#BIG heads up for implied transphobia

[seinenkai]

"Cursed Eyes."

Gojo Satoru x Male Reader

Reader is implied as transgender and is seen as a young adult (25yrs old) and he's a vessel. First chapter is taken place in Jujutsu Kaisen 0 The Movie so MAJOR Spoilers. Slow burn probably.

C/TW; transphobia, implied grooming, swear words/cussing.

This is my first (lazy) fic lol. Depends if I'll continue this or nawt.

It was 2017, you were looking out the window out of boredom until you hear someone.

"L/n." Geto called out, beckoning the boy over.

"I told you to call me Y/n. We're close after all, Master Geto." You said as you walked towards Geto, looking at the big grin he had on his face along with the bags under his eyes.

"You call me 'Master Geto', I think it's fair to call you by your last name." He laughed, fixing the Gojo Kesa he wore. You sighed, looking at Geto with annoyance "what is it that you needed?.." you ask as you tilted your head. You see Mimiko and Nanako bickering at eachother, talking about Tokyo.

"Would you like to come to Tokyo with us? See an old friend?" You look at him surprised "...see an old friend?.." you repeated.

Geto nodded, knowing who you both are talking about. "I don't think he'd even like to see us- just what do you mean 'see an old friend'?" You came closer. "It'll be fine, Y/n! We just need to chat with him."

Then you remembered. Getos plan about the war. "Are the others coming?" You raised a brow and Geto nodded "of course. We're a family." He chuckled, walking away.

"We were about to go right now." He says as he pointed at the large pelican. You were grossed out since you had to get inside the pelican. "...maybe after I ba-" Geto cuts you off by taking your hand and dragged you inside the pelican. You sat there with disgust while Mimiko and Nanako comforted you.

"It's fine L/n! It doesn't stink and we were planning to go to the Cafe near in tokyo- the crepes look so good!" Nanako says with a grin. You didn't do anything but nod.

You all were in, flying towards Tokyo. You look at Geto and asked him "...are you gonna meet the Okkotsu boy again?" You asked as you tilted your head back with annoyance "Gojo's going to kill us." Geto raised a brow "I'm sure he won't. Just a little talk that's all."

You landed, getting out the pelican and stood there watching Geto rush towards Yuta Okkotsu. Geto held Okkotsus hand and started blabbering about his little cult and how he should join him and insulting Maki Zen'in.

That all ended when Satoru Gojo walked in along with other jujutsu sorcerers working at Tokyo Jujutsu Tech. "Dont tell my students such nonsense, Suguru." Gojo said coldly, his eyes hidden under the white bandages. Gojo grew so much.

Geto smiled, pulling away as Gojo stood infront of Okkoutsu protectively. Your eyes meet with his covered ones and you can't help but look away. "I wanted to declare war." Geto said with a smile. Yaga, Nanami and Meiemi were there but you couldn't spot Shoko anywhere.

"Y/n." Gojo suddenly said. "You're working with Suguru. Actually." He says, making it sound like you were pathetic. You don't say anything back. Gojo and Geto began to bicker. "Mr. Geto! Hurry up! Let's go to the crepe shop!!" Nanako whined, beckoning him over.

Geto smiled at her and turns to Gojo "well, I better get going." He said as he got in and announced the date of the war.

It was soon, in December 24th 2017.

"Master Geto..." you muttered to him as Nanako began taking photos, taking 0.5 photos of you and the others in the Cafe. "Yes y/n?.." Geto looked at you, eating the sweet crepe. You had a strawberry crepe with cream while Geto had one with blueberries. "Nevermind. Nothing. I was gonna ask you something stupid." You say as you take a bite out of the crepe. You felt so stupid.

You began to question things. What if you never betrayed Gojo? What if you never went with Geto? You hate these damn thoughts.

You get a flashback. It's Higanbanas doing.

Your younger self with a older sorcerer, you were close to him. You two always were together talking when you were a child. "Y/n, promise you won't leave me..." Said the older male, caressing your face. You look at him and laughed "leave you? Why? I'm not a grown up yet!" You say with a wide grin and the older man pulled you in a hug. "...I know. But. Nobody will ever love you like this my dear y/n.." He whispered, running his hands through your hair. You look at him confused and nodded. "I know..." you muttered, sitting on his lap.

You stood up, walking away towards the bathroom and Geto gave a confused look as he watched you walk away.

You washed your face in the restrooms sink, looking up at the mirror. "Damn you." You suddenly say, looking at the mirror as you saw the cursed spirit.

Higanbana.

"Quit making me think such thoughts. I don't regret my decision." You glared at her, your left eye turning red when your eye colors are originally e/c. Higanbana pouted, her white hime haircut with the blue streaks in her hair along with the blue spider lily's on her head.

"Stop taking those stupid sorcerer meds! It enhances your strength and you're too damn strong to take over!" She whined, pulling on your cheek.

She was in you, controlling your body but you can see her behind you, through the mirror. "Higanbana please...we already talked about this..." you sigh, turning around and sat on the bathroom floor. You looked down at your chest, lifting open one of the kimono folds to see your bandaged chest, seeing if its tight enough for you to look flat chested. "During the war I'll let you take over." Higanbana smiled, hugging you with a wide sinister grin "for real? You will?" She says and you nodded, walking back to Geto and the others. "Just stop reminding me of the past." You say as you began walking back to them.

December 24 2017.

Your last time seeing Suguru Geto.

Nanako and Mimiko were off somewhere and the others following along with Getos plan. You were assigned to distract and defend, bring paired with Miguel.

You look down and see Gojo dragging his students, Panda and Toge Inumaki and made a sign in the sand, teleporting the first year's back to the school.

Damn.

He found out.

You stood besides Miguel and patted his back, pushing him. "You can go first." You say as you backed away "you'd kill time." Miguel rolled his eyes, hidden under his shades and got down.

You watch the two fight. Miguel was losing and there were curses everywhere. Miguel's whip and Satorus cursed technique were everywhere, destroying almost everything. Gojo slid open the white bandage, revealing one of his blue eyes.

Eventually the fight ends when you blinked and you see Satoru Gojo gone.

Fuck

Where is he?

"Migeul!" You yelled out, jumping off the rooftop to get on the lower one until you see Miguel missing. Damn. You turn around and felt something gripping onto your Kimono. You looked at see Gojo.

He was looking at you right in the eyes.

Where's the bandages?

Where's Miguel?

"Gojo." You say as you tried staying calm. You know you'll die. But that doesn't happen.

Higanbana takes over. Your h/c now having blue streaks with blue marks on your face. Higanbana takes over and instantly aims for Satorus head, attacking him only for it to get blocked by infinity.

"Y/n." Gojo coldly says as he doged the attacks Higanbana gave him, the blue nails you grew being like claws. Why wasn't he attacking? Why wasn't he hurting you? "Satoru Gojo!" Higanbana yelled out, her scream sounding scary.

She controlled your face, a evil grin appearing on your face. She aimed for more attacks and Gojo was about to unleash an attack. You pull away quicker than Higanbana and retreated. You're just like Miguel.

You dissappear, not wanting to fight again since you know that your body's too damn weak to even handle Satorus attack. Nanako and Mimiko were already done with their assigned job and meets up with you.

"Y/n! Y/n!" Called the two, running towards you quickly. "We need to find Master Geto!" Said Nanako and you nodded. "I'll find him I swear-" you say as you tried catching your breath, your kimono folds slipping down to show off your shoulders and the turtle neck like compression shirt. You sat down, catching your breath. You're too weak for this.

So much time has passed and you ran towards jujutsu tech to retrieve Geto. You were out of breath, your chest felt like it was burning along with your sides. You stood ontop one of the roofs, standing above the tiles.

Your eyes widened.

Geto was wounded.

Dead.

You saw him holding his missing left arm and with a bloody body.

You wanted to break down. You wanted to catch him until you saw Gojo. The two seemed like they were talking about something. Gojo crouched down, whispering something to Geto and you tweaked.

"You." Gojo suddenly said, standing up and looked at you. "Y/n." He says as he glared at you, both his eyes bare for you to see. "G-geto...what the hell did you do?" You asked, your voice trembling as you got closer, staring at Getos corpse. You looked at Gojo, your face darkened.

Gojo walked towards you, face to face. The atmosphere was absolutely tense but he didn't have any hostility or danger. But you did.

A vein grew on your face, glaring at Satoru. "Gojo. Tell me what the hell you just did." You say as you got closer. Gojo stays silent, glaring back at you.

"You know why I had to do it." He says as he gets closer. Satoru noticed the blue markings fading in, Higanbana was about to take over your body since you felt weak. Gojo puts two fingers on your forehead and suddenly you felt sleepy. "...Go...jo.." you say as you instantly fall down onto your knees, laying on the dirty floor as Satoru looked down at you.

He'll retrieve your unconscious body later. Right now he has to meet up with his students.

[johannestevans]

Ambitious Men

Read on Medium / / Read on Patreon.

11.6k. Rated M. M/M. Deeply fucked up fantasy-horror, wherein a man finds that his dream of taking over his hero’s restaurant is not to proceed as smoothly as he hoped. Adapted from a TweetFic.

Inspired in part by trans responses to the horror themes of The Magnus Archives.

Content warnings for: horror themes, gender dysphoria, transphobia, classism, substance reliance and addiction, anti-addict sentiments, dehumanisation, implied sexual assault, consent issues, body horror.

----

Before coming to work at Lace, Archie had idolised Casper Hugo almost his entire life.

One of his first memories was lying on the sofa, the television turned up to drown out the sounds of his parents arguing in the other room as much as possible, watching him give an interview.

He couldn’t have been older than five or six, certainly didn’t truly comprehend a lot of what he was saying at the time: Casper Hugo had been a handsome young man who’d taken over the already award-winning restaurant from its previous executive chef and earned it its first Michelin star.

He remembered not the words themselves, but the sound of them, of Chef Hugo’s smooth, comforting voice, like hot caramel, and it had soothed him, made him feel… better. Even with the sound of his parents shouting and snapping at each other, Hugo’s voice had cut through it all.

Until one of them — his mother, he thought — had called him odd for watching the news, said he wasn’t normal. She’d flicked it off and snapped at him go outside like a proper child his age, and he had.

He could never understand what he was meant to do, thus exiled, and had settled for wandering aimlessly until he thought she’d let him back inside.

At the time, he hadn’t even understood that Hugo was a chef, he didn’t think. He’d just liked his voice, his warm smile, the way he held himself and gestured with his hands, slightly clumsily, as though they were too big for him, and he’d sit for an hour flicking through channels until he got lucky and stumbled over an interview or a documentary or a morning breakfast segment.

It was later that he’d realised.

Later that he’d become a bit obsessed.

Later that he’d studied Chemistry and History and French at A-Level and applied all of what he learned to cooking, later that he’d gone to culinary school, which his mother had been furious about.

His father had paid for it out of spite.

It seemed like a dream when he first applied for a line position, certain he’d get tossed aside, but they’d brought him in and watched him in the kitchen. It had mostly been his sous chef, but Hugo had done one round of the kitchen.

“Good knife skills,” he’d said over his shoulder, and it had made Archie feel light-headed.

“You’re my hero,” he said after the demo was over. “I mean, I’d never — I’d never have started cooking if it wasn’t for you, I don’t know if I’d even be alive if it wasn’t you, I’m so grateful, I can��t even… So whatever, um, I know I’m young, but even if you don’t take me, sir, I just want to thank you for the opportunity, to, to meet you, and to try.”

Hugo stared down at him, wrinkled his nose.

The sinking feeling in his chest was so strong Archie thought it would bowl him over, feeling it ripple down his throat, settle hard in his stomach, made him feel like he’d vomit.

“I don’t know what other kitchens you’ve been in,” said Hugo, “but I won’t have you calling me sir.”

Archie blinked.

“You alright to start Monday?” Hugo went on.

Archie burst into laughter, was so overwhelmed he threw his arms around the older man, and he’d been terrified because that was too far for certain, but Hugo hugged him back and clapped him hard on the shoulder.

“You thought I’d say no!” he said, patting the back of his hair. “No, no, my friend, I’ve been waiting for someone like you.”

That was six years ago, now, and Archie wasn’t just doing prep on the line.

He was sous chef, of Lace.

And every day (every long, fourteen-hour day) was a dream.

* * *

Archie didn’t think it was wrong to say that Hugo had been like a father to him since he started.

He taught him new techniques in the kitchen all the time, bounced new ideas and recipes off him, always worked with Archie as his second when he needed him, when he could, but it wasn’t just the kitchen, it was everything, Archie’s whole life.

Hugo had paid for him to go on courses, something he did for all his new staff — not just chefs, but waiters too — but he asked Archie about what he’d learned after he came back. They went out for dinners, they talked, they discussed things, and Hugo always challenged him, made him work to keep up.

He hadn’t realised Hugo was gay himself when he first started, because he kept it tightly under wraps, wasn’t interested in newspapers marketing him as the gay gourmet or some similar nonsense.

Hugo was the first man Archie had come out as bi to.

And Archie had taught him — Archie had taught Casper Hugo, Michelin-starred chef, forager, internationally renowned gourmet — how to drive.

“How have you never learned?” he’d asked, and Hugo had laughed.

“Look,” he’d said. “I’ve lived a very long and complicated life. I never got around to it!”

It had been nice, to teach Hugo something, to give back to him. Hugo always said how proud he was of him, cupped his cheeks, patted his shoulders or his hair, praised his work, introduced him to women.

Introduced him to men, too.

“You never date,” Hugo chided him. “You should! A young man like you, with all that life inside you, all that soul. You should use it a bit.”

“I never have time.” Archie said.

“I’ll give you some,” was the answering threat.

“Don’t you date?” Archie asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I’ll have you know I take handsome young men out to dinner all the time.”

“Shagging starry-eyed twinks does not constitute a romantic life, old man.”

“Well, nor does refusing to shag anybody at all.”

“I shag!”

“Well, after shagging, try a nice breakfast the morning after.”

Archie always said he would, and never actually did. It just felt like he’d never met the right person, seen the right person, never connected with anyone, truly, really connected with them.

And then Otto started as kitchen porter.

Otto was a big man — he was taller than Archie, though not as tall as Hugo, at 5’11”, fat, round-shouldered, and strong. Very strong.

He had wispy facial hair around his mouth and neck, like he couldn’t grow a proper beard, and sometimes his voice cracked a little.

Archie wouldn’t have described him as his type, at a glance, but the first time Georges, their maître d’, had asked for his help moving a table and Otto had just picked up the whole thing on his own with nary a ripple in his shoulders, Archie had been —

Interested.

He and Georges had stood there, blinking, as Otto had held the table slightly aloft — and the tables they used in Lace were big, hundred-year-old things of solid, heavy wood — and said, “Well, where’d you want it then?”

Otto was not a chef, and had barely any interest in cooking at all — frankly, Archie wasn’t sure why he’d even been hired as KP.

“Do you, ah, do you want to get dinner?” he asked two weeks after Otto started. “There’s this wonderful Japane — ”

“No,” said Otto.

Archie took this in, and then said, “Oh.”

“I eat here,” said Otto, shrugging. “Free. Wouldn’t say no to pints, though.”

“Pints,” Archie had repeated. “Fine, alright.”

That night had ended with Archie bent over his own hall table, Otto’s fingers inside him as Archie tried to muffle his desperate cries of pleasure into his own elbow to keep from getting complaints from the neighbours, and he’d managed it at first.

Only Otto had decided once getting him onto the top landing that he couldn’t wait to get to the bedroom and had fingerfucked his brains out there too, swallowing Archie’s cock down his throat like it was nothing.

And it was —

It was a thing, after that. They went out for drinks, to a matinee before work. Otto liked bugs, had pet insects; he loved classic cars and dad rock, but said seriously to Archie that he could only afford to indulge the second one; he liked to go to this one cat café every month.

“Why don’t you just have a cat?” asked Archie.

“They’d eat my stick insects,” says Otto.

“But you can just close the door to the bedroom.”

“That’s no guarantee.”

He was a funny man. He made fun of Archie because he went jogging each morning, and made fun of him even more when he found out that Archie owned a treadmill for bad weather days. He suggested Archie try to jog while Otto “motivated him”.

This went well until he actually came, and then his knees went weak and the treadmill sent him flying backwards, his cock flying out of Otto’s hands.

Hugo laughed until he wheezed when Archie had mumblingly explained the new stitches in the back of his head, unsuccessfully hidden by his chef’s cap, and clapped them both on the shoulders.

Hugo liked Otto.

Archie was pleased at first, assumed naturally that it was because Archie was finally dating someone, except that it wasn’t like that, exactly. Hugo normally had no patience when it came to people who didn’t want to cook and who didn’t love food, and Otto kept saying that food was food, that so long as it tasted good and gave you energy, nothing else mattered.

Hugo would normally be pissed at that, but not this time.

Archie came in one morning to find Hugo was teaching Otto knife skills, which wasn’t unusual in itself for new KPs, but Hugo wouldn’t normally offer personal tutelage, not in something so basic.

“… train your palate,” Hugo was saying.

“I can relax my gag reflex,” said Otto.

Hugo chuckled at that. It wasn’t the laugh Archie was used to, not Hugo’s loud, booming laugh — it was a soft, salted caramel chuckle.

It was the laugh he usually reserved for starry-eyed twinks, not KPs that Archie himself was involved with.

“That’s not quite what I mean,” purred Hugo.

It wasn’t even that Otto was flirting, because Archie knew what he looked like when he was flirting, knew the smile he made, knew he liked to control things and be the one in charge. This was just him joking, and he didn’t seem to notice that Hugo… liked it.

“Morning, Archibald,” said Hugo warmly. “Would you start the spatchcocks off?”

“Can do,” said Archie, and tried to keep the tension out of his voice.

By the time the kitchen was full of people working, Otto was sent back to washing dishes.

* * *

“Did you ask him to teach you?” Archie asked when they were walking in the zoo. They’d spent ages in the bug section, Otto fascinated and delighted by the huge cockroaches as big as Archie’s fist.

“Nah,” said Otto, shrugging his big shoulders. “Old man says I gotta learn, though.”

“He likes you,” said Archie, and Otto glanced at him.

“He’s like your dad, right?” asked Otto, and Archie frowned. “Not trying to muscle in on your inheritance, Arch. Just doing what the bossman tells me.”

“He’s not my father,” muttered Archie, putting his hands in his pockets, and Otto sighed.

“Yeah, but he’s an old queen, he’s not having any kids, and he knows it. He says you’re like a son to him, that the restaurant’ll go to you.”

Hugo has said that before — when tipsy, and when drunk, and when high.

“I don’t know if he’s serious about that,” said Archie, feeling a little uncertain, uncomfortable. “But anyway, he’s not even sixty yet. He’s not that old.”

“I don’t talk to my dad either,” said Otto. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna steal your surrogate.”

“Jesus, why would you — ” Archie laughed, shaking his head, and Otto grinned at him. “I don’t think you’re trying to steal my paternal stand-in, alright? He just doesn’t normally teach new guys himself.”

“I can top two guys at once,” said Otto, and Archie let out a disgusted sound. “What? He’s pretty hot, for an old man. You telling me you wouldn’t?”

“Gross.”

They stopped to watch a video of a huge tarantula wriggling and vibrating its way out of its skin next to the tarantula tank. Archie turned his head away, feeling sick, but Otto watched in fascination, his mouth open.

“You really don’t talk to your dad?”

“Nah,” said Otto, not tearing his gaze away from the spider’s fitting, jerking movements as it kicked its old body off. “He got nasty when I came out the first time, but I still saw the family and shit. He was fine with it when I was using, you know, didn’t have a fucking problem — that didn’t bother him. The T did, though.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” said Otto. “He’d rather have a drugged-up daughter getting passed around than a sober son, I guess. Twat.”

“Twat,” Archie agreed. “Cunt, I’d even say.”

Otto laughed, and reached for his hand, interlinking their fingers.

“Don’t you find it creepy?” asked Archie as he came closer, leaning into Otto’s big shoulder, his cheek against the plush cushion of his outer arm. “The way it… it moves?”

“Not really, it’s part of life,” said Otto mildly, squeezing his hand. “We have dandruff, they have this.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Archie, and Otto laughed lowly, wrapping one possessive hand around his waist, fingers splaying over the side of his torso.

“Well,” said Otto. “T-shots aren’t great for everything.”

Archie watched the way the spider moved in the tank. She moved slowly, delicately, and although she had too many legs, there was still something beautiful about her.

“You ever keep these?” asked Archie. “People do, right?”

“Yeah,” said Otto. “Not me, though — I like Roosevelt and Kennedy. I like how they move, like dancers. Spiders don’t move like that. Graceful, yeah, but it’s not the same — I used to watch documentaries about them while I was in the rehab centre. Chilled me out, stuck with me.”

They kept walking through the insect rooms, watched the ants, the other bugs, before they go to the other animals, the birds.

“I need to get some errands done,” said Otto. “See you tomorrow?”

“Errands?”

“Just some paperwork shit at my bank, but I have to go home and find the right stuff first — birth cert, deed poll, GRC, blah blah blah. You still want to get sushi after work?”

“Sure,” said Archie, and walked to get the bus home.

* * *

When he went into the kitchen the next morning, early in the morning, Otto and Hugo were already working. Sarah and Yiota were prepping too, so it wasn’t as though they were alone, but Hugo was standing back with his arms loosely crossed over his chest as Otto kneaded bread dough.

He was made for this. He was a big man with strong, heavy arms, and he slammed the dough down, worked it hard with flour up to his elbows, like it was nothing, like it was easy.

Archie was keenly aware he wasn’t the only one admiring the work of his arms, and he could see Hugo looking at the fat curve of Otto’s arse, too.

“Archibald,” said Hugo when he saw him. “Would you come sit down with me for a few minutes? I have some paperwork to go over with you.”

He wasn’t expecting it when Hugo showed him a scan of his will on his computer.

“Casper — ”

“Archibald,” said Hugo softly. “We’ve discussed this.”

“You don’t have to,” said Archie, stepping back. “Casper — ”

“Son,” said Hugo, and reached for him, touched his fingers against Archie’s cheek because Archie’s skin was wet. His fingertips were warm against Archie’s face, and Archie leaned into the touch despite himself, because no one had ever touched him in all his life the way Casper Hugo touched him, like he was something precious and valuable and worth holding delicately. “I’m not dying. It’s just paperwork.”

“You must be worried about it,” said Archie. “If you want it finalised now.”

“If it’s finalised, it’s arranged,” said Hugo simply. “If there��s an accident, if anything goes wrong, legally, all will be well. Don’t you worry, young man. I’ve no plans to die whatsoever.”

“Do I need to sign anything?” asked Archie quietly.

Hugo shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “I’m just letting you know. I think you’re a very skilled young man, tremendously adept at your craft. When you own Lace, I’ve no doubt you shall manage it tremendously well — and so far into the future as I expect this will be, you shall no doubt have a host of head chefs to choose from.”

Archie felt like some invisible thread had tugged around his gut.

“I’ll be head chef,” he said. “I wouldn’t… Casper, I wouldn’t hand it off.”

There was an ever so slight catch in Hugo’s face before he smiled, patting Archie’s shoulder. “More than enough time to sort all that out,” he said.

“You don’t think I can be head chef?” asked Archie.

“Son, I didn’t say that,” said Hugo placatingly. “Merely that innovation as a chef isn’t just about impeccable technique or following instructions — you’re an incredible sous chef, and you have a tremendous understanding of marketing, but — ”

“But you don’t think I can innovate,” Archie said. “What, you think I’m not a fucking artist like you are? All these years I’ve been studying under you — ”

“Archibald,” said Hugo softly. “You ought know by now that not everything can be taught.”

