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gonzo-rella · 2 months ago

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Not-A-Woman | Arnold Rimmer

MASTERLIST | AO3

Note: In this fic, the reader is AFAB and nonbinary. This fic positions the notion of being perceived as a woman as being the worst thing in the world for the reader. But, hopefully it is clear that this is because the reader is trans and they have a lot of dysphoria around how they're perceived, and not because there's something wrong with being a woman. I felt that making this clarification in-story would only read as clunky, so I decided to include it here.

Relationship(s): Arnold Rimmer x AFAB!nonbinary!reader (implied romantic); Dave Lister x AFAB!nonbinary!reader (platonic; mentioned)

Summary: Who would have known that Arnold Judas Rimmer wasn't so bad at the whole 'counselling' thing after all?

Warnings: Gender dysphoria, references to periods (reader is implied to have periods), references to misogyny (Rimmer makes a very Rimmer comment that reflects his character and not the views of this author), canon-typical humour (or a Gen Z's attempt at that), jokes about suicide (again, nothing more extreme than you'd get in canon). (Let me know if I need to add any)

Word count: 3k

(A/N: This is incredibly self-indulgent, written solely with my own personal enjoyment in mind. This is my first fic I started writing for Red Dwarf, about a week after I'd started watching the show. It's weird to think I've only had this show for a month and it's already so dear to me. I've finished writing a different Red Dwarf one-shot since then, which you can find here. Red Dwarf, and Rimmer specifically, has gotten me back into writing reader-insert fanfic and it's been a lot of fun to rediscover my love for it, and to have two fics that I'm so proud of. I have a couple of other Rimmer fics in the works, one of which is a sequel to my Terrorform fic, but feel free to send in requests. I want to write a Lister fic at some point but I'm stumped for ideas, so feel free to send in suggestions for him as well.)

It had been something innocuous that had set this whole thing off. Lister had saved you from the latest thing that meant you harm- it felt like a weekly occurrence at this point. Had he not intervened, you would have died, or at least gotten a nasty wound. Normally, you would have been suitably grateful that your friend hadn’t let you die, but something about this time bugged you. It really bugged you. It wriggled under your skin like a familiar parasite, feasting at your innards and your patience. Lister had saved you, like he had all those other times, and yet you could hardly look at him without wanting to tear off your own skin, or his skin for that matter. It was a strange kind of resentment. You were consumed by this restless annoyance, but you felt guilty enough about it to hole yourself up in your room to avoid saying something you would regret, as well as to be perceived as minimally as possible. You hid your body beneath a rotation of objects: a blanket you wrapped tightly around you (just not tight enough to fit the shape of your body), a cushion you hugged to your chest, and the most oversized top you owned.

No one thought much of it when you decided not to join them for a well-earned dinner and drinks. After all, you were tired- that’s what you told them, anyway. They didn’t have to know that you stayed up about as long as them, drinking alone in your room. But, they took notice when there was no sign of you the next day.

The first of them to check in with you was Kryten, who had gone through the trouble of making you lunch. He asked you if you were okay, an understandable question, and you assured him you were fine. He picked up that something wasn’t right, so he asked if you were sick. You decided to lie and told him that you were on your period. You hoped it would be enough of an excuse to explain away your absence without causing any alarm, and that your crewmates, all men or man-adjacent (besides Holly), would be too overwhelmed by the concept of a period to even think of bothering you.

Unfortunately, Lister wasn’t bothered by your fictitious period like you had hoped. Later that day, he turned up at your door. He invited you to do something- you weren’t paying attention so you had no idea what exactly it was, but you guessed it probably involved alcohol, curry and/or poker, seeing as that’s all you guys seemed to do. You declined, a little bluntly, using the excuse that you weren’t feeling up to it, whatever it was. ‘You know how periods can be,’ you had said. He wasn’t convinced that everything was fine- as fine as it could be while you were on your period- but it had only been one day. He could give you the benefit of the doubt and believe that you really were this wiped out. So, he left you to it. You’d be back to normal soon enough, you assured him. Anything to get him to go away. And, really, you had thought you’d be fine within the next couple of days.

But, you didn’t leave your room the next day, either. Kryten delivered you some food. And, Lister tried to coax you out again with some activity or another. You declined. So, he asked you if you were alright. You told him you were fine. But, he really didn’t believe it this time. He asked again. No luck. So, he told you to come talk to him when you were ready. That made you feel worse.

Another day went by and you hadn’t taken him up on his offer. If he wasn’t worried before, he certainly was now.

Nothing could have prepared you for Rimmer throwing his hat in the ring. Your best guess was that he had put himself forward. You could imagine Lister scoffing at the idea and Rimmer going ahead with it anyway. Thinking about Lister further soured your already displeased expression, which also came with an inevitable wave of guilt. Your lack of enthusiasm did nothing to deter Rimmer, who invited himself in without hesitation. You watched him from your bed.

“I thought it might be worth checking in. You haven’t left this room in days and it’s safe to say we’re all growing a bit concerned.”

You might have been touched and more receptive to his presence if he wasn’t speaking with the tone of a teacher.

“All of you? Even Cat?”

“Well, no. Perhaps not Cat. In fact, the next time you see him, you might very well have to re-introduce yourself.”

You rolled your eyes as he paced around the room, making a failed attempt at pretending as though he wasn’t closely examining it for any sign of whatever he was looking for.

“I think you’d better leave, Arnie. I know about the Lemming Sunday incident and with how I’m feeling right now I’m worried there’ll be a repeat of it if you keep talking to me.”

He was clearly caught off-guard by the comment. He thought for a moment, then let out a deep exhale.

“I suppose I can call a meeting and arrange a rota for suicide watch.”

Given he was discussing the topic of suicide watch, his tone was perhaps inappropriately casual.

You shot him a glare, already sick of him. Normally, you were the first to defend him, but this conversation was giving you a glimpse into how Lister, Cat and Kryten must have seen him.

“I was joking. Mostly. But, I wasn’t joking about wanting you to go away.”

“You know, whatever’s bothering you-”

“Nothing’s bothering me. I told Kryten, I’m on my period. So, I don’t want to be disturbed-”

He raised his finger to interject.

“Ah, about that.”

You squoze your eyes shut and rolled your head back. You were sure whatever he was about to say was going to annoy you. The last thing you needed was Rimmer’s input on the subject of menstruation.

“Holly says you’re not due a visit from Auntie Flo for another two weeks and three days. So, I’m afraid that’s the end of that excuse.”

You straightened up, eyes wide as you stared at him in bewilderment.

“Holly tracks my cycle?”

“I’m sure she’ll start giving you a few day’s warning if you ask her to.”

“That’s not-”

“Now, I suggest you start talking.”

“For God’s sake, Rimmer, I’m depressed, not a prisoner of war.”

“Aha! So, you admit it. You’re depressed.”

He seemed far too gleeful about that revelation. You looked at him blankly.

“I thought you’d figured that out already.”

“It’s one thing to reach a conclusion based on pure intuition, but it’s another kettle of fish wrenching out a confession- so masterfully, might I say.”

“Okay, well, you’ve got your ‘confession’. Can you smeg off now?”

“I’m afraid not. This is what we call a ‘safeguarding issue’.”

“If you weren’t a hologram, I’d give you a ‘safeguarding issue’.”

“Now, now, there’s no need to get hostile,” Rimmer tried. He thought for a moment; you assumed he was trying to recall some advice he had read in a book about negotiation or interrogation. “Alright, would you rather speak to Lister about whatever this is?”

The glare you directed at him sent a chill down his spine, or the hologram equivalent of that sensation.

“No.”

Realisation settled on his features, and what followed was a wave of smugness. Amidst his pride, he smirked and folded his arms. He paced victoriously.

“Ah. So, you’ve fallen out with old Listy, eh? What is it, then? A playground squabble? A lover’s tiff?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He wavered.

“Hang on a minute. Are the pair of you-”

“We’re just mates, Rimmer. I don’t fancy Lister and Lister doesn’t fancy me. Believe it or not, I can be friends with a bloke. Men and women can be friends. And, I’m not even a woman, so that doesn’t even apply here anyway.”

Rimmer, thankfully, was clueless as to what to say. Before he could attempt to string together a sentence that would most likely compel you lob a chair through him, you continued, softening your tone a tad.

“Look, Arnie, I’ll be fine in a few days. Give me some time and it’ll be like this never happened.”

“And, until then?”

“I don’t know. I’ll manage. I always do.”

Rimmer’s gaze landed on your wastebasket, which could best be described as a growing mountain of empty cans. His eyes widened in alarm. He hadn’t been observant enough to notice them before.

“Christ, are those from the past three days?”

You shrugged.

“That’s how I’ll manage.”

He sighed.

“Trust me, I can understand loathing Lister with the burning passion of a billion suns-”

“I don’t-”

“But, I’ve never withdrawn like a maladjusted hermit and stumbled down the slippery slope of alcoholism because of it.”

