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jesuistrestriste · 2 months ago

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death with no dignity; patrick zweig

“ amethyst and flowers on the table

is it real or a fable ?

well, i suppose, a friend is a friend

and we all know how this will end ” - sufjan stevens

cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.

wc : 1.9 k

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe.

It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word.

He had been driving home from Art’s house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. He’d thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, that’s all he could think about.

He didn’t have enough time to swerve and avoid her because he’d been speeding, and everything afterwards happened in slow-motion. The skidding squeal of his tires against the asphalt. His heart lurching in his ribcage, almost enough to make him feel sick. The harsh jolt of the car and the brutal sound of metal hitting muscle, followed by the animal being sent hurtling a few feet forward and onto her side, accompanied by the painful sting of the seatbelt digging into his chest. When the car finally came to a stop, Patrick froze. His hands stuck to the wheel, shaking, and his eyes were peeled open wide as he stared through the windshield at the lifeless creature he’d just hit with his car. He was practically panting. He didn’t quite recall ever being so scared in his entire life, not even when he’d played his first professional match. Not even when he’d nearly drowned one summer years ago when he and Art were swimming in a lake upstate.

He’d never killed anything before. Not like that.

The aftermath was a blur. He almost called the cops to let them know that there was a large, dead animal in the road on so-and-so street, but he didn’t. To this day, he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it was all of the adrenaline. Maybe it was all of the guilt. Regardless, he’d mumbled a soft, “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” and then slowly pulled off and around it. He never told his parents, or anyone for that matter, that he had cried so hard on the rest of the drive home that he felt lightheaded by the time he was in the driveway.

Mommy and Daddy Zweig offered–no, begged–to get him a new car the next evening (when they got back from Greece) because his hood and bumper were horribly dented, but Patrick had refused. He’d laughed off the incident in front of them, and then waited until they went to bed to slink into their massive garage and pick all of the little tufts of fur out of the vehicle’s grille.

He’d traced his fingertips along the indentations and the scratches in the paint and blinked away the wetness clouding his vision. Tried to mentally retrace his steps that night, too. What if he hadn’t been listening to that stupid song? What if he hadn’t left his best friend’s place so late? What if he’d been quicker? Smarter? Luckier?

Could things be different? Could he have spared a life?

Could he have spared the victim, and himself, the pain?

Patrick’s twenty-one now, and he does a lot of retracing his steps these days.

Tennis is his priority; he’s always on the court, or in a car or a bus that’s traveling to a court of some kind. Forehands, backhands, volleying, serving, smashes–it’s all he lives and breathes. And, of course, it’s easier now to focus on tennis when he no longer has friends.

Art and him haven't talked in many months (has it really been years?), not since Tashi’s knee had gotten injured during that match at Stanford.

Fuck that fucking match. And fuck them.

He didn’t need them, he was doing just fine on his own.

If his best friend of over a decade wanted to kick him to the curb like he was nothing more than a dog that had bitten him a smidge-too-hard to be loved, then whatever. If his grotesquely-talented girlfriend wanted to break up with him because he didn’t want to be treated like a lesser athlete nor sit in her shadow, then fine. He’d enjoy his tennis career and roll freely in the expendable income he was sure to continue collecting.

But that’s not really who Patrick is.

And so he can’t help but lie awake at night, trying to pin-point where things went wrong–what he could have done to prevent this outcome–and tracing the indentations and scratches in his relationships that surely were only indicative of his faults. Compulsively picking at the tufts nestled in the wreckage. Eyeing the bloody brutalization, punishing himself by reliving the sting.

Sometimes he drags his fingertips over some of his old, banged-up rackets that he can't bear to get rid of, and he thinks about all of it. Tennis academy days with the shy, funny blonde kid that he became close with from day one. Learning and teaching and discussing with him all of the typical adolescent lessons that gave way to life outside of the bubble. Doubles matches–so many doubles matches. So many wins. First beers, first girlfriends, first cigarettes, first kisses. They shared everything with one another and they (almost neurotically) timed their experiences to happen around the same time so that they'd be able to talk to each other about them afterwards. As they got a bit older though, Patrick began to realize that he was feeling things for Art that he probably wasn’t supposed to tell him about. And he usually told Art everything.

That was his first mistake, he thinks, like when he hadn’t heeded the speed limit that night. Or, maybe, that was like playing the stupid song on the radio and going home late. It was the start of their untimely end.

When he’s in one of his usual depressive spirals, the kind in which he can’t seem to find his appetite and he forgets to shower and he ignores his manager’s texts, he argues with himself about what exactly could be considered the “impact”. Was it when he had cheekily served like Art during that one casual training session, ball to the neck of the racket, confirming that he had slept with Tashi and thus beginning the festering of that awful jealousy in his friend? Or was it when he praised her in front of Art before her match in the singles tournament that fateful afternoon, igniting his friend's interest? Patrick remembers the look that glossed over Art’s eyes when he first caught sight of her; he had looked at her and suddenly Patrick felt like he’d been forgotten–like he’d melted into those bleachers and disappeared. He can’t really blame him, Tashi was talented and beautiful and ambitious and confident and mature–she was everything that Art steadfastly admired in a person. She was twice the person that Patrick had been back then.

Usually though, he comes to the painful conclusion that the impact was certainly the day of the Stanford match. More specifically, it was when Art had yelled at him for the first time in the entirety of their friendship.

“Patrick, get the fuck out!”

Those four words ring through his head on the worst of days.

He knew he’d fucked up by not pushing aside his pride and going to support Tashi after their fight, so he could pretty easily swallow down the discomfort that came with being yelled at by her. They yelled at each other pretty often when they got into their little spats, it was relatively normal. But god.. It was so much different when it was him. Patrick's muscles had locked up; he was shaking and breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon, able to see nothing but that pair of angry, familiar eyes. The vitriol that came spurting from the blonde’s mouth was like the worst toxin he’d ever known. It paralyzed him and began to rot his insides from that very moment on. And then all of the suffocating memories came flooding back as he turned and walked out of that campus health center.

Giggling under blankets with a flashlight, reading comics until the sun started to come up. Practicing for hours on the courts at the academy, sometimes until they both got sunburns and heatstroke. Sleeping in the same bed on summer nights at Patrick’s house–tiredly watching the way Art’s chest rose and fell with each of his breaths and trying not to look at his lips. Holding each other when Art’s parents got divorced and he cried so hard that he got a nosebleed. Bandaging each other’s blisters. Wearing each other’s clothes. Having each other's back.

