#my head feels like there’s a mass in it and i’m getting acne all around my nose because my skin is so irritated

[fingertipsmp3]

My allergies are acting up soooo bad I feel like I can’t open my eyes all the way. Just walking around with lidded eyelids constantly like a teenage boy who is absolutely blazed outta his tiny mind (or is pretending to be)

[hotwings0203]

An Ode to the Unseen

Thinkin about readers who feel self conscious, readers who feel like they’re not happy with their weight, readers who don’t feel girly enough or feel too vulnerable because of whatever height they’re at. I’m thinkin about readers who suffer from body dysmorphia, who shy away from looking at themselves in the mirror to avoid seeing their scars, body hair or acne. This is for the readers who feel too submissive and feel like a pushover in their lives, and this is for the readers who feel like they’re too fiesty and not soft enough. It doesn’t matter if you feel like you can’t relate to the stereotypical tropes in writing, or if you feel like you can’t act like a perfectly constructed Y/N in real life, this ones for you💖

A/N: Hello to all reading! I made this on a whim just to tackle some of the insecurities lesser described characters in stories might feel, but this is in no way meant to exclude anyone at all! We all have beautiful bodies, and should own up to it even if we don’t always see the problems we face in writing. Some of these topics might be sensitive to readers or trigger memories that might be disturbing to others, so please heed the warnings! Also the Hawks prompt at the end gets pretty nsfw, so heads up for that hehe

CW: dubcon, manipulating, fluff, slight angst, EDs, body dysmorphia, kidnapping, abuse, degradation, some nsfw, yandere, language, insecurity

You’re ever feeling not particularly happy with your face or body because of an acne breakout, or a rash that won’t go away? Maybe a birthmark that you try to cover up with makeup? Even stretch marks or scars from surgery?

You can bet your ass shigaraki will notice the way you can barely glance at the mirror some days just so you don’t have to see your own reflection when it’s time to go to bed with him.

His obvious and intense stare makes you fidget and gets your skin crawling, but he says nothing that night when he holds you a little too tightly-tighter than most nights he’s with you. The sound of his raspy breaths lulls you to sleep, but when you wake up he’s already gone, out on another mission or at a meeting with the Yakuza.

You feel groggy and gross, and going to the bathroom just to look in the mirror again to see whatever ails your body and/or face does nothing to stop your groan of misery.

You do your business all while turning away from your reflection, not wanting to see a second more of your discontentment staring right back at you while you wash your face, brush your teeth, and meticulously do your hair.

Finally making your way downstairs to the bar, you sit on one of the barstools and hold your head in your hands, not wanting to meet anyone’s gaze and no doubt seeing their disgust at your ailment.

But you look up when a soft whirring sound and purple-black tendrils of smoke appear before you

“Young master L/N,” Kurogiri says. “Have you been feeling alright? You retired earlier last night and had the most uncomfortable of expressions on your face, I couldn’t help but notice.”

No matter how much you despised or were wary of Tomura, you knew his caretaker, Kurogiri, had your back. He was respectful of your space, and if he knew you weren’t in the mood for talking then he wouldn’t push you

And so you told him your predicament, opening up about your problem spot(s)

“It’s so embarrassing, Kurogiri. I feel gross and I feel like everyone’s looking at me,” you mumble, putting your head down on the cool polished wood countertop.

He’s silent for a moment or two, before the tendrils of his supposed hands warp into a small portals. They appear again immediately, producing a couple of bottles and place them in front of you.

You raise your head slightly at the sound of sloshing liquid and rattling pills as the bottles are lined up before you in an orderly fashion, and you eye them suspiciously.

“What’s this?” You ask, picking up a tube as your curiosity is piqued.

“Young master Tomura Shigaraki had warned me beforehand of your reclusive nature when you ponder on what cannot be controlled, and sent me a list this morning to pick up some medication that might help you, should you need it. He asked me to bring back every item as soon as possible, so you wouldn’t feel the need to procure anything by yourself and strain yourself unnecessarily.”

You scoff, not buying the surprising act of affection. “So, what, he’s just doing this so he doesn’t have to look at my disgusting (body part of choice) anymore? He wants to come back and see some perfectly molded pet to stare at all day?”

Kurogiri shakes his head, however.

“I know how the young master is perceived to many: abrasive, immature, and brash in his thoughts and actions. He has a long way to go in terms of maturing in the way he views things, and unfortunately he was not blessed with…the best of upbringings, so he truly doesn’t know any better, as you already know.”

You wince internally, feeling slightly guilty now.

“But,” he continues slowly, “he was not born with evil in his heart. He’s just bitter with society, and is desperate for others to know his pain and see the world for what it really is towards those who are suffering. That’s why he is so taken with you, young L/N. Before you came here, he observed your mannerisms and was thoroughly attracted to the way you could see through people’s surface level facades. Although your views on the world may differ here and there, he is desperate to show you that he understands your suffering, and that he’s there for you-“

“-yeah, well, he has a funny way of showing it,” you mutter darkly, memories of chains and dark rooms and various marks on your body flashing through your mind. Even if Kurogiri was telling the truth, it would take some time for you to come around and even begin to try to give yourself to Shigaraki. He was just too volatile, too rough and negligent of your wants and needs. He lashed out at everything you did, and made you feel like nothing you ever did was enough to please his shifty nature.

“Yes, I can understand you bitter feelings towards him,” the black and purple mass hummed in thought. “I have tried explaining how a human girl is to be treated, however, and he is slowly trying to learn. I feel as though he may feel embarrassed at times from his lack of knowledge at such simple social norms, and that is another factor of his frequent temper tantrums. He might be the leader of a powerful villain organization, but when he realizes he has no knowledge of making friends or keeping relationships, it’s an embarrassing blow to his ego. Especially with you, he is especially sentimental and touchy regarding topics that pertain to you. He often will sit here in silence after you two have a, uh, little spat, and hesitantly will seek my advice on how to make things up to you. ”

And you realize with a grimace that he’s right-there are days after you both have a big blowout(usually over the most pettiest of things, maybe you turned away from him while sleeping and he took it as a sign of disobedience, or maybe you didn’t greet him when he came back from an especially tiring mission and he used that opportunity to take his pent up stress out on you) that he’ll come back after storming out of the room only to creep back in hours later with various trinkets in his hand.

You’d be alerted of his presence when the pitch black room is blessed with a yellow ray of light from the opening creaky door as he enters, and you will yourself to continue breathing slowly, as if you were still asleep. But he’s so quiet and stealthy as he comes closer to you, it’s hard not to be surprised and flinch or jump when his arm reaches over you just to place one of your favorite snacks on the cracked dresser next to you.

It’s hard to keep your head down on the dusty pillow and keep your curiosity in check when you feel him breathing down your neck as he lays a stuffed animal on the blanket next to you, and you often wonder where he knows to buy such fragile and innocent things.

Your aesthetic that he so closely has memorized from each singular color to the details of your favorite patterns make a stark, disturbing contrast to his greying, deadly aura. It’s almost impressive that he pertains each gift to your taste when he’s feeling especially sorrowful

“But nevertheless, the master has asked me relinquish these to you as soon as you came downstairs. And, just between me and you,” he leans closer and you do too, finding yourself wanting to know this secret side of your captor even further, “he was muttering something as he left, something along the lines of not wanting you to feel like you had to use these products. I think he was trying to say that he never wants you to feel as though you have to make up any part of your body you feel insecure about to him. He wants you to stay the same way you always are, and if you never adjust to your surroundings here, then he at the very least wants you to be comfortable in your own skin, blemishes and all.”

“This may or may not come as a surprise to you, but he himself knows what it’s like to feel insecure about his own skin and body,” and it comes across so ridiculously innocent and striking to you that such a lethal character such as the infamous Shigaraki would have the same problems a normal, functioning member of society would have: skincare and body insecurity. But the lines, scratches, and scars that litter his face can attest to this notion. How often did he himself avoid looking in the mirror for, not wanting to see his translucent skin, the clawmarks that left bright, angry trails up his face and down the sides of his neck, the cracks in and around his lips and eyes? Is that why he left his hair down skit covered his face, and the hand on top covering him whole more often on than not?

And so you finally open the lid to the tube, testing the feel of its contents that promise your mutinous skin some time of relief.

The door suddenly bangs open, and the man of the hour himself slinks in, nails idly scratching the underside of his jaw as he mutters under his breath to himself.

He lifts his head and sees you and kurogiri at the bar, a tube of ointment in your hand , the lid opened in testing as the rest of his presents are in array all around you.

As if you were accepting them.

As if you were accepting him

He feels his face beat up and his deteriorating body starts to prickle and sweat. He merely scratches harder, his mumbling continuing as he slowly makes his way over to you

You watch his little unsure shuffled towards you, and you can’t help it when your heart twinges as you take in his hopeful yet cautious expression, no matter how hard he tries to stifle any vulnerable emotion

So, in a moments decision of truce you quickly lean forward to whisper to Kurogiri one last favor before turning to see a new light of your captor

“Before I go, I need some things from you, please. By tonight, do you think you could pick up some self care things at the corner store for me? I’m talking face masks, lotions, Vaseline, and hair products.”

“I think if I see him accept himself and care for the body he’s in least for one night, I could be happy in my skin, too.”

Feeling conscious about your weight, whether it’s over or under your preferred look? Please, don’t make Kiri laugh at your naivety

You groaned as you stood on the scale, the numbers reading back at you seeming more mocking than simple statistics

You weren’t meeting your preferred weight, and it was beginning to take a harsher toll on you now more than ever with Kiri around all the time

It was easier to ignore it when you lived by yourself in secluded bliss, where the walls of where you lived couldn’t talk or pass judgement about your eating habits, the times you did or didn’t keep up with yourself as months of promising to do the Chloe Ting workouts turned into forgetful reminders that dwindled down into barely passing thoughts.

Where you had your own, carefully chosen friends who could relate and share the secrets of their insecurities, the little area of pudge that just won’t go away, that upper area of their arms of legs that refused to build muscle even after months of eating straight protein and going to the gym.

You got to choose your own happiness, you got to choose if you wanted to spend countless hours scrolling through social media with your coworkers, gazing in envy at the hundreds of models people swooned over, or if you wanted to call it a day and eat a whole bucket of cookies and cream ice cream while watching a sappy rom com, just because it made you happy

But now, not so much

You could tolerate Kiri gradually distancing yourself from friends who he thought didn’t have the “best interests” for you

You could patiently follow the chipper rules of his house to wait for him when he got home, greet him at the door in nice clothes, and sit down to eat dinner with him

You even started getting used to having his eccentric, loud friends over who bustled and teased you around when Kiri invited them over for a boys night even if that “boys night” ended in them being hurriedly ushered out as he caught a glimpse of you in an accidentally-provocative apron

But your sanity and self worth was slowly started to snap like an overstretched rubber band when it came to trusting your body. Your mutinous, betraying body that just didn’t do what you fucking wanted it to do, that was constantly compared to the models friends Kirishima would bring around, like Mina and Jirou

They were angels, of course, so, so sweet to you

Constantly reassuring you that the new dress your captor boyfriend practically shoved you in in his eagerness to see you in red (his color) fit oh so well on you

They tried to convince you that no, the dress wasn’t stretched too tight on you to be considered healthy, and no, it didn’t need to be shrank in some places either

They tried, they really did

Unfortunately for them however, their relentless support didn’t hold a candle’s light to the body builders and Pilates instructors Kiri would model with for health magazines almost every month

They could never understand what it was like to be in constant doubt and shame when you feel your seemingly mismatched figure, their bodies reflecting healthy proportions in every nook and corner, skin and smooth and soft as a baby’s, with glowing reflections of perspiration

And you always seemed like the only poor unfortunate soul who sat in the corner, sulking and watching ripped muscles and leaned, toned limbs mingle amongst each other to socialize and effortlessly slide inside various apparel that of course fit their body and shaped them in ways you couldn’t even dream of

And it didn’t help that night after night, Kiri would hold you on his lap, bouncing his eager knee as he shoveled bite after bite of food into your unwilling mouth

He infantilized the hell out of you, convinced you were too naive and self-loathing to see your true beauty and how he had to take it on himself to show you what he saw in you

It made you feel pathetic, and helpless. Maybe that’s what you were though, maybe that’s really what he was trying to show you

You felt like you deserved it, anyways

So you stand there, on the weighing machine, feeling the last shreds of self confidence slip down and out of your body, akin to the light tears that splash on the marble bathroom floor.

“Babe? What’re you doing?”

Aw, fuck

You quickly brushed away your tears and stifled your imminent sobs to avoid being coddled as usual by the gentle giant who stood behind you

It frustrated him to no end, no doubt. It didn’t matter how often he’d sit you down and kiss you all over, letting you know how much he loved every precious inch of your body, it didn’t matter how gently he’d cradle your face to force you to look into his eyes just to tell you how beautiful you were, how lucky he is to have kidnapped you

It was never enough for your fragile heart, and he saw it in the way you flinched under his praise and shrunk under his loving gaze that raked over your body that he compared to an angel’s

As if you thought he was a liar, just saying it for your sake

As if you didn’t believe his words, as if you didn’t want to believe his words

As if you were disobeying him

“It-its nothing Kiri, just PMS,” you mumbled, the snot in your nose making you sound nasaly and shaky

“Your period was two weeks ago, and none of your symptoms have ever made you throw up.” He says with a raised eyebrow, his arms crossing as he leans against the doorframe

So he did see you slip out after dinner and head straight for the toilet, huh?

Busted

If he wasn’t so worried about you, he would’ve ditched the mild tone kept up for your sake and had you bent over one knee with a red ass just for lying to him

But from the way you quickly step off the scale and attempt to squeeze past him tells him you aren’t just being hard-to-get, you’re not in one of your resistance fits

And he thinks he knows exactly what’s causing you to not-so-subtly shift your eyes from the weighing scale back to your own body, as if you hadn’t already been doing that for weeks now

He just has to make sure

“Did someone say something to you?” He catches your arm and gently yet firmly prevents you from slipping past him outside the bathroom, away from him

“No, no, seriously I just felt sick, I think I ate something weird,” you try to laugh breezily but the waver in your voice does nothing but further increase Kirishima’s aching heart for you

“You sure? ‘Sure I don’t need to go talk to someone who maybe said the wrong thing to you?” And although his cheerful voice holds nothing but playful jest, the dark glint in his eye does nothing to indicate that all he wants is a friendly talk, especially when he tightens his grip on your arm and pulls you so close that you’re nose to nose with him, looking right at him with tears eyes and flushed cheeks

There’s no point in pretending anymore. He might seem like an airhead, but he’s not one of the city’s top hero because of his airy, gentle nature

“Ugh, no Kiri, no one said anything to me. I just…” you trail off, not wanting to feel the inevitable embarrassment you’ll feel when you tell him the truth

How disgusting you feel when you see his buff, toned, chiseled body that’s akin to a Greek God’s compared to yours

How you long to secretly have the right figure to one day be worthy enough to be deemed his partner in a modeling gig, just once, just to feel like you’re worthy of him and his equivalently built body, a body that reflects hard work and perseverance

Something you seldom see or feel in your own mass of distorted limbs

“What is it?” He pleads softly, begging you to let him fix anything for you, to let him be a man good enough for you

You look into his ruby red eyes that hold a puppy-in-love expression, and when you find only adoration for you in them, you can’t help yourself for falling into the trust and care you so desperately want in that moment

“I’m…so tired of not feeling good about myself. About feeling overweight, underweight, seeing bits of pudge and flab in one area and then seeing some thin and gangly areas in others. Like, I just want my body to be normal, to be healthy like all the people you model with. I feel like nothing I do or eat or wear makes my body look how I want it to look, and no matter how much I try it’s so hard for me to see the beauty of what you see in it.”

And finally you can’t bear looking at him anymore, so you squeeze your eyes shut and turn away

Much to his credit, he pulls you in and nestles your head against his chest, letting your tears and snot wet his tank top

“Oh hun, is that all this is?”

You roll your eyes and try to pull back from his chest, but he doesn’t allow it as he simply holds you there, shushing you and rocking you back and forth

“Kiri, that’s a pretty big thing for me.”

“I know, but…why are you so concerned about how they look anyways? I mean, that’s their job, right? To look good for pictures!”

“I don’t understand,” your voice comes out muffled against his shirt.

“What I’m saying is,” he chuckles and soothes a hand through your hair, “is that you shouldn’t compare yourself to people that have nothing to do with your daily life. Like, you wouldn’t compare yourself to a firefighter right? ‘Cuz thats their job, to save people, not yours. Similarly with models and shit, that’s their job to look good. You didn’t sign up to be a model, so you shouldn’t stress yourself to look like them. Plus, it’s not like it has any affect on what kind of person you are on the inside, you feel me? I’ve met some pretty nasty and rude people with killer bodies, but can you guess how much respect I had for them?”

You nod slowly, still not fully grasping his confusing logic but sort of getting the underlying meaning to it

“But it’s hard not to compare my body to theirs when you’re constantly around them.” You admit. “It feels like I’m not good enough either to be next to you when I’m just sitting on my ass, not doing anything” You grip his shirt and let the last of your tears out, accepting his soft and heavy hands stroking against your back and up and down your shoulders

“So? Do you ever see Sero or Denki modeling next to me? Or Mina and Jirou?”

He did have a point.

“No,” you say slowly.

“Exactly, because models and bodybuilders have a job to dedicate themselves to a life of working out. They do it because that’s what a majority of their life goes to get paid for. It’s all superficial, that’s not how the average person is, like the friends I mentioned. Otherwise the whole world would be full of people walking around with ripped abs and giant pecs. Could you imagine some lanky dude like Denki sporting a 12-pack and ripped pecs?”

“Hell no,” you laugh breathlessly, the image so horrifying to you both that you feel the vibrations of his boisterous laughter rumble through you and soothe your emotions.

“Now you’re getting it,” he speaks into your hair, the smell of your shampoo flooding his senses and getting him dizzy along with a treacherously rising boner

“Plus, what kind of man would I be if I picked my girl out just because of the way she looked? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re beautiful-no, beautiful can’t even begin to describe you. Your palms feel so soft compared to mine, your arms are so beautiful when my hands are wrapped around them, your thighs are just the right size, your stomach is such a comfy pillow for me to lay on, and don’t forget your plush, slick, tight pu-“ he rambles on and you can’t help but yelp and clap a hand over his overworked mouth as his shower of body positivity starts turning more lewd…attesting to the bulge you begin to feel pressing against your leg.

But it’s funny, you can’t seem to find yourself being mad at him as your face flushes and you see not ill-intent and perverseness in his warm eyes, but pure and honest devotion to you and to the words he truly means

It softens your heart, and you use a finger from the hand smushing against his mouth to lift and stroke the side of his cheek, conveying your gratitude to him.

It seems he understands, as he takes his forced moment of silence with patience and just looks at you, hoping this time you could really see what he felt for you.

“The thing is,” he says after a minute, gently taking your hand away and turning you around so that you both were facing the mirror, “I love you because of who you are. If I wanted to date some model, I would’ve done it by now, trust me,” and you swat your hand against his chest as he stifles a laugh and turns you to look at your own reflection in the mirror.

“I didn’t take you just for your body. I took you because of the way you smile, the way your laugh is so soft sometimes and then all roudy and crazy and loud the next. I love you because of how passionate you talk about the things you like, the way you deal with problems, the way you treat others. All these things make me want you, so damn bad.”

He lightly rocks his hips into your backside so you can really feel how much he wants you, and you let out a soft gasp

He doesn’t let you move, however, he just holds one wrist in his meaty palm and holds your jaw in the other, positioning you so that you meet his wondrous gaze in the clear reflection.

He knew he was never known to be the smartest in his class, having Bakugo drag him by the teeth to pass class itself, so he hoped you could overlook his lack of vocabulary that so desperately was trying to tell you that loving you went even beyond anything he could barely articulate.

