so much that the position became impossible. To his absolute surprise, a bottle of water was held to his lips and a small amount allowed to pool in his mouth. Mistress allowed him a few small sips, enough to wet his tongue and slightly ease the ache of thirst, before pushing his head back down to stare at his bleeding palms. The water that remained in the bottle was poured over his head, and he wished desperately he could thank her for the kindness. The drops were cool as they soaked into his hair and ran down his body before evaporating.

Jasper stayed where he was placed, listening to her walk away and determined to make her proud even as his head spun and his blood seeped into the arm of the chair.

Masterlist

[yikesharringrove]

what do you think about a crossdressing Steve? Maybe he started just liking the soft fabrics of his mom's clothes but then he started wearing them as a way to attempt to hold on to the feigned affection she gave him. Eventually he just got his own stuff because they helped him feel calmer, softer. He would only ever put them on when he believed he would be alone for a while to cook or do chores... And then one day Billy comes over. Do with it what you will.

So, maybe you wanted smut, but non-binary femme presenting Steve is a ridiculously big headcanon I have that I have talked about with several folks and will be included in the next big fic I roll out, so this is some Soft Shit bc I wanted an excuse to write Steve as non-binary femme presenting.

For some drag queen Steve, I got a little thing here.

This exact kinda character study of sorts has actually been in my drafts for like, a month, so I’ve incorporated some of it into this. It's modern, and there is some language that may be harmful, so PLEASE be careful with yourselves, no slurs or anything along those lines, just ignorant stuff. Also, this really went off the rails at the end, I’m Sorry.

Thank you for sending an ask!

Read on ao3!

When Steve was a little kid, he always preferred playing with the girls.

They would have clothes for dress-up, princess dresses, and pirate costumes, anything any child could want. They had wigs, makeup, crowns. Little girls also had babydolls, little pretend kitchens he would play in, plastic baby bouncing at his hip.

When his nanny would come to pick him up from Carol’s house, she would have wipes in the car, to clean off his face. Your father will be very disappointed if he sees you playing with girls’ things again, Steven. He learned very quickly that playing dress-up, wanting to be Mommy when playing house, those are not things little boys did.

He remembers fighting with his parents, when they found the little plastic case of goopy lipglosses Carol had let him keep. He was seven years old and was crying, had screamed as loud as he could that if little boys weren’t allowed to play with makeup, then maybe I don’t want to be a boy.

When his parents started leaving him more often, their absences growing longer the older he got, he began going into his mother’s things, trying on her clothes. He was twelve when he first learned that women’s clothes were made of finer materials, were softer, felt like butter against his skin. He was thirteen and would slip into designer dresses each night, learning makeup from YouTube tutorials, practicing with things left in his mother’s vanity and whatever he could discreetly put in his pockets at Meldvald’s.

He got pretty good. Good enough that at sixteen, he wanted more, would go to stores in Indianapolis, would spend his allowance on dresses, skirts, blouses, frilly little things that fit, that made him feel good, correct.

The first time he put on a pair of lacy panties, he almost cried. the material was soft, the cotton tight and nice against him, the delicate lace trimming the waist and legs was pretty. Steve realized, all he ever wants to be in his life is pretty.

He began thinking of himself as a girl, a young woman. He would tuck his dick back, make the space between his legs flat, let his hair grow out more, long enough to braid, to pin with floral clips.

He started dressing up, going out. Finding bars that would let him in if he batted his false eyelashes just so, would overlook his obviously fake I.D. so that he could go in, talk to men that were too old for him, too interested in his doe eyes, his soft cheeks, men that would buy him drinks, fuck him in the back seats of their cars, whisper about how pretty he looked, men that would touch his cock and coo that his pussy was so tight.

He found he didn’t like that but would grit his teeth, didn’t understand why wearing women’s clothes felt so right but the idea of having a women’s body felt wrong. He didn’t get why he felt the most himself, the most comfortable with his dick tucked up in lace panties, but the minute a man told him he was a good girl he felt sick. 

When he was seventeen, he stopped going out, stopped dressing up. He had Nancy now, a beautiful young woman who wanted a nice, regular young man. He almost told her, almost told her so many times, but then she was drunk, slurring in his face that he was bullshit, that he was fake, like he didn’t already know.

So he kept to himself, started dressing up again, putting on a full face, a delicate outfit the minute he got home. He would dance around while cooking diner, would float around the house in heels and sweeping dresses. They made him feel better, feel good. He would dress up on particularly bad days, would wear his most beautiful pieces when he got poor grades, when his father told him he was a disappointment over the phone. He had been informed today by his English teacher she had assigned him a tutor.

So he had blinked back tears while blending eyeshadow, had put on his prettiest dress, a pretty dark green number, the fabric light, delicate feminine. He was ready to wallow in self-pity and makeup when there was a knock on the door, followed by the voice of his something-like-a-friend Billy Hargrove, announcing with a laugh that you should REALLY start lockin’ your front door, Harrington. Wouldn’t want someone UNSAVORY comin’ in.