He doesn’t understand what he did to truly deserve being treated like that in the end by Art.

He’d been a good decent friend, hadn’t he?

How could Art’s infatuation with her be enough to snuff out everything that they built together? It was supposed to be the two of them for the rest of their lives. Sure, they could each get married, pursue a career, have kids, but at the end of the day it was always meant to be them, wasn't it? Fire and Ice? Did he get that part wrong?

He habitually questions how much he really meant to him.

When Patrick does muster up the strength to drag himself to the shower, he generally stays in there for at least an hour. “Waste of water” be damned. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth run over his hair and his naked body. He presses his back to the cold shower wall and rubs his eyes until he sees white flashes dancing in the darkness. It’s not uncommon for his mind to wander back to you-know-who. In fact, that’s who’s usually on his mind whenever he’s not trying harder to forget. And it’s easy for Patrick to fixate on those blurry white flashes and suddenly see yellow curls, bright blue irises, deep smile lines, flushed cheeks. Breath smelling of that peppermint gum he always chewed. The sound of his nervous laughter and joyous cheers. Patrick would know him even if all of his senses were somehow dulled or taken from him. He would know Art by the feel of his soul breathing life into his own. He would know him, surely.

And maybe it’s an act of pure filth and desperation, or one of flesh-tearing grief, but many times Patrick winds up touching himself. Slow, steady, tender–the way he assumes Art touches Tashi. The way he had always wanted to touch Art, though he never even gathered the courage to try to hold his hand. He thumbs his weeping slit and keens as he feels the sadness and arousal roiling in his gut. He chokes on little moans that sound like sobs that sound like screams. He’s starved. How is it possible to miss someone when they’re everywhere? He thinks it’s funny that he’s forgotten what Art’s speaking voice sounds like but also refuses to watch any of his latest interviews on TV. He doesn’t want to see if there’s a ring on his finger, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about all of the ways Tashi gets to keep him as her own. He was mine, he unfairly thinks as he strokes himself under the scalding water, he was mine and I loved him and you lured him in and then he was gone.

The orgasm usually comes quick, spurred on by the near-lethal dose of petulant thought. He feels his thighs tremble and then his hand starts to lose its rhythm and then he’s crying out as he comes hard over his curled fingers. Sticky, clotted, putrid evidence of his lack of control. When he finally opens his eyes again, salt spills down his ruddy skin from wet lashes. He gets dizzy from the heat and the steam, he feels like he’s choking on all of it. He brings his dirtied hand under the showerhead and watches as his mess is rinsed away, down the drain in a gurgling spiral. It takes everything in him not to collapse.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he whispers, before he forces himself out of the bathroom and collapses in a wet heap over his bed. His skin sticks to the sheets and makes him feel like some sort of dirty, beastly thing that crawls out of swamps and swallows up all of the good it can touch. He figures that the feeling is not far off from the truth.

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe.

And that doe followed him for the rest of his life.

note : to anyone who's ever had a childhood crush on their best friend. to anyone struggling with the grief.

This was intentionally written to be a bit "all over the place"; I wanted to show how scattered Patrick's thoughts can be. Also I love, love, love Tashi, I just think Patrick maybe sometimes (early on, before they reconnected) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

tags : @venusaurusrexx @tashism @grimsonandclover @diyasgarden @weirdfishesthoughts @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @jordiemeow @artstennisracket @cha11engers @fawnnpaws @oncefaist ♡

#was suddenly inspired by a nighttime drive on my way back from a friend's place in which a deer nearly walked in front of my car #oh patrick how i understand you #queer childhood crushes are not for the weak #i know that he did NOT handle that breakup well #bear with me while i crawl out of my writing slump #and to my mutuals who wanted to be tagged: ily guys #patrick zweig fic #challengers fic #patrick zweig #divider by omi resources #angst

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future-crab · 1 year ago

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It's been said before, it will be said again, but it's still worth saying: the fact that art centering on straight romance is allowed to just be bad, but art with queer romance in it always has to be indicative of A Serious Problem With the Way We Tell Queer Stories makes being a queer person making queer art deeply stressful

#just saw smthing about red white and royal blue #and like i never watched/read that one so maybe everything ppl say about it is true #and i never watched heartbreaker or love simon so maybe those ones are also genuinely a sign of a serious problem #but idk. the fact that this happens every damn time makes me think that maybe queer stories are being held to different standards #and it's exhausting writing stuff while having a chorus of voices in the back of my head saying i'm misrepresenting my own identities and #making the whole community look bad by writing mediorcre romance #and knowing that even though i'm neither straight nor a girl there WILL be ppl calling me a straight girl fetishizing queer relationships #lgbt #queer community #writer stuff #idk what else to tag this #asexual #bisexual #nonbinary #venttag

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sailorsally · 2 years ago

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What if one evening Dean found 'queering the map' while getting drunk to numb his pain of missing Cas and read some of the stories on there and then the next time missing Cas got unbearable he went back and one by one started adding his own lil snippets to the map, as if he was talking to Cas.

📍"This is the barn where we met for the first time (on this plane anyways). I stabbed you. You smiled at me. I knew nothing back then"

📍"I took you to this Den of Equity. In reality it was an excuse to spend the last night on earth with you."

📍"This is where I came up from purgatory, without you. Did you know I kept seeing you everywhere? Did you know I was thinking about coming back to find you?"

📍"We had some mean burgers here. Or rather I did. You ordered your usual - coffee, not to seem too suspicious. I don't know if you realized but you drank a sip or two that time. Little human things. It made me smile into my own cup. It made me hopeful"

📍"Once again you touched me to heal me and I thought to myself I could take any pain, even hell, if it meant I could feel your tender touch again"

📍"I buried your ashes here. There was a brook with a windmill nearby, a field full of forget-me-nots. As if I could ever forget you"

📍"There is a haunted house here. Or rather was (me and Sam took care of that) I killed myself here today. Briefly. But maybe I wanted it to stick this time."

📍"This phone booth is my favourite place in the whole wide world now. I still see you in its faint glow. So real, so solid, alive."

📍"You died here. After you told me I was the one thing you wanted and couldn't have. But you had me, sweetheart, you did, you do."

📍"Tomorrow we'll open a portal here. All the ingredients are gathered. The spells are ready. Tomorrow I'll get to kiss you for the first time."