Leaning towards your ear, his breath tickles your lobe as his sharp teeth graze over your goosebump-riddled flesh.

“And if it takes all night to show you how much you and your perfect body mean to me, I’ll gladly take out any words that don’t do the job and show you physically how I feel. And just the way you are, too.”

If there’s one man who could not give one less of a fuck about how dainty, small, feminine, or easy to handle you may or not be, it’s the birdman himself: Hawks

Running errands with him when he allowed it was hell, though it should’ve been a paradise you felt owed for.

It was bad enough that when you hesitantly asked him what would look good enough to wear when you walked next to him as the Number Two hero’s captive girlfriend, he merely shrugged and said “Whatever you want.”

Which was not of any help, due to his excessive mood swings and possessiveness spiking at the most seemingly harmless things, such as you talking to the checkout worker at a branded store, wearing a skirt that he deemed was for “sluts who put out for attention”, or even not looking directly at him enough when he was talking to you.

So just to play it safe, you decided to wear jeans and a cute blouse, one that you thought did well for your figure and yet remained modest enough for Keigo’s liking.

He gave you a warning look before opening the door outside, silently telling you to behave yourself in public

You always did, of course.

It was never enough to keep him less suspicious of you regardless.

Deciding to bag some groceries first, he kept a tight grip with your hand as you both inconspicuously tried to navigate the winding back alleys, avoiding people and waiting in intervals to pass the street

He had a black cap on with a red feather embroidered at the top, sunglasses and a beige and white jacket that had a high collar for covering his face-you might be lucky to have the freedom to wear what you wanted to a certain extent but Hawks wasn’t so lucky

His wings, of course, couldn’t be concealed regardless of what he wore

The two of you luckily manage to snag a few stores here and there, the groceries in both his and your arms weighing down on your bodies, his feathers doing little aid to help when his wings started sagging under the bulk as well

Which is where you both were finally caught by a gaggle of fangirls

You passed the cafe they gathered around outside, and barely had time to register their squints of suspicion at Hawks and his poorly-shrunken vermillion wings before you heard squeals of recognition coming from their group a couple feet back

He swore under his breath, crushing your hand in a death grip and attempting to speed up further away from them

But the Number Two hero wasnt fast enough for his own good, this time

It was almost inhuman how quickly they caught up to you and swarmed around, effectively cutting you two off from trying to escape

They shoved papers, phones, various body parts and markers in his face, trying to get him to sign each and every article they had on themselves

And poor you were caught in the midst of it, being carelessly jostled around as each girl tried to force her way closer to him

The volume of their excited devotion and praise of him was making your head hurt, and you wondered how Hawks was managing to put up such a flawless, easygoing smile and responding to all their questions and comments without having a panic attack or snapping at them

After a minute or two of pure chaos, with the help of numerous feathers the hero-now-victim finished most of the autographs.

“Well, girls, thank you so much for your support and time, but me and my lady should get going now-“

“-wait, that’s your girlfriend?” One asks pointing at you in disbelief

You give her a weak smile and little wave

“Yup, the one and only!” Hawks beams at you with pride, holding you in an endearing headlock

“Wow…you guys are so cute!” Another chimes in after a few moments of silence, and you try your hardest not to fall into your same old patterns, to not embrace your old thoughts and insecurities with such open arms

But old habits die hard, and they certainly aren’t dead yet

Especially when the first girl thrusts a shiny phone at you, fluttering her lashes and baring her teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. “Would you be a dear and take a picture of all of us with him?”

“Uhh, sure, yeah, no problem.” You decide that getting this whole ordeal over quicker would be the best option for you

But as quick as you want this to pass, you can’t help but take an extra second to see the difference in your hands and hers when you take the phone from her hand

While her smooth, small and soft hands are seemingly unmarked, her acrylics accentuating her feminine form, you feel as though your larger ones should hide in shame in comparison

You’re not a slob, not by any means when you go out with him. But what was previously just you feeling comfortable in your own skin of knuckle hair, cuticles here and there, and nails bitten short from the cold stand anxiety of living with such a volatile man starts to turn into a realization of how different you are to these people who are trimmed to perfection

You shake off the sinking feeling in your heart and back up with the phone as the rest of the girls and Keigo line up for posing

The details in the phone camera do nothing to ease your growing timidity

The screen reflects what you see right in front of you- smooth hair, not a frizzy strand in sight blowing with the wind, perfectly manicured hands that are so delicate and small compared to your boyfriends’ gripping his upper arms, desperate to feel the hero’s assets.

They’re all at a perfect height with him too, the heels and boots they wear so easily lining them up at his chest level so they have a perfect view of his pecs and upwards

All of them are so beautiful and uniform, so dainty and careful with themselves. If one of them said that they were dating Hawks, you’d believe that they were worthy of it too

You snap the picture and hand the device over, trying to hide your trembling bottom lip and frigid hands

The girls thank Hawks a plethora of times, give you some once-overs as well as slight sneers and faux waves, and you both head on your way back home again

You’re quiet that night while making dinner

It’s chicken pad thai, one of his favorite dishes handmade by you

No matter how shit you feel your cooking is, he insists you make him a 3 course meal while he takes a shower, leaving a feather behind to watch over you

Usually it’s fine, usually you ignore or absentmindedly swat away the plumage’s less-than-innocent rendezvous trailing around your body, floating behind your neck to tickle you, “accidentally “ falling in your shirt or wedging itself down your pants (no doubt commanded so by Hawks)

But today, it’s silent and still, precariously perched on the edge of the kitchen counter as it observed and picks up the various sounds and vibrations of your movement as you bustle around the kitchen

It picks up on the way you chop the onions a little too aggressively with your large, clumsy fucking hands

Another reminder of how different you are than the average Hawks Fangirl ™

How they sashay and swing their hips around in a perfect circle when approaching him, while you stumble and trip over your own damn feet, the epitome of clumsiness and gracelessness

The feet which never endow heels or boots often because of the height difference it gives you and Keigo, because of the way you try desperately to adorn different slouches and postures to not look so out of place and awkward around him

And while you’re stirring the pasta in its sauce, the feather also picks up on the rhythm of your shattered heart

Shattered so when you remember how the girls sneered at you because you weren’t femme fatale like them, how you just stood there like a fucking mannequin while they cooed well placed praise, and how eloquent sentences flowed from their tongue like honey

You could only wish you ever spoke like they did, or adopted any of their mannerisms that seemed so natural and effortless like them

Your aching heart thudded dully while you scrutinized your miserable self, and flared up into a kicking rate when you realized you shouldn’t even care what your captor or any of his fan girls thinks

In fact, this was all his fault.

You slammed your mixer down, tapping your fingers against the countertop deep on thought

The vibrations the feather picked up was the last straw of its patience, as it alerted its owner to come and address you

Mumbling under your breath at your predicament, you banged around pots and spoons in your anger, failing to notice the plumage silently join its approaching owner, the water from his shower dripping down his wet shoulders and hair

“What’s goin’ on chickadee? It sounds like you’re tryina’ tear down the kitchen.”

You barely spare him a glance over your shoulder as you take in his bare torso, only a towel wrapped around his midriff

“Nothing. Just finishing up dinner,” you mumble.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing. It sounds like your hearts racing a mile a minute. So I’ll ask you again- what are you so upset?”

He yanks a stirring spoon from your hand and uses his grand wings to turn you towards him, a condescending pout on his face as he amusedly takes in your furrowed eyebrows, heated up cheeks and shaking fists.

He wants to keep pushing me? Fine, then I can play his little game

“You wanna know why I’m upset? I’m upset because I’m here against my will, creating problems for myself that I never even wanted in the first place!”

You jab a finger into his chest and his eyes narrow at your impertinent tone.

“Now wait a sec’-“ but you cut him off immediately, nose to nose with him now as you continue to blare at him

“I’m upset because I never feel fucking good enough for my kidnapper. How pathetic is that? Any time I have to beg you on all fours like a fucking dog to go outside I end up regretting it, ‘cause all I see is how flawed I am!”

He’s staring at you with wide eyes now, actually bewildered at the turn your ranting came to. So it’s not just about being kept here against your will, you’re actually upset about not feeling good enough for him?

“Those girls today…they were so perfect and feminine and beautiful and they had such small fucking hands that would fit perfectly in yours like mine never do, and perfectly pedicured feet, and had such pretty voices, fuck, I mean I’d date them too if I were you!”

You ignore the rage and bafflement in his expression, he looks at you like you’re crazy and maybe for the moment you are as you keep mouthing off to him

“So why don’t you, huh? I mean I only go out with you a couple times a year, but you see them almost every day! Girls who have hair that flows like goddamn waterfalls, girls who you could pick up and throw around so easily or at least girls you’re not embarrassed of.”

“I’m clumsy, I can’t walk with grace, I’m not at a height that’s easy for you to look at me with or thats even considered sexy, I probably don’t even weigh anything around you that people would call worthy of being some fit bitch for you!”

At this, you sink to your knees in front of him, almost spent out. You can’t bear for him to see your face, no doubt scrunched up in tears and snot with mussed strands hovering around your face like you just got electrocuted.

Another thing to ridicule yourself about, a fucking crying face. You don’t want him to see another ugly trait about you that he no doubt will snicker about behind your back.

“Isn’t that why you never let me out? Because I’m not cute or good material for tabloids, right? I don’t look good enough or act right for the Number Two hero, and that’s why you’re embarrassed, right? It’s been so long since I tried to last leave so I know you trust me-that means the only reason you hate going out with me and covering yourself up is because you can’t stand to be seen with such a fugly-“

“That’s enough.” His cold voice booms louder than yours, and you startle at that.

“Look at me, Y/N.” The tone at which he speaks leaves no room for argument, but when you continue to look down he snarls and detaches a feather, forcing your head up with it.

“You keep calling yourself all these things, but don’t tell me that moronic is another word you’re gonna add on, right? I mean you can’t possibly be that stupid enough to believe all those things you just said.”

You glare at him, sure that this was just a way for him to get you to shut up.

“I thought living with the Number Two hero would let some intellect rub off on you, but I guess it’s the complete opposite, if anything. Because you seem to have forgotten your place in my house.”

You yelp when suddenly a multitude of other feathers zoom towards you, pulling at your limbs and clothes as they lift you into the air, suspended to a height a couple of feet above Hawks’ eye level.

He just stands there with an eerie smirk on his face as he watches you flail around midair, trying to regain your balance.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re 6’3 and have bigger hands than me.”

With a flick of his finger, the feathers are directed to slam your body into the ground, leaving you wheezing on your back.

“And it doesn’t matter if you’re 4’7 and fall over yourself every time I call for you.”

He stands above you now, hands in his pockets and he smiles down at your curled up body. You look at him cautiously, unsure of what he’s playing at.

“You’re mind because I want you. I want everything about you, your heart, your mannerisms, your soul, your movements-they all belong to me and only me.”

He crouches down to a kneel, gently running a hand through your hair before turning it into a fist and yanking your head up to face him.

“And there isn’t a goddamn thing that’s gonna stop me from having you, when I want, and how I want. You think you have a chance of leaving me, or me leaving you when I, in your words, ‘go out and see beautiful girls like that all the time?’ If I haven’t left you for them by now, I sure as hell never will.”

You decide for now to take the backhanded compliment about being able to leave in silence. In a messed up way, he was proving his loyalty, and right now you needed all the reassurance you could get.

“And why the hell do you care how you look in public anyways, huh? Are you trying to seduce someone?”

You frantically object, and he sneers at your desperation. “Good, because it should only matter what I think, and you wanna know what I think?”

You stare at him wide eyed now as he pulls your head closer to him

“I don’t give a flying fuck if you think you’re some foxy slut or if you feel like a clumsy oaf. Because you wanna know why?”

He starts unzipping his fly with a handy feather, and you mentally berate yourself for pushing him to a point where he has to ‘prove his love’ to you, knowing where this was heading.

“Because when you’re sucking my cock or lying underneath me, it doesn’t matter how tall or short you are. When I tell you to take your clothes off and hump my foot like the good little bitch in heat you are, I don’t care how much you weigh. I’m still choosing you to be my fuckmeat, my obedient play-toy when I want, and I’m doing it with all your ‘flaws’, aren’t I? ”

You cringe when his tongue flicks out against your earlobe and down your jaw, your endeavors of trying to shove him away proving fruitless as he just snarls and bites your neck.

“Even if you think you don’t have the prettiest, smallest, biggest, or smoothest hands, they’re still the hands I’m choosing to play with my balls, yeah? I mean, you should be proud of your fucking sexy and lewd body…look at what it does to me.”

He gestures to his exposed member now which is hard against your thigh. You bite back a whimper as he begins to tear open your shirt with one free hand as the other slips down your pants.

“So be a good girl and show me how proud you are of being mine.”

[nothorses]

Hi! Sorry to bother you, but I just thought I’d ask because Google isn’t very good-

What are some things that happen on T that you dont expect/think will happen/surprised you?

I know the obvious stuff like voice dropping and hair and muscle growth being easier, but idk what to expect other than those bits and I’m a bit nervous.

Sorry to bother you, have a lovely day! 💚

Ooh, okay. This is exactly why I kept a journal.

lemme start with the most helpful bit of info I received pre-T:

Skin oiliness/acne

Everyone has different experiences with this; personally, my acne actually cleared up completely for a few months when I first started. Now it’s back, and worse, but I’ve noticed it’s mostly around my mouth and chin- where beard growth is beginning. Also, upper back and shoulders. Those areas seem to be the typical ones, from what I gather.

I am definitely oilier, and I definitely need to shower every day. I recommend getting lotion for your back, and some kind of scrubber, and washing your face morning and night to deal with oiliness. I use basic face wash, toner, and moisturizer, plus I exfoliate and use a hydrating face mask 2 or 3 times a week. And benzoyl peroxide cream for the zits. That’s what was recommended to me & it’s working pretty well, but ymmv!

Cessation of menstrual period

This also varies for everyone, especially between gel and injections. I’m on injections, and mine stopped about three months in. It was also kind of a petering out; they might get longer or less intense for a bit before they stop entirely.

Body fat redistribution

This one takes a while and isn’t super immediately noticeable, but working out helps speed this process along. You may also gain weight when you’re first starting T, and most folks’ appetites increase as well. Mine certainly did- but then I started Adderall not long after, which has lessened it again.

Vaginal atrophy

This just means you begin to produce less fluid & tighten up. Lube is your friend, prep is your friend, just be kind to your stuff. You shouldn’t experience any pain or significant discomfort, but I was sort of dry/itchy for a month or so near the beginning, and lube helped with that. Talk to a doctor if it keeps going on and doesn’t get better in time.

Increased muscle mass/strength

This one can take a while to start, but I’ve heard that it can be tough to know your own strength when it does. Again, working out helps!

Changes in libido

My libido increased fast and hard. You will not be uncontrollable by any means, you will not become a sex-crazed beast, you will not lose your faculties or any of that shit people sometimes try to scaremonger with. It’s literally just that your regular hornyness happens more often, and might feel stronger as well. It’s also normal for orgasms to feel different after some time on HRT; less full-body, more specific to the genital region.

Some folks also talk about shifts in orientation. In my experience, the orientation thing has been true, but only because I feel more comfortable in my own body now! I’m more comfortable with the idea of physical relationships because I’m more comfortable with existing and being perceived physically. I have a better read on who I’m actually attracted to because I’m not on eight planes of dissociation from my own emotions and sense of attraction. It feels better, and more true to who I actually am.

Facial/body hair growth

This varies for everyone too! Body hair starts to thicken and spring up in new areas; I noticed it on my lower abdomen first. My leg hair seems to be darkening and thickening a bit, too. Facial hair can feel itchy and even hurt a bit when it first starts, but essentially it’s your peach fuzz starting to thicken up and grow longer over time. It can also be sort of patchy and inconsistent, and it can take multiple years for it to fill out into satisfying beard hair.

Give it time! Shaving won’t speed things up, but getting shaving materials a few months in isn’t a terrible idea. The patchy/inconsistent/whispy growth isn’t everyone’s favorite look to rock, and shaving can be a validating experience. Personally I like to let things grow, since I live alone and nobody sees me without a mask on, but it’s nice to have the option.

Bottom growth

I think this is weirdly one that folks don’t really talk about, but it is one of the more significant changes! Things may feel pretty sensitive pretty quickly (mine started within the first month) and it’s helpful to wear bottoms with some space in those first few months after you feel bottom growth starting. It can definitely be painful at times- that’ll chill out after a while, though.

I don’t want to get super explicit with this post, but it will essentially look a lot like a very small penis after some time. You need to take care to clean it- rinse, and use very basic, unscented soap very sparingly- and keep in mind that you may be prone to UTIs. Cranberry juice won’t do much, but cranberry pills will!

Deepened voice

This also started very early for me. My throat was sore almost immediately, and while there was no noticeable change in my voice, the soreness kept up almost constantly for months. My first “drop” was during my second month, though usually that happens the third month.

My voice was kinda scratchy and weak for a while, and it was hard to figure out where to speak; it sort of felt like I was just more inclined to use a lower register most of the time. Gradually, the higher part of my range started to become... “locked”? If I tried to speak too highly, my voice would squeak and crack. Now, it’s naturally much deeper, and I can’t speak above a certain register at all. There’s just no sound!

It can help to learn to speak from your belly, not your head, if you want your voice to be deeper. You may also notice that certain ways of speaking and certain inflections read differently as your voice changes; a lot of voice training for trans men is about using a flatter inflection. How you want to sound is entirely up to you, and there’s no wrong way to speak.

Also, low-T can make the voice change process easier and help preserve your singing voice, and may be worth looking into if that’s important to you. Changes will happen more slowly overall on low-T.

Hair loss/male pattern baldness

This was the one I was honestly afraid of, but the nurse I spoke to is also on T, and what he told me was that “hair loss” just means your hairline shifts to a more masculine shape. Nothing scary! Male pattern baldness is also determined by genetics; look to male family members for predictions on when that might set in for you, if it does.

Hopefully there’s some helpful info in there! It’s also 2am now, so I might just be unintelligible. Good luck, friend, and if you’re starting soon, congrats!!

[dawn8080]

How about an MC who doesn't like telling people it's their bday because they don't like big parties or people making a fuss over it, and the brothers come to know it's their bday on the day itself? (Obey me Headcannon please :3)

MC who hates celebrating their birthday

(Big thanks to @obey-me-rules-my-life-now for the request!)

MC has never been one to celebrate their birthday. Parties were big celebrations, and big celebrations meant people in masses. So, to avoid having to face a party, embarrassment and disappointment, they told no one. They never brought up the topic and when a brother did, they shut it down. All too soon, the dreaded day approached. How will each brother react?

Lucifer:

He knew when MC’s birthday was. He read their file after all. But when MC never mentioned their birthday, the thought faded from his mind.

Lucifer could tell something was off; MC was being snappy and moody to everyone, including himself.

MC was extra snappy after yet another failed plan of making money that they were dragged into and wanted to be left alone in their room. However, Lucifer knew to address their snappiness and moodiness.

When Lucifer knocked on MC’s door, it was met with a grumpy “Go away”

Lucifer growled under his breath, “MC, we need to discuss your recent behavior.”

“There’s no reason. Now leave me alone.”

Knowing that MC wasn’t willing to tell him, he went back into his office, to do more paperwork.

After hours of working on paperwork, he took a moments break to look at his DDD, lighting up with notifications.

Diavolo: So Lucifer, how was today? Good, I’ll suppose?

Lucifer: What’s makes you say that?

Barbatos: Have you forgotten?

Lucifer: Forgotten what?

Diavolo: Today is MC’s birthday! Have you forgotten?

Lucifer understood all at once what had happened, and went to confront them about it.

When confronted, MC shrugged their shoulders and said, “So? It’s just another day. It marks another year of my existence. It just makes me feel older.”

