#or even shaped ones on my normal labels if i cut them out myself

[lordcrumps]

The Sims 2 For Rent - CC EXPANSION PACK

Sul Sul!

~ More photos under the under the cut ~

Last week the Sims 4 got a new pack, this week Sims 2 players get that same pack! In a collaboration with @platinumaspiration and @tvickiesims and a HUGE assist from @episims, we bring you "The Sims 2 For Rent CC Expansion Pack!"

This is a large set, and advisable that it does not get merged even further than it already is! - I ran into some issues when trying to do this!

When you explore this pack, please take a look at the marble ring rug, it has some surprisingly cute rug swatches! I put a swatch in it to remove the marbles themselves, so you have a cute small rug! - I only mention this as I was going to bin the rug off once uploaded, but then I found it had some lovely swatches!

FUNCTIONALITY

So most of the items will function as they should and intended as. Its just not just deco items.

There is two collection files included, separated into build buy! Please note that fences and stairs and spandrels cant be but into a collection!

The squatty toilet that took me over 12 hours to make, yeah they squat, animation can be a bit bouncy but such is life. This toilet also can be flushed, get dirty and is cleanable!

Outdoor plants are seasonal!

Counters are animated with insides built, there is no drawer on the counter, I did not want to change the shape of the unit, and saw EA did the same - ignore the fact they grab something from a non existent drawer

Wardrobes have interiors elements, and have working doors!

Each Kettle have two versions, choose only one, one for the colour traits mod / one 'normal'. They function as Tea makers! Huazzah!

Spandrels in build mode are classified as fences. I made a variant with fence / no fence.

Several of the larger deco pieces such as the Arch Gate, or umbrella are actually lights!

Radiators act like radiators!

The Aircon Unit is completely functional, doesn't lower bills, but it does lower sims temperatures!

"Water Heaters" act like solar panels, they get money off your bills!

The Electrical Fuse box has 2 versions, I kept them both in, one wall deco and one functions as a burglar alarm - I wanted more alarms.

Most Sofas / Chairs have morphs!

Slots added to the Vanity and Bathroom Cabinet!

FENCES / SPANDRELS / STAIRS OH MY!

I have included swatch images of each of the spandrels, fences and stairs and labelled them to match, this is so that you can go in and take out any of the swatches you do not want. This is because there are lot of new fences and the menu can feel cluttered with them in for some people.

DOWNLOAD

ALT - SFS

~ Credits / Thanks / List of items not converted under the cut ~

MORE PHOTOS

CREDITS

Mini fridge is cloned from Targa over at MTS - so now it works just like a regular fridge barring a few animations (get baby bottle and juggle)

Kettles were cloned from @pforestsims's kettle, link here.

@jacky93sims for the base of the squat toilet! Epi for the code edits!

THANKS

@tvickiesims, @platinumaspiration thank you soo much for helping with the objects, really couldn't do it myself!! Your amazing, awesome, and some of the best creators out there! Thank you again!

@episims - YOU ARE DA BOMB! Thank you for all your help in getting those toilets working with me, and everything else you do when you answer my little annoying questions! Appreciated like you wouldn't believe!

LIST OF ITEMS NOT CONVERTED - @sims4t2bb

Due to the sizing / functionality of these objects, they will not be included in this pack!

All Yer Fixins Untenable Food Stand

Mali's Moonlight Market Craft Stall

Vegan Vittles Night Market

Late Night Snack Dessert Stall

Rice to Meet You Night Market

The Unrestroom

Fisherman's Slats Window - Tall

The Secret Maze Window - Very Tall

The Secret Maze Window - Super Duper Tall

Stained Glass Tomarani Shutters - Tall

Stained Glass Tomarani Shutters - Tall and Open Wide

The Save Us From Ruin Tallest Cinched Wall Curtain

The How Many Times Do We Need To Tell You It's Not Silk Taller Wall Curtain

The We Are Going To Jail< Tallest Wall Curtain So You Know the Truth Curtain

[ideas-4-stories]

(This might seem more like an hc but I'll label as a prompt cuz I feel anyone is invited to try).

(Warning: Possibly ooc)

Cross Guild Love Prompt:

Buggy has an impressive collection of red lip tint products. And considering that commercial makeup is relatively new, there's a lot of things to choose for someone as flashy as Buggy.

From satin, to matte, to shimmer, to glossy. From every possible shade of red to some edding onto black. Some Buggy would collect solely for the capsule they've been sealed in. (One was a compact, and another opens like a switchblade).

Some more favorable than others, but his favorite one always leaves traces and marks everywhere. On glass rims, to napkins, his own gloves, hell even the his pens if he's found nibbling on the tips.

At first, it annoyed Crocodile and Mihawk to hell and back, constantly spotting these stains and by how often Buggy had to re-apply it. But along the path of their growth together, they sometimes would catch the shape of the mark, notice how the bottom lip always looked wider than the top lip. Or catch how gently Buggy applied his lipstick, slow and methodical, almost akin to a ritual. And how he looked at peace when satisfied with the results. (They won't admit how pretty the clown looks in these moments).

Then, one day, in the middle of a meeting, Mihawk saw Buggy put down his glass after a drink, only to find no mark! He immediately points it out, Crocodile asks why the change, and Buggy sheepishly answers that his favorite tube is on its last legs, so he's saving it for special occasions. In the meanwhile, it's just matte from then on. (Buggy's curious as to how the fuck they notice that but he'd rather not know).

But this does not bode well with Crocodile nor Mihawk, not only cuz they find themselves miffed at the change instead of feeling relief, but rather unsettled by the use of the term "special occasions".

Time passes, they grow closer and fonder by their own means, and cue said special occasion arrives, their first date together.

They dress in their best, and they see Buggy (aside from wearing something absolutely smashing [Buggy, the Fran Fine of One Piece, my beloved]), he's got his lips painted as always but the large red smile is missing. It's just his natural lip line this time. Crocodile took note how Buggy's smile reached the eyes. He didn't want to admit the flips in his chest... at least not yet.

Their private dinner was a hit, dessert was decadent, and the three were immersed in conversation. But alas, they had to end it there, Cross Guild still had work in the morning, and Buggy needed to finalize an acrobatic routine for an upcoming show.

Mihawk was going to offer to walk Buggy back to his tent, he was cut-off by a pair of lips. "I can walk just fine by myself.~" Buggy answered cheekily before giving Crocodile a kiss as well.

Buggy got up and just before he left the room, "by the way," he look back and sends them a cheeky grin, "red is nice color on you two." A wink and he was out of there.

The two warlords were a bit confused on that statement but as soon as they looked at eachother, they knew.

Each man had a red mark on their lips like a stamp.... and they loved it.

(Im not really good at creating conflict on my own, but I hope you enjoyed it 💖)

Love that Buggy’s hording makeup, the clown probably cleans out the used makeup product containers that he’s interested by what they look like and at least one of each container of his most favorite makeup to keep. Got a small treasure box or two filled with them because he likes trying different types of makeup. Holy stars I can see Buggy just shaking his hand with that lipstick that opens like a switchblade with a happiest and goofiest grin as it flips open, looking like he’s ready to stab someone with it before he carefully puts it on.

Not Mihawk and Crocodile asking (or probably demanding actually) about the reason why Buggy doesn't have his normal lipstick on. That’s gonna be one hell of a awkward conversation because why do you say to that? Buggy being like, “Oh.. yeah, my favorite tub from Chroma Charm is on it’s last legs, hopefully the package of the lipstick is coming soon… Wait how do you know?!.. Wait again, nevermind, pay no heed of my questions.” Poor Buggy he has no idea why Crocodile and Mihawk are miffed, only that it might have to do with him, but he has no idea why.

Love the date scene! All of them are sad it had to end so soon, if there wasn’t much work to do, then I’m sure that first date would of ended a lot later. Also Buggy was smooth with that!

I enjoyed this a lot, sorry it took so long to response

[dreaming-of-assclass]

omg hazama pfp …. trick or treat zainaaa <33 :]

Lee!!! Here’s a candy for you!! 🍫 And yes I’m honoring Hazama in the last few days of October lololol

…

“Aw, yeah! It’s pizza party time!” Muramatsu cheered, slapping his palm against his desk rather loudly.

Hazama rolled her eyes and thwacked him lightly with her gothic paperback. “It’s pizza, not gold.”

“Speak for yourself,” Yoshida snarked, turning around to face them and rubbing his palms together. “I even skipped lunch because I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

“Same!” Terasaka chimed in, doing the same hand motion. “We didn’t do all that extra help in the classroom earlier for nuthin’.”

Besides him, Karma didn’t even bother to hide his snicker. “You have no idea how stupid you look right now.”

“Shut it, Karma!”

“If I knew pizza was all it took to turn you into a feral, brain dead zombie, I would’ve brought you some way sooner. You know, so you can be a better minion.”

“That’s it,” Terasaka growled, raising his fist. “Shu-!”

“PIZZA’S HERE, EVERYONE!” An obnoxious yet familiar voice sang, breaking the room into a silent pause. Korosensei glided over to his desk and rested the boxes onto the surface, his bright yellow tentacles waving around nonsensically.

“Aw yea- wait,” Kimura scrunched his nose in confusion. “Where’s the rest of it?”

There were only two medium-sized boxes.

“O-oh, erm…” Korosensei chuckled, turning a shade of pink. “That’s all Sensei can afford right now…hehehe….”

The room erupted in chaos.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

“WE’RE ALMOST THIRTY PEOPLE!”

Korosensei burst into tears, immediately covering his face with his tentacles. “I’M TRYING MY BEST! YOU KNOW SENSEI LOVES YOU VERY MUCH!”

“Clearly not enough!” Terasaka snapped.

“NOOOOOOOO I DO!”

Muramatsu frowned, eyeing the size of the boxes. He turned to Karma. “Hey, math genius. Do you think that’ll feed all of us?”

“What do I look like, your calculator?”

“God, you’re such a dick.”

The classroom has devolved into utter chaos as Korosensei continued to cry and wave his tentacles everywhere, Kimura offered to run and pick up more boxes of pizza, Kataoka swiftly reminded him they were on top of a mountain, Ritsu sacrificed her slice since she’s virtual, then Sugaya told her she wouldn’t get one in the first place, and then Ritsu started crying.

Karasuma rubbed his temple, feeling a pounding migraine come on. “OKAY ENOUGH. I’ll cut the slices for everyone myself, and next time we have pizza, I’ll make sure that oaf doesn’t buy it.”

Hearts appeared in Kurahashi’s eyes. “Mr Karasuma, you hero!”

“Yes thank you, Mr Karasuma!” Korosensei cried, holding his tentacles in a heart shape.

Karasuma sighed and pulled out a normal knife from the inside sleeve of his jacket.

After about ten minutes, Muramatsu stared down disappointingly at the tiny sliver of a pizza slice on his plate. “I think my thumb is wider than this slice.”

“Mine definitely is,” Terasaka grumbled, picking his slice up. It was comical really, how much larger his hand was.

“Why did I skip lunch for this again?” Yoshida groaned.

“I could say why, but then I’d just be repeating myself again,” Hazama said before passing her plate to Yoshida.

He looked incredulous. “For me?”

“Yeah dumbass since you didn’t eat any lunch at all. Take it.”

Yoshida grinned. “Thanks, Hazama.”

“Don’t mention it.” She went back to her book, but not before showing a tiny smile herself.

Terasaka chewed thoughtfully and glanced at Karma’s uneaten slice. “Are you gonna eat yours or what?”

The delinquent was rummaging through his desk, his head bowed while he searched. “Yes.”

“Well, what are you doing?”

“None of your bu- oh, here it is.” He pulled out a small spice container from his desk.

Terasaka squinted, reading the label. “Chili flakes? Why the fuck do you have chili flakes in your desk?”

“I don’t live by your standards,” Karma replied casually, sprinkling a generous amount over his minuscule pizza slice.

“Whatever.” Terasaka rolled his eyes. “This class is weird as hell.”

[pupculture]

I love Pixar.

Preface: not in the creepy Disney Adult way, just in the sense that I really appreciate their storytelling—and the big eyes.

My favorite is Inside Out. And there’s this one scene in particular that I think about often: the Abstract Thought Tunnel. If you haven’t seen it (or need a refresher), it’s a bizarre sequence where Joy, Sadness, and Bing Bong get stuck in a part of Riley’s mind labeled Abstract Thought. At first, everything seems normal, but then they realize the tunnel has stages. They lose dimension as they move through it—first flattening into 2D shapes, then fragmenting into Cubist-like parts, and finally becoming formless, scattered lines before they manage to escape. It’s chaotic and unsettling, and by the end of it, they’re barely recognizable.

I know it’s played for laughs, and I’m kind of about to twist it out of context, but for me, it felt like a visual representation of the mess that my thoughts are sometimes.

When I try to figure out how I’m feeling—really dig into it—it’s like stepping into my own Abstract Thought Tunnel. At first, it feels like I have a handle on things. I can identify the edges of the emotion, give it a name, maybe even trace it back to something specific. But the deeper I go, the more everything starts to fall apart. The feeling doesn’t get clearer—it stretches, warps, and eventually fragments into something unrecognizable. I go looking for answers, and by the end, I’m left holding pieces of something I don’t even understand anymore.

And now I’m wondering if it’s not just my emotions that feel like this. Even when I try to organize my thoughts, it happens. I start with something whole, something I think I can break down into manageable parts, but the process feels like trying to solve a puzzle where the pieces keep changing shape. My ideas fragment, splinter, fold in on themselves, and I’m left with something unfinished and jagged.

But with emotions, it’s worse. When it’s my feelings I’m trying to understand, the mess takes on a life of its own. It’s not just fragmented—it’s ungraspable, like trying to hold onto water. I want to name what I’m feeling, to pin it down, but the more I try, the more distant and incomprehensible it becomes.

I think that’s why I’ve always leaned on science and psychology. They’re tools I use to draw hard lines around the chaos, to make sense of the shapeless things in my head. If I can classify a feeling, break it down into neurotransmitters and brain regions, it feels less overwhelming. I want to believe that if I understand the mechanics of it—how sadness is connected to serotonin, how fear lights up the amygdala—I can tame it, control it. But emotions don’t work like that. The harder I try to categorize them, the more I lose sight of what they actually feel like.

It’s like I’m trying to turn something infinite into something finite, something human-sized. And in doing that, I end up cutting away all the nuance, all the messiness that makes feelings what they are. I go into my head with the precision of a surgeon, but I come out with an abstraction, a distorted version of what I was trying to hold.

Maybe that’s why I feel the need to write this down. If I can’t untangle my emotions in my head, maybe putting them into words will help. Writing forces me to shape the fragments into something, even if it’s still rough around the edges. But even as I do this, I catch myself wondering—why here? Why Tumblr, instead of the privacy of my journal?

Maybe it’s because journals feel too contained. I write and write, and the words just sit there, pressed between pages, almost stagnant. Is it because I want someone to see the mess? Or maybe I’m hoping that by putting it out there, I can trick myself into believing it’s less chaotic. That if someone else reads it and nods along, it’ll mean my thoughts aren’t as ungraspable as they feel. Or maybe it’s because Tumblr has always felt like a place for fragments.

Or maybe this is just another abstraction. Turning feelings into words doesn’t always make them clearer. Sometimes it feels like I’m just organizing the mess instead of understanding it—layering another filter over my thoughts, one that’s prettier but just as hard to see through.

Maybe the best I can do is try to sit with the mess, even if it never makes perfect sense. In Inside Out, Sadness says, “Crying helps me slow down and obsess over the weight of life’s problems.” I think about that a lot—not just the crying part, but the idea of slowing down, of letting myself feel the weight without trying to solve it. Maybe emotions don’t need to be dissected or fixed. Maybe they just need to exist, even if they stay abstract.