#Actually I made myself cry while writing this post #spn #spn hcs #supernatural #queering the map #to write #dean winchester #destiel #castiel

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seahorsepencils · 1 month ago

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also can we just talk about the fact that in the Wish World, a woman can get away with calling another woman beautiful without setting off everyone's queer panic, but when a man does it to a man, it tips over the edge? so the Kates of the world are flying just under the radar, but are likely to be more emotionally repressed as a result - and yet, all the queer or queer-coded characters in this world are offered the same security and protection from doubt by the prospect of entering into an opposite-sex marriage...

#i may be emotionally attached to this topic #a good amount of my academic writing focused on queer invisibility in literature from time periods when queerness was subject to censorship #and specifically how women were represented in literature when women's queerness was particularly conducive to invisibility #and the contrast between kate and ibrahim's queer-codedness in this episode is so fascinating #ibrahim has a big queer panic reaction most likely because repressed queerness for a male character in this world is closer to the surface #whereas kate has sublimated her queerness and emotional repression into a fixation on rules and order #because work is where she can make things make sense #where she can keep things neat and tidy and cover up anything that feels off #hence the zoe evans comparison in my earlier post #honestly the way this interacts with the actors in both roles is fascinating #before dw one of alexander devrient's most notable appearances was as a queer stylist on ted lasso in a scene with masculine anxiety #and jemma redgrave made a career out of playing repressed queer-coded women before she was cast as kate #it's so fascinating because in the actual real world of the show they make an intriguing pair in a normal cool bisexual way #but against the backdrop of an overly repressed patriarchal society obsessed with reproductive futurism #they fall into more of a binary #so there's the adorable shoulder bump but also the comforting potential to be a beard couple and the safety that would come with that #he can rescue her from her spinster status and she can rescue him from anyone ever doubting his sexuality #there's so much here holy shit #brb i gotta go reread heather love's feeling backward and lee edelman's no future while watching this episode 8 more times #like a normal person #doctor who #dw spoilers #jemma redgrave #alexander devrient #kate stewart #christofer ibrahim #gay #queer stuff #queer tv #compulsory heterosexuality

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angstinyourpants · 9 months ago

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i do not care if it is played out and a cliche, i need a vampire to kidnap me and take me to their gothic castle to feed on me and play with me to their hearts content. pulling at their hair and crying as they bite my neck, feeling my blood being drained enough to make me completely incoherent and barely conscious. then theyll be drunk on my blood and ready to fuck me within an inch of my life. id taste my own blood as they shove their tongue down my throat and used me like a personal fuck toy. i am just a mortal, and i would learn to worship the eternal, powerful being that so generously keeps me in their lavish home like a good pet <3

#nsft t4t #queer nsft #transmasc nsft #nsft writing #bi nsft #t4t nsft #t4t switch #vampire nsft #cw blood #blood play #cw noncon #cw kidnapping #kidnapping k1nk #vampire k!nk #was honestly thinking of astarion while writing this ngl

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dennisboobs · 7 months ago

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:) i certainly have no issue dressing in drag :)

^guy who has no issue dressing in drag btw

glenn said that dennis' drag name is victoria von hemen btw

(Source)

#glenn howerton #guy who should get to dress in drag #im just. ill never be over the fact that glenn wrote Two episodes in season 3 that involve dennis doing drag #i know he doesn't really want to write for the show but there's something so special abt how early sunny was an actor's sandbox #esp hearing glenn talk abt how den is like. an outlet for him and a way to play around with shit he would never do for one reason or anothe #my point being that i think its been a while since he was able to utilize dennis again in that way #but 16 was a definite change. especially with dtamhd it feels like dennis is becoming more glenn again. like he was in the early days #theres a pretty good stretch of the show once it got into the double digits that feels like den was. co-opted.#but like i wonder how it feels to explore sexuality and gender via your character #it must be similar to doing that through fandom and OCs but there's a whole other layer to it here #esp when its not Just being presented as comedic as it was in past seasons. like dennis is Actually queer and this is a normal plot point #its not the punchline like den's femininity often is its literally just part of what makes him able to help mac and dee #id argue we've gotten this in the form of. dennis doing dee's makeup and shit. but #anyway. glenn. now that you have two of your former writing assistants in that writers room i hope you get to do drag again 💀#its been 16 years. show us the new and improved victoria.#i honestly can't imagine pitching something like that to a room of people Without some sort of comedic twist but #man.#ada speaks #iasip #it's always sunny in philadelphia #rcg #i won't ever forget the way he lit up talking abt queer dennis jhksvfjhksvdfgjhkds #love u king...... i hope you get something in s17 that you Certainly Don't Mind

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creatur3featur3 · 6 months ago

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ੈ✩Street Rat p3✩ੈ

word count: 5.4k

A/N: OKAY HEADS UP- THIS PART FOCUSES PURELY ON STREET RAT, THERE IS ONLY MENTION OF SEVIKA AT THE END MY APOLOGIES!! ANYWAYS- This series is actually becoming one of my biggest pieces of work, I never expected the amount of love this series had started to accumulate, with that being said- I am so grateful for all of the support and encouragement I have been receiving to continue writing and working on this series. thank you everyone for continuing to support me and my writing, I plan to continue to work on this series for as long as the creative juices keep flowing!

warnings: character death, mentions of alcoholism, child abuse, implications of PTSD

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

The scent of fresh bread and the faint hum of laughter filled the small but cozy home in Piltover. Your mother was at the kitchen table, rolling out dough with practiced hands while your two sisters—Nia, the youngest, and Sera, the middle child—sat nearby, squabbling over some silly game they’d made up. You sat at the edge of the table, carving tiny figures out of leftover wood scraps, the little knife in your hand wobbling slightly as you focused.

"Careful with that, sweetheart," your mother warned, her voice soft but firm. She glanced up from her dough, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Last thing we need is you losing a finger before supper.”

You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “I’ve got it, Mama. Besides, look!” You held up the crudely shaped figurine of a bird, the wings lopsided but unmistakable.

Sera gasped, her eyes lighting up as she leaned over the table. “It’s a crow! Can I have it?”

“No way,” Nia cut in with a smirk, grabbing it first. “She made it for me. Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t make it for either of you!” you huffed, trying to snatch it back, but Nia was quicker.

“Girls,” your mother said, her voice calm but with a warning note that made all of you freeze. She shook her head with a small laugh, brushing flour from her hands. “Honestly, it’s like having three tornadoes in the house.”

You settled back into your chair, muttering something under your breath about Nia being a thief. She shot you a wink, and Sera stuck her tongue out at both of you, her childish laughter filling the room.

For a moment, everything felt perfect.