Steve was frozen in the kitchen, his best-kept secret all over his face, his body. Billy didn’t even blink twice when he saw Steve, asked what’s cookin’? while leaning over the stove. Steve’s eyes were screwed shut, breathing fast when Billy looked back, took Steve’s shoulder lightly in his hands said, you need to breathe, Sweet Thing, take it slow, match me. He rubbed gently down Steve’s arms, his eyes clear blue when Steve was able to open his own teary ones.

“Billy, you need to swear to me you won’t tell, you, I, people can’t know. They’ll, I mean, I know I’m a fucking freak but no one-”

“Whoa, who said you’re a freak?” Billy’s eyes were sharp.

“Look at me, Billy. I’m, I don’t know what I am. Sometimes, sometimes I wish that I was a girl, but, but something about that feels just, bad, but, but being a fucking boy feels like shit too, and I just,” he was sobbing, loudly and openly, knew his dark liner was no doubt streaming down his face.

“Hey, that’s okay, Honey, you don’t have to know. You just have to feel good.” He led Steve in a few more breaths. “It’s not black and white, you don’t have to be one or the other. You can just be you. Can be Steve, if you want.”

“What-I don’t understand.”

“Well, you don’t feel right as a boy, but you feel just as not right as a girl. There’s more than that. You have more options.” He turned off the stove, led Steve to his bag, whipping out a laptop covered in worn stickers. “So basically, there’re a whole bunch of genders.” He pulled up an infographic on his screen, a color-coded mess of columns and descriptions. “There’s way more than man and woman. There are people who are non-binary, don’t adhere to the idea of two genders. Sometimes non-binary people identify as another gender, a third gender, sometimes they identify as a mixture of identities. Agender people often identify as having no gender at all. genderfluid people tend to fluctuate between identities, can feel agender one day, the next feel like a man, it all depends on the person.” He looked at Steve, hand gentle on his arm. “And none of it’s wrong. There’s no correct way to be a human. And they each are up to interpretation. There are people who identify as agender but choose to present a certain way, there are people who identify as male but choose to present androgynous, there’s no one way to do it.”

“So if I, if I feel good like this,” Steve gestured to the dress, the smeared makeup. “I can still be, a guy, like I can just be a guy that likes to look like a girl.”

“If that feels best to you. Like I said, you don’t have to  be a guy, just because that’s what you were assigned at birth.”

“What do you mean? ‘Assigned at birth’?”

“That means the gender that’s on your birth certificate. It’s just a better way of saying like, male-bodied, since that can be, kinda shitty for people. And like, what even is a male body, you know?”

“You’re getting a little introspective for me here, Bill.”

“Basically, just because you were born with a dick and a doctor was like, it’s a boy, doesn’t mean you have to be a boy that likes looking like a girl, or whatever you said. That’s a perfectly valid way to be, a femme presenting guy, don’t get me wrong, but earlier you said you didn’t feel right as a boy, and I just don’t want you to back yourself into a corner.” Steve blinked.

“Yeah, I think, I think you’re right. I don’t, I’m not a guy. I don’t think.”

“You do not have to know right now. You literally just learned about this, you don’t have to like immediately make a choice. Take some time. Try different labels, try different pronouns, try no labels, see what feels best.” He smiled, looking at Steve softly. “If you want to, I can, like, help you. If you, if you think of something you want to try, it may be nice to, like, hear it from someone else.”

“What was, what was the one that was like, sometimes people identify as like, another gender?” Billy typed away, pulling up a new article.

“I think you mean non-binary. It’s more of an umbrella term to some people, they find more leeway in it.” He scrolled down, pointing at a list of pronouns. “So, some people who identify as non-binary also use alternative pronouns, things like they or ze, which is a way for them to be referred to outside of the gender binary.” Steve’s mind was racing. He tested the words on his tongue, thinking ze, sie, hir to himself, to, themself?

“But if I identify, as, as non-binary, or something, can I still, like, dress like this?”

“Of course. Identity and expression are two different things. To some, they go hand-in-hand, but to others, they can be totally separate.”

“I think, as of right now I think non-binary is okay.” Billy beamed.

“Okay! You don’t have to decide right now, and some folks never decide, they spend their lives flowing through different ways to identify and express themselves, and again, that’s totally fuckin’ okay. Nothing has to magically click into place for you. You can experiment.”

“Can I, can we experiment with, with they. I kinda, it kinda makes sense.” Billy just kept grinning, his smile huge and beautiful.

“Yes, I can do that.” But his face fell, “But I, I mean, this is fuckin’ Hawkins, and I don't’ know, I mean, is it, like safe?” Steve felt like their heart was breaking.

“No, it’s, I don’t think it is, I mean, there haven’t been like incidents but also, we don’t have a lot of people that are, like, openly different.” Billy’s brow was drawn.

“I can, I can call you whatever you want just the two of us, but, I don’t want to like, out you-”

“You can, you can say he was it’s, when it’s other people. I don’t, I don’t want this to get back to my dad, or anything.” Billy’s eyes were sharp.

“I can do that, I can protect you, like that.” He was nodding vigorously. “I just, I wanted to be on the same page, didn’t want to be like misgendering you behind your back and make you feel like shit.”

“You have my express permission to, uh, misgender me, or whatever you just said.” Steve sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “I just gotta get outta this fuckin’ town, man. Then I’ll be good. Live my little queer life outside of the shitty bar outside of town.” Billy laughed.