Understanding where they were coming from, he sighed and said, “You’re still a guest here in the House of Lamination and as long as your in this exchange program, we are responsible for your safety and comfort. That being said,” as he takes MC hands, “Could I at least interest you in a dinner?”

MC looked calculating for a few seconds before saying “I guess just a dinner would be nice...”

Mammon:

Mammon was never trusted with any of MC’s personal information (understandably so). And he knew he and his brothers could be a bit too much sometimes! So he didn’t really question it when MC started getting a bit grumpier than usual.

It wasn’t until MC came home one day after a failed money making scheme, throwing their book bag at the wall and stomping to their room.

He immediately was concerned and was knocking on their door, begging to be let in. After 30 minuets of being told no, he stayed silent, but outside their door.

Soon, when he heard their shower running, he walked into their room to see what was so wrong.

He didn’t notice anything wierd until he looked at their phone, light up with notifications from their human relatives.

Curiosity got the best of him as he wandered over and read their screen. To say he was shocked is an understatement when he read how many Happy Birthday texts MC received.

MC then entered the room to see Mammon on their phone, which resulted in Mammon getting kicked out of the bedroom.

Mammon stood outside in shock; humans loved their birthdays, so why were they so grumpy? And more importantly, why didn’t the human tell the GREAT Mammon that it was their birthday?!

He went straight to Lucifer, head spinning in confusion.

After barging in and questioning Lucifer, he realized that maybe going through their phone wasn’t the best idea...

...or at least that’s what he realized as he hung from the ceiling in front of Lucifers office again.

MC was walking downtown he hallway when they heard, “Yo! Human! Come give me a hand!”

MC helped him, but then quickly started leaving. Before they could though, Mammon took their hand and said, “Now wait a minuet. Why didn’t you tell me today is you birth-”

MC quickly spun and held their free hand over his mouth to shush him. “Don’t speak of this day to anyone! Or I swear, Goldie will have a friend called Paper Shredder.”

Mammon moved their hand and said, “I already asked Lucifer if he knew. He did, no surprise. But why didn’t you tell me?”

MC then dropped their hands to their sides and said, “I just don’t like my birthday. I don’t like celebrating it.”

Mammon sighed, as if defeated. Then he brightened up again. “How about we just watch movies then?! You don’t need to say it’s a special occasion to watch movies with the GREAT Mammon!”

MC sighed, smiling lightly. “I guess it wouldn’t be weird, huh?” They then smirked suddenly, “Now how about Resident Evil-”

“MC NOO!”

Leviathan:

MC’s grumpiness really caught him off-guard. They were almost never grumpy, yet they’ve been acting this way for an entire week.

He heard the loud clash of a book bag hitting a wall and angry footsteps down the hallway, near his room. He peaked his head out of his room, only to see an angry/grumpy MC storming past him.

Ignoring him completely.

That... didn’t feel right. They always acknowledged him in one way or another.

So, rather than leaving his precious room, he grabbed his phone and started spamming MC questions.

Levi: MC?

Levi: Are you okay?

Levi: Hey, answer the phone!

He quickly realized they weren’t responding although he knew they saw the texts.

He sighed dejectedly. Who would want to talk to a gross, yucky otaku like him anyways?

As he kept wallowing in self-pity, he heard his phone ding with a text. He was reading the text in an instant, hopes falling with it.

MC: I have to cancel game night. Maybe next week?

Levi knew they never rescheduled his game and anime hang out sessions. Concerned, he headed over to their room for answers.

Levi knocked, and realized the door was open. But there was no MC. He glanced around the room and saw their homework on their desk, already completed.

He then sat on the foot of their bed, playing mobile games until MC came back. Where he would confront MC about the birthday.

That’s when he booted up one of the Devildom games that MC loved. Suddenly, it piped up with a notice on his login.

It was his mutuals friends birthday.

He covered his shock and set up a surprise for MC.

40 minuets later, MC came back into their room, only to see Levi sitting in front of his monitor, playing anime, while he was cuddling his Ruri-Chan body pillow.

To say they were surprised was an understatement, but before anything could be said, Levi dragged them down next to him.

“Hey, why couldn’t I know about your birthday?” Levi frowned and asked.

“I... just don’t like celebrating. Is that why you’re here?”

Levi shakes his head and offers a second head set labeled “Player 2” and MC accepts it.

“I just want to watch anime with you tonight. Maybe we can game next week?”

Satan:

Satan could’ve gotten his hands on your background, but he just had that golden opportunity to prank Lucifer too...! He, of course, chose priority.

He knew MC were moody before they did; becoming a master of masks made him very perceptive of others emotions.

He offered help with de-stressing and with homework, thinking that was the issue.

He did not think that his books would eventually be thrown into a wall as MC stormed to their room only days later.

He was furious at the treatment of the books that he lent, and went to confront MC about their behavior towards everyone.

He didn’t expect to hear the tail end of a call MC was having with relatives back home.

“Yes Mom, thank you. I’ll have a good birthday, now bye.” MC hung up the phone, tired out of their mind.

Satan stepped in, knocking on the door lightly. Though still shocked from the news he just received, he knew that he needed to stay silent. For now.

“MC, you threw your books in the doorway. They have been lended to you and you could damage them that way.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t be so careless next time.” MC replied, running a hand down their face in exhaustion.

Satan smiled and said, “You damaged the books I lent you. You could make up for that.”

MC audibly gulped, worried what they had to do.

Satan continued, “You could work in Hells Kitchen tomorrow to replace them? Or, you could stay here and read for a bit, if stress or unwanted events seems to be the issue.”

MC looked up, shocked. Then they smiled. “I prefer option 2 the most. Thank you.”

The two of them then sat side by side, reading books until MC fell asleep.

“Goodnight, MC. Have sweet dreams.”

Asmodeus:

Asmodeus didn’t understand why you were so moody and sassy so suddenly. He, too, figured it was due to stress, so he scheduled a self care night... on your birthday.

He knew the stress should be causing break outs so when he saw the first sign of acne, he practically screamed.

But we all know the gossipy demons habits. The day at RAD had been normal, until the walk home.

MC was walking faster than the others, and was radiating annoyance.

Asmodeus followed you as fast as he could, hoping to do the self care session before homework.

He didn’t expect you to walk so fast either. He was sweating slightly and had to redo his make up.

As he walked into your room, he saw you toss a letter into a nearby trash bin.

He was about to question it as MC said, “It’s nothing, Asmo. It’s fine.”

MC then smiled, letting him do the self care session and offering to do homework with him so it was “less stressing”.

However, as MC left to go get their abandoned books in the main hall, he couldn’t help but peek at the envelope, addressed from MC’a family.

Shock was very evident on Asmo’s face as MC walked in. Knowing what convorsation was to come from the party-loving demon, they shut the door.

“Asmo, I can explain-”

“MC, honey, it’s your birthday?! No one knew!” Asmo sounded distressed and MC awkwardly patted his shoulder.

“It’s fine Asmo. I just don’t like celebrating my birthday. It makes me feel... old.”

Asmo nodded, trying to understand. Some people just didn’t flaunt their age.

Asmo then sighed. “At least let us do something fun for your birthday then. Ooh, you can tell me how old you are!”

“Nope. Never telling my age.”

Asmo deflated like a kicked puppy, only for MC to pipe up.

“Asmo, we could watch silly movies if you want.”

He smiled and hugged MC.

“Thank you, MC. Now, what genre do we watch?”

Beelzebub:

He knew you were upset about something. And it upset him. So while you were moody, Beel was trying to cheer you up.

Did you not eat enough? Were you getting too little sleep? Were you getting to stressed? Poor boy just wanted to help.

Which is why he was carrying a plate of MC’s favorite food to their room, while he munched on his own snacks.

When he got to their room, he realized that they’d locked themself inside. He knocked on the doors and MC opened them minuets later.

Seeing their favorite food, MC instantly smiled.

And then froze.

“Wait, how did you know what today is?”

Beelzebub was confused and tilted his head to the side. “What is today?”

MC realized that he was trying to just be kind.

“Oh, nothing! Uh, thank you for the food.”

Beel wouldn’t let this drop so he followed MC into their room as they carried their food in, munching on his snacks while looking around.

“MC, what is today?”

MC sighed and said “Today is my.... birthday. But I don’t like celebrating it. Makes me feel too old, you know?”

He actually didn’t but knew that humans lives were much different.

“Well, we don’t have to celebrate it, but knowing would have been nice.” He looked upset and MC instantly regretted it.

“It’s okay Beel! Really.” MC smiled warmly at him. They walked over and hugged the big demon before going back to their food.

Beel sighed and said, “Can we cuddle tonight?”

MC turned, shocked. He didn’t specifically ask for cuddles often, so this was unexpected. MC instantly asked, “Because it’s my birthday?”

Beel shook his head.

“I really like cuddling with you.”

Belphegor

He was honestly annoyed at MC’s behavior. And worried. But if anyone asked, he was annoyed at it.

He was shocked- but still tired. So he pushed MC over slightly and layer down next to them.

Him popping up in MCs room was honestly a normal thing. They’d do whatever they were doing and Belphie would claim their bed.

So when he slunk to their room, he didn’t expect to see them in their bed.

As he was falling asleep, he heard MC’s phone start ringing. She had set her ringtone from the human world to be berry annoying.

He picked up the phone and said, “They’re asleep.” Before he could hang up, he heard them yell, “Tell her we said happy birthday!”

He was confused. MC had been acting bratty... because it was their birthday?

He decided he needed a well-deserved nap first and that he’d handle it when he woke up.

They were both woke up a few hours later for dinner, and afterwards, MC retreated back to their room again.

Belphie snuck back into their bed, waiting for MC to finish their homework.

When MC finished, Belphie looked at them and said “Happy birthday.”

As MC spluttered and tried asking how he knew, he rolled his eyes and said, “You had family that called.”

“Oh.”

Belphie was by MCs side now, as they had been walking over to the bed during this ordeal.

“MC, I don’t need your reasoning for not telling me your birthday, but I hope I’ll be told next year?”

MC nods, smiling lightly.

“MC, will you watch the stars with me?”

(Aah, this took longer than expected!! I hope it’s what was expected)

[13th-hour-reverie]

So I wrote a DP fan-fiction when I was like 12

It will never see the light of day again-

BUT.

I had some weirdly fun ideas, as a kid?? And I’m not even sure if they’d translate to the teen/kid-audiences of today. (But I know there will be people here to appreciate it.)

I think it was all the 90s buzz around how, “TV and your computer screen will radioactively melt your brain,” or whatever. There was this massive campaign for scare-ads that went out, to keep parents from letting their teens use electronics.

The entire plot revolved around Vlad coming back to Earth (I said I had good ideas, not that I was clever) and wanting to take over the world through the use of...an army of mildly brainwashed teen-halfas that were bribed to do his bidding. He had to hide his identity, and lived underground or in the ‘net in some way. (Better than being left to wander the solar system?)

At the time, I think I knew that kids could be given the power to do whatever they wanted, and if threatened with losing that freedom, would work pretty hard to keep it. Not to mention...how much havoc a couple super-powered teens could actually wreak.

So...if you wanted to “offer” kids world-wide a fleeting taste of power, and then use that to bribe them into doing your bidding (in exchange for being given the power again)...how do you deliver “temporary” ghost-powers to the post-pubescent masses?

Simple.

You just use some weird bullshit ghost-virus to make their chunky 1990s/2000s home computer monitors to deliver a blast of ghost-radiation right into their faces! (Ecto-Acne style, but more refined. With powers reminiscent of what we saw in the hospital episode, when everyone caught the “ghost-flu?”)

Being true to the vibe of the late 90s and early 2000s, I think I had it where this ghost would crawl smaller Geocities circles and forums for “obvious” teenagers to spam. They’d send pop-ups directly to the kid’s computer, directly mirroring all the stuff we were told at the time (Don’t put out your personal information, ever! Never click pop-ups! Never download anything!) until a kid got curious enough to click on it.

The result was a beam of green ectoplasm-laced energy to the face, and a kid waking up with a new, bleached ‘do. I barely knew how radiation worked, but in my head, “ghost essence” or whatever had a pretty short half-life. (geddit??) The kid would be allowed to roam around freely for the first few days, their powers would begin to burn out, and then they’d be back to a normal kid after about a week or two.

To get their powers back, they had to start completing weird, but initially-benign looking tasks. Things like...show up at [x] time at [y] place, or deliver a benign package to a specific person. Eventually, once they proved “trustworthy,” they would get stronger and longer blasts of this ‘virus’ to keep their powers for steadily longer periods of time, until they were finally asked to do things that involved breaking the law.

Having this network of halfas was supposed to allow Vlad to make himself known to the public again. Nobody is going to trust him, but if a tenth of the teenagers in every tech-laden city in the world were under his direct control...he may have a shot at taking over the world. And in theory, these kids could be living anywhere. (A revolutionary concept, at the time.)

Needless to say, the main character was a self-insert. But after realizing the families of these ‘influenced’ teens would need to be kept busy, I started having them all collecting in one place under the guise of a mysterious “Summer Camp.” This particular family gets stuck in a storm, lo and behold, they end up in Amity Park, Guess Who, yadda yadda yadda.

The rest was meeting the canon cast, and a handful of kids trickling through town eventually realizing ‘The Kid Who Saved The World’ lived in town. And that, in order to actually stop what was going on, he was gonna need some equally super-powered help, that wasn’t dependent on following directions received via spam e-mail. Because I always thought it was really stupid, how small and under-powered his team felt.

Mind you, if anybody is SOMEHOW magically one of the few who found/read the original one I posted to FF.net way the fuck back when, you’ll probably notice I never actually got that far in what I’d written/posted. But it was the first story I ever re-wrote, did a story skeleton for, and actually tried to “plan out” with “proper writing techniques.” So little ever actually got written/posted.

I think the “moral” in my kid-brain was actually that, if given the choice, someone given PERMANENT ghost-powers would probably not be choosing to help some evil dude take over the world. But that so many people want to feel strong, or special, or do be able to do things that are ‘amazing’...power corrupts. Especially when your powers are dependent on a megalomaniac fruit loop. (Cuz like, c’mon. We all know he’d try again.)

Someone else has probably done this, and probably did it better, but I’ve so missed the DP canon. It didn’t even hit me how outdated some of these concepts were, until I went back through my (15+ year-) old writing. Yikes. If anybody wants to use it/write it better, have at. I’d be really curious to see how this would translate to the current generation of people Danny’s age, or how it would look re-written for 2020 post-Phantom-Planet canon. (Or however else you’d re-write it!)

My early contribution to Ectober, I guess. May participate with some art this year, if I’m able.

[infernobot]

TEETH?

Teeth?

By InfernoBot

I had just finished recording, and was carrying my dog in from the office, when my mom handed me an envelope. Once I had my sweet pupper nestled into a blanket, I joined her on the couch and slit open my mysterious delivery. Inside was no note, just a brochure to something called ‘Furnal Equinox’ and an accompanying plastic badge bearing the image of a anthropomorphic dog, (maybe it was a wolf), wearing a graduation cap and gown.

As my eyes scanned the glossy pages, my excitement grew; some lovely person had sent me a weekend pass to a furry convention! This was my big chance to make a video detailing my adventures through a mass gathering of one of the internet’s most maligned and misunderstood subcultures. Over the coming weeks, I studied the brochure, read up on the panelists online, noted every question about the furry fandom that popped into my head. My itinerary for the whole weekend was mapped out. 

Super chats and KoFi tips managed to cover the cost of a bottom-barrel airline ticket, and I got a great deal on an Air B&B from a charming indiginous woman named Semide, whose sisters had enrolled in college and left their rooms vacant. She was even kind enough to include meals as part of the deal. The weekend of the con finally rolled around; I threw my things in a bag and I was off to Toronto.

Eighteen hours and three layovers later, I was sitting at my host’s kitchen table with a warm towel draped over the back of my neck, sipping a cup of coffee. It turned out Semide was a naturopathic healer and knew some kickin’ remedies for aches, pains and jet lag. I don’t put much stock in essential oils, but damn if I didn’t wake up feeling fresh and ready to face the day the next morning. The convention was being held on the waterfront about nine blocks from Semide’s place, not too bad for a walk, and I reckoned I could make the trek each day. 

I left late in the morning, well after the con had opened. No sense waiting in line, I figured. It was three blocks from the Westin Harbor Castle, when I saw the first fursuit. 

There was no explaining the rush of exhilaration I felt. This was real. This was happening. I was gradually being surrounded by dozens of people decked out in bright, elaborate costumes. Some that couldn’t afford full suits wore just heads and gloves, giving a ghoulish Frankenstein’s monster appearance to their character. Or the wolf-man caught mid transformation after being bitten by a neon fox in a rainbow pride shirt. The less daring, or particularly destitute, settled for headbands with animal ears and strap-on tails. 

Waiting to cross the last street, I was elbow to elbow with a giant Sonic the Hedgehog and a seven-foot tall purple giraffe sporting a quadruple-XL adult diaper. Something told me before the weekend was over, that particular garment would get filled. Before I could contemplate the logistics further, the light changed and the extremely polite, if curiously dressed herd moved into the street and we sorted into a semblance of a line being steadily processed through the doors into the main convention hall. I was in.

The lead-up to the main event hadn’t prepared me for what lay inside. A teenage girl in a ‘volunteer’ shirt thrust an opaque plastic bag into my hands before Big The Cat shoved me aside and began professing his undying love for her beauty. I stumbled into the row of booths on the main floor, further progress blocked by an electric green armadillo strumming an acoustic guitar with a stuffed fish tucked in the strings. 

This was it, I weaved my way between con-goers and took it all in. Clip-on LED cat ears. A custom-fit fang booth. Stacks of comics focused on humanoid animals. Racks upon racks of faux-leather collars and leashes. The waifu pillows. I pulled my phone from my pocket and approached the nearest open booth.

Time for an interview, I thought.

Eight hours, two energy drinks and a box of granola bars later, I was dead on my feet. There was no way of knowing how many people I’d talked to as the day progressed. Or just how strange my conversations had become. I think I spoke at length with Cool Cat about the merits of various vape pens, despite the fact I don’t smoke. But it hadn’t all been nonsense. 

Before I had degenerated into a gibbering wreck, I had chanced to be standing beside a fountain near the food court and heard a familiar warbling voice behind me. To my great delight, when I turned around I found a young woman with jet black hair, a hawaiian shirt and a black & yellow long-Furby draped over her shoulders; I instantly recognized her as Teya from Strange Aeons. After she’d finished speaking to her friend, I politely tapped her on the arm and introduced myself. She turned out to be super cool, excited to meet another youtube creator, and talked to me for about ten minutes as her girlfriend went off to wait in line for the bathroom. 

While most of our conversation centered around videos and our special boy Greg, my eyes kept getting drawn back to Thursday Plurbonym Boyporridge. His black and yellow checkered belly, his luxurious black fur, those piercing green eyes; it was all so captivating. I couldn’t quit looking at the charm necklace below his little yellow beak spelling out his name; Thursday. Eventually, I complimented her on her videos and her handsome long-son one last time and we parted ways. It had been a pleasant break, but even here, the persistent strains of Insane Clown Posse that permeated the space were grating on my nerves. 

When the time had come for all the furry folk to close up shop and head home, I staggered out into the street with all the lingering con-goers. Despite the initial culture shock, most of the people I’d met had been great. I could stand here, elbow to elbow with ponies, foxskies, giant pomeranians and adorable cat girl maids on the steps of Westin Harbor Castle, and just enjoy the last moments of the sun setting over Toronto. That is until the moment was shattered by an obnoxious voice that sounded more like it belonged outside a Patriots game accompanied by the echo of shattering beer bottles. 

“Now that the party’s over, we can get down to the afterparty at my place; which of you bitches wants to come home with me?”