But perfection never lasted long.

The door creaked open, and the warm, lively air in the room seemed to cool instantly. Your father's heavy boots echoed against the floorboards, a sharp contrast to the light laughter that had just filled the space. His face was flushed, the smell of liquor faint but unmistakable as he stood in the doorway. His eyes, clouded by whatever weighed on him, flicked to each of you before landing on your mother.

She stiffened, the rolling pin in her hands faltering for just a moment before she straightened her posture and forced a smile. “You’re home early,” she said, her voice even but lacking its usual warmth.

Your father grunted, stepping further into the room. “Work ended early,” he said curtly, though his tone carried no satisfaction. His gaze landed on the table, and his brow furrowed at the scattered wood shavings and half-carved scraps. “What’s this mess?”

You flinched slightly but didn’t reply. Nia, ever the bold one, sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “She’s making things, that’s all. It’s not hurting anyone.”

His eyes snapped to her, sharp as a blade. “Did I ask you to speak, Nia?” The tension in the room thickened, and even Sera, usually oblivious to such moods, shrank back in her seat.

“Leave her alone,” your mother interjected softly, stepping between him and the table. Her hands rested on her hips, flour smudged across her apron. “The girls aren’t doing anything wrong.”

Your father’s jaw clenched, his hand twitching at his side as though grappling with some invisible force. He looked at you then, his expression unreadable. “And you,” he muttered, “sitting there wasting time on nonsense. You think those little carvings are going to put food on this table?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came out. Your throat felt tight, your hands gripping the small knife and wooden bird as though they were your only anchor.

“Mama likes them,” Sera’s small voice piped up, breaking the silence. She sounded hesitant but defiant, her wide eyes darting between the two of you.

“Enough!” he barked, and she flinched, her little hands clutching the edge of the table.

Your mother stepped closer to him, her voice lowering but steady. “That’s enough, Richard. You don’t talk to them like that.”

For a moment, the two of them locked eyes, a silent battle playing out in the space between them. Then, with a growl of frustration, he turned away, stomping toward the small sitting room without another word.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

Your mother let out a slow breath, smoothing her apron as she turned back to the table. “Girls,” she said softly, her voice strained but kind. “Why don’t you take your things and go play in the other room?”

Sera slid out of her chair immediately, clutching her little game pieces. Nia hesitated, her defiant gaze lingering on the doorway where your father had disappeared. Then she grabbed your arm, pulling you up. “Come on,” she whispered, her voice a mix of annoyance and protectiveness.

You followed, clutching the bird tightly in your hand. As the three of you retreated to the small bedroom you shared, the faint sound of your mother’s voice could be heard again, calm and soothing as though trying to mend what had just unraveled.

Nia shut the door behind you, leaning against it with a scowl. “He’s such a—” She cut herself off, glancing at Sera, who was quietly settling on her cot. “...a grump,” she finished lamely.

You sat on your own cot, turning the wooden bird over in your hands. Its lopsided wings suddenly seemed so silly, so pointless. But then Sera crawled up beside you, her big eyes hopeful.

“Can I have it now?” she whispered.

You hesitated, glancing at Nia, who shrugged with a small smile. “Go on,” she said. “Let her have it.”

With a sigh, you handed the bird to Sera. Her face lit up, and for a moment, the weight in your chest lifted.

Outside, the muffled sound of raised voices carried through the thin walls, but here, in this tiny shared space, the three of you held onto each other and the fragile threads of something better.

“Why doesn't Mama do anything about Dad?” Nia asks, your stomach churning at the thought.

“Because dad is a big pile a shi-”

“Sera!-” you hiss softly, Sera throwing her hands up in defiance, “What?! it's true!”

She- wasn't wrong…

suddenly a loud crash out what sounded like a glass bottle being broken, and your father’s unmistakable booming slurred voice…

The sound of shattering glass tore through the thin walls like a gunshot, making all three of you jump. Sera scrambled closer to you, clutching the wooden bird like it was a talisman. Nia's face darkened, her jaw clenching as she moved instinctively toward the door, though you reached out to grab her arm.

"Don't," you whispered, your voice shaking. "Just stay here."

But it was too late. Your father's voice followed the crash, loud and venomous, each word landing like a blow.

"This house is a goddamn disaster!" he roared. "I work all day—all day—and this is what I come home to? Mess everywhere, screaming kids—" His words slurred slightly, the alcohol in his system making him stagger as he continued his tirade.

"Richard, lower your voice," your mother said sharply, her calm tone replaced by steel. It wasn’t a request; it was a warning.

"Oh, don’t start with me, Marie," he snapped back. "Don’t you dare. I told you, I never wanted this! Never wanted—" His words faltered as his frustration boiled over into a bitter laugh. "Three kids crawling underfoot, a house that looks like a pigsty, and you just standing there!"

There was a pause, and then your mother’s voice, quieter now but firm. "I’m doing the best I can, Richard. We all are."

"The best you can?" he mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The best you can is a filthy house and three brats who don’t know how to stay out of the way?"

Nia moved to the door again, her fists balled at her sides. "I’m not just gonna sit here and—"

You pulled her back, your stomach twisting painfully. "Please, Nia," you begged. "He’s drunk. You can’t reason with him when he’s like this."

Nia’s lip curled, but she stayed put, though you could feel the tension radiating off her.

"Why didn’t I listen to my gut?" your father continued, his voice rising. "I told you I wasn’t cut out for this. But no, you just had to have a family, didn’t you? And now look where we are. I’m breaking my back out there, and for what? To come home to this circus?"

You heard your mother take a step forward, her voice unwavering even as the air seemed to crackle with tension. "You don’t get to speak to me like that. Or them."

"Oh, don’t play the saint, Marie," he sneered. "You wanted this life. You wanted these kids. Don’t act surprised when I remind you that I didn’t."

Your stomach turned violently, his words cutting deeper than they should have. You weren’t even in the same room, but it felt like a punch to the chest. You glanced at Sera, who was curled into a ball on your cot, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

Nia looked like she was ready to explode. "He’s such a coward," she hissed under her breath. "Blaming everyone else for his own damn choices."

The argument outside raged on, your mother standing firm against his drunken anger. But you couldn’t hear the words anymore. It was all just noise, a storm you’d heard too many times before.

You swallowed hard and turned to your sisters, your voice shaky but as steady as you could manage. "We just…we wait it out. Mama’s got this. She always does."

Though, even the hope that your thoughts were true always seemed to be smushed out by the your father as another glass bottle shattered downstairs followed by incoherent yelling.