“You go there?”

“I used to, when I was first kinda, questioning myself. Used to let guys fuck me and call me, like, their pretty little slut or whatever. Not my finest moments.”

“Christ, Stevie. That’s some deep shit. I went once when I first got into town, and some guy was like, I wanna hear you screaming ‘Daddy’ for me and I was like, nope. No thank you to That.” Steve laughed with him.

“I’m pretty sure I did let that guy fuck me. Bily groaned.

“Stevie, no. Don’t call random men Daddy.”

“I’m not gonna lie to you, Bill, I got a lot of daddy issues.”

“Yeah, me too, but not that many.”

“Just enough to be called Daddy, then?” Billy went red, dropped his eyes from Steve as they cackled. “Hit the nail on the fuckin’ head then, didn’t I?”

“Whatever, you little asshole. Let’s just fuckin’ get on with your English homework that is why I’m here after all. Go grab your books.” Steve grinned, leaning in close to Billy.

“Okay, Daddy,” they purred, racing off up the stairs laughing loudly, hearing Billy cursing them out from the kitchen.

[actuallyrandomperson]

I wanna ramble about how I experience dysphoria as a genderfluid person for a bit, and my identity in general, so I figured Tumblr was a good place to do it.

So, for starters, I should probably clarify how I'm fluid, as all of us are a little different in how we experience gender. I was assigned female at birth, and, to be completely honest, I wish I was amab. This shocks some people, especially as I tend to sit on the female/demigirl/nonbinary side of things, but it's true. Realistically, I know my life would be a lot different if I had been, and I would have experienced a different set of struggles, but in an idealistic world, where nothing would change about me except the way my body looked and what pronouns were used for me, I'd want to be assigned male. I could not care less what genitals I have, especially since I'm ace so it has no real effect on how I'm gonna live my life, this relates back to the two other most obvious issues with being afab: Periods, and boobs.

I hate getting my period. As most people do. I don't even have particularly painful ones, just some semi-bad cramps on the first day or two, but I hate it anyway. 9 times out of 10 I'm non-binary on the first day of my period. Whether that's related to hormone levels or some subconscious part of my brain whispering "hey periods suck being a girl sucks why were u born a girl", I do not know. I just know it happens.

I also hate my boobs whenever I'm not female. Including when I'm demigirl. I don't hate the idea of boobs in general when I'm demigirl, and don’t think I need to be completely flat-chested to feel happy when I’m non-binary (but that could come back to me doubting I’ll get fully flat without surgery), I just hate my boobs. That is because I am incredibly busty, especially for someone who is 5'1/155 cm tall. I'm an Aus 10G/US 32I, I have small shoulders (my straps slip down no matter how tight we pull them), and a large part of what made figuring out my gender identity hell was the constant question of whether me hating my boobs was an ace thing (not wanting to be constantly sexualised) or a gender thing. My best fitting bra actually helped me figure that out, as reportedly it made me look smaller (i.e. technically less likely to be sexualised) but it had the side benefit of making my boobs, well, actually look like boobs, and when I looked at myself in the mirror I wanted to claw my eyes out. So. 90% of the time I hate my boobs because they're so big, and 100% of the time I hate my period.

You might be sitting here, reading this, and going "but Em, are you sure you're genderfluid? Not just demigirl or nonbinary or agender or any of the other non-binary identities?" My answer to that is, well, sorta no. And sorta yes. No, in the fact that I've never been sure about anything in my life. Maybe time will go on, and I'll begin to identify with some other label, or no labels at all. Yes, in the fact that genderfluid feels right right now, and that's all that matters. Humans change. In turn, labels can change too. Hell, as a genderfluid person, my labels technically change on almost a day to day basis! That doesn't make my feelings and my identity at any single moment any less valid. It also doesn't mean that long term, I'll wake up one day and realise that I actually just identify with x gender. It just means that it could happen, and that’s ok, just as it's okay that my identity is changing constantly at the moment. Side note, while we're talking about labels- you also don't need to identify with one! I personally like to use them, as they bring me comfort, but everyone is different, and y'all who choose not to use labels for whatever reasons are entirely valid.

I have 4 main types of day, gender-wise. Days where I feel like a girl, days where I feel kinda like a girl, days where I feel non-binary, and days where my gender is that 'women' shrugging emoji (that I use all the time because long hair babeyyyy also their shirt is purple on iOS and purple rules). Day 4 I mostly lump under demigirl, as with day 2. Day 3 could probably be most accurately described with agender, or a similar identity label, but I find it personally easiest to just refer to myself as non-binary on said days.

In a hard to explain way, I feel as though I experience less dysphoria on days where I am demigirl than on days where I am fully female. This is not entirely accurate, and is almost certainly as a result of me having unintentionally put in place coping mechanisms for said days in terms of how I present myself for years now, and probably isn’t the right terms for me to use, but it's true.