My head swiveled like a tank turret toward the source of the voice, my face bearing the expression which must have read did this motherfucker just?

A man-child wearing a My Little Pony t-shirt that had been stretched over his prodigious girth, a pair of denim jorts hanging past his knees and sweat-stained socks encased in mandles, slid his oily bulk up behind a group of teenage girls dressed as some kind of anime cat maids. He leaned his acne-studded face in close to them and said, “Since you’re dressed as maids, how about I take you home and make you change my cumm-y bedsheets after a night of passionate love-making.” 

The overly-polite locals may have been in shock, but I knew a neckbeard when I saw one and knew immediately what to do.

“How ‘bout you back the fuck off bro, they’re kids.”

Maybe he wasn’t expecting resistance, but he seemed genuinely taken aback by someone speaking up. Once he got a look at me, he re-adjusted his fedora and stared me down. I admit, I might not look terribly intimidating; bulky, but not muscular, with my hair dyed bright teal and swept to one side. At least I had on a Pink Floyd t-shirt, that felt a little like a layer of protection against his fed-aura. He drew in a snot-choked breath and continued,

“They’re dressed as the maids from Painappuru No Oshiri, they’re harem girls that’re totally thirsty for the main character. Each maid is eager to bend over and present their ripe ruby star-fruit to their master. They’re, like, practically advertising how much they want it in the ass.”

“Why don’t you leave them alone, fuckmuppet?” I retorted. “You look like you're forty and they’re a bunch of teen girls.”

He was not pleased with my argument. The group of cat-maidens had shaken off their surprise and closed ranks. But they weren’t ready when he lunged forward and grabbed at the petticoat of the red cat-maid on the outside, lifting her skirts up to expose the shorts underneath.

“It’s not even a chick, it’s a dude. Chill out.”

A glance at the cosplayer’s face revealed a mask of burning red embarrassment, fear and confusion. Their friends were moving to grab at the neckbeard’s hand, but I was quicker. I swatted his arm like I was chopping down the internet itself and pushed right up in his face. Practically nose-to-nose, I couldn’t avoid the stench of fermented funyuns rolling off his breath.

“Keep. Your. Fucking. Hands. Off of them.”

His chins quivered slightly. 

“Oh, you wanna start something, Rainbow Brite? I bet you like it in the ass, prancy-boy.”

“For a supposedly straight guy, you sure are obsessed with getting your dick in a guy’s butt.”

The flab of his cheeks reddened to match his acne.

“You’re gonna regret that. I’m a man with a very particular set of skills…”

I cut him off; I didn’t have the patience for a real-life copy pasta.

“Is one of your skills getting punched by me? Cause if you keep talking, you’re going to be teaching a master class.”

I could feel that neckbeardy-bravado wavering. Perhaps he could sense the crowd around us had turned against him, moving to shield the cat-maids and staring daggers into his lumpy flesh. With one last snotty huff, he turned and stormed away; the sound of his mandles slapping on the concrete echoed off the face of the convention center. 

A group of several of the more adulty-er people had ringed the victims and were doing their best to calm them down. I shuffled over and started to apologize for the beardo’s behavior, when the red cat-maid began thanking me profusely and asked for a hug. Apparently, this was not the first time their group had been approached at the convention. We stood around chatting for a while, and they promised to check Evangelion when they got home. Once the cat-maids were safely in their Lyft, I waved them goodbye and turned to make my journey home for the night.

I started back up the street I'd taken this morning, but as I approached the doorway to a grimey building, I became aware of a fully-suited Yogi Bear propositioning a man dressed like Linda-Carter-era Wonder Woman. I was pretty wiped out and didn’t have it in me to process an altercation like this if they noticed me and instead took an abrupt right turn down an alley, intending to zig-zag back to my Air B&B. 

I was nearly out the other side when my ears picked up the slapping of mandles on pavement rushing up behind me. A searing pain burst into existence in my lower back, like someone put a cigarette out on my spine. 

I went down, hard. 

The mylar swag bag I’d been swinging around all day splashed into a puddle off to one side. I was barely able to heave myself over onto my back to get a look at my attacker. It was him. The Neckbeard. He stood over me, grinning, his yellowed teeth visible in the night. The little black box in his hand flickered with a blue spark as he triggered the taser again.

“Heh heh. You like that, princess? I aimed a little high so I wouldn’t damage your sweet ass.”

“Fuck….you….” I gasped out through the pain. My muscles were cramping like someone had dug a burning fork into my lower back and twisted it up like a plate of spaghetti. 

“Heh. You’re the one taking it in the ass, rainbow bitch.” He stepped over me, squatting like a linebacker, bringing the taser close to my face. “Maybe I’ll push this in your eyeball and see if I can make it boil.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of movement between his legs. Something thin and dark darted up from the shadows, toward his exposed back. He let out a cry of surprise, and shot upright, swinging his arms wildly behind him, grabbing at something. He hopped wildly from foot-to-foot across the alley, the tail hanging from the back of his pants swaying wildly with the movement. I thought it was weird I hadn’t noticed the tail before, especially with how long it was, practically sweeping the ground. The fuzzy black appendage was moving...wrong. It kept curling up and twisting out of his hands as he grasped at it, almost as if it were...alive. 

“Oh Goddamnit!” He screamed. “What the fuck, dude?!” 

He dropped the taser and got a grip on the tail with both hands, tugging on it. A ripping sound echoed through the alley as the seat of his pants tore out. The thing was, the tail wasn’t attached to his pants, it was going in through his pants, nestled between his prodigious posterior cheeks like one of those fetish plugs. As he violently jerked it side-to-side, it was ripping at the fabric of his trousers, the same went for his less-than-tidey whiteys. 

“Get this fucking thing off of me!” He howled. 

He grunted as the tail slipped his fingers and wriggled another foot inside him. Tears were welling up in his eyes and he collapsed back against a green dumpster. Like a man who had gambled on a street taco truck and lost, he bit his knuckle and gripped his abdomen through his stained t-shirt. It might have been a trick of the light, but I swear I could see his belly distend and squirm; the words ‘Friendship Is Magic’ bulging as something rolled under them. 

His mandles dug into the alley grime as he feebly kicked his legs, and I could only watch in disgust as the rest of the fuzzy, black, thing slithered up inside him, forcibly dilating his leather cheerio. It was incredible. I could actually see its progress as it wormed its way through his body. He blubbered something about God and Jesus as his hand clawed frantically at his own belly, before his voice abruptly went silent. 

There was a long, drawn-out wheezing sound, like one of those novelty rubber chickens, as the bulk of the thing moved up his throat. I don’t know how his flesh distended and deformed without bursting, but it reached his mouth and his jaw opened wide. First one small black, fuzzy ear lined with black and yellow plaid popped up, then another, followed by the crown of this thing’s head, pushing his teeth outward like flower petals blooming. 

It rose before me, straight up from his mouth, its black and yellow belly slick, but not stained by his juices. His dislodged teeth clung to its matted fur like an obscene necklace. It swayed slightly in the moonlight, a pair of luminous green eyes fixed on mine, and its beak opened. With the rising inflection of someone asking a question, it uttered one word: 

Teeth?

[unsettlingshortstories]

Harlequin Valentine

Neil Gaiman (1999)

 It is February the Fourteenth, at that hour of the morning when all the children have been taken to school, and the husbands have driven themselves to work, or have been dropped, steambreathing and greatcoated, at the rail station at the edge of the town for the Great Commute, when I pin my heart to Missy’s front door.

 The heart is a deep dark red that is almost a brown, the colour of liver. Then I knock on the door, sharply, rat-a-tat-tat!

And I grasp my wand, my stick, my oh-so-thrustable and beribonned lance, and I vanish like cooling steam into the chilly air…

 Missy opens the door. She looks tired.

 “My Columbine,” I breathe, but she hears not a word. She turns her head, so she takes in the view from one side of the street to the other, but nothing moves.

 A truck rumbles in the distance.

 She walks back into the kitchen and I dance, silent as a breeze, as a mouse, as a dream, into the kitchen beside her.

 Missy takes a plastic sandwich bag from a paper box in the kitchen drawer. She takes a bottle of cleaning spray from under the sink.

She pulls off two sections of kitchen towel from the roll on the kitchen counter. The she walks back to the front door.

 She pulls the pin from the painted wood – it was my hat pin, which I had stumbled across… where? I turn the matter over in my head; in Gascony, perhaps? Or Twickenham? Or Prague?

 The face on the end of the hat pin is that of a pale Pierrot. She removes the pin from the heart, and puts the heart into the plastic sandwich bag.

 She wipes the blood from the door with a squirt of cleaning spray and a rub of paper towel, and she inserts the pin into her lapel, where the little white-faced August face stares out at the cold world with his blind silver eyes and his grave silver lips.

 Naples. Now it comes back to me.

 I purchased the hat pin in Naples, from an old woman with one eye. She smoked a clay pipe.

This was a long time ago.

Missy puts the cleaning utensils down on the kitchen table, then she thrusts her arms through the sleeves of her old blue coat – which was once her mother’s – then she places the sandwich bag with the heart in it determinedly into her pocket, does up the buttons - one, two, three – and sets off down the street.

 Secret, secret, quiet as a mouse I follow her, sometimes creeping, sometimes dancing, and she never sees me, not for a moment, just pulls her blue coat more tightly around her, and she walks through the town, and down the old road that leads past the cemetery.

 The wind tugs at my hat, and I regret, for a moment, the loss of my hat pin. But I am in love, and this is Valentine’s Day. Sacrifices must be made.

 Missy is remembering in her head the other times she has walked into the cemetery, through the tall iron cemetery gates: when her father died; and when they came here as kids at All Hallows’, the whole school mob and caboodle of them, partying and searing each other; and when a secret lover was killed in a three-car pile-up on the interstate, and she walked until the end of the funeral, when the day was all over and done with, and she came in the evening, just before sunset, and laid a white lily on the fresh grave.

 Oh, Missy, shall I sing the body and the blood of you, the lips and the eyes? A thousand hearts I would give you as your valentine.

 Proudly I wave my staff in the air and dance, singing silently into the gloriousness of me, as we skip together down Cemetery road.

 A low grey building, and Missy pushes open the door.

 She says Hi and How’s it going to the girl at the desk, who makes no intelligible reply, fresh out of school, and filling in a crossword from a periodical filled with nothing but crosswords page after page of them…

 The girl would be making private phone calls on company time if only she had somebody to call, which she doesn’t, and, I see, plain as elephants, she never will. Her face is a mass of blotchy acne pustules and acne scars and she thinks it matters, and talks to nobody.

 I see her life spread out before me: She will die, unmarried, and unmolested, of breast cancer in fifteen years’ time, and will be planted under a stone with her name on it in the meadow by Cemetery Road, and the first hands to have touched her breasts will have been those of the pathologist as he cuts out the cauliflower-like stinking growth and mutters, “Jesus, look at the size of this thing. Why didn’t she tell anyone?” which rather misses the point.

 Gently, I kiss her on her spotty cheek, and whisper to her that she is beautiful. Then I tap her once, twice, thrice, on the head with my staff, and wrap her with a ribbon.

 She stirs and smiles.

 Perhaps tonight she will get drunk and dance and offer up her virginity upon Hymen’s altar, meet a young man who cares more for her breasts than for her face, and will one day, stroking those breasts and sucking and rubbing them, say, “Honey, you seen anybody about that lump?” and by then her spots will be long gone, rubbed and kissed and frottaged into oblivion.

But now I have mislaid Missy…

 The stench is unbearable, heavy and rancid and wreathed on the air. The fat man in the stained lab coat wears disposable rubber gloves. A dead man is on the table in front of him.

 The fat man has not noticed Missy yet. He has made an incision, and now he peels back the skin with a wet, sucking sound, and how dark the brown of it is on the outside, and how pink, pretty the pink of it is on the inside.

 Classical music plays from a portable radio, very loudly. Missy turns the radio off. “Hello,Vernon.”

“Hello, Missy. You come for your old job back?”

 This is The Doctor, I decide, for he is too big, too round, too magnificently well-fed to be Pierrot, too unselfconscious to be Pantaloon.

 His face creases with delight to see Missy, and she smiles to see him, and I am jealous; I feel a stab of pain shoot through my heart (currently in a plastic sandwich bag in Missy’s coat pocket), sharper than when I stabbed it with my hat pin and stuck it to her door.

 And speaking of my own heart…

 Missy holds out the plastic bag, “Do you know what this is?”

 Vernon peers at it closely. “Heart,” he replied. “Kidneys don’t have the ventricles, and brains are bigger and squishier. Where’d you get it?”

 “I was hoping that you could tell me. Doesn’t it come from here? Is it your idea of a valentine’s card, Vernon? A human heart stuck to my front door?”

 “Don’t come from here. You want I should call the police?”

 Missy shook her head. “I guess not. With my luck, they’ll decide I’m a serial killer and send me to the chair.”

 Vernon: “Let’s see… adult, in pretty good shape, took care of his heart, cut out by an expert.”

 I smile proudly at this, and bend down to talk to the dead black man on the table, with his chest all open and his calloused string-bass-plucking fingers.

 “Go ‘way, Harlequin,” he mutters, quietly, not to offend Missy and his doctor. “Don’t you go causing trouble here.”

 “Hush yourself. I will cause trouble wherever I wish,” I tell him. “It is my function. But, for a moment, I feel a void about me; I am wistful, almost Pierrotish , which is a poor thing for a harlequin to be.

 Oh, Missy, I saw you yesterday in the street, and followed you into Al’s Super-Valufoods and More, elation and joy rising within me. In you, I recognized someone who could transport me, take me from myself.

 In you I recognized my valentine. My Columbine.

I did not sleep last night, and instead I turned the town topsy and turvy, befuddling the unfuddled . I caused three sober bankers to make fools of themselves with drag queens from Madame Zora’s Revue and Bar.

 I slid into the bedrooms of the sleeping, unseen and unimagined, slipping the evidence of mysterious and exotic trysts into the pockets and under pillows and into crevices, able only to imagine the fun that would ignite the following days as soiled and spilt-crotch fantasy panties would be found poorly hidden under sofa, cushions and in the inner pockets of respectable suits.

 But my heart was not in it, and the only face I could see was Missy’s. Oh, Harlequin in love is a sorry creature.

I wonder what she will do with my gift. Some girls spurn my heart, others touch it, kiss it, caress it, punish it will all manner of endearments before they return it to my keeping. Some never even see it.

 Missy: “Shall I incinerate it?”

 “Might as well. You know where the incinerator is, and I meant what I said about your old job. I need a good lab assistant.”

 I imagine my heart trickling up to the sky as ashes and smoke, covering the world. I do not know what I think of this, but, her jaw set, Missy shakes her head and she bids goodbye to Vernon the pathologist.

 She has thrust my heart into her pocket and she is walking out of the building and up Cemetery Road and back into town.

 I caper ahead of her. Interaction would be a fine thing, I decide.

 Fitting word to deed I disguise myself as a bent old woman on her way to the market, covering the red spangles of my costume with a tattered cloak, hiding my masked face with a voluminous hood, and at the top of Cemetery Road I step out and block her way.

 Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous me, and I say to her, in the voice of the oldest of women, “Spare a copper for a bent old woman, dearie, and I’ll tell you a fortune that will make your eyes spin with joy.”

 “Here.”

 And I have it in my head to tell her all about the mysterious man she will meet, all dressed in red and yellow, with his domino mask, who will thrill her and love her and never, never leave her (for it is not a good thing to tell your Columbine the entire truth), but instead I find myself saying, in a cracked old voice, “Have you ever heard of Harlequin?”

“Yes,” she answers, “character in the Commedia dell’arte . Costume covered in little diamond shapes. Wore a mask. I think he was a clown of some sort, wasn’t he?”

 I shake my head, beneath my hood. “No clown,” I tell her. “He was…”

 And I find that I am about to tell her the truth, so I choke back the words and pretend that I am having the kind of coughing attack, to which elderly women are particularly susceptible.

 I wonder if this could be the power of love.

 I do not remember it troubling me with other women I thought I had loved, other Columbines I have encountered over centuries now long gone.

 I squint through old woman eyes at Missy; she is in her early twenties, and she has lips like a mermaid’s, full and well-defined and certain, and grey eyes, and a certain intensity to her gaze.

 “Are you all right?”

 I cough and sputter and cough some more and gasp, “Fine, my dearie-duck. I’m just fine, thank you kindly.”

 “So. I thought you were going to tell me my fortune.”

 “Harlequin has given you his heart. You must discover its beat yourself.” I hear myself saying these words, angry at my trickster tongue for betraying me.

 She stares at me, puzzled. I cannot change or vanish while her eyes are upon me, and I feel frozen.

 “Look! A rabbit!”

 And she turns, follows my pointing finger, and as she takes her eyes off me I disappear – pop! – like a rabbit down a hole.

 When she looks back, there’s not a trace of the old fortune-teller lady, which is to say me.

 Missy walks on, and I caper after her, but there is not the spring in my step there was earlier in the morning.

 Midday, and Missy has walked to Al’s Super-ValuFoods and More, where she buys a small block of cheese, a carton of unconcentrated orange juice, two avocados, and on to the County One Bank, where she withdraws two hundred and seventy-nine dollars and twenty-two cents, which is the total amount of money in her savings account, and I creep after her sweet as sugar and quiet as the grave.

 “’Morning, Missy…” says the owner of the Salt Shaker Café, when Missy enters.

 My heart would have skipped a beat if it were not in the sandwich bag in Missy’s pocket, for this man obviously lusts after her, and my confidence, which is legendary, droops and wilts.

 I am Harlequin, I tell myself, in my diamond-covered garments, and the world is my harlequinade. I am Harlequin, who rose from the dead to play his pranks upon the living. I am Harlequin, in my mask, with my wand.

 I whistle to myself, and my confidence rises, hard and full once more.

 Missy was saying: “Hey, Harve. Give me a plate of hash browns, and a bottle of ketchup.” “That all?”

“Yes. That’ll be perfect, and a glass of water.”

 I tell myself that the man Harve is Pantaloon, the foolish merchant that I must bamboozle, baffle, confusticate, and confuse.

Perhaps there is a string of sausages in the kitchen.

I resolve to bring delightful, disarray to the world, and to bed luscious Missy before midnight: my Valentine’s present to myself.

 I imagine myself kissing her lips.

 There are a handful of other diners. I amuse myself by swapping their plates while they are not looking, but I have difficulty finding the fun in it.

 The waitress ignores Missy, whom she obviously considers entirely Harve’s preserve.

 Missy sits at the table, and pulls the sandwich bag from her pocket. She places it on the table in front of her.

 Harve-the-pantaloon struts over to Missy’s table, gives her a glass of water, a plate of hash-browned potatoes, and a bottle of Heinz 57 Varieties Tomato Ketchup. 

“And a steak knife,” Missy said. As Harve turned, I stuck out my stick.

He stumbles. He curses, and I feel better, more like the former me.

 I goose the waitress as she passes the table of an old man who is reading USA Today while toying with his salad.

 She gives the old man a filthy look. I chuckle, and then I find I am feeling most peculiar. I sit down on the floor, suddenly.

“What’s that, honey?” the waitress asks.

 “Health food, Charlene,” Missy replies, “Builds up iron.” I peep over the tabletop.

She is slicing up small slices of liver-coloured meat on her plate, liberally doused in tomato sauce, and piling her fork high with hash browns.

 Then she chews.

 I watch my heart disappearing into her rosebud mouth. My valentine’s jest somehow seems less funny.

 She pops another scrap of raw gristle cut small into her mouth, and chews it hard, before swallowing.

 Charlene, the waitress, goes past once more, with a pot of steaming coffee. “So what’s with the raw meat? You anemic?”

 Missy replies, “Not anymore.”

 And as she finishes eating my heart, Missy looks down and sees me sprawled upon the floor.

She nods. “Outside. Now.”