[man-madewoman]

It's interesting how much more emphasis certain labels or identities get over others even if it's ultimately the same essence. For the last few months I've called myself a lesbian but it's been a little frustrating because it's not a totally accurate representation of my life.

Quick clarification - I'm in no way saying you should live the label. They're just helpful shortcuts for unfathomably nuanced personality traits and qualia that seem to regress further and further away from definition the more you try.

In many ways the term lesbian feels comfortable and it serves utility sexually. When I'm putting out, I don't need to justify my broad lack of attraction to men. I do occasionally find men hot or romantically attractive, and I love dick, but for the most part, I don't feel much for them. It might be a nurture thing in that I had poor male role models growing up so I struggle to relate to them, further tainted by my trans identity. I grew up with the few good male friends I had treating me like a "bro" which means I was bonding over a shared experience that didn't exist. I can love a man, I can lust for one (and do on occasion as my partner is gender queer) but it's fundamentally different from my primary attraction to women.

But I love the idea of men sometimes? If I didn't have that wall of separation I can see myself being a lot more into men than I am. Further still, calling myself a lesbian feels wrong. I ebb and flow between androgyny and what can only be described as demiboy femboy? Calling myself a lesbian feels invasive which is probably completely ridiculous. I feel the same way with my pronouns. In private and with my close friends it feels normal but as soon as I bring it up in public settings I feel like I'm justifying why my hair is green and cut into the shape of the Bee from The Bee Movie. Just totally out of place and nearly ill.

So I've kinda been agonizing over my orientation which I know is kinda pointless... And then I read Gender Queer today. It reminded me of a word that had left my vocabulary completely, overshadowed by the words with more obvious cultural heritage behind them:

I am homoflexible. That's it. That's the term.

But it was buried under mountains of other identities and boxes and categories and camouflaged between hetero and homo this whole time, because culturally, there's less explicit history behind being almost completely straight or gay, but not quite, and also not quite identifying with bisexuality. It's just messy and fluid. Like me.

[weaselsblaugh]

A dream so elaborate that I needed to put it in a Tumblr post

For some reason I tell my dreams to one specific discord server. But they tend to be very long and vivid, and this one in particular is so long that I do not want to just dump it on a chat channel without warning. So here it is as a Tumblr post.

In my dream, I found myself in an expansive video game arcade. It had more or less all of the things you'd find in an arcade in the modern era. Ticket games, gun games, racing games in elaborate cockpits. Somewhere in an annex within an annex, though, was a highly over-designed pinball game, identifying itself as "Theatre of Magic II." But to call it a pinball game would not do justice to what this machine truly was. Theatre II was an experience of a pinball game.

Most pinball machines stand on four legs, with the table roughly just above the waist height of an average adult male. Theatre II had a control panel that stood up to there, with the usual coin mechanisms and flipper buttons, but the table itself was much larger, and set in front of the panel in - appropriately enough - what looked like a large theater. It was difficult to tell at a glance what was part of the pinball game, and what was just decoration, until such time as the ball struck it and made it become relevant to play.

But all of that changes as soon as you've struck the right target. Or perhaps, the wrong target. The ball is swallowed up, and the entire scene in front of you becomes something else entirely. The targets and tracks and bumpers fold away out of view, and you see in front of you a large mansion, cut away in the front like a doll house. A voice explains to you that, if you want to ever see your ball again, you will solve its riddles. This is enough of a spectacle that anybody else playing in this room, on how few games can fit in the room with Theater II present in it (as it is roughly the width of five or six normal pinball machines, itself, and much deeper), would stop playing immediately to see what all this brouhaha is about.

Once the voice has finished its tirade and vanished into the air waves, the control panel reveals a series of smaller panels within it, with labels. They are outputs. TOKENS, one reads. DICE. DISKS. And one other, with no label at all. The coin mechanism has retracted and been closed off, presumably to stop anybody else from trying to bribe it to go back to the pinball.

A small glass case rises in front of the panel. It resembles a craps table, though with indentations where a typical six-sided die would fit snugly. The plunger launcher, still present on the control panel, becomes loaded with one such die. I pull it back as hard as it will go, and release - the die tumbles and bounces into the glass case, bounds off of the rubberized walls, and eventually lands into one of the indentations, showing a number 3 on its exposed upper face.

The TOKENS panel slides out in front of me, like a small desk drawer. Inside of it are what looks like three half-dollar-sized coins. One has George Washington's face on it, but John F. Kennedy's on the other. There are four holes stamped through it, in the shape of a crude fleur de lis. I look at another one of them - it also has Kennedy's face on one side, but on the other one, an inscription that reads "THIS ONE ISN'T LEGAL TENDER, SORRY." It, too, has the four holes stamped through it. I do not recall what the third one looked like.

As soon as I've got all three of the tokens out of the drawer, the voice from before implores me not to keep them. "Go play some darts," it urges. The darts machine to my left begins flashing on its own. I had thought it was just an ordinary darts game, but it was becoming clear that it was somehow networked to Theatre II.

I insert the tokens into "Fastback Darts" and the machine seems to just eat them, without acknowledging. An arcade attendant is here watching this all go down, but even he doesn't seem to want to mess with what's going on. I wouldn't blame him - it's impossible to tell, now, what is intentional, what is a part of the Theatre of Magic II experience, and what is a misbehavior in the machines. Theatre II's voice booms forth again. It hopes that I'm good with computers. On the main control panel, the drawer labeled DISKS pops out. There are three, unlabeled floppy diskettes, resembling the common three-and-a-half inch variety, albeit only two inches in size. I take them, and the scene in front of the control panel changes again.

The mansion rotates in front of me until I am seeing some kind of exterior garden. There are children, or I suppose the figures of children, playing here. They are dressed very old-fashionedly, the kind of thing you'd have seen in illustrations in books from the turn of the 20th century. Next to the children, though, is a vintage-looking computer terminal, an all-in-one model. Its screen is already powered on, its text glowing as green as can be, prompting me to insert a diskette into the Secondary Drive. I choose one at random. I must step around the control panel to reach the computer. The attendant behind me makes to stop me - he wants to ask me, am I really sure that I want to do this? Neither of us has any idea what will happen if I press onward. But I insert the disk.

A nearby basketball-themed pinball shuts down. The person playing it, seemingly accepting that his game has ended and his role is done, simply walks out of the room. He accidentally bumps into the free-standing Fastback Darts machine, and knocks it over - it is made of cardboard. The attendant dutifully picks it up and stands it again, though I notice that he is sizing it up and trying to figure out where the tokens went, and why the machine is so light, despite being otherwise so lifelike.

I step over to the basketball table - "NBA Fastbreak Special Edition" featuring the voice of Tim "KABOOM!" Kitzrow - and it seems to be firing balls at random, trying to choose a team for me to represent. It eventually settles on a team that I'm not sure has ever existed - the Dover Clementines.

At this point, though, as all dreams do, I find the events have ceased. The dream ends in stasis, its story aborted, never to be continued. I can only imagine how much more elaborate the Theatre of Magic II could get. Pinball, it would seem, was only the beginning.

[priortoallthoughts]

Don’t Mess With the Commander’s Caf

(or do, because it’s gotten you this far)

Rating: T

Word Count: 3.6k

Pairing: Commander Fox x afab!reader

Warnings: Mild swearing; gets a bit spicy at the end but nothing explicit.

Summary: What is supposed to be a night out at 79s turns into a night in the drunk tank, and the morning starts a startling new relationship with a certain Coruscant Guard Commander. All over a cup of caf.

// [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5]

Masterlist

A night out in Coruscant is never complete for you without going to the clone bar, 79s. You may pre-game somewhere else, but you always end up there, recognizable as one of their regulars. You love the atmosphere, honestly. It’s so jovial, just vode – and weren’t you surprised when you found out that clones spoke a different language with each other – coming to forget the war for a night. Living life as much as they could. You’ve picked up a few words of theirs purely because you hear them so often. Many a curse word too, which are your favorites.

And they were about to be put to good use.

You’re already buzzed and walking with a group of grey-clad troopers that had pulled you into their group when they saw you walking alone. You chat easily with them even though you never met them before. That’s the funny thing about being sociable when you’re sober – you’re even more chatty when you drink. And giggly apparently, considering you couldn’t stop laughing at the mission gone wonky they were telling you about.

When 79s came into view your smile widens. There really is nothing like the neon lights and bass you can already hear resonating from inside. Were there probably millions of places just like in on Coruscant already? Sure. But there isn’t anywhere aside from 79s you could find this kind of ambiance.

There is one downside that pisses you off like no other though.

There’s yelling coming from over by the speeder-way and when you look over, another civilian is getting in the face of a Coruscant guard member. The frown the graces your face feels wrong after laughing so much, but you can’t help it. You pause in your tracks. Usually when you see this kinda shit it deescalates fairly quickly, but this civilian is getting louder and more violent the more the (admittedly nervous acting) guard tried to calm him down.

“Hey.” A hand lands on your shoulder and you look up to see one of your group. “We can’t do anything. The punishment would be too harsh and that civvie chakaar won’t even get a slap on the wrist.”

Your frown turns into a snarl. “You can’t do anything.”

Fishing your flask out of your jacket pocket you take a swig before shoving it into the chest of the closest trooper. The steady click of your heels is the only thing you can hear over the growing volume of yelling.

“Hey! Shabuir in the stupid shirt!” Your own yell interrupts.

You have exactly one second to reconsider things before you think about all the vitriol this jackass is spewing at the guard for nothing. The sound of your fist hitting his face is the most satisfying thing you’ve heard tonight, along with the yelp he lets out when he hits the ground.

“What the kriff is your problem, bitch?!”

“You talking shit about this trooper is my problem!”

He turns towards the guard again and the trooper flinches. “I want her arrested for battery!”

You lean down to grab his collar and shake him out. “Oh, so now you want him to do his job? The one you were just belittling him for? Can’t have it both ways, chakaar!”

“Let go of me!”

You drop him so suddenly that his head cracks against the ground. He scrambles to his feet and points a finger at you. “You’ll regret this! They’re nothing but meat-droids!”

“Say that again, you little pissant. I dare you.” You go to take a step forward but he’s already running away. A hand on your shoulder again makes you look over to the one you defended.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” And he does sound sorry. “I will have to take you in tonight. I… can’t ignore you attacking someone right in front of me.”

You smile at him. “No problem, trooper. Do your job; I don’t want you getting in trouble.” You offer your wrists to him and next thing you know they’re in a pair of binders behind your back and you’re being placed in the back of a speeder.

“A night in the drunk tank should sort you out.”

The smile you give him is blinding, because not only do you know that’s not the proper booking for what you just did, at least you look cute while you’re being taken away.

---

When you wake up in your cell (lucky you’re the only one there) you’re beyond tired and in desperate need of some caf. You can’t function without it in the morning.

There’s a guard member who lets you out not long after you get up. You follow him like a zombie. Presumably he’s leading you out of all the twisting hallways, but you stop short when your nose picks up the distinct smell of caf.

But not just any caf. You know the smell of Death Wish anywhere.

Your favorite.

You follow your nose to a mess hall – sparsely populated but still enough that everyone stops what they’re doing to look at you as you make your way to the caf machines in the back. You’re basically falling asleep as you walk so you don’t notice. Maybe you should care, considering you’re still wearing your clubbing outfit from last night, but no, you don’t actually care.

When you get there you see two different machines. One is labeled with some cheap, generic caf name and the other is simply “Fox’s Starfighter Fuel.”

You grab a flimsi cup and fill it with the second one. No cream. No sugar.

No life, only caf.

You finally notice how deathly quite it is as you take your first sip and turn around. There’s one trooper standing in front of you, helmet tucked under his arm, and the most severe look you’ve ever seen before gracing his features. You look him over with half-lidded eyes, noticing he’s dressed differently than the others, and casually take another sip of caf.

“You must be Fox.”

“Civilians aren’t allowed in this part of the building, who let you in here?”

Still waiting for the caf to kick in, you shrug. “Spent the night in the tank. No one stopped me when I walked in.”

Fox turns to glare at everyone sitting at the tables. They all look down at their food like they weren’t obviously watching and someone starts whistling.

“You need to leave,” he says when he turns back around.

“Can I finish my caf first?” You ask, taking more sips hoping to stall.

He glowers even more. “That’s not even your caf!”

“Shame.” You chug the rest of the still mostly full cup and coughs wrack your chest when you finish. “I think I just burned my esophagus,” you rasp.

“Get out.”

“That’s completely fair.”

You toss your cup in the trash on the way out. Turning the way you were going before you got distracted, you make your way to the exit; no need to bring the wrath of Fox down on you for sticking around. You feel like, once again, you get off light and dont’t want to press your luck. The smile that graces your face as you step outside is probably a strange thing for anyone else to see considering you’re walking out of jail, but you had a good night, and the morning is shaping up to follow suit.

---

The next day you walk into the caf shop you normally stop at on the way to work. The barista behind the counter waves as you walk up. “Your usual, hun?”

“You know me,” you smile brightly, “but, uh, can you make it two?”

Her eyes widen. “I can’t imagine the morning you’re expecting to have!”

You laugh and wave her off. “Nothing bad. I owe someone a cup.”

“You mean someone else drinks this sludge?”

“Imagine my surprise. And it’s not that bad!”

She places two large flimsi cups in front of you. Your hands rub together nervously before you get your thoughts together. “Can I borrow your marker?”

She hands it to you with a raised eyebrow and you quickly scribble a few words on one of the cups. It isn’t a lot, and it completely gives away who you are without having to sign your name, so you hope it’s okay.

“Thanks, gotta run!” You scurry out of the door before the barista can ask anything about what you’re doing.

You aren’t even sure yourself if you were being completely honest. The Coruscant Guard building is a little out of your way from your route to work, but you leave early in the mornings anyway, so you can still make it in time even with the detour. You feel a bit nervous walking in this time. Where did all your confidence from yesterday go?

You flag down the first trooper you see that doesn’t look busy.

“Can you give this to Fox, please?” You hold out the cup for him to take.

He doesn’t.

He only stands there, and you imagine he’s making a face behind his helmet because he doesn’t say anything either.

After a few seconds of silence you lower the cup awkwardly. “Uhh, oh, sorry, am I allowed to bring caf?”

“Why are you bringing the Commander caf?” He finally asks.

You squeeze the cups so much the tops almost pops off. “Fox is a commander?”

“Commander Fox is head of the Coruscant Guard, ma’am.”

The top of your own cup does pop off this time, but nothing spills.

“The entire guard?” You squeak.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Heat is quick to crawl up your face. “Oh stars, I can’t believe I took his caf.” Your internal panic is quickly becoming external as you try not to drop either cup. You hid your face behind one in embarrassment.

“Wait.” The guard member tilts his head. “You’re the one they were talking about yesterday? The girl from the mess hall?”

There’s a few second where nothing but incomprehensible noises come out of your mouth, but you finally get out, “how many people know about that?!”

“It’s made its way around.”

“I’m gonna - kriff - go throw myself off the senate building I swear-“

You’re cut off by the sound of a chuckle and you snap your head up to see the guard member’s shoulders shaking. “So you’re not trying to poison the Commander, huh?”

“No!” You yelp, but quiet down after you see others turn to look at you. “I was just trying to repay the caf I drank! We like the same kind!”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Can you please just give this to him before I die of embarrassment? You’re killing me here!”

He laughs again and finally takes the cup from your shaking hands. “Who should I say it’s from?”