You see, I dress in a fairly gender-neutral way. My presentation has still always come off as feminine, as I love my long hair and enjoy nail polish, but I've always hated shaving, and I avoid wearing dresses and skirts as much as possible in my day-to-day. I don't mind wearing dresses etc when I'm demigirl, I just don't gravitate towards them, and when I'm demigirl I generally present as a not-overly feminine girl whose a little uncomfortable with their body shape and likes to be comfy, and wears heels in an effort to be taller rather than as a fashion statement.

But when I'm fully a girl, I often love being feminine. I usually want to wear dresses/skirts, and jewellery, and lipstick (not any other makeup though, years of dance and stage makeup ruined me- if someone puts it on for me and it's not heavy/powdery I'm not actively adverse, though), and have my hair braided, and generally just to Get Prettied Up. But that’s not 'me' to other people. That’s not the person I've presented myself as for years. I've spent my entire life catering to my demigirl and non-binary days because they're more common, and whenever I do lean into my feminine self on girl days my family and a lot of my friends are kinda surprised. I wore lipstick and nice clothes to two separate movie hangouts with two different friends, and one of them (who I hadn't seen in a while, to be fair) commented on how it was unusual for me while the other looked visibly surprised. It's not a coincidence that the two irl people I'm out to outside of my schools lgbt+ club are my brother and my best friend- both of whom complimented me (in a non-creepy way with my brother slvjfk) when they saw me wear lipstick for simple things last year, without making a big deal out of it. My mum still acts shocked and gets excited about me being feminine when I express an interest into buying clothes from a particular brand (Princess Highway/Dangerfield in general, for my fellow Aussies, as I don’t think they exist in the US) even though I've been getting presents from there for a few years now. She's talked about slowly starting to replace my clothes with 'fashionable stuff' from places like Dangerfield as the years go on now that I've 'expressed an interest in nice clothes' and I feel anxiety start to ball up in my stomach, because I don't want to wear fashionable clothes all the time, because fashionable for me, closeted and big-chested as I am, means feminine. When I present or show interest in presenting in a more feminine way on my female days, my mother and a few people I'm surrounded by unintentionally make me feel guilty about not wishing to present like that all the time, make my dysphoric for my future and past self, and make me doubt myself as a genderfluid person because I wish to present as my birth gender on one day.

So rather than dealing with all that, I don't present in a more feminine way unless I'm going out, and even then, avoid wearing lipstick if my mum is home, or coming with me. If I can, I'll stick a tube into my bag to apply when I get to wherever I'm going, but it's not always possible. I have Safiya Nygaard’s colourpop collection hidden away in my room. I continue to present myself in a way that aligns more closely in my mind to my demigirl days, with the slight change of being able to actually look at myself in the mirror for extended periods of time, being ok with my slightly more tight-fitting tops, and being chill with wearing my best bra. And I feel, as a whole, dysphoric on these days. I am not happy with how my gender presentation is, because it does not reflect how I want to present. Dysphoria is probably not the exact right term to use to describe these feelings, given I'm afab but it is the easiest way for me to put it, as it most closely reflects the unhappiness I feel with my presentation on my non-binary days, it's just my non-binary days come with a whole lot more body-related dysphoria piled on top. A song I like to listen to on female days is Platform Ballerinas, by MIKA, as it helps remind me that I am a girl, and the way I'm presenting as a girl is valid even if it's not exactly how I want to (it doesn't actually fully come back to societal expectations placed on women because I might shave my armpits but my leg hair still stays, and I genuinely want to get prettied up rather than feeling like I should to be seen as a girl, it's just something I want to do and not being able to makes me feel whack, but the song is definitely more focused on the whole 'societal expectations suck y'all are all valid' thing).

Non-binary days suck in the same way I've heard a lot of trans people of all varieties discuss. I hate walking past mirrors, if I have to wear feminine clothing for whatever reason I feel like I'm going to cry, she/her pronouns kinda make me want to die (generally I'm chill with she/they, and on female days they/them is okay, but she/her on nonbinary days makes my dysphoric as hell), and I generally Do Not Have A Great Time dysphoria wise. But hey, one day I’ll have enough money for a binder. Eventually. I always feel weird about entering giveaways given there are people who experience extreme dysphoria around their chest every day, I can deal on my demigirl days and survive on my non-binary ones.

So, that’s been me rambling into the void about gender for almost 2000 words, how are y’all doing? Also, if anyone actually read all of this I’d appreciate like,,, a like. Or something. I kinda want to know if people have actually seen and read this.

[the-zodiacs-written-in-the-stars]

Chapter 12: Elizabeth Liddell

Lizzy's mornings always began early. Far earlier than her fiance's. Then again, Rick's morning routine consisted of splashing water into his face and instantly looking handsome. Unfair.

Before rolling out of bed, Lizzy kissed Rick's cheek briefly. He grumbled in his sleep and rolled together. It made Lizzy smile softly. He was just the cutest. With a skip in her steps did she make her way to the bathroom. Her morning routine was a little longer by now. But that was the cost for having all of that hair. Sometimes – a lot of times – did she envy Jessie. White girls just had it easier with their hair. Sometimes, Jessie didn't even brush it.

Once in front of the mirror, Lizzy paused for a moment and looked at herself. Well no, that sounded too envious. She did love her hair, most of the times at least. By now. It had been a struggle to come to love her hair, but it had been her choice to put up with the hair care routine, regardless of how long it took. Because this was her hair and she was done with having other people tell her what to do with it or make her feel ashamed of it.