 Then she gets up, and leaves ten dollars beside her plate.

 She is sitting on a bench on the sidewalk, waiting for me. It is cold, and the street is almost deserted.

 I would caper around her, but if feels so foolish now I know someone is watching. “You ate my heart.” I can hear the petulance in my voice, and it irritates me.

“Yes. Is that why I can see you?”

 “I guess.” I answered. “Nobody’s ever done it before.” “Take off that domino mask. You look stupid.”

I did.

 “Not much improvement,” she says. “Now, give me the hat. And the stick.” “I would prefer not to.”

Missy reaches out and plucks my hat from my head, takes my stick from my hand.

 She toys with the hat, her long fingers brushing and bending it. Her nails are painted crimson. Then she stretches and smiles, expansively. The poetry has gone from my soul, and the cold February wind makes me shiver.

 “It’s cold,” I say.

 “No.” Missy replied. “It’s perfect, magnificent, marvelous, and magical. It’s Valentine’s Day, isn’t it? Who could be cold upon Valentine’s Day? What a fine and fabulous time of the year.”

 The diamonds are fading from my suit, which is turning ghost-white, Pierrot -white.

“What do I do now?” I ask.

 “I don’t know. Fade away, perhaps. Or find another role… a lovelorn swain, perchance, mooning and pining under the pale moon. All you need is a Columbine.”

 “You are my Columbine.”

 “Not anymore. That’s the joy of the harlequinade, after all, isn’t it? We change our costumes. We change our roles.”

 She flashes me such a smile, now.

 Then she puts my hat, my own hat, my harlequin-hat, up onto her head. “And you?” I ask.

She tosses the wand into the air: it tumbles and twists in a high arc, red and yellow ribbons twisting and swirling about it, and then it lands neatly, almost silently, back into her hand.

 She pushes the tip down to the sidewalk, pushes herself up from the bench in one smooth movement.

 She says to me: “I have things to do. Tickets to take. People to dream.” Then she leans over, and kisses me, full, and hard upon the lips.

Somewhere, a car backfired. I turned, startled, and when I looked back, I was alone on the street. I sat there for several moments, on my own.

 “Hey, Pete,” Charlene calls from the doorway, “Have you finished out there yet?” “Finished? Finished what, Charlene?”

“C’mon. Harve says your ciggie break is over. And you’ll freeze. Back into the kitchen.” I stared at her. She tossed her pretty hair, and, momentarily, smiled at me.

I adjusted my white clothes, the uniform of the kitchen help, and followed her inside.

 It’s Valentine’s Day, I thought.Tell her how you feel. Tell her what you think . But I said nothing, I dared not. I simply followed her inside, a creature of mute longing.

 Back in the kitchen, a pile of plates was waiting for me: I began to scrape the leftovers into the pig-bin.

 There was a scrap of dark meat on one of the plates, beside some half-finished ketchup-covered hash browns.

 It looked almost raw… but I dipped it into the congealing ketchup and, when Harve’s back was turned, I picked it off the plate and chewed it down. It tasted metallic and gristly, but I swallowed it anyhow, and could not have told you why.

 A blob of red ketchup dripped from the plate onto the sleeve of my white uniform, forming one perfect diamond.

 I called across the kitchen. “Hey, Charlene, happy Valentine’s Day. And then I started to whistle.

[eldritchsurveys]

1131.

1 - Were you glad to see the back of 2020? What were the best and worst parts of the year to you? >> I honestly did not care one way or the other. I understand why the ritualistic “good riddance to 2020″ thing works for people, it just doesn’t work for me. In my mind, it really doesn’t matter if it’s 2020 or 2021, just as long as it ain’t fuckin, say, 2009.

2 - If you’ve purchased something you love from a small business, are you likely to leave a review or anything afterwards? Why/why not? >> Yeah, like I just bought a bracelet from an Etsy seller and I left a happy review because I love the product. I never really thought about leaving reviews in the past, but it recently occurred to me that I should probably start doing it for independent sellers like that. This particular seller only had one or two other reviews aside from mine, so you know, it really makes a difference.

3 - When was the last time you received some good news? >> Well, seeing the pending stimulus deposit was good news. It is just enough to pay off the rest of what I owe on my computer, which means I do not have to worry about that anymore. I consider that a great relief, tbh; that $150/mo was no joke.

4 - Does wearing masks cause you to get acne or oily skin on your chin and around your nose? >> Nah. I’d probably have to wear them for much longer periods of time than I usually do for that to start happening.

5 - Do you prefer dogs or cats? Do you have a preferred breed as well? >> Dogs. Pitbulls are my fave breed.

6 - Do you have any plans for the next few days? Are these plans something you’re dreading or looking forward to? >> Mostly I just plan to enjoy having my normal routine back once Sparrow goes back to work (well, until Thursday, because now she’s going to be working from home every Thursday...).

7 - Leggings, jeans, jeggings or sweatpants? >> Sweatpants.

8 - How often do you meet new people? Is this something you’d like to change in any way? >> Not often at all, especially now. I don’t think it needs to be changed right now.

9 - What time did you wake up this morning? Would you rather have slept in longer? >> For the final time, around eight or so. I’m currently in a sleep deficit so I probably could have slept in longer, but I don’t like sleeping in. Maybe I’ll take a nap at some point, maybe not.

10 - What’s your favourite meal of the day? What’s your favourite thing to eat for that meal? >> I guess breakfast, since that’s my most stable and predictable meal most of the time. I almost always have a veggie burger and chips.

11 - When was the last time you visited a zoo or aquarium? What are your favourite animals to see there? >> I think the last time was Labor Day in 2019? The red pandas were pretty novel. I don’t think I have a favourite animal overall, though.

12 - Have you ever bought or sold anything via Facebook? >> No. This just reminded me to check on whether the Buy Nothing group in my city approved my membership, but apparently they did not, and that really confuses me, because... like, I live in the city. Why can’t I join the Buy Nothing group? This sort of thing is so distressing to me, I just... wanted to do a little community participation. :/ 

13 - When was the last time you had to cross a railway line? Was it an automated crossing or a manual one? >> I mean, we cross train tracks whenever we head downtown.

14 - What was the last thing you received as a gift? >> The gift from Sparrow’s parents that was late to arriving, which I got yesterday. It was a wine mulling kit.

15 - Are you a fan of cheese? What are your favourite types? >> I mean, I like cheese. I don’t know if I’d go so far to call myself a fan, though. I like pepper jack, brie, Kerrygold swiss, etc.

16 - What’s your “go-to” hairstyle when you’re feeling lazy or in a rush? >> ---

17 - How do you travel to work or school? Would you rather get there in a different way if you had the choice? >> ---

18 - What was the last activity you did that caused you to be out of breath? >> I don’t remember.

19 - When was the last time you changed your bedsheets? >> About a half hour ago, because they’d just been washed.

20 - What household chore do you hate the most? Are there any you actually enjoy or find satisfying in any way? >> Any “wet” chore -- so, most of the ones in the kitchen and all of the ones in the bathroom. I don’t mind vacuuming/sweeping, dusting, or laundry (I especially like the folding), and I love to tidy up and put things back where they belong.

21 - How much money did you spend the last time you went to the supermarket? >> I, personally, didn’t spend any, but the total grocery bill this weekend was about $170.

22 - How often do you buy fast food or takeaways? What’s your favourite place to get those foods from? >> Not often.

23 - Do you prefer white, brown or granary bread? What other types of bread do you like to eat? >> I’m not sure what granary bread is, but generally I’m not too precious about the type of bread. I’m far more precious about where the bread comes from (locally-made versus mass-produced).

24 - Are you in any kind of pain right now? What’s causing it? >> I wouldn’t say that. I mean, being tired and melancholy can be a bit painful at times, but... yeah.

25 - Can you hear anyone else in your house right now? What are they up to? >> Sparrow is having a shower. IDK what the cat is doing.

26 - Do you find farts funny or gross? >> Neither? They’re completely unremarkable to me, unless someone’s farting a tune or something, which I guess is novel enough.

27 - What are you wearing at the moment? Is anything you’re wearing new? >> Sweats, undershirt, hoodie. My winter uniform. Nothing I’m wearing is new.

28 - Who was the last person you spoke to via social media? Is this a person you’re close to? >> I don’t remember.

29 - Did you ever do surveys on a site other than Tumblr? Do you still take surveys anywhere else? >> Yeah, I was on Xanga for a long time. I had a brief fling with LiveJournal after Xanga went the way it did but ultimately settled on just posting them here.

30 - Are you overweight, underweight or a healthy weight for your height? Are you happy with that or would you like to change it? >> I don’t know which one I am and I’d rather not make a fuss about it.

[heartslogos]

an oath to keep

Gideon is sitting on a dull ashy rock, boots covered in dull ashy dirt, staring out at a dull ashen sky as dull ash clouds puff around her. She is waiting for a drop ship to pick her up and take her away.

She is certain of two things.

One, when Harrowhark Nonagesimus gets her she’s going to be so mad at Gideon that she’s going to skip straight past frosty rage and into frothing at the corners of the mouth and she might try to pop each individual vertebrae of Gideon’s spine out through Gideon’s mouth like a candy dispenser.

Two, Gideon is deader than disco. Which provides a minor sliver of hope because disco has a weird tendency to dip its toe back into living every so often before being quickly shunted off into its shallow grave.

Gideon, in fact, does feels some minor, weird, buzzing feeling in the back of her skull that signals to her that she’s not all the way gone yet. Just ninety nine point nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine nine percent there.

She raises a hand and runs it through her hair, as she sighs, slumping down on the rock to stare up at the bleak sky.

Trust being dead to land her back at the Ninth. The afterlife couldn’t have something a little bit more interesting? Gideon’s no saint and didn’t have many expectations for what the other side would hold for her, but surely it wouldn’t be ye old homestead of eternal bleakness.

Figures that the bad place for the bad people is just the Ninth. It explains so much, honestly.

So far Gideon has catalogued three bits of good news while sitting on her old rock friend.

One. She’s got her two hander. Its familiar weight means that this place can’t be completely awful. Real hell would’ve been stuck in the afterlife with the little metal wand of a rapier and the kind of alright knuckles.

Two. Gideon also still has her glasses. Unscratched, unbroken, and in perfectly mirrored condition that she can see her reflection in them.

Three. Gideon’s existence in the afterlife is not a complete mangled wreck like it was when Gideon threw herself into it to start with. Her arms and legs work, her torso isn’t a sieve with a bonus chance at tetanus, and — not as great, but neither here nor there — her face paint looks fresh, sharp, and unblemished. Which also leads to the bad news that Gideon poked at her face a bit and could still feel the angry little zits on her forehead and the sides of her face.

Being dead, apparently, does not rescue a person from acne. Acne is a powerful curse that extends beyond life. There can be no rescuing from acne.

“Ninth.”

Gideon looks up and is somehow disappointed to see Camilla.

“Yo,” Gideon stands up, waving awkwardly. “Do I apologize?”

Camilla blinks at her, confused, “What for?”

“You’re here.”

Camilla looks around, and shrugs. ���Not for long.”

They both look up at the sound of ship engines.

Camilla’s hands rest on her hips as they watch the dull clouds part, and the lights of a ship start to come closer.

“Thank you for what you did back there,” Camilla says as they watch the ship descend. “You do your house proud.”

Gideon shrugs, uncomfortable at the thought of making the Ninth House feel anything positive. The Ninth could suck it. It wasn’t really —

“The Ninth has less syllables than Harrowhark Nonagesimus,” Gideon says.

Camilla’s lip twitches upward at the corner. Gideon has a feeling Camilla already knew that.

“It was an honor to fight with you,” Camilla says as the ship completes its descent, landing off in the distance and lowering its ramp. She turns to Gideon and holds her hand out. “I’m going to join my adept.”

Gideon grasps it. “Hey, what was it that you were supposed to do?”

Camilla’s smile is grim and thin. “Finish it.”

Gideon’s hand tightens on Camilla’s. “And — ?”

She doesn’t now how to finish that question.

Camilla nods once. “It is done.”

They both let go of each other and Camilla turns to walk away. Gideon watches her for a bit before returning to her rock.

“Gideon!”

She looks up and sees Camilla, almost at the ship.

“You could come with us,” Camilla yells out towards her, “You’ve done more than enough. Our part is over.”

Gideon stares at Camilla, and then beyond her at the ship. She imagines she can see Palamedes in the shadow of the ship’s entryway. Boy that would be an awkward ride to wherever dead people go next. No thanks.

“Pass. I’ll wait for mine,” Gideon yells back.

Camilla is very still in the distance before she raises an arm and waves, then turns and completes the walk onto the ship.

Gideon watches the ship as it slowly returns to the sky and away from here. Her throat tightens and she tells herself she isn’t crying. She’s got no paint or brushes. If she messes up her face it’s going to be stuck that way for eternity. No thanks.

Gideon doesn’t know how long she’s been here. It could be minutes. It could be hours. It could be days or years or centuries.

She doesn’t feel tired or thirsty or anything. She’s got enough to do. Infinite laps to run, push ups, crunches, squats, sword drills. She even messes around with pushing rocks around the bleak landscape.

“You.”

Gideon groans, sheathing her sword as she drops her stance. She turns and she sees the hulking mass of Crux lumbering towards her, face grim and foreboding as ever.

“Come on, Crux,” Gideon gestures around them, “We’re dead. Can you drop being a giant wanker for like…a minute? I’ll even pretend I don’t know about the part where you rigged my ship so I would die as soon as I got off planet.”

Crux scowls, coming to a stop a few feet away from her, “Death is the least of what those who abandon their house deserve.” The formal marshal looks her over. “Ultimately you made up for your many flaws, though I can see that your disrespect and lack of manners remains unfixable.”

“Thanks?” Gideon hedges that this is supposed to be the most backhanded of complements, so backhanded that it goes right around to being a complete insult. “You know, Crux, I didn’t think you’d ever kick the bucket. Do I get to ask what did you in? Was it spite? Did you enjoy yourself so thoroughly on the news of my death that you kicked it to see if it was real? Did your dusty old bones just give in and send you collapsing to the floor in a puddle of skin?”

If Crux’s scowl gets any deeper it would threaten to become engraved onto his very bones themselves. Crux’s scowl is so deeply etched into his face that Gideon swears that you could pack the grooves like pockets.

“You wear the paint and patterns of the Ninth like an unattended toddler who put them on in the dark with their fingers,” Crux says. Overhead Gideon hears the sound of a ship coming.

“Looks like your ride’s here,” Gideon says, “Bet you hope that I’m not the one who rigged it this time, eh? Wouldn’t that be a nice turn of the dramatic? You want to offer me some skin mags? For old time’s sake?”

Gideon scrambles to hide behind her rock as Crux advances.

“You can’t kill me, Crux. I’m not scared of you, you old bag of dust,” Gideon says as Crux strides past her and her rock towards the ship, one hand on her sword just in case. The entire way the sound of his breathing and the rattling of his bones made Gideon think of a goody bag for necromancers with knuckles in it being shaken about. Gideon gives Crux’ back the finger.

“Gideon Nav,” Crux says as he walks towards the ship, “You have been a blot on the records of the Ninth since you fell onto our heads.”

Gideon is about to fire off a retort regarding the lack of heads in the Ninth in general, when Crux continues.

“But you saved the Reverend Daughter, and thus the Ninth. You may have been a blot on our records, but you will remain recorded, nonetheless. You were a cavalier worthy of service.”

Gideon watches Crux shamble all the way to the ship and get onto it, saying nothing in return.

Aiglamene comes around eventually, and Gideon is surprised to find herself sad to see her old mentor.

Her face is, dare Gideon think it? Fond.

“What’s up?” Gideon says, mustering up a small salute for the old woman. “You outlasted Crux! Good on you.”

“You are a wretch and a fool, and a legend of the Ninth House,” Aiglamene says. “It is good to see that despite the legends that came after your death and the amount of heroics involved in those legends, you are still Gideon Nav. When we heard word of what you did, I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t believe it. You did — “

“If you say I did the Ninth proud I’m going to throw myself down right here and have the biggest fit you’ve ever seen in your life, and since you’ve been around since the beginning of time it’s going to be one impressive fit.”

Aiglamene gives her a flat look that makes Gideon’s guts gurgle in protest.

“You did me proud, you thrasonical miscreant.”

“You got a dictionary for that one?”

Aiglamene sighs. “I can’t believe that I actually missed you.”

Gideon puts a hand over her heart, “Captain. You do care.”

“I regret the waste of emotion every second I spend looking at you. What are you wearing on your face?”

“Glasses and face paint. Don’t I look like a real proper Niner?”

“You look like a proper malignancy.”

It feels like it’s too soon when the ship comes for Aiglamene. Gideon wants to keep her here, ask her a billion questions about what exactly happened after Gideon died. About Harrow. About the Canaan House. About everyone and everything. About what it felt like to see Crux dead and do a jig over his body.

Aiglamene might even stay.

Gideon’s not so selfish as to ask that, though. So Gideon just gestures to the ship.

“No one’s rigged that one to blow, swear it,” Gideon jokes.

Aiglamene just looks at her, like she’s studying Gideon’s face. Gideon half expects the woman to command her to drop and give her some drills, make sure she’s fighting fit. Gideon expects that she’d do it on reflex.

“If you wait here, you will have a long time to go,” Aiglamene says. “You’ve done your service, Gideon. You did more than what anyone could have asked you, more than what duty asked. You’re free, Gideon. No one owns you, no one can ask anything of you anymore. You can walk away.”

That would be nice if it were true. But it isn’t.

“I made an oath, Captain,” Gideon says. “And I intend to keep it.”

Aiglamene starts to smile.

“You know, so when her lady of eternal gloom and dusk shows up I can tell her that this is what keeping a promise looks like.”

The smile doesn’t go away.

Aiglamene holds her hand out, Gideon grasps it, expecting a firm shake and a serious and slightly formal nod goodbye, but the old woman pulls Gideon in with surprising strength. Gideon is surprised to find that she’s actually taller than Aiglamene now. Which is weird, because one would think you would stop growing when dead.

“Goodbye, Gideon Nav,” Aiglamene whispers into Gideon’s ear. “And good luck.”

It takes a huge amount of effort to uncurl her fingers from Aiglamene’s robes as they part.

Gideon watches Aiglamene go. And when Aiglamene raises her hand to wave goodbye as the ship’s door closes, Gideon salutes. And she holds that position until the clouds have closed over the ship and the gray world is silent again.

There are others. Eventually Lachrimorta and Aisamorta kick it. Gideon takes great pains to make sure that she’s well hidden when she hears those two biddies coming. She’s there for a handful of nuns she recognizes, some other serfs and cultists, various laypeople. Most of them she doesn’t know by name. There are some she doesn’t recognize at all. She does her best to remain hidden for the most part. Gideon would rather not have to deal with them.

Time must pass, though Gideon doesn’t really feel it. It’s like all of time is a giant slush that Gideon stands in the middle of, unmoved and unmoving.

The temptation to get on one of those ships and get away from here is there, but Gideon has something stronger than that. An oath.

Gideon’s word is important. She can’t leave here until it’s completed.

So she waits. She practices drills with her sword, even though she doesn’t really need to anymore. It does keep her fit for running away and hiding from faces she doesn’t want to deal with, which is nice. She does laps. She does sit ups. Crunches, squats, one handed push ups. Clap push ups. Hand stands. Whatever.

She even does the motions for the drills with a rapier and knuckle using a stick she’d found.

Gideon waits.

It feels like not long enough when she feels the dreaded step of Harrowhark Nonagesimus on the horizon.

Gideon turns, hand resting on the pommel of her two hander, the other adjusting her glasses as the shadowy figure of velvet and lace and bone drowse closer.

She hears a ship in the distance.