He seemed genuinely concerned, so much so that you couldn’t bear to keep looking at him. You were hyper-aware of the fact that he was looking at you- watching you with a softness you scarcely saw from him. It was kind of nice, but also mortifying. As tender as it was, you weren’t exactly in a mindset where you wanted to be perceived. You shifted uncomfortably and shook your head.

“You wouldn’t get it, Arn.”

“Go on. Try me.”

Maybe Rimmer would understand. He knew a thing or two about self-hatred and insecurity, after all. You took a deep breath before speaking.

“Lister always saves me from being killed or hurt or anything.”

Rimmer’s brows knitted in confusion.

“The bastard?”

You paused and shut your eyes for a moment.

“I know we’re mates and that’s why he bothers to not let me die, and I appreciate it. I really do. But, I dunno. Sometimes it feels like him and all the rest of you lot see me as a girl because I’m not a full-on bloke. And, I guess, whenever he saves me from things it’s like I’m just some damsel in distress to you guys- like no matter what, I’ll always be at least woman-adjacent.”

Rimmer exhaled from his nose.

“Trust me, if Lister saw you as a woman, he’d be on you like the foul odour on his… everything,” Rimmer insisted. “What does it matter what he thinks of you, anyway?”

“He’s my mate. And, the thought of him- or anyone- seeing me as a woman makes me feel a bit sick because that’s really not who I am.” You paused. “Do you see me as a woman, Arnie?”

“I thought this was about Lister.”

“So, is that a yes?”

“No. Were it a yes, I would have said, well, yes.”

“But, you didn’t say no. Not right away. You dodged the question. So now it feels like you do see me as a woman.”

There was an undertone of panic in your voice.

“I don’t see you as a woman.”

“Then, why didn’t you just say that straight away?”

“Because, no one ever cares to hear my opinion on anything. I was taken by surprise.”

You glanced at him, half-pitying, half-apologetic.

“Oh.”

There was a brief moment of awkward silence.

“Well, why does it matter if Lister sees you as a woman or if I see you as a woman?”

“When you phrase it like that, it seems like you do see me as a woman.”

He tipped his head back in frustration.

“Neither of us see you as a woman! But, I have to tell you, this hysteria really isn’t helping your case.”

Your growing fondness for Rimmer came crashing down. Of course it was too good to be true. And, oh, he had been doing so well.

“Misogyny. Nice. Can you actually smeg off now, you total-”

“It’ll take more than accusations about my character and childish insults to get rid of me.”

You could have throttled him. Well, technically speaking, you couldn’t.

“Are you really that stubborn that you won’t leave me alone?”

“This isn’t about me. You’re having some sort of crisis and I don’t think hiding in your room like a recluse and drinking enough to kill a horse is doing you any good.”

He had you there.

“Right, well, what do you want me to do, Arnie? Because, that’s all I feel like doing right now. I don’t want to be looked at. Not when people look at me and see me as something I’m not. And, not when he’s there to remind me of what a failure I am as… not-a-woman.”

Rimmer cleared his throat.

“Well, then, perhaps I’d better leave. I wouldn’t want my masculinity to make you feel inadequate.”

Well, you certainly hadn’t expected that. Your eyes widened with shock. You stifled a laugh. The corners of your lips stretched into a smile, one you hid behind your fist. You chewed on your finger and turned your head away from him. He sent you a look of confusion and mild indignation.

“What’s so amusing?”

You shook your head.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

Rimmer placed his hands on his hips. Your body shook with laughter that you tried to keep as quiet as possible. You felt so mean but you couldn’t help it.

“You don’t think I’m masculine?”

You managed to compose yourself a bit to answer him, taking in several deep breaths.

“It’s not that! I’m so sorry, Arnie. You’re a perfectly acceptable man.”

“Then, why are you laughing?”

“It took me by surprise.”

Rimmer shook his head.

“I see how it is. Tell me, then, what is it that makes David Lister a veritable paragon of machismo?”

You chewed your nail, thinking for a moment. You paused. You sighed.

“I’m sorry for laughing at you, Arn. Will you please let me explain?”

After a moment of hesitation, he let out a huff.

“Very well. Go on.”

“Dave’s a proper laddy lad, you know? He’s confident in his own bloke-ish-ness. He’s, like, the quintessential bloke. He drinks beer, he tends to be handy to have around, he’ll shamelessly wear curry-stained clothes that haven’t been washed in a year,” you explained. “I mean, you’re far from laddy- and, no offence, you can be a bit pathetic sometimes- but you’re still a man. Cat’s a bit metrosexual but he’s taken seriously as a man. And, Kryten: he’s not even technically a man but that’s how we treat him and it’s probably right for him. You’re all men and you all do it so differently but it doesn’t change how people see that part of you.”

You folded your arms tightly over your chest.

“But, then there’s me. I’m not a woman. I’m not a man. But, it feels like because I’m not a man and all of you are, other than Holly, I’m a woman by default because I’m ‘closer to being a woman’ than the rest of you or something because that’s how I was born. So, I get it in my head that everyone sees me as a woman, because I’m driving myself mad with the ‘woman things’ I have. And, it really gets to me how you can all just be men so differently and effortlessly and I can’t have that for myself.”

You rolled your head back, squeezing your eyes shut.

“It’s no one’s fault how I was born or how I am- not even mine. But, I know it’s all down to me, to deal with how I’m feeling. So sorry for being a bitter, miserable prick. That’s why I was trying to avoid all of you until it stopped.”

You had been going on for so long about your abject misery that you had forgotten you were talking to Arnold Judas Rimmer, who Lister had once described as having all the gentleness of a prostate exam from Freddy Krueger. But, when you finally dared to look at him again, you were met with that same soft expression from earlier. Your shoulders sank, a sense of relief washing over you.

“You know, if you feel you must try to emulate Lister, his drinking habits certainly aren’t what I would attempt to mimic,” he finally said. “It makes him an idiot, not any more of a man.”

You laughed weakly. “I suppose you’re right.”

“And, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a perfectly acceptable… not-a-woman.”

“Thanks, Arn.”

He carried on looking at you, thoughtful. You stole another glance at him. When your eyes met, your heart skipped a beat and warmth flooded your stomach.

“You’re not actually going to do anything stupid, are you?”

“Probably not.”

He appeared dissatisfied by your answer.

“No. I’m not actually going to do anything stupid, Arn.”

“Good.”

You smirked.

“‘Good’ because me killing myself would somehow inconvenience you or ‘good’ because you care about me?”

He hesitated.

“A bit of both.”

You grinned.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. I’ll take that.”

“So, are you feeling better, then?”

“A bit. You don’t have to worry about me anymore. And, I’d say you’ve earned the right to tell them they were wrong about you being able to help me.”

He knitted his brows.

“How did you know about that?”

“Intuition.”

– – –

“Hang on a minute, are you seriously saying that Rimmer made you feel better?”

Lister leaned back in his chair, eyeing you incredulously and with clear unease.

You nodded.

“Yeah. He did.”

After Rimmer had helped you feel better, you didn’t mind that he was eager to parade you in front of the crew to tell them that he’d done a good job despite their misgivings.

“Arnold Rimmer?”

“Yep.”

“Arnold Judas Rimmer?”

“Yes.”

Lister got up and pointed directly at an indignant Rimmer.

“That git?”

“He might be a git-”

Rimmer folded his arms.

“Excuse me!”

“But I appreciated his help anyway.”

Lister huffed and sat back down.

“Well, I suppose all that matters is that you’re feeling better.”

Still, he seemed unsettled, while Rimmer was able to return to being smug. You thought it was kind of sweet, but it was obvious that Lister didn’t share that sentiment, judging by the way he was massaging his temple.

“And, to think,” Rimmer said with a self-satisfied smile. “You were so vehemently against me offering my counselling services.”

Cat casually strolled into the room, carefree as usual. When he passed you, he did a double-take, then he looked between Rimmer and Lister with confusion.

“Who’s that?”

#red dwarf #red dwarf x reader #arnold rimmer #arnold rimmer x reader #x reader #x nonbinary!reader #x enby!reader #x nonbinary reader #x enby reader #x trans!reader #x trans reader #nonbinary!reader #trans!reader #nonbinary #trans

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clatterbane · 2 years ago

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And, approaching that "learned social anxiety bundle" from a slightly different angle.

youtube

Are You Introverted or is it Autism?

Dave and I are pretty different people, but this is another of his where we do seem to have some oddly specific experience (and reaction) commonalities. Again largely due to Just Being Noticeably Weird in some similar ways.

"If every time you reach out socially at a young age, you get your hand slapped, eventually you learn to be cautious."

(Which ties in with the other thing in some pretty obvious ways, and might indeed lead to some overlap in responses later on. May also be worth adding that Dave is apparently yet another of us "AuDHD" overlap folks, in terms of medicalization.)

As likely surprises nobody here, where I do feel more comfortable by now? I personally did start out pretty eager to talk to just about anyone about anything. Then I learned what kinds of reactions that can get you. And mostly clammed up in situations where more of the same seemed like a decent possibility. It's all fucking exhausting.