When she had been a little girl, she had truly hated it. Oh, that precious little black girl with her poofy, fluffy hair! White people liked to pet and poke it like she was some damn poodle. And what small child would be brave enough to speak up?

So when she grew older, she knew she wanted to get rid of it. And as a teen, she shaved it all off.

Then she got shit from people for looking like a boy. Just because she was tall – had always been tall. She was a tall woman, towering over even most of the men in her life. Tall and, as an early teen also unfortunately flat, and with her hair shaved off, she had been mocked a lot. Called a boy, or treated like she wasn't girl enough.

So she grew it out again. And she tried different hair-styles. Had her mother braid her cornrows, only to have people tease her about it all over again. At least she had filled out by then though, both around the hips and the chest. So no one was mockingly calling her a boy anymore. Still, whether she tried to look girly or tried to be comfortable, someone always had something to say.

That was when she had decided that she was done. She was done having others make her feel like she had to look a certain way. If they couldn't handle her, then that was their problem. Which was easier said than done and some days, she couldn't even convince herself of it. It was hard loving yourself when someone else always had something to complain about. And people always had something to complain about with a black girl. She didn't smile enough, she should do something different with her hair, her skin was either too light or too dark depending on the dipshit talking to her. It was frustrating and it made her want to scream into the void sometimes.

It was also a huge part of why she loved Rick so much. Detective Ricardo Alfaro.

The two of them had met four years ago, when the pack then officer and his partner Mike Maguire had come to the coffee-shop that Lizzy's sister owned. And basically from day one, Rick had treated her like a goddess. He had been smitten from the first moment he had laid eyes on her.

At first, it had made her a little uncomfortable, because he was quite overwhelming. But as soon as he noticed that, he backed off. He wasn't just... loud and overwhelming, he was also quite charming and considerate. He was the cutest and sweetest person Lizzy had ever met, so after a few weeks of flirting, she caved and figured that one date might not hurt. That had been four years ago now.

Her life had changed quite some since he had entered it. She had worked her way up at the company – back when they had started dating, she had still been working at her sister's coffee-shop. She had been studying graphic design, while working and living with her older sister.

Laureen had been the first Liddell to leave New Orleans. Eighteen years ago, she had left for Los Angeles to open her bakery slash coffee-shop. That had always been her dream. She was the oldest of the Liddell children and Lizzy, even though she would never admit it aloud to her sister, had always admired Laureen. She had always been stubborn and found a way to get what she wanted.

So on the day Lizzy turned eighteen, she packed her things and followed Laureen to Los Angeles. Their parents had, admittedly, not been the hugest fans of that. But she promised to stay with Laureen and that seemed to appease them. It had been a bit obnoxious to live with Laureen and to work for her. But Laureen had been very supportive and Lizzy honestly didn't know how well she would have done with college if she would have also had to worry about an apartment.

After college graduation, she applied for her dream job. Didn't get that, but at least an entrance position at the company. The Gold Standard. The greatest company in advertisement in all of North America. They truly were the gold standard in what they did and for Lizzy, who had always been mesmerized by advertisements on TV, it was a dream come true.

And over the past three years, she had worked her way up from the mundane background animations to actually leading her own projects. She had become well-respected in the Gold Standard and beyond that, she had made friends there. She loved her work.

She loved her work, she loved her friends, she loved her fiance and their apartment.

Life was good. Dare she say, it was basically perfect. Even when there were hiccups, even when there were bad days, it was still overall too good to be true, really.

Once done with her hair, Lizzy changed into a dark orange top and a long, yellowish orange skirt. She always loved orange. It was a bright, warm and happy color. Good things were orange. Oranges, the sun when it was setting, the prettiest flowers were the orange ones.

Straightening her skirt a last time and pushing her boobs up just right, she then went on to work on her make-up. The finishing touch. And when it was all perfect, she headed out of the bathroom.

“Lizabella, mi amor. You look stunning as always.” [Spanish trans: my love]

Lizzy smiled faintly as she found Ricky in the kitchen making pancakes. Approaching him, she tilted her head down to kiss him softly. The way he looked at her, like she was not just the most beautiful woman alive but also the very center of his world.

“You're making... pancakes for a whole army”, noted Lizzy amused.

“Oh, I am expecting your girls to come and pick you up and they are like starving wolves.”

Lizzy huffed at that, though she knew she couldn't disagree with that. “Well, you know them. They always go to the gym at five for two hours. You'd be able to eat like that too after two hours of exercise before breakfast, babe.”

“We could... test that theory”, suggested Rick with a sneaky grin.

“Perv”, huffed Lizzy and shook her head. “They'll be here in ten. And you and me both know that you can't do it in under ten. You're far too... mh...”

She sighed and fanned herself with a hand, prompting Rick to laugh. Like clockwork did the doorbell ring exactly when anticipated. They were always on time. Alina Preston, Noxia Black and Joss Parker. Three of Lizzy's best friends and also her co-workers. Alina was, just like Lizzy, in graphic design, while Noxia was a professional photographer exclusively working for the Gold Standard. And Joss was the personal assistant to Miss Sonia Gold, head and founder of the Gold Standard. They had first met and started bonding in the company's gym – a place for breaks, for blowing off steam, the exercise you really needed when working in a seated position all day.