“One flesh, one end,” Gideon whispers to herself as Harrow comes into close enough view that she can see the press of her thin lips, the coiled tension in her shoulders, and the spite flickering in her eyes. “Sup.”

“You,” Harrow snarls. Gideon holds her ground as Harrow picks up the pace, great clouds of gray dirt and ash puffing away behind her as her long robes hiss along the ground. “You impertinent, selfish, foolish, insufferable, malicious, contrary shit.”

“I feel like that this is just the prologue for an epic speech,” Gideon says, pointing towards the ship coming towards them, “You want to discuss this on that instead?”

“I’m not going to discuss anything with you Griddle,” Harrow snaps, but continues walking towards the ship, “I am not having a discussion. I am going to tell you exactly why you did a completely stupid and unnecessary thing. I am going to tell you exactly the many ways you were wrong and how idiotic you were. I am going to tell you, in great and exact detail, the many ways in which your choices negatively impacted me over the past centuries, and I am going to explain to you in a way that even your single brain cell — which, I imagine has much atrophied over time due to lack of any meaningful stimulus — can understand how incomprehensibly and stupendously ill advised your abrupt departure was and the repercussions of you disobeying my orders was.”

Gideon falls into step behind Harrow, folding her arms around the back of her head and grinning at the back of Harrow’s.

“Oh, you did miss me.”

“It was a cold universe without you, Griddle,” Harrow snaps. Gideon beams. “And I had to deal with it by myself. I had to hold a sword, Griddle. A blasted sword. Do you know how frustrating it was to do — to do laps? It took me years, Griddle. Years. Just to swing a metal stick. A metal stick. Did it ever strike you that I had better things to do? That such physical labor was meant to be delegated to one such as yourself? I doubt it.”

Gideon stops waking and just watches Harrow go at it, snapping as vicious and mean spirited and terribly frustrating as ever. She missed this. She missed Harrow.

And now she’s going to have forever with this.

Gideon’s smile feels like it’s going to crack her face. She’s a masochist.

“Are you coming or not Gideon?” Harrow turns about, one foot on the ship’s ramp, tapping impatiently. “I’ve been waiting for this end for millenium, Gideon Nav. How long are you going to keep me waiting?”

“You’d think with millennium to yourself you’d have learned patience,” Gideon says, slowly walking towards her. “Besides. Aren’t I worth waiting for?”

[insomniblaque]

I’ve been thinking about romantic love for a little while now. Well, mostly romantic, but in general I’ve been contemplating my relationship with men and where love fits in those relationships. I’ll be honest, romantic love hasn’t manifested itself in the way I’ve seen other people experience it. I’ve never been in a mutual relationship with someone I’d call a partner, I haven’t been intimate with a person long enough for that part of a relationship to materialize, and I’ve been thinking a lot about why that is, and the role I’ve had in perpetuating that experience. When I was first trying to learn what love was supposed to look like, around middle school I’d say, I wanted to blame myself and relatively superficial factors based on some of my most intimate insecurities — how I felt about my body, my skin, my hair as the reasons why boys didn’t come flocking to me. I blamed things that are uniquely tied to what I looked like. The way I saw love being expressed to other girls — girls who were taller, lighter, skinnier, with less acne molded my expectation of what men wanted and fueled the insecurities I had because they seemed to be everything I wasn’t. While these thoughts existed and played a role in how closed off I was to the idea of professing my intense like for men, they didn’t stay for long, mainly because of the relationships I had with men at that time. My father always made it a point to affirm my worth. My father loved my smile, my gap, my violet gums, my cheeks and voice and never forgot to remind me of how special and beautiful  I am. He would jest about when I would bring a boy home often because “there was no way they weren’t asking to approach me” because I look the way I do. My friendships with mostly boys around that time also offset some of that insecurity because I had friends who not only valued me as a person but appreciated me for things I didn’t necessarily notice in myself like my wit, sense of humor, ability to listen and call them out on their shit.

Over the years, I’ve gone through different phases of trying to redefine my insecurities for myself but ultimately so that I wouldn’t let these self limiting beliefs stand in the way of the potential relationships I could develop. It started with my face. The ugly duckling years of middle school prompted my first interests in learning about makeup so that I could distract people from what I didn’t want them to see.  It evolved into a genuine appreciation of the art and eventually a form of therapy for me. I loved beautifying myself for me -- a stray compliment (though I didn’t know how to accept them) also contributed to the boost in dopamine but ultimately, it was the agency of being able to do something only I knew how to do at the time that added to my confidence. Next was my hair, I think I was the most insecure about that for the longest time. My sister always had thicker, longer hair than me and my worth — especially in a deeply Caribbean household felt tied to how manageable and beautiful I could be and hair was the first indicator of that. When relaxed, my hair was thin, uneven, and barely scraped my shoulders. In high school, after having skipped a couple of relaxer sessions before the first day of my sophomore year, I chopped it all off with kitchen scissors. I remember wanting to see if I could feel beautiful without hair and that would be the “social experiment”. Learning to love the hair that grew out of my head at any stage and detaching the value of my beauty from it was not what I thought I was doing that day at 15, but looking back my confidence grew over time from this dissociation. I was just a year and a half early from the boom of natural hair journeys and big chops of that era (yes, if you haven’t noticed I am ahead of my time in a lot of ways lmao) where other women and girls were also expanding their definitions of self-love via their hair and that also made me feel more confident that I can be all of myself around anyone. Hair no longer was a contributing insecurity for me. Recently, I did another dramatic chop, rooted more in an existential crisis, but it also kind of reminded me of the first — how I could still see myself as beautiful without relying on the factors that are called conventionally beautiful. Last, was my body. I had been prone to unhealthy habits rooted in my poor body image for as long as I could remember like restricting meals, unsustainable diets, even at one point abusing drugs (long story) to try to shave off of a few pounds or to try to find the semblance of abs under all my stomach fat. This insecurity was the hardest to shake. Looking at old pictures of myself these days baffles me because when I was trying my hardest to lose weight, I was probably at my skinniest. I didn’t begin redefining my body image until I got to college and needed to find a way to curb the freshman 15. A friend introduced to weightlifting our freshman year and all I can remember is how powerful it made me feel. The simple movements of a squat or a deadlift wasn’t what brought the thrill, it was the amount of weight I could hold in my hands for an extended period of time, the mass I could move that made me feel like if I could do that then I could do anything. Fitness in the form of weightlifting where I was tracking progress with what I could do and not how I looked like really helped me redefine the boundaries of my body. I still struggle with body image every now and again since I’m still very far from a set of well defined abs and too many things jiggle without my permission most times and I think it will always be a work in progress for someone like me who’s intrinsically a perfectionist but the frame shift I have experienced since has empowered me in ways that I never thought would belong to me.

Now back to men. I think it was around this time last year that I started taking a critical look at why I was the way I was where men are concerned. It was at the height of my dad’s battle with cancer and I was ini school failing and riddled with guilt about it. The first real idea of what a relationship would look like for me also came up in my thoughts. A guy , the topic of many stories and a couple of playlists, who I had a lot of respect for but for all intents and purposes didn’t reciprocate that respect in the ways I felt I needed kept coming into my mind at that time. We had a relatively complicated history spanning almost ten years now and it was the kind of connection that I didn’t want to bring with me as powerful as it was. The back and forth took me back to a place where my insecurities were the root of my worth and validation and that was no longer my truth. Some part of me really wanted to believe that we were the kind of people who would always find our way to each other and I held a lot of love for him. But given the place I was an in at the time, I felt like I was on the road to losing some of the most important men in my life and I wanted to do as much that was in my power to curb that by questioning the love l held for all the men in my life. So I sent some letters and one of them was to him. Disclaimer, I was really embarrassed by the letter and even more embarrassed that I sent it to his school email so he had no choice but to read it. But in this letter, I thanked him. I thanked him for seeing me— all of me when I felt like nobody did but also told him that I needed to cut the ties that attached my sense of self to how he saw me and felt about me considering he was one of the first people to admit to seeing me in a romantic context. We were becoming adults, diverging paths and still something in me was holding out for him and I knew I needed to work on letting that go. It took me a week to write that letter and another week and some liquid courage to send it to him. I wrote a couple of other letters, mailed some, kept others. Overall in this exercise, I realized the lack of emotional vulnerability I have always struggled with, the coldness as a defense mechanism that I was comfortable using and the sense of security I felt from the validation of my father and my best male friends all fueled the way I shot myself in the foot when it came to letting new men into my life. Fast forward, my father has passed, this man is back in my life in the context of a healthy friendship and I am working on the final frontier of emotional vulnerability so that whatever the next romantic experience that comes my way, I won’t run from it. I made this with all the men I’ve loved in mind, my daddy, my best friend, the first person I said I love you to and meant it, a person who I’ve recently resigned myself to just get to know as opposed to making advances on and every situation I have yet to encounter where the male half of our species is involved. This is to all the men I’ve loved before, will always love, and hopefully will learn to love. Enjoy it.

[stephfights]

First post...waiting for my fate

You have a lump.  Wait, what?  My entire life was about to change.  But let me back up and tell you what has led me to this point.  At 38 years old I have been relatively healthy my whole life.  Mean as a snake, country as cornbread and loyal to a fault....that’s me.  But not sick.  I married my soulmate, Chris, in 2003 and had our son (my angel), Clayton, in 2007.  I was a stay at home mom for the first 8 years of Clayton’s life.  I then decided it was time for me to get out of the house and I have now been working at Kroger for over 4 years.  I have a wonderful family, the BEST friends ever and the most awesome customers anyone could ask for. 

In the last couple of years my hair seems to be thinning more that it always has.  I am always hot...not warm....HOT!  I sweat uncontrollably...mostly from my head/face/neck by just doing simple tasks.  I don’t sleep well.  I have gained quite a bit of weight that will not go away.  And I have more acne now than I ever had in high school!  But...I am that person....that person who doesn’t really care for doctors and thinks nothing bad will ever happen to them.  I am the strong one.  I take care of everyone else.  I guess that is what has gotten me to where I am today.  I have spent so many years taking care of everyone else that I put myself on the back burner.

Fast forward to May 2019.  I wake up with a horrible case of vertigo.  Drunk as pet monkey and vomiting I go to the local family physician’s office that I have been going to for 5 years (only for small things like the flu)  Of course...there was a new nurse practitioner.  This was about the 5th different one in the last 3 years.  He started asking me questions about my medical history...and wanted to know why I hadn’t had a well care check up in years.  I told him I didn’t have time...and I didn’t really see the point. At this time my husband shows up at the office.  He has left work because he thinks his wife, who never gets sick, must be on her last leg.  He made me promise before I left that I would come back and have that visit.  Then he lectured me about smoking.  That’s right, I have been a cigarette smoker for 22 years.  I smiled and thanked him and went on my way.

Over the summer Chris starts riding my ass about my promise to the NP to have a well care check up.  He then proceeds to tell my best friend, Amber, who also rides my ass.  After getting tired of listening to them I finally agree just to get them to shut up!

August 2019.  I go for my well care visit.  I decide if I’m going to do this I might as well tell him every little thing that I think is “wrong” with me.  I have had a large thyroid for many years (thanks Dad) but never had any problems with it.  I haven’t had a thyroid ultrasound or blood work in 10 years.  He thinks that may be the cause of some of the symptoms I am having.  So I agree to do both.  The blood work comes back perfectly normal.  The ultrasound shows a goiter and 2 small cysts.  No big deal really.  He didn’t do anything else.  He doesn’t do pap smears or breast exams.  So I think I am home free!  But he wants me to see a specialist.  Just to see what they think.  I am referred by one of my customers to an Endochronologist at Vanderbilt.  Of course I can’t get in until November 4th.  I was pissed but what could I do.  I wanted to see the best.

November 4th comes.  Chris takes off work to go with me.  I have to admit...I was SO nervous.  I don’t know why.  I just don’t like doctors.  After self diagnosing on the internet (don’t EVER do that)  I was convinced I had a brain tumor.  Dr. Craig Sussman comes in and is the nicest man I have ever met.  Like Mr. Rogers nice.  I was totally at ease.  He asked about a million questions and answered any questions I had.  He wants to do an exam from the waste up.  I’m like okay...whatever floats your boat.  So I put on a lovely (enter sarcasm) gown and he comes back in to do a breast and thyroid exam.  Right breast...all good.  Left breast....he finds a lump.  I couldn’t believe it!  I made him show me where it was.  Then he showed Chris where it was.  Damn, it was large!  Where did that come from and how did we miss that?  Even though I had not been to a female doctor in about 8 years I still did a self breast exam.  A lot of times at night while I was laying in bed watching TV.  Dr. S then does a thyroid exam but doesn’t really feel anything worrisome.  I can tell his worry is about that lump.  He wants to schedule a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound.  Of course...he tells me it is probably a cyst.  I still had a super uneasy feeling.  My mom has had several breast cysts and I think maybe I have inherited it from her.  So I schedule the tests....and wait for 2 weeks until that appointment.

November 18th.  I have dreaded this for 2 weeks.  I have heard all of the horror stories about how horrible and painful a mammogram is.  I do not like pain...in fact...I’m kind of a wuss.  I ask Chris what if the scans do show something.  But he doesn’t really want to think about that.  I am hoping he can come back with me for the tests....of course they will not let him.  I am literally shivering with tears in my eyes waiting for my mamm.  The tech, Jessica, is so wonderful.  She tries to calm my nerves and gets me in position for the first picture.  Beep...that’s it?  Yep....a mammogram is nothing.  I thought they were going to try to squeeze my boobies as flat as a pancake.  I knew that wasn’t going to work!  But it is literally as easy as an xray.  Jessica laughs and we go on and finish all of the scans.  You have to have a lot more pictures with a diagnostic mammogram as opposed to a screening mammogram.  Then onto the ultrasound.  It’s your typical u/s with the sticky gel and them pushing on you with the little flat scope.  I watch as she measures and pauses.  Then she goes up into my arm pit.  I’m thinking hey...I know my boobs are not perky anymore and they ain’t way up there, but I let her do what she’s doing.  Trying not focus on the weird position she has me in and the cramp that is developing in my shoulder.  She then goes and gets the radiologist.  I know something must be up...but maybe it’s just my fat non perky boobs not cooperating.  She pushes and pauses, pushes and pauses and they whisper back and forth.  Telling me that they are just looking for certain things.  After they finally get done...they ask if my husband is with me.  They are going to give me my results today.  Yippee...I don’t have to wait another flipping week and worry about this!  They go get him and put us in a little room and I tell him that it was “easy peasy” and I don’t know why I was so worked up over it.  We sit there and laugh about how dumb I was and how crazy I had been leading up to this appointment.  Then the radiologist comes in.  I swear she must be some kind of angel.  Her name is Dr. Sara Harvey.  She is sweet, kind and gentle.  She sits down, looks me in the eye, and says you do have a mass and it is solid.  Solid?  Cysts aren’t solid?  She continues with you need a biopsy ASAP.  Do they biopsy cysts?  Nothing is making any sense.   I look up at her and ask is it cancer.  She says yes...I am 90% sure it is.  At this moment my whole world changes.  I can’t look at my husband.  I can’t look at her.  I can only look at the ground and think wow, so this is how I’m going to die.  Chris takes over and asks if we can do the biopsy that day.  She leaves the room to go see what can be done.  As she walks out and the door clicks shut I lose it.  I am sobbing uncontrollably.  Begging my husband to tell me what I am suppose to do now.  He has no words.  He just holds me.  Dr. Harvey comes back in and says the biopsy can be done at 1:30 that afternoon....or the following Monday.  Again, I can’t speak.  So Chris tells her we are going to do it that day.  I finally find my voice and ask her who would be doing the procedure.  She says there are a number of radiologist who can do it.  I don’t want them.  I want her.  I don’t know why but I feel this weird connection with her.  She tells me if I want her to do it then she will change her schedule around and do it.  We leave the office and have an hour and half to wait before I have to go back for the biopsies.  I can’t eat, I can’t think, I can only sit and cry.  Chris starts making phone calls.  To my dad so he can pick up Clayton from school.  To my best friend, who is absolutely beside her self.  To my boss, who is not only my boss but a wonderful friend.  To my brother, who lives 9 hours away.

That was the shortest hour and a half in my life.  As I said before, I do not like pain.  But I REALLY do not like needles!  I have no tattoos, I refuse to take shots, IV’s send me into a panic attack.  But I know I am fixing to have a huge needle suck in my left breast.  And again my husband cannot go back with me.  I have to do this by myself.  I am taken back to a room and the nurse goes over exactly what they are going to do and any complications that could arise after.  Dr. Harvey comes in....and wraps me in a big hug.  I cry and cry.  And she just keeps on hugging me.  I lay down on a gurney and they put a warm blanket on me.  Dr. Harvey explains that she will tell me every little thing she is doing before she does it.  First things first is another ultrasound the see exactly where she wants to start.  Then it’s time to numb me up.  I have expressed my fear of needles and they both tell me how great I am doing.  She says it will be a little bee sting and BAM....that is one big ass bee!  I’m not going to lie and tell you that it didn’t hurt....because it did.  But it slowly became numb.  Then BAM....there’s that damn big ass bee again.  She continues over and over until she thinks we are good.  Here comes the biopsy needle.  Which I learn is a core biopsy so it is a much larger needle.  It is so large that she has to cut a slit in my breast with a scalpel to insert it.  She puts it in and it doesn’t really hurt.  It doesn’t feel good but it is tolerable.  She tells me I will hear a click....CLICK....she’s got it.  I am thinking that I am so glad this is over.  Then she tells me that she needs more.  She wants to make sure she has enough so there are no questions later.  I tell her to get extra.  I do not want to do this again!  Click, click.  Okay I’m going to make it.  When she inserts the needle for #4 I feel a sharp stab.  Seems she has to go very deep for this one.  So more numbing meds for me.  Click, click.  She ends up doing 5 total biopsies.  They are telling me how proud they are of me and how strong I am.  I don’t feel very strong.  In fact I feel like I have been beat down.  Both emotionally and physically.  I will get the results in 2-4 business days.  So guess what....more waiting.

Chris stays home with me on Tuesday to make sure I am okay.  My mom comes down and stays with me Wednesday and Thursday.  And we sit and wait.  Every time the phone rings I am looking at the caller ID wondering if this will be the call.  At 2:45 my mom leaves to go pick up Clayton at school.  At 2:48 the phone rings.  It is the call I have been waiting for and I am here by myself.  The lady on the phone must be a saint.  There is no way I could do her job.  “Mrs. Preston I am so sorry to tell you that your biopsies have come back and it is malignant.  You do have cancer”  And just like that.  I am now a cancer patient.  I start trying to ask questions but she doesn’t know any more details.  I am set up with an appt on November 26 with an oncology surgeon and a medical oncologist.  Wow, I get 2 specialist.  She tells me I will find out exactly what type of cancer I have and what stage it is at those appointments.  So once again....we wait.

The worst part of this was having to tell my 12 year old son.  The first thing he said was “But Mom I don’t want you to die”  Yeah...try not to cry after that!

It is a very weird feeling waiting to see if you are going to live or die.  Can this be treated or are they going to give me a certain amount of time to do the things I have always wanted to do?  I do know that I am a fighter.  I have went thru being scared and sad...and now I am just pissed off!  Breast cancer will not beat me!  I have to watch my son grow up!  I can’t kick the bucket and have my husband bring some hoe up in my house!  My parents are not going to have to bury a child!  And my brother will not be an only child!

I am ready for the news tomorrow.  Let’s get going on get this done so I can get on with my life!  Cancer can kiss my ass!

Love to all,

Stephanie Preston

[antivancoffeelover]

SO! i have been asked to give advice a couple times by a couple different writers in fandom who are cis and want to know how to/if it’s okay to write trans characters, so here’s my take and a few pieces of advice. it’s gonna be a little long lol

to answer the question “can cis writers write trans characters?”