Archie didn’t reply to that, couldn’t reply to that, felt so sick to his stomach he couldn’t stand it, and he threw himself into his work for the day.

* * *

“You’re in a mood,” said Otto that evening.

“Hugo showed me his will.”

“You’re gonna kill the old man?” asked Otto, raising his eyebrows, and Archie, with a low, irritated noise, shook his head.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

“Ain’t it good? That’s official, right? Officially you’re the fucking prince of the kingdom?”

“It wasn’t all he said, that’s all,” Archie murmured, and Otto reached for him, sliding his hands down Archie’s chest, loosely gripping him by the hips.

“Would my strap make you feel better?” he asked, voice husky.

Archie laughed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, Otto, it would.”

Otto doesn’t stay all night. He left after they showered, and Archie was left alone in the flat.

He texted Hugo.

10:12PM, ARCHIE: Sorry about today. Thanks. For everything.

10:13PM, HUGO: I’m sorry I upset you today. I love you too.

* * *

He was irritable in the coming weeks, and he knew he was. Every little thing pissed him off whether it should or not, and Hugo —

Hugo was still looking at Otto.

Archie was beginning to wonder if he should say something.

One morning, Otto was kneading bread dough as Archie did the stock take with Georges; Hugo was working on pastries, trying out a few new designs.

Archie hadn’t heard much while they were in the walk-in, but once they were in the pantry proper, he could.

“… historical fact. Arguments can be made as to the commonality, but it was undeniably an occurrence. Doctor James Barry is a notable example — he was a doctor of medicine. He did incredible work in the field of midwifery, which had been rather negatively impacted by the encroachment of men into the field, certain that they knew better than the women who had been successfully delivering babies through non-scientific means for centuries. Barry was known to be a womaniser, a boxer, but most of all he was a compassionate and skilled doctor, and his patients always sang his praises — he asked to be buried in the clothes he was wearing after his death, but of course, that instruction was resoundingly ignored. Thus, we know his secret.”

Archie wasn’t sure what Hugo was talking about, but Otto looked thoughtful about it, pensive.

“Huh. Yeah, I guess. I never thought much about it,” he said.

“Of course, the men that came before you hardly had the options you have today. You take testosterone, don’t you?”

“That’s right, yeah. I used to have this gel stuff I rubbed into my shoulders, but now my doc gives me a shot every month. It made my dick bigger.”

“Your — Really? I didn’t know it did that,” said Hugo, and Archie had to count the cocoa bags again.

“Oh, yeah. It’s a whole fucking mouthful now, old man. Talk about gourmet.”

Hugo laughed his salt-sweet laugh. “You enjoy that? I thought men like you might not… enjoy — ”

“Oh, I like having my dick sucked,” Otto said casually. Archie heard the loud thump of dough on the metal table. “Who doesn’t? But I’m not comforting having anything, uh, you know. In me. Or in my front hole, anyway — I like anal.”

“One must wonder how much that sort of thing applied, in times past.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dysphoria — particularly about the parts of the body, I mean, one way or another. In times past, a gentleman of means like myself might have worn a corset on his day to day, for example.”

“Fuck off,” said Otto, and Hugo laughed.

“It’s true!” he said. “Fashion has changed much in a few centuries — heeled shoes were intended for men, as well, at their outset. Corsets were quite commonly worn by men in the Victorian period. We think of skirts, particularly, as being for women, but that’s quite the modern idea — skirts were sensible fare for everyone, once upon a time, allowed for free movement, to keep cool. The things we consider to be gender markers apart from clothes, like a narrow waist against wide hips, or plump lips, or large eyes, they’re not objective considerations. They vary wildly from place to place, culture to culture, epoch to epoch.”

“Epoch,” repeated Otto.

“Epoch. An era, an age — a time period.”

“So, what,” said Otto, “you think a trans guy born two hundred years ago, who would’ve worn a corset, he would be glad to have wide hips and a narrow waist? That would have been masculine?”

“Could be,” said Hugo.

“Don’t know if that applies to not having a dick.”

“One never knows,” said Hugo. “In today’s world, one is exposed to far more — the internet alone is replete with photographs of other people’s genitals to compare to, but I expect at school, young man, you might even have learned about the so-called male and female anatomy, of one sort of genitals and another. A hundred years ago, on the other hand, one typically learned that sort of thing only once one was intimate with one’s partner, or someone else, at least. I hardly say that as a formal rule, of course, and again, culture plays a large part — a boy growing up in a whorehouse would like as not have a very different breadth of knowledge than one raised by a nanny in a country house.

“I just wonder if a young man in your position, two centuries or so to the day of your birth might not have so concerned himself with the shape of his genitals — it might not have occurred to him quite as hard-hittingly as it does to you, lacking so many points of comparison.”

Archie only heard the sound of dough hitting the table.

Quietly, apologetically, Hugo said, “I’ve upset you. I do apologise, young man. I was only musing out loud.”

“I’m not upset,” said Otto. “I’m thinking is all. Never thought about that before.”

“Not used to thinking, are you?” asked Hugo sympathetically.

They were both laughing when Archie stepped out of the pantry, because Otto had thrown flour at the old man, and the white powder was spattered over his cheek and his neck.

That night, as Archie sat and idly played a videogame, not really concentrating on it, listening to Otto putter about his kitchen, he realised that Otto was combing through the fresh herb and spice packets below the rack.

“The ones on the balcony are fresher,” said Archie.

“You can taste the difference?” asked Otto. His nose was buried in an open packet of fresh oregano, and he was holding a cannister of dried oregano in the other hand.

“For some of them,” said Archie. “Mostly it’s convenience. It’s texture as well as the rest — I can put dry basil into a sauce, but if I wanted basil leaves now, I’d want them fresh, so you could bite into them, taste them.”

Otto nodded. “It all smells so different, tastes so different. I just don’t know how you remember it all. What it’s called, what pairs together, what the fuck the difference is between varieties of thyme.”

Archie shrugged, chuckling. “You intuit, you experiment. Thought you weren’t interested in cooking?”

“I’m not,” said Otto.

Otto came to sit with him, picked Archie up and put him down again in his lap. He did it so easily that Archie felt a hot flush run up the back of his neck, and he leaned back against Otto’s huge, barrel chest, felt the heat of his belly.

“He didn’t make you uncomfortable, did he?”

“Chef Hugo? No. I like how he talks about it, actually. A lot of cis dudes get weird, especially old people — he talks like he gets it. Like he gets me.”

“What about me?”

“You don’t talk about it,” said Otto, putting his big chin on Archie’s shoulder, his chin sliding into the crook of his neck. “S’not like I mind. Not everything has to be talked about.”

“Do you think he wants to fuck you?”

“Hugo?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe,” said Otto, and shrugged. “But I’m fucking you.”

* * *

Archie went into work on a Thursday, the one night a week they were closed, because he’d left his bank card in his locker, to find the restaurant only mostly dimmed, some of the lights still on.

Otto was sitting at a table, a blindfold over his eyes, and Hugo was standing up beside him.

“Tastes oily, I guess,” Otto said. “It’s a nut, but it’s… greasier. Oilier. Not because it’s not dry, but the, um, the taste. Macadamia?”

“Good,” said Hugo.

Archie remembered the night that Hugo tried his palate like this, quizzed him. He remembered it being hard. A lot of the same ingredients were on the table in front of Otto now — different herbs and leaves, vegetables and meats, fruits, nuts, pastes.

As Archie stood there, shoulders leaned back in the corridor, he heard Hugo test him again, and again, and again, each time his voice getting richer, brighter with praise, because Otto got every single one right.

Because Otto, Otto, had a perfect fucking palate.

* * *

“You’re teaching the KP main recipes now,” Archie said a few weeks later, after Hugo had been doing the starfruit duck tutorial for Yiota, Sarah, Ralph… and Otto.

“The boy likes to learn,” said Hugo casually. “He’s in a kitchen now.”

“He’s here to wash dishes and clean equipment.”

“Now, now,” says Hugo quietly, frowning at him. “This is your boyfriend we’re talking about, hm? And he has skills, has potential — ”

“Is he who you have in mind for head chef when you’re dead?” demanded Archie. “Because I don’t fit the bill?”

“We’re not born with everything we might have,” said Hugo after a moment’s pause, his voice delicate and easy and soft. His conflict resolution voice. “Archibald — ”

“No,” snapped Archie. “Six years I’ve worked for you, devoted my life to this place, and you don’t tell me you think my palate’s shit?”

“I don’t think it’s shit,” said Hugo, his voice just as sharp, his eyes cold. “I think it’s adequate, and adequate is not enough. You need to be a little more realistic about your situation, I think.”

“If you think my palate is shit, train me — like you’re training him!”

“I could no more teach you to taste than I could teach a fingerless man to play piano,” said Hugo damningly. “I can only train what’s already there.”

“What’s already there is a fucking ex-junkie who spent a year in prison while I was in fucking culinary school!” He couldn’t believe how angry he was. The fury burned under his skin like it was going to set him alight. “And he has more potential?”

“It isn’t just potential. It’s his imagination, his palate, his lack of fear — ”

“Fuck off.”

“I told you to stop smoking, which helped,” said Hugo mildly. “But you’d need a new tongue to taste what you cannot taste now — and even had a cigarette never touched your lips, Otto was born with what he has. Not all tongues taste the same, and not all brains process that capacity in the same way either. You might as well be jealous of another man’s fingerprints, young man, because it will be just as productive.”

“I want to be like you,” said Archie. “I’ve always fucking dreamed of being like you, have worked all my life for it, and you want to pass all of that onto him when he’s never — ”

“What? Earned it?” demanded Hugo.

“Well, I’m an ex-junkie prison whore, aren’t I, boss?” asked Otto from the door to the office, arms crossed over his chest, and Archie felt his blood run cold as he turned to look at him. Otto was looking at Archie in utter disgust before looking back to the old man. “We good for four-thirty?”

“Yes, Otto,” said Hugo softly. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” started Archie, but Otto shook his head.

“No, I got what you meant,” he said bluntly. “I don’t deserve it. This place is all yours, blah fucking blah. It’s not hard to fucking grasp. G’night.”

When he left, Hugo sighed.

“I expect he’ll soften with an apology,” he murmured. “He knew it wasn’t personal.”

“It is personal,” said Archie.

“Oh?” asked Hugo, and for the first time in a long while, he looked at Archie with real, genuine disappointment on his features. “For his sake, then, break up.”

* * *

Archie did apologise.

He apologised in the first instance on his knees for about two hours.

After, lying against Otto’s chest with an ice pack against his jaw, he said, “I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, you did,” said Otto. “Posh little fuck like you, you think you deserve everything.”

“I’ve worked hard to be where I am,” said Archie.

“So have I,” said otto. “You think it was easy spending a year locked up in a women’s prison? Getting clean, not getting in fights? I’ve worked hard too.”

“But you never dreamed of this,” said Archie.

Otto sighed and put his face into Archie’s hair, rubbed his nose into it. “Nah,” he agreed. “That fucking sucks for you. It’s not my fault that I have what you want any more than the other way around.”

“Want to swap tongues?” asked Archie.

“Only if we can swap everything else,” said Otto, and grabbed at Archie through his trousers, making him arch and groan. “I’d use this better than you do.”

“He teaches you?” asked Archie.

“Yeah. He tests me a lot. Teaches me about techniques, gets me to taste stuff. Has me reading books about meditation, shit like that.”

Archie frowned, glancing up at his face. “Meditation?”

“Has something to do with studying, memory retention,” said Otto, waving a hand. “He wants me to be able to reach a meditative state so I can, uh, delve inside myself for rich memories, or some faggy shit like that.”

“Is it working?”

“No,” said Otto, and Archie laughed. “I sleep better, though. Sleep deeper. And I feel, uh, I don’t know. Calmer… More in-tune with shit. The old man is a witch, right? He’s into that stuff?”

“I wouldn’t call him that,” said Archie. “He’s just superstitious. Believes in crystals and powers and things like that.”

“Seems like bullshit,” said Otto.

“Men like it,” said Archie. “He uses it as an opening gambit when he meets men in pubs, does a magic trick or tells them facts about what people used to believe.”

“Huh,” murmured Otto. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“He did that with me, that’s all. Told me that some people would leave beer and alcohol out to appease local spirits and fae and shit, and all about contracts people have with faeries and shit in their areas. Started musing about what they’d think of craft beers.”

Archie twisted in his lap, and grunted as he moved the icepack, pushing it back up against his jaw as he looked at him. “What? When?”

“When I met him,” said Otto. “I was in a bar, tried to swipe his cocktail when he wasn’t looking — it looked expensive, had a load of different liqueurs in it. He said if I could tell him what I tasted in it he’d not tell security and buy me one of my own. We talked.”

“What could you possibly have to talk about?” asked Archie.

Otto raised an eyebrow at him, and Archie let out an irritable sound. “I don’t mean it like — You don’t need to have such a chip on your shoulder about being poor, you know.”

“We talked about food,” said Otto, a little coldly. “Cocktails. How he likes to cook. I had a badge on, a trans pride flag, he asked about it. He was flirting with some guys ’til I came over, but then he turned all business. Offered me the porter job.”

“Because you stole his drink,” muttered Archie.

“He saw something in me, I guess,” said Otto. “Same as he saw something in you. That’s a bad thing?”

“No.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Of course I’m fucking jealous.”

“Strap make you feel better?”

“Would it kill you to let me top once in a while?” Archie retorted, and Otto laughed.

“No,” he said. “But given what a bottom bitch you are, I thought I was doing you a favour. You want my ass, have at it.”

“Sorry,” said Archie lowly. “I’m just — Moody.”

“Yeah,” said Otto. “I got that. How’s the jaw?”

“Hurts.”

“Good.”

“Bed?”

“Yeah.”

Otto did sleep more deeply than he used to, it seemed to Archie. It was almost hard to wake him up again in the morning.

* * *

It wasn’t that they were keeping it secret before, but Archie was fairly sure that Hugo was keeping it subtle. It’s that that he was being obvious now — he was just not not being obvious.

He started by being less gentle with Otto rather than more — corrected his posture, his technique, told him to stop when he was doing something wrong sharply, and expected him to know how to set it right.

Otto bristled at first, didn’t understand why Hugo was being such a bitch all of a sudden, but Archie saw it for what it was — a commitment to Otto’s value. Respect.

Hugo had high expectations, and once he knew you were capable of meeting them, he kept you at that level and higher. Archie knew this, had always been grateful for it.

It grated to see it aimed at Otto, and see Otto rise to the occasion.

When Otto went away for a weekend with an old friend, to help him through some crisis or other, Hugo said on their night off, “Let’s go somewhere, you and I, Archibald. Just you and I.”

They ended up, after dinner, in a very quiet little speakeasy with an exclusive clientele — the sort of place Archie was only permitted entry to as an extension of Hugo.

They sipped at different cocktails, and Hugo said, “You know I love you, don’t you? More than anything.”

The old man was a little tipsy, was gesticulating a little more with his strong fingers, which were decorated with rings — he never wore them in the kitchen, but he had a few of them, many of them old, family heirlooms. It occurred to Archie that Hugo had probably willed these to him too, and he felt a desperate dread burn in his belly.

“I love you too,” said Archie. “Promise me you won’t die, Casper.”

“Never,” promised Hugo, tapping Archie’s knee with the tip of his fancy shoe.

He was a funny man, Casper Hugo. Archie’d never known a man with a wardrobe like this — he actually wore waistcoats and jackets, kept garters around his ankles so that his socks stayed up, sometimes wore spats. He had his nipples pierced, Archie knew, and they’d laughed about it before.

“I always dreamed of becoming like you,” said Archie. “My whole life, since I was a child, but now I know you, Casper, you’re not just a vague hero to me, you’re — ”

“I know,” said Hugo quietly, and he exhaled slowly, spreading out one hand. He had a slightly cloudy look in his eyes, and Archie wondered if he was drunker than he’d thought. “It’s a terrible thing,” he said at length, quietly enough that Archie wasn’t sure he was even meant to hear it, “to be limited by the realities of the body one was born with. I do believe you’ve a creative mind, Archibald, I really do. Merely… Ah.”

“I’m just not creative enough.”

“It’s the physical aspect that holds you back more, I think,” said Hugo. “I adored you already before I ever tested your palate — and when I did, and found you wanting… How could I tell you you weren’t tasting the subtleties you ought?”

“It’s not fair,” muttered Archie.

“No,” Hugo agreed. “So many things, dearest boy, are not. But look at what you do have — intelligence, grace, a handsome face, a dangerous wit, impeccable culinary skills… And let’s not pretend you haven’t made fine recipes, haven’t added to Lace’s menu.”

“But it’s never been something amazing,” muttered Archie. “Something — Something sublime. Something that makes the reviewers rave. It’s always just been… something nice. An amuse-bouche or a side dish that pairs well.”

“Without the milder aspects to a plate, the more intense of them hardly stand out,” said Hugo delicately. “I do hate to see you unhappy. I hate that I’m the cause of it.”

“Are you training Otto to be a chef?”

“Yes.”

“For me?” asked Archie.

“For me,” said Hugo. “But for you, by extension. Perhaps you’ll marry him.”

Archie scoffed. “You never got married. Why should I?”

“Well, I’m hardly an excuse,” said Hugo chidingly. “I’ve never met the right man. Or been the right one, for that matter.”

Archie sipped at his cocktail, tasting the cream liqueur in it, the cocoa thickness to it, the hint of raspberry sharpness, the coffee bean. It was perfectly balanced, sweetness and cream and bitterness, tasted wonderful.

He wondered how differently it would taste in someone else’s mouth — like Hugo’s mouth.

Like Otto’s.

“All my life, and I’ve never met a man like you, you know,” said Hugo. “You’re driven, focused. You learn anything put before you like… That.” He snapped his fingers.

“But some things can’t be taught,” said Archie bitterly.

Hugo sighed. “No, son. Some things simply cannot.”

“Do you want to fuck him?” Archie asked.

Hugo blinked at him. “Fuck whom?”

“Otto.”

“Oh,” said Hugo, and frowned, considering the question. Archie was impatient, but the fact that Hugo was actually thinking about it was something. “Is curiosity the same as want?”

“I guess not.”

“What if you fuck someone not because you want to fuck them, but because you wish for the outcome it will bring about? Do you think that counts as wanting to fuck them, or is it just…” Hugo trailed off.

He did this, sometimes, got into the semantics or the specifics of a question, tore it to pieces like a little dog with a piece of cloth, and forgot what the question was asking in the first place.

It made Archie smile.

“You’ve gone off topic, old man,” he said, and Hugo blinked at him, smiled with affection.

“Have I?” he asked. His tone was one of mild irony, because even drunk, he carried a certain self-awareness.

“I like him a lot,” said Archie. “Otto. I just wish he came from something… better. It wouldn’t grate as much, if he did.”

“Sometimes, young man, it’s not about where we come from so much as where we’re going,” said Hugo. “For example, I might be going over there, to those two handsome young men in tight t-shirts. I expect they have to butter their thighs to slide into those jeans.”

“How predictable.”

Suddenly serious, Hugo leaned forward, and said, “Everything that is within my power, Archibald, I am prepared to give to you readily. You understand that, don’t you?” He was looking at Archie very intently, if not fervently, so intensely Archie can’t stand it.

“Yeah,” Archie whispered. “Thank you.”

The night ended with Archie driving Hugo back to his old — several-hundred-year-old — townhouse and pouring him up the stairs. Hugo had a distinctive walk — he always was just slightly bow-legged, but very precise, like a cowboy trained in dance.

Archie helped him take his shoes and waistcoat off, and the old man dropped into his bed mostly clothed.

As Archie undid his cufflinks, Hugo said, “Have I told you I love you recently, young man?”

“No,” lied Archie, smiling. “You never mention it.”

Eyes closed, lips smiling, Hugo murmured, “Well, I do.”

Life went on.

* * *

Some days, as ever, Archie spent time one-on-one with Hugo, talking about Lace, about the menu, their direction. And some days, Hugo taught the rest of the brigade, and Otto was included.

And sometimes, he tutored Otto alone.

It did seem to Archie that Otto was taking it more seriously, cooking as a whole, and he expected it to make him feel more jealous, but he was pleased, actually. Some evenings, he’d come home and find Otto buried in a recipe book, or some massive tome about culinary history, studying.

It was nice.

It was nice to feel like Otto was interested in actually being worth something, not just being a KP or picking up some other shitty manual labour job, and Otto asked him more questions, too, engaged more.

He cooked more, too.

But he was —

Some nights, he was distracted.

It was like he zoned out in a way he never used to, staring into some point in the middle distance and suddenly not seeming to hear or be aware of anything, so buried in his thoughts that Archie had to physically touch him to snap him out of it.

He almost asked if he was using again, but he didn’t know enough about drugs to know which ones made you do that, and it wasn’t just that, anyway.

He got a little clumsier when he was tired, tripped more, knocked himself more.

“You know it’s not like normal, right?” Archie asked one evening.

“Yeah,” muttered Otto. “I don’t know, it’s like I just… I don’t know. I’m just clumsier now, when I’m tired. Maybe it’s because I’m working longer hours.”

“You should see your GP,” Archie said worriedly.

He didn’t do that. At Hugo’s insistence, after Archie went to him and begged him to do something, Otto was ushered off to Hugo’s own doctor, who did a battery of tests on him, even an MRI, to say… Yes, you’re a bit overtired, and you need to boost your iron intake somewhat, but there’s no other problems.

Archie didn’t understand how he could possibly be tired.

When Otto slept these days, he slept like the dead.

* * *

“You’d tell me if you thought you were dying, wouldn’t you?” Archie asked one morning, when he and Hugo were alone in Hugo’s kitchen, experimenting with macarons.

Archie’s had all come out technically perfect, but even the best-tasting ones didn’t make Hugo beam.

“Archibald,” said Hugo quietly. “We all die someday.”

“I saw how quick your private GP answered the phone for you. Not even two rings.”

“I’m a rich man — money buys these things.”

Archie looked at the old man flatly over the counter, and Hugo sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “Try this, would you?”

It was a lemon macaron delicately balanced with something spiced, and it was delicious.

“Do you know what’s in it?” asked Hugo richly — not pointedly, but because he was in a good mood.

When Archie hesitated, Hugo rushed to say. He felt like he was carrying weights in his gut.

* * *

Otto spent more time with the old man, lately. He studied more, practised more. When one of the line chefs took a week’s holiday, Otto stepped into the brigade — he was quick, had good reflexes, and while his techniques weren’t perfect, he nailed the taste every time.

He spent all night with Hugo, sometimes.

Archie began to worry again.

That same day, before Archie had asked the question, Hugo had toured him about the house, showed him pictures of his ancestors, photographs of the old owners of Lace, even a painting of the restaurant when it opened in the late 1800s, so different to what it was now.

He’d told Archie all this before, but he was more detailed now, more passionate.

Maybe that was why he asked.

Into Archie, it seemed like Hugo was trying to pour his whole personality, his history, his life; into Otto, his skills, his body of work, his palate.

He wondered what it would look like, if he did marry Otto. He wasn’t like Hugo, wasn’t worried about people marketing him as a gay chef even if it wasn’t true — it was popular these days, transgressive in a way that was marketable, and there’d be extra points with Otto being trans.

Otto wasn’t the sort of person he’d ever imagined himself marrying — who could he even bring to the wedding party? — but he was nice, attractive, good in bed, funny, and he would be a good chef.

He was on his way there already.

It wasn’t the same as what he wanted, not the same as having a spouse — probably a wife, when he was thinking of it vaguely — to just support him while he took centre stage, but it was… close. As close as he could realistically get.

And as much as Archie hated it, if Hugo thought it was the best he could do, he believed him.

It was a night Archie wasn’t supposed to be working, after closing — he’d come to pick Otto up and drive him home, because Otto had never learned to drive. The kitchen was clean and tidy, but the lights were still on, and Archie heard a stifled groan.