You slap a hand over your face to hide your grimace. “At this point I’d rather not tell you. I want to keep some of my dignity intact,” you mutter.

“Nobody’s dignity is intact here, ma’am.”

“Oh… joy.”

“You best be on your way then.”

He is giving you an out and you’re taking it in full.

“Have a good day,” you say as you turn, the only proof you’ve been there being one guard member and a note on a flimsi cup.

“Sorry for taking your caf yesterday.”

---

One week later you find yourself standing outside of the caf shop, once again with two cups in hand through no fault of your own. It makes you think that maybe another trip to the Coruscant Guard building wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Why waste a perfectly good drink after all?

You pause immediately when you step through the door, because the man you’re looking for is standing across the room talking to someone with a datapad in hand. The decision on whether to interrupt is made for you when the person he’s talking to looks over and spots you.

He waves and Fox finally looks over as well, tilting his head as he does so. You take a deep breath before walking over to them.

“Caf girl!”

You raised your eyebrow at the other trooper. “I really am known around here for that, aren’t I?” You say as you stop in front of them. You have a sneaking suspicion that he is the same one you talked to last week.

“Well you never gave me your name,” he shrugs.

Yeah, it’s him.

Your head snaps to Fox, however, when he addresses you.

“You know my name?”

“Your information was processed and put into the system when you spent the night in the tank.”

“Osik,” you mutter.

“Did you need something?” He asks.

You perk up some, and hold out the second drink in your hand. “Right, there was a mixup at the caf shop, and I got an extra drink. I thought you might like it.”

He takes it carefully, but your bare fingers still brush against his gloved ones. They tingle when you pull away, and while the heat on your palm from holding the hot cup fades, the heat in your fingertips does not. You have the sudden urge to find out what holding his hand feels like, but you push that thought down along with the blush you can feel rising. Now isn’t the time. You have to get to work. Maybe if you come by earlier next time….. would there be a next time?

“Thank you. I… appreciate the thought.” You think you hear him trip over his words, but there’s no way.

You smile brightly at him. “You’re welcome!” You check the time on your chrono. “Looks like I gotta bounce. Enjoy your caf, Commander!”

Your retreat is quick, but hells if you don’t add a little extra sway to your hips as you walk out the doors.

And scribbled on the cup now in Fox’s hand is:

“I know day old caf when I taste it. Fresh is better.”

---

You start to bring Fox caf every week.

“This has become part of my routine, so I hope you don’t mind.”

Every week turns into every few days.

“Your filing system is horrifying but at least your chair is comfy.”

Every few days turns into every day.

“Tell Thorn that if he sees me at 79s tonight, he can’t arrest me just so I’ll hang out with him.”

And leaving early just to see Fox is the best part of your day no matter what. You hope you’re not the only one who feels like this. That maybe as you walk to the Guard building in the morning, you’re not the only one smiling and counting down the minutes until you get to Fox’s office. He never turns you away, and he’s always there to take the extra caf from your hands if he can be. Sometimes you have to leave it on his desk if he’s not in, but you understand that his job isn’t easy by any stretch of the word.

He is in this morning, however, seeing as the door opens promptly at your knock. He sits behind his desk, a few data pads already stacked next to him and a frown marring his face. That won’t do.

“Credit for your thoughts?” You say as you set his caf down next to his helmet and lean against his desk.

Fox looks up and gives you a tired smile, unaware of how it makes your stomach flutter. “Shaping up to be a long day.”

“Giving yourself more grey hairs already?” You say, giving a pointed look to his already greying sides.

“Like I need any more,” he huffs.

“I dunno,” you reach up and run your fingers lightly through his short curls, “I think they make you look distinguished.”

He lets out a breath you didn’t know he had been holding. “At least one of us thinks so.”

“It’s okay, I can like it enough for the both of us.”

“Should I count myself lucky then?” He smirks, finally taking a sip of his caf and sighing contently into the cup.

You give him a cheeky grin. “You should.”

He looks at you then, not saying anything, and you can’t help the flush you feel crawling up your face. You swear, you had never blushed so much around anyone before you met him. You distract yourself by drinking your own caf, the liquid welcome to your suddenly dry mouth.

“I do.”

“What?” Your head snaps back up to him and he’s still looking at you, but not in a way you’ve seen before.

“I do count myself lucky.”

You look away shyly, a small smile forming at the corners of your mouth. Sure, you two have been lightly flirting with each other, or at at least you’re definitely flirting with him, but this is the most straight-forward thing he’s ever said to you.

“It’s a good thing I got myself arrested that night then, isn’t it?”

It’s uncharted territory, where this conversation is heading. The thought of what it could be sits low in your belly and causes you to let out a shakey breath.

“It’s quite the holovid to watch,” he says offhandedly.

You’re lucky you aren’t drinking your caf, otherwise you would have spit it everywhere. You turn your head so hard you think you give yourself whiplash, mouth agape, looking at him in wide-eyed mortification.

“There’s a holo of that?!” The pitch of your voice would be embarrassing if you weren’t in the middle of spontaneously combusting on the inside.

He nods empathetically, which is shit because you know for damn sure he’s not empathetic about it; he’s having too much fun with this. You know he is, with that stupid, heart-stopping smirk playing on his face.

“Our HUDs record each incident for our files to make sure everything matches up with the reports.”

“Nooooooooooooo,” you whine quietly into your hands that now cover your face. You hear him get up and move to stand in front of you, but you don’t react. Mainly because you have no idea what he’s doing, but also he’s so kriffing close you can barely handle it.

His pries your hands from your face and presses them to his desk, effectively caging you in. He’s even closer now, and you’re hyper aware of how hard your heart is pounding even though you stop breathing. It’s the last thing from threatening, but you’re still frozen.

He leans in so his mouth is right next to your ear. “You look good in that little red dress of yours,” he whispers, his voice octaves lower than before. “Especially when you’re beating the kark out of a civvie – standing up for my vod.” It sends a pleasurable shiver down your spine and straight to your ovaries.

You suck in a breath when he pulls away. This is much more than you could have expected. “You’re not giving me much incentive to not be arrested again,” you tilt your head, “now that I know you’d be watching.”

“Always watching you, cyare.”

You hum, pulling one hand away from his to run up his armor and trace lightly over his jaw. “Gonna have to try harder to get a pair of binders on me next time, then.”

“Would you run?”

“Only if you’re the one chasing me.”

You move your hand from his jaw to the back of his neck and scratch lightly, feeling more than seeing him shiver under your fingertips.

“I’d find you.”

“Oh, I’d be counting on it, Commander.”

It’s a mutual surge that leads you two to lean in, culminating in the most charged kiss you’ve ever received. You throw your other hand around his neck, holding him as close as you can, while his hands latch onto your hips, pulling you up and into his embrace. He leads you back until he’s sitting in his chair and the next thing you know you’re falling into his lap to straddle him. You break for air, and to process that yes, this is happening, before you’re kissing again. A little slower; a little deeper.

You moan quietly into his mouth, and his hands move to your ass so he can pull you even closer.

There’s a chime from your chrono and you pull away, panting.

Fox’s eyes are dark and hungry when he looks at you. “You have to go soon.”

You nod, not breaking eye contact, and not moving either.

He grins, and it looks absolutely predatory. He slides the top of your blouse down slowly, just enough for his mouth to latch on to you right above your collarbone. You let out another breathy moan, and his teeth graze your skin in response as he sucks harder. His tongue soothes the area over when he lets go, and he looks at the quickly darkening spot with what you can only assume is possessive pride.

“For you to remember,” he says huskily.

Knowing he’s just staked his claim on you stokes the fire inside you even more. You give him your own feral grin, and pull down the collar of his blacks as he stiffens. “Who am I to allow you to forget, then?”

You suck hard at the column of his throat, higher than he did on you, knowing it would still be covered. You taste the sweat that had been building up, and his skin which you can’t even describe except that it tastes like him.

He groans lowly into your ear and you shiver when you pull away. You drag your nail lightly over the dark bruise in satisfaction before pulling his collar back up.

You slide off his armored thighs slowly. He follows you to stand, and gives you one last, long, kiss.

“Until next time, cyare.”

When you leave his office, you wish you had written something more on his cup than a crudely drawn fox with a smiley face next to it. Tomorrow though, you wonder what you can get away with saying.

“Next time I’m wearing that little red dress, feel free to search me. Who knows what I could be hiding.”

[astralpenguin]

@transnaturalweek day 5: t4t

1.5k, ao3 link

“Cas?”

Cas had known that Dean wasn’t asleep yet, and he’d known that Dean’s sleeplessness was coming from more than a simple bout of insomnia. Cas didn’t like to read minds, but he didn’t need to read Dean’s mind to know that Dean was thinking very hard about something. He also didn’t need to read Dean’s mind to know that Dean would speak up about whatever it was when he felt comfortable doing so.

Ever since he’d dragged Cas out of the Empty, Dean had been making a point of being more open with Cas about his thoughts and feelings. Even if it took him a while to get there sometimes, he’d still try. All that Cas had to do in return was give Dean the time he needed to do it on his own terms.

And it was looking like something was bothering Dean right now, and Dean was ready to talk about it right now.

Cas had his arms wrapped around Dean, and Dean’s back was pressed up against Cas’ chest. Dean liked falling asleep in Cas’ arms, and Cas was always more than happy to oblige. He liked having Dean asleep in his arms.

He hummed to let Dean know that he was listening.

“You know how you’re an angel.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Dean broke Cas’ hold on him and rolled over to face him. “Okay, smartass,” he said, a smile on his face.

“Sorry,” said Cas, smiling as well and not feeling sorry at all. His goal with that comment had been to put Dean more at ease and make him smile, and he’d succeeded. “Continue.”

“Angels don’t have genders,” said Dean. His smile from moments ago had faded and his voice was steady. “And you’re an angel. So you’re not a man, right?”

“Dean-”

“This isn’t another sexuality crisis,” Dean continued, talking over Cas. “I know I’m bi, and I’m good with you being. Well.” He gestured at Cas. “Guy shaped. I’d probably be pretty bummed if you switched vessels at this point, actually. But-”

“Dean.”

Dean stopped talking.

Cas put a hand on Dean’s waist. “Angels were not created with a sex or gender,” he said. “And while it’s true that the majority of angels were always, as you used to put it, ‘junkless’-”

Dean shook his head. “I can hear the quote marks in your voice, man.”

“-I don’t think that the same can be said for me anymore,” Cas continued. “I’ve inhabited many vessels since creation. Some male, some female, and many that weren’t human. None of those other vessels were ever truly comfortable. None of them ever felt like they were my body. This one does. It’s the body that I was in when I lost my grace, it’s the body that I’ve been resurrected in more than once, and it’s the first form that the Shadow took inside the Empty in order to communicate with me. It probably helps that I’m the only one in this body. I’m not possessing anyone anymore. But I would also be ‘bummed’ if I had to change my vessel. I don’t think that I would be comfortable inhabiting any body other than this one.”

“Okay,” said Dean. “That doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a guy.”

Cas squinted. The nuance there wasn’t something he’d expected Dean to know. “You’ve been researching this.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.

“Shut up.” Dean looked away, towards the ceiling. “Just. It doesn’t though. Right?”

“You’re right,” said Cas. If Dean had been researching the topic of gender in humans, to the point where he’d grasped this particular point, then there was likely a reason for it. Cas wasn’t going to push him on what that reason was. If Dean wanted to share, then he would. In the meantime he had no problems with answering Dean’s question. “Someone’s body does not dictate their gender. My gender does not rely entirely on my body, although for me it is a factor. I don’t know if I’d consider myself to be a man today if Jimmy wasn’t one. But I do know for sure that I was created, as an angel, without a gender, and now I do have one. I’m a man.”

Dean nodded in understanding.

He was still looking at the ceiling.

“Dean?”

“If it’s not just your body that makes you a guy, then what else is there?”

Cas paused as he thought about it. “It’s difficult to describe. Mostly it’s just a sense of rightness from viewing myself as such. Describing myself as a woman feels wrong, as does saying that I lack gender entirely. I’m a man because that’s what I am, and because I never want to be anything else.”

Dean nodded again. “That makes sense.”

“Does it?” said Cas. “I wasn’t sure that it did.”

“It did. I get what you mean.” He paused, still not looking at Cas. Swallowed. And then whispered, “Sometimes I don’t want to be a guy.”

Cas waited for Dean to continue. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to without prompting, Cas said, “You don’t have to be one”

And Dean spoke.

“I know. Damn it Cas, I know. But sometimes I am a guy. A lot of the time I’m definitely a guy and the concept of being anything else doesn’t even occur to me. And then sometimes I think that I don’t want to be a guy at all. And sometimes I think I’d like to be a woman, and I was sure that this was something that everyone thought, because who wouldn’t want to be a chick sometimes? Except I mentioned it to Garth the other day, and he said he’s never wanted to be a woman, or to be anything other than a guy, and apparently most guys never want to be anything else. So I looked it up. I thought that surely Garth was wrong, ‘cause I love the guy but you’ve got to admit he’s a bit of an oddball. But no. He was right. Most guys never want to be anything else. And some of the websites I looked at said that not wanting to be the gender you were born as means you’re not that gender, and that’s even more terrifying, because if I’m not a man then what am I?”

As he said this last sentence, he finally looked back at Cas. There was more fear in his eyes than Cas had seen in a long time. Since their ordeal with the Empty.

Cas put his hand on Dean’s cheek and gently brushed his thumb over Dean’s skin. Dean relaxed some at Cas’ touch.

“You are, first and foremost, Dean Winchester, and the people who love you will love you regardless of anything else. I will love you regardless of anything else.”

Dean relaxed even more at that, like it was something he’d needed to hear.

“I cannot tell you what your gender is,” said Cas. “That’s something you need to decide for yourself. However, to me, it sounds like your gender is not always fixed in place. It changes. Would you say that sounds right?”

“I-” Dean snapped his mouth shut and shook his head.

“Let me rephrase,” said Cas. “Would you say that the gender you want to be changes from time to time?”

Dean nodded.

“Okay.” Cas leaned in and brushed his lips against Dean’s. Dean kissed him back, just as softly. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

“But it’s not normal,” said Dean. “Most people just want to be one thing.”

“Dean,” said Cas. “You live in an underground bunker. You have saved the world on multiple occasions. You are in a romantic relationship with an angel. There are significantly more people who experience some degree of gender fluidity than there are who share many of your other life experiences.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Yeah I know. It’s just....” He trailed off. Shook his head. “This is scary. I thought I knew something about myself and now it turns out I was wrong, and-” He cut himself off with a yawn. “Man, I'm tired.”

“Then sleep.”

“But-”

“If you like,” said Cas, “after you’ve slept we can look into this some more. There’s no rush or pressure for you to come to any conclusions or apply any particular labels to yourself, but exploring and discussing this some more may bring you some comfort.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “I think it might.” He paused. “We?”

“Of course,” said Cas. “Unless you’d prefer I leave you to it yourself. That wouldn’t be a problem.”

“No!” said Dean. He curled his fingers into Cas’ t-shirt and gripped it tight. “No, I want you with me for this. If that’s okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” said Cas. “I’m here for you and with you for whatever you need.”

“Thanks, Cas.” He closed his eyes and buried his head in the crook of Cas’ neck, mumbling something into Cas’ skin. If Cas weren’t an angel, he never would’ve been able to pick out any of the words. As it was, it sounded suspiciously like Dean had said ‘love you too’.

Cas smiled. It was always nice to hear Dean say it.

[i-ate-the-whole-entire-pie]

Call Me Mother, Chapter One

I languidly drained the last breath from my cigarette, the drag filling my lungs. My garter straps hung down lazily, tickling my thighs, as they awaited their purpose. Music thumped rapidly, and whoops of delight resounded through the hall. The dressing room door swung open; a small, but curvaceous woman behind it.