Y E S 

i would personally love it, and i know other trans people who would also love it, if more cis writers wrote trans characters. the only limitation that i’d ever put on this is to say that i wouldn’t want to see a cis writer writing about trans self-discovery or a Trans Journey bc... i mean... those are our stories to tell, y’know?

generally most of the trans people i know feel the same way. we want to see ourselves in stories, even if we’re not the main characters. we want to know that you see us and think us worth writing about. representation matters. 

but if you’re writing a story about female friendship and you wanna make one of those women trans? please do bc we need more normalized representation. seeing these really intense Trans Journey stories is great, it is, but it feels one-note when it’s like.... practically the only thing we ever see.

wanna write a story about brotherhood and the bonds of found family and male friendship? make a dude trans! he’s a dude! who’s trans! 

quick advice for writing trans men:

not all trans men bind. i don’t. i have a triple D chest, so yeah it’s kind of obvious that i have tits. with the full beard it can be a confusing look lmao. your trans male character doesn’t have to bind, and it doesn’t have to be bc he’s had top surgery, or because he’s flat chested. some of us just don’t want to have the damage done to our bodies that binding can and will do if done consistently enough for long enough.

not all trans men use packers, which are prosthetics made to give a bulge where trans guys don’t have one. 

trans men can top lol. it isn’t just skinny cis women using strap-ons, and a guy can cum using a harness bc of where it sits. also, emotionally, that shit is fantastic (speaking from personal experience). 

if you’re writing erotica, then be aware that some trans guys are okay with the word clit, some aren’t. this is more of a stylistic choice on the part of the writer, but if you’re using AFAB language for trans male genitals then make a note bc for some men that’s legitimately triggering. personally, i’m fine w/ my vagina, he’s a chill dude.

testosterone doesn’t make you taller, and it won’t make your character taller either lol. physical changes from T are increased muscle mass, changes in fat distribution on the body, voice drop, hairline receding around the temples, facial and body hair growth for some (takes 6+ months usually), clitoral growth, some men experience vaginal dryness some don’t, in the beginning there’s an increased sex drive which tends to even out once T levels are stable, since it’s basically a second puberty a lot of trans guys do get acne, hair can become coarser over time texture wise, and tends to thin

testosterone is administered via injection or with androgel which is topical, generally. if you want to write about a guy giving himself his T, then he’s probably on a weekly or bi-weekly injection schedule at home, or he’s using androgel which is daily and gets rubbed into the skin and has to dry fully. there’s no option right now to take testosterone orally that i know of. there’s also the option for a 3-month dose of testosterone to be given via injection, but it’s always done by a nurse and every trans guy i’ve talked to who’s had it has said they can’t even sit down for an hour afterward bc it’s injected into the ass and it hurts like a motherfucker. however it’s also only once every 3 months. personally i don’t mind my wee thigh shot lol. 

if anyone has more specific questions for writing trans male characters send me an ask and i’ll be glad to help

full disclaimer that i’m not a trans woman, but here’s some advice for writing trans women based on what i’ve heard from them:

unlike with T, where trans men can basically just start T and begin the process of a testosterone-based puberty, trans women first have to go on T blockers so that their T levels drop to where they should be for a woman, then they go on estrogen, which is usually??? a pill (not dissimilar to birth control)

when trans women have been on estrogen for long enough they can have multiple orgasms like any other woman, which is a pretty nifty perk

loss of muscle mass is common

breast growth happens differently for everyone, but breasts become more sensitive and as they grow a lot of women can experience some tenderness, and if the chest is struck/prodded that tenderness can be painful. (as someone who naturally developed breasts as a teen, i remember fucking crying when someone hit me in chest once bc everything was so sensitive)

trans women have natural hormone cycles and can experience period-like symptoms! so yeah! a trans woman can wake up and be >:( and have mood swings!

the penis and balls will shrink over time on estrogen, some trans women stop getting hard, some don’t

some trans women tuck their penises, some don’t

trans women have to make the choice to raise their voices, as most of the effects of testosterone-based puberty cannot be reversed. T thickens the vocal chords, which is what makes a trans guy’s voice drop, but if a trans woman is transitioning after she’s experienced a full T-based puberty, her voice isn’t going to raise. a lot of trans women do vocal training to get used to talking in their head voice versus their chest voice. some even pick out like a celebrity or a character to emulate bc it’s a lot easier when you’ve got a goal to aim for.

facial hair generally doesn’t stop growing. the follicles being active doesn’t change when testosterone levels drop. hair growth can slow, but it’s probably not going to stop entirely without laser hair removal or electrolysis. same with body hair. 

hair texture can change, though, and become softer over time

if any trans women followers want to add to this feel free :D

your character might not have IDs that match up w/ their identity. having your government docs changed can be a pain in the ass depending on where you live, and a lot of places require some kind of surgery as “proof” which is bullshit but... y’know, it happens. 

big thing to remember: not all trans people want surgery. not all trans people fall into the gender binary. the way i define being trans is that your gender doesn’t match what you were assigned at birth. that’s it. i consider non-binary people transgender bc. y’know. they fucking are. not all of them want to ID that way or feel like they can, but if they do then i fully welcome them bc they’re my people. 

i think cis writers can feel like it’s a taboo or a no-go to write trans characters bc “well what if i do it wrong” and i think it comes down to being really caught up in the fact that the character is trans, rather than them just being a trans character. like. here’s my day as an out, transitioning trans man:

i wake up between 6am and 7am, i dick around on my phone, i let my dogs out, feed them, have breakfast, go to work, eat lunch, work more, come home, eat dinner, dick around on my phone more, go to bed. repeat. my weekends consist of writing, primarily, and watching stuff on netflix. and every other sunday i give myself an injection of testosterone into my thigh. every couple months i see my endocrinologist and maybe have a blood test.

diabetics have a more rigorous schedule than i do, health-wise. 

me being trans is part of who i am, a defining part even, but it’s not all i am. if someone were to write a story about my life and make it all about me being trans, they’d first be ignoring like... the first 25 years of my life, but also everything that happens to me in between these big transition milestones. 

not everything with trans people is about being trans. sometimes it’s about being bored. or wanting to play video games.

on another personal note, some of the signs that i was trans weren’t very obvious. they make a lot of sense in hind sight (like when i was 4 and told my mom i was going to wear a suit to prom, or when i was 5 and told my dad that my husband was taking my last name bc that just seemed how shit should work to me) but at the time they were just these small, weird little quirks that no one saw as anything more.

in fandom a lot of our stories tend to veer toward the romantic or erotic, so let me just say that you don’t need to write about dysphoria or remark on the topic within the story. i know this is a sticking point for a lot of cis writers bc most of them haven’t experienced dysphoria so they don’t know how to write it. good news is you don’t have to, a trans person can be happy with their body, especially if they’re far enough along in their transition, and it can just be a smutty, smutty story about people fucking lol.

this is a really loose guide w/ very loose bits of advice and seriously if anyone ever wants to ask more specific questions or my opinion you can DM me or send an ask on or off anon and i’ll be glad to offer any help i can

[ceruleanmusings]

Selenophile

note: so a bit ago I stumbled across a gif of Emily Rudd that someone made with red Alpha eyes. I filed that away to the back of my mind and, since I’ve been stuck on my Teen Wolf fic lately, I brought the idea of Mel being an alpha werewolf to the forefront and haven’t been able to get it out of my mind while at work so here it is. This is just a snippet to get the idea somewhere. I may write more later but, for the moment, this was fun to get out of my head. Just in case I wasn’t clear, this is an AU for my Teen Wolf fic series. Let me know what you think!

                  selenophile (n.) - A person who is fond of the moon.

There wasn’t much that could shake up the status quo in Beacon Hills. In fact, everyone seemed to turn a blind eye to the common goings on in the small town. The disappearances, the homicides, the animal attacks. All a notorious part of it’s rustic charm. So when the news of a body being found in the woods of the Beacon Hills preserve began to be whispered one night in January, it went in one ear and out the other. Until the exact state of the body started to come to the forefront. A dead body is normal but half of a dead body? Stop the presses!

“What!?” Melanie Crowe’s outburst was quickly followed by a dribble of foam spilling over her bottom lip. Holding up a finger, she turned towards the sink and spat out a stream of bubbly toothpaste foam. It plopped into the otherwise pristine sink with a wet splat. She wiped the excess around her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing the residue on skin rather than the sea-shell covered towels hanging nearby. “Waddya mean they found half a body?”

“Exactly what I said, Hummingbird,” her father, Jean-Laurence, “Laurence” to everyone—he insisted his full name sounded a tad too stuffy; with a California backrop, Mel couldn’t help but agree—commented from the doorway. Even while leaning against the doorjamb, he took up a lot of space. Years of MMA training filled him out. While he looked like a solid mass to others, to Mel he was a giant teddy bear. “Out in the woods. Same place they found the deer.”

“Which deer?” Mel asked.

Laurence lips pulled back on one side, forming a smirk. “The one that can fly.”

“Dad!”

“The only deer that has any sort of importance. The one with the—” he poked his finger in the air and circled it, drawing an invisible spiral.

"Right. That one.” The only one that mattered. After all, it’s been a while since the symbol for vengeance had appeared anywhere in Beacon Hills, or so her father reported. And on a deer of all things. It had thrown her for a loop when the news first came to light. Why put it on a living animal, Mel had wondered at the time. It was Laura Hale who’d put the idea in her mind that, whoever made the mark, wanted them to know about it. Wanted a moving billboard.

A roaming mark of death.

Wait.

“Dad,” Mel asked, stretching the word far beyond it’s normal syllable usage, “what kind of animal tears a body in half?”

“The worst kind.”

Mel nodded slowly, tapping the end of her toothbrush against her chin for a moment before making a face. She, again, wiped off excess toothpaste and ran the head of the toothbrush under the water. Yes, of course. Because no normal animal would take the time to break a body in half. There weren’t wolves in California—proper wolves—to do it, coyotes tended to stay away from humans, and she’d never heard of a bear doing that much damage during their attacks. So it was all laid out for her, all made clear, just what sort of animal would do this.

“So we’re looking for a Wendigo, huh?” she asked, turning back towards her father. At his lifted eyebrow, she continued barely able to conceal her excitement. “See, I knew there were Wendigos in Beacon Hills! It all makes sense! Because why else would the body be found in halves?,” she rambled, gesturing wildly with her toothbrush as if it here a professor’s teaching pointer, “so they can get to the insides faster, duh! And...and, some of the robberies at the cemetery? Wendigos! Stealing jewelry and stuff has to be just a cover to get away with it. Like...the press would definitely be all over someone stealing kidneys or something and—”

“Mel!”

Her father’s curt tone stopped her all at once and silence settled in the small bathroom. She heard every tick-tick-tick of the of the clock on the wall. The kind with cat eyes and a tail that shifted with each second. It came with the house when they moved in years ago; she’d always meant to take it down and replace it but had never gotten around to it. It became like a touchstone, like a piece of normalcy and innocence that she could come back to every now and then when she needed a break from everything. When she needed to be transported back in time before she knew about the dark underbelly that ran just out of reach in Beacon Hills.

“Focus,” Laurence continued, his voice softening in a matter of seconds. “That’s not the kind of animal I’m talking about.”

“I know,” she conceded. She licked her mint-flavored lips and set her toothbrush aside. “I just don’t want you to be right.” Laurence unfolded himself and straightened in the doorway, studying her. She pressed her lips together and cleared her throat, ducking her head to get out of his line of vision. He had a way of being able to look right through her that she didn’t particularly like. Maybe it was the look of a previous leader. And maybe it was the look of a concerned father.

He stepped further into the room and reached out of her. He gently laid his hand on her head, slipping it down to her cheek where he ran his thumb against the soft curve. She turned her face into his palm, nuzzling the warmth beneath her skin. A weary sigh made her body sag and she looked up at him, sorrow filling her big, blue round eyes. “Because if you are...I have an idea of who it is. And...and I don’t want it to be her. I don’t. It...it can’t be her, Dad.”

“...You’ll never know if you don’t check.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “Aren’t parents supposed to keep their kids from sneaking out at night?”

“Only the normal ones.”

Mel nodded. Her lips briefly pressed into a line. It was her turn to check the deer anyway. That was the plan. Wait a couple of days and, if there was no new news, go out and check herself. Her phone had been silent for days but her mind had been loud in the interim. For her to go out in the woods and look for the spiral herself...that only meant there was a wrench in their plans. Or, in this case, a sword. “Tell Mom I’ll be back in two hours. Tops. If I‘m not, well...then I’ll need some backup.”

“You shouldn’t go by yourself.”

This time Mel laughed out loud. “Who said I was?” She turned to the sink where her cell phone sat, lying face up. She tapped the screen, illuminating a picture of Erica Reyes blowing a kiss to the camera. Her thick, black reading glasses and a few healing spots of acne on display. Erica hated the picture. Mel loved it. Beneath it numbers counted upwards as the seconds ticked by. “Can you sneak out past your mom, Eri?”

“I think I can,” Erica’s replied, her voice sounding small, far away, and tinny in the expanse of the bathroom. “If she finds out I can just tell her that I stopped by your place to get some clothes for the first day back.”

Mel’s smile only filled half her face. Unfortunately it was a sound excuse. Mrs. Reyes—whom Mel wondered should really be back to Ms. Martinez at this point—put her foot down about a lot of things regarding Erica but when it came to fashion she didn’t say a word. It was hard to find clothes that Erica liked and didn’t make her feel so defeated about her body and her condition. After many changing-room arguments, Mrs. Reyes finally took a step back on the fashion front. And, since half their clothes didn’t belong in the proper closets due to many sleepovers over the years, it wasn’t unusual for either to show up at one another’s houses looking for particular shirts, jeans, or shoes.

“I’ll bring some with me just in case she actually checks.”

“Oh, good, because I have been meaning to get that sweater back that I loaned you.”

“Which one?”

“That red polka dot one.”

“Aww, man, I liked that one.”

“Yeah, so do I. Which is why I want it back, Mellie.”

“But what about—” Mel stopped right away when she saw the way her father looked at her: hard stare, set jaw, furrowed brows. She cleared her throat. “Okay, I’m leaving now. Be there in a bit. Wear good shoes.” Mel ended the call with a tap to the screen.

“I should have known,” Laurence said with a shake of his head. She wasn’t sure if it was in amusement or reluctance. “I really should come with you.”

Mel lifted her hand and shook her head. “You need to stay with Mom.”

“You’ll be weaker on your own. If something comes up—”

“If something comes up they’ll think that it’s just two curious teenagers out past curfew,” Mel pointed out, sliding past her Dad to head back into her room.

“You’re giving hunters too much credit,” Laurence said. “They could be lying in wait.”

“They could be,” Mel agreed, grabbing a sweatshirt off her desk chair. “But I don’t think they’re looking for snooping teenagers. They have a code, don’t they?”

“If they decide to follow it,” Laurence pointed out. “You know that saying about waiting thirty minutes to swim after eating?”

Mel snorted. “Who follows that rule?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, in the event that something does happen...this is why I need you to stay with Mom. I can protect Eri. I’m not exactly defenseless.” She lifted her head and flashed her eyes to prove her point. They glowed ruby red for a few seconds and then faded a moment later. She shook her head at the rush of power that flashing her eyes sent through her and let out a slow breath, pushing it back down. She’d gotten in control of her alpha power surges in the past couple of years—going through two kinds of puberty at one time sucked—but every now and then the full moon could get the better of her.

“Neither am I.” Laurence flashed his gold eyes in response. “I’m just saying...” he hesitated, fiddling with his fingers, “I’m stronger with you here.”

“Awww,” Mel cooed, saccharine tones practically forming a puddle at her feet, “I love you too, Daddy-o.” She pulled the sweatshirt down over her head and smiled at the sequined picture of Pikachu’s face staring back at her. “Seriously though, I get it. I know it’s been hard for you to come to terms with not having your alpha powers anymore, especially now—”

“I’d give ‘em up for you again in a heartbeat,” he stated. She crossed the room and hugged him tight around the waist. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and ruffled her hair.

“But Dad”—she backed away, taking his hand and gave it a squeeze—”you’re going to have to let me be the Alpha at some point. Okay?”

He nodded; his adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “Okay.” She slid out from his grip and had barely reached her open window, pushing aside her billowing curtains with a pair of Doc Martens curled in her fingers, when he spoke again. “If the hunters are back, we're going to need to start talking about you making your first Beta.”

Mel paused on the windowsill, one leg still in the room and the other dangling outside. “You’re my Beta.”

At that Laurence barked out a laugh. “I’m an Omega, remember? You didn’t bite me—thankfully. That’s not exactly a conversation i want to explain, in more ways than one.” He sobered up a second later. “Seriously though...I may not always be there. You’re going to have to think about it.”

“I will,” Mel said. She then tossed her shoes and a few clothes out the window. “After I figure out what’s going on with this body.”

“Be careful.”

She turned and flashed a wickedly fanged smile at him. “Where’s the fun in that?” she asked and then rolled out the window. Thankfully the drop wasn’t too far, not that it would hurt her. She always found a way to land on her feet.

Gathering up her things, she then hurried down the side of the yard and to the truck that sat in the driveway. Not officially hers—yet!—even if she did drive it a lot. She thanked anything that would listen for the body being discovered in the winter; it was the off season for her mother’s flower shop so she had wheels within reach at any given moment.

She dumped her clothes into the passenger seat, quickly pulling a pair of jeans over her sleep shorts which were then followed by her boots. And as she turned on the engine and prepared to back out of the driveway she opened her phone and checked her recent text messages. She highlighted the fourth name from the top, Laura Hale. Still nothing since the beginning of the month.

Grunting, Mel tossed the phone aside and backed out of the driveway. Either Laura Hale’s phone died and she hadn’t bothered to charge it or there were outside forces at play.

Either way, she was certain she’d get an answer in the woods. She just hoped it’d be in her favor. For all their sakes.

[creatunsici1980-blog]

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[talos1guestservices]

Title: I’d Take It All Back Just To Have You

Pairing: Olivia Benson/Alex Cabot

Summary: Thanks to the technological miracle of artiforgs, you can now live virtually forever. Nearly indestructible artificial organs, these wonders of metal and plastic are far more reliable and efficient than the cancer-prone lungs and fallible kidneys you were born with – and Keaton Medical will be delighted to work out an equitable payment plan. But, of course, if you fall delinquent, one of their dedicated professionals will be dispatched to track you down and take their product back.

Until they fall in love with you, of course.

Read on FFN or AO3

The first time Olivia Benson held a heart in her hands, she was 17.  The mass of tissue and metal was warm against her fingers, warmer than she expected it to be, and smooth. She ran her fingertips over the valves and ventricles, traced the aorta down to the right auricle, and stopped at the small barcode and logo there – a black circle with a lightning bolt running through it.

The trainee beside her cleared his throat and Olivia passed the heart on to let him examine the clacking valves of the unit, and she knew then that as immoral and downright disgusting this job is there is nothing she would rather do.

On the morning of her 18th birthday, Olivia’s boss went down to the Records Department where she had spent the last year sorting files and sent her up to Accounts Receivable on the third floor of Keaton Medical’s brick and mortar building in the heart of downtown Manhattan. Truth be told, Olivia had never been above the basement of the building, not even when she had first applied to work there. There was a separate entrance in the rear of the building that led directly into Records and Olivia had never felt the need to travel above that.

A security guard directed her through the maze of cubicles and copiers and shredders to a room at the back. The door was didn’t have a handle, at least not one that Olivia could see, but it did have fingerprint and retina scanners.

“Fingerprints first,” the security guard said, gesturing to the pad beside the door, “then your eye. If they called you up here, it’s ready for you.”

Olivia nodded, swallowing hard. She placed her hand on the scanner and the affirmative beep came faster than she expected it to. The she looked into the retina scanner and waited while it affirmed her identity, which only took a few seconds but felt like a lifetime to Olivia.