As I have very little doubt that some of y'all know a little too much about, too.

youtube

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria: The Really Scary Thing About ADHD...

Another recent one from Dorian that I just have Too Many Thoughts about.

Though, at least for me I do feel like what's been getting more attention lately under that label does lean very fucking heavily toward the side of "oddly specific trauma reactions" where an awful lot of us do have some shared experiences. Complete with some very distinct berserk buttons. To go right along with the rest of the carefully installed learned social anxiety bundle.

I don't even know that this is connected to the things that get lumped under ADHD, so much as Just Being Noticeably Weird in some similar ways.

#video #rejection sensitive dysphoria #learned social anxiety #of herbs and altars #dave's garage #my neuros sure are diverging #trauma #Youtube

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gendertrickster · 3 months ago

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dave's dread of other dead daves and then later, eventually, dying himself, as an analogue for dysphoria

#ado post

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davekat-sucks · 3 months ago

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can you please explain the logic of why john is supposedly trans now? does he have gender dysphoria? why the fuck did they turn john trans of all people when dave is the character that deals with masculinity and insecurity the most? lol

#Leaving this for June fans to answer if they so wish #June Egbert #Homestuck #Homestuck fandom #John Egbert

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felidthing · 3 months ago

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shoutout to this era of how i drew myself also. inability to draw clothes + desperately combating dysphoria. i dont know why i had to add dave strider shades about it

#posts

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sludgesinner · 2 months ago

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Ugly as Sin | Transfem! James x Fem!Dave

KNIVES HERE!!!! With some angst, again, lol, 7k words aprox | request rules, ao3

I follow you now / I follow you down

To a dirty black room /Where the air is gone

I'll lie down on the table / And I'll wait for you

To step inside me now / Come inside me now, Jesus

An horrible night with transfem! James and fem! Dave

TAGS: Angst, Hurt No Confort, Transfem James, Fem Dave, Transphobia, Dysphoria, Internalized Misoginy, Emotional abuse, Vomiting, Non-Consensual groping

If there was one thing in this world James hated, it was herself.

She hated the way her body lacked curves; she was made of straight lines like the slashes of a knife. She hated the width of her shoulders compared to the rest of her body. There was nothing delicate about her, nothing pleasing to the eye, nothing that indicated she was a real girl.

James squints at herself in the mirror, trying to hold back her tears. She can't stop seeing all the flaws that adorn her body. 'Deformed, I look deformed,' is the only thing running through her head. She inwardly curses being born with this body that isn't hers inside or out, and she curses the fact that she isn't blind so she can ignore all her misshapen muscles and bones.

Her gaze never wavered or shifted from the glass, a reminder and a punishment to herself. It wasn't the first time she'd done this, staring at her reflection for endless moments, pointing out her imperfections like an angry mob pointing at a traitor. And she wouldn't stop until she found something to smile about the deformed canvas that was her body.

The rest of the room is forgotten. The smell of suffocating humidity is the least of her worries. The air is icy against her skin, freezing and cracking like crumpled paper. The mirror's glass squeals and cracks as if trying to break out of its wooden frame; not even the rock band stickers and dirty finger smudges could hide the cracks.

She wears the same clothes as always, rags sewn together at the sides, seeking their own shape. James didn't know how to sew; her fingers always ended up bleeding, and the punctures burned beneath her skin like maggots in herhe tender flesh. An old Venom T-shirt Lars gave her for her 19th birthday covers her flat torso. To cover her legs, shame, and sins, she wears a skirt: long, knee-length, like that of a student at a religious school.

Her long limbs tremble, and her left arm rises to touch her right forearm, the pads tracing the skin that was neither soft nor pure. The softness doesn't last long; she's never soft; it doesn't take long for her to dig her broken, sharp nails into the flesh. She drags and scratches all around, leaving white lines in her wake. But James isn't content to scratch; she needs to pound, to crush.

She falls to the ground, defeated like a soldier begging for mercy, surrendered to a higher power. Her knees scrape against the floor without care, but they feel more like rough stones. Blood is draining from her parched veins; the air pushes her to the ground in submission. She stares as if she has nothing left.

She raises her fist in the air and smashes it against her skin, once, twice, repeatedly, the way a hammer drives into wood. She already knows how this is going to end: a bruise of every color that's unpleasant is going to form on her skin, Dave, Lars, and Cliff are going to discover it, and she's going to end up scolded by the latter two because they simply don't understand her. They don't understand her constant suffering, her struggle with her own body.

A physical punishment is all she needs, a little roughness to get her in her stride. Finding comfort in pain was easy, the only thing she knew. It was an almost nostalgic pain. She could almost hear her father's belt in the air, just like the day her dad walked in on her trying on one of her mother's dresses.

She remembers that day perfectly, the winter of ‘78. It was snowing outside when James arrived home after school. The house felt freezing inside. No one was home, neither her parents nor her sister, just James and the sound of her own footsteps as she wandered through her home. She hurried up the stairs, ready to grab her guitar, her only true and faithful friend. But before she made her way to her room, She stopped dead in front of the half-open door to her parents' bedroom. She sniffed around as if it were a forbidden place, her gaze quickly focusing on one of her mother's clothes lying on her bed. It was a light blue dress, hand-sewn by one of James's aunts. It was a pretty dress, although, in reality, James didn't know much about dresses.

She approached the bed delicately, walking on tiptoe as if someone, even in her solitude, would listen, would judge her. She took the sleeves of the dress in her hands and was frightened by her own thoughts when she realized she was beginning to plot in her mind how the dress would look on her. James imagined how such a feminine garment would fit her pubescent body.

She looked at it hesitantly and decided she had nothing to lose.

Even though she did have it.

She stripped from head to toe, left in only her socks and boxers. She slipped her head through the gaps in the dress, and in the blink of an eye, she was wearing it. The fine, carefully crafted fabric caressed her as gently as when her mother hugged her. She looked at herself in the mirror, and a flurry of unfamiliar sensations formed in her stomach.

The dress hugged her in ways she'd never imagined before. She spun around on her own axis, and the ruffles of the dress floated in the air like in old Hollywood movies.

There was something so forbidden and wrong about her actions, waves of guilt and disgust crashed over her body, but she didn't stop. The warmth of the dress melted the bitter, icy cold outside, and James couldn't help but smile at her reflection in the mirror. She knew boys weren't pretty; they didn't have to be… But she felt so pretty now. Was this really so wrong?

She stood in front of the mirror for a few minutes, posing, trying to arrange the dress to her body, making it her own. And seeing the lipstick on the counter, it was easy to deduce what was going through her mind. She grabbed it and tried to remember all the times she'd seen her mother put on makeup. She lost herself in her own bubble, ignoring the outside world.

When she finished applying her lipstick, her father was standing in the doorway.

Belt in hand, the leather rose like divine punishment. And in moments, her skin burned. No matter how much James screamed or begged for forgiveness, her father took his god's word as a whip and punished his child with his own hands as she deserved.

The punishment didn't end there; that was just the first, pitiful part. Her father couldn't remain silent; it was his duty to inform his wife of his son's sinful behavior. And her mother's look of disappointment, fixed on her, was more painful than any blow. Whispered prayers were the first thing James heard when she tried to approach to the woman who had given her life.

What she had discovered about herself in such a short and fleeting time was torn away, along with her pale, 15-summer-old skin and her sanctity. Being a deviant like her was wrong. She knew it because it carried a punishment. Transgender and fags would have no peace, neither here nor in hell.

But she thinks that hell is fine if she can be a woman there.

Now, at nineteen, James knows it well: the violence on her battered body was what calmed her, a mere scratch compared to the deep wound that was God's eyes upon her.

Not even when she loses her breath and her arm cramps from beating herself up, James stops with her self-harm. She would love to be able to shed her body, to inhabit a skin that felt like her own and not the sack of bones she was part of. Maybe it wasn't even worth clinging to such an unhappy life, maybe...

James jumps in fright when she hears the sound of the door opening interrupting her despair. Her blue eyes widen, paranoid. Reflexively, she covers her face with her arms, but no, it's just Dave. Dave was everything her mind wanted to avoid and admire in these moments of misery, because she was everything James wasn't. Dave was pretty, with long, unkempt orange hair that moved onstage with the wild beauty of a wildfire. She knew how to wear skirts, dresses, and heels and not look like a circus freak. Dave was a real woman, not the joke James was.

She couldn't help but compare herself to the redhead every chance she got, jealousy building in the pit of her stomach every time she saw her. Her natural, unashamed femininity made James feel incompetent in comparison, and she couldn't even blame Dave for that. She wished seeing Dave was more like seeing a reflection, a peer, but then she looked at her own body and couldn't help but feel sorry for herself.

Dave is honest, at least with the rest of the world, at least with James. Every time she asks tough questions and waffles on about whether they see her as a real girl or not, Cliff and Lars lie to her face, believing it to be comforting, telling her what she wants to hear. Sometimes she wishes she could see into other people's minds, to know what they really think of her, even when she's terrified of the results. Dave wasn't like that; she didn't console James when she talked about what an abomination she was; Dave just got on her nerves.