Her eyebrows were tweezed to perfection, eyes deeply shadowed, eyelashes false and curled into large feathery swoops; her mouth was like a plump strawberry. I’d always harbored a mild curiosity about how it tasted.

“Mary, you’re up in 10 minutes. I want you at the curtain in five," Cristella said, her hispanic accent thick.

“Is that a new corset?” I asked. Cristella turned me around, and yanked the laces of my corset together. Thank god I haven’t needed to breathe for the last 150 years, I thought. I floated a small influence her way. Gentler, please. She complied, unwittingly. They always do.

I don’t normally use my influence on people I like, but I’m far too hungry to risk her pinching me with this corset. I couldn’t forgive myself if I lost control. She was far too kind to die a death that violent.

“It is. This papí chulo I’ve been seeing said he wanted me to wear it for him. Maybe he’ll tip better," she said, carefully pulling the slack out of the lower half of my corset. I placed my hands over my belly, holding everything in place.

“What’s the crowd looking like?” I tucked the ties away. She jutted a hip out, and began counting off on her impeccably manicured fingers.

“The usual crowd. Old Man Carraway, that one divorcee who drinks like a fish. College kids. Oh, there’s also these dudes in silver masks. Low-key kind of demonic. And some weird guy in like, face paint? He’s painted up like a calavera. I figured they came from that concert that was in town. You know, the one that church was protesting? Say they like worship Satan or something?”

“Sounds about right." I bent down to attach my straps to the garters of my stockings.

“They’re probably here for a private room, so I figured I’d put you on now. You’re good at handling the weirdos." Cristella giggled, watching me struggle to get the backs of my stockings attached. She and I broke into fits of giggles, as she chased me in circles, trying to help me attach my stockings.

“Let me get that. Hurry up and get on stage!” she said, giving me a playful smack on the ass. I pranced out of the room, trying to avoid her grasping mitts.

“Hey! No bruising the merchandise!” I giggled, linking arms with her as we strutted backstage, perfectly in step with one another. She grabbed the microphone from Mike the Mic Guy, gave me a wink, and stepped through the curtain.

“Aaaaand we’re back! Now, this next lady I’ve got lined up for you is quite a treat. She’s as pale as cream, thicker than a bowl of oatmeal, and will definitely step on you. Well, she might if you tip well. For legal reasons, we can’t call her “Elvira,” so I guess we’ll settle for… MOTHER! MARY!” That was my cue. I sauntered through the curtain, my hips moving like a figure eight. I moved across the stage, “Lullaby” by the Cure playing. I always chose various genres of rock for my acts. Not that I have anything against the other girls’ music choices… but there’s only so much female rap you can play in one night. As I began to dance, I noticed the group that Cristella had mentioned earlier. They were sitting front and center, near the edge of the stage.

Seven of the masked figures sat around the Painted Man, as I had labeled him. Two of the masked figures seemed effeminate, and the other five seemed more masculine. They all ranged in different shapes and sizes. Maybe the masks are a fetish thing? Cristella did say that they came from a concert… Something about them seemed off. I did a swing around the pole, dropping into a fireman, trying to catch a scent. It was a whirlwind of scents, none of them too out of the ordinary. Except the beefy one. He smelled like midnight. I don’t know how to explain it. What really caught my interest though was the Painted Man. Specifically, his eyes. One of them was grey, the iris almost black. The other eye had a pale, white iris. It suited him, and it was beautiful, in an eerie way. Those eyes looked at me, as I danced around the stage, and they knew me. If I had a working heart still, it would be racing.

As Robert Smith crooned, I descended the stairs of the stage as sensually as one could in Pleaser heels, making my way to the Painted Man. If I wanted to know what these people were, I’d have to get a closer look. The Painted Man patted one of his legs with a gloved hand, and cocked his head to the side. I took the invitation, but not before I teased him. I crouched between his legs, running my hands up his thighs. As I rose, I walked my hands up his thighs, bringing my face closer to his. His breath graced my skin, smelling faintly of licorice. As he leaned in, for what I could only assume was a kiss, I rose again, strutting over to one of the masked beings. It was the smaller of the male ones. I sat in his lap, letting him run his hands over me as I began to grind on his lap. His growing erection told me I was going to have a busy night.

“Your boss is a little too eager," I whispered, getting a good whiff of him. He smelled faintly of smoke. I put my hands on his chest, trying to keep my balance. No heartbeat.

“What makes you think he’s my boss?” The being asked petulantly. He grabbed onto my waist, as he began to grind with me. I moved his hand to the small of my back, and leaned back in a dip. The being ran his other hand over my belly, in between my breasts, and up to my throat, bringing me back up to his masked face.

“You’re the one wearing a uniform." I darted my tongue out to lick my lips. What is he? My mind raced as I tried to run through every supernatural creature I’d ever known. But then I heard it. I barely even understood it. All I picked up was price and one night. It was Ghoulish. The taller female ghoul was asking about what I can only assume was my hourly rate. Most strip clubs in this part of Vegas were just fronts for brothels. However, it’s hard to sell the idea of prostitution to Mid-Western vanilla tourists. So most of my income was made from stripping. I usually had one or two clients I went to bed with a night. It wasn’t very stable, but then again, I had less expenses than the average stripper, considering my “condition."

“Tell your friend my basic hourly rate is $500. My Ghoulish isn’t any good." I stood up, and made my way to the female ghoul’s lap.

“How do you know Ghoulish?” she asked, a bit of surprise in her tone. I bent over in front of her, shaking my ass for her. She put a couple of bills in the waistband of my panties, punching my previous ghoul in the arm. He forked over some cash as well.

“I’m not human. I’ll leave it at that," I said, stuffing the cash into the top of my corset. Dear lord… All hundreds… The female ghoul rubbed my thighs, turning me back around slowly, so as to admire my ass.

“Could we get a room after your number? I think a private dance is in order," she said, in broken Ghoulish. I nodded, and as if on cue, the lights and music began to fade out. As I began to walk back up the stairs to the stage past the Painted Man, his hand darted forward to smack my ass. God, it really is not the night for this shit. My more animalistic nature took over, and before I could stop it, a hiss left my lips. As if of their own accord, my fangs sprung painfully through my gums. I heard a snap, and looked over to see the largest ghoul stand up. He shook his head. Thank god the lights were low. Embarrassed, I covered my mouth, and made my way across the stage.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Mike the Mic Guy asked, handing a mic to Cristella. I still had my hand over my mouth. Cristella looked worried.

“Are you okay Mary? I can get you some tea if you’re keyed up." I shook my head.

“Please get a room ready. The Freak Parade wants a private dance," I said as I walked away, silently cursing myself. Once back in the dressing room, I threw open the mini-fridge I normally kept padlocked. I looked to the last bottle I had left in my stash. Hopefully it hasn’t clotted, I thought, throwing the bottle back. This wouldn’t end my thirst, but it would certainly quell the burning in my throat. You nearly lost it. You need to bag one of these stupid fucks tonight, or else. I hadn’t had a bad case of blood lust in decades, but the combination of winter holidays, my strict schedule, and FOSTA-SESTA had really cut off my food supply.

The door opened, and Cristella came in with a cup of tea. She looked at the flask in her hand and cocked a brow.

“And you didn’t offer to share. What is that? Cuervo? Henny?” she said, reaching for the flask. I shook my head, and put it back in the fridge, closing the padlock.

“It’s cough syrup. I keep it under lock and key because of that bitch Ronnie. She’s not fooling anybody. You ever see how much her hands shake? Too much caffeine? Yeah, right. We all know what the DTs look like." I began changing into a burgundy velvet bra and panty set, pairing it with some burgundy gloves and stockings. Finally, I found a pair of sparkly Loboutins Lydia had left me. My mind rolled back through the streets of Paris to 1991, when Louboutin opened its first salon. Lydia smiled, as I kissed her shin, helping her into the heel. She looked down at me, her eyes full of love, and the corner of her mouth hiding a kiss just for me.

“Yeah, she is pretty suspish. What happened with those weirdos out there?” Cristella interrupted my memory. I shook my head. Are you just imagining your heartache?

“Oh the big guy was just mad because I didn’t get around to him. That’s why I wanted you to get the room. Plus, I might be able to secure a nice check from these guys. They all seemed absolutely randy," I said. Cristella shook her head, giggling. The gloss in my hand made a popping noise, as I pulled the wand from the bottle. It was my favorite flavor, watermelon.

“I can ask one of the boys to sit in, to keep them from getting too handsy," Cristella said. I shook my head. It would only keep me from getting too handsy, I thought to myself. Bless her heart. I could never make a kill here. I loved the crew here far too much. Plus, I didn’t have a coven. No one to protect me when I fucked up. They kicked me out long ago. It’s the main reason I ended up in Vegas, avoiding the sun when I could, doing my best to keep a legal and convenient profession. Where else could get a job with only night shifts, and a never-ending supply of useless assholes no one cared about?

“I’ll be okay Crissy. Even if they do try something, we have a panic button in there. Don’t worry." I gave her a slimy, glossy kiss on the cheek, earning a shriek from her strawberry mouth. She batted at me, narrowly missing me as I bounded out of the room.

As I approached the bigger of our three private rooms, I noticed two of the larger male ghouls standing outside the door. All of the ghouls dressed similarly, including the female ghouls. But I now noticed the alchemical symbols dangling from their belt chains. The shorter one had a quintessence symbol, the other larger one, an earth symbol. The earth one opened the door, and the quintessence one escorted me in.

“Thank you, Aether. Back to the door with you. Come, have a seat. Dewdrop says there is more to you than meets the eye. Let me pour you a glass of wine, cara," a thick, Italian accent beckoned to me. I walked to the ottoman in the middle of the room, where I usually found myself during private dances.

“I don’t drink during work hours, love. Now, what should I call you?” I looked into the mismatched eyes of the Painted Man.

“You can call me Papa. I’m Papa Emeritus, the fourth. My close friends call me Copia, but I suppose we are not quite there yet, sí?” he said, leaning forward to take my chin in his hand. I nodded.

“While I would love to marvel at your undoubtedly exquisite body, There is some business we should take care of first, piccolina. Do you like Type O Negative?” Cue the record scratching. The dreamy look I normally adopt when with my clients evaporated.

“Excuse me?” I whispered. Papa laughed.

“The band, cara. I was going to have you dance for me later. However, you must have a preference."

“I really don’t understand what you mean," I whispered. Papa laughed again, a big booming laugh.

“I know your secret cara. The ghouls told me. One of my predecessors, Papa Nihil, told me if I were to ever come across your kind, I should try to win your allegiance. Your kind have interesting abilities, specifically the power of influence." Of course that’s what he’s after.

“I don’t do that," I said, looking down to avoid his gaze. Papa tsked.

“I think you will. The ghouls say you smell lonely. Where is your famiglia?” He asked. I shook my head. Lydia’s pained screams echoed in my ears, our last moment together wrenching my heart out of my chest decades later.

“We split because of artistic differences," I said softly. Dewdrop and his companions giggled behind me.

“Forcing people to allow you to exsanguinate them for sport is not ‘artistic differences,’” Dewdrop hissed. The other ghouls laughed. Papa shook his head, and raised a hand to silence them.

“Now now, Dewdrop. It is hard to control one’s basic nature. Sí, tesoro? Tell me, how long has it been since your last drink?” He looked at me with concern. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I knew what he saw. Weak, pathetic, useless… The words were like a disgusting mantra, swirling through my mind, angry and acidic.

“Weeks… It’s been weeks," I whispered. He tsked again. I heard the ghouls chatter amongst themselves. Their pity made me feel disgusting, like a child with sweaty, clammy hands, and odorous armpits.

“What if I told you I could offer you a job and a home? A home where you wouldn’t have to hide your nature. A home where you’d never go hungry again?” I looked up at him.

“What kind of job?” I asked. The ghouls laughed again. Papa shot them a glare.

“I would make use of your gifts occasionally. Nobody would get hurt. You would warm my bed whenever I asked. Maybe pick up a trade or two once back with the Clergy. And in turn, you would get protection, and all the blood you could ever need," he said. I finally mustered the courage to look him in the eyes. What do you have to lose? Besides, you’ve done infinitely worse things.

“You swear on your life, nobody will get hurt? Not a single person?” I asked. Papa nodded.

“I’ll do it. I’ll also require a salary as well," I said, extending my hand. Papa nodded, taking my hand in both of his.

“Anything you need, cara. But first, I think you need a drink. And then we will get the night I paid for," he said. He waved his hand towards the door, which the shorter female ghoul scurried to open. I noticed she sported a pocket chain with an air symbol.

“Bring in one of the more rosy siblings, Cumulus. I suspect our new friend will need the sustenance before we get too far into our plans for the night," Cumulus nodded, and shut the door behind her. Papa stood up, and began removing his suit jacket and gloves; rolling up his sleeves. I could see his blue veins pulsating, causing me to become aroused in a way I cannot quite explain. Involuntarily, my pussy throbbed, and my mouth watered.

“Now now, little one. Be patient. Your drink will be here soon enough. But for now, you will seal our little deal with a kiss, so to speak. On your knees," Papa ordered, gesturing to the floor. I slipped from the ottoman to the floor, crawling on all fours to him. His breath hitched as I slid my hands up his thighs. I didn’t break eye contact as I unbuckled his trousers, nor when I reached into his pants to pull out his sizeable cock.

The door opened, and I heard mumbles, as well as a struggle, and a thud. Of course, both my hands and mouth were preoccupied. I watched Papa intently as I sucked him off. His eyes were rolled back, his mouth slack, and his hands threaded into his hair, as he let out an ungodly moan. I kitten licked his frenulum, stroking his shaft, earning another moan. He bucked his hips into my throat. Sit still, I whispered in the back of my mind. Papa grabbed my hair, and pulled me off his cock.

“Never again, my little bat. Continue," he said, grabbing either side of my face as he began to fuck my throat rigourously. Someone behind me cleared their throat. I wasn’t able to look up, due to my current predicament.

“Can’t you see I’m busy, Cirrus? What is it?” Papa let out a grunt, as his cock twitched in my mouth. I began to fellate him with my hands, wrenching more breathy sighs and groans from him. Within seconds, his warm seed was flooding my throat. I heard Dewdrop cheer, and then a slap, which I assumed was a high five. Papa rolled his eyes and smiled, as I dabbed away the bit of cum that had spilled over my bottom lip.

“Just in time. I needed something to wash down all that salt," I stood, and walked over to the person Cumulus and Cirrus stood in front of. It looked like a plumper woman. She was wearing what looked like a nun’s habit, her red ringlets spilling out from under her wimple.

“All for you cara. Come find me when you have finished your meal," Papa walked out, which left me with the ghouls and my prey. Dewdrop, and the other male ghoul, who sported a water symbol, helped the little nun onto the couch.

“You’re going to let me fuck that tight ass later, right? Nearly busted watching you and Copia earlier," Dewdrop said to me, softly enough for just me to hear. I giggled and nodded, batting him away after he began nibbling on my neck. He patted my ass, and began to pull the wimple from the nun’s head.

“I’ve got this. Why don’t you and the rest of the ghouls get started? I’ll be done pretty quickly." Dewdrop nodded.

“C’mon, Rainy. Come play with my cock, while we watch Mary drink," The water ghoul nodded, grabbing Dewdrop’s hand. I turned my attention back to the nun. She began to stir. I pushed back her hair.