You couldn't take it anymore, “Sera, Nia, I swear to the gods, stay here…” you commanded before slipping out of the room. What could a 7 year old do? Kick at your father's legs until he finally stopped?

As you carefully made your way down the stairs there you saw it- your mother's nose bleeding, fear , unmistakable in her eyes. Your father, his movements sluggish and messy as he leaned down close to her face, whispering something into her ear that you worried about as your mother's eyes widened.

“Dad, stop it!” You finally squeak out, stepping out near him as your body shakes slightly from the anxiety facing him caused.

Your father's head snapped toward you, his bloodshot eyes narrowing in disbelief at your audacity. His towering frame cast an imposing shadow across the dimly lit room as he stumbled toward you, the jagged neck of a broken bottle clutched in his hand.

"And what the hell do you think you're doing, huh?" he slurred, his voice booming as he waved the bottle in your direction. His steps were unsteady, but his anger burned clear as day. "Think you can just come down here and tell me what to do, little girl?"

You flinched as the sharp edges of the bottle caught the light, but you held your ground, even as your knees trembled and your breath came in shallow gasps. “Leave her alone!” you cried, your voice cracking but defiant. “Y-you’re scaring her! You’re scaring all of us!”

Your words seemed to strike a nerve. He sneered, his lips curling into something cruel and mocking. “Oh, so now I’m the bad guy, huh? That’s rich. Big man comes home to this wreck of a house, and I’m the one who’s scaring people?” He stepped closer, pointing the jagged bottle at you with every word, his anger unfocused but dangerous.

You instinctively backed up, your heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of your mother’s shallow breathing behind him. But you forced yourself to keep his attention on you. "It’s not her fault!" you blurted out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “She’s doing everything, and you’re— you’re just making it worse!”

His expression darkened, and for a terrifying moment, you thought he might strike you. His grip on the bottle tightened, his knuckles white, and his face contorted into something almost inhuman.

"Don’t you dare talk to me like that," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous now. "You don’t know a damn thing about what I do for this family. You think it’s easy, huh? Keeping a roof over your ungrateful little heads? You don’t get to judge me, you—"

He took a wild step toward you, and you stumbled back, your hands outstretched as if that alone could keep him at bay. “I’m not judging you!” you yelled, your voice breaking. “I just— I just want you to stop! Please, Dad, just stop!”

For a split second, his expression faltered, a crack in the armor of his rage. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that all-consuming fury. He raised the bottle slightly, and your breath caught in your throat.

“Richard!” your mother’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding despite the tremble in her tone. She had risen to her knees, blood still dripping from her nose, her eyes blazing with defiance. “If you take one more step toward her, so help me, I’ll—”

Her threat was cut out by the sound of your cry- your father hitting your face with the already broken glass, ripping open your lip…

Your breath was shallow, hands dabbing at your lip, feeling if the blood was real- it was, warm, fresh blood…

The room seemed to hold its breath, and then, with a guttural growl, he turned and hurled the broken bottle against the far wall. The shattering sound was deafening, and you flinched again, your hands flying up to shield your already bleeding face.

“Worthless,” he spat, stumbling toward the door. “All of you. Worthless.”

And then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him. The silence he left in his wake was suffocating.

Your mother was on her feet in an instant, rushing to your side and pulling you into a trembling embrace. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” she whispered, her hands frantically checking you for injuries.

You shook your head covering your lip with your hand, shielding what he did to you from your poor mother, though your tears betrayed you. “Mama, your nose…”

She wiped at the blood with the back of her hand, shaking her head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Her voice wavered, but her arms around you tightened, as though she could shield you from the world with her embrace alone.

Nia appeared at the top of the stairs, her face pale and full of worry, with Sera peeking out from behind her. None of you said a word, but the unspoken understanding between you all was clear: this wasn’t the last storm you’d weather, but at least, for tonight, you had survived.

–

Your father had never come back after that, good riddance you had told yourself time after time you and your family were better off with him gone forever, but- it always made a strange sting shoot up your chest anytime you thought of your father.

You hated it.

Today was like any other day, Nia and Sera sleeping in per usual, they had always poked fun at you for waking up so early even on weekends but you enjoyed the quietness of Piltover when most of the city was still asleep, dreaming of great inventions, it was a sweet thought.

“Mouse, darling,” your mother called from the kitchen, making you perk up from your post on the couch, where you had been tinkering with a broken watch your father had. He never wore it, a present from you when you still saw him as a good man, when he was sane.

“Yes, Mama?” you called back, setting down the watch and walking into the kitchen where she was making breakfast for you and your sisters, “Could you run to Mrs.Namitte’s shop and grab me a fresh cut of sweetbread? You know how much your sisters love it.”

You nodded softly, grabbing her pouch of money and running out the house and down the street.

The air of early morning in Piltover was crisp and cool, carrying the faint metallic tang that always seemed to linger in the city. The streets were still quiet, most of the noise coming from the distant hum of steam-powered machinery and the occasional clatter of hooves against cobblestone as a carriage rolled by. The sky above was a pale gray, the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting soft golden light across the sprawling cityscape.

Your neighborhood was tucked in one of Piltover’s less glamorous corners, a place where the buildings leaned together like old friends whispering secrets. The houses were a mix of brick and wood, patched up with whatever materials people could find, giving them a mismatched charm. Laundry lines crisscrossed above the narrow streets, sagging slightly under the weight of damp clothes left to dry.

Despite the modest surroundings, there was a warmth to the area. You passed the Grelle family’s house, their windowsills overflowing with flowerpots that brought splashes of color to the otherwise muted street. Mrs. Grelle herself waved at you from her stoop, her ever-present knitting needles clicking away even this early in the day.

“Morning, Mouse!” she called, using the nickname everyone seemed to have adopted from your mother.

“Morning, Mrs. Grelle!” you replied, offering a quick wave as you hurried past.

As you moved closer to the heart of the district, the streets widened slightly, the humble homes giving way to small shops and stands. This part of Piltover always smelled like fresh bread and coal smoke, the two scents mingling oddly but not unpleasantly. The cobblestones here were worn smooth by countless footsteps, their surfaces gleaming faintly with morning dew.

You passed a blacksmith’s forge where the faint glow of embers illuminated a young apprentice already hard at work, his hammer ringing against hot metal. Across from him, a tinker’s shop displayed delicate clockwork creations in the window, the tiny gears inside the contraptions turning with almost hypnotic precision.