Their relationship was like that, that ambiguous space between love and violence in which the two had spent their entire lives. Dave's voice rises, demanding

“Hey James! Where did you leave- Oh no, not you again with this crap to get our attention.”

James's body tenses; she wants to yell at her, to tell her that she isn’t trying to get anyone's attention, but she knows that if she contradicts Dave, there's no stop of her anger. She can't avoid the words from hurting; she doesn't like to think there's a half-truth in them, she doesn't like to think about how it comforts her when her bandmates worry about the bruises on her arms. James gives in; she feels like Dave knows her better than she knows herself.

Dave stands in front of James, who is on the floor. Dave's eyes were stern on her like a lion's on its prey. A rough hand lands on James's head and tugs carelessly at one of her long blond locks.

Their gazes meet when James raises her head at Dave's treatment. James shudders, feels the air suddenly turn icy, and looks down. She can't bring herself to meet Dave's stern gaze. She'd never admit it, but she was afraid of the redhead; just looking at her caused her physical pain.

Sometimes, James wishes she could possess her own body the way Dave possesses her thoughts and pains. Every time Dave possessed her like a parasite in her stomach, James turned crystal clear.

Dave's hand tightens even more in her hair, testing what she was going to do. She really could do anything James wanted in this state; a sea of possibilities opened up before her. And out of all of them, she chose to place her palm gently on her dry cheeks. Her calloused thumb traces the contours of her skin, her nail pressing dangerously into the flesh as if it were Dave's next dish.

“Phew, look. If I help you look like a real woman, will you stop crying?”

James's eyes open, and she falls silent, breathless. She feels her mouth go dry in an instant, and the hand pulling at her hair as if it wants to decapitate her doesn't hurt as much anymore. A real woman. Being helped by a real woman to become one. To undergo mitosis until reaching the closest thing to peace and beauty was something so divine that it could only be achieved through a pact with the devil.

She doesn't think about it for a second; she feels as if she could kneel right there, the same way she knelt before God every night, begging Her to take away all that warm sin that came in temptations like the sky-blue dresses, femininity, and a word that sounded so beautiful: "woman." Now she begged for the sin, accepting divine fury for a bit of peace of mind.

She nods, doesn't speak, just shakes her head. She's moved; she never thought she'd be alive to witness Dave find kindness in her heart. She never thought she'd be alive to witness her loved ones grow up; she can't imagine herself growing up, especially in that body. A ray of hope glides through her bedroom mirror.

When she takes Dave's hand to get up from the floor, there's no turning back.

They walk briskly to Dave's room, slipping on air. The redhead walks as if she's committing a crime, glancing sideways out of the corners of her eyes, and James feels flashes of déjà vu. Dave's door is broken and unoiled; she has to kick the bottom of the wood a few times to get it to open.

Heading straight to the closet, Dave didn't waste a second of her time. Dave's room—Dave and Lars, actually, the two of them shared a room—wasn't much different from James's. The moldy walls and general chaos were a common decoder between the two rooms. Cliff had suggested James and Dave share a room, the two girls tigether, but Mustaine left no room for discussion in that characteristically sharp voice; she wasn't going to share a room with James.

Dave takes garment after garment onto her bed with a carelessness and confidence that James could never allow herself. Stockings, skirts, dresses in colors so dark they were blinding. Old, raw leather was what stood out in James's eyes. She wants to take them in her hands, dress them, feel them hug her body and warm her. But she keeps her hands to herself; she knows she can't take Dave's things away from her. When the pile of clothes is big enough for the redhead's liking, she begins to search for the best clothes for James, who can't help but idealize how her figure will look when Dave is finished with her, as if a set of rag-shaped constructions could fix everything about herself that she considered deformed.

“take off your clothes”

Direct, raw, that's how Dave's words come out. There are no sugar-coated filters or false ideas. James obeys, thinking she knows what's coming next. she takes off her shirt, revealing her flat chest, a plain lashed by violent storms. Her abdomen is the depression of the terrain, sunken in, her skin is thin, giving her a slender appearance that highlights her bones. She never marveled at her thinness like many girls who worship it; it only highlighted her worst qualities. It's not that she's deliberately gaining weight either; if she's learned anything, it's that thinness is something to yearn for, a symbol of respect among many women.

She takes off her pants; her legs are infinitely long, ger knees prominent and always scraped. The blond body hair had long since disappeared, the result of James exposing herself to long waxing sessions. They had left her skin red and irritated, but that was sometimes the point, the connection that generated the pain.

She's left vulnerable, in just her frayed panties and socks. She closes her eyes, feels bile rise in her throat, burning everything in its path. She felt vulnerable before Dave, but she didn't back down, hoping the redhead would see a little light in her. She needed a skilled, stern hand to reorganize her body so she wouldn't be ugly anymore, ugly as sin. She only prayed that that stern hand wouldn't crush her last rays of hope.

They burn, Dave's fingers against her skin, burning cold. They never rest on her completely; James is the patient, Dave the steel-bladed surgeon, the psychiatrist who prescribes pills. Black eyes rest on her body, testing which medicine to distribute. She takes one of her bras and passes it to the blonde. It's black, C-cup, and James's mind returns to the ring. She slips it on, her back wide, and the fabric frays in places, but Dave doesn't look surprised. The hooks scrape James's skin when she manages to adjust it. It stings; the fabric isn't of a pleasant quality; the seams feel like ant bites on her skin. She wants to scratch until they scab over, but her hands keep working.

Several plastic bags are the first thing she sees in Dave's hands when she raises her head. They're disposable bags, Dave probably got them at a supermarket or something. She doesn't give James much time to think; she shoves the bags into the gaps between her bra and her chest without any care. She can't help but feel a little disgusted; it's almost as if her chest is actually being ripped open, although that would be a little more pleasant, more real than dirty bags. But this is always better than nothing; she wasn't ungrateful.

Dave isn't very fond of her job. Her touch is dubious, as if unleashing unprecedented depravity. James can't help but feel decayed. She knows Dave has done worse than helping a tranny, yet she still treats her so abjectly. Still, she can't help but crave Dave's company. She begs not to be abandoned; she knows the hole Dave is capable of leaving her in is one she can't climb out of. She wants to satisfy her, needs the redhead's poisonous arms around her.

She doesn't expect it when Dave runs her hand around the cloth-covered bags, as if there's something real there. James takes one, two steps back. Her hands cup her chest as if she's about to be stabbed. No, she's already been stabbed, and she's preventing her blood from clotting and gushing out in black and red. The redhead looks confused; she doesn't understand how James can react so realistically to something she sees as fake.

James looks at her stomach, looks at her navel, and her stomach churns. After years of enduring the shared hatred of a world that wants her dead, she doesn't know why Dave's help makes her so weak. She wished she could put Dave in her shoes, make her see through her eyes, know what it's like to look in the mirror and understand the word self-loathing. But that will never happen, because Dave is beautiful, and Dave is a real woman.

Dave's arms fall back, looking at James like a parent looking at an ungrateful child. James knows the disappointment in her gaze, knows what it means to fall short of expectations; she does it all the time, just by living.

Another piece of clothing ends up in James's hands: a plain black T-shirt. A bit different from her usual style, there are no rock band logos or any silly phrases like the band's tees usually wear. She puts her arms and head through the holes. The air feels chilly. The pockets inside the bra create slight curves, which James thinks would be enough to satisfy her and paint her eyes with false perception most days.

She sits on the bed for the next item. Dave insists she can't put it on herself, that the fabric is cheap, and James's hands are too big, and she's too clumsy to keep from tearing it. The blonde stays quiet; perhaps Dave knows better. They're black Lycra stockings, meant to be knee-high. They're more opaque than what James usually sees the other woman wear; they don't go with the revealing outfits Dave always wears. They're discreet, so no one will notice them too much.

James positions her feet like a ballet dancer's so Dave can start putting on the stockings. She was right; the fabric feels cheap, as if it could tear at the slightest wrong touch. There's pure concentration in Dave's eyes, unlike her careless swipes from before. A dead silence accompanies her firm touch. The stockings rise up her calves, trapping her skin inside. It reaches her knee, and the redhead smooths the Lycra over her freshly formed scrapes. James's chest tightens, and she hisses in pain. She wants to clench her legs together, but she keeps them in place.

Her breathing becomes labored as they reach her thigh, her touch intensifies, and she begins to feel everything with intensity. She dreads watching Dave approach her crotch; she doesn't want to disgust Dave more than she already does. But James knows she's fucking disgusting. She alone soils her pale skin with filth. She discovers it again every time she sits on her bed, her legs trembling and her hands stained with her own fluids; when she looks in the mirror and her most violent organs remind her of her ontological reality, the knowledge that she will never be a woman, but rather the attempt at one.

There it is again, the nausea. Her stomach churns violently, she feels like all the alcohol she's been choking on for years is going to explode in her throat. She can't stop, the anxiety is eating her alive. She didn't think about how badly this could end when she accepted Dave's proposal. She can't understand how she stripped naked in front of her, with her body wanting nothing more than to be mutilated and reassembled. Maybe she needed Dave that badly.