“This is going to hurt a little bit. But I will make this quick and painless. You deserve an easy death." The nun, barely awake, nodded, and turned her head. I cradled her head, and brought her throat to my mouth. With a final kiss to her soft, peachy flesh, I sank my teeth into her throat, not letting a single drop of her blood go to waste.

It felt like drinking water after being stuck in a desert for a week. Her blood was sweet, clean, and thick, and it quenched my thirst quickly. Her body began to go limp in my arms, and her skin turned cold. It’s still not enough. I had to force myself to stop. Never drink the last drop. It might just be the last thing you do, my old mentor’s voice reminded me. I let the little nun drop back to the couch, and turned to face the ghouls. Cirrus sat with Cumulus, each with a hand in the other’s pants. Rain was bobbing his head up and down slowly, as Dewdrop played with his hair. Dewdrop looked up at me.

“Hot," he said. Cirrus nodded, and refocused her attention on Cumulus. Rain moaned, causing Dewdrop to hiss. I looked at them all, lust clouding my gaze.

“Make room. It’s my turn," I said. Dewdrop pulled my mouth to his, not fazed one bit by the blood coating my lips. Cirrus began to explore the space between my thighs with her long, gorgeous fingers. Rain held my hair, kissing and nipping at my neck. A girl really could get used to this...

Hours later, after all of the ghouls had had their turn, even the two from the door, I was back in the dressing room. I opened the envelope the earth ghoul, Mountain, had handed me on the way out. My eyes grew like saucers as I counted the money inside. I had only expected eight grand; two hours, eight clients, multiplied by $500. But as I counted, I realized I had 15 grand in my hands. The door opened, breaking my wealth-induced trance. It was Papa.

“If you would really like the job, come to this address in two weeks. Bring only what you must. Put everything else in storage," he said, handing me a card. I was confused.

“Why two weeks?” I asked. Papa smiled.

“Because it’s polite, cara. Don’t forget your letter of resignation."

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

This is the first thing I've wrote in years! I hope you all enjoy it! A special thanks to @gasolineghuleh for all of their help!

[fluffnstuffq]

We all know that the “kin for fun” trend is bad. 

Recently, however, the question of “why is it bad?” has risen in prominence, and thus I’d like to give my two cents on the matter. I initially wanted to give a rehash of the whole “this is a community which has been around for decades, please don’t appropriate its terms because you don’t know what you’re talking about” spiel.. though I know that’s been repeated endlessly to no avail. 

Dozens of times I’ve tried to explain that, though I’ve often been faced with the “words change” or “it’s just a game, it harms no one” argument.

So I’m taking a more personal approach.

I don’t know if my anecdotes will change anyone’s mind, but if anyone in the “kin for fun” community sees this and actually reads through it, I implore you to try to listen to genuine otherkin, do some research, and find other terms that better suit you.

Beware, long rambling anecdote under the cut.

It is hard to believe that, a mere 8 months ago, I was new to the otherkin community. 

I’d been reading about and researching otherkinity in depth for as long as a year prior, though it was as recently as May 2020 upon which I took my own first step into evaluating my own experiences, creating an otherkin oriented side blog, and formally taking the plunge into what I’d initially assumed, from fun “kin assign ask games” or “no doubles drama”, to be a trend.

While I quickly versed myself in the original, serious and introspective parts of the community, I had my fair share of run-ins with those of the “kinnie/kin for fun crowd”. One such experience, over the course of about two-three months, forever left an impression on the way I view the community (and the problems within it) as a whole.

Without naming names, some of the individuals we encountered turned out to be... the practical embodiment of some of the worst facets of this community.

They were the prime example of the misguided “kinnie” mindset. Dead-set on fitting under the ‘kin label, though unwilling to do any research on their own. Faking out of control, dramatic shifts to seem more “valid” to genuine otherkin (more on that later). Willing to go as far as picking traits from other people’s original characters to “customize” their “kinsonas” perfectly. 

However, aside from their merely misguided attempts to fit in (which could’ve been easily fixed if not for the stubborn kinnie mindset), the most scathing of their actions highlighted some major issues of the “kin for fun” side.

In just a few months, we had our identities stomped on and treated like nothing more than a game. 

You see, the “kinnie” mindset is not self contained. It is almost impossible to maintain this mindset and respect the involuntary, deeply personal nature of otherkin history, due both to widespread misinformation/trends, as well as the common plague of stubborn ignorance of definitions.

In most cases we’ve seen, once one steps fully into the mindset that their own kintypes are nothing more than a game or an act, they begin to at the very least subconsciously view others’ experiences the same way. 

This is obviously not the case for all those who take on alterhuman identities by choice (ex: copinglinking). However, in taking on the “kin for fun” label, one immediately disrespects the identities of others by appropriating and bending terms with a history to fit themself. 

And once one establishes that they lack care or concern for the already, dare I say, endangered terms once meant to foster a sense of community and understanding, of shared experiences... that person already predisposes themself to spiraling into greater disrespect and ignorance of the identities of others.

The individuals that we encountered, like many others of this mindset, used their so-called “kins” for the sole purpose of feeling validated, for looking “cool” and as leverage to get their way. Because it was nothing more than roleplay and a brief interest to them, they often treated others’ kintypes as something that could be similarly discarded/”turned off” or reset. As if others’ kintypes were nothing more than characters which didn’t deserve respect.

Exotrauma and otherwise painful memories, while stressful and sometimes nightmare inducing for us, were nothing more than fodder for outlandish “story ideas” and “angst” for them. 

In the cases of these individuals faking shifts, they often acted in ways threatening and even triggering to those around them; though because it was just a show for them, they failed time and time again to recognize the negative impact their violent “shifts” had on others. 

They had no restraint, for both their own actions and the fearful/concerned reactions of others were just harmless roleplay in their eyes. (I do feel like..  even roleplay should have boundaries if the events of a story upset the people participating, and the notion that anything goes, even at the expense of someone else’s comfort.. it just gives very uncomfortable “fiction does not affect reality” vibes. Though, that’s a story for another time).

As our experiences weren’t real to them and never had been, they often conflated us with the “canon characters”, like we and many others they interacted with were nothing more than toys to fixate on, change and push “headcanons” onto, and test the limits of.

And because they didn’t care to learn, because individuals such as these continued to remorselessly fall deeper into the rabbit hole of “I do whatever I want/I don’t care to learn otherwise”, the lack of consideration grew more severe.

Those who “kin for fun” may certainly be experiencing.. something, I will not discount that assertion. Whether copinglinking, a hearttype, or merely a fictionflicker/cameo shift. However, it’d be disingenuous to say that it is harmless for them to continue to warp and pick at terms that do not and will never fit them. For every joke, every dozens-long “coping-kinlist”, every admittance of “haha I was never a serious kin”, they all do the same in spreading misinformation. 

As I see more and more people self-identifying as “copinglink, but using the kin title because it sounds better”, even if calling oneself “a non-serious kinnie”, one wonders... why use those terms if you know they do not fit? Why encroach upon communities of bittersweet memories, of aching homesickness, of involuntary nonhumanity, only with the intention of putting on an act?

Why fight so hard, when directly told and shown how “kin for fun” actively tears apart the already dwindling otherkin community on this platform? Why cling so hard to words that are not yours, why force change upon the definitions of words meant to be a safe haven for those searching for understanding? Why paint “serious otherkin” as dangerous gatekeepers, sufferers of clinical lycanthropy, or those merely suffering from delusions/hallucinations?

Because of those who “kin for fun”, I was initially steered away from investigating my own identity; I’d only seen the jokes, the toxic “kin drama”, the cringe blogs and factkin and “kinning”. Because of “kin for fun”, it took me over a year to come to terms with my own alterhumanity, in all of its facets.

Because of “kinnies”, my fears are proven time and time again that I will come across someone who views my identity as roleplay at best and “childish, a phase, character theft” at worse. Because of “kinnies” and the mindset they’ve fostered, time and time again someone steals my memories, my experiences, my identity, justifying it as creating their own version, like an AU of an AU.

Because of “kinnies”, time and time again I’ve been told to “stop taking things so seriously, it’s just for fun” when complaining about my identity being minimized. I’ve been told that “kinnies”, despite appropriating an already existing community, are the “normal ones”, the “sane ones”, the “good ones” who don’t really believe in all that they boast. 

Some have even told me that it doesn’t matter at all, for all they can see is a trend with no real hold over their identity in the longrun. “It won’t matter in ten years”, they say. 

Perhaps not for them, long after their interest in the “trend” has faded. But for me and countless other genuine otherkin? In ten years I will still be Blixer from Just Shapes and Beats, I will still be an unnamed creature of woods and starlight and faded memories of golden lanterns, I will still be otherkin, and I will still carry the scars of my identity being torn to shreds and thrown into my face like dirt.

I cannot run from my kintypes and never could, even when I was afraid of them. “Kinnies”, in most cases, hardly believe my identity really exists.

What do they believe, then? What are they trying to achieve, scrubbing away the less “aesthetically pleasing”, fluffy bits of this community? What good does it do them to take meaningful, personal words to describe an identity that they can shed at the drop of a hat if it is “problematic” or boring at the end of the day?

One can smile and nod and say that, despite “kinning for fun”, they still respect otherkinity as a whole. And I say, in most cases, that reassurance is hollow. You have already stolen our words, you have already spread misinformation.

This has stumbled into rambling territory, so I leave a few questions, honest, genuine questions.

I ask those who “kin for fun”, what is the allure of words that you have stolen? What is the allure of having the blood of a shattered community on your hands?

As many others have said before, you may find a place in the greater alterhuman community. We have terms for you, as well as many other specific experiences.

Why fight so hard to steal our haven, to push us out of our own spaces, when your own words are waiting for you with open arms?

Words change, yes, but why fight so hard to change them at the expense of others?

[that-tall-queer-bassist]

My personal Pros and Cons of my ADHD

Pros

-noticing all the little details and appreciating them in the fullest

-Emotional Dysregulation, because when I get a new plant, or find that one oddly shaped metal marble I lost a while ago, I am so excited it’s pathetic, but I love that feeling of pure joy.

-hyperfixation of the week/day/hour (i know some people describe it differently, let me be pls) . I usually switch between art mediums, and/or a few video games/social media sites. for example, I’ve been on tumblr for 3 hours as i write this, after not touching it for, i think a month?

-nuerodivergent friends. They’re just better.

-the ability to completely drown myself in information to ignore reality. Is it healthy? no. But i simply cannot handle another existiential crissi rn, so i will instead play minecraft while listening to alt rock playlists on youtube because getting spotify sounds like a lot of work.

-my ability to retain absolutely useless information, from either my, or my other nuerodivergent friends hyperfixations/special interests. I can explain to you in terrible formatting if it’s out loud, the evolution, history, training, anatomy and roles of the horse in our world, and how ao3 works, and what makes or breaks a fanfiction.

-Object Impermanence. When i literally hide myself a treat or surprise and forget about it, then get so excited when i do find/discover it again. I hide google questions, and/or song lyrics in my tabs :) its so fun. Also, hiding away stressors. Again, healthy? no, but i don’t feel like having anxiety all day, so whatever.

-Emotional Dysregulation, again. I can switch from sad or angry to happy and excited/content in a few seconds. It’s also great for getting my siblings out of their funk. ex., my sister is mad at me. I make a silly voice repeating what she said or cross my eyes at her. she laughs, then we can talk and have constructive conversation about why she shouldn’t get that upset about me “cutting off her reading time” when we share a room and I want to sleep, and know that she will be very tired tomorrow if she doesn’t also go to sleep. (We have this conversation almost every single night, i’m not even joking)

Cons

-Emotional Dysregulation. When i get upset, I’m Upset. Like, big time, ruining friendships and familial ties if i let it get out of hand, Upset. Yeah.

-Time Blindness. Constantly late, or early, or under or over estimating the amount of time it takes to do a thing, not eating til 4 because you forgot but you also should just wait til dinner, but now its 9 and I still haven’t eaten-

-Executive Dysfunction. I can’t do the things needed to function. Don’t have the mental energy to explain this one, so google it i guess? There’s a whole checklist of things you need to be able to do to function, and i can do like, three on a good day.

-Sleeping Trouble. People with adhd have trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, and waking up. So, sleeping trouble. So I’m constantly tired.

-Internal Clock is SLIGHTLY OFF. Nuerotypicals have that normal sleep schedule. Adhd ers have it shifted forward by, i think, 2, 3 hours. So we go to sleep later, and wake up later, and that’s the only way to get a healthy amount of sleep. My entire family also eats dinner super late, which might be because we’re weird, but I suspect the inner clock thing cuz we all got adhd.

-Object Impermanance. I hid my math homework one time. I failed that class. 

-Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. Never trying, or starting cuz I’m so terrified to get a bad reaction. Constantly masking around certain people to appeal to the few of my Nuerotypical friends. Or, y’know, majority of my extended family. They’re ableist. and homophobic. And transphobic. And racist. and sexist. The list goes on, but, yeah. Never coming out to them! :D

-Masking. It’s exhausting and I can only handle so much of it.

-Not Masking around nuerotypicals. The shoot down after finally revealing my true thoughts, urges, feelings, stims, etc. just sucks. Super disheartening. 

-Squirrel or shiny jokes when they’re made by people without adhd. Yes, I do get distracted by squirrels, and shiny things, and dice. Stop pointing it out, and/or putting me into yet another box of your labeling. 

-saying that I’m lazy, worthless, or a disaster when really it’s not helping. I already have that internal monologue, you adding to it and giving it some truth/extra ammunition is not. helping.

-Emotional Dysregulation. Again, because mood swings. like, I’m trying to be rightfully angry with you. Stop making me laugh with you’re silly faces or pointing out of a weird face someone made in a picture you took. 

-the stigma about the hyperactive subtype. I’m inattentive. I have No Energy. Ever. Sometimes i have restlessness, but there is still no energy. Stop portraying me as bouncing off the walls, especially with caffeine. Caffeine just catches my body speed up to my brain speed, settling me down a bit, at least mentally. 

-people not getting when i say I’m overstimulated, or need some time alone to process or re-energize, and following me, or continuing to do the overstimulating thing. I will literally. lose. my. mind.

-when people shut me down after I share something that is really important to me, or make fun of me for liking something an “abnormal” amount. Flashbacks to overnight camp, when whenever I said anything about horses, they said I had to do five squats, and when i got really excited about discussing the differences in riding styles/types with another person who really liked horses, but rode english, they said that it was obnoxious, when i was just.. excited to finally find someone to talk to and who felt the same way after, basically, years and years of no one getting it or wanting to listen or talking with me about the thing. To this day I don’t discuss horses with anyone, cuz it hurts so much remembering that, and the fear of it happening again is still there. 

-seeing other people be ashamed about their adhd and hesitant to mention until i talk, like, super openly about having it, in like, the first 5 minutes of knowing each other. It just.. hurts.

-I’m super empathetic, not in a way that’s helpful though. Like, wincing, or limping myself because I saw you drop something on your foot, and am imagining it so vividly that it feels like it happened to me. Reading a fic about abuse or depression, and it hitting too hard and hurting me almost physically, and on a personal level because I simply cannot handle it. Feeling someone else’s pain so vividly that i can’t comfort or help them in any way, because I am so preoccupied with  feeling their pain. 

-never being able to finish things without starting something else. All the WIPs in my google docs, istg, i will be driven insane by it. 

(y’know, this was kinda fun. As a rant, but also as a way for me to identify things about myself and my adhd that i like. Like, I know its so much shorter, but I have a hard time with positive self affirmation, so it was kinda nice. I might do it again, but just the pros part cuz the cons are kinda depressing ngl.)