Though Alina, Noxia and Joss had always taken it more serious than Lizzy. For Lizzy, it was just basic exercise, but both Alina and Joss engaged in kickboxing.

“You're looking chipper, girl”, noted Alina with a smile as she hugged Lizzy.

Alina might honestly be the most gorgeous woman Lizzy had ever known and sometimes it startled her that the other rather worked behind a screen than in front of a camera. But she was a total geek who loved programming even more than graphic designs, though she was still an artist at heart.

“Ricky made pancakes”, declared Lizzy with a smile.

“I love that man”, groaned Noxia and inhaled deeply. “If you won't marry him, I will.”

“You're a lesbian, Nox”, called Alina out loudly. “You are a huge lesbian and he is a... well, not a huge man but a man nonetheless.”

“No height digs or you do not get any pancakes, Alina Preston”, grunted Rick offended.

“Right, right. Lesbian”, nodded Noxia. “Say, don't you have a sister?”

“No sisters. Two obnoxious brothers”, offered Rick amused.

“Cousins then?”, asked Noxia. “I'd take them too.”

“Mh, bit too young for you, I'm afraid. Cleo's fourteen”, pointed Rick out.

Noxia heaved a long-suffering sigh and grabbed a plate of pancakes. Alina rolled her eyes and went to raid the fridge for some orange juice. Lizzy all the while checked in with Joss for the day.

“So, how are we feeling today?”, inquired Lizzy.

“You're so awkward, Liz”, sighed Joss, though with an edge of fondness. “Today's a girl-day.”

Lizzy nodded, with maybe a small sheepish grin. She had never been friends with someone who identified as genderfluid before. And while Joss usually broadcasted it in the way she presented herself – skirts and high-heels to the blazer, versus vests and pants and polished flats, but whatever gender she felt like that day, it was always a highly professional look – sometimes, the clothes, hair and make-up were not as indicative. Occasionally, Joss went more for a neutral look, or for wearing pants despite feeling male that day (which was only fair considering Lizzy had never met a woman who always only wore skirts and dresses). So after the first time of accidentally misgendering Joss because she assumed based on the clothes alone, Lizzy had done some digging online.

Turned out that using your words was always the best method. Just ask to make sure. Joss had given her a fond look the first time Lizzy had asked. Lizzy couldn't tell whether it was because she found it adorable how hard Lizzy was trying, or because she was genuinely touched because Lizzy was making an effort – which did mean a lot to Joss, Lizzy knew that, because Lizzy knew that Joss' parents had cut ties with their child based on Joss' gender-identity and sexuality, claiming that Joss simply had to make up her mind, like genderfluidity and pansexuality were only indications of indecisiveness on Joss' part.

“New cufflinks?”, asked Lizzy curiously as she caught sight of something shiny.

Joss rarely accessorized, whatever gender she was feeling. Though all of her clothes had one thing in common; they were shades of gray, somewhere on the spectrum between black and white. Generally, Lizzy found gray rather dull – she preferred loud and bright colors.

Though for Joss, the grays were really working out. Somehow, the lack of attention her clothes were drawing served to underline her natural beauty. Joss was Korean, with sharp features and eyes so dark they never failed to draw Lizzy in. Bright and eye-catching clothes would only... distract.

“Mh, yes. I custom-ordered them the other week”, replied Joss, showing her wrists.

A gray orb, with a Roman number inside. The number two on one link and the number one on the other. They looked pretty, in a simplistic way, yet still elegant. Lizzy smiled at that.

“I am so tired”, sighed Noxia dramatically.

“Ye—es. It must be so hard taking pictures of stunningly gorgeous women”, agreed Alina dryly.

Noxia stuck her tongue out. “No, but since this campaign is so very important to Sonia, so she personally double-checks everything. Never new blondie to be such a control-freak.”

“Miss Gold is a very hands-on person”, offered Joss sharply. “And she is right to try and control this in particular. Working with Chiron Training is an important union. For both businesses.”

“Besides, you're the one who got this whole thing into motion”, pointed Lizzy out.

Noxia rolled her eyes and waved her hands. “Because my mom plays poker with his and nudged and suggested 'oh, my daughter works for this fancy advertisement company!' when Missus di Girasole noted how her son was looking for an image change. Way to be a cliche, mom. Make it look like every native American knows each other.”

“...You and Matteo di Girasole literally grew up in the same street though”, pointed Alina out.

Once again, Noxia rolled her eyes. “So? It still looks bad. Or do you know every Indian in Los Angeles? ...No, don't answer that, I've met your mother, she actually probably does.”

“She's a noisy woman, bless her heart”, grinned Alina. “But yeah okay, I get your point.”

“But no one ever asks a white person if they know every other white person in the state”, snorted Rick and shook his head. “Though I have started asking the obnoxious lieutenant at the precinct whether he knows Bill Gates or el presidente del infierno.” [Spanish trans: the president from hell]

“You shouldn't pick a fight with your superior”, pointed Joss out gently.