She can understand when Dave doesn't pull her stockings up to her hips. The disgust she must feel with a body like James's. Her disappointment is clouded with relief as she pulls the last few inches of fabric up to her hips.

She puts on the skirt Dave hands her. It's shorter than she usually wears, revealing more than it should. But it's not like the miniskirts the redhead wears either. In fact, she doesn't remember seeing Dave wear this same garment before. Her hands work clumsily; it's too tight for her legs, too narrow for her fake waist. She feels her body compressing. Maybe she should slim down a little more if she wants to fit into Dave's clothes.

Now she feels like a corpse dressed for its funeral. There's something messy about the way the clothes don't fit her body. She shouldn't have expected them to, Dave has always told her that; it's silly for her to expect to look feminine, because she wasn't going to. The fabric is scratchy as a weed, but she stays still. She remembers how her mother had once told her sister that beauty hurts, and James thinks she was right. Beauty hurts, it stings, it leaves bruises.

Dave has a mirror in her room too, a desktop one where she can't see the full picture of the mess she is. She can only see her face, dried by the tears from of years. The bright red pimple scars stood out on her skin, and she wants to scratch them off. She sighs; she can't even look at her face without thinking about everything she wants to tear out and rearrange.

“You’re not even good enough to put on clothes. Do I have to do everything myself?”

She looks over her shoulder at Dave's voice, disappointed in herself. The redhead grabs her by her nonexistent waist and drags her like a rag doll. James's feet slip on the floor and she feels like her outfit is about to rip. She squeezes her legs together to keep from falling to the ground; Dave really didn't seem to care much if the blonde fell under her touch.

She doesn't ask permission to start adjusting James's clothes. She doesn't need permission if it's James. James would never be able to deny Dave anything; she couldn't give herself that right, she wasn't the one to do it. Hands start tugging at her shirt, at her skirt, sometimes getting dangerously close to the areas James hated most on her body. Dave doesn't know which ones they are, and she doesn't mind avoiding them either.

It faintly reminds her of moments from her childhood. Her father used to do this to her mother all the time. Running lipstick off her face until there was no trace left, buttoning her shirt all the way up, or trying to make her skirt cover up even more. Maybe this is what her mother felt when her father tried to "fix" her; she felt possessed, consumed.

She imagines what it would be like to be a couple with Dave. For a second, she doesn't think her heart could handle the redhead's attitude every day. But if her mother could endure and love her father, she could live with Dave in a more romantic way. James isn't sure if she likes the woman that way, but she also wishes things between them were different.

Her mother used to shed tears at times like these. Maybe she should be crying too. She'd always been told boys didn't cry, that it was only for girls. Maybe crying would make her more of a woman. She feels foolish every time she interacts with Dave, like everything she's learned throughout her life is wrong, somehow.

She looks down and breathes. She's going to let Dave teach her everything she doesn't know.

The club's neon lights are as harsh as a blinding sun on her retinas. The narcotic smell in the dead, stale air burns her nostrils and makes her feel sick; she wants to go back to bed. She doesn't like clubs like this; she's a bar girl, where everyone was minding their own business, too lost in the alcohol to care what anyone else was doing. This was different; in the few minutes she spent here, she saw more people powdering their noses than she'd seen in her entire life, and she lives with Dave.

Before leaving, she put on a pair of Dave's shoes that were killing her feet. Along with the tights and the tight skirt, James can barely walk. She looks like a deer that's been attacked and its hind legs are broken. Dave had gone to the trouble of putting on her makeup; eyeliner adorns her eyelids and a little blush reddens her cheeks. No lipstick.

She's alone, standing weakly against the bar as she clouds her mind with alcohol. She keeps her head down, her voice high-pitched so no one suspects. She knows what happens to people like her in places like this. She still doesn't know why Dave thought this was the best place to bring her. It's full of drugged-up strangers with brain-damaged minds looking to spread their stupidity and human filth.

The redhead had let go of her in the sea of people to actually have some fun. She remembered all the times Dave told her how boring it was to spend time with someone as shy as her. James didn't know that feeling went so far as to leave her alone in such a hostile environment.

She can't hear the music in the room; the volume is too high for her to hear anything other than the frequencies of the rumbling bass drum. In all the din, she thinks she's finally gone deaf. She can't identify any of the sounds around her. Her brain is being whipped into a needle of noise and is about to explode.

As she struggles to stay alive, a hand slides down her back until it touches her shoulder.

James tenses instantly, her whole body sensitive to the foreign touch. She doesn't want to look up, but she has to. She forces herself to see the man's face; he's tall, very tall, even taller than James, and that intimidates her. She's not used to meeting people taller than her. His face is blurred; she can't see any nuance of his expression other than a mocking smile with too much teeth.

She curses her stupidity and her numbness for not warning her that someone was approaching. Fear begins to course through her veins along with the alcohol, a race to see who will take control of her body. She'll be in deep trouble if the alcohol wins.

Icy fingers caress her shoulder where the fabric doesn't cover it. They drag like dirt; James already knows where she'll scrub her skin with soap first when she gets home. The man must have noticed the scared expression on James's face, because he presses harder, her blood rushing back. The skin where his claws dig in burns like a live fire, about to leave a scab covered in blisters.

The man's words turn into animalistic growls in James's mind. The blonde's knuckles turn white as her fists clench, her arteries bulging as if they're about to burst. She moves silently, knowing that one false step is inevitable when dealing with idiots in pubs who think they can do whatever they want.

Confronting a stranger in a bar should be easier than it actually is: strike and walk away, knowing she'd never run into him again. But fear paralyzes her; dressed like this, she feels more vulnerable. She knows that now, she looks just like the target, the perfect prey for the target of violent hands. Now, she's just a fourth-class citizen.

Her gut is in knots. She doesn't know how many times she's felt nausea take over her senses so far today, but this is definitely the worst. She feels like she's going to regurgitate until there's not a single organ left inside her. She feels like she's going to burst into flames, and can't avoid the sour taste that forms on her tongue.

When James didn't respond verbally, the man brought his face closer to hers and spoke louder. His breath was sour, the stench strong, and James wrinkled her nose, gasping for air. She swallowed, her throat feeling hard and raspy. She wished Dave were here. She'd seen her defend those she considered one of her own, but she didn't know how much that applied to her, probably because James wasn't one of "hers," she was Dave's, and she was terrified by how natural the idea felt.

But, just as her mind wanders, she returns to her tormented reality when she feels the man's hand move down her bare arm. He seems to take her silence as an invitation. She tries to move, but finds herself trapped between the man and her arm. She squirms in place, wanting nothing more than to escape his filthy touch. Feeling cornered, she begins to gasp for air, becoming like one of the defenseless animals she used to hunt with her father. A coward only goes after prey he considers certain. And James isn't doing anything to defend herself.

She's disgusted with herself for doing nothing, disgusted with the stranger, with the stench in the air. She can no longer distinguish where they're touching her; she feels like it's no longer worth knowing. She holds her stomach above the cloth and looks down, trying to focus her vision on whatever it is. Her head is slowly starting to kill her, the pain becomes unbearable, and she's about to stop recognizing her flesh when a hand rests on her leg.

She squeezes her eyelids shut, wishing she were unconscious, but the pain keeps her awake in a state of misery. The fingers don't stop there; they squeeze her thigh as if trying to cut off her blood flow. She becomes a piece of meat in the eyes of a predator. The hand moves up, leaving his filth everywhere. His nails feel more like teeth trying to pierce her tights as they approach her crotch. She hears the mocking laughter, and her stomach can't hold it anymore.

James vomits on the man, purging all the alcohol and fucked-up stuff out of her.

She feels the putrid fluids pouring out of her body. Her throat is incinerated; she's barely eaten anything all day, and pure acid is pouring out of her throat. The liquid stains the guy's shirt and pants. She doesn't notice, nor does she care. She just wants to escape the blinding lights and the drilling sound. She misses the comfort of her bed. She misses Lars and Cliff; she wishes they were here, looking at her with genuine concern.

With wobbly steps, she drags herself backward as if she's running from a brutal crime scene. When her feet manage to connect two steps without losing her balance, she tries to run, but the shoes she's wearing cut off her circulation and she scrapes until her flesh becomes sore and unbearable. The constant feeling that all her clothes are about to be ripped off isn't very pleasant either.

And there it was, a red dot in James's vision.

She doesn't have to articulate many steps until she's face to face with Dave again. She can recognize that wild mane of hair from miles away. There's always been something about the way Mustaine commands a presence wherever she is—fire rising in the air, generating panic, making everything about her in an instant.

Whether she wants to or not, she always ends up dragging herself towards the redhead out of inertia, or maybe she just needs her that badly. This is a face she does recognize, Dave's angry expression etched in her head from nights of beer and shouting to which she'd grown accustomed. Her eyes, the most solid brown she'd ever seen, pierce her vision like two razors.