He knew what he’d see as soon as he looked through the kitchen window and into the darkened dining room — except that he was wrong.

He expected to see Otto on top of Hugo, or something. Instead, he saw Otto on a dining chair, thighs apart, Hugo between his legs. Hugo wasn’t just using his mouth — he was using his fingers, and Archie could see at a glance that it wasn’t just anal.

The first thing he felt was jealousy, indignation, because Otto had always told him he didn’t like that, to be touched there, that he didn’t want it, and yet here —

Otto was enjoying himself.

Archie could see that, could see how one of his hands was gripping tightly in Hugo’s thinning hair — it would probably be streaked with white, if the old man wasn’t shallow, and always had it professionally dyed.

Otto’s moans came from low in his throat. He’d never moaned like that for Archie.

He wondered if Otto let Hugo do everything, if he let Hugo fuck him, and fuck him from the front, not just the back. He wondered why he was too cowardly to ask, and shuffled to sit in the car, wait for Otto to say he was done and ready to get picked up.

* * *

Hugo texted them both, one night, asked if one of them would help him put up some flatpack furniture at the house.

Archie was midway through experiments with bread, up to his elbow.

Otto said, “I’ll go,” and he couldn’t argue.

What he could do, though, was hurriedly clean his hands off, toss all his bread in the bin, and follow Otto to Hugo’s townhouse.

He let himself in.

He had his own key, had for years, and Hugo didn’t believe in having a security system — he always liked to say, however vaguely, that he had his own systems in place.

Superstitious old man.

Archie had told him before that hanging crystals and symbols painted under the wallpaper were not sufficient to protect him from burglaries or home invasion, and Hugo always waved him off — right now, Archie supposed he was glad he never listened.

He could hear them in the next room, hear the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, hear Otto moaning, as Archie stood in the corridor. He didn’t peer around the open door to look — he didn’t need to.

Hugo believed in the “protective power” of mirrors — whatever the fuck that meant — and you could see around every corner in the big old house via the mirrors on the walls.

At a strange angle, he saw Otto fallen back into an armchair, Hugo driving into him.

There were tattoos under Hugo’s neck, between his shoulders, that Archie had never seen before, and he focused on those because Otto is wailing out a sound Archie had never heard before, arms wrapped tight around Hugo’s neck, pulling him close to him.

Archie couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like, fucking into him like that, and his fingers twitched at his sides because he wanted —

Otto howled, and Hugo moaned at the same time, his hips starting to slow.

“Fuck,” said Otto as Hugo pulled away, falling back in the tall chair, and Hugo laughed quietly.

Otto looked guilty, seconds after. His mouth twisted, his eyes downcast.

“Oh, darling,” purred Hugo, stroking his cheek. “What is there to be guilty about?”

“He’s baking bread right now. Nice bread. For me. And I’m here — ”

“Tomorrow we may die, young man,” said Hugo. “A little hedonism may be all you get.”

Otto looked —

“Tired?” asked Hugo. “I had heard orgasms could be tremendously soporific, but…”

“Just a little nap,” said Otto exhaustedly, in the way he’d been getting recently, where he suddenly got so tired he needed to sit down. “I’ll do your shelf after.”

“There’s no shelf, Otto,” said Hugo dryly, but Otto’s head had already fallen back against the armchair’s head.

Hugo was almost fully clothed, and as he fell back onto the sofa beside them, ankles crossing over one another, he zipped his trousers back up.

Otto was naked. Sweat glistened on his skin, soaking through his binder. Archie was aware in a distant, even more desperately humiliated, jealous stroke of understanding that Hugo hadn’t even been wearing a condom.

He needed to go.

He knew he needed to go, Archie knew he needed to go, needed to —

Otto’s eyes were open. Archie felt himself stop, his lips parting in surprise, at the way Otto leaned forward, not seeming tired at all. He rolled his neck, blinking a few times, but in the mirror, Otto looked wide awake. Had he been faking it?

Why would he?

He watched silently as Otto got to his feet and began picking up his clothes.

He didn’t pull them back on, just folded them neatly and put them on top of the coffee table in a little pile, picked his shoes up and put them down together, straightened things on the coffee table that had been knocked around.

It surprised Archie, because Otto wasn’t a neat guy by nature — he left everything thrown around, and Hugo was always telling him off for not having a neat workspace in the kitchen; Archie was always telling him off for leaving clothes on the floor.

Was he seriously respecting Hugo’s space, but not his?

Otto picked up the phone on the table and sent off a text: when Archie’s phone vibrated, he was terrified Otto had heard it in the next room, but he didn’t seem to have.

HUGO, 8:17PM: Your young man is working assiduously. I shall have him back to you before 10, I expect.

Archie stared down at the text, and then slowly looked to Otto in the mirror as he moved to pick up a book.

He had a bow-legged, dancer’s walk.

Otto opened the book to a bookmark and opened it up as though he’d been reading it a while. He poured himself wine — Otto hated wine — and sipped at it as he paged through, still naked.

On the sofa, Hugo looked deeply asleep, still on the cushioned surface, but he was breathing.

Archie was being ridiculous. He knew he was, that he was just confused, that it had to be a coincidence, all of it.

He went home.

Instead of bread, he worked on short pastry.

When Otto came back, a little after quarter past ten, he was being clumsy again — he stumbled twice on the step, and knocked into one of the doorways by the shoulder. He looked exhausted.

“How was the shelf?” asked Archie.

“Oh,” said Otto, and looked confused for a second. Archie would have assumed, if he hadn’t gone, that it was because he’d been fucking Hugo instead of doing it, but it wasn’t that — he was a better liar than that.

Otto looked blank because he didn’t remember.

How much did he remember? Did he remember anything at all?

“Yeah,” he said after a second. “Sorry. It went up fine, just another bookshelf, I guess. You know what the old man is like. No bread?”

“I tossed it,” said Archie. “Thought I’d put myself into something else.”

He felt sick once he’d said it, but Otto didn’t seem to notice, didn’t respond, didn’t flinch.

He just looked disappointed, and said, “I like your bread.”

A few hours later, when they were in bed together, Archie asked, “Do you ever have dreams, Otto?”

“Not really. Never used to remember them often, and now I don’t at all.”

“You never dream of anything?” he asked.

Otto frowned, thinking about it carefully. “Some days, I guess I dream I’m not anything,” he said thoughtfully, brow furrowed. “Like I’m… I don’t know how to describe it. Like I’m suspended in space, or air, or something. Weightless, like gas. But it’s not anything more than that — just a feeling, really.”

Archie said, “Right.”

Otto’s head hit the pillow heavily, and he was out like a light. Archie convinced himself, somehow, that if he fell asleep Hugo would pilot Otto’s body around the flat, and the thought kept him up for half an hour before he succumbed to sleep.

He remembered when he’d first met Hugo, how quickly Hugo had taken him in, started training with him, working with him. They’d been fast friends, and he’d been a little nervous at first that the old men had ulterior motives, but that had never factored into it.

Even when the both of them were drunk, Hugo had never tried to touch him anywhere below the belt, didn’t touch him at all for years unless Archie initiated it.

Not that Archie was entirely shallow, but he’d never really let himself take after a man more than ten years older than him — he’d hesitate at five.

It was just gauche, really, and looked terrible even if you weren’t pretending to lust after an older guy to get a leg up, and if you weren’t doing it to get a leg up, why do it at all?

But Hugo never expected that from him, never seemed even to dream of it.

“You remind me of myself, at your age,” he remembered Hugo saying to him once. “Young, hungry, clever and eager to learn, not about to be held back by anyone else’s rules or expectations. They don’t often make young men like you are, like I was, anymore, Archibald.”

Hugo had given him a few books about the magic he was interested in, about meditation, but none of them seemed to deal with anything like this. He’d given him mirrors, but Archie already knew there were symbols painted on their backs, and even more painted on the hidden inside of the glass, because Hugo had showed him.

He’d said they were protective, that they were intended to make sure nothing happened to Archie, that they were the same sort of mirrors he had in his own house, and please, Archibald, just keep one in each room, please? For me? You needn’t believe in it, but I do, and it brings me comfort to think of you as safe.

He searched it online.

Nothing useful came up, just page after page of horror stories, stuff that seemed superstitious the way Hugo always talked about when he was prompted to, but not based in the reality Hugo seemed to live in. It was all fiction, and if it wasn’t that, it was bollocks.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked Otto one day, as Otto was lying on his side, staring into space.

“Okay?” said Otto.

“About — about you. About being trans.”

“Oh,” said Otto, and met his gaze. “You’ve noticed.”

Archie hesitated. “Maybe.”

Otto sat up on his elbows, looking at him for a moment, and then said quietly, “Yeah, I just… I don’t know. I just feel a bit better recently. More at home in my own skin — or maybe just less attached to it? Less worried. I don’t feel as anxious as I used to.”

Archie didn’t let himself react. “That’s good,” he said. “Right?”

Otto smiled at him. “Yeah, he murmured. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You’ve been spending a lot more time at mine,” said Archie. “If you want. Bring Roosevelt and Kennedy, I don’t mind.”

Otto tilted his head, blinking at him. “Who?” he asked.

Archie wondered in the moment if he was even talking to Otto at all.

“Oh, right,” said Otto, laughing, running a hand through his hair. “Um, no, I gave them away. I’m working much longer hours now, didn’t have time to look after them.”

“But you love stick insects,” said Archie.

“I love cooking,” Otto replied, and he sounded like he meant it, and Archie wondered if it was true, and if it was, when it had become true. If it would be true, if it wasn’t for… All this.

“Can you, um, can you help me take the big mirror off the wall? The one in the kitchen?”

Otto blinked again. “Okay,” he said. “Why?”

“Oh, I want to ask Hugo about it,” Archie said.

Otto was on his feet, but he was still confused — he was feigning confusion, Archie thought. Otto’s gait was bow-legged and graceful at once.

“He paints symbols on the backs of his mirrors — on the backs of all mine, too. He’s teaching me so much, recently. I guess I’d like for him to teach me about this, too.”

“Aw. That’s cute,” said Otto.

Not Otto.

He was aware of Otto the rest of the evening, Otto reading, Otto dozing, Otto tasting herbs on the balcony. It was nothing unusual. It was what he’d been doing in the evenings now for months — he didn’t play videogames as much anymore, didn’t have his stick insects, didn’t go to AA meetings.

They didn’t go to the zoo anymore, and come to think if it, it had been months since they’d watched a creepy bug documentary.

Archie couldn’t stand it.

“I’m going to take a walk,” said Archie. “You want anything from the shop?”

“No thanks,” said Otto, not looking up from his book. Sitting next to him was a glass of dry white wine, the sort of stuff Otto would have spat out if he’d been given it a year ago.

Archie drove straight to Lace.

* * *

Hugo was in his office chair in front of his computer, and Otto walked right up to him, lolled back in his seat, “asleep”, and put his hand on his shoulder to wake him up.

The shoulder was cold and stiff under his hand, and he saw his horrified expression in the mirror on the wall, the same way he saw Hugo’s corpse, slack-jawed and empty, right in front of him.

Otto, behind him, with a new accent, said, “Too late, Archibald,” and Archie turned to look at him.

“The mirrors have always been a sort of insurance,” said the man who was no longer Otto, closing the door and locking it with a neat click. He moved slowly, deliberately, but he wasn’t hiding his strange dancing cowboy’s walk — he hadn’t been hiding it before, tonight. He’d known that Archie had known — for how long?

Archie’s heart was beating rabbit-fast in his chest, and he couldn’t breathe.

Otto always slouched as much as his binder would let him, but Hugo wearing his body didn’t, walked very tall so that Otto’s body seemed even larger than it ever had been.

“You know those little myths and stories about ghosts being trapped in mirrors? There’s a common understanding one ought cover the mirrors after a death in the house, else a spirit can become trapped whilst trying to leave out of a window, and this concept is not dissimilar. One can organise that sort of spirit-trap to prevent oneself from dying in one’s entirety, if one doesn’t like to be caught short.”

“Casper — ”

“You’re frightened of me,” said Hugo softly. Otto’s face looked sad in a dignified way that didn’t quite match his features. “That hurts.”

“This is sick,” said Archie. “This is, this is sick, this can’t possibly be fucking real. Casper, it’s not fucking right, that’s… You… Where’s Otto?”

“Right here.”

“Trapped,” said Archie, feeling sick. “That’s what you said, right? A spirit trap?”

Hugo shook Otto’s head.

“Weightless,” he said pleasantly, and Archie never knew that Otto’s voice could carry such caramel-salted sweetness. “Weightless, bodiless, painless, thoughtless. No more suffering for young Otto, no more difficulties, dysphoria, cravings, none of it. No more… stress.”

“You can’t do this.”

“I think you’ll find I can, my dearest boy,” said Hugo. “I did, after all.”

He was getting closer. Archie felt light-headed.

“When I was born,” said Hugo softly, deliberately, “there were so many things I couldn’t do, wasn’t permitted to do. A young lady of means, of class — I was expected to marry, be a broodmare for some ugly man with half my brains and none of my ambition.”

Archie stared at him.

“And when I began pursuing magic, I realised that my spouse, as stupid as he was, so lacking in everything of value… could be useful. He had a gentleman’s title, a gentleman’s name. The penis was by the by, but I found once I had it that I liked that too.”

Hugo was standing very close now, leaning into Archie’s space and all but pinning him against the wall, his belly, his chest, pressed hot against Archie’s own. Archie was searingly aware of Otto’s body, its strength, in a way he never had been before, and his cock was half-hard. He told himself it was just terror.

“I did miss it, sometimes, though,” murmured Hugo. “I was a man on my terms, in my own body, long before I took somebody else’s… And then somebody else’s.”

Hugo’s — Otto’s! Otto’s! — hands were cupping Archie’s face, and he was leaning in close. He smelt like Hugo’s cologne and Otto’s deodorant, and Archie couldn’t breathe.

“And then somebody else’s,” Hugo went on. “Because I’m like you, Archibald. I want what I want, and I’m patient about wanting it, but what I want, I take.”

Hugo kissed him, and Archie felt hot and cold all over, head almost bursting, but then Hugo lifted him hard by the hips and Archie, giddy and dizzy and so terrified he couldn’t think straight, kissed him back.

“No,” he whimpered against Hugo’s mouth. “No, no, no, you can’t, you can’t do this, I don’t want it — ”

“Want me to show you how to put it right?” he asked lowly, deliberately. He squeezed Archie’s arse, and Archie moaned. “I can teach you, you know. How to drive me out of Otto’s body, how to kill me, and bring Otto back.”

“I don’t want to kill you,” said Archie. “I just — But you can’t do this, you can’t steal his body, you can’t.”

“You wouldn’t have known, you know,” said Hugo quietly, stroking his knuckles over Archie’s cheek. “I would have kept it from you until you were ready. I would have slipped into Otto like a hot bath, and I would have invited you into me for years on years before I made this little revelation, but you impressed me, Archibald. You looked. You paid attention. You connected the dots despite your ignorance, and I thought perhaps you might be ready now.”

“Ready? How the fuck could I ever be ready? When you’ve been — when you’ve been planning this from the start when…” Archie’s stomach flipped, and he stared at Hugo’s face that wasn’t his. “Since the start,” he repeated.

“I loved you the very moment I saw you,” said Hugo.

“No,” Archie moaned, and then moaned louder at Hugo’s squeezing hands on his arse. “No, no — ”

“If you hate me so much, dear boy, I’ll show you how to drive me out,” Hugo offered again. “Into a mirror, into that old corpse, where I’ll surely wither away and die again — ”

“Someone else,” gasped out Archie. “Not Otto.”

“Why not Otto? Like you said, he’s almost nothing. Not without me in him, anyway.”

“You can’t just steal someone’s body, someone’s life.”

“Make up your mind, young man. Can I steal no one’s body, or can I just not steal Otto’s?”

Archie powerlessly shook his head. “You can’t steal anyone’s,” he said.

“What about you?”

“What the fuck about me? You want my body too?”

“You’ll never be anything with a tongue like yours,” said Hugo. “No palate to speak of, barely any sense of subtlety. Enough to know what tastes good, but not quite to intuit why. Imagine, dearest boy, if you could have somebody else’s.”

For a moment, it was like the world stopped spinning — it was like the universe stopped spinning, and he and Hugo were the only people in it.

Otto’s voice came, laughing Hugo’s caramel chuckle. “There,” he said. “That’s why I love you.”

Archie was still for a long few seconds.

“You could be taller, if you wanted,” said Hugo quietly, in a low, quiet purr. “Stronger. You could have different hair, different eyes — and a good, strong tongue.”

Hugo. Otto.

His hand was sliding over Archie’s chest, and every inch of Archie’s skin felt alive and sensitive.

“My plan was to get you used to the idea,” he murmured. “Let you suffer in the shade of Otto’s spotlight before you realised you could share it. But you know now — we can prepare you now. And you can have everything you ever wanted.”

Archie opened his mouth to retort, but Otto’s hand, Hugo’s hand, gripped him by the wrist and pulled it to cup him through his trousers, so that Archie could feel where he was wet and wanting.

Archie swallowed.

“Yes,” purred Hugo. “You can have at that, too. I can barely remember what it feels like — but I remember I miss it.”

“You picked him for me,” whispered Archie. “Otto.”

“Yes,” Hugo murmured. “And for me, by extension. Honestly, I had no idea how lucky we’d be with him — no family, barely any friends. It was rather like Christmas.”

“It’s my dream,” said Archie. “It’s always been my… And I’ve worked hard. I don’t want to be held back by something I couldn’t even choose.”

“Exactly,” said Hugo, and shoved his own corpse onto the floor, pulling out the office chair and pushing Archie into it.

“I’ve worked hard. For years, for my whole life — ”

“And you’re ready to work hard for years more, for the rest of your life,” agreed Hugo. “You deserve this. You’ve earned it.”

“And… And Otto…”

“Doesn’t even know,” said Hugo. “Doesn’t even know to know. And really, who’s worth more to you? You’ve known me for years, know I’ve got so much more to teach you. What can Otto offer?”

He was sliding his trousers down, and Archie, mouth dry, stared.

“I love you,” said Hugo softly. “Unconditionally — for all you are, for all that sweet ambition. I won’t hold you back, won’t cry that you’re overstepping your boundaries. Boundaries aren’t for the likes of us, my dear.”

Archie could argue.

He could. He knew he could. But — but all that jealousy, all his nerves about Otto, and the whole time, Hugo was doing it for him?

He felt breathless, overwhelmed. Scared, but not… bad.

“I’ll never die so long as you want me here,” Hugo promised, climbing into Archie’s lap, and Archie put his hands on his hips, slid them between his thighs.

Otto didn’t slap his hands away: Hugo sighed and spread them wider, inviting Archie to touch.

Hugo leaned in and whispered in his ear, “And you won’t die either.”

Archie unbuckled his jeans.

“I love you, you know,” murmured Hugo, his eyes agleam. “Have I told you that lately?”

Archie kissed him as Hugo dropped further into his lap, and that sufficed for his answer.

FIN.

[forwhump]

a/n; more wren pov & a little bit of backstory ! what’s not to love ? <3

tw/cw: implied rape/noncon, misgendering, transphobia, kidnapping, captivity, mentions of drug use

creepy whumper, military whump

He can still remember that last day. Sometimes he wishes he couldn’t, but he can’t forget it. He remembers sitting on the floor in the unit of an abandoned apartment building, across from his big brother. The shell, anyway, of what was once his big brother, skinny and shivering despite the stained comforter he was swaddled in.

God, Wren had lived a lot of lives.

As a child, a teenager, he’d been white and blonde and he grew up in Texas — he did pageants. He used to clean house at them, too. He’d been a prized show pig.

So maybe his life really hasn’t changed all that much, actually.

Later into his teenage years, he started to transition, and that was an entirely different lifetime. His mother was also a white, white blonde former beauty queen from Texas, a good Christian woman. But she was a good mother, in a southern belle kind of way. She didn’t take issue with his transition, not really, she was just kind of a bitch to him about it. If he wasn’t passing, his mother was the first person to let him know. They used to argue viciously about his hair — she wanted him to cut it, why put in all this work just to have girl’s hair? It’s stupid! Wren had never wanted to cut his hair. He had great fucking hair. He’d taken meticulous care of it his entire life.

Now, if he ever gets the chance, he’s going to shave his fucking head.

His last year of high school, he got a few big breaks on social media, and that changed his life. That was an entirely different lifetime. He was an artist, a working artist. He wasn’t famous, not by any means, not outside of the art world, but he was making a name for himself within it. He had a girlfriend, Julie, a tattoo artist from Amsterdam that had always kind of scared him. That’s always sort of been his type, he supposes.

Robin, a few years older than him, also from Texas, had enlisted in the military as soon as he turned eighteen. Wren can remember begging him not to; he’d been only fourteen or fifteen, still a beauty queen. Wren can remember the begging turning to screaming matches between them; even if they both didn’t know it yet, they were both their mother’s sons. Wren was an artist, a hippy — he hated the military and everything they stood for. He hated they were taking Robin from him. Robin had always been a little bit more of a cowboy. He was gone within six months of enlisting.

When worried for him, that’s why he had fought him. The military sends teenagers to slaughter, and he knew it, even young. If only he had known it was going to be the beginning of the end of both their lives.

Robin does a couple tours. The first time he came home, Wren had started to transition while he was away, and he was almost nervous to see him again — he hadn’t needed to be. Robin was always a bit more of a cowboy, but Robin was his best friend. It was good to see him.

The first time he came back, he was almost entirely whole. The next time, something was missing, but it was hard to place exactly what it was. When Robin finally comes home for good, Wren is only nineteen, a year and a half into living in a beautiful apartment with his beautiful girlfriend, living the dream, a working artist. When Robin finally comes home for good, there’s nothing of him left.

He’s a shell of who he used to be. He’s empty. He lives at home with their mother for six months before he disappears to the streets. Wren moves back home. His girlfriend doesn’t wait for him. Robin starts doing heroin.

He can still remember that last day. Sometimes he wishes he couldn’t, but he can’t forget it. He remembers sitting on the floor in the unit of an abandoned apartment building, across from his big brother, skinny and shivering despite the stained comforter he’s swaddled in.

“Come home,” Wren says softly.

Robin shakes his head, and the movement is unnatural. Twitchy. This isn’t the same older brother that used to get all gussied up for Wren’s pageants in boots and bolo tie. His teeth are chattering. “I’m-m s-sorr-ry.”

Wren sighs through his teeth. “Robin —“

“Wr-Wren,” he tries. “J-just a…a couple bucks.”

Wren looks away. Back against the floor, he remembers watching the fifteen year old version of himself that had thrown a textbook at Robin’s head in an attempt to keep him from leaving overseas.

“Wren,” Robin tries again. “P-please. Please.”

“Just come home,” Wren pleads.

“I c—I can’t,” he chokes, shuddering. “You don’t see how mo-om lo-ooks at m-me.”

Wren shakes his head slowly. “I’ll get us an apartment somewhere else,” he says. “Anything I can do to help. You just have to try and get clean.”

When there’s a sound like the front door has been kicked open, Wren doesn’t even jump. It’s an abandoned apartment building, shelter for homeless people and addicts, there’s always some kind of noise. Usually gunshots. Screaming, too.

“I j-just n-need a couple—a couple bucks,” Robin says. “Please.”

Wren does jump, however, when the door to the room they’re closed off in is kicked open.

It’s like a nightmare, the way it unfolds.

Wren can’t process what he’s seeing for a second, but his heart starts beating in his throat, anyway. Filling the doorway, blocking their escape, big and broad shouldered, is some kind of —

Wren thinks soldier, but what the fuck? What is this?