It wasn’t long before you reached Mrs. Namitte’s shop, a cozy bakery nestled between a fabric store and an apothecary. The front of the bakery was adorned with peeling paint and a crooked sign that read Namitte’s Sweetbreads and Pastries, but the smell wafting from the open door was enough to make anyone’s mouth water. The aroma of sugar and warm bread enveloped you as you stepped inside.

Mrs. Namitte herself was bustling around behind the counter, her gray hair tied back in a neat bun. Her round face lit up when she saw you. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite early bird!” she greeted, her voice warm and cheerful. “What can I get for you this morning, Mouse?”

You couldn’t help but smile as you handed her the pouch of coins. “Mama sent me for some sweetbread. She said to get it fresh.”

Mrs. Namitte laughed, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. “Fresh is all we’ve got here, darling. One loaf coming right up.”

While she wrapped up the loaf in parchment, you glanced around the shop. The shelves were lined with all kinds of baked goods—flaky pastries, golden-brown loaves, and rows of sweet buns dusted with powdered sugar. There was something comforting about the place, from the warmth of the ovens to the faint crackle of the firewood.

“Here you go,” Mrs. Namitte said, handing you the loaf with a wink. “Tell your mother I said hello.”

“Thank you!” you said, clutching the warm package to your chest as you stepped back out onto the street.

The city was beginning to wake now, the quiet hum growing louder as more people emerged from their homes. Shopkeepers were setting up their stands, calling out to passersby to come see their wares. Somewhere in the distance, the sharp whistle of a steam engine pierced the air, a reminder of the bustling innovation that Piltover was known for.

You hurried back toward home, weaving through the growing crowd, the warmth of the bread against your hands and the thought of your family waiting for breakfast spurring your steps. Despite everything, mornings like this made Piltover feel a little less overwhelming, a little more like home.

Though on your way home, something felt- off. The air wasn't as clear as you remembered, the smell of- sulfur filling the air.

Your pace quickened naturally, worry bubbling in your stomach as you broke into a sprint when you saw smoke rolling into the air- from your neighborhood.

The smell of sulfur grew thicker with every breath you took, the weight of it pressing down on your chest. Your feet pounded against the cobblestone streets, urgency pulsing through your veins. Something was wrong—deeply wrong. The usual hum of the city was overshadowed by something darker, the sounds of distant shouting blending into the eerie quiet of the morning.

As you turned the corner and saw the familiar stretch of houses, your heart dropped into your stomach. Smoke billowed into the sky, dark and choking, swirling in a heavy cloud that turned the morning light to an unnatural, sickly shade. The distant crackle of fire mixed with the angry yells, the harsh metallic clinking of enforcer armor, and the shouts of voices you couldn’t quite make out.

The panic in your chest rose with every step, the pressure of something terrible bearing down on you. Your eyes darted from side to side as you searched for any sign of your family, of your mother and sisters.

"Mom!" you screamed, voice hoarse as you ran faster, your heart thrumming painfully against your ribcage.

You reached the end of the street, but the sight before you made your blood run cold. Flames had already devoured much of the neighborhood, crackling hungrily, the heat enough to make the air shimmer. Buildings you’d passed countless times were now nothing more than burning husks. The fire had spread so quickly—too quickly.

And then, you saw them.

Your mother, her figure smaller than you remembered, clutching Sera to her chest, while Nia was pulling at your sister’s hand, urging her to run. They were running, your family running toward you—but the fire… the fire was so close. The flames were creeping toward them, licking at the edges of the houses, curling up the sides of the wooden beams like snakes eager to strike.

"Run!" you screamed again, desperation clawing at your throat. Your voice was barely audible over the roaring fire and chaos, but they heard you. They saw you.

Your mother’s eyes locked with yours. Her face was streaked with ash and dirt, her lips parted as though she were about to call your name, but no sound came out. It was as if time itself had slowed, the world around you muffled, like you were watching from underwater. She stumbled, clutching Sera tighter, her face stricken with fear, and then—then, the ground shook beneath you.

The house—your home—collapsed in a deafening crash. The roof caved in first, the thick beams splintering like matchsticks. The explosion of debris sent dust and ash into the air, blurring your vision. The shriek of wood splintering was followed by an unbearable silence that stretched on for what felt like hours.

For a moment, you thought you might’ve imagined it. Maybe you were still dreaming, or maybe, somehow, you could still reach them. But when the dust settled, there was nothing but the rising smoke, the blackened silhouette of the house that had been your home.

Your body went numb, your feet frozen to the ground as you stared at the place where your family had stood moments ago. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding so loud it was a drumbeat in your ears. You wanted to scream, to run to them, but you couldn’t. Your legs wouldn’t move, and the world seemed to stop spinning around you.

"Nia... Mama..." The words slipped out of your mouth, barely a whisper. You felt the sting of tears at the corner of your eyes, but they refused to fall.

The crackle of fire was the only sound now, louder and more ominous than ever. The flames had consumed everything in their path.

And then, the faintest flicker of movement caught your eye—an enforcer, their armor gleaming like a dark shadow, standing at the edge of the destruction. They had their back turned, focused on the chaos unfolding around them, the violence, the fire. They hadn’t seen the wreckage they’d left behind. They didn’t even notice you standing there.

But you saw them.

The anger and helplessness surged inside you, cold as ice. The world had taken everything from you—the life you knew, the people you loved. And in that moment, as the tears you had been holding back finally streamed down your face, the burning rage started to take root deep within you.

You woke with a sharp inhale, eyes wide and fearful, looking around your makeshift home as you panted, chest heaving, anxiety rising in your chest as you tried to calm down.

Just a dream, just a dream

It had felt more real than last time, the nightmares getting stronger each time. You groaned softly as you sat up in your cocoon of blankets and rugs, rubbing your temples as you tried to ease your mind.

You grab your bag, throwing it over your shoulder haphazardly as you make your way down the fire escape and down onto the dirty streets you had come to know.

The streets of the Undercity had a familiar hum to them, the constant murmur of distant voices, clanging metal, and the occasional shout or crash. The air was thick with the smell of burning coal, stale sweat, and something far less pleasant that you couldn’t quite name. It felt like the UnderCity’s grime had seeped into your skin and never really left. Even now, as you walked among the wreckage of your life, it was all too familiar.

You rubbed at your eyes, trying to shake the vivid nightmare from your mind, but it clung to you like the oppressive fog that hung over the slums. The tightness in your chest wouldn’t loosen, no matter how many times you breathed in deeply. They weren’t real. Your family wasn’t gone. The fire hadn’t happened. It was just a haunting memory, a shadow of something that almost was.