Asking Dave why she left her alone is a waste of energy. In the redhead's mind, the favor was already done when she let her play dress-up in her clothes. It's no surprise when Dave snatches up the urge. Her voice drowns out any other noises that had been racking her brains just seconds ago. She's alone in the crowd. Her gaze fills her with self-loathing, sickening gaze; she must smell like a rotting corpse and vomit stains she hasn't noticed yet. All she can think about is how she wants to hide when Dave stares at the deepest vices inside her.

When tears begin to flow from her reddened eyes, her mind is filled with the thought of how much she hates how easily she can be destroyed. And how she drinks it down like liquor, because the redhead won't want her when she fights back because she hates what she doesn't possess, and James doesn't respect herself enough to give herself any other way. Dave doesn't tell her what she wants to hear; she instills fear in her, she disciplines. She looks down on her, giving her a sense of belonging.

A vile heat settles in her eyes as tears flow. Her shoulders slump; those inches she had over Dave, her roars of rebellion on the stage where she towered, were just a joke. She was never smaller than when she stood before the redhead's vile eyes in intimacy; she became docile, drugged by her perfect image.

“Oh no, you’re not going to cry now.” Dave’s hands roughly land on her shoulders and pull her close. Their foreheads collide, miraculously missing the point of a headbutt. Their faces are so close she can feel the redhead’s alcoholic breath against her chapped lips. Their shocks of hair hide their expressions from the rest of the audience, making sure no one gets too curious. She doesn’t think Dave wants to be seen with her too much outside of the band. “I help you with your transvestite shit and you start crying. Nothing will satisfy you, bitch.”

It hurts to know that she's a charity case in the eyes of the person she adores most. But she needs her so much now, and she doesn't know how long she'll last. It could be an eternal pain for a short life, or just a fist squeezing her heart with its blunt nails.

Dave's hand brushes her fingers without interest until it reaches her bony wrist, squeezing as if James is going somewhere, away from her harsh touch. It takes a while for James to realize that Dave is leading her to the club's emergency exit, straight into an alley between establishments. It's only when she inhales the air that wafts through the open door that she slips from the step between the club and the icy sidewalk that she realizes is the fact.

She falls as if she carries the weight of all her sins in her bones; she can almost feel the air breaking to make way for her body. She closes her eyes as if that might make her collapse hurt less. aher hands and legs scrape the raw cement, where bruises will later form, reminding her of this day like the rest of the wounds on her skin and flesh. But the worst blow falls to her head; she hits the floor and almost falls unconscious, but she's not so lucky. She genuinely doubts hee brain is in good condition; she feels like hee brain has exploded, throbbing as if trying to burst out of her head; her entire forehead aches, expanding and contracting.

Trash and small stones dig into her palms as she tries to settle. Her entire upper body weighs her down, her organs splintering between the confines of her ribs. She can't lift her head completely, as if it were dangling, about to detach itself from her neck. She inhales and exhales with abnormal difficulty. The scent of accumulated waste makes it difficult to breathe, leaving a strong, rotten feeling on her tongue. Her tights are now all ripped, scraps of her skin seeping through the torn rows of Lycra. She can't deny that she imagined this, ending up in an alley, feeling broken, dirty, for one reason or another, but she never imagined it would be thanks to Dave.

She coughs up the dust that ended up in her mouth and looks up, thinking the sight might blind her.

The cold, apathetic light from the old lighthouse on the wall is the only illumination to be found besides the faint moon. Dave's oversized body eclipses any illumination. Her curls ignite like matches, glowing. She's tall, no matter what her measurements, and she stands tall with a rage that puts her on a pedestal beyond James's plane, whatever that may be. She blinks weakly; she's going crazy.

She moves forward gracefully, each short step echoing in the night. The heel of her shoe leaves behind a dry, echoless sound. Her two feet rest on James's sides, at her waist. James is helpless, subdued; she's evaporating, on the verge of fading away. There's no blood left in her body, no definite thoughts. She was paying dearly for the sin of being a girl.

Dave lets herself fall against her, sitting on her abdomen. The force with which she collapses is enough to make James groan. The redhead takes her time settling into James's lap. A smile that doesn't reach her eyes rests on her night-darkened face. James gathers her thoughts; maybe Dave is enjoying it, maybe she is enjoying it. The idea disgusts her with herself; it doesn't help that she has her on top of her, writhing like a parasite about to enter her, a parasite that feeds on the flesh and its desires, and will let James's devoured body pay for her sins.

She's not crying anymore; her mind is so rotten she no longer has the strength to do so. She watches Dave move like a snake, her fangs long and sharp. The redhead leans closer to her face for what seems like a short eternity. Fingers grip her hair, holding her head in place, still. Her fringe obscures her gaze, but it's not necessary to meet her gaze when her entire attitude is predatory. Her lips stand out among her features, pink like a newly formed bruise.

And it's those lips that are on hers at the moment her eyes begin to narrow.

Dave's lips taste of the femininity she'd never had. The sting of lipstick and the unmistakable scent of bad whiskey. James's lips taste like vomit—just acid and waste—but she felt even dirtier with the redhead's mouth on hers. It's almost a kiss, but you can't really call it one; there's something about it that makes it feel thick and heavy. But they both know they'll never do it any other way.

She keeps her lips there, sucking out any remaining spirit from the blonde girl. James only opens her eyes when she starts gasping for air. She breathes heavily and swears she can feel Dave's smile against her mouth. Dave's tongue drags inside, possessive, hateful. It's wet, like an open, dripping wound, and she feels like she might choke on her own blood if they don't stop now.

A hand moves from her hair to her neck. It squeezes, not cutting off the airflow, but enough to leave a mark different from those of his arms, one that no T-shirt or wristband could hide. Like a dog's collar, always present and ready to strangle her. Dave squeezes a little harder, pushing her luck as the flesh of her throat begins to twist.

She gasps in intense pain when Dave bites her lower lip. It breaks easily, adding the taste of iron to their tongues. Her teeth pierce with a surgeon's precision, tearing at the small, transparent scabs of flesh. But James isn't alert when the scent of blood reaches her nose, too worried about suffocating. She doesn't want to die now, at the hands of her blind love, where God won't find her.

Her bra sticks to her body from the fragrant, primal sweat pouring off her. Her arms barely hold up her back; they're numb, practically asleep, trying to hold themselves up as the floor leaves its mark. Dave lets go of her lips like a hunter letting go of an already dying prey, because there's nothing more disgusting than taut flesh. The redhead is agitated, rejuvenated and fed. Satisfaction is all James sees before Dave stands and speaks to her for the last time that night.

“I hate you, Hetfield. I thought I liked girls, but I had to meet you.”

HEYYYY hope u liked this. I love transfem James she's everything to me

English is not my first language. This was written in Spanish, translated using a crappy website, and proofread using my poor English and a Word document. Which is sad, because the original is quite good.

thanks to my friend Sam for this beautiful art <333

#megadeth #metallica #megadeth fanfiction #metallica fanfiction #dave mustaine #james hetfield #fanfic #my writing

11 notes · View notes

starscatteredsky · 9 months ago

Note

may We get an inbox check?

hi there! sure!!

since our last check two days ago, nothing new has been queued but plenty of things have been worked on and finished! so while it might not look like its moving, i promise it is :D

ill put it under a cut because its very very long!! we're doing our best to keep up with everything

have a good day! we're so sorry for the wait, we know things are backlogged :(

-🩸

queued and ready to post (subject to very little change, in order of when they'll post)

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Tips and fashion for lilac (Orin Ayo)

70s/80s fashion for an incubus

Home inspo for yeerks

Tips fashion and recipes for a zim

tips for a corvid (done, not queued)

tips for a nightfury (done, not queued)

Tips and neos for quetzalcoatlus

tips and fashion for shadow the hedgehog (done, not queued)

Tips for space divines (done, not queued)

Tips for c!tubbo without explosions

Tips for a tiger with connection to space

tips for a border collie (done, not queued)

Tips for sparrows

Tips for lions

tips for an angel (done, not queued)

Tips for zekrom (done, not queued)

Dysphoria relieving tips for a general nonhuman (done, not queued)

tips for princess (done, not queued)

tips for qsmp philza (done, not queued)

vibes for a hobbit and vampire, moodboard for a hobbit and vampire

tips for an evil ocean deity (done, not queued)

tips for a cheagle (done, not queued)

tips for huldra (done, not queued)

tips for zelda (done, not queued)

tips for guiding lights (done, not queued)

tips for glimmer (done, not queued)

tips for kyouka izumi (done, not queued)

selfcare for a hobbit and room cleaning tips for a hobbit/vampire

tips for hell hounds, ghosts, and cyn (done, not queued)

tips/denboard for a gryphon

questions for connecting to hobbit kintype (done, not queued)

tips for connecting to clownpierce(done, not queued)

vampire and gothic fashion for scourge (done, not queued)

goth and alt fashion for an enderman (done, not queued)

colourful fashion for a moth

fashion for a coyote (done, not queued)