He looks quickly at Robin, whose eyes are glazed over. The man in the doorway looks like a SEAL, or SWAT, but the most nightmarish version of either that Wren could ever imagine. All black, armed and armoured.

He lifts his gun towards Robin as he pulls a mask down the lower half of his face with his other hand. “He’s in here!” He shouts, in the loud, commanding drone of the military. “And he’s got a girl with him!”

“Hey,” Wren says, almost inappropriately indignant. “I’m not a —“

And then the room is full of those soldiers, those SEALs, Alpha Team Six or whatever, shouting at each other, at Wren and at Robin, guns lifted, aimed. Two of them grab Robin, each by the arm, and he sags back into them without a fight. His eyes are still glazed over.

One of them grabs Wren by the braid and wrenches his head back. He cries out, silenced by the barrel of the gun that finds the soft skin beneath his chin. “No civilians,” he says, low and lethal.

This wakes Robin up a little bit, out of his stupor, and he tries without success to get his feet beneath him again. “No,” he grunts. “No.”

“What the fuck?” Wren cries, maybe screams. Hell, maybe whispers. He isn’t sure. He can’t hear anything over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.

“No witnesses,” barks another soldier. “Put her down.”

“Get the fuck off me!” Wren cries, probably screams. “Get off me!”

“Wait,” says a voice. It has the same commanding lilt of military charge, but his voice is so, inappropriately calm, almost amused, that it makes all the hair on the back of Wren’s neck stand up. “Wait, now.”

The other soldiers part for this one. He draws through them with an unhurried, almost smug confidence, their superior in some form, platoon leader, maybe. They’re all big men, SEALs, but he’s considerably bigger than the rest of them, tall and broad, all thick, bulky muscle. When he pulls his mask down to grin at Wren, he’s handsome. He’s very handsome, in a very sharp, supermodel kind of way.

People had said of Richard Ramirez, those fortunate enough to have lived to have anything to say about him, that there was something not right in his eyes. That it wasn’t like looking into the eyes of a man, but a rabid animal. This man has those same eyes.

“Why,” the man says, and he puts on a bit of a twang, mocking him. “Aren’t you just a pretty little thing?”

“Fuck you,” Wren spits, an instinct. The man holding him by his braided hair pulls with enough force to make Wren cry out. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Settle down, now,” the man says, grinning at him. “Be a good cowgirl.”

“Fuck you,” he spits again. “What the fuck is this? What do you want?”

The man clicks his tongue and points at Robin. “We’re just here to reclaim what’s ours,” he says, and crouches slowly in front of Wren. He grabs him by the jaw, and Wren tries to jerk away, but the man holds fast, biting through his flesh and making the hinge of his jaw creak in protest. “We aren’t supposed to leave behind any civilians,” he explains, looking too closely at Wren. There’s something not right in his eyes. “No witnesses. Strict orders. But you, cowgirl,” he says, and his voice softens to something sickly sweet, something that makes Wren’s stomach turn, “are an awfully pretty little thing.” He turns his face this way, that. “And I’ve always liked ‘em blonde.”

He starts to run his thumb over Wren’s lower lip and Wren jerks away again on instinct. The man behind him holds his hair a little tighter until it strains at his scalp and his platoon leader slides his thumb into Wren’s mouth with a giddy smile. “Cheerleader?” He guesses. “Pageant girl?”

Bile starts to climb up the back of Wren’s throat. He tries to lean away and he can’t. He’s trapped.

“I think it just might be your lucky day, little darlin’,” he says, taking his thumb from Wren’s mouth, and Wren spits in his face.

He wipes his cheek with a gloved hand and grins a little wider. “It would be a shame to put you down, cowgirl. I think it would be a waste of you. I think I might just be able to find a better use for you.”

“Who are you?” Wren spits, and he’s shaking.

“Oh, darlin’,” he says with a coo, grinning even wider. It’s grotesque, an inhuman mimicry of a smile. “I think I might just be your worst nightmare.”

[charleslee-valentine]

Remember my trans Drayton fic?

Well now it’s got a prequel!

dedicating this to @lavenderbones13 who inspired me to pick this back up!

______

Word count: 3,332

Ship(s): Lefton (Drayton Sawyer x Boude “Lefty” Enright)

Warnings: period typical (1930s/40s) transphobia and homophobia, implied child abuse, alcohol use, very mild sexual themes, pregnancy.

—————

Lefty can tell his love has a secret.

It started with the fighting. Every advance for intimacy, for gentleness, for a moment to just be in love like they used to, turns into a screaming match. One sided at that.

From the bottom of his heart, Lefty could never fight with his sweetheart of nearly five years. A few more and they’d be getting married, raising kids in their own little corner of the Texas dry lands.

Not at this rate, and that’s Lefty’s biggest fear.

They need to talk about this, before things get out of control. He can’t lose his chance at love like this. Nothing has ever made his heart feel so simultaneously full and fragile.

Come tomorrow, he’s going to bring a ring, and he’s going to beg to fix whatever has gone wrong.

~~~~~

His name is Drayton. He’s not some fucking pretty little girlfriend, baby-makin’ machine. He’s a man, and he demands to be referred to as such.

Drayton had practiced it in his head countless times. Lefty called, said he wanted to see ‘his lover’ again, getting Mama’s blessing to take him out and everything. Would be nice to scare him out his fancy boots, showing up with his hair cut off and his chest pressed flat, but Drayton has hopes using words can get by this time.

He trusts his Lefty. Goddamn it, he does, despite the fear in his bitter heart, and the warning sirens going off in his own mind. Sure he’s pushing Lefty away some, but….

No. No more lies and excuses. Drayton’s going to act his age, act like the goddamn man he is, and face this little problem head on.

And he’ll bring his gun in the truck just in case things go south.

Picking lead outta bodies before preppin’ them ain’t easy, but it’s what he’ll have to do if he’s gonna be hurt, whether he likes that reality or not.

~~~~~

Lefty brought flowers, brought the ring, brought a bottle of the good wine and glasses, even a quilt to lay on the grass. Good old fashioned pic-a-nic under the stars to win his baby back.

All he needs now is-

“My love.”

He’s a little breathless with want when he finally sees his beloved. It’s been too long. His heart can’t take much more distance.

“Enright.”

That can’t be good. On last name terms again.

His honey only calls him Enright when somethin’s real wrong.

He’s gotta try to play his cards, gently holding the hands of the love of his life, “Would you come out with me tonight? I miss you.”