The inside of the Repossession Unit was underwhelming, to say the least. An island in the center of the room with two id badge and fingerprint scanners on either side and a printer/scanner in the center of it, a shredder built into the island, four metal folding chairs against the wall.

There was no one else in the room. Olivia picked the chair closest to the door and sunk into it; if there was anything she learned from working at Keaton Medical for the past year it was to keep her hands off anything she wasn’t expressly told to touch – luckily she hadn’t been the one to learn that lesson the hard way, though she suspected Bryan Cassidy didn’t feel so lucky after one of the security guards broke his hand.

The door slid open and a man probably eight years older than Olivia walked in. He was tall and muscular and wearing a navy-blue t-shirt with several small bloodstains on it. There was blood on his chin and he was grinning.

“Sorry I’m late,” the man said, scanning his id card and fingerprints. “My last appointment ran late.” He set a pink sheet of paper in the scanner and leaned back against the island while the scanner did its thing. “Are you Olivia Benson?” – Olivia nodded – “I’m Elliot Stabler. Cragen said you’re my new partner.”

“So I’m being promoted then?” Olivia asked. “I was just told to wait here.”

Elliot shrugged – “Looks like it” – and turned around to see what pink slip the printer gave him. He read the information on the sheet and then handed it over to Olivia. “We gotta stop off at Supply on our way out, get you suited up. Keep up or get out now.”

Olivia followed Elliot out of the room, easily matching his long stride. She was finally able to take a minute to read the pink slip in her hand once they were in the elevator. She let out a low whistle. “Says this guy lives around here,” she said. “Are they sure this is right?”

“Don’t question the intel,” Elliot said. “Accounts Receivable knows what they’re doing.”

“It’s a pricey area is all,” Olivia said. “I'm just making sure we didn’t miss a payment in the mail.”

“Look,” Elliot sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s your first day in Repo, I get it, but they do their jobs and we do our jobs and they pay us nicely to keep our questions to ourselves. I got five kids, Benson, I need this job, so just don’t question it. If they say he didn’t pay, then he didn’t pay.”

The Supply Depository was up on the sixth floor of the Keaton Medical building. The elevator door slid open to reveal two reception desks staffed by two armed guards each and rows upon rows of metal shelving stacked with weapons and tools and uniforms. Olivia handed her id card over to one of the guards and he led her down through the rows of supplies. She was assigned a black duffel bag, three black t-shirts, three pairs of black pants, a pair of boots, a jacket, a Taser, a set of scalpels, a bone saw, a rib spreader, and an assortment of other tools and gear.

Once they were finished and Olivia was changed into her new uniform, she followed Elliot down to his car and they headed on over to Number One Central Park South Unit 2011 – the Penthouse.

The Plaza Hotel, twenty stories tall, and their client, Henry Richard Smith, lived on the top floor.

“The first step to any repo job,” Elliot said, “is to map out the area. You’ve got to know where the client is, and you’ve got to know what else is nearby. How big is the house/office/hut in which he’s staying? Any other people inside? Are they on the phone? Are they armed? Are they on the phone with someone who is armed? That sort of thing.” He pulled his tablet out of his duffel bag and opened up a set of plans. He handed the tablet to Olivia. “These are the building plans: ducts, units, etcetera. This last page is the plan for Smith’s unit. Study these, figure out a way to take our client.”

And so Olivia did.

For three days they sat in front of the Plaza, waiting and watching, memorizing their client’s comings and goings.

And then Olivia said, “We just walk right in the front door.”

Elliot grinned. “We walk right in the front door.”

So that’s what they did.

The doorman didn’t move to stop Olivia and Elliot when they strolled into the building in their Keaton Medical uniforms at noon on the fourth day of their stakeout. He didn’t move to stop them when they boarded the elevator bound for the 20th floor. And he definitely didn’t move to stop them when they bypassed Henry Richard Smith’s security and walked right in his front door.

Not that he would be expected to – most buildings had a policy of allowing the bio-repo men to do their jobs. It was just easier on everyone.

The door opened into a small foyer with a closet and door to a powder room to the left and a stairwell to the right, and the foyer opened into the living room. High end furniture, abstract art, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Central Park. Olivia let out a low whistle.

Elliot dropped his bag on the middle cushion of the couch and settled down beside it, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “Might as well get comfortable, Benson,” he said. “We’re still a couple hours out.”

Olivia nodded absently, barely listening to what he was saying. She wandered around the living room looking over the pictures on the walls. The photographs told the story – they usually do. She could check out everything she needed to know on the sheet – date of birth, marital status, kids, etc. – but the pictures gave the most complete profile. What a person chooses to frame says a lot about them.

There was Smith – middle-age, hair receding, great teeth – next to a woman half his age, both in scuba gear down in Fiji. Another of the two of them on a ski slope somewhere in the Alps. Mixed throughout, photos of Smith and a little girl, aging randomly. In one picture, she’s in pigtails and they’re at the circus; in another she’s dealing with her first bout of acne and the look in her eyes says hurry up and take the picture already. These, combined with the obvious bachelor pad, made it clear: A divorcé with disposable income, choosing to spend his newfound single lifestyle traveling the world and making a general fool of himself with women way too young for him.

After she looked at all the pictures in the living room, Olivia decided to give herself a tour of the rest of the apartment. Off the living room was a kitchen, which was barely large enough to stand in comfortably, but had all brand new, high-tech, unused appliances. The fridge was mostly empty, save for some Chinese take-out and a few bottles of water, and the cabinets had mostly cans of soup and boxes of cereal. Beside the kitchen was the washer/dryer closet, and across from that was a bedroom with an attached bathroom. From there, Olivia went upstairs where there was a bathroom in the hall, another bedroom with an attached bathroom, and the master bedroom with yet another attached bathroom.

How could one person need so many bathrooms?

“Benson,” Elliot yelled up the stairs, “it’s time.”

Olivia hurried down the stairs, taking two at a time. She stood beside the door where Elliot directed her to so she would be concealed when it opened but blocking it after it closed, while he took his place just beside the living room entrance. Olivia switched the lights off just as the sound of inebriated laughter floated through the door.

They came in half undressed. His shirt unbuttoned, her skirt hiked to the waist. Hands roaming everywhere. They stumbled down the hall and into the living room, landing on the couch.

Just before they started their business, Olivia flicked on the lights and Elliot stepped out into the middle of the room. “Hello, Henry,” Elliot said, and the girl jumped so badly she fell on the floor. Henry scrambled to cover himself with any clothing he could get his hands on, leaving his companion to fend for herself.

“Now that’s not very chivalrous, Henry,” Olivia said, picking up some of the clothes and handing them to the girl. She smiled gratefully and moved to cover herself.

Elliot cocked his head toward the door. “You’re free to go, miss,” he said. “You won’t want to see this.” The girl scrambled to her feet and hurried, half-dressed, out of the apartment. Smart girl. “Mr. Smith, we’re from the Credit Union.”

“Fuck. Holy fuck–” Smith stammered, getting to his feet. He grabbed up his pants and rummaged through his pockets, presumably looking for his wallet. “Wait, I can pay.”

“Sorry,” Elliot said. “That’s not our department.” He raised his Taser and took steady aim. “I’m legally bound to ask you if you’d like an ambulance on standby, though you will be unable to secure another artiforg from Keaton Medical in replacement.”

“Wait,” he said again, “don’t–”

That was as far as he got before Elliot’s Taser darts slammed into his chest and released their electricity. He went down twitching, and Elliot stayed clear until he was down for the count.

Elliot nodded and set his Taser down on the coffee table. “Gimme a hand with this?” he said, gesturing toward the couch. He grabbed one edge and Olivia grabbed the other and they moved it back several feet from where Smith was lying motionless on the floor.

It didn’t take long for Elliot to pull out the extractors and scalpels he needed for the job, and he had barely made the first incision when Olivia felt the roiling in her stomach. She swallowed hard and tried to will the feeling away.

“The first one is the worst,” Elliot said, pushing his hand into the viscera of Smith’s abdomen.

The sound was unlike anything Olivia has ever heard before – wet and unnatural – and she jumped to her feet and rushed into the bathroom. She heaved into the toilet for just a minute before standing and staring at herself in the mirror. She needed to get herself together. She signed up for this job. This was her choice. She cupped her hands under the running water and rinsed out her mouth and then splashed some cold water on her face. When she was finished, she rejoined Elliot in the living room.

Knelt down beside Elliot, Olivia watched as he carefully extracted Henry Richard Smith’s artificial liver and then dropped it into her gloved hands. “We’re cutting it close,” he said, placing a surgical covering over Smith’s abdomen. He stood and peeled the gloves off his hands. “The goal is to get it done before the effects of the Taser wear off. Blood is hell on a good shirt. Clean that up and let’s get out of here. I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

Olivia dropped the Keaton LS-400 liver they came for into the stainless-steel sink in the kitchen. The high-pressure faucet nozzle did just the trick washing off the blood and attached tissue, and before long the metallic organ was gleaming in the glow from the overhead lights.

When Olivia entered the living room, Elliot was filling out a yellow receipt. He signed it in triplicate and left a copy on Smith’s body. If his next of kin has any issues with the repo or the aftermath, there were numbers they could call. No one ever did, but they were available.

Olivia was silent on their ride back to the Keaton Medical building and all through the artiforg return process and while Elliot closed up their job in the Repo office.

“You get used to it,” Elliot said, picking up his gear to head home for the day. “The jobs start getting easier after the first one. Soon enough you’ll be able to do it without a problem.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Olivia asked.

Elliot sighed. “Then you’re one of the lucky ones.”

Much to her dismay, Olivia learned quickly that Elliot was right – it did become easier to get the job done. It wasn’t that she developed a disregard for human life, she just grew a thicker skin and learned to separate her feelings from her work. There were still cases that got to her, of course, like the first time they had to take a set of lungs from a child and the woman who asked to stay awake as they took her heart and Olivia held her hand as she died, but she never let herself break, never let herself show any kind of emotion.

Before she knew it, her probationary year was over, and she was able to pick up her own cases. After that, time started to blur together. She regularly pulled doubles, occasionally pulled triples. She typically cleared three cases a night, some nights she cleared up to five. She was on top of the world.

And then it was all ripped away.

[fakesurprise]

Bends in the Road

1.

I’ve only been driving for four months, but even so it’s almost easy to forget that a car is a death trap. Noah doesn’t forget this even for a moment. I’ve given all all pretence of listening to music on my phone and I’m just watching him drive from the back seat. Wilbur is sitting up in the front for the room and doing the same. The Lincoln Town Car is old but the engine rumbles smoothly, the car seeming to glide with uncanny precision around turns. Some of that is Noah’s talent, I think, but the rest is attention. Every blind spot, every window, the forest around us. He drives with the same skill and care you would on a racing track or through a blizzard. Never mind that we’ve seen nothing on the road for over ten minutes and the town we’re driving into has about twenty people living in it along a road even logging trucks don’t use anymore.

We’re out of cell range, but we figured the distance to it earlier on our phones and my phone’s alarm lets me know we’re about five minutes from Oscars Bend. “Noah, mind pulling over?”

He flicks on the signal, pulls over, turns the four ways on after and looks back. “Something wrong?”

“How many driving lessons have you had with Aram?”

Noah blinks. Aram is his foster father, and is ex-secret-agent-something. He’s probably the most dangerous person we know without a talent. “Just four,” he says, quietly as always. “Did I do something wrong?”

“You’re too good at driving.”

“Anya.” For his size, Wilbur’s voice isn’t deep at all, but he does get attention with his voice alone. Probably because of the magic, but it’s hard to be sure.

“What? We took the same test, got almost the same marks and he drives like a professional. That is entirely not fair.”

Noah blinks a few more times, then offers up one of his slight grins. “I’ll let you know if I’m sorry for that after the accident?”

“Jerk.” I return the grin; Noah is never quite sure when people are joking. But after his parents, that’s not a surprise. He spent over half his life locked in a bedroom as his parents tried to turn him into a god. Or something. It went badly for them in the end, and left scars on Noah that go way behind the burns and scars on his right arm.

I’m pretty sure he’s blushing, but it’s hard to tell. He has enough freckles for four normal people, and the same with regards to acne. A mixture of genetics and circumstances, and parents who thought his acne was some sign of power, or deserved punishment. Noah makes me feel normal even when I’m the least normal of us.

Wilbur just shakes his head. “If there is an accident, Noah has to be there if I’m getting out,” he says with a grin of his own.

“Point.” I wait a few seconds for Noah to stop blushing a little. Noah’s talent is to move things, as mine is to cause pain. Useful, sometimes. Scary-dangerous, in the case of Noah. But Wilbur is our ace in the hole.

He’s the only ghost magician in the world, but it means his magic works far better with and on ghosts than when dealing with the living. Magicians see and know things others don’t, in general. I’m hoping it’s enough.

“Anya?” Noah asks.

“Sorry. Getting my head into the game. Wil, you’re the one Mr. Pickles told everything to. Are you getting anything?”

Wilbur undoes his seatbelt with a breath of relief he probably hopes we don’t notice. He spent a chunk of the last year telling people he was four hundred pounds; actually being that is something else. Weighing double what Noah and I do, well, weighs on him, even if Wilbur tries to pretend otherwise. We don’t talk about it: I don’t know if that helps, but I don’t know what I’d say. I’m good at being nasty with words when I have to. Some of that is my talent, and some of it is just me.

Wilbur shakes his head after a good minute. “Nothing. Which is odd. Oscars Bend is a motel and a handful of houses, but it’s still a town. Which means there should be a cemetery and I’m not sensing anything.”

“You have a cemetery sense?”

“Not literally.” Wilbur pauses. “Actually literally, come to think of it. I could tell you the direction and distance to each cemetery in Rivercomb. And even in Appleford,” he adds, waving a hand ahead of us down the road. “I doubt I’d be precise, but they’re thin areas ghosts can use to come through from the Grey Lands. Oscars Bend not having that is more than a little odd.”

“Okay,” I say, drawing out the word slowly. Noah fights back a giggle at that. I glance at him. “You?”

His gaze flicks toward the town, then back to us. “Nothing in the town is pulling at me. There is pushing and pulling in it, but that’s just people, families, tensions. I don’t know how normal it is since I try not to push my talent in this direction much. It – it would be dangerous to somehow push and pull relationships?” He rubs his temples gently after. “Also a small headache?”

“Point. I’d like to see you do it on Lia and Aram, though?”

Noah rolls his eyes at that. “You?” he asks.

I let out a breath, relax. My talent lets me cause pain. I can pull it out of people a little, but mostly I can hurt people. Being in low key pain all the time from the Lupus helped focus it before. Now it’s a bit more complicated. Like Noah, I don’t want to find out my talent can go wider than I’d like to think. I can feel Wilbur’s knees and back aching in a constant discordant thrum. Noah’s right arm aches from the burns and scars where his parents burned him and the acne on his face and body is constant. For him, it’s almost background nose: for me, it’s not, but he can deal so it helps.

I try and set them aside, relaxing further. Pushing my senses ahead in the way Mr. Pickles said anyone with a talent can learn to. The world inside my head turns white. I jerk back with a gasp, head hitting the back of the seat.

“Anya?” Wilbur snaps.

“Fine. Surprised. There is – a lot of pain. Everything went white. Physical. Tension. Strain. Not certain which is was, or even the source. Whatever you felt doesn’t count as normal, Noah. We go to high school and I’ve seldom been hit that hard.” I rub the back of my neck. My back and neck ache a little. “I can tune it out from now on, but it was strange. Try for more, but carefully?”

Noah nods, looking back at the town. He’s silent for almost a minute, looks back past us toward home, then back at Oscars Bend. “There’s a lot of strain in Rivercomb, because of size? I think Appleford is the same, but I could be projecting?” He gestures, and the glove compartment opens enough for a bottle of water to snap into his hand. He takes a slow drink of it. “The tension in Oscars Bend is higher but that could be being in the middle of nowhere?” he offers, then remembers to ask if either of us want water too.

I accept a bottle, as does Wilbur. We drink them slowly, for something different to focus on. “Okay,” I say after. “All Mr. Pickles knows is that something weird has happened here, and Oscars Bend is outside his territory as a magician. So that leaves us to find out what it is and deal with it. Somehow. And we’re going into it blind.”

The other two both nod. I wonder if this is a test, or if Mr. Pickles hates us. It’s hard to tell with cats normally, and when the cat is a magician it’s probably impossible.  

Noah starts the car up again, pulls out into the road and drives into Oscars Bend. The pain in my neck is definitely not worth it. The motel has some attached bar – thankfully not open – along with four rooms, housing for the staff above it and not even a sign saying if it has vacancies or not. The siding is falling off the walls in a few places, the parking lot has weeds for lines and the entire affair looks like the set piece of a bad horror movie. There is a slight bend in the road leading to the town proper, if four houses at a crossroads counts as a town. There is what looks to be a small store down the road to the right and the remains of a few other buildings.

The house closes to us on the right is the smallest, and looks newer than the rest. To the left is a house with an unkempt lawn and wheelchair ramp hopefully in better shape than the roof. The house across the road on the left is probably the oldest, but looks well maintained. Small, single storey, probably quaint. The house across the road on the right is a large, sprawling affair with a small school bus parked under an overhang, at least two gardens and the sort of home that was added onto using whatever materials were at hand.

“New, chair, old, large,” I say. “So we have reference.”

“Also store and motel,” Wilbur adds, almost seriously.

Noah pulls into the motel parking lot as I’m considering a reply. We all get out, stretching. I go a window that’s surprisingly clean and look inside. The rooms don’t even have flat screen tvs, but they’re a decent size and look to have bathrooms. I look over at Noah and nod to reception. The door to the reception area is closed, without any signs about hours or even the name of the motel. “You have the credit card and fake ID. If we each get a room, that might get some good will. If there is enough on the card for that?”

Noah coughs. “Aram gave me enough money for three rooms. He was insistent.”

“Three,” I repeat. Knowing Noah’s step dad, he probably made sure the card has more than enough money for a week, just to be cautious.

“We’re teenagers. He’s worried,” Noah says simply, not looking at either of us.

Wilbur laughs. “Aram gave you condoms, didn’t he?”

Noah says nothing, but his eyes are wide in a face that’s a mass of enough freckles for four people and acne on top of it. It’s hard to tell when he’s blushing sometimes, but I’ve got better at studying his ears and he definitely is.

I can’t help but laugh at Noah’s mortified silence. After a slight pause, Noah joins in, soft and sheepish.  “He did. I’m not saying how many,” he adds firmly.

That sets Wilbur off again.

Noah hurries out of the car to the door without looking back. His fake ID has worked for us in the past, and the credit card is a real one Aram got for him. No one looking at Noah figures he’d get his picture taken unless it was for a real card, None of us like it, but it works. I wait, but there’s no shouts or curse words and Noah comes out quickly, handing Wilbur and I each a key and relieved we’re no longer laughing over the condom comment.

“You okay?” Wilbur asks.

“He just asked if – if I was like this for some movie? I said no, and he stared, then accepted the card and said he didn’t want to see the other people because I’d give him enough nightmares. But we have the rooms.”

“All right. We each take an hour. Unpack. Shower, all of that,” Wilbur says. “It will give time for people in the town to be told about us, and whatever Other is here might just show up and save us time?”

I take the key for the first room, Wilbur has the third and Noah heads into the second. The room is definitely cleaner than I thought it would be. Everything is dated, including the peeling wallpaper but the carpet is clean, the bed made and the bathroom scrubbed. The air smells of must and industrial chemicals, reminding me of too many hospital visits, but opening the windows helps a little. I gulp some Tylenol and water and check the TV channels. The TV gets two news channels, and six local ones, all with poor reception.

I check my phone, finding cell service non-existent. I’m starting to understand the feeling of mental white noise a lot better now and we haven’t been here ten minutes.