Tips for C1tubbo

tips and outfit ideas for c!technoblade

tips for a purple blooded troll (done, not queued)

Tips for a halforc/elf humankin (done, not queued)

names and tips for a femme scott summers (done, not queued)

Tips for an otter (done, not queued)

Tips for a natural history museum and school lab

Tips for eleven

Tips for a shark kemonomimi (done, not queued)

Tips for mothman

fashion board for cole (done, not queued)

Grounding tips for fnaf sourced alters

Tips for raoul (done, not queued)

Tips for connecting to feeling catlike (done, not queued)

Tips for a service dog (done, not queued)

Tips for dragons (done, not queued)

Tips for husk

Tips for donnie

Colour neopronouns and tips for dressing masc and grunge

Tips for sebastian solace

Tips for a doglink with POTs

Pronouns for a calico cat

Tips for domestic dogs (done, not queued)

More tips for enderman

Tips for an enderman

Tips for a wolfthing

Tips for red foxes and housecats

Tips for a centipede

Fashion for a coastal wolf

tips/fashion for the companion bots from stray

Tips for vampires

not started/inbox (in no order)

Tips for a space-man (KISS)

Tips for mark heathcliff (mandela catalouge)

Tips for scarlet (pearlecentmoon) and nihachu (genloss)

Tips for aven (worldless)

Tips for flippy (htf)

Tips for persecutor unicorns

Tips for micheal afton

Tips for dib membrane (invader zim)

Tips fpr a nextbot

Tips for ronja (robbers daughter)

Tips for deimos from madness combat

Tips for barney calhoun from half life 2

Thin man vibes

Tips for fan (inanimate insanity)

Tips for tardis

Tips for jordie holmes

Tips for jane doe

Tips for v1 (ultrakill)

Carekit for an alien

Carekit for venus (solarballs)

fashion for a scene cougar

fem fashion for a crow

names for a hobbit and recipes for a hobbit

fashion for the heart

neos and xenos for even hansen

fashion for red heeler dog (REDO)

stimboard and masc fashion for a saarloos wolfdog

fashion and moodboard for a harpy

Tips for Vee

Carekit for will graham

Tips and fashion for a robot

Tips for a fae and doormouse

Masc and neutral genders for foxes/canines

Tips for cats and batearred foxes

Tips for dating retro/vintage graphic cards

Tips for P03

Tips for Link

Fashion for Draven Kondraki

Tips for Sherlock Holmes

Angel and void tips

Tips for beetlejuice

Tips for harry dubois

Tips and fashion for a horned black kite

Fashion for reginald copperbottom

Fashion for black wolves

Tips for zim and 2D

Fashion for a remnant

Fashion and info for raccoons

Tips and fashion for saihara

den board, tips and/gender ideas for German Malinois

Tips and carekit for N

Moodboard and stimboard for infected

Tips and fashion for harrison and preston

Marble hornets tips!

Golden retriever service dog moodboard

Pink computer and candy moodboard

Fashion for a mimic

Playlist for erik

Moodboard for erik

Tips for a natural history museum

Playlist for a fallen angel and otherkin term for past life memories

Gordon freeman tips/carekit

Tips and fashion for a nightmare deity

Fashionboard and moodboard for major player

Tips for eldritch shapeshifters

Tips and fashion for an angel

Fashion for a cryptid

Fashion for a zombie

#mod 🩸#inbox check

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localacegoblin · 3 months ago

Text

okok here are most of my hcs for the alphalore characters :3 this is very long. warning!!! mentions of: death/revivals, major character death, eating disorders, blood/serious injury, dysphoria, self hatred, child soldiers/being a child soldier

Multiple characters/Misc: - Each one of alphas brothers/clones inherits something from him other than personality or looks. Host is sensitive to light and thus wears sunglasses all the time, Kane has inkstains on his hands/feet/ears/tentacles and back, Billy has scars under his eyes/mask and Omega's ink is naturally the same pink/purple/magenta as the octarian's ink is. - Dave and Travis share a one-bedroom apartment in splatsville, Alpha lives on the outskirts of splatsville and has a bedroom set up solely for Billy and Bartholemew, Kane lives in an apartment at flounder heights but ended up crashing on Alpha's couch during the splatoon 3 splatlocke, Host has his own very fancy house in a quiet part of inkopolis near a library, and Omega is technically homeless but stays with Alpha and Billy in a spare room post splatlocke finale. - When Alpha sees out of someone's eyes they get a slightly blue pupil and their ink colour goes lighter. - Anyone who in some way was poisoned has slightly purple saliva (the poison is based on the fuzzy ooze which is mostly pinks yellows blues and purples) - The random Mahi-Mahi employee holds a grudge against Ink for shit talking her map. He is banned from the premises for life. It is on sight. - Travis and Dave have matching blue and orange everything while the 5 star siblings all have matching triangle earrings that assemble into one big star.

Alpha/Agent 8: - Worked in record keeping and organisation back at the octarian domes. Wanted to be an engineer working on the bosses but most high-profile jobs were reserved for octoling soldiers - Tried to escape to the surface after reading a classified file about inkopolis square and inkling life. - Made it to the nearest metro station but was interrupted by Cuttlefish, insert entirety of octo expansions events here. - Spent about a month in the metro, on and off doing tests and riding the train. - Got severe inkstains/scars all over his back, hands, feet, ears, tentacles and on swim form from constant exposure to sanitized ink from failing tests, getting hit, having to walk through it, etc. They show up as pale green splotches and are very sensitive/itchy. - Wears long clothes to cover scars/inkstains, refuses to wear anything short unless absolutely necessary. - Super sensitive to light from growing up in the domes, working mostly in big storage buildings with minimal light and spending (in my head) a month or two in the metro. Has mild nightvision in return. He wears the visor or sunglasses he has so he can actually see in turfwar and day to day life. Keeps most of the main lights in his house off, uses lamps and nightlights since they aren't as bad. - Initially very scared of inklings/inkling life having grown up hearing stories about the agents and what the surface was like, took ages to get accustomed to new life. - Speaks fluid octarian since it was his first language, Inklish is good but started very broken. Learned by picking up what Inklings said in battle, uses a lot of outdated slang - Has an eating disorder. Food was hard to grow in the domes and rations mostly went to more important positions so Alpha didn't get as much food as octarian soldiers. Plus in metro most of the food he could eat was from vending machines so he didn't have a lot to eat every day. Once he got to the surface he was still nervous about eating a lot of food out of fear it was limited - Will cuddle his Bloblobber like it's a plushie/pillow - Thinks he might have been affected by the sanitized ink in a way other than being able to create life/ink stains. Worried that he could hurt others or is in some way being influenced by Tartar's desires to create the perfect lifeform via killing others. He isn't, that would require him to actually be sanitized, but he still worries he is and tends to stay isolated from others out of fear of hurting them. Even in battles he likes staying far back so tends to go for support weapons - If he's sick or emotionally drained like he was at the tail end of the splatlocke his eyes, ink and tentacles get duller, or in the case of Wrath's influence, get a slight red tint - Experienced memory loss/amnesia up until events of Side Order where he got his memories from before the metro back -He/Him, fine with He/They. No sexuality/gender hcs cos even tho its a character I felt a bit weird.

Billy: - First brother Alpha created, technically the oldest despite mentally being the youngest (mentally around 15ish by Splatlocke 3) - Has some octoling traits because Alpha hadn't seen many inklings up close or for long periods of time when he created Billy. He has asymmetrical fangs/teeth, his ears are slightly rounded, he has the spiky hairstyle because Alpha struggled to think of how inkling tentacles looked/worked and his eye mask is slightly pointed like octoling's are. - Likes Bartholemew more than he likes Alpha (Alpha is devastated but refuses to admit it) - Has faint tear scars under his eyes which he inherited from Alpha - Host and Alpha homeschool him to the best of their abilities since Alpha couldn't get him into a normal school. - After his soul was absorbed by Omega he got some of their traits, most notably a small crack-like scar over one of his eyes and claw-like fingertips. He also gets angry more often, but his own kindness balances it out. - Easily gets overwhelmed in crowded spaces or in battles where emotions are at their highest and he can't ignore them, prefers quiet spaces. Often visits a library with Host to de-stress. They like infodumping to eachother. - Lets himself get bullied or harassed by others, partially because he wants to understand why people might do it, partially because he doesn't know how to stand up for himself, partially because he thinks he deserves it because of what he did in Alterna. - Decorates his bedroom with stuff he gets from others and Alterna. One wall is covered with pictures he's taken of himself, his brothers and Bartholemew. - Bartholemew has his own bed but half the time he ends up sleeping on Billy's face. - Has not touched salmon run or even looked at Grizzco after adopting Bartholemew and learning about Mr Grizz, the other's haven't either out of respect. - Doesn't really mind what pronouns people use for him but generally defaults to He/Him. He hasn't given much thought to his gender or sexuality but is an enthusiastic ally.