The gruff, but tender answer he gets is very much appreciated, “Got nothin’ better to do… thought you’d never ask.”

~~~~~

Halfway through the night, Drayton just bursts, like a beaver dam under far too much pressure. Except it’s his heart snapping into pieces, not no twigs. Only took two glasses full of wine before he was hugging the entire bottle to his chest to take swigs occasionally, crying his eyes out and pissing his dignity down the drain.

Lefty rubs his back, but it ain’t enough to soothe him. Drayton sobs, “Yer gonna leave me. Yer gonna think I’m fuckin’ crazy.”

Another big drink straight from the bottle. He’s never held his alcohol well. Probably already a good bit tipsy.

For his part, Lefty’s reassurance doesn’t falter, promising, “I’d never. Cross my heart.”

“And the rest?” Drayton asks for more, selfishly, hoping to extinguish the pain in his heart.

“Hope to die and everything, honey.” Lefty cooperates, only to give Drayton’s cheek a gentle kiss, and beg real quietly, “Jus’ tell me what’s wrong, lover. We can fix it.”

Something about that choice of words makes a crack in his soul. Ignites a deep insecurity inside himself nobody quite knows of.

“No. No, I’m not broken, Boude. There’s no fixin’ to be done”

“Alright. Well can I at least know the problem I’m dealin’ with, so’s I know how to address it?” Lefty patiently prompts.

Drayton drinks half of what’s left in the bottle in one swig. Popping off it, he shakes his head, terrified, unable to drown this unease, “I…. Boude- I cant-“

“Take your time. Breathe, partner.” Lefty soothes again, pulling Drayton softly back to lean into his chest.

He strokes his arms, like he’s trying to warm him up, and maybe he is. Maybe this is Draytons final act before his heart gives out from all these emotions and he goes dead cold. Nah. His heart’s still beating too fast for that. Drayton gains the courage to speak, “You said you’d stick with me through anythin’.”

“That I did.”

“Would that include if I changed my name?”

A pause. “What’s wrong with E-“

“Stop. I’m not done.” Drayton interrupts, so tired of that old way of referring to him, that he explains all at once, “I don’t want to just change my name. I want to change my clothes too. And my hair. And my body. And the way you call me. I-I want to change.. my sex, Boude. I ain’t no woman.”

“Could you.. explain that?” Lefty prompts. Drayton starts to pull away, he’s scared that Lefty’s question is a trap, a way to make him detail every emotional detail he has. But Lefty holds him close through it, “No honey I just, I don’t know what you mean. Please..”

So Drayton takes one more drink, and just lets the floodgates go, rambling on, “It’s not like I understand it much. It’s some curse. Like I was.. born all mixed up or somethin’. My soul must’ve swapped with somebody else’s. Maybe one of Mama’s stillborns-“

“You don’t feel like yourself?” Lefty tries.

Now he’s starting to get frustrated, walking someone else through what he already knows, “What the hell do you think? Drayton is a man’s name, and Drayton is me!”

“Honey. Drayton. You do understand that, what you’re fixin’ to do-“

“Is liable to get me killed. Of course I know! But if that’s what’s gonna happen then goddammit just finish me off now.”

“You know I would never.” Lefty sounds real stern, a little hurt he’d even suggest it. Clearing up that confusion comes from his long-winded declaration next, “My love. Remember when you told me, you didn’t like your weight, or your frizzy hair, or your crooked teeth? That you wasn’t good enough for me?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Drayton mumbles sourly, turning to finally face Lefty instead of leaning his back against him.

Warm, blue eyes stare right back into his own. Intense and vulnerable and just plain loving. Drayton has to look down.

“That I told you I’m connected with your soul. Your body, sure I love it, and I love you, but it’s not up to me. Our love was written in the creation of this very universe. God meant us to be together. No matter what form you take. Drayton Sawyer.” Lefty sounds a lot like his preacher father talking that way, ranting at him. That’s a sign of how seriously he feels.

Somehow his confidence allows Drayton to let all his heart-achin’ show, “I can't go through with it.”

“I’ll help you, darlin-“ Lefty starts, but he’s cut off.

Drayton’s voice wobbles with his tears and the burn of alcohol, “Don’t you understand? If I’m a man, and I start lookin’ like one, we can’t be together!”

“On our own time, we can be. Nobody has to know. To the public, we’ll be friends still, but-“

“Boude. I can’t ask that of you. You’re always.. always kissin’ on me, holding my hands. Hiding your affection, it’s not-“

Lefty cups his face. Resumes the eye contact, starin’ into his eyes in a way that’s bordering on manic.

“Not going to break us. Never. Nothing can get in our way, you hear me?”

Drayton nods softly, sniffling to stop the tears that wanna fall, “But-“

“No more. I wanna help you. We’ll get you sorted and lookin’ yourself more like Drayton, yeah?” Lefty tries to cheer him up.

Drayton has a realization instead, color draining out of his face, “My mama’s gonna kill me.“

It’s not likely, but there was always the chance. Mama Sawyer done a lot of good by her son, and a lot of bad too. Namely, kicking him out a few times to have the house to herself and her ever-changing beau, forcing him to work since childhood. The woman didn’t want a child, she wanted a maid. But she could be kind when she needed to be. Sure, she’d hurt him, but she’d never abandon him, never do away with his life.

Lefty’s opinion of the woman is as low as low. His tone is barely subdued anger, “As if she’ll even notice. That woman is colder than hell frozen over. Never pays you enough mind, never has.”

“That’s my mother you’re talkin’ ‘bout.” Drayton warns softly. No matter how much he agrees, it’s never easy to hear that somebody from the outside can tell things ain’t happy-go-lucky.

It’s probably Lefty’s determination, as evidenced by his dedication to arguing this, “Exactly. And she’s never ought been a mother to ya.”

That gets Drayton a little defensive, “Funny. It’s your parents we’ll be hidin’ from. It’s mama told me I could bring home man or woman, so long as there’d be no love child sprung.”

Meanwhile, Lefty’s parents are the ones who sat the couple down and threatened to not let them see one another if they suspected them of pre-marital scex. They’re the folks that made Drayton kneel and pray at their hearth for God’s approval to date their child.

As much as Lefty can’t stand Mama Sawyer, Drayton can’t stand the Enright parents neither.

Apparently, Lefty agrees, “So they’re both shit. That leaves just us. Just you and me, Drayton.”

Huh. How about that.

Drayton finally puts down the bottle, realizing there’s no more than a sip or two left. His face is flushed, an unholy combination of alcohol and affection. The only thing warmer than his skin is a fond flame burning right in the center of his chest.

“You can stop sayin’ my name so much.” He attempts to get some space from the big feelings.

Lefty showers him in compliments instead, because of course he does, “I like it. It suits you. Better than E-“

Drayton puts a stop to that. “Well if you’re so damn obsessed, the old one dies, alright? No more calling me by that name.”

“Alright.” Lefty agrees, until he thinks of some extenuating circumstance, “Not even-“

“No. Never. If you goin’ through with all this, you’re gonna take me as is. And that ain’t her. She’s gone, Enright. You hear?” Drayton hides the quiver is his voice, by dropping it a pitch or two. It’ll help to have that skill later on anyhow.

“Yes sir.”

“Good.”

“Can I kiss-“

Drayton interrupts his twiddling about. No more words for now. No more questions especially. He’s sick of words. He wants feelings.

The kiss ain’t some dainty thing. Drayton cups Lefty’s face and guides him as close as two bodies can press, lips connected all the while. They’ve never made as much contact as here now, laying under the stars, all tangled up, kissing as deep and as furious as the bounds of their love.

Guilt is what stops it. Not only over the sinful (clothed. painfully modest) touching. Lefty looks blank-faced as he pulls back with another realization, “Drayton. Man ain’t supposed to lie with another man-“

Drayton throws his head back in frustration with it all, “Oh, hush. Man ain’t supposed to lie with nobody til he’s married. What’s it matter ‘til then? So long as you ain’t tryin’ to get hitched, we're square.”

The air sorta freezes up. Lefty shifts away, sitting them both up, “Well, actually…”

“Boude, you weren’t-“ Drayton looks furious. Don’t feel it.

Lefty thinks it’s best to just get it out there before he can start to regret, “I was… In a moment of desperation I… thought it’d be a good idea. I thought it might rekindle things and I… I love you. So I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

Except there’s one glaring problem now that Drayton is about to be outwardly himself, “It won’t be legal.”

“I know. I know that. I’ll put it away.” Lefty says, with the demeanor of a scorned child. Embarrassed. Cute.

Now, Drayton ain’t exactly eager to be legally bound to anybody, but he don’t like the way he can feel the hurt coming from his boy. He thinks of some distraction,

“What gem?”

“Hm?”

“What’s the stone?”

Lefty eyes him wearily, trying to interpret the meaning of his question, “A tiger’s eye. It’s for good luck.”

“That’s not.. too frilly. I-I wouldn’t mind-“ Drayton can feel his face has gone beet red.

Worth it for the way Lefty lights up. He produces the tiny crushed velvet box again,

“You wanna wear it?”

“Strictly for purpose of holding you accountable.” Drayton lies.

He wants to wear cause it’ll feel nice. Serve as a reminder that he’s wanted at least somewhere in the world. Not that it’ll be easy. That reminder gonna be noticed by somebody else soon enough.

And then they’ll be in for a world of trouble.

“Here, my love.” Lefty offers it up, when Drayton reaches for the ring insisting on putting it in for him. Two fingers down from where an actual wedding band would go. A promise ring. “I sized it from.. the little ring you gave me. Well actually, you left it over once, but-“

Drayton isn’t listening. He’s staring, fascinated, at the square cut stone inlaid in thin braided silver. “I’m keepin’ this. You realize that.”

“Yessir.” Lefty just chuckles at him.

Makes Drayton suddenly feel vulnerable, like Lefty’s got some kind of power over him he should know about, “And you’re alright with it? Bein’ promised to a.. a-“

A gentle hand on both his arms, Lefty stops him there, “Don’t say whatever you’re about to say. It wa’nt gonna be nice. I don’t want you talkin’ that way.”

“I’ll talk as I please.”

“It’ll be hard enough without you bein’ against your own self. Don’t do that. If I love you, and you love yourself, and you love me, then we can’t go wrong.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Lefty sighs, frustrated with his stubbornness after dealing with it so much, and rubs at his eyes, “Drayton.”

“What?” Drayton asks too quickly. Here it comes lord. Everything before now was the calm before the storm.

Except, he should know better. Lefty was getting irritated with the arguin’, sure, but all he’s got to inform him of is “Nothin’. I just like sayin’ it.”

Drayton huffs, the tiniest hint of playfulness showing through after the innocent misunderstanding, “Well that’s enough. You’re wearing it out already.”

“Mhm.” Lefty hums.

Still close, Lefty presses a delicate kiss to Drayton’s forehead, noticing, with his hand placed in his hair, a pin holding the style up. Unexpectedly, he removes it, letting medium length waves, dark as the midnight sky, topple everywhere.

For Drayton, being seen with his hair down might as well be like going in public in just his britches or less. His face is probably doubly as bright red as before.

Lefty just wanted a look, a question on his mind, “How short you thinkin’?”

“I want it all off. Clipped short as you can get it without bein’ a flattop.” Drayton admits.

Lefty seems to consider it, maybe imagining what his partner will look like that way, before he affirms, “I can do that. How ‘bout a change of clothes too? The hair, I don’t think it’ll match this stuffy old dress, hm?”

Drayton vaguely motions to his chest, the very obvious difference between their shirt sizes in that area, “I won’t fit in your clothes.”

“Sure, not yet. We’ll figure somethin’ out though. You gotta give this time.” Something tells him Lefty ain’t just talking about chest tape. Definitely not when he says dreamily, “Afterall, we got all of it in the damn world.”

“If you’re trickin’ me-“ Drayton starts, eyes narrowed.

But Lefty is quicker, “I’m not. I love you, Drayton Sawyer.”

“Fine. But you’re not gettin’ no love ‘til I’m sure you mean it.” See, that’s partly a lie, because as soon as he says it he kisses him. What he really means is he’s not puttin’ out, which they already agreed upon, and that he’s too overwhelmed with all the other things goin’ on to say the words. Love. But he’ll show it, even if he can’t say it back. He’ll hold out his hand and comment, “‘Preciate the ring. Jus’ don’t make me mad or I’ll hock it in an instant.”

“You wouldn’t... Would ya?” Lefty eyes him skeptically.

Some reason, Drayton just howls with laughter, “Awh, hell no. You keepin’ me, ‘n I’m keepin’ this ring.”

“It suits you.”

“Hey. Wait ‘til you see it with the real me.”

“Sure, sure. But I gotta feeling I’m gonna like it either way.”

That boy is helplessly, head over heels, throw all common sense out the window in love.

Drayton teases him about it a bit, “Funny. I got that feelin’ too, lover boy.”

Lefty eventually takes him home to sleep off the alcohol around two or three in the morning, but sure as sin the next day they’re gettin’ Drayton gussied up to look like himself. The Enright’s bathroom’s a right mess, but it’s worth it, to see a genuine Drayton Sawyer smile. Showing buck-teeth and all, not some bashful little thing.

The fears they had was true. Once word got out, Ma and Pa Enright forbade, strictly outlawed, really, that the boys even see one another, unless it was for business. Trading meat and produce and such. Lucky for them, nobody ever caught on they was lying about how often those trading expeditions was needed.

That and nobody knew their spot. Follow the creek down from the watering hole long enough, and you’d find the far away clearing they’d had that date in. Every week, sometimes several times, they’d both sneak out of their respective homes and head out that way. But nobody never did follow. Moonlight as their guide, they were untouchable. For years they was.

Still no official wedding in sight, it’d be nearly twice the time since they got together come the end of that year. Almost a decade, they decided, was enough time that they might as well be unionized by somethin’.

The body, the the blood, the soul. Man lyin’ with man, and all that. Drayton would call it plainly what it is without reserve, but Lefty doesn’t have it in him to admit he’s planning a sin.

Especially with a man who at least is starting to be recognized as such now ‘at the Muerto County population’s shifting a little younger, a little less familiar with the person Drayton used to be. Neighborhood kids move away, families sell their farms, bosses die in equipment accidents, and suddenly every day isn’t quite as unsure, and the townsfolk are calling him by his chosen name.

Blame all that for the lapse in judgment that gets Drayton lyin’ on his back when Mama goes outta town, Grandpa gets called in, and suddenly they got the house to themselves.

“Slow your roll, cowboy. Jesus...”

“I-Is that s’posed to happen?”

“Alright, get the hell off and let me do this-“

How was either of them s’pose to know that one time was all it took! They was set up to fail!

Looking back now, as soon as it was over he thinks he knew. Paranoia or not, he’d felt somethin’ that night, and now goddamit he’s three months along. Half the time as Mama. A whole third of the way through.

Damn it all to hell.

They’re going to have a baby. Drayton’s gonna be sick-

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

To Make a Heaven of Hell (1/?)

----

Virgil knew he was dead, somehow.

And somehow death was loud and bright and overwhelming, the people within it were beautiful and diverse and strange and the places big and magical and wonderous.

But it was hard to accept that you are good, after a short life of being told that you are bad.

Sometimes, all it takes is a little help, some hot demons and a whole universe full of new friends and family to get you to accept your paradise.

----

| Ao3 | Next Chapter -> |

Fic Warnings: Implied/referenced character death, trauma, homophobia/transphobia mentions, abuse mentions, other canon-typical (to Hell's Belles) heavy topics, canon-typical (to Hell's Belles) violence.

Pairings: Prinxiety, Intrulogical, all canon Hell's Belles relationships.

Notes: Why hello there, I see you've clicked on my silly little crossover hm? I do hope you enjoy!

To any SaSI readers who have no clue what Hell's Belles is, you're welcome to read, I've tried to provide enough exposition that this can be read without prior knowledge but also not too much that the people who DO know the series get frustrated, haha.

Also yeah I know this wasn't what won the polls, but it's my poll I can do whatever I want shush.

This fic may go into heavy topics typical to Hell's Belles, which is the main reason for all the tags, but it shouldn't go too dark for the vast majority of the fic!

----

Chapter 1 : What Comes After

----

Everything was black, for a long while. Too long, in his opinion. And… empty.

They remembered everything, the pain, the hurt, the struggling and the heartache that had come with their… too-short, lifetime. He remembered the yelling - they had been arguing about something that felt meaningless now - he remembered the screeching of brakes, the smell of burning rubber on the tarmac, the crunching of metal as their car had crashed into another. Oh, he hoped whoever had been in the other car was okay.

And he was… dead. Somehow, in Virgil’s mind, he knew that he was dead,. Even as he hung in this dark void of nothingness, everything and nothing at once, where his feelings felt like they were locked behind a wall of glass, he knew. Eventually - after floating for a time that felt far too long and far too short at the same time - he noticed a door in the dark void. After a moment’s hesitation, they opened it and stepped through.

The sudden presence of bright lights and loud sounds and a massive open space filled with people and… different people was immediately overwhelming. Virgil whirled around and there was no door behind him, nothing showing that he’d come from… somewhere else… at all. The cathedral-like space - though nothing like any cathedral he had ever seen - was amazingly huge, bigger than any building he’d ever been in by far. There were people everywhere, appearing out of nowhere just like they did, sitting, standing, talking with other people and walking around. 

“Hey, sweetie, you new?” Someone asked, Virgil turned to see a taller woman whose features they definitely weren’t going to remember, he gestured to himself and she nodded, confirming that she was talking to him.

“Oh, um, yeah? I… think so?” Virgil said after too long of trying to force the words up through his throat, luckily she seemed to be patient enough.

“I can tell, the first time can be really overwhelming,” She said, nodding along, “Whenever you’re ready you can head to that desk over there - they’ll tell you where you need to go.”

“Right,” Virgil nodded, “Um, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, kid,” She smiled, waving as she walked off in the opposite direction, towards a strange-looking hallway. 

Looking back around, Virgil faced the desk she had pointed to and found he could see a whole range of people sitting behind it - age, ethnicity, time period, even people who he wasn’t sure were even human. Most of the desks had lines of people waiting and others seemed quieter. He began to walk over before pausing and looking back. They’d just… died. Because their boyfriend had crashed his car. Virgil wondered if he would be following.

When no one they recognised appeared out of thin air after what felt like a few minutes, Virgil let himself breathe a sigh of… what might be relief. He wasn’t here, and that quick realisation… really took a weight off of Virgil’s shoulders. 

Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Virgil walked over to the desk, trying to seem as confident as he possibly could as he approached one of the desks without a line. Granted, he was still completely terrified, but maybe if he pretended to be confident, he would feel it eventually.

A file appeared on the person’s desk as he gestured for Virgil to take a seat in the comfortable chair that stood before the desk. They did so as the other silently flicked through the file with a blank expression on his face, dark green eyes behind thick glasses barely telling a single emotion. His hair was pulled back into a neat bun - though the textured hair seemed to be trying quite hard to escape its confinement. Virgil started to feel a little awkward as he hummed, placing down the file again and looking back up at him. He could see his name glittering on the front page. 

“Hello,” He said, “I’m Logan, you’re Virgil Byrne, correct?”

“I- yeah- wait-” Virgil said, raising a hand, out of everything that was happening, there was one thing that really stuck out to him, “That - That file is about me, right?”

“Indeed,” Logan nodded.

“It… it shows my chosen name?”

“The files show the name connected to your soul,” Logan explained, “For most people, that is the name they are given at birth - and usually this remains consistent through lifetimes - however, sometimes souls are placed in the wrong bodies, and therefore end up with the wrong names - along with other things. Virgil is the name your soul identifies with, therefore, that is the name on your file. You should also - as a soul - have a body that more accurately aligns with your gender identity.”

“That’s - wow,” Virgil mumbled, looking down at his hands, he immediately filed that information away to have a crisis about later, “That’s-”

“Overwhelming? It can be,” Logan nodded, “You will have time to process everything later. Are you aware of how you died?”

“I- yeah, yes,” Virgil nodded, “Is this… the afterlife?”

“Part of it, yes, this is the Front Death-k,” Logan grimaced as he spoke the pun and Virgil couldn’t help but smile, “Where new souls come to find out where they are supposed to go next, now, did you follow a religion in life that you were prefer to be judged by?”

“Can’t you see that in the file?” Virgil asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I can, but I prefer to hear the answers from the soul directly,” Logan explained, “Sometimes the religion a person followed in life isn’t the one they want to be judged by.”

“Right, I uh- my family were catholic,” Virgil started, taking a deep breath, “But um, I never really… clicked with it, and I never got the chance to learn enough about other religions to… know.”

“That’s alright,” Logan nodded, “With that, your options would either be to be judged by the Christian belief system, since it’s the one you’re most familiar with, or you can go through universal judgement, or I suppose you could also take a lottery-style pick of any belief system, but the vast majority would rather not.”

“What’s uh- what was the second one?” Virgil tilted their head.

“Universal Judgement: the process most people not connected to a religion go with,” Logan said, “By which you will be judged by the universe itself, hence the name, after which you will either be allocated a paradise or you will have to choose a punishment realm, depending on the outcome.”

“Well that’s not terrifying at all,” Virgil said, trying to offer a joke to hide the fact that the ideas of such a harsh judgement set his hands shaking and his teeth on edge. Well, at least he knew he hadn’t lost his terrible anxiety, even in death. 

“No, it’s not,” Logan said, seemingly taking his sarcasm entirely seriously, “The universe is very fair in its judgement and takes many things into account, you do not need to worry, if you choose to take that option, that is.”

“...Okay,” Virgil nodded, “I um- I think I’d rather do that than the Christian judgement system…”

“Wonderful,” Logan nodded, “I’ll walk you to the universal judgement gate when you’re ready, meanwhile, do you have any more questions you’d like to ask?”

“You mentioned… punishment realms?” Virgil said tentatively, “If I end up there…?”

“If you were to come out of the bad side of Universal Judgement, you will be offered a choice of punishment realm for you to spend your sentence. Some people stay forever, others are able to reincarnate after a time. But remember that the punishment realms are more a system of justice, but unlike the mortal justice system you’re used to, it's not obscenely biased and cannot be incorrect.”

“...right,” Virgil nodded slowly, “And the paradise?”

“If you achieve it, your own space that fits your soul’s true desires, usually a house or community that represents your perfect ‘heaven’ of a sort. Of course, different belief systems will have different versions of this - for example, the Norse may have paradises in Valhalla, while Christians may have theirs in Heaven, though people not attached to religion will still get a paradise in a more general ‘paradise’ realm.”

“Right, that’s…” Virgil took another deep breath. The idea of paradise sounded… nice, but… well he didn’t know if he’d even get there, of course, a large part of him doubted it - after all, no one in his life had had faith in him, his parents so convinced he’d go to hell that they kicked him out of their house, but… if he did achieve it… how would that feel?

“I’ll give you a moment to think,” Logan told him, “Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

“Won’t I hold up the line?” Virgil asked.

“No,” Logan shook his head, “Most people gravitate to some of the other workers here.”

“...Okay.”

—-

Virgil wasn’t sure how much time passed - their concept of time had been screwed over when they were alive, and there didn’t seem to be any kind of clock or other time-telling devices around this space, but he thought maybe it had been about five minutes before he finally told Logan that he was ready and let him lead them off to that same hallway the woman had gone down before. 

Eventually - after some time Virgil spent trying to block all of the confusing sensory input from all around him, trying not to spiral into a panic as they approached what could only be the universal judgement gateway, a stone archway that seemed to glitter with a strange rainbow iridescence. 

“You step in there,” Logan informed, “And the universe will take you where you need to go, good luck, I’m sure you’ll end up exactly where you need to be.”

“Thank you, um, for your help,” Virgil said, trying to offer Logan a smile through his bubbling panic. 

“I’m simply doing my job,” Logan nodded, “But you are welcome.”

Virgil nodded, before turning to look into the grey mist that formed the inside of the archway, taking a deep breath, and with a final glance back at Logan who offered an encouraging nod, he stepped through the archway.

----

General tags: @full-of-roman-angst-trash @reptilianrapscallion420 @your-local-random-dino @cutebisexualmess @glacierruler @roseianxiety @bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti (if anyone wants to be added, let me know!)

Hell's Belles AU tags: @awitchbravestheverge @twoalpacas @goldnskyart @anxious-mess19 @doteddestroyer

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| Next Chapter -> |

[melancholicheart]

All This Time- Chapter 8

cw: implied/referenced transphobia, trans male pregnancy (past, mentioned), angst, miscommunication, fluff and happy ending

Simon hears Johnny loud and clear. Nods his head a little and sits back into the couch. He tries to speak, no words coming from his mouth, and he eventually commits himself to silence.

He agrees with Johnny. He doesn’t want to die in the field, lose his life on foreign ground, potentially not even get a slither of his body back to even bury, and he can’t imagine Elizabeth having to cope with that. He doesn’t want her to end up as fucked up as he was.

Before he can comprehend even making a full sentence, his phone vibrates on the chair beside him and Price’s name lights up the screen.

“We can carry on talking later,” Johnny assures, “I know you’re going to want time, Si. Take Price’s call.”

Simon nods and grabs his phone, placing it to his ear and managing a small ‘yeah’ as he answers the call.

“I have answers.” Is all Simon gets. No hello, no ‘how are you?’, just work. “Gaz and I are going to come over, we need to talk in person. I take it you’re with John and the kid?”

Simon mumbles another ‘yes’ before Price can be heard by both men in the living room, “Wheels up in 30. Be with you in about an hour, two tops. Be good to see Soap again, more excited about meetin’ the little ‘un though.”

“She’s great, Price.” Simon mutters and Johnny watches him from the side, a small smile creeping onto his face.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Elizabeth peaking around the corner and she jumps back when Johnny spots her. He smiles at her and beckons her over, the little girl racing to Johnny and jumping onto him as she dives for the couch. He catches her under her arms and swings her up onto his lap. Simon places his phone down and sighs. He turns and sees Elizabeth sat on Johnny, playing with his hair and squeezing his face and smiles.

“Price and Gaz know something.” He informs, “They’re on their way over, wanna talk in person. I bet you’ve missed them, Gaz especially I presume. He’s missed you, I can guarantee that.”

Johnny nods and smiles, cuddling Elizabeth close and nuzzling her chin with his nose, making her squeal with laughter as he tickles her, “Papa stop!”

“Never,” Johnny growls, tickling her more and she shrieks out again, “I’m never letting you go!”

“Daddy, help!” She wails and Simon chuckles, snatching his daughter from Johnny and holding her away from him.

“He’s so cruel to you isn’t he darling?” Simon muses, holding Elizabeth like a baby and kissing her forehead lightly, “Such a meanie.”

“A big meanie.” Elizabeth agrees as Johnny pouts.

“Hey!”

For the umpteenth time in Johnny’s life, time seems to both halt and fly by. Before he knows it, there’s a knock at the door and Johnny’s breath stills completely. Five years. Five fucking years since he’s even spoken to his best friend and former Captain, never mind seen them. His stomach sinks as Simon clambers to his feet and answers the door.

Johnny grabs a tight hold of Elizabeth and stands, slowly making his way to the door too where he sees Price and Gaz. Price is carrying a folder, tucked under his arms, and a casual jacket covers his arms. His facial hair is most certainly within ‘old man beard’ territory now with his hair curling a little behind his ears. Certainly longer than Johnny’s ever seen it.

Gaz is timeless. There isn’t a hair out of place on his head, not a single wrinkle or crease extra to be found. His biggest change has nothing to do with aging at all, more like trauma. Blunt force, to be specific. There’s a bump on his forehead, no doubt aging now since it isn’t bruised, but fresh stitches cover a slight cut in it. Likely from the butt of a gun. Johnny’s own head aches as he remembers the many injuries of the like he himself sustained.

“Papa,” Elizabeth mutters, eyeing the men cautiously and nervously tucking her face into his neck, “They the men in the pictures?”

Johnny nods, “Yeah sweetheart, they’re mine and Daddy’s friends. Uncle Gaz and Grandpa Price. He ain’t really your Granda’, it’ll just drive him mad if you call him that.”

“Soap,” Price says, pushing past Simon with Gaz in tow. Gaz claps a hand onto Simons’ bicep before following after the Captain. Johnny feels like he’s about to be chewed out for dangerous decision making or the likes when Price stands before him until he takes note of the man’s eyes. Relief, “It’s bloody good to see you son.”

“You too, sir.”

Price turns to Elizabeth and holds a hand out to her, “I believe you’re Miss Elizabeth, is that right?”

She nods and gently puts her hand into Price’s, him shaking her hand with a warm smile on his face, “A pleasure to meet you, kiddo.”

Elizabeth wiggles out of Johnny’s hold and runs over to Simon, wanting to be held by him instead, and Gaz takes the opportunity to throw himself at Johnny. Johnny holds onto Gaz and feels tears brewing in his eyes.

“You’re a fucking moron, Soap,” Gaz mutters, “You and Simon. God I’ve fuckin’ missed you, brother.”

“I’ve missed you too, Gaz,” Johnny whispers, “Coulda done with you throughout all o’ this.”

Gaz chuckles, “I bet.”

Simon taps Gaz’s shoulder and gestures to the angry looking child in his arms, “She wants you to stop swearing.”

“Oh shit, uh, I mean, yeah, sure kiddo! Bad first impression of your Uncle Gaz, ai?” Gaz rubs the back of his neck and smiles sheepishly. Elizabeth giggles at him and nods.

“Papa swears all the time!” Elizabeth chuckles.