But it felt real. And that was the worst part of it. It had always been the worst part of the nightmares—how everything felt so tangible, so vivid. You could hear Nia’s laugh. You could smell your mother’s perfume. The way your father’s hands had felt around your throat when he was angry. The weight of the grief that pressed into your chest when you realized they were all gone. All gone—and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

It was enough to make you want to curl up in a corner and block it all out. But you couldn’t. Not today. You didn’t have the luxury of slowing down and feeling sorry for yourself.

The undercity didn’t wait for anyone.

You adjusted your bag, the weight of the various trinkets and scraps that filled it dragging at your shoulders as you walked. Your hands fidgeted, feeling the bruises that had yet to fade, the remnants of a life spent scraping by, of fights you’d won and lost. At least I’m still here. That was the only consolation you had left. Even if everything else felt wrong. Even if you felt broken inside, even if you were more scared than you let anyone see, you were still breathing.

You wandered through the streets, passing by familiar faces, the other street rats that wandered the same alleys you did. Some ignored you. Others gave you a glance that was too sharp to be friendly. Keep your head down. Don’t make waves. Stay small.

You didn’t really know where you were going; your feet carried you through the maze of metal and trash, through forgotten corners of the UnderCity that no one cared about. Places like these held their own kind of loneliness—like a pocket of emptiness that even the brightest fire couldn’t warm.

Your stomach growled—loudly, obnoxiously. That was the problem with skipping meals, trying to scrape by on what you could find, or what you could steal. Your pride didn’t let you ask for help.

You groaned under your breath, reaching for your pouch to see how much you had left. A couple of cogs, a piece of broken glass you’d picked up somewhere, and some scraps of fabric that you had meant to sell, but hadn’t found a buyer for yet. Not exactly what you would call a hearty meal.

And that’s when you saw him.

A figure, hunched over in the alley ahead, fiddling with something. At first, you didn’t think much of it—another one of the city’s forgotten wandering souls. But something about the way he was moving caught your eye. It was the faint glint of metal against his hands, the way he seemed to be... repairing something?

You slowed, instinctively drawn to him, curiosity beating out caution for once. Your gaze locked onto the object in his hands, a small but delicate mechanical piece, a gear. You had seen something like it before—a few times, in fact. Was this... another tinker?

You took another step closer, and that’s when he noticed you. The stranger’s eyes flashed up, meeting yours for the briefest of moments before he quickly looked back at the gears in his hands.

Something about his demeanor made you pause, an unease settling in your gut. He's watching me too closely. But you couldn't place why, or even if you should care.

The silence between you two lingered for a beat, before he spoke in a voice rough with disuse. "You need something, kid?"

You hesitated for a moment, still unsure of what to make of him, before you nodded slowly. “I could use a meal.”

The man scoffed, flicking the gear in his hands one last time before tossing it to the ground, where it clattered against the pavement. He dusted off his hands before standing up fully, revealing his thin frame beneath a worn-out coat. His hair was messy, unkempt, his face haggard with the years of life lived under these same grimy skies. "Ain't no charity here, kid. You gotta earn your keep."

You winced at his words, but something in his tone stirred a defensive response in you, but- you bit your tongue.

Keep your head down, stay out of trouble

Those were the rules.

You fucking hated those rules.

You just turn away and walk off, you don't need to get into another fight, didn't need Sevika telling you off for not being careful enough.

Speaking off Sevika, you hadn't seen her in awhile, a week or two now. Where was she?

You found yourself searching for her, not really sure why you were, why bubbles of worry formed in your stomach. You checked her usual spots, the alleys where she played cards, the food booths where you two got food from time to time, you asked a few regulars if they had seen her, to no avail.

You shouldn't care, she was only a asset to you, a small help when you were at your lowest and yet-

You felt like you had found something.

Something that felt real, or at least as real as it gets in the Undercity.

You needed to find Sevika.

#sevika x reader #queer #lesbians make the world go round #street rat sevika fic #street rat #sevika arcane #sevika x y/n #i'm doing this for you #why am i all of a sudden so fucking motivated #writing #fanfic #fanfic writer #i cried while writing this #Spotify

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moonlightsapphic · 17 days ago

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shut the fuck uppppppp you people make lesbians do EVERYTHING for you. bi women in het relationships DO NOT need lesbians to validate them, both because you are grown adults but also because you guys NEVER validate us. case in point, that entire little speech you wrote never once validated the unique experience of lesbians as non male attracted people in a patriarchal society. yes we all like women, but NOT liking men is almost always the greater burden and greater isolating factor in our day to day lives. stop thinking about yourselves and just LISTEN for once, all you EVER do is talk over lesbians and paint us as villains. and next time you are walking down the street hand in hand with your boyfriend take a moment and be grateful that you don't have to have your head on a swivel waiting to be harassed for daring to show affection to your partner in public. that sense of unease you feel brining your boyfriend to pride? that's what we feel the other 364 days a year, except the unease comes from the fear of ACTUAL VIOLENCE not of SOCIAL DISAPPROVAL from a minority group comprising 3% of the population.

Ma’am I am a brown bisexual woman in a Muslim-majority country in the global south and I’ve been dating my (also bisexual) girlfriend since we were 20. It has been five years and even our best friends don’t know we’re dating because we’re afraid of word getting out and being targeted and killed. (People are murdered for less.) There is some minimal social acceptance of transfem folks in our country but even they are treated like garbage. Anybody found to have same sex attraction is cast out by their families. (Families are known for casting you out for even interreligious marriages.) Or worse, they might force conversion therapy on you. They would not distinguish between you being bisexual or gay. The last queer activist in our country was murdered in cold blood 10 years ago and we haven’t had a strong movement since. LGBTQ+ community exists in small, secret bubbles. We’re all afraid.

My relationship takes place only behind closed doors. In a more accepting country, my girlfriend and I would be thinking about marriage and kids by now. She is my soulmate and we initially tried to keep it casual but we couldn’t. Despite all of the above, we chose each other, even though we could hypothetically look for legitimate partner in a man. I didn’t even realize I was bi until adulthood after I broke up with my high school boyfriend, though my girlfriend has known she is queer since she was young. My girlfriend and I spent two years (the worst mental health period of my life, when I made this account to document it) of struggling to unlearn comphet, because I often felt this overwhelming imposter syndrome that I was “faking” my very genuine attraction and romantic love for her. (if you’re a baby gay reading this and struggling with that, it passes I promise!) We also had to deal with the very special bisexual guilt of actively choosing to be in a same-sex relationship every day. We still do.