(OH, Y’all should reblog with your own personal pros added on! You can add cons if you’d like to :) I’m just interested in seeing how your experiences/feeling differ from mine :) )

[spectrumed]

7. identity

The aesthetic of suffering, the allure of victimhood, it’s important to acknowledge that to many people, the idea of struggling with mental illness is hot. A common trope in teen dramas is the existence of the sexy bad boy haunted by demons of depression or addiction or some other psychological malady. Women with mental illness tend to be sexualised, less, but then again, women are most typically always sexualised, no matter the state of their mental health. But it’s not just a case of some people finding mental illness to be attractive in others, many see mental illness in themselves as something to take pride in, to celebrate and nurture. To seek out a diagnosis, to infiltrate communities that exist to provide support to those in need, and to declare themselves as being special. Fakers, you could call them. Yes, we’re going to be entering into dangerous grounds here, talking about a potentially incendiary topic that might feed the flames of controversy, but it’s a topic worth discussing. Self-diagnosis. Is self-diagnosis valid or not? Should one self-diagnose? Is it ableism to be against self-diagnosis? Is it ableism to be for self-diagnosis? Is it ableism itself ableist? I don’t know, sweetheart, you are asking a whole bunch of questions and I am hungover… But let’s go on rambling about what it means to be labelled neurodivergent.

Do you have an identity? Do you root for a particular sports team? Do you like a particular kind of music? Do you dance a lot? Are you a dancer? What are you? Simply stating that you’re just “a human” probably won’t do. Sure, it’s correct, but I am also a human, and we could be two very different kinds of people. Your identity should be that certain something that makes you stand apart from the rest, that distinguishes you from the squirming mass of flesh that is the whole of humanity. There are plenty of things about you that do figure in your identity, even though you wish it didn’t. You’re black, you don’t wish to always be “that black guy over there,” but you’ve come to realise that’s just how society views you. Maybe you are a transwoman, and you very eagerly want your friend to stop introducing you as her “trans bestie.” You’re just a woman, you don’t need her to keep labelling you as trans, even though that's what you are. There are many ways we can change our identity through direct personal action. Maybe you could start wearing a hat, and be known as “that hat guy” to the people you work with. Maybe you could embrace a punk aesthetic, looking like young Johnny Rotten stepped into a time machine and got transported to the current day. Actions like these can have a big or small impact on how others see you, but it feels good to be able to make a decision like that and get a response. This is me, this is what I am. I’m the guy who wears bow-ties, don’t I look cool? If only shaping your sense of self always came down to personal decisions like that. You don’t always have a choice.

I’ve lately been watching some Conan O’Brien (American TV talk show host who’s recently decided not to be a TV talk show host) clips. I am sure I don’t need to explain who Conan O’Brien is to my readers, but just in case this is being read by aliens ten-thousand years from now, what I can tell you is that Conan O’Brien is well known for being freakishly tall. Like, really tall. He’s an elongated leprechaun. He’s turned being tall into one of his trademarks. Like many comedians, he’s come to use his corporeal form as a source for levity and fun. While, naturally, the man did not choose to grow as tall as he did, he’s come around to use his height not as a hindrance to success, but rather as an asset. He’s “that tall irish guy on the TV,” and he’s been that person for nearly thirty years. It pays to have some distinguishing feature if you wish to be distinguished. Mr. Joe Average might be perfectly funny and charming, but being an average-looking guy can be wholly detrimental in making a career for yourself as a funnyman. At least get yourself some weird voice, or something. Maybe pretend to be some foreigner and put on a fake accent. As a comedian your job is to be exploited, you wish to be made into a commodity to be sold. People will want to watch your special because of that funny face you pull in the thumbnail. To be different can be financially lucrative.

What’s the best approach in turning something that could be perceived as an abnormal feature into something that is beneficial to you? To make jokes about it? Certainly, if I were to meet a man with a heavily scarred face, I feel there’d likely be a tension between me and him that could be dispelled if that man with the heavily scarred face made some little joke about his appearance, some little quip. “I’m sorry, I cut myself shaving this morning,” would do. The person isn’t obliged to justify his existence to me, he does not have to go out of his way to make me feel less uncomfortable. I am the one in the wrong, certainly. I shouldn’t look at a person with a heavily scarred face and feel uncomfortable, that’s me letting prejudices get in the way, I know that. But, it is what it is. If you’re looking for a practical solution, telling people to simply get over themselves and learn to not be so awkward around folks with physical deformities won’t do. It may be the right thing, but it’s not going to happen any time soon. I am sure that the man with the heavily scarred face isn’t interested in being defined by his heavily scarred face. He's probably sick and tired of that little joke, and wish he didn’t have to make it. But it does the job. Suddenly, you are not looking at something to be feared, the other, you are looking at a person, and someone with a sense of humour. The importance of humour in eradicating stigma, making it possible for the ostracised to enter in society, cannot be understated. Through humour, you can convince most everyone that you are someone worthy of inclusion, because… well, you’re just a funny guy, who doesn’t wanna hang out with you?

For those who have grown up not feeling normal, worrying that there are aspects of your character that others may perceive as unwanted, the yearning to be liked can at times become excruciating. I like to consider myself a funny person, while this blog isn’t intended to be a humorous one, occasionally small little jokes will squirm their way to the top, like worms coming up to the surface during a rainstorm. I am also a cartoonist, and produce a new cartoon every other day. My humour isn’t universal, no good humour ever is universal, but it’s done good in getting some folks to like me. Some people want to be admired, some people want to be feared. I only want to be liked. The one thing I absolutely do not want to be is pitied. I don’t want your pity, I fear your pity.

You’re probably familiar with The Sims, right? It’s a life simulation game, where you control a little digital human, known as a sim, and try to help them make the right decision through life. Each sim has a number of meters that measures their current needs. Hunger, hygiene, energy, if they need to urinate or defecate (though, frankly, the distinction between the two isn’t made in the game, so one can assume that sims are like birds and have just one cloaca that does both,) and so on. One of these meters is for social activities. If a sim hasn’t been social in a while, they go nutty. What’s interesting here, the reason why I bring it up, is that in real life, though we all (to a lesser or greater degree) crave to socialise with others, what kind of socialising you do is of a very big importance. There are a myriad of ways in which one can be social, and depending on your needs at the time, one kind of socialising may not do, whereas another kind of socialising may be just what you need. Do you want to hang out with your pals, cracking jokes and maybe drinking a couple of beers? Do you want to have a serious conversation with your partner about what you wish to accomplish together? Do you want to play with your dog? These different social situations scratch different parts of your mind, and you can’t just substitute one for the other and think that’s all alright. A person may have tonnes of friends, lots of buddies to spend their time with, but they may still desperately be yearning for another kind of social interaction, one that none of their friends can deliver. The human need for company is more complex than how it is depicted in The Sims… which, to be fair, probably shocks nobody. The Sims doesn’t pretend that it’s some highly realistic simulation of real life, it’s a game meant to be played for fun. But what’s important here is the fact that while humans do have a need to be social, how that need is fed changes dramatically on the person, and their conditions. Socialising that may bring comfort to one person, may bring discomfort to another person.

I don’t want you to pity me. I may list my diagnoses, I may tell you of the difficulties that I face in life, but I do not want you to feel sorry for me. I want you to be entertained reading this, I don’t want to make you weep thinking about how cruel life can be. I don’t want you thinking I’m special, or different, because of my diagnoses. I want you to think I’m special and different because of my writing. Sure, this blog is about living with autism spectrum disorder, but I don’t want you reading this blog just because it’s about autism spectrum disorder. I want you to read this because, while it is about a diagnosis you are interested in learning more about, you also find what I write to be well-written and at times, mildly humorous. This blog isn’t my rabid manifesto detailing all the ways my life sucks, and what must be done by society to appease me. Nah, I’m doing relatively fine, don’t feel bad for me, please. I don’t want that kind of attention. I do want attention, I won’t lie and tell you that I don’t have an ego, or that I don’t get pleased seeing people like the things I put out there. I do have a social need, it’s just that being pitied does not do it for me. It doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me feel bad. It makes me feel sad. It really makes me feel mad.

We’re finally getting around to the topic I promised I would discuss. Self-diagnosis. A principal concern people have with self-diagnosis is that people only self-diagnose in order to receive pity from others. The difference between someone like me, who’s got a proper official diagnosis, and someone who is self-diagnosed, is that I don’t want your pity. I don’t want you to fetishise my diagnosis, this thing about me that I did not choose to be. I don’t want special favours just because of my diagnosis, I don’t want to be known as “that cartoonist with autism.” I am autistic, I’ve come to accept that, but I don’t want anyone to introduce me as “their friend who’s on the spectrum.” Some may accuse me of self-loathing, treating being autistic like some bad thing that I am ashamed of. But that’s not it. After all, I did start this blog to discuss what it is like. I just don’t want to be defined by this certain something that lies outside of my control. I don’t want it to be my “thing.” I don’t mind being referred to as a hairy cartoonist, because I am pretty hairy. I don’t want to cut my hair any time soon (especially with this plague going around.) No-one would pity me just because I am hairy. At most they may regard me as a good-for-nothing beatnik, and I’m okay with that. Ideally, I still want to be liked, but anything is better than being pitied. To be pitied is to be robbed of your own agency, your own potential. Sure, it gets you that attention you may be craving, but at the cost of infantilization. Autistic people often struggle with being infantilized by society, to the point where some folks don’t even realise that there are autistic grown-ups in the world. Anyone who would voluntarily seek out a diagnosis just to be pitied, well… it doesn’t sit right with me. It makes me, quite frankly, feel demoralised.

But not all people self-diagnose just to get pity from others, right? For some it’s genuinely their only option, likely living in a barely-functioning country like the United States where receiving psychiatric care is expensive and it’s just not something they can afford. It’s unfair of me to phrase self-diagnosing as just a quest to receive pity, it’s way more complicated than that. And yes, I’d have to agree. To know all the reasons why a person may self-diagnose, you have to go personally ask them. Even if it is possible to highlight a few certain trends, things that they all have in common, it’s bound to be impossible to make this one sweeping generalisation to explain everything. All I am saying is that there absolutely are those people who do self-diagnose with the explicit goal of getting pitied. Whether they are knowingly faking their condition or not, to them, being pigeonholed as a person with autism isn’t at all a negative. It’s their identity. It is how they have chosen to let the world see them. They made a choice. They chose this label. This is why many people who have official diagnoses are sceptical of those who've only got a self-diagnosis. Whether your self-diagnosis is accurate or not, in the end, you chose to identify yourself with it. You made a decision, oblivious of the fact that many people don’t get to make that kind of a decision, and they may bear resentment for how you are turning something they’ve faced ostracization for, into what is potentially on the same level as listening to a certain kind of music, or being a supporter of a sports team. A diagnosis is not something you should choose to have.

There are other things to say about self-diagnosis. First of all, it can be dangerous. Some of the diagnoses I’ve seen people give themselves are really serious, things like personality disorders or psychosis. Psychiatrists are very careful when putting these kinds of labels on people, knowing the harm that it can do. A diagnosis is meant to only be given after careful deliberation, and after long conversations with the patient. Psychiatrists know that reducing a person to a set of symptoms can have detrimental effects to that person’s sense of self. If you’re trying to cling on to a diagnosis, seeing it as a major part of your identity, then that may hamper any attempts you make to become a better person, to improve your mental health. You will feel as if you need to correspond to the exact specifications of the disorder, and you will not allow yourself to grow naturally as a complicated human being, a human being whose internal life is far too vast to be fully rounded up with some psychiatric jargon. There are plenty of things about me that do not line up with the diagnostic criteria for autism spectrum disorder, and guess what, that’s quite good actually. It doesn’t mean that I don’t have autism, I very much do, but I realise that as a person, I am more than just my diagnosis. The diagnosis does not define me, I define the diagnosis. If you self-diagnose, do you comprehend all that you are getting yourself into? Are you going to find yourself in psychological traps that will only serve to worsen your mental health? It’s hard to look at yourself objectively, you could easily be misrepresenting yourself inside your own mind. You may effectively be locking parts of yourself away, making it so you are no longer able to see the full you. You will no longer be all there, you will be segmented in favour of upholding the defining marks of a diagnosis that doesn’t suit you.

Instead of self-diagnosing, try doing a self-assessment. Keep in mind that, while you may have this diagnosis, it’s too early to say for sure. You’re going to need somebody else’s input. You’ll need to sit with it for a while to see if it sticks. Keep an open mind, realise that there’s no easy way to explain exactly who you are, or what you are like. It’s very possible that you will come to realise that you are in fact autistic, or have whatever other diagnosis you may suspect describes you. I, after all, came to the conclusion that I was autistic before I got the diagnosis (though, I was going to therapy at that point, and I was on the way to undergo a neuropsychiatric evaluation.) It’s not bad to try and get to understand yourself, don’t come out of this thinking that self-reflection is only possible with a psychiatrist looming over you, telling you how to think about things. We all need to come to certain conclusions over how we self-identify, and sometimes you need to take mental leaps to explain certain things. Just don’t feel as if your best option is to put a label on yourself that can potentially negatively affect your psychological well-being. If you are truly searching for understanding, if your goal is to find out more about yourself, you should act with caution and concern for what you are doing. If all you are looking for is to have people pity you, then… well… I don’t know what to say, really…

[cyndalyssa]

Oh, Look, Another Darkwing Drabble

This one’s a snippet of a bigger story in my head, based on the idea of Bushroot going massive mindless monstrosity. 

I dunno if I’ll ever write the rest of the story down, my life tends to get a little busy and I already have a lot of ideas I want to make in my free time, but I at least wanted to exercise the writing muscles. 

All was quiet at the Museum of Failed Experiments. The dark of night gave the appearance of rest to each polished display, even those that were still lit. Though dignified it looked, the place was home to quite a bit of failure, hence the name. Each wing, covering branches of science and engineering, was a hall of shame, showing off embarrassments, tragedies, and unfinished projects to the citizens of St. Canard.

It was at this scene that the night guards present had unfortunate encounters. A flower that sprayed sleeping gas, a stun gun, a joy buzzer that ended in instant knockout, being washed into a closet by water from the drinking fountain, and just getting hit by a mallet were their fates, and they were swiftly locked up by the intruders.  

The Fearsome Five then had the place to themselves. 

As they met up in the lobby, Megavolt couldn’t help but look up, in awe of the enormity of it. “Wowza, they really went all out on this place!” He glanced back at the corridor from whence he came and smiled. “They’ve got gizmos and gadgets aplenty!”

Quackerjack bounced to his side. “And whozits and whatzits galore!”

“They got thingamabobs?”

“Psht, at least twenty!”

Megavolt laughed. “I can’t believe they gave up on some of these! I oughta grab ‘em and show everyone how it’s done!” 

Quackerjack grinned. “Oh, I feel you, Sparky! In fact, I’m getting quite a bit of inspiration myself from doodads like the fruit-flavored fireworks! Ooh-hoo-hoo-hoo, can you just imagine a literal explosion of fruity goodness?”

Megavolt narrowed his eyes, his plug hat sparking and an irritated growl in his voice. “How many times have I told you not to call me Sparky?”

“Not like you can remember.”

Cutting between them, the Liquidator piped in, “Fruit-flavored fireworks? The phenomenon of the century, guaranteed to sweeten up your 4th of July celebrations! Comes in apple, cherry, grape, and blue raspberry.”

Bushroot scratched his head. “I’m just wondering how the inventor expected that to work. What kind of chemistry was involved?”

Negaduck rolled his eyes. “Blegh, of course you dweebs get hopped up on exploding fruit snacks. Now remember, children, we’re not here for the fireworks, we’re here for the portal gun that’s supposed to be displayed here… and I expect you to be looking for it!” 