“No I do not!” Johnny yelps.

Price chortles, “Nothing’s changed there then has it MacTavish?”

“No Sir.” He sighs.

Before long, they’re all well acquainted once more and Elizabeth takes her time playing with each of them and gauging how she feels about them all. She has taken a liking to Gaz, mainly because he does silly voices when she plays with him, but she keeps gravitating towards Price and climbing into his lap when she gets tired.

Eventually, she only wants the embrace of her Papa and climbs up into his arms. She seems tired, presumably from all the running around and playing she’s been doing, and she starts to nod off whilst tucked in between Johnny and Simon on the couch.

Simon, always believing in ‘no time like the present’, turns his attention to Price and clears his throat, “Are you going to tell us what you found or just sit and make small talk all day?”

Price chuckles at the Lieutenants tone but his smile quickly falls, “Yeah it’s- well, it ain’t pleasant stuff.” He turns and looks at Elizabeth who is pulling on Johnny’s shirt and dancing one of her dinosaurs on his stomach as her eyes flutter slowly. “Perhaps she’d be better in bed?”

Johnny nods and goes to move with Lizzie but she just whines and clutches onto Johnny tighter, “Baby, don’t you want to go to sleep? I will tuck you and Ricky in.” Ricky is her dinosaur pal.

She shakes her head, “A wanna cuddle.”

“We’re going to be having a rubbish grown up conversation,” He tries to reason, “Are you sure?”

She nods fervently, “I go sleepy here, Papa.”

“Alright, love, come here.” He holds her more comfortably and strokes her hair softly as she goes back to drifting off. He gestures towards Price and allows him to proceed.

“I’ll cut to the chase then,” Price clears his throat and stretches back into the chair, “Gaz and I did some digging, got in touch with Laswell too. All the calls are recorded and such and, well, the ones from you were locked away. When we listened, it was General Sutton that shut you down. I think he heard about your ‘situation’, John, because the last thing we picked up on was you saying you were expecting before the line went dead.”

Johnny shrinks into himself, “I- I already thought they hung up on me. That was the day I found out, I was sat on the bathroom floor crying and begging for them to let me speak to you or Simon.”

Price nods, “We know, son. Turns out, Sutton had plans for Ghost. Sent Simon out near enough the following day. Every call of yours, every letter, it’s been blocked or returned. Sutton wouldn’t let this slip up. He had heard what you said and knew that if Simon caught wind of it, he would’ve left and he didn’t want that.”

“That prick,” Simon grumbles, “Damn near killed me on those jobs and kept me away from this? From everything!”

“Sutton didn’t want to admit it, but Gaz and I- well- let’s just say we ‘forcefully’ took him, and we questioned him about it. He spilled his own secrets pretty quickly. Told us how he hated MacTavish, couldn’t believe the 141 took him in, hated the image we were giving the military by having John yet he recognised that you’re a bloody good soldier, Soap. He said that with you gone, we couldn’t afford to lose Ghost too and so, he elaborated this whole coverup so Simon would never find out about Elizabeth. Made you think that Simon forgot about you and Simon- he made you think John moved on.” Price finishes.

Simon looks at Gaz who is staring at his lap. He has anger seething from him and Simon recognises that they’re all hurt by this.

He turns to Elizabeth, tucked into Johnny’s side snoozing away, and sees his daughter. He’s not exaggerating when he says he could’ve died. There were a few close calls, a couple near misses and some poor timing over the last few years that nearly stripped his baby girl from ever meeting him.

Just like Johnny said, regardless of what he thinks of himself, his daughter looks at him like he’s made of gold and the thought of dying in the dirt without ever seeing her beautiful face or without ever making her smile the way she does around him almost kills him there and then.

He clenches his fist and mulls over Price’s words. It doesn’t fully sink in before Johnny speaks.

“Y’know when I was a kid and I first came out, I thought about the other kid’s reactions. How I was gonna be treated by them was all that mattered. I didn’t think I’d still be dealing with how people treat me just because I am who I am.” Johnny mumbles, curled up on the couch. Elizabeth is flat out and panned across Johnny whilst Simon is tightly pressed on the other side of her, practically cuddling Johnny.

He reaches behind the couch and grabs a hold of the scruff of Johnny’s neck. He pulls him towards him and Johnny gets the message and rests his head on Simon’s shoulder with a soft sigh.

Gaz clears his throat and speaks up. His tone indicative of his fighting tongue; “Sutton has been discharged. Dishonourably.”

“Good fuckin’ riddance if you ask me.” Price mutters. He clambers to his feet and gestures to the sliding door that leads to the barely-there balcony of the flat. Smoke break. Johnny nods as he strides over to the door.

“Swear,” Elizabeth mutters, “No swearing.”

Johnny and Simon look down and Johnny pouts, “Oh sweetheart, you don’t look comfortable at all. C’mon, let’s get you comfy.”

He stands up and sits her on his hip, her head pressed to his neck as he carries her through to his room.

Gaz turns to Simon, “He’s a natural Dad, huh?”

Simon nods, “He’s fuckin’ perfect, Garrick. Could do it all on his own if he had to.”

“But you don’t want him to?” Gaz asks.

Simon shakes his head, “God no.”

Johnny sits on the floor beside Elizabeth’s bed, knelt on his knees as he ricks her in and makes Ricky the Dinosaur kiss her nose. She giggles sleepily and grabs ahold of Ricky.

“Love you, Papa.” She mumbles, snuggling her toy.

Johnny leans over and kisses her forehead, brushing her crazy hair back as he smiles, “I love you more, darling girl.”

He sits for a while, just watching her as she sleeps. He strokes her hair repeatedly and sighs softly, a warm smile on his face.

The door clicks behind him and his shoulders tense.

“Is she asleep?” Simon’s voice breaks the silence.

Johnny nods. He hardly trusts his voice right now. Simon sits beside him and a hand snakes around his waist, “Johnny? Talk to me.”

Johnny turns to Simon, makes momentary eye contact, and tears immediately trickle down his face. Simon falters but quickly bundles Johnny into his arms and holds him tightly.

“I’m sorry Simon, I’m so so sorry.” Johnny hiccups, “If I’d have just- I don’t know. You would’ve known her, you would’ve been here from the beginning if I’d have just been- if I hadn’t-”

“Johnny don’t you dare say that,” Simon shoves him aside a little and grabs his face, staring into his eyes, “Don’t you think for one second that this would’ve all been fine if you hadn’t of been yourself. We would’ve never met, Elizabeth wouldn’t even bloody exist and you- Johnny you wouldn’t have been you. Shit happens, especially to us, but we’re here now and we have a beautiful daughter to look after. Let’s leave the past where it bloody belongs.”

Johnny nods a little, not breaking eye contact, and the tears just coat his lashes whilst his eyes remain shiny with unshed pain. Simon pulls him in close again and feels Johnny hug back. A slight chuckle sounds from Johnny, “Never thought I’d hear the day you, of all people, would say to leave the past in the past.”

Simon laughs a little too and rests his head on Johnny’s, “Yeah well I’m a little sick of living in the past. I want to live in the present, right now, where I have you and I have Elizabeth. I have the two things I’ve always needed but didn’t know what I was missing out on until I had it. Until I had you both.”

“We need you, Simon Riley,” Johnny sighs, watching his daughter as she breathes peacefully through her sleep. Simon does the same. “We need you so much more than you’ll ever know.”

[thebottomfromhell]

Hi! How are you? Sorry if I'm annoying but I had a request: headcanons where the reader is a partner of the upper moons and tells them that he is a trans guy (what I mean is that when the reader started dating them he was a girl but then he started to feel identified as a guy and decided to tell his partner).

I apologize in advance if you don't understand the request ;(((

I understood perfectly what you meant, and I love the request. This is perfect for my first Trans! Reader requests, thank you for asking me this. It's not annoying at all!

Also F/N would be for the female name, while Y/N would be the male name or nickname.

In the end this was a bit rushed and it disn't work out as I would want it, hopefully I will get to write this topic again and better

Trans! Masc! Human Reader confesses their gender to S/O (already together) Uppermoon

Warnings: Mentioned Cannibalism, Transphobia (mostly due misinformarion and such), Heterocisnormativity (most characters don't know or understand 1what being transgender is), Mentioned Gyokko's art, Yandere-like character, Mentioned body dysphoria, Implied sexual content, and Slight dirty-talking (nothing big, just teasing).

Gyutaro:

"Gyutaro?" You start, calling up for hisattention as you look somewhere else. He can sense you are not facing him, so he just gives you a side-eye, paying attention while you get to have more space. "What is it, ne?" Gyutaro knows something is off, you normaly are not like this, afraid of telling him things. Part of him fears he did something wrong or that you can't stand it anymore, that you want to leave... "Ne, what's wrong F/N?" He does his best to ignore the "you" in the back of his mind as he faces you fully, really needing the answer, even if he might not like it.

You take a deep breath, calm yourself, you can do it. You can trust Gyutaro, he probably will be confused, probably a bit skepctic, but it will be fine. Really, you can do it. In the count of three: one, two, t- "I'm a man." No, wait! That was too fast! You were supposed to be more clear, to explain, you were making an speach in your head and just lost it! Gyutaro looks at you a bit weirded out. "Like... ne, an Onnagata?" You try to make yourself smaller as you blush "More like the other way around..." Except you don't want to pass out as a man, you are a man. Your body just... it's not helpful. You loathe that but you can work with that, you have done it all your life, and will be able to deal with it.... right now you actually want support...

"Oh...." He just says because, not gonna lie, he doesn't get it. You... wear always unisex clothes and ne never really paid attention to whenever you were femenine or not. You haven't done anything yet, so Gyutaro never knew your body-type. He just figured you were... odd, not what you should be. He has also felt... odd, too. Uncomfortable under his own skin, the one he scratches so hard. He saw that in you and didn't think anything about it. "Ok." He simply says, leaving you to process it.

""Ok"? That's all you're gonna say?" You expected... something, anything, not just a "ok". He scratches the back of his neck a bit unconfortable. "Ne, give me a break. What else am I meant to say, man?" You open your mouth only to stop talking, an "ok" is a better reaction from what you were expecting, so you force yourself to calm down, even if you are a bit... lost at it. "No, nothing. Emn.... would you mind calling me Y/N from now on?" He justs looks at you, very confused, he doesn't understand it, but still knows enough of how you feel to know you need his support right now, that you need him to listen. "Sure, ne.....Y/N.... nice name, ne." it will take him time to get used to it, but he is here for you no matter what. "Thank you, Gyutaro." He justs nods and looks away bashful, but stays.

Gyokko:

It's hard to say how Gyokko will react, considering... everything. There are chances he might support it, body dysphoria is a topic he loves a lot (thoughz he mostly uses that topic in his art through torture and amputation). There are also chances he might want to leave you for it, since he started a relationship with a woman, and Gyokko hates not being informed of things with time. It's a paradox, without the time that would make him mad you would not be able to get the trust and courage to tell him, so since you didn't tell him before or when you started the relationship... you really have no idea how he will react.

"Gyokko?" You start.... starting, not really knowing what to say right now but not being able to... not tell, it hurts that he doesn't know. Right now he is working on a new pot, so it's just a hmn to show he is listening all you get. You have no idea if that is for better or worse, but not having to make eye comtact calms you a little (specially considering you never know what eye you should be looking at). "I'm a man." He stops for a seconds, he will definetely be mad he lost concentration, but for now he is not reacting.

It takes him a while to pull apart from the pot to look at you, head to feet and back forward, three times. Then he looks at you face, somehow lost. ".... You don't look like one." Ok, that... that was not what you wanted to hear, it... it's a bit dissapointing but you can also get Gyokko's confusion as he tilts his head. You want to explain it, but... you really can't, you have no idea how to make him, the one who is the most comfortable with himself, how you are not. How you don't want to be the you that you should have been by birth, so you just look away. "You made me loose concentration." He decides to change the topic.

He goes back into painting the pot, or at least trying as you both remain in silence. The brush has not even touched the ceramics yet, but he can't go back to the idea he had before you talked to him. In the end he just let the materials to one side an goes back with you. "What do you want to do about... this?" He vaguely gestures you in the last part, clearly not wanting to deal with this but his mind not giving him other choice. "By starters... I would like to be treated as a man...." It takes him a while for that to sink in, only to cough nerviously when he does. "Ok... ok, I can do that." It's not ideal, but it's a start.

Hantengu:

There is something you want to tell him, something important, he can tell. He can tell there is a problem but Hantengu doesn't want to address it, too afraid to do so. Is it about him? Did you do something wrong? Did you get tired of him? You don't want to leave him, fo you? He doesn't want you to leave. "Hantengu..." he squeals scared, starting sobbing almost inmediately when he hears you. He doesn't like that tone. "F-F-F/N?" He sees you grimace and he wanta to cry harder. You ARE going to leave him! He can't tell you just... hate that name, that you can't stand it anymore, specially not from him, someone you care about so much.

"I need to tell you something." You don't look at him, part of you feeling guilty for it. You know he is sensitive, that he always needs as much resourance as possible, but... it's hard. You just want him to... to know who you are, who treat you the way you need. Both of you are in their own torments, waiting for the other to explode. You can't leave him, he won't let you! Hantengu trembles violently as you sigh to speak again, he won't let you leave. You will try but he won- "I'm a man."

.... eh? ".... eh?" He blinks a few times, stopping crying..... eh? What? You are a man? He thought.... eh? But you have always been.... eh? "This... this is so confusing...." his brain was in middle of a breakdown just before, it csn't take such an important information right now. "I know. I know. I will explain it... when I can... but I really would like to... be treated as a man?" Hantengu really is not understanding anything at all. How can you be a man? Without him knowing? Is there anything else he doesn't know?

Still, he is too tired from the emotional rollercoaster and will not fight it further, that should be Aizetsu's and Sekido's problem. ".... ok..." he answers quietly, not looking at you, but you aporeciate he is willing to try. "Ok... that you, Hantengu." He justs nods... it's very akward....

Sekido:

Part of you wants to pretend that Sekido, your partner, will take it well, that he will be understanding and supportive. The other part of you is more realistic on the fact that you can't forget he is the anger clone. He will probably come to accept it, but... Sekido will get angry, angrier, irritated, indignant, infuriated. To be honest that is why you basically wait until you just... explode to tell him, because you couldn't stand anymore being treated as if you were a woman, to be called that or other fem terms. You can't, it's not you, and it hurts the fact that the one you love is not seeing you, but someone else in you, someone you don't want to exist.

"Sekido... Sekido, just... please, I promise I was not hiding anything, I just didn't know how to tell you but I can't! I just can't continue like this." You basically ramble one night he finds you panicking of what to say and how to say it. "Shut up." He growls as he tries his best to calm you down, rubbing your back, giving you a piece of clothe as you are near crying, getting you to sit somewhere comfortable. Sekido loves you, he shows it, and that is what it makes it hard. "I'm a man."

"Are you fucking shitting me right now?" Is the first thing he says after you calm down, but you can see he is, as always, angry. "The fuck you mean you are a man? You think now is the time to mess with me?!" You switch in between looking away and looking at Sekido, not wanting to face his anger now but also not wanting to run away from this. "I-I'm not! Sekido, I'm a man! I don't want you to keep treating me as if I was a woman anymore!" You raise your voice, only scalating into am argument because of that. You both just... fight until he leaves. Thankfully, that lets you both calm down, and it's Sekido the one who reaches out for you this time.

"Fine. Have it your way." It's a bit difficult for him to adapt to the new you, specially since he would not have treated you as differently as one might have thought with you being a man. At first it was easier to irritate him, then he got used to it. "Y/N! You little shit! What have you done now?!" He is still himself and letting you be yourself around him, you really can't ask for more.

Karaku:

You pride yourself of knowing Karaku, of knowing parts of him he usually doesn't show. Parts that are caring, concerned, honest, and sometimes even vulnerable. Right now? You have no idea how he will react, you don't think he will be mad or anything but... it's something big. You are more afraid that he might not believe you or take it as a joke, but... you want him to know. You need him to know, it hurts that he doesn't. "Karaku... we need to talk." He looks at you confused before chuckling as he leans into you, his arm over your shoulders. "Why the long face, F/N? Is something wrong, hot-stuff? Something you need to put a bit of pleasure over?"

He laughes against your ear after the innuendos, with how close he is, and all the flirt, almost passed through the fact that he called you by that name. At least this time he didn't call you "princess", ypu hate it when he does. Sometimes he slips, since ypu have told him, but he is trying. Hopefully he will try with this too. "Karaku, this is serious. Listen to me before you keep playing around, ok?" He just looks at you staying in place, grinning as he waits for you to speak, raising an eyebrow to show his curiousity. "I'm a man." Suddenly his weight is less over you and the smirk is gone into a confused face, you both stay in silence for a while.

You were about to open your mouth to try again, but Karaku is faster. "Ohhhhhhh. That explains some things. It makes sense!" He starts laughing again before he puts his mouth close to your ear. "Is this why you are so bashful? Would you prefer for me to call you a good boy, handsome?" He whispers and honestly? You can't help but blush and lean into it, making Karaku laugh a bit more before keep going "Tell me, Hot-stuff. Would you like to be Baby boy or Daddy?" Ok, you have no idea if he was serious or not, but you bust into laughing.

"How about you just call me Y/N?" He smiles while you relax. "Sure, I can do that." And he does slip from ypur other name time to time, but he understands the quest pretty well. He does treat you like a man and you don't have to worry about how he views you, specially since he tries to be as helpful as he can. "We should get you more man-like clothing too, might as well steal something for you. What do you think, babe?" You are nothing but grateful that Karaku supports you fully.

Urogi:

"Urogi.... there is something I must tell you..." You have been wanting to tell him, genuinely having no idea on how he would react. Urogi himself probably wouldn't know if asked an hypothetical case, with how spontanoues he is. He might take it good, hemight take it badly, and it's impossible to know which one before it actually happens. But you comfort yourself, being aware that, as the joy clone, he has no reason to be angry about it. He will definetely be confused, but not angry. "Yes, F/N?"

He looks at you happily as he reacts to your call, it would be endearing if he was not using that name. The name of a woman, it hurts to hear it from his mouth, the name of someone that is not you from the person you love. Sometimes you wish you could be just that, that it would be as simple as Urogi views life, but... it's at the very least uncomfortable. So of course you would not have been able to deal with it forever. "I'm a man..." You say as Urogi tilts his head to the side.

"You are a man? But F/N is a girl's name. And you fon't look like a man." You pretend that didn't hurt as much as it did, specially since Urogi is not being malicious, he is just asking questions, like he usually does. But the fact that there is no reaction at all... it's disappointing. One part of you is relieved by the way he is taking it, another one... expected something more, for him to act as it's... something. Instead you just explain things to him. "Does that mean I should call you something else? A boy's name?" But... neverless... "That would be nice. I was thinking about Y/N..."

Urogi suddenly gets excited from nowhere, wings opening and moving cheerfuly. "Yes! That is a nice name! I will make sure to remember it! Y/N! Y/N!" He seems to be taking things too well... "Don't you care that I'm not a woman?" You feel the need to ask because of that, but he only shakes his head before starting again. "Y/N is Y/N! Nothing else matters." Your heartbeat speeds up a little... you really love this Bird Brain. "Yeah... you are right." Urogi chuckles and leans into you, happy to be told he was right. He really is the best.

Aizetsu:

Aizetsu has always been the calmed and sensible one of the clones, never overreacting over anything (even if you feel he actually underreacts sometimes). He is a comfortable person to be around and you would dare to say he is the most empathic of the clones (even if he has his own way, as a demon, to show it). Part of you is scolding yourself for not telling him, for not trust this into him sooner. You can't even understand why you would be afraid, or at least nervious, to tell him if you know he won't be reacting badly. Why is it so difficult? Why does it has to be such a big deal? "Aizetsu?" You call him, so he turns his face to look at you, listening without saying anything.

The silence is usually reasuring, this time is not, but even if he realizes that you are hesitating, Aizetsu doesn't move or say anything, trying to give you space until you say you want otherwise. You take some deep breaths as you scold yourself again, why are you making it such a big deal? He won't react badly. "I'm... I'm a man...." There. You said it... you said it. But Aizetsu still doesn't move or say anything, he just looks at you puzzled that you have to keep reminding yourself that he doesn't have it in him to react bad. Aizetsu is mostly... thinking.

"... I feel sad... and confused. How can you be a man? Why are you saying this now?" He does believe you, but he has no idea what it means. He knows the body you have, the body you had to overcome resenting because it was not created into your true self. "I just needed you to know. I want to be treated as a man." You need to be treated as a man, for others to understand who you are. Aizetsu only keeps the sad puzzled face for a while as he keeps thinking it. "You don't like being a woman?" He makes the question, really needing to understand it. You can only shake your head, you have no idea how to properly explain it with words but... it's not you, being a woman is not being yourself and you can't stand it anymore.

After some moments of silence, Aizetsu speaks again. "Ok, I'll treat you like a man from now on, it will take me some time to get used to it though. Should I also call you differently or something?" See? He is taking it well, you calm yourself further with deep breath before answering. "I would prefer to go by Y/N." He only nods at that, but it's ok. It will be ok.

Nakime:

Nakime has always been a no-nonsense demon, as a human she couldn't have as much control over things as she had now, she didn't have the money or the power to do so, but now? Now she has the Infinity Castle, where she can control everything in any way she wants. But of course, there are some things that are even beyond her. For starters, she is still obeying a master, who she is loyal to, but that sets her under someone else's command. There is also you, while she can control every room, every corridor, every entrance, exit, wall, door, floor, ceiling, air, even the gravity with her biwa, she can't change you nor control how you feel about yourself.

She knows that something is off, and dhe has tried her best to comfort you with no avail. This attemps of her actually made you try to just... ignore it. To pretend you are ok as long as you have Nakime, not wanting to risk what you both have. She has been worried and concerned, always trying her best to make you feel better, which has making you feel guilty, honestly. And there is this sense of hurt building up in your chest, feeling axphyxiated by this... you that is not you, but is being forced upon you, if that makes sense.

"What do you mean by "I'm a man"?" You end up telling her when, once again, she was trying to help you, to comfort you as she could. But... it still frustrated you, and it came so hard to appreciate it, creating again thise sense of guilt, when she was treating you, talking to you as if you were a woman. "I... I mean I'm a man. I want to be treated as such... I can't continue to be F/N... I'm sorry." You want to explain further, but you have no idea how, even if it's unsatifying the feeling that Nakime is not fully u derdtanding it. "You realize this is something big, right? This is not what I was prepared to deal with." Yes, you do, but you can't bring yourself to tell her.

After some minutes without saying anything, silence filled with her biwa, making the moment a bit less tense as she thinks... you don't really want to lose this. "I'll still help you with everything, I wouldn't be able to just leave you but... I want to give us a break, give me a break. I hope you can understand that I need to think of what I want." You can, unfortunately. Part of you feels betrayed, but you can't express it, specially with how many effort Nakime has put into you. "Do.... do you want to be alone?" You shake your head, even as you feel you will start crying, but she lets you stay while hiding it, only focusing in playing her biwa. You have to remind yourself... it could be worse.

Akaza:

You are aware that Akaza treats women differently from what he treats men. He can fight, kill and eat men, but for some reason he can't bring himself to do the same with women, and everytime you try to bring that up... he can't. He physically can't tell you anything. It's frustrating for both of you, but lastly... it's a bit hurtful. You scold yourself, why would you want such a powerful demon to be able to attack you? Shouldn't you be happy that because you are safe, he would never hurt you? It's stupid! Against survival insticts! And yet...

You just want to be treated like a man, be treated in a way that makes you comfortable with who you are. Is that too much to ask? Only because you were born in this body. Sometimes you just want to accept the offer that Akaza always makes, the one to turn you into a demon, that you would forget about this feeling of wrongness, that the transformations and mutations in your flesh would burry your sex and gender. There is even the chance that your body might change in a way that favors you in that regard, to make you bigger, stronger, to get rid of your breast. But you don't want to be a demon...

"Akaza? There is something I need to tell you." You start, gaining his attention, a worried expression coming into his face. "Are you ok? Did something happen? Did somebody hurt you?" His paranoia kicks in, but you shake your head before telling him. "" there is only 15 seconds of silence with his face puzzled before he speaks again. "... I already knew?" wut? "What do you mean by "I already knew"?" He looks at you as if trying to find words to explain. "I just knew?! Like, you don't feel or act like a woman? Your fighting spirit is definetely not from one!" What? "Then why do you treat me like a woman?! As if I was fragile or weak?!" "I don't treat you like a woman! I just promised to protect you!" No he didn'- oh... oh, is his thing.... oh.

Now that you think about it, he never uses your female name... yeah, he definetely knew. Why does that make it so akward. "Em... would you be able to call me Y/N from now on?" He also looks uncomfortable, probanly trying ro remember when did he make that promisa, but nods anyway. "Of course. Of course. Anything for you." .... Why was this supposed to be complicated in the first place? Then again, to spar is still out of question, and it probably will unless you become a demon... you'll see through it.

Douma:

Douma is just waiting for you to confess. You have been together for a while and he can tell there is something you want, crave, to tell him but you haven't. Some of his followers are like that too, shy to tell him all their problems and burden, but at the end of it they always do it, crying and kneeling before Douma. Most of the time he doesn't really care, but he is curious of what could get you like this, since most of the time you are willing to tell him things you don't tell to others. "Douma?" You start, needing to tell him but not really wanting to. "Is there a reason for that long face, F/N?"

It's not that you don't trust him or think he will react bad, but... you don't know how to tell him what you feel, how you can't find yourself in... well, in your body, in your reflection, in any expectations people have in you because of how you were born. The more you think about it, the more tragic it becomes, but... you don't want to tell him a sob story, you want him to see you as who you are... without spilling out like his followers do, to make it sound... bad or painful the fact that you hate the identity that was forced upon you at birth. So "I'm a man..." that is all you say. "I see."

Douma has been more than a century alive doing the same thing, listening to other people's problems, and more than once someone came, crying over resenting their body and gender, about wanting to be something, someone, they simply did not born like. It's not something that comes every week or so, but he knows what is going on. "F/N is a woman's name though, we must find something else for you." He doesn't get it, he doesn't really want to, and could not even begin to phanton what you are feeling right now, but he knows about it, so he knows what you want him to say. That is what you actually feared.

"Y/N...." You answer him, not completely satisfied but not wanting to explain yourself further. You don't want this confession to make things different, yo make you just like another follower. "Y/N is it, then. What a charming name! I'll ask the staff to change your wardrobe into something more masculine. You can wear my clothes in the meantime." But again, Douma just... doesn't feel anything about it.

Kokushibou:

It's been a few days, a bit more than a week, with your usual silent momenta together suddenly being.... uncomfortable. For once he gains the courage to address it, since it seema there ia something you want to say but are constantly hesitating. That is usually his role in the relationship, so he eventually got too worried to just ignore it. "What is it?" He aks firmly, regretting it the after 74 straight seconds passed and you didn't answer even though you clearly heard it. This is one of the few times the silence is unconfortable to him, is there a way to take it back?

"Do you promise to take it seriously?" You know Kokushibou will not joke about your situation, but... you have no idea if he will believe you. You really love him but... he is a nightmare to be with. Always too worried about roles, including hierarchy and gender. You want him to acknowledge who you are, not a woman in his life. You have been actually thinking on breaking up because of it. "... I can try." He is honest with you, and... you want to give it a chance. He genuinely can't promise you to answer as you would like him too, but he can try. You have to see if trying is enough for you, because it has never been for Michikatsu him.