Inkspedition Host: - 2nd oldest clone/sibling physically, slightly younger or on par with Alpha mentally. - Second shortest, wears heels or insoles to compensate - Goes by Host when talking formally but goes by Ink when around his friends or their brothers. If they ever need to use a proper name they use Quinn Star. - Autistic. I don't make the rules I just enforce 'em. - Inherits Alpha's sensitivity to light, but not as severe, wears sunglasses outdoors but can handle regular lights indoors. - HORRIBLE hat hair. Man wears a beret 90% of the time his octofro is smushed to hell and back. - When he doesn't have hat-hair (hat tentacles?) he takes good care of his afro. Sometimes he'll split it back into tentacles if he feels like spicing it up a bit but he keeps it as an afro while filming Inkspeditions for recognisability. - Pretty rich off of the inkspedition, will buy lavish gifts for everyone - Enjoys studying human culture and artifacts, regularly criticises their 'map' design (aka city/town layouts) - Secretly very worried about what others think of them or if they come off in a negative way. Even though they're literally the embodiment of pride they want to be loved by others, even if it's superficial or in some way harmful. Admitted this to Dave and Travis while working on an inkspedition and cried so much their face started burning. Asked them to never mention it ever again. - Says he's so good with a charger people thought he had aim-bot. In reality he's good with it, but not that good. - He/They Non-Binary, Bisexual, Demiromantic-Asexual (sex repulsed).

Kane/Splatlocke: - Middle child physically, oldest mentally (year or two older than Alpha) - Normally tallest clone/brother, with Omega only being taller than him when they're wearing boots/or in an unstable form - Inherits Alpha's inkstains. They're faded and don't hurt/itch but are still visible. The colour of the stains isn't the sanitized ink colour, instead showing up as whatever colour ink they have - Doesn't play much outside of the splatlocke, occasionally does salmon runs or turf wars with others. - Much more inkling-like compared to Billy, still has asymmetrical fangs, but it's harder to notice. - Likes to take extra care of their tentacles, uses it as a way to de-stress/ground themself. Also does Billy's hair since he's the only one familiar with inkling tentacles/how they work. - Crashes on Alpha's couch during Splatlocke, but has an apartment in Flounder Heights. Host, David, Alpha and Billy check in on him all the time to make sure he takes care of himself outside of practicing for ranked and turfing. - Likes reading lots of philosophy and non-fiction in general. - Struggles a lot with viewing themself as a person and not a tool or just 'a husk made to serve Alpha.' Wore the starter gear even outside of the splatlocke since he believed he wasn't enough of a 'real' person to have other actually decent clothes. Doesn't like talking about his feelings but the others know and make sure to reassure him every chance they get. - Slightly near-sighted after the Splatlocke finale, wears actual contacts not fake ones. - Chronic illness/fatigue after the part of Alpha's soul in him was severely damaged by Omega - They/He/She (in order of preference), Genderfluid, grey-aroace meaning they very rarely feel sexual/romantic attraction.

Omega/Wrath: - Youngest clone/brother physically, the same age as Alpha mentally. - Also same height as Alpha and the most physically similar to him in general. - Fingertips go into black and red claws similar to Acht's, loses them post revival. - Crack-like scars over left side of face. Can't see out of or physically open left eye. Scars bled ink originally which is why they had bandages, but healed over after revival. - Hates being compared to/similar to Alpha in any and all ways. Styles hair/tentacles differently to him, refuses to get any help from him, doesn't use star as a last name, and considers themself not one of his brothers. Tries everything in their power to not be him. - Goes by Wrath normally. Hates the idea that he's just the 'evil opposite' version of Alpha. - Inherits Alpha's natural ink colour. Ink is naturally pink/magenta like octarian ink - Doesn't have a home for themself. Just kinda lurked around during Splatlocke but now stays with Billy and Alpha (mostly against his will). Billy has a bunk bed, the top bed being for Bartholemew, but after seeing Wrath have a nightmare he made him sleep in the bunk with him. Wrath refuses to admit it but it felt nice having someone care for them. - Struggles with the idea that someone could be nice to them with no strings attached, since their own acts of kindness were just attempts to kill or hurt others disguised as kindness. On-edge whenever anyone does anything for him. - Billy is the most forgiving post-revival. He thinks Omega was just genuinely trying to help, and can physically sense/see the emotions he feels (meaning he sees all of Omega's pent up pain, self-loathing and loneliness). Billy tries his best to be kind, even though Omega tends to give him the cold shoulder. Omega does have a small sea-slug plushie Billy got for him. Hides it from everyone else. Host and Kane are much more hesitant to trust Omega. They see them as still unstable or dangerous, and only interact with them when necessary. Dave and Travis actively hate it. Travis because he was unfairly and unnecessarily killed/absorbed. Dave because he took both his partner and his boss/friend away for months. They don't forgive him and don't talk to him. Alpha has the most complicated feelings. He wants to give Omega a fresh start at life outside of just being his wrath personified. Also feels incredibly bad for them since Omega was created on accident out of pure self hatred and suicidal ideation, thus inheriting those feelings. But Alpha still wants the others to be safe physically and mentally, and is still nervous around Omega. - Bad at self-care. Think it's just another version of Alpha, who it was created to hate, thus doesn't take good care of it's body. Billy and Alpha had to practically drag them kicking and screaming into the bathroom just to make sure his tentacles weren't permanently damaged or dried out. - Any pronouns but leans towards He/They/It and neopronouns, Solarian/Xenogender. Aromantic, demisexual/pansexual. (you can tell which character is my favourite in a piece of media based on how specific my gender/sexuality hcs are)

Dave: - Short. Hates this fact. - Older than Alpha by 3 years, oldest of all characters - Comes from Inkopolis, near the plaza, but his family is all from Calamari County. - His family is fine with him being trans since gender isn't really a strict construct in Splatoon, just another form of personal style like clothing and hairstyle. - Partially wears the mask because Ink has a vendetta against all with the spikey haircut and does not want to see them, partially because of gender dysphoria - Terrible at flirting or realising that people are flirting with him. Didn't realise that Travis was flirting with him for months despite being head over heels for him. - Regularly steals Travis' clothes like a little raccoon stealing trash. - Struggled to pick a name for himself at first but ended up with Dave because it was the most stereotypically masc name he could think of. - Doesn't play turf at all. Uses his brella as an actual umbrella and not a weapon. Does like watching Travis and Ink play. - Does play Table Turf. At an obscenely high level, with every card and several different decks. Currently 'coaching' Billy and teaching him how to play. Makes a lot of money in competitions, more than he does working with Ink. - Studied at Inkblot for some time. Really good artist but anxious about sharing his work with others. Has some stuff hanging up in his apartment. - Currently lives with Travis in an apartment in Splatsville for 'convenience'. Whenever someone brings up that there's only one large bedroom in the apartment he says they top and tail in bed (they do not. they cuddle all night and both snore obnoxiously loudly.) - He/Him, Transmasc, bisexual/aegosexual.

Travis: - Tallest of everyone, even without his hat/boots. Younger than Dave by a few months. - Worked as an octarian soldier in the domes, but didn't actually get sent anywhere to fight. Spent a lot of time training, however, which is how he got his skills as a turf war player. Didn't know Alpha personally while in the domes, but had seen him here and there. - Escaped to the surface after hearing the Inkantation and seeing other octolings leaving. Escaped after being moved to a station in Octo Valley near the surface. Ran away to Inkopolis. - Started transitioning/questioning his gender after getting to the surface, with Dave's support. When Travis first mentioned he was an octoling soldier Alpha got confused and thought masc octolings were allowed to fight and he was just lied to by his caretakers before it clicked that Travis was trans. - Plays a lot of turf outside of getting footage, has every roller to either 4 or 5 stars. - Got his accent from living in a more remote dome closer to Splatlands in his youth before moving to Octo Canyon as a teen for training. - Slightly broken Inklish, didn't speak it well until he started working with Ink and Dave. Very good with octarian and will chat to Alpha only using it. Struggle to understand eachother due to regional differences in the way things are pronounced. - Started working with Ink because they got put into a team with him for several turf war matches. Ink approached him about helping him gather footage of the maps in action. Travis didnt fully understand but agreed to help. - Met Dave on his first day, quickly became friends despite the language barrier. Dave helped him learn Inklish with Ink pitching in. - Started falling for him a few months after becoming friends, tried flirting with him like how octolings in the domes did but eventually started copying what he saw inkling couples do on TV/in videos. - After his soul was freed from Omega's control he has claw-like fingers and a slight red tint to his eyes. He also gets frequent headaches and migraines when experiencing strong amounts of hate, anger, self-hatred, wrath, etc. - Lived in Inkopolis with some ex-soldiers he vaguely knew before he moved in with Dave. - He/Him transmasc, gay-demisexual. T4T with Dave <3

anyways what do you guys think? :3

#localacegoblin's stuff #alphalore #alphastar716 #alphalore alpha #alphalore omega #alphalore wrath #alphalore billy #alphalore kane #alphalore splatlocke #alphalore host #alphalore dave #alphalore travis #my magnum opus of autism fueled posts #this is almost 3k words worth of pure yapping for the enjoyment of like 15 others

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