The other four silently stared at him for a moment, glanced at each other, and then back to him. Then, Megavolt asked, “Well, what does it look like?”

“It’s red and vaguely gun-shaped, with a spinny thing at the end,” Negaduck answered in baby-talk. Then he snapped, “I’m sure you could figure it out from the display name! Now, get to searching!”

Negaduck stormed upstairs. Quackerjack and Megavolt rushed to the technology wing--partially running from Negaduck, partially rushing to see what kind of doodads they could see. Perhaps even take some and modify them for later mischief. 

Liquidator was about to flow down another hall when he noticed Bushroot at the directory. The plant duck glanced the direction of the hall that Quackerjack and Megavolt rushed down, and then up the stairs that Negaduck had descended. Then, almost sneakily, he went in the opposite direction and toward the natural science and chemistry wing. 

Curious, Liquidator decided to follow him, and had caught up in a second. “One in ten customers would say that this portal gun is not in this wing, Bushroot.”

Bushroot flinched at the sudden voice, but quickly regained his composure. “Well, uh… when studying the map earlier, I recall that the storage room was somewhere in this direction. It could be in there.”

Liquidator raised a watery eyebrow. “You want an excuse to look around, huh?”

Bushroot glanced away. “Well… it couldn’t hurt. I mean, I’m curious and I don’t know when I’ll be able to have another opportunity for a museum visit.” He looked back to see Liquidator still staring like a disappointed parent. “But I do think storage is in this wing, honest!”

“Hm. Well, if it’s in this direction, why not treat yourself to this once-in-a-lifetime super private tour? Just don’t get too distracted, and it’ll be between you and me.”

“O-oh, that’s no problem. I’m a pretty fast reader.”

The two mutants wandered around the natural science and chemistry wing, looking for a door or hall or basement staircase that led to that storage room. However, Liquidator was doing most of the looking, sweeping around the rooms quickly, while Bushroot, though still looking at the walls in hopes of spotting the passage they were looking for, was circling displays in fascination. There were models and pictures of odd creatures or monstrosities, as well as deformed skeletons of unfortunate souls. He read about attempts to clone prehistoric plants and even animals, a tale of a man who accidentally fused himself with a fly, and the horror of radioactive moss. On occasion, he’d stumble on a display involving water, and invite Likki to take a look. 

Every so often, Liquidator would look to see what Bushroot was doing. There were moments that Bushroot seemed to be genuinely looking for that storage room--such as now, when walking along the wall of glass cases full of more experiments, he paused at a gap in the wall, looking at a door, but saw that it was an emergency exit and then moved on. Otherwise, the plant duck was more invested in the science that surrounded him, which Likki had a little trouble relating to. While some of the stuff involving water was interesting, he otherwise didn’t care for the biological stuff that Bushroot was so entranced by. 

Meanwhile, so far, the only doors they had found were emergency exits, but nothing leading to any storage or basement at some point. Liquidator was almost of the mind that Bushroot duped him, but Bushy wasn’t like that.

At some point, when Liquidator finally found a hallway that looked promising, Bushroot suddenly cried, “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

Alarmed, Likki splashed his way to where Bushroot stood, at a display in the corner about biological chemical disasters. The plant duck was looking quite offended, glaring at one particular shelf where a green substance, surrounded by plant models and photos of a strange machine, sat. Likki took a closer look at the label, which read:

Chloroplast Infusion Solution, Dr. Reginald Bushroot, Ph.D

Skimming over the description of the substance, what it was supposed to do, and how it backfired, Likki just glanced over to Bushroot, who held his head in his leafy hands. 

“How humiliating! I can’t believe I made it into the Hall of Shame!”

Likki patted him on the back. “Aw, Bushy, do not fret! After all, you’ve gotten an upgrade! Who needs a normal sad sap scientist when you can have a super plant that can grow a forest with just a thought?” 

A sharp glare arose from Bushroot’s palms. “I just wanted to alleviate world hunger… and, uh, maybe get a little respect…”

“Respect, huh?” Likki shook his head. “I’m sure with your power, you can easily command it.”

“There is a difference between respect and fear.”

“Hm. Well, as Bud Flud, I was just a salesman trying to keep my business afloat; but as the Liquidator, I became master of all liquids, one with the water, and a force to be reckoned with!” A sphere of water detached from Likki’s hand and revolved around it. “I know my power, and I revel in it.” 

He grabbed the sphere, reabsorbing it. “As for you… well, you’ve got potential, but you lack nerve. Someday, I’d like to see you cut loose, show them what Bushroot is really capable of.”

Bushroot glanced at him, pondering on whether he should remind Liquidator of Negaduck and their shared fear of him, but decided against it. He crossed his arms. “Fine, whatever you say.”

He went back to glaring at the display of his fateful project. “If those two ignoramuses had just minded their own business and not made me look bad in front of the dean, then I would’ve still had the funding to test on the lab rats instead of myself. You know, catch the kinks and find a way to iron them out. But… here I am now.”

“I’d say that career change was for the better.”

“But I liked being a scientist… sure, I hated my coworkers--except one--but I love science.”

Likki shrugged. “Life sucks and we just gotta roll with the punches.” He turned around and marched toward that one hallway. “Now, come on, there’s a storage room calling our names, and who knows when the purple menace will pop in.”

Bushroot sighed, taking one last look at his experiment’s exhibit. “All right, I’ll stop wasting ti--”

He stopped when he caught a name on the display right next to his. Eyes boggling, he grabbed the bottle from that shelf and shouted, “Goodness grapevines! He has one here too?”

Likki stopped and turned around. “Inquiring minds must know… who’s he?” 

Bushroot gestured to the name on the display, which, when Likki took a closer look, read ‘Dr. Arthur Bones’. “He was my rival back in college, and he was one of the meanest, most condescending jerks that I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing. I don’t know what I ever did to him, but sometimes it felt like it was his life’s mission just to convince me that everything I do is stupid and dangerous. Hmph, at least my buddy Andrew had my back.”

Liquidator rubbed his chin. “You just have a way of attracting bullies, don’t you? At the very least, you can take some joy that Dr. Bones is also in the Hall of Shame!”

“Yeah, I guess I could.” Bushroot looked at the label on the bottle, brow furrowed in confusion. “Although I do wonder what he was doing making fertilizer. Last I remember, he was into genetics--especially studies on mutations and defects.”

“For more information, check the description--it’s right there.”

Bushroot turned to the description and read aloud, “‘In 1990, a miracle growth formula invented by Dr. Bones took several western states by storm. With a natural sweet scent and potent power, it improved the lives of gardeners everywhere by making plants healthier, stronger, and sturdier against disease and pests, and helping them to grow faster than normal’.” He scratched his chin and nodded. “Well, now I’m tempted to bring it home with me and see what my plants think.”

Liquidator chuckled. “Oh, I bet they’d love it! The amazing miracle fertilizer, guaranteed to create a happy and hearty garden!”

“Ee-hee, it does sound great.” Bushroot’s smile fell into a frown as he turned back to the description. “But this is a Museum of Failed Experiments, so there is a catch here... ‘While at first it seemed to be a blessing, it soon proved to be dangerous for people, as proven with the Mallard High School Football Team during the fall of 1990. Reports of--’”

“I am the terror that flaps in the night!”

The sudden voice from nowhere made them jump. Bushroot even ended up tossing the bottle of fertilizer into the air. He didn’t even hear the second part of the introduction, too distracted by gravity smashing the bottle onto his head. The glass shattered, and fertilizer splashed everywhere on him and the floor, leaving him a dripping mess. His roots started lapping up the puddle that remained. 

“I am… Darkwing Duck!”

[helpingmehelpmyself]

So my night has ended in shit. I made the reoccurring mistake of trying to have an adult conversation with my mother about how certain things she does affects me and makes me feel bad. This is a mistake I keep making, hoping that our relationship improves. What really happens is her feeling attacked and yelling at me which makes me want to cry and not share my feelings with her. But then later I forget the absolute shit I feel like and she repeats behavior or I notice I'm bottling up a negative emotion and I repeat the process of trying to have an adult conversation.

Today was my graduation photos which have been planned by my mom for a few weeks now. Mom did the planning, I didn't know what was to happen or any changes that had been made. I mentioned to my boyfriend that I'll have my photos taken and he asks if he should dress up. I'm thinking this is only going to be a small family thing so I say no. We still decided to have Dutch Bros before the photoshoot together and he decided to help with the photoshoot. I mentioned to my brother last week that I was getting my hair done for this and he mentioned he'd be there. I asked mom about it in which she said that is the same weekend we'd have my niece so yes and then she pulls out a dress for my niece. (My brother also decided that was his way of telling mom he'd be there which we hate when he does that because we don't talk to each other like that.) My dad calls me a few days ago needing a ride to the area, which isn't uncommon. I said "oh, what are you coming here for?" And he says the photoshoot. First time I hear of him. So to both of those times, I said I know nothing about the operation of the photoshoot.

Photoshoot comes today and everyone is in the house getting ready. Brother's girlfriend/niece's mother is there doing mom's makeup and changes into a dress for the photoshoot. My cousin drives my dad to the house and ends up sticking around helping with the shoot (not in it). We arrive to the university for photos and my dad and cousin are just like "why is your boyfriend not dressed?" I tell them because it was never mentioned that he'd be in the photos (I didn't even think he'd be helping with the photos). They continue to tell me I should have assumed because we are dating and that I really had no excuse for preparing him. So I send him home to change. I feel like shit because I continue to feel like there is a theory by other people that because my boyfriend is soft spoken and always ready to make me happy that he's the god given saint and I'm just this chaotic chick who was lucky to find someone to deal with and that she probably walks over (previous comments made before and during this relationship kinda make me feel like that's everyone's theory). So I feel like a shit as girlfriend in front of my family and when I explain to them I don't assume when it comes to mom because it leads to her yelling at me. I'm trying to make today a yell free day (I was close but failed at 10pm). So he changes, comes back, we all take photos.

We did a bit of walking and I was in stiletto heels my mom picked out for me. They were cute but uncomfortable. My feet were in pain and I made it clear that I was in pain generally. But I didn't feel safe telling my mom that these shoes are now uncomfortable because previous comments she's made in the past sounds like she doubts my ability to walk in heels, which bothers me. At one point, I was going to take them off for the walk and my dad told me not to. Thankfully, my boyfriend gave me a piggy back ride for a bit. (Unfortunately I am gaining some weight so I think that made it more difficult for him to carry me.)

We go to lunch together then everyone (minus boyfriend who is now at work) congregates to my uncle's house and have a kickback. It wasn't until I watched a TikTok about a new lipstick to realize it triggered me to earlier events today. We're taking photos and what I recall is mom whining where is my lipstick. I do wear makeup but I don't normally wear lipstick so I had gloss on. I say that and mom scoffed, rolled her eyes, changed her body language, something that tells me not having lipstick was not her preference.

I found myself stuck on these things to the point of ranting to other people a few times throughout the day. I decided that maybe having a conversation with her would help so we could clear the air and try to work things out. I try to have calm, adult conversations in which both sides are heard and respected. This didn't go that way and it never does.

I came home and asked her if we could talk downstairs away from everyone so this is a conversation between me and her. I told her I just wanted to talk about some things that happened today that didn't make me feel good and that it was hard coming to her because I'm afraid of her labeling me as sensitive (which she has done and it feels like it is more to excuse others actions and place blame on me. For example, she tells me I have bad hair in front of my brother and his girlfriend. When I tell her there is no such thing as good hair, it's how you take care of the hair you were born with and continued to go along with it, she calls me sensitive. Her whole thing was she and my brother have good hair and I should have been born with it too. I interpret the sensitive label as her not finding issue with what she said/did and put the issue on me). So I try to explain to her the above things and how it makes me feel. She gets defensive, yells at me (which leads to me crying), and says I'm making things out of nothing and I'm trying to blame my whole life issues on her. Despite crying, I continue to try and deescalate by letting her speak/yell, respond calmly with "okay" and "I understand", and trying to be an adult. (I tell people I can't have adult conversations with my mom and this is what I mean). I am listening to her and how she only planned for her to be in the pictures. She did invite my brother but he doesn't normally come to my functions so she'd take my niece as some part of him if he didn't show up. My dad also tries to come out here once and awhile so she offered him a ride for when she picks up my niece. Basically, I think my family members misinterpreted as everyone, including my brother's girlfriend, being involved. My mom didn't say anything but rolled with it. She mentioned to her boyfriend (who I don't think originally was going to be in the photos until everyone tagged along) that she didn't invite my brothers girlfriend to be in these photos, doesn't know how to tell her that, and is afraid of my boyfriend thinking that she was rude for inviting everyone but him. But the thing is, nothing is communicated to me about the event. I feel that if I would have known what my mom was planning, I would have rolled with punches as well. Tell me what your original plans were so I don't get "bent out of shape" (mom's words) when people come at me with why I didn't do this or that.

She didn't register what I meant about the lipstick, heels and being labelled sensitive. For the lipstick, she says they put lipstick on you at Ulta when they do your makeup there so that was... An assumption I should have made? And assumption she made? I don't know but I haven't had my makeup done by them in five years and I do my makeup differently. I don't even own lipstick and haven't worn any in like 3+ years. For the heels, she said/yelled I should have told her they were uncomfortable (they weren't when I made sure they fit, I never had to walk in them previously) or that I wanted shorter heels or wider wedges which wasn't the point. The point was I didn't feel comfortable telling her directly they were uncomfortable because past actions made me believe she'd think less of me. For the sensitivity thing, in which I tried to explain she also said things like this while I was growing up, she took that as me placing all blame on her. Not the fact that I don't like to be called sensitive and it makes me feel like she is placing blame on my emotions. When I tried to clarify that part, she told me I need to stop doing that.

Afterwards she asks if there is anything else and I said I think the conversation is done. She agrees, stomps off, and continues to talk about how I am trying to find things to blame on her. I go to the kitchen, cry, and put things away. She asks me how to remove her false lashes and I say peel them off. I go to my room, cry some more, and write this post.

I didn't expect anything to change, I actually did predict all of this happening. I still did it because I was pissed off that I was still pissed off. And some part of me hopes this will lead to better communication with my mom which I have past evidence of that not being the case. I end up sadder than before and she ends up pissed off, possibly thinking I'm ungrateful, against her, whatever.

I don't want my children to feel this way. I don't want anyone to feel this way with me. I want to be able to have calm conversations with people in which things can be resolved or we can understand each other better. I want there to be respect, regardless of the differences in opinion, lifestyle, whatever. Thankfully, I feel like I am doing a good job incorporating that into my relationships minus my family ones. Mostly my mom but my brother has his moments too.

My brother also understands where I'm coming from when it comes to things like this. My mom isn't exactly what I would call emotionally available. My brother began to resent it before I did. I think having his daughter and having my mom be involved made it better. I think my brother also tried to have similar conversations with my mom that backfired. He says she was raised in a time/way that family members could say/do whatever and you have no choice but to get over it because they're family. The thing is, my mom taught us cut off culture very early in life. My birth father and his family are cut off. She's cut off some of her family members. I actually cut off her former boss/family friend for inappropriate comments he made about me sexually and comments he made about my boyfriend who's white which I told her about and she didn't listen to until my brother and father were like "yeah we know why she cut him off and we're glad she did" (she actually went on the try to get my brother and father to tell her why and I told them not to say anything because I had already told her I was cutting him off to her face because of inappropriate comments. She said okay and asked no follow up questions. For this moment, it felt like she wanted to know just because everyone else did, not for my own wellbeing in which she would have listened to me when I told her to her face).