"I'm a man." You would have liked that to ne more firm, more "manly", but right now you just... need to see if you can be vulnerable in fron of Kokushibou. Now he is the onw to stay quiet for longer than needed to have some response, any response at all. "You are?" He is really bad at this, at feelings. He has always been, but because he was a male samurai nobody asked him to be emotionally mature, but to repress and hide his feelings. "I am." You feel the need to confirm it, for him to accept it, whenever he accepts you or not.

"Alright." Kokushibou justs says after a long pause before leaving. Fuck, he is scaping, you should have expected that. It will be some days before he talks to you again. "How... how should I call you now?" He is actually putting effort into it, you didn't expect that. While he is distancing himself, whenever he comes around he is more open. "Call me Y/N." You can work with that.

[simpingcowboy]

🌈Pride On Navarro🌈

Pairing: Trans!Din x GN!Reader, reader is implied to be queer

Word Count: 1.9K

Warnings: allusions to transphobia, discussions of queer visibility, coming out, grogus says trans rights

Summary: After settling down on Navarro with Din and Grogu, a new celebration comes to town!

A/N: HAPPY PRIDE!! This was written as part of @flightlessangelwings 's pride celebration!! I used their photo prompt(the large pride flag photo above!) and their dialogue prompts "Do you trust me?" "Hold my hand tight. I'll protect you." This was a bit rushed, but I hope you still enjoy <3 This is also the first trans!din writing to include Grogu!!

Trans!Din Masterlist

It’d been less than a month since you’d first settled on Navarro. The humble two room cabin quickly became home to your clan of three. The morning, as most were, was slow. The twin suns are just beginning their journey through the sky, marking their path with a burnt orange hue. Grogu was content by the pond, refining his Jedi powers through his daily meditations. You watched him closely, keeping an eye out for Din; who had already headed out to care for the ranch you three resided on.

Though most of Navarro was typically just beginning to rise- there seemed to be an unusual amount of commotion on the horizon where the town center stood. You noted a mass amount of ships docking. Though there'd been many new arrivals as part of a reconstruction efforts, these ones seemed…different from the usual material deliveries. There were some standard carrier ships. Some vendors, the ones who hopped planet to planet selling their fine goods. A couple of personal ships. But most strangely were the rounds of passenger ships. Hoards of people seemed to be flooding the gates of Navarro, eager to breach the inner city.

“Cyar’ika?” A familiar modulated voice behind you interrupts. “What are you looking at?” Din approaches. Coming round to your side, shoulder rubbing against yours.

“The ships…there’s so many today.”

“Mmm I noticed too.” He confirms. “Karga hasn’t notified me of any disturbance-”

“No. I don’t think it’s anything like that. Look.” You say, pointing to the branded vendor ships. “Vendors…maybe a market?”

Din looks over the horizon, the heat signatures on his visor affirming the large crowds. “A big one.”

“Would you like to-?” At that moment you’re cut off by an insistent tugging at the hem of your bottoms. A familiar womp rat prying for your attention. You chuckle as you pick him up. “I think Grogu would like to go.” He makes a happy sound, purring under your touch.

Din sighs, seeming hesitant.

“It’s been a while since we’ve seen Karga…I’m sure he’d like to hear how we're settling in.”

He grumbles, never liking going into a situation blind. But his apprehension is quickly dissolved when Grogu coos. Batting his big brown eyes up at Din. A small pout plastered on his sweet face. Din huffs, giving Grogu a pat on the head. That is all the convincing it takes.

The entrance archway is decorated in an unusual fashion. An assortment of brightly colored paper is swirled around the entirety of its length. A steady flow of confetti raining over the town. Peeking down the streets, you see vendors crowding the narrow streets. Flags of various colors and designs are hung up around town. Though your first assumption was that they belonged to different planets, as the large pride flag standing in the center of town comes into view…their meaning becomes very clear. You can’t help but smile, squeezing Din’s hand just a little tighter. Grogu’s eyes are wide as he takes in the beautiful array of colors. Each glimmering under the bright light of Navarro’s two suns.

Approaching the entrance, you see a table of pins. Small buttons of varying pride flags sit to your side, but before you have time to draw Din’s attention to it Grogu has already done so.

“No! Grogu! Put it down!”

You hear Din scold from behind you. Turning around you see the Din helplessly trying to wrestle the colorful pin out of Grogu’s mouth.

“Not food!” Din continues. He’s unsuccessful in his battle. Not getting Grogu to release the button until he decides the bitter metal is not an acceptable snack. “Dank ferrick kid…” He huffs, assessing the button in his hand. His helmet tilting as he surveys the curious array of colors. Finally, turning to you he asks “Cyar'ika, what is this?”

You smile at him, taking the pin in hand and wiping it of any remaining mess. “It’s a pride pin. Not for eating.” You emphasize, throwing a pointed look towards Grogu. “Like a mini flag to represent who you are. Each flag means something different.” Din and Grogu watch closely as you explain. “This one represents all queer genders and sexualities. It’s for everyone.” You say smiling as you attach the rainbow pin to Grogu’s collar. His small hands delicately run over the smooth surface.

“What are these other ones?” Din pulls your attention to the table, looking over the various colors.

“Well let’s see…” You discuss the ones you knew, before landing on the one you’d been searching for. “And this is your flag!” You say with a smile, holding out the trans flag pin out to Din.

His body stiffens, his face under the helmet suddenly getting very hot. “Cyar’ika can I-? S-should I?” Din asks nervously. You catch the frantic glaces he shoots into the crowd, and the uncertain sigh that escapes him as he looks at the child. “E-everyone will know…” he says quietly.

You retract your hands, covering the flag. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to wear it."

Din stops you, putting a hand over yours. "I want to but…"

Though words fail him, but you understand. There's a weight that comes with making yourself visible. Vulnerable. To identify himself in a way he's never done so publicly. Especially in front of friends. Before a whole town who knew and respected him. Though he held no reservations about holding you at his side, this was something more personal. Unearthing a struggle he'd been more than happy to bury and move on from since his teenage years. Though his fears were real, the banners of color that swirled around you told you he’d be safe here.

“Do you trust me?” You ask, placing one hand on his beskar-covered chest.

He nods hesitantly. His breath catches in his throat as he watches you carefully attach the blue, pink, and white pin to his cape.

“You’re safe here Din.” You affirm softly. “We’re safe here.” You reach to the table for a pin of your own, quickly pinning it to your top.

His body eases as he sees you attach your own pin. A small coo from his side pulls his attention. Grogu leans forward in his carrier, reaching out for the mandalorian. Din picks him up, sitting the child in his strong arms. Grogu’s small hands grab curiously at his father’s pin. Under the helmet, he goes warm. Turning to you he asks, “Do you think he knows?”

Looking down at the child, you’re certain. He’s not shy or confused. Perhaps it is something in his Jedi nature, but he seems unphased by this information. Something about his reaction makes you think he always knew. “He knows.” You say with a soft smile; enjoying the tender moment Grogu nuzzles his head against Din’s helmet.

The mandalorian leans into the hug. “Thanks kid…” he says quietly, silently struggling to keep it together. After a moment they pull away, the child happily cooing.

“Well, should we go look around?” You offer.

The pair nod. Din continues to hold Grogu in his arms, unwilling to let go of him. The comfort Grogu provides him is too good to give up at the moment. Catching onto Din’s nerves you slip your hand into his free one. Leaning in you whisper. “Hold my hand. I’ll protect you.”

Din can’t help, but chuckle. Though he was certainly the more intimating of the two of you, he can’t deny the feeling of safety he gets from holding your hand.

The market is beautiful. Bright colors adorning each pop-up vendor. You’re sure to stop by some of Grogu’s favorite stores in hopes it will convince him to be well-behaved; it is only semi-successful. The biggest treat of the day is getting to just watch Din relax. With each stop, his shoulders drop a little more. You catch his lingering eye on the transgender flags you pass by; almost in awe of the audacity to just be. Din lingers even longer in conversation with individual vendors who adorn the flag. Though you were usually the one to do the talking, he can’t seem to help himself. Of course, Grogu doesn’t mind…the more time Din spends speaking the more likely it is he will be getting something out of the exchange. Walking up to the town center, a familiar face appears.

“Mando!” Karga gleefully cheers, quick to greet his old friend. “How wonderful it is to see you out today! And with the little one too!” He smiles down at Grogu, who is happily chewing on a rainbow cookie. Karga greets you too, shaking your free hand. “I hope you’re settling in alright.”

You smile at the high magistrate, “Of course, it’s perfect for the kid. Thank you again for the offer. And thank you for holding this event! It’s lovely.”

“Well of course we had to do something for Pride! It’s important we establish ourselves as a free land! Navarro is open to all! We’re civilized now, nothing like the barbarians that once walked these streets. Speaking of- Mando, I was hoping to ask you. Is this something Mandalorians do? Pride- I mean. Is this accepted-”

You interrupt with a light cough, not to subtly nodding to Din’s trans pin.

“Oh! Well, I suppose that answers that!” Karga says with a chuckle. “In that case, tell your Mandalorian friends to come by for the festivities! And happy Pride to you Mando!”

“Th-thank you High Magistrate…” Din thanks him shyly, a sigh of relief escaping him at how easy that went over.

“That went well.” You say smiling at Din.

He shrugs, “As good as I could’ve imagined.”

“Now come on! Let’s see if we can get a good spot for the fireworks, huh?”

Hidden under the helmet, is a small smile spreading across Din’s face. He follows silently, letting the decision be between you and Grogu. You settle atop a ridge, in the perfect place to see the fireworks bloom over the town center. Din sits beside you, legs spread out in front of him. Grogu sits at the end of Din’s feet, happily digging through the bag of goodies he got through the day. You take your position at Din’s side, your head resting against his pauldron. Your hand entwined with his rests on his thigh. Anticipation building as the time nears.

He dips his head down to yours, “Cyar’ika?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“For what, Din?”

“For loving me.”

With that an explosion of colors graces the skyline. A boom of cheers erupts from the crowd.

“You’re very easy to love...”

Tucked away under the safety of the mountain ridge, Din is unable to stop himself. Lifting the lip of his helmet enough to press himself to you. All the words of his unspoken appreciation for you translating themselves through the fire of his kiss. The fireworks are quickly forgotten, this moment of intimacy taking superiority. Not even the roaring boom of each firework is enough to tear you away. Only the high pitched cheer of the child is enough to draw your attention away from each other. You both turn away from one another, looking at Grogu who smiles brightly, pointing up at the sky. Where a sudden explosion of blue, pink, and white fill the sky. Matching perfectly to the pin attached to Din’s cape. And an unknown pride fills the Mandalorian’s once beskar-clad heart.

[aromanticannibal]

Transfem Katsuki (edited as of Nov. 2023. Katsuki hadn't died yet when this was written so bear with me.)

In honor of "fuck I thought about transfem Katsuki and now I'm in love with her again" and also because of a shitty discourse post I saw. Enjoy.

She will NOT figure it out until at least second year of UA.

She's always been uneasy about the whole boy thing. Specifically boy. Like she's one of the guys ok sure but she's not a boy.

We know how kind Aldera is to anyone who's slightly out of the norm (ie Deku) and Katsuki is especially aware given she was part of the problem. So yeah, internalized transphobia (+homophobia) we love to see it./s

Getting into UA and quickly realizing that like more than half the class is openly and proudly queer in some way gave her whiplash, and as much of a bully as she still was at this point, she didn't say anything.

She tried to convince herself it was to not get in trouble and gamble her place at UA, but really she was just glad to not be somewhere as fucked as her middle school.

And if the trans ponytail chick makes her question who she really wants to be... well that's nobody's business.

As I am very subtly implying, Momo ends up being a big part of Katsuki accepting herself and her identity as a trans woman.

Katsuki loves her friend group (she'll never admit it but she does, so much) but she associates them with her old group from Aldera somewhat unconsciously, and is terrified they'll push her away, even if she knows she's just. Straight up wrong.

As in, so incredibly wrong. Sero and Jirou are non binary ("Whatever the hell that means") Kirishima is a proud trans man ("More of a man than any of the cretins at Aldera will ever be") Mina's dating a trans girl from another school ("Camie Utsushit or smth") and Kaminari is so many different flavors of queer its almost impressive.

Really, her friends are probably the ones that should be worried, she tries to remind herself, hammering it in her head. Katsuki was an asshole for most of her life, they should be the ones scared of her. They're not though. For some fuckin' reason.

So yeah, talking to her friend group is out of the question. Momo though.

Momo is a special kind of trustworthy. Momo is the kind of person you'd give your entire life savings, your child, your car and your wife to. Katsuki hates that, she hates trusting people, it always ends badly, so she prefers doing stuff on her own.

Except it doesn't always end badly. Especially not with Yaomomo.

Every early saturday morning, Katsuki's and Momo's workout sessions happen at the same time. Eventually, they start talking during that time. Katsuki eventually asks about Momo being trans, more or less convinced she'll tell her to go fuck herself (she obviously doesn't).

It helps, despite the fact that her experience isn't the same as Katsuki's at all. Momo always knew she was a girl, her parents always were supportive about it, and money really wasn't a problem to help her transition once she was old enough to make that decision. Hell, she can literally make estrogen.

Katsuki then comes to the realization that yeah, she's probably a girl. Not like I'll ever do shit about it, she thinks.

Things kinda stay stagnant for a time then. Katsuki has way more important stuff to worry about (like exams and also her and her friends almost dying etc etc) and the self-hatred that simmers in her head constantly doesn't make it really fun to actually think about herself.

Second year comes around.

Because this is me, and my blog, and I do what I want, I present to you my son, Shinsou. Most trans guygirl t4t lesbian of all time. In my heart.

So Shinsou is very trans in the most mysterious way you could think of, so mysterious he himself doesn't really know what is going on with his gender. He doesn't exactly care, he just vibes (any pronouns).

They're pretty knowledgeable on queer stuff because it loves to read wikipedia pages until 5AM when it can't sleep and got lost on multiple LGBTQ+ related forums when she was 13. (He also knows a lot about chickens and lizards.)

She can just breathe the queer coming out of Katsuki, but when they ask they're just met with "oh Bakugou? Yeah no, he's cishet. Our token straight man. To prove we're diverse, etc." (-Shouji, entirely serious). Shinsou's not buying it but she doesn't like assuming, so he shuts up.

Meanwhile, Katsuki has nothing to think about anymore now that things have settled and she's not getting attacked by her self-hatred constantly, so she unfortunately ends up thinking about her gender (truly tragic. Genuinely though, it's almost distressing because she pushed the thought down for so long that it's scary to think about).

Because early mornings and nights are a time outside of our world, it's again around 5AM that Katsuki talks to someone who might help her with her gender problem. Shinsou in fact, who's of course awake on a Monday morning after a sleepless night, eating cereal out of the box.

Katsuki finds herself chatting with the weirdo and eventually asks what the fuck kinda gender it is, if only to be able to call her something else than the weirdo in her head.

The realization that gender is a construct and doesn't really fucking exist so it doesn't actually matter is somewhat of an epiphany for Katsuki. Like she's silent for multiple minutes. Shinsou is getting scared

Quietly, she mutters a small "I think I'm a girl" to Shinsou. It smiles and says "Nice. There's not enough girls in this class." and goes back to its cereal.

Katsuki has no fucking idea how that fucker exists. He's an anomaly in the timeline. Katsuki adores them.

(Platonically. Girl doesn't have time for romantic love. Yes I'm also making her aromantic, because aro Katsuki is the loml and one of my fave hcs.)

After that weird but insightful conversation, Katsuki finally asks Momo for help, taking her up on an offer she had made one morning. ("If you ever need my help for anything concerning [your gender bullshit], come see me.")

Momo being the absolute QUEEN that she is, she assembles all transgirls and cisgirls of the class + whoever else would like to join (which ends up being Jirou, Shinsou and Aoyama) and they all go on a shopping trip with Katsuki to help her figure out what she likes.

Does she want to wear makeup? Does she want feminine clothes? Or long hair? Does she want boobs? Or thinner traits?

Does she just want different pronouns and to be addressed viewed as a girl?

Mina shortens that as "What kinda girl is Katsuki".

I'll do you the answer here so this doesn't take forever, because the process of figuring it out must be long.

Mainly, the verdict will eventually be that Katsuki didn't really feel comfortable in the box she, her parents and Aldera put her in, which is a sort of vague idea of a Boy, Man, Son. She's mean and a bitch and probably a tomboy and she's a girl. That's all. She doesn't want of any of that flowery pink crap and being "gracefully feminine" like Momo is, she'll still kick your teeth in. Being a girl isn't fundamentally part of her identity or her personality, but it's who she's comfortable being.

She does enjoy skirts once she feels comfortable enough to wear them. She grows her hair a bit too (because she doesn't wanna look like her mother at first, but she ends up liking the look) and puts it up in a ponytail.

Makeup is a bitch but it looks cool, so she lets Mina, Aoyama and Shinsou use her face as a canevas for their weird makeup experiments. She thinks she looks like a clown half the time though (she doesn't, she's really cute). She mostly does eyeliner, which she already knew how to do before starting her transition, and very rarely lipgloss.

She doesn't really care about having breasts or softer traits, mainly because her traits are already pretty androgynous when she looks at herself, and she's already got big pecs so like. Basically tits. It's the same, it doesn't really matter. She's happy with how her body looks, she worked to have a healthy body and she doesn't care if it's "not a woman's body" or whatever the fuck. She likes how her body is and she doesn't really care about changing it.

She thinks of using she/they (like Jirou) but doesn't exactly care about they/them? Like they're not bad to have used on her (way better than he/him) but she prefers just using she/her.

She doesn't change her first name. It means victory, so it's already perfect for her. It's her name.

Some of her friends (the ones who aren't scared of death cough cough Shinsou) call her Katsuki-chan (Kacchan is copyrighted) but most her friends call her Kats', because she let slip one time she thinks it's cute.

To end this because good lord I've been typing for some time, here's my Transfem Bakugou pinterest board. I actually have a bunch of transfem characters pinterest boards lmao

Also realizing I almost didn't talk about Izuku. Damn I've really betrayed myself as a bkdk truther. Rip.

[icebearinacornfield]

Rating Alex Rider Villians on a scale of 1-10 on how supportive they'd be of me telling them I'm Agender:

[Just so we are clear, the concept for this came from a TikTok-er who does a good amount of Alex Rider content/analysis!)

Harod Sayle: 5/10 He's too focused on his own revenge plot against British school children to care and he wouldn't entirely understand it, but I get the vibe that he'd ask some follow-up questions about what I meant and then just be like "ok cool IG". He'd misgender me a lot, but it wouldn't be from a place of malice, it would just be because he forgot. He'd be quick to fix his mistake though. All in all, Harod Sayle's just too spiteful to have the energy to expend on being transphobic/enby-phobic/agender-phobic (I never know the right term to use, please send help!), so he simply wouldn't be. If I were British, however, he would be the most transphobic person on Earth to me!

Nadia Vole: 10/10 She'd ask for pronouns upon introduction and always make sure that she's using the right ones! If nothing else, Nadia Vole is a professional, and professionals use people's correct pronouns, names, and honorifics. I also get the vibe that she'd not put up with anyone's bullshit if they're intentionally going around not respecting other people's identities. She also just gives the energy that she's queer (especially in the graphic novel), but then again it might just be me projecting.

Mr. Grin: 5/10 Bro's literally just doing his job and couldn't give less of a fuck. He'd respect my pronouns and stuff, but it'd be out of total indifference to me. Just like, he doesn't have the energy to waste, so it wouldn't matter to him whatsoever.

Dr. Grief: -10/10 He's a racist/nazi/white supremacist/fascist jackass (probably a stronger word would be better suited for this, but I don't feel like putting it in), so going off of what we know already, I can make a very educated guess as to what his stance on me not fucking with gender would be...

Eva Stellenbosch: -10/10 Same with Dr. Grief. She'd also just straight-up hate crime me for fun, so there's that too.

Alexei Sarov: 8/10 He'd be a little confused/not know entirely what being agender meant, or even what it is for that matter, but after it was explained to him, he'd make an effort. He'd read up on the subject, he'd ask questions, he might mess up on pronouns and such pretty regularly, but there'd be an effort on his part and that's what matters!

Conrad: 1/10 He's a chaos gremlin of pure hatred and murder. He is alive solely out of bitterness and spite. He'd purposely misgender me/be actively transphobic just to feel something. Anything. Conrad just wants to watch the world burn and he's got the gasoline.

Damian Cray: 20/10 There was no heterosexual explanation for that man to begin with! I also can't see him being super big on gender in the first place. He'd be out there actively fighting transphobia and showing his support for all of the LGBTQIA+ community! He'd validate me and he'd be aggressively supportive as well!

Nikolai Drevin: 0/10 Y'all saw how he was to his son Paul Drevin. Paul has been head-cannoned/heavily implied to be gay and we all saw how THAT turned out... I just feel like Nikolai Drevin would not hesitate to force me to go to conversion therapy. That's it. Maybe he'd pretend to be supportive at first to lull me into a false sense of security so he could kidnap me for conversion therapy, but it'd be a complete and total act. Believe me, this man IS ABSOLUTELY NOT an ally!!! That being said, he wouldn't outright kill me/other type of hate crime me. Not that conversion therapy is ok or anything, but the bar is so low on this list at points and I'm forced to give credit where credit is due. He'd kill me because I beat him at something which is something he does with everyone else so it's an equal opportunity thing.

Desmond McCain: 3/10 He'd try and do an exorcism of me. not necessarily because of the whole agender thing (not that that would hurt his decision though), but just because of me as a person. I don't care if he's not that kind of religious, but that wouldn't matter to him. He'd become that type of religious. Desmond McCain would also try to talk me out of being agender (not that that's someone that can do) by telling me that "God didn't intend for you to reject your natural calling as a woman." which isn't something that I think that God would agree with because I just don't... Either way, he'd say that I was a sinful person and going to super-hell when I eventually and he'd mean it too even if he's just faking being a Christian.

Dominic Royce: 4/10 He'd be on the quiet side, but don't let that fool you! He'd actively be doing everything in his power to pass anti-trans laws even though legislating is not part of his job! He'd refuse to acknowledge my saying anything about being agender and say condescending shit like 'You're too young to know that!" or "It's just a phase!" and would be calling me "young lady" or "Ms./Miss" a lot which would just be super uncomfortable.

Owen Andrews: 2/10 Bro totally leaves Reddit comments about how being trans/non-binary/agender isn't real/is a mental illness or some bullshit like that in his free time for fun and probably believes it as well. That being said, however, I don't see him being super transphobic out loud to my face. He'd definitely misgender me every time and place he got, but I could probably beat him in a fight and he knows this.

Darcus Drake: 6/10 He'd use the right pronouns, he'd be respectful enough, but mostly he wouldn't be too bothered with any of it.

Dr. Raymond Feng: 5/10 He'd be skeptical about it, but he'd hear me out and just accept it. I get the sense that he'd be thinking 'oh is this internalized misogyny or childhood trauma or something?', but I stand by my statement saying that he'd ultimately be accepting and validating to me more or less. Not a strong ally, not a transphobe, just a man who presumably has a doctorate in psycology with no quams about imprisoning and interrogating a thoroghly traumatized child. And I for one think that's beautiful. (Not actually, I just wanted to put that last part down there.)

Dwain Garfield: 1/10 He's a Trump supporter. 'nuff said. Source? Trust me bro.

Vladimir Sharkovsky: -5/10 He'd hate crime me or, more accurately, have somebody else hate crime me for him.

Harry Bulman: 2/10 Bulman would've been out there writing transphobic AF articles LONG before meeting me. Harry Bulman would be writing articles about how being trans/non-binary/agender was the latest 'fad/trend', go out of his way to make fun of the trans experience, and spread misinformation about how "gender/women are under attack!". Now, I don't think that he'd actually believe what he's writing (except for the whole thing about it being a 'trend' or mental illness or whatever), he's just in it for the money/the clout. Not that this makes it any better, if anything that makes it worse. In any case, he'd laugh in my face when I say I use they/them pronouns and then tweet about it or whatever and call me a 'crazy, blue-haired liberal' or whatever despite me not having blue hair. In short, metaphorically (never literally) fuck Harry Bulman!

Colonel Aubrey Sykes: 1/10 He'd just call me a 'snowflake' and say that he identifies "as an attack helicopter" because like many transphobes, he hasn't evolved much since 2016-2017. Also, since I'm not a veteran or active service member of the military and an American, I just get the vibe that he'd already have had absolutely zero respect for me in the first place even if I was cis. Also, he just gives extremely misogynistic vibes too, so whether or not I was cis wouldn't change much.

[Probably going to do a separate list for SCORPIA members and the Nightshade board. The same goes for MI6/CIA/ASIS characters. It'll be fun maybe!]

[brainfilehasstoppedworking]

TW: Slurs and mentioned/implied transphobia

Just some transfem Takaaki angst

《~~~~~~》

Takaaki wiped away whatever tears had fallen from her eyes. They weren't so bad. But my did she look roughed up. They were worse on most occasions. Today was a little rough up, a few punches and kicks and that was it. Some hair pulling, too. At least they didn't try to cut it back to its original look this time. It took her a while to grow her hair back to what she had it as.

She didn't like the less feminine look she had on for those months. She didn't even bother to shave for that time. She hated it.

After drying up whatever tears she had, she looked back into the mirror and sighed. She locked the door to the men's restrooms so nobody would get in. They'd all just bother her again. And it wasn't like she could retreat to the women's restrooms, she'd get weird looks. She was once redirected to the men's and she just stuck with going in there.

This didn't feel right.

She…she was a woman. Not a man.

She was a woman…

She combed whatever strands needed fixing. Bits of hair had been removed, but it's fine. Nobody will notice if she just fixed it a bit. It'll grow back anyways. After she was done combing her hair, she opened a small bag that held make-up in it.

She looked back into the mirror, trying to find a reason to smile, make herself feel better. But she didn't. She didn't smile. And when she tried, it was only filled with the sadness she felt in her heart. It wasn't like she didn't know that she would get harassed for this. No, she was aware. Especially with how Japan was…

But it still hurt.

It hurt all too much.

"There we go. Okay, Aki…let's…let's hide that ugly bruise." Takaaki choked out as she held back her tears again. After preping her face for the concealer, she held up the brush and started applying said concealer. She could only hope it would actually conceal something. She was still new to this make-up thing so she didn't know how much to apply.

She could only hope for the best.

Staring at herself in the mirror was painful. Seeing how big her black eye was. It was a deep bluish-purple. She had other bruising around her body and face, but this one was worse.

It looked awful.

If only she were born an actual woman. Then she wouldn't be this roughed up. Even prior to transitioning, she wasn't treated well in her job. She didn't remember the last time everyone at the station was nice to her when she was…him.

She'd go home with bruising or more serious injuries, but she'd put up a front for Kiyotaka. Saying that it was just some criminal who was a little too aggressive that day. She was more worried about Kiyotaka's own bruises to care for her's. She didn't mind her own pain, she could handle it. She always had.

Takaaki took a bit more concealer on her brush and continued to lightly dab and swipe the liquid on her face. She could only hear the awful things she'd been told in her head.

Faggot.

Tranny. Tranny. Tranny.

Hm. They seemed to like that word, she thought to herself.

They had said to her that she'll never be a woman. That she was always going to be a man. She could remember them mentioning how disappointed Kiyotaka probably was to see his father be this "disgusting" creature. She just ignored them.

"Ah. There we go, much better! No more ugly bruises…" Takaaki sighed. She forced a smile on her face as she kept in her it'll smear the make-up. Which reminded her. She took out her eyeshadow palette and grabbed another brush. She lightly applied some of the eyeshadow and packed everything back into the bag.

The forced smile mocked her in the mirror. But all she needed to do was just conceal her face and everything would be okay.

She was a woman.

Why couldn't they see that?

[gregorygerwitz]

#20, scream au please!

warnings: implied homophobia and transphobia (Mouse is non-binary and likes men and Thelma hates that), forced outing, gaslighting

20. "How long did you think you could hide that?"

Living alone wasn't exactly the worst thing he'd ever been through.