I wish I could avoid coming out to our families forever to protect the pain and heartbreak that will cause them. They really love me and have given me everything I’ve asked for (I wish I could say I was romanticising, but it’s true), however they have not been raised in a society to understand queerness and I’m afraid they’re too old now. In my darkest moments, I wish that my parents will be able to die without knowing, while still fully loving, supporting, proud, and happy for me. But that’s not sustainable, because already our parents are already asking us when we’re going to get married (to men, of course). Soon, that will become constant nagging, confusion, disappointment and eventually suspicion. If I did come out (which will hopefully happen when I’m much older and wiser and can survive without anyone’s support), I would say I was a lesbian, because 1) they don’t know what bisexual is and I can’t teach them; and 2) if they know I’m bi, they might have more hope they can “correct” me, or even try to sabotage my relationship. And you can be sure as hell I’m not asking some internet lesbian stranger for permission beforehand.

We have gone long-distance across the globe more often than not. We are trying to secure permanent residency in a more queer-friendly country by migrating with stable jobs (which can be a 10+ year process of proving to a country that you are worth giving residency to). We wonder if we’re doing the “right” thing taking it a day at a time, how many people we’re going to hurt for our own selfish happiness. If we’ll ever be able to visit our home country and culture again if word gets out. If we’ll ever have children, and would they be accepted by our families. If we’ll ever be 100% safe. Sometimes, I wish I was a lesbian like you, so I would not have to bear all that AND the guilt of the knowledge I could give it all up for a different loving relationship. If I were a lesbian, at least I would have the conviction of not having a choice. And that is a bisexual struggle you won’t understand, just like you have lesbian struggles that I won’t understand. I am ok with admitting the latter—are you ok with admitting the former?

I have a bisexual friend whose husband abuses her specifically because he suspects she is queer. I have a bisexual friend (in denial) whose fiancé insecurely and derogatorily jokes about her possibly being queer (much like my ex) and because of that she will never come to terms with her own sexuality, and will suppress it for her entire life. I have bisexual friends in very happy and loving M/F relationships. Some of these bisexuals do the work for the community from their position of privilege, others who are annoying mansplainers (much like yourself) to those of us who they perceive as more privileged (because, y’know, we’re not out to them as a WLW couple or even as queer). I’ll tell you now (if it still needs to be said) that most of the bisexuals in the world are actually not privileged at all. If you made a scale of “most privileged” to “most oppressed” (which is nonsensical but this is apparently the intelligence level we’re working with), then bi people in M/F relationships would be pretty much right next to other queer people, and not even close to endo allocishetero people. I have a difficult queer life to build so I have zero interest in playing stupid oppression Olympics and decide whether or not any other letter is “more” oppressed for the sake of internet keyboard warriors who can’t check themselves (or read a book, a paper, a research article anything). What I will do is fight for everyone’s rights (yes, even yours) to talk about their unique personal struggles.

At the end of the day, the bisexuals in privileged M/F marriages are allies to me and my girlfriend. And that means the world to us. When our entire society (and our families) turns their back on us, our queer friends will be all we will have left. Their straight boyfriends will be allies to us and welcome to our community, and symbolic of a world where more endosex allocishetero folks accept us. I want good straight men at Pride. The world listens to them. The point of queerness is deviance, but the point of Pride is liberation, and movement needs numbers. Immersion and understanding leads to acceptance. Are you with the cause or not?

Back when I was with my boyfriend, I avoided addressing my own queerness. And it was in part thanks to gatekeepers like you. Do you guys want more WLW or not? If you do, be kind to bisexual women. Celebrate their love, regardless of their partner. If more bi women were encouraged to find genuine love, if they were told unlearning comphet is not lesbian-only experience, if they had a queer support system when they faced statistically high rates of intimate partner violence due to their bisexuality, if everyone actually validated the unique struggles that lead to statistically poor bisexual mental health and substance abuse, then more of them would seek out healthy relationships with partners that see them for who they are, rather than any available subpar man. If you don’t want to date bi women, that’s fine. But if we include them in our community, they’ll have the opportunity to immerse in the culture, know themselves better, and eventually find each other. We contain multitudes. We do not exist in phases of “straight” and “gay”. Being rude to us when we’re in hetero-presenting relationships only makes us more likely to associate with queerness. Our identity is not inherently privileged, it’s intersectional. We are your peers. And we have every right to point out when anyone is being exclusionary and biphobic towards us, which includes the LGBTQ+ community.

I believe that someone who can afford to be unkind and unempathetic to another queer person, who dares play oppression Olympics like it’s a little game, doesn’t know what it’s like to actually be oppressed. Or maybe they have some insecurities and frustrations they need to work out in therapy. I have so many reasons to be jealous of my foreign queer friends (including lesbians, including trans people) flaunting their privileges, but I’m happy for them instead, I even listen to them when they talk about their (relatively minor) queer struggles in life, and I sure as hell did not have access to therapy to help me with that. I have not met a single queer person who actually engaged in community organising and mutual aid, that is also argumentative like people are on the internet. I don’t know if you’re aware it was proto-TERFs during second-wave feminism that separated the lesbian and bi women in the US, and that some of you have been unknowingly parroting frankly dumb purity culture rhetoric that harms trans people as well as bisexuals.

One of my deep regrets is not having queer elders in my part of the world to represent what my life could look like in the future. I literally contemplated on the phone for two hours with my partner this morning about what the fuck to do with our lives. As you’ve decided to graciously bring so much lesbian wisdom (not at all in the tone of a villain) to my account whilst so bravely hiding as an anon, tell me—what the fuck should we, lowly bisexuals who haven’t even “decentered men”, do? Or do I suddenly strike you as a different person now that you know I’m WLW, or about my other intersectional identities? Do you think I don’t understand your experiences? Do you think I don’t face lesbophobia—because people perceive all WLW as a lesbian? Do you still feel the need for me to acknowledge a bunch of other identities just because I spoke about my bisexuality? I was the same person when I was with my boyfriend. I will be the same if (God forbid) it doesn’t work out with my partner and I find myself with a man at some point again, and I will have to live with the truth of having my heart broken by a woman that I chose (in EVERY sense of the word) to be with. I will forever be queer enough. My hypothetical boyfriend WILL be coming with me to Pride. And if I sense unease because of that, I WILL call you out on it.

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