But yeah, my mom is not horrible. Far from it. It's mostly the lack of emotional availability and the issue of accountability (for everyone, not just her). But I wouldn't be surprised that once I moved out and became self sufficient that I cut her off too. There is enough trauma that I'm not given a right to fix or find closure with her and it affects me. I want it not to. I want to move on with my life. If that means moving on from my mother, I should be okay with that

[the-rogue-mockingjay]

broken body built anew

Part 2: let the dead stay dead. Definitely gonna be a third part later lol

1392 words

Summary: Marian grapples with the reality of her new resurrected body and the two years she spent dead. Mild anxiety attack this chapter

[Part 1: the dearly departed returning]

To say that Cerberus had made a few “improvements” to Marian’s body was an understatement. She’d suspected that at least two of her limbs – right arm, left leg – were mostly cybernetic, and the dossier Miranda gave her confirmed it. Her eyes had been replaced with new synthetic eyes, restoring her to 20/20 vision. She was now capable of greater precision thanks to the tech in her hands, greater running speed thanks to tech augmenting her legs and lungs, greater strength thanks to tech in all her limbs. Her biotic implant had also been upgraded significantly, providing greater endurance, control, and sheer power to her biotic attacks. With her elite N7 training, and the cutting-edge cybernetics, weapons, and armor provided by Cerberus…

She’d always been called a tank. Now, she was an outright supersoldier. The perfect weapon meticulously crafted to fight the Reapers, the Collectors, whatever else Cerberus labelled a threat to humanity. The Illusive Man made it clear that she wasn’t more than a pawn granted only enough freedom and authority needed to combat the chosen enemy.

Fuck him. That’s not what she was.

Right?

She peeled off her jacket and held her arms out in front of her, twisting and turning them in her cabin’s bright blue light. The cybernetics shone orange through the cracks in her skin, arcing up and down and across her arms.

Inhuman cracks. Unnatural cracks. Human skin doesn’t scar or crack like that.

Irrelevant. She was still human. This was still a human body, just augmented. Human bodies may not come back from the dead…but this one did, thanks to a bunch of scientists with too much money and no damn morals in sight. Why not let the dead stay dead? One of too many questions she’d never get an answer to.

There was, however, a question she could answer herself.

She headed into the bathroom, eyes on the floor, and leaned on the sink. Time to see just how well Cerberus had reconstructed her face. Time to look into her new synthetic eyes for the first time.

She glanced up- and immediately recoiled. The glowing scars were there, too. Too many of them. Raging orange beneath the skin of her face, inhuman, unnatural. Wrong. This body was wrong. More Cerberus than Marian. She took an unsteady breath, gripping the sink’s edge until her knuckles turned white.

Take it slow.

She raised her gaze to her reflection’s jaw. A small crater on the left side, with cracks shooting directly up, down, left, right. A tiny crosshair on her face. On the right side, a simple scratch, more normal looking. A dimmer glow. Could almost be mistaken for a normal scar, but she knew it wasn’t. The scar that cut through the right side of her mouth was gone. Unfortunate.

Cerberus had gotten the shape of her jaw right, at least. And her cheekbones- marred, but otherwise the same. Her nose was no longer broken, but retained the same hooked shape that got her labelled ugly in high school. Good. The old eyebrow scar was gone, replaced with another cybernetic crack running parallel to her brow. And her eyes- the same jade green they were before.

She still looked like herself, mostly, even if beneath the skin she was something other. Even if the skin was new, artificial.

What part of her wasn’t artificial, in some way? Her own heart hadn’t even escaped Cerberus’s upgrading. Still flesh, still the heart that saw her through to Alchera, but returned to functionality by machines, Cerberus’s godawful machines embedded in her heart and brain and threaded in her lungs.

She flexed her hands, watched the tendons ripple beneath the skin. One mostly organic, the other mostly tech. No part of her body free of Cerberus meddling. No part of her life, now, free of Cerberus meddling.

The Illusive Man was right about one thing: no way in hell the Alliance would take her back now, and even if they did, her hands would be tied. She’d confirmed what he and Miranda said: colonies were disappearing, and the Alliance wasn’t doing much. And she would do what Commander Marian Shepard always did: step up and do the job no one else would do. Fight the fight no one else would fight. Ever bound to do the dirty work, her life never her own even when she was alive and not a resurrected monstrosity.

To hell with it all.

She snatched her jacket off the floor and raced to the elevator.

----

“Joker.”

“Need something, Commander?”

The relatively cheerful look on his face fell the minute he saw Marian. She edged a little further behind the wall into the shadows, trying and failing to tug her sleeves over her hands.

“You knew me, before…this.” She gestured vaguely at the brand-new cockpit around them.

Wrong words. He tensed, uncertain, somewhat pained. “Yeah, I did.”

She wiped her sweating hands on her pants. “Do you know what Cerberus did to me?”

“Yep. Read Miranda’s little dossier more than once waiting for you to come back.”

“So you know about the upgrades. The ‘improvements’.”

“Yep.”

His eyes tracked her as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, edging into and out of darkness. Hesitant. Pathetic. But there was no judgement in his face, only…concern. The commander’s supposed to be concerned for her helmsman, not the other way ‘round, dammit. She stepped fully into the light, into the cockpit, in full view of Joker and those in the CIC.

“Am I still myself?”

A soft laugh. “I used to wonder the same thing, back when I learned they were rebuilding you.” Was that sympathy in his face? “They upgraded your body, Commander, not your mind. You’re still you. They couldn’t change that and even if they could’ve, they didn’t want to.”

“I-… You’re certain?”

“Pretty sure. I can’t say I knew you well, but I did know you. Better than some other people, anyway.” His eyes flicked to her hands. “You’re really worried about this, aren’t you?”

What was wrong with her hands? She held them up to the light, and they shook. She stuffed the traitorous things in her pockets. “I was dead, Joker. The dead don’t return.”

“I know.” He waved a hand at one of the empty chairs in the cockpit, and reluctantly she took it, safely hidden from the view of all but Joker.

An unusual chill settled in her bones, rendering her limbs weak. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. “I shouldn’t be here. The dead should stay dead.”

“I know.”

“Two years is a long time to be gone.”

“Yeah, it is.”

She sifted through her memories of the Normandy crash and found them disjointed and silent. She only remembered the impact of the enemy’s shots, watching people get thrown around. Maybe getting thrown around herself. She’d barked orders, but the sound of her voice was gone. The sound of alarms, of explosions and screaming, the sound of words, she’d forgotten them all.

What she did remember was making damn sure that her crew made it to the escape pods. Joker was the last one left on board. Then-

She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes til they sparked, keeling forward, gasping. Seals broken, the air, the air is-

“Woah, hey, Shepard.” A solid weight settled on her shoulder. Joker’s hand.

The air is still here, stupid.

“Commander. It’s alright.”

She shook her head. “The crew. They made it out?”

“Most did. Pressly didn’t.” A pause. “The Alliance reassigned us after that. With the Normandy destroyed and you gone, there wasn’t much holding us together. We were your crew, Shepard,” he said quietly.

Her eyes burned and blinking didn’t solve it. Tears? God, how pathetic.

She bolted up out of her seat, spine straight as a board. “I should go. Thanks, Joker.” She turned on her heel to leave.

“Wait, Commander.”

She froze mid-step and angled her head towards the windows on Joker’s left. She didn’t dare look back farther than that. He’d seen enough.

“You saved my life. I owe you.”

“No, no.” She turned her eyes to the Normandy hologram, and beyond it, the elevator. “It’s what any commander should do. It was best that you lived, and I didn’t.”

She was gone before he could say a word.

[heart-eye-harrington]

almost

Summary: You and Steve never but a label on things, but you found out it wasn’t exclusive the hard way. After nearly two years and Steve’s heart being broken, he sees what he’s done wrong ~ part two for this 

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: a few curse words, mentions of blood (Steve’s S2 injuries)

Author’s Note: Hi! This is my first time writing a part two so whoop! I few people requested this and I hope you enjoy! lmk if I should do this more often ♡

⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★⋆★

It had been a year since you left Steve in the woods and he left you with a broken heart. How do you measure a year? For you, it was in used tissue boxes, emptied tubs of ice cream, and cheesy romance novels read. You counted the year on your dependency on these things to escape. Getting over the boy you tutored was a seemingly impossible feat. How do you get over someone who was never truly yours? 

Although the two of you never put a label on it, you decided you should. It would be a good step to move on, something to give you some sort of closure. While you would probably never know what you were to him, you know what he was to you. 

You decided on almost. 

He was almost yours. He was almost in love with you. He was almost a boyfriend, or even more. You almost turned around to him in the woods to hear him out, but you knew even then the boy you knew was gone. You were haunted by the ghost of what could have been, of who you thought you knew. 

You tried what you could, dodging him in the hall, not walking out to that parking lot, and avoiding the woods like the plague. Over time things seemed to return to normal. Every once in a while you’d feel a set of eyes on you, only to turn and see Steve with an unreadable look, but you learned to ignore how it made you feel. You deserved better than this King Steve he had become. 

You and Steve’s sophomore year came and went. You think he passed English but weren’t sure, you weren’t his problem anymore and he wasn’t yours. 

What you were sure of was that with each passing day he seemed to fall more head over heels in love with a sophomore named Nancy Wheeler. She seemed nice and Steve looked happy. 

Junior year was yet another year of counting. Instead of counting escapes, of avoiding how you felt, you focused on you and your needs, throwing yourself into things you loved. You tutored again, worked on college applications, and even volunteered at the library. You became so busy you barely had enough time to think about the buzz around Steve and Nancy. 

★

After what was probably the longest night of his life, Steve slumped into his BMW. Blankly staring into the darkness through the windshield, he tries to process it all. 

He was hurt. 

His ears were still ringing, his head was still pounding. He knew Billy had given him a good shiner, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t manage. What hurt worse was his chest. It had been tight and uncomfortable since he saw the wilted roses still sitting on the passenger’s seat. 

He doesn’t quite know where he’s driving, still a bit punch drunk. Autopilot kicks in, his body not trusting itself with the sensory overload. It probably wasn’t the safest thing, driving like this, but he couldn’t just sit outside the Byer’s house.

Instead, he finds himself outside your house. He doesn’t have time to question it, he’s too focused on the comfort washing over him. For the first time in a while, he’s able to take a deep breath, though it doesn’t completely clear his head. 

Steve finds the only light on is the one in your room. A lamp in the corner illuminates your silhouette, the lampshade softening it. Even with just an outline, he recognized how relaxed you seem, knowing you’re up late reading again.

The picture-perfect world Steve thought he knew had changed, flipped, shaken, and broken. He felt as if he had finally solved a puzzle, only to have a new one thrown into the mix. Both were printed on the same shaped pieces, so the two would mesh together into a surreal montage. In all the chaos you remained the same, a comforting constant, just the same as you were two years ago.

Two years? 

Steves know this is crazy. He knows it’s selfish. He knows how much he’s hurt you know. If you felt even a fraction of the pain he’s feeling after Nancy, he can’t even imagine how you’ll react. Despite it all, he’s calling for you to come to the window. By some miracle, you do. 

“Steve? Oh my, oh my god! Are you okay?” you call from your window. The words come out of your mouth so quickly you don’t realize how weird it is to say his name for the first time in years. All you know is that it’s nearly two in the morning and a battered Steve is staring at you from outside your window. He looks so small and vulnerable, much different than the larger than life persona built around him. The facade breaks even more when he can’t find words, only giving you a sad head shake. You almost feel stupid. Of course, he’s not okay. He wouldn’t come back if he was. 

Your feet can’t seem to carry you fast enough down the stairs. The front door is pulled open and Steve brought to your parents’ master bathroom. Luckily for you, they were out of town on a business trip. You gently place Steve on counter space between the double sink and grab the first aid kit from underneath. No words are exchanged until you’re dabbing the cut above his eye. It’s the first time you’re looking into them since he broke your heart. The realization seems to be mutual, Steve shifting and clearing his throat. Not being able to stand the tension, you try your best at conversation. 

“How’d you get like this?” brows stitched together, you continue gingerly pressing the hydrogen peroxide soaked cotton ball over his cuts. 

“Uh, Billy Hargrove” He shifts again, hissing slightly after you touch an especially sore spot.

“Sorry, I’m trying not to hurt you.” your words cause a dry laugh to fall from his chest.

“After all the shit I put you through? No, no I deserve worse.” 

His words stop you completely, hand now frozen, hovering inches from his face. It’s like a malfunction, programming never designed or prepared for a situation like this. He can’t mean what he’s saying, he got the shit beat out of him and probably has a concussion. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. You almost speak, but he stops you.

“I know it’s not fair for me to come to see you after what I did, but I couldn’t stop myself. All I could think about was how you made me feel back then. Like when you read my terrible essays you wouldn’t make me feel stupid. You didn’t scribble all over it in red ink, because you told me red was mean and you wanted me to feel good about reading your notes, so you used purple. You put up with my whining and read every assigned book with me cause I didn’t want to do it alone. I felt like I could be myself and you wouldn’t judge me...then I had to be an idiot and I lost you.”

His words hang in the air, and neither of you knows what to do with them. Your subconscious jumps on the opportunity.

“Steve, listen, I know we never put a label on anything, but why? Why? Did you even think about me? About how I would feel? Cause I never stopped thinking about you! That’s why I did all that stuff for you when I helped you. I wanted to help. I wanted to make you feel comfortable. I wanted to make you feel happy and that someone cared for you. I care about you so damn much, and you threw it all away. Why would you do that?” The floodgate was open. Hot tears streamed down your face, blurring the boy in front of you as if your body wanted to shield you from the hurt. 

Steve sinks into himself, eyes trained on his lap. He takes your words and lets them wash over him. You deserve an answer, but not the one he’ll give you. 

“I wasn’t thinking about anything. Tommy H. said if I was gonna be cool like him I had to build a reputation. I never really questioned any of it until I realized how stupid it all was. What good was it being called the king at school if no one cares about you at night when you’re alone?”

You nod through your tears, which have calmed down a bit. You know what he’s trying to say

“Yeah, a king is only as strong as his people. Take away the people and he’s just a man. Or, in your case, a boy.” Steve laughs, shaking his head.

“See, that’s why you’re the English tutor. You read between the lines, find out what people are really saying.” You both chuckle. For a moment, things feel normal. You’re back in his car eating fast food after hours in the library. It’s just you and Steve in your own little bubble. The outside world doesn’t exist. Nothing cold, only warmth and laughter. As the laughter dies, so does the illusion. You’re staring at a hurt Steve and he’s finally seeing the hurt he’s caused you. 

“Steve. You gave me an explanation, and while I appreciate that, it’s not an excuse. Now, I don’t know what you want from me. To forgive you? To leave you alone now that you’ve gotten that off your chest?” You don’t dare say anything else, not wanting your hope for something more to break through. Steve still can’t meet your eyes for more than a few seconds at a time, frustration at himself drawing his eyebrows together.

“I don’t know what I want. I just know that I missed you and that I was an idiot. I guess I just didn’t know what it felt like to have your heart broken. I’d never wish it on anyone, especially you. I can never be sorry enough”

You close your eyes and sigh, praying you won’t regret this.

“It’s gonna take some time, but I’ll forgive you. But before I do, I need to know what you want from this. What will we be?”

“Can we be friends? I almost lost you, and I don’t want to lose you this time.” the ghost of a smile threatens his lips, edged out by the horror of breaking your heart again.

The word almost sticks out. You almost got away, but he pulled ou back in. You had faith in this new Steve. He’d matured these last two years for reasons you weren’t sure, but you believed in him. You believed he would be better, that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. To be honest, you missed him too.

“Of course. Friends it is.”