It was hard to top the literal bloodbath of the party he'd thrown a few years before. More than a dozen of his classmates, his friends had been killed, some even right in front of him. There wasn't a lot in the world that was worse than that, and he couldn't pretend otherwise. But living alone for one of the first times in his life still sucked.

At least, when he lived on school campuses, he had roommates. They were roommates who didn't want anything to do with him in case he brought more death to a new home, but at least he had company. He could have a constant presence to be aware of, something to distract himself from the sleepless nights. He could use one of the family cards to go out to lunch with Jay and Hailey on weekends. He could pretend his life was normal, like that party really was a distance memory.

But that was a lot harder when he was living alone and his parents didn't want much to do with him. They only cared when they could drag him into the public eye, dress him up like the perfect son and show him off for the cameras. Everyone behind the cameras knew what happened at that Halloween party, knew his part in what happened, blamed him for some level of the destruction. One brunch had just turned louder than the others, words and labels being thrown out when he didn't want them to be, where they could be heard by everyone at nearby tables. Showing him off as the perfect son only worked when that was what people thought he was. That couldn't exactly be the image presented to the public when he was going around sleeping with men and barely identifying as one himself.

The fact that he was out to his parents on both of those fronts was one thing, but having them practically yell it from the rooftops had made him freeze in his seat. In the middle of the Donovan Club, where everyone knew his face and his family name and his history, they suddenly knew all the things he didn't want publicly known, at least until he figured it all out for himself. Only a few people were supposed to know, and all of Chicago wasn't exactly on that list.

It had taken a few minutes for him to find his voice, to hiss across the table to make up for the fact that he couldn't get out of his chair. "Mom, can we wait and discuss this later? At the house, maybe?"

She'd tsked right back at him, shaking her head and sipping at her drink as if he wasn't turning a brighter shade of red, as if her loud comment hadn't drawn every pair of eyes in the room to their table. "Honestly, Gregory, first you want us to go on like it means nothing, and now you're acting like the sky is falling. It's none of anyone's business how you spend your time or who you spend it with, and if people are looking at you odd, isn't it their fault?"

"They're looking at us because you yelled about pronouns while everyone else is trying to eat in peace. And if I want people to know about any of it, it's up to me to tell them, not you."

"If you don't want people to know, you shouldn't dress like that, dear. I'm sure everyone knew as soon as you walked in with those pink flowers all over that shirt of yours. That is not the wardrobe of a man who enjoys the presence of a woman."

"Mom-"

"How long did you think you could hide that? You certainly aren't acting like it's a big secret. Do your little friends know? Hillary? And... the other one?"

"Jay and Hailey. And yes, they know. And you've known them for six years, so I know you know their names. At least pretend like you remember seeing their names next to mine in all those articles."

"You're causing far more of a fuss over this than I am, Gregory. If you don't want the attention, you should eat faster so we can leave and discuss this more privately."

[ hurt/comfort prompts ]

[legolasghosty]

Well, I wrote a little holiday gift for @michelangelinden, who brought it to my attention the other day that I never actually posted it, I just sent them the doc. So... here it is I suppose?

This is a part of the Willie Dance Teacher AU(I say as if I've talked about it enough for that to actually mean anything to anyone). The only other posted fic in this au can be read here, but it's not really connected to the events of this one.

Word count - 2.1k Rating - G Warnings - a bit of implied past transphobia, but it's like one sentence.

Alex takes a deep breath and climbs out of his car, swinging his backpack onto his shoulder. The building itself doesn’t look scary. Just a large, off-white building with the logo above the glass front doors. The inside probably looks the same as it did online: large, open rooms with wooden floors and mirrors lining one wall. It’s definitely not terrifying enough to warrant his racing heartbeat. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out. The Gay Agenda group chat he has with his friends is lighting up.

Julie Bean - Good luck Alex!!!!!! 

Candy Queen - Get in there, Mercer!

Reginald Molina - Have fun Lexi!

Guitar Boy - You got this man!

Alex chuckles at his friends’ enthusiasm. You’d think it was them heading for their first dance class in over a decade, not him. He sends back a heart emoji, then heads for the front door. He can do this. It’s not a big deal. This isn’t going to be like when he was a kid.

He’s hit with the usual wave of artificially cooled air as he enters the lobby. The mid-September breeze outside isn’t as hot as it is in the summer, but it’s still a relief to get out of it. He glances around for a door marked Studio 4, which is where the intro email he received the week before said his class would be. But the only studio door he sees is marked Center Studio, and the halls go off in both directions.

“Know where you’re going?” a voice asks.

Alex turns to see a cheerful, dark-haired woman behind the receptionist's desk. He shrugs sheepishly. “Umm, I’m looking for Studio 4?” he offers.

“Oh, you’re in Willie’s adults class,” she says, nodding in understanding. “You’re gonna take a left here, then go most of the way down. It’ll be on your right.”

“Okay, thanks,” Alex responds, giving her a grateful smile.

“No problem, you’ll love Willie, he’s great,” she says.

Alex certainly hopes so. His last dance teacher was… not great. He turns down the hall the woman indicated and quickly reaches his studio. He takes another deep breath. Reminds himself that he wants to be here. That he likes dancing. That he can get the heck out of here and never come back if this goes poorly. It’s going to be fine. Hopefully even fun.

When he enters the room, he finds about what he’d expected. Honey-colored wooden flooring, light gray walls, one covered in mirrors, and a rough circle of folding chairs set up in the middle. Alex is early, but there’s a few people already in the room. A pair of older women are seated in the circle, along with a man in his early 30’s who keeps checking his phone. The only other person in the room is a guy with long, dark hair pulled back in a bun standing in the corner and fiddling with a large speaker.

Everyone else seems to have kept their stuff with them, so he sets his backpack on the floor. Alex hesitantly takes a seat and pulls out his phone. A few more messages have come in from his friends since he checked it outside.

Bobistro - Just breathe dude. You’re gonna do great.

Flynnagain - and we’ll burn the place down if they do anything stupid

Candy Queen - What the girlfriend said.

Bobistro - … Go have fun Alex. You love dancing. It’s gonna be fine.

Alex chuckles and flips over to his solitaire app to kill time while he waits for class to start. More people trickle in around him, filling most of the chairs. Once the large clock on the wall hits 4 o'clock, the guy who’d been working on the speaker joined the circle.

“Hey everybody, I’m Willie, and welcome to the studio,” he says, giving them a wide grin. “Since most of you are new to taking classes here, I figured we’d start with some introductions.” 

Alex resists the urge to groan, icebreakers are hard. He never knows what to say.

“I know, I know,” Willie continues, raising his hands in surrender, “fancy intros are overrated and everything. But I’d like to at least know people’s names and pronouns. And if you have any pets, I would also like to know about them.”

Okay, that doesn’t seem too bad. Alex could talk about his cat for hours.

“I’ll start,” Willie adds, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the floor. “Hi, I’m Willie, my pronouns are he and they, and I have a very dramatic grey kitten named Glisandra.”

Alex feels a bit of the tension leave his shoulders as the next person starts talking. Willie is trans too. They’re open about it with their students. Alex isn’t really planning on mentioning that he wasn’t born a boy to anyone here, but it’s a relief to know that he won’t be totally alone if it does come up. And none of the other students seem weirded out by Willie using multiple sets of pronouns, so… 

He pushes down the memories of the last time he was in dance class, back in middle school. No need to remind himself of that.

“I’m Carol,” one of the older women who beat Alex here starts, pulling him back to the present. “My pronouns are… she/her?” She glances over at Willie who nods encouragingly. “Okay, good, I’m new to introducing myself that way,” she continues with a chuckle. “Oh, and I have a very old black lab named Finch.”

The woman beside Carol is Ruth, who uses she/her pronouns as well and doesn’t have any pets, though Carol protests that she might as well be a co-parent to Finch. Everyone laughs at that. Then there’s Sharon and Chris, a newly married couple who have two parakeets named Chico and Blue. After them is the middle-aged man Alex saw when he got here, Jason. He doesn’t have any pets, but does mention a 7-year-old daughter. Then is a guy in probably his mid-60s named Greg, who seems to have a whole collection of animals living on his property.

And then it’s Alex’s turn. “Hey, I’m Alex, I use he/him pronouns, and I have a grey and white cat named Cucumber.”

“Hey, another cat person!” Willie cheers, reaching over to offer Alex a fist bump. 

Alex is startled by the enthusiasm but returns the gesture. The woman on his other side(Mandy, she/her, no pets) starts talking but Alex remains focused on Willie. He’d been a bit busy freaking out before to really notice, but Willie is… really pretty. He’s still sitting on the floor, one leg pulled up to his chest as they listen to their students. They aren’t really doing anything, but the light in his eyes and the easiness of his smile and the way a few strands of hair have escaped his bun to frame their face…

“I guess that makes me last,” chuckles the tiny woman beside Willie. “I’m Sandy, she/her, and I have a turtle named Dierdra.”

“Nice!” Willie exclaims, climbing easily to his feet. “Lovely to meet you all. Now let’s get to why we’re actually here.”

They go over some basic dance classroom etiquette and language, most of which Alex recognizes from his old ballet classes. The dress code isn’t nearly as strict though. He wonders if that’s just because it’s an adult class, or if that’s a policy the studio uses for all their classes. Or maybe it’s just a Willie thing. Either way, Alex is glad that the only requirements are not to wear anything too tight or that you could trip over.

“Last thing, this class is for you guys,” Willie says. “So if there’s something you really want to learn, let me know and I’ll try to make it work. Alternatively, if you have any injuries or medical issues or anything that makes certain movements hard, come tell me. We can modify stuff as needed so that everyone can do things safely. Sound good?”

It takes a second for everyone to realize he asked a question, but they all nod. Willie’s face splits into that wide grin again. They have a really pretty smile.

“Sweet, let’s warm up then,” Willie declares. “I’m sure you’re all sick of sitting here listening to me.”

That gets a chuckle out of Alex and some of his new classmates as they get up and move their chairs and bags to the edge of the room. Willie has them line up and turns on the music for a warm-up. The movements aren’t too complex or fast, so Alex finds himself able to follow along just fine. Willie is probably going simple on purpose since they don’t know anyone’s skill levels. It feels great though, waking up some of the muscles that Alex hasn’t used in years.

After the warm-up, Willie guides them all over to one wall to go across the floor. It’s more fun than Alex is expecting, the upbeat music providing a steady rhythm to skip and jump to. Willie calls encouragement and corrections as they go across. He’s so positive and full of life, and it’s infectious. Alex can’t fully remember why he was so worried about this.

They move into learning a simple combination and Alex takes the opportunity to watch his classmates a bit. A few of them clearly used to dance, and Sandy is definitely pretty active, but most of the class doesn’t seem to have any previous experience, or at least nothing recent. Alex wonders where he would fit in that lineup to someone else. People would probably guess he knows nothing. He wasn’t the worst dancer when he was a kid, but that was years ago. And he hadn’t been taking classes as a boy then.

He shifts his focus to Willie as they break into groups and take turns running the combination. The guy can’t be more than 25, which seems a bit young for a teacher, but Willie is clearly in his element. In between groups, they’ll point out little things to focus on and highlight what the group did a good job on. They’re always the first to applaud when a group finishes, even if no one did that well.

Carol questions them about it after she mixes up some of the steps. “Why the clapping if we sucked?” she asks, chuckling as she reaches for her water.

“Cause you tried,” Willie responds immediately. “We all suck at stuff, that’s just life. That’s how we learn. But you got up there and tried, and that’s worthy of applause.”

It’s a practiced answer. Clearly it’s something Willie has put a lot of thought into. Alex thinks back to his old teachers, who would glare down at them for a single misstep and only granted ‘Good job’s after recitals. Willie’s way seems a lot better. Maybe Willie had teachers like his when they were younger and wanted to be different. Or maybe Willie has always had amazing and supportive instructors.

Alex realizes he wants to know which it is. He wants to know things about Willie, about their history and what he likes and dislikes and what makes them laugh. He wants to know where they think of as home and what their favorite movie is and what he likes to do outside of dancing. Huh.

(He also really wants to meet their kitten, Glisandra, but that’s no surprise. Alex loves meeting other people’s cats.)

Willie leads them through some light yoga and stretching at the end of class as a cool-down. Alex takes a deep breath as he leans into his lunge. His ribs don’t feel as tense as they usually do. His heart rate is higher than usual, but that’s because of the exercise, not his anxiety. His limbs don’t feel so heavy. He feels… good. Relaxed. 

Huh, that’s not a common one.

“Alright, great job,” Willie says, straightening and giving them all another wide grin. “I will see you all next week, and I’m free for a bit if anyone has questions or concerns. Thank you dancers.”

Alex returns their smile, then heads over to where he left his backpack. He takes a long drink of water and heads for the door.

“Great work today, Alex,” Willie calls as he passes.

“Thanks, you’re a great teacher,” Alex responds, turning and smiling at the instructor.

Willie bows dramatically. “I live to serve,” he says.

Alex laughs. “See you next week, Willie.”

“See ya!”

Alex heads out to his car, waving goodbye to the receptionist on his way out. Once he’s in his car, he checks his phone. There’s a whole bunch of messages from his friends asking about how his class was.

Alex - Class was great! Teacher is cool! Headed home. <3

He pulls out of the parking lot and heads back toward the apartment he shares with Luke and Reggie. He’s really looking forward to class next week.

[nonbinarymoon]

Sigh... Here you guys go. An example of both transmisogyny and transandrophobia and general transphobia all at the same time.... Will this be the trans community's sign to stop fucking fighting about who's oppressed and who's not and who has it worse and what agab is better and whether gender roles have morality and whatever else? Probably not but I hope this gets everyone back on track for at least 2 minutes if not 1 minute. Also to the radfems in this community who dont believe transandrophobia exists, tell me that 🐂💩 again after you see that a majority of these comments are targeted towards trans men. Trans men are men. Any trans man can get pr3g as long as they still have a uterus and are fertile. As far as I know there's still no abortion clinic drive thrus and pro life people unfortunately still exist and also the world hasn't exploded into oblivion yet.

Im not saying trans men have it worse than trans women or that transmisogyny isn't a big deal ofc(as you can clearly see especially with the first pic, trans women got shat on as well and if you think transphobia is even a thing at all you'll know this isnt the first or the last time bigots are going to shit on trans women), but if shit like this isn't enough of a wake up call for the trans community to stop playing oppression olympics with each other, I don't know what will. Shit like this is a slap in the face to trans people in general. Especially straight and mspec trans people. It's sad. And it's even sadder that we as a community would rather spend more time fighting over nonsense than fight perisex cishet bigots, aka our real enemy, like this. Perisex cishet bigots will hate trans people and try everything they can to strip us of our freedom and our autonomy regardless of our identity. Wake up. Stop arguing about shit just to argue about shit. Enough said.

the comments are not much better trust me I only found 3 comments that even mentioned the existence of trans people and I had to do quite some digging in that comment section to find those.

This world is only in trouble because bigots spread hate, not because trans men and transmasc people exist.

We already know how it feels. Its not a pleasant feeling. But I'd rather deal with that than transphobes. I think cishets need the old switcheroo pulled on them and have trans people be the default so they know the pain they make us feel every day. Also, to imply that all trans women would break up with and abandon any transmasc person they happen to impregnate is just absolutely vile. Trans women are not disgusting and cruel monsters. Trans women can have compassion. Trans women are not whatever other bad stereotype about women or cis men there is. Trans women can love. Trans women are not inherently bad people for crying out loud. Also, trans men are not hopeless. Trans men are not unloveable. Trans men are not meant be seen as objects reduced to their reproductive system if they get pregnant. Heck, trans men and trans women should not inherently be enemies to one another. Trans men and trans women can love each other. Trans men and trans women can be happy together.

Again. Trans women are not monsters. They are not mindless sex havers. They are not sperm banks. They are not predators. A trans woman's brain is in their head, not their pants. Trans women are people. Trans women are not misogynistic cis men incels disguised as women in order to oppress afabs(i cant believe I have to say all of this). Also any trans man who has bottom surgery is not able to get pregnant. So no. Not all trans men would be doomed to have children. And not all trans women would be the reason for said childbearing. Trans people are more than their reproductive systems my goodness.

If you want birth control and others to be available than make them all free. Stop making people pay money for condoms and whatnot. Demolish capitalism.

Not ableism/sanism as well... also dehumanizing people who acknowledge trans peoples existence and stand up for us does not make this any better. Girls can and do have dicks. Boys can and do have vulvas. Dick ≠ man and vulva ≠ woman.

Again, no let's not switch the roles. Honestly the amount of transphobes advocating to see the roles be reversed is honestly very creepy and feels fetishizing to me. What is this obsession with seeing trans people in a relationship? Why exactly is it that you want to see a trans man be pregnant, even if it will possibly make their dysphoria and estrogen levels skyrocket? What if said trans man is on T? What if said trans man is at the point where there's so much testosterone in their body that having a baby might kill them or at least seriously hurt them? Why are you so excited to see at least two trans people procreate with each other??? Just what? Im sorry but even if a trans woman and a trans man decide to procreate together, why are you entitled to their business? Why do you find that funny? Why do you treat trans people having kids as something weird or unusual as opposed to treating cis men and cis women having kids as the norm? Trans people are not a fetish.

And tbh this world would be a lot better if transphobes didn't exist. Id much rather live in a world where trans women and trans men are treated as people deserving of love and acceptance instead of living in this world that is riddled with hate and bigotry?

Also, to address the last comment, trans men can get pregnant. Trans men are men. Therefore, men can get pregnant. However I have not seen this world get any less anti-abortion since learning that trans men exist. I do not see lots of ultra convenient abortion clinics anywhere. I still have yet to see a pro-abortion ad on a billboard for the first time. I have yet to see reproductive feminism become more inclusive to those who aren't fertile cishet perisex able bodied white women. Terfs and radfems have not disappeared yet. Where are those fetus-deleting atms you cis women feminists promised society once you discovered pregnant men are in fact real? Where are they? Explain yourselves and no a joke or venting is not an excuse to be transphobic, you know better so act like it.

[minim-of-murdrum]

"Help" Lortober 2022 prompt

CW: implied/referenced transphobia (it's portrayed as a bad thing)

Every wolf of Loria knows how it feels to be afraid, so helpless that you need the assistance of a friend or a pack member. If you asked them whether they had ever needed the help of someone outside their birth pack, however, most of them would look at you in confusion or surprise. Other packs are not hostile, per say, but the four packs are different groups for a reason. They have fundamentally different beliefs, including how best to help another wolf.

A golden jocol sprinting through the harsh heat of Goldsea’s northernmost desert wished she could live a life without knowing this sense of desperation. Her feelings had been continually brushed off by wolves of her colony and surrounding colonies, until it felt like the plains themselves were suffocating her. This wolf ran north. She hoped the frost would cleanse this fearful itching in her soul.

—--

It was early morning. The night’s chill would soon be scared away by sunshine, and only a single brown lupin could find a reason to be up and about at such a harsh hour. She didn’t trust her leaders, nor her colony, and she couldn’t stand the fear any longer. Taking a small woven bag around her neck, she looted her colony - or rather, the colony she lived in - for dried meat that would help her last her treacherous journey. 

She didn’t feel any shame, as prey was booming in the area, and she wasn’t sure she really knew any of her packmates anyway, considering recent events. She turned her back and padded away, remorseless. She headed south in hopes that she would be lucky enough to meet a nomadic pack reaping the benefits of the summer season and get away with their help.

—--

Scrambling down the rocks and dirt of the mountain was tiring work, and the caramel-coloured wolf was flagging. She had been travelling for a full day, so she allowed herself to take a moment at the base of a thick tree to eat some of her rations. It was then that she heard the agile steps of another wolf approaching, and they were travelling alone.

She certainly didn’t feel up to helping another desperate soul, or fending them off from her precious rations. She was exhausted. But she was Icerun born. It didn’t matter if she could, because she would do it anyway. That was what made Icerun wolves who they were.

“Hello! I need help, please - do you have any food or water nearby?” The small, golden jocol that approached had a rasp in their voice, but a bounce in their steps like leaves rolling in the wind.

They clearly assumed that she lived in a colony nearby but this territory was new to the brown lupin as well, so she replied, “I can spare some dried meat, but I don’t know the area well enough to direct you to a river,” She heaved herself to her feet and lifted her nose into the air to smell for signs of running water.

“Come on,” the brown lupin suggests, “I need a drink too, anyways, so lets go have a look around.”

“Thank you,” the jocol’s voice is filled with relief, “where are you from?”

“That doesn’t matter anymore,” the lupin paused, “but I’m not going back. I’m just hoping that every wolf I knew there gets out. No wolf deserved to be treated that way by a leader they should trust. But where might you come from?”

“Ah, I’m sorry. Well, I’m from Goldsea, actually, but I feel the same. I couldn’t ever go back. The people I knew just refused to understand or acknowledge the fact that I’m a woman. I was dying there, I think,” the jocol spoke sheepishly, instinctively expecting some sort of venomous retort.

“Be proud, little whirlwind, the fact that you’re here shows you have Orrin’s willpower,” the big lupin smiled, “although, you could stand to have a little more forethought,” she chuckled as she gestured at the jocol’s lack of rations.

The small, golden wolf playfully rolled her eyes and grinned as she padded alongside her. She hadn’t been smaller than anyone she knew except her father, she noticed then. She never realised how much that bothered her until now. Their pelts brushed together as they both powered through their exhaustion together.

“Well, I think we make a good team,” the jocol boasted, “because I’m pretty sure I just found some water over that way!” Away she ran, glancing back at the other wolf with a smug grin as she followed behind.

“Fine, you win, but I hope you don’t spend all your time running around, or else I’ll lose my exploring partner to exhaustion!”

“Aww, you’d miss me?”

“Of course,” the lupin smiled, “the bigger the personality, the more noticeable the absence it leaves,” The lupin’s cold, blue eyes lingered, “I’ve never met anyone as full of playful energy as you. That’s a compliment, by the way.”

“I’m swooning,” the jocol says sarcastically, but her grin gets a little wider.

The two smiling wolves, having only just met, know instinctively that they can trust each other. They are runaways. Ready to help each other onto the path to freedom and a new, better life.

[firedragon1321]

Here's a full reference sheet for my squishmallow boy Soren. I made a few of these (but only for characters I draw frequently). As the protagonist of the Toon-iverse Saga (aka my magnum opus), I draw him a lot.

I'm still trying to unlearn male/female, and so all of my existing charts will have that on them (krita's text tool sucks ass- editing isn't really possible). So I reproduced his stats here-

Gender- Boy, cis (he/him)

Species- Toon (Human)

Age- 12

Height- 4'7"

Weight- 90 lbs.

There's a lot going on with him so I readmored it. There's more art in the readmore too.

Trigger warnings- Child abuse (including sexual abuse/rape), childhood trauma/PTSD, non-consensual haircuts/tonsurephobia, implied transphobia, mentions of children wielding weapons.

Soren is an in-universe cartoon character (from a fake version of Digimon called Virtumon) dropped into reality. His new reality is a lot like our own circa the early 2000s, except for demons wandering around and plenty of other toons for Soren to hang out with. Upon arrival, he was branded with the Curse of Beauty (marking on his left shoulder and in the upper right), which made him a homing beacon for demons.

Soren has a heart of gold and wants to help his fellow toons. He doesn't have a lot of physical strength, but makes up for it with his cleverness. He's not above pretending to be a helpless baby boy to get what he wants. By the time you figure out you were tricked, it's too late.

Soren's dream is to create a world where all toons can be happy and safe, in a realm where that's often not possible. He aims to accomplish this with the aid of many other toons. This includes Beck- another one of my OCs who he sees as a surrogate big brother. Their relationship is reflected in other characters, deconstructed, and reconstructed throughout a buttload of books.

Soren is also a child who stacks up tons of trauma. He often says things impulsively which can be cruel, only to instantly regret it. His age leads him to struggle with understanding aspects of the adult world (mainly sexuality, which scares him). Like all kids, he thinks he's more mature and capable than he is. He's a little precocious, so sometimes he knows what he's talking about. But not all the time.

Soren likes junk food (especially salty treats and cheesy things), horror movies he's technically not allowed to watch (twelve is basically thirteen right?) and when people he trusts give him head scritchies.

In the lower right of the sheet are a few weapons he collects and a backpack he usually wears. These items are photographs I blurred/edited since they exist in the "real world" and not the cartoon realm Soren hails from. The golden "Winter's End" is a lightsaber-like weapon designed to kill demons, which he finds after a very long journey. It can't damage anything else, though- it phases right through other objects. Though the pocket knife doesn't!

As a toon, Soren's pupils sometimes grow and contract in weird ways. He also has four fingers (and toes, assumedly). When he blushes, it's little lines as shown. His toony behaviors are pretty subdued otherwise. He's from an anime, and not one of Bo-bobo's stripe.

Soren's a bit overweight. He likes salty snacks, but they don't like him. He gained weight over the course of his cartoon's backstory. Once called to reality, he can't get any bigger- but he can't lose weight either. His hair's also very long because he has a phobia of cutting it- no thanks to the dad from said backstory.

Here's a character sheet of backstory stuff. The first design is for him at age 7-8. The second is age 10-11. The divide starts after he and his younger sister Hazel tried to build a treehouse. Hazel fell out of the tree and broke her arm. That was the start of his dad's coldness towards him, and Soren's resulting rebellion, which created a perpetual cycle of anger between them.

The short version of his backstory- Dad wanted a perfect athlete, got overly angry over the treehouse incident, Soren responded by growing out of his control. His dad wasn't happy with his long hair because of toxic masculine dogma. He even forced a haircut Soren didn't want. But his mom was fine with it. She even did his ponytail for the first time. Needless to say, he's closer to her than his dad.

And then there's the stuff I don't know how I can explain in a way the blue hellsite can understand. But I'll try my best.

At one point in his original cartoon, Soren had to crossdress to go undercover for an infiltration mission (FFVII had a huge impact on me...). The people of the real world became unhealthily obsessed with this moment. This connects to his curse and the demons. The demons choose targets based on how people in reality see toons, and create one-dimensional parodies called "thralls" based on those interpretations. Thus, Soren's Curse of Beauty, and the demon that plans to turn him into a (cis, adult, elegant, empty) thrall.

(How do the demons know how humans feel? I'm not sure. But now that I'm aware of this "missing step" in the thrall creation process, I'll figure something out.)

Beck has the same curse as Soren, and the demons threaten him with it (I can't say how because that's a huge spoiler, should I ever publish). This and leftover subliminal messaging from his father's beliefs on how men should be make Soren a little politically incorrect. But he is learning! Even if it's not personally for him, he does accept that other people like crossdressing, and he shouldn't be mean to them over it. Eventually.

Puberty also hits him pretty hard, and he has to cope with having a crush for the first time. Since one of his earliest encounters is with a major villainous faction consists of people with too much money and a lust for toons, he doesn't know how to deal with it. There's lots of toxic or scary behaviors Soren has to unlearn. He has plenty of friends to help him, so it's alright.

All this weirdness makes sense from a writer's perspective. Soren is a character I created essentially to throw all my favorite tropes at and cope with trauma. His journey is the puberty I wish I had, and the growth I accomplished since my teen years. I love him so much.