“He has asked me for Hamilton tickets eight times, Joss”, stated Rick pointedly. “Not once or twice, but eight times. Just because he assumes that I know Lin-Manuel Miranda personally since he overheard me mention that I am from Puerto Rico before. Eight times.”

“...Fair enough”, grunted Joss beneath her breath.

“Besides, I won't get into trouble. Captain Lacroix loves me”, declared Rick.

“Mh, that woman is a badass”, sighed Noxia dreamily.

“What's with the thirst this morning, Nox?”, asked Alina a little disturbed. “Just how long has it been since you last got laid? This is unnatural.”

“I don't remember. That is how long it has been, Alina. I don't remember”, groaned Noxia. “You know, if you truly were my friend, you'd just... end my misery.”

“I told you I'm not sleeping with you”, grunted Alina unimpressed. “I'm not going to be that big of a cliche and sleep with the only other out lesbian in the company. Besides, you're my best friend. I've seen you chew on your toe-nails... nothing will ever erase those pictures and put me in the mood.”

“Fair points”, muttered Noxia depressed. “Joss? Have mercy on me?”

“I am not having relations with someone I work with. I'm professional”, stated Joss pointedly.

“Lizzy?”, asked Noxia pleadingly.

“I'm afraid I am still straight”, chuckled Lizzy. “But if I weren't, I would in a heartbeat.”

“You are also still engaged! To me!”, exclaimed Rick.

“Eh. You could watch, I wouldn't mind”, shrugged Noxia.

Lizzy grinned amused as she finished her pancakes. She loved those mornings, even though they varied. Sometimes, the others would bring breakfast, other times they'd text ahead that they ran late with training and wouldn't be able to make breakfast and just pick her up. But the four of them always drove to work together. It was just easier, LA traffic and parking considered (also, the costs).

“I guess we gotta get going”, stated Lizzy with a glance at the clock.

“Ye—es. I have gorgeous, mostly straight goddesses to photograph”, sighed Noxia dramatically.

“You're legitimately the most dramatic bitch I know”, muttered Alina.

“Get me laid and I'll quit the drama”, promised Noxia.

Alina, Joss and Lizzy exchanged a pointed look at that, not buying a word, before cleaning the table. Rick accompanied them to the door and pulled Lizzy into one last kiss.

“Be safe and have fun at work, Lizabella”, smiled Rick. “I'll see you today for lunch?”

“You too. And say hi to Mike for me”, grinned Lizzy, pecking Rick's cheek one last time.

~*~

Liddell's Sweets was just a short drive from the Gold Standard. Though usually, Lizzy worked through her lunch, ordering something in with her team. Every now and again however, she made plans with Rick to eat lunch, either at the St. John's Pub or at Liddell's Sweets.

She checked herself in the window's reflection one last time before entering the bakery. Rick was already sitting with Mike Maguire and Matt di Girasole. She supposed that the world really was a small place. That her fiance was partners with Matt's fiance. Matt, also known as one of the richest men alive. It was slightly surreal (but highly appreciated at birthdays and Christmas; hey, a girl was not going to decline the diamond earrings if the guy had the money to spare).

“You two look absolutely exhausted”, noted Lizzy with a judgmental look as she came to sit with them. “Less pre-marital sex, more sleep.”

“Hah. I wish it was sex”, muttered Mike with a tired sigh.

Damn, the boy really did look beat. Dark bags beneath his eyes and his usual stubble was coming dangerously close to an actual beard. He yawned and pulled his dark-blue hoodie closer.

“We're so busy with the wedding plans”, supplied Matt after a beat. “You two wouldn't object to just ditching LA and doing a spontaneous backyard wedding in Cat City, right?”

“It's your wedding”, shrugged Lizzy. “Not mine. Mine is going to take place in New Orleans and it will be entirely planned by my mother and Ricky's abuelita.”

“Sí. If abuelita doesn't get a say in it, she will be heartbroken”, agreed Rick.

Lizzy chuckled fondly. She didn't mind; she loved abuelita Julia. Oh, she loved the whole Alfaro clan. They had accepted her so warmly after Ricky had introduced her to them. Hugs and kisses left and right. And if she was being honest, she really did miss her own family a lot. So having his family accept her like that had... helped with that, in a way.

And in a way, Lizzy knew that it was the same for Mike. Mike and Rick, they weren't just partners. They had been close friends since the police academy, beat cops side by side and now detectives. They were brothers, by anything but blood. Unlike Lizzy however, who did have her family – just in New Orleans and not exactly right around the corner – Mike was an orphan. The Alfaros had happily embraced Mike and taken him in too, knowing that he was the one having Rick's back out there, protecting him on the streets. So Lizzy very well knew that Mike and Matt weren't just going to ditch everything and have a small wedding somewhere. There were fifteen Alfaros who needed to be a part of that wedding, not just one.

“If you two ditch and have your wedding somewhere else, do not make it too short notice, or I will not be able to finish the wedding-cake on time. Be considerate of the other people involved!”

Lizzy rolled her eyes at her older sister. Laureen approached their table with a tablet filled with coffees and sandwiches. She knew very well what her regulars ordered when they came, especially when it was her little sister and her friends. Laureen tucked a dreadlock behind her ear as she raised her eyebrows at Matt with the most judgmental baker-look possible.

“Of course not, ma'am”, assured Matt.

“And don't ma'am me”, huffed Laureen and crossed her arms over her chest. “Also, you two can wait for my husband before heading back to the precinct.”

Both Ricky and Mike immediately turned their heads toward where Laureen's husband sat. Doctor Charles Jones. Both of them had kept their last names even after the wedding, considering that Laureen owned her own shop, named after their family – Liddell's Sweets. And Doc, he had made his name in Los Angeles. He was the head medical examiner of Los Angeles. Lizzy was genuinely proud of her big sister and her husband. A doctor, oh their mother had been over the moon. And a handsome one at that. He was a tall, broad-shouldered black man, bald but with soulful eyes.

“What's up, Doc”, chorused Mike and Rick immediately, waving at Doctor Jones.

And while Doc was his preferred nickname, this particular greeting was one that usually made him roll his eyes in a very exhausted manner. The same Lizzy had seen every single time someone from the precinct called him at home for medical advise – like a cold or a scrapped knee. Lizzy personally found that extremely entertaining – hey, she was an artist, she regularly got the 'can you draw x for me?' from people who expected not to pay a dime.

“I have the autopsy ready for that... vigilante murder”, grunted Doc when he reluctantly moved his chair to their table. “I know this case is important to the captain.”

“It's important to the entire damn city, honey”, stated Laureen pointedly. “These... vigilantes. They're no good. And now they kill people? No.”

“First of all, they're heroes!”, corrected Mike, effectively looking like a kicked puppy.

“Some of them are heroes”, corrected Matt gently, grasping his fiance's arm. “Others, especially the new ones that keep popping up... We should stay weary. You, in particular. You're cops. If you start trusting them and they turn out to work for the bad guys.”

“Bad guys!”, echoed Laureen with a shake of her head. “What, do we live in a comic now?”

Lizzy made a face at that but decided not to argue with her sister. She probably did have a point.

“What vigilante murder?”, asked Lizzy instead.

“It's an on-going case. We can't talk to you about it”, countered Mike seriously.

“The Second Killer”, offered Rick, getting kicked under the table by Mike. “Ouch.”

“...That is a lame name”, argued Lizzy. “But I think I saw something about that on the news.”

“They suspect it to be Gemini. At first, the sprayed symbol was interpreted as the Roman number two, hence the name Second Killer”, offered Matt eagerly. “I read into it. But the killings are new. Before, they just left the criminals tied up and basically mocked. Personally, I don't think they're the killer. I think someone is following Gemini, who is just cleaning up, and killing them. Framing Gemini. Maybe to make them look bad, in this recent uprising of Zodiac superheroes.”

“Enough murder talk. Eat your lunch”, interrupted Laureen pointedly. “You're going to scare my customers away. Eat and go back to talking about the wedding.”

Lizzy rolled her eyes, though she obliged. She was hungry and her break wouldn't last forever.

~*~

It was rare for Jessie to call short-notice. Usually, Jessie was more of a planner, a routine-person. Which suited Lizzy just fine and might be one of the reasons the two were best friends. So of course did Lizzy kick Ricky out of the apartment when Jessie texted her and asked if she could drop by. Ricky had looked at her like a kicked puppy for a few moments before Lizzy kissed him and told him to go do something fun with Mike – it seemed Mike could use a distraction from the wedding plans, after all. Not even twenty minutes later and Jessie stood in front of the door. The freckled Irish woman looked unusually troubled as she shifted from one foot to the other.

“Girl, what's going on? You are not behaving like yourself”, muttered Lizzy.

She ushered Jessie inside and toward the living room. Both women sat down comfortably and for a long stretch, there was simply silence as Jessie seemed to contemplate her words.

“What do you think about all this... superhero-business lately?”, asked Jessie softly.

“It's pretty incredible”, shrugged Lizzy. “I mean, they're heroes. The kind I used to draw in my comics for fun, watch on TV and read about. But these are real. Those are real people, putting their lives on the line to save others. And they have real, actual powers.”

“Don't tell me you'd... want powers”, huffed Jessie with the smallest smile.

Lizzy raised both her eyebrows at that. “Who wouldn't? Seriously. I saw that dragon-chick fly the other day! Crab Boy controlled the stream from a fire-hydrant. And Robin Hood and his unicorn actually command fire!”

“I... guess that could be cool”, hummed Jessie after a moment. “But the whole... risking your life thing? That's insane, right?”

Lizzy paused for a moment to regard her best friend very carefully. “You have never been sneaky, Red Bean. What are you getting at? Don't tell me... Are you one of them?” Jessie looked red-handed and Lizzy's eyes widened. “Jessica Saint John, are you a superhero?!”

“No! I, uh, no I just...”, stammered Jessie while shaking her head wildly.

Urgh, this girl was so bad at this. At that rate, she was going to last a whole two days before all of Los Angeles knew her true identity. Lizzy's grin was sharp as a knife as she leaned forward.

“You need a partner”, declared Lizzy firmly.

Read here on AO3!

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