#cw unsafe binding

[rayofmisfortune]

Why do I always put on a binder when I know I won't be able to take it off sooner than 10 hours after putting it on

Why do I insist on doing this to myself *sob*

[etruski]

Krem week day 2 — Euphoria / Expression

I wanted to capture the euphoria he might have experienced while secretly serving in the Tevinter army. Simultaneously, this could represent the true freedom of expression he may have felt among The Chargers for the first time.

This dialogue between Bull and Cole also comes to mind:

Cole: You and Krem say words that hurt, but they aren't real, The Iron Bull.

Iron Bull: Yes. We give each other grief. It's a soldier thing. Doesn't mean anything.

Cole: It means friendship. And that you're soldiers. Krem likes it, it makes him proud.

[dialga64bitz]

Nyanja doodles :3

[mjrtaurus]

Thinking about early 20s Dragon waking up after the marine hazing ritual and the wing related trauma going forward.

This probably going to be the first in a multi-part series.

He’s been sick more times in the past couple of hours than he’s been in the last couple of years. He’s confused and mortified because he’s at his home and not the barracks. His mother is here with him on the guest bathroom floor, holding back his hair while his stomach turns itself inside out.

She’s not saying anything.

It’s scaring him.

There’s a sizable gap in his memory, though he at least knows the reason for it. Small comforts. He remembers he and a couple of other recruits sitting down with a few petty officers over a few celebratory drinks. Friendly shit-talking, stories from home, how your recruiter tricked you into joining up… the usual stuff you did with a weekend pass from your commanding officer.

He- naturally- got a lot of attention. He was the recently named Hero of the Marines’ brat, after all. People either loved him or hated him, and it turned out a lot of people at that table fell under the latter.

It was introduced as a game. It sounded simple and easy enough, which was probably why he went into it without much convincing. A round of shots for the table. Recite the Marine’s Creed from beginning to end. Screw up, take a shot, start over. Rinse and repeat til you either got it right, or cleared the round.

He’d been stupid. He’d been so fucking stupid. He should have just walked away. He should have just taken the insults and left with his dignity in tact.

But no, the competitive bastard in him wanted to win.

And now he was here, no doubt the shame of the family.

He must have done something terrible while he was blackout drunk. Hurt somebody. Made a fool of himself. Something that would warrant the silence he was getting from his mother…

She only got that quiet when she was close to crying.

He’s busy washing the bile from his mouth when he catches sight of why in the bathroom mirror.

His wings…

From anchor point to end, the flight feathers were some combination of mangled, missing, or bloodied. Ragged cuts in the shafts of each made in a hurry, like he’d been struggling against it.

A fleeting piece of memory.

An ugly one.

An alleyway coming in and out of focus. Voices talking excitedly amongst themselves, some laughing. Rough, burning hot hands holding him down. Cold and flithy flagstones biting into him from beneath.

Snip. Snip. Snip up the back of his shirt, exposing bare skin and ruffled feathers to the cold night air.

More hands wrestling open his wings. One voice he can just barely recognize as belonging to one of the petty officers calling out for the others to keep him nice and still…

Snip. Snip. Snip…

He doesn’t have the same restraint that his mother does. He can’t keep himself from crying. He can’t keep himself from remembering. He can’t keep himself from knowing.

He molts most of the damaged feathers, but some have to be pulled. Most of them grow back, but never as they had been. Some of them don’t. They aren’t soft and sleek anymore. They’re all brittle and ragged, some of the shafts are coming in bare and ugly. He wants to rip them out, because maybe they’ll come in healthier next time… but he can’t. He can’t bear to be preened anymore. Can’t even do it himself. The slightest touch, no matter from who, no matter how trusted, no matter how beloved, makes him want to vomit.

He’s been robbed of the comfort it’s meant to be. He’s never getting it back.

He begs his father to talk to the Fleet Admiral. He and Sengoku are friends, right? They can do a little doctoring to Dragon’s records… make that little bracket checked and filled in with “Sky Islander” in his medical charts and ID disappear, right? Find him a doctor that could turn a blind eye whenever he needed a physical, right? Get him stationed somewhere else, where he’ll be a fresh face that nobody knows?

As much as he loathes the special treatment, he’s just doing what he must to survive, isn’t he? Even if it feels horrible? Even if it makes his mother cry?

He’s still binding his wings flat against his back with bandages when he goes rogue. He meets Iva and Kuma in Sorbet. The former makes a fair- but incorrect- assumption upon seeing the bandages peaking out from beneath his drabs. He respectfully asks that they not worry themself about it. Kuma doesn’t ask. It’s a secret only Dragon can share, if he so chooses.

His body eventually rats him out before he has the courage to, some years later.

Some time after the Ohara Incident, a mild cough makes the rounds on the nameless flagship of the fledgling Revolutionary army. It’s more an inconvenience than any danger, but it spreads like wildfire.

Dragon- even with his strong immune system- catches it, and with the restriction of the binding, he just can’t shake it.

He at least has the small mercy of being in his cabin when he eventually drops, and not out on the quarterdeck where everyone can see him. Iva’s shrieking when they find him does end up drawing a crowd, though.

He’s long made peace with that sort of thing happening by now.

He remembers lashing out when someone with a medic’s patch on their uniform started to cut the bandages away, but the fever dragged him down into oblivion before he could do any real damage.

The snip snip snip of the medic’s scissors followed him well into his nightmares.

Recovery took a while.

Deserters were considered the lowest of the low to the World Government. Even the cruelest of pirates were treated with less hostility than a turncoat, and that made him and everyone along for the ride a top priority. This meant proper medical care was hard to come by.

He led the from a sickbed for nearly two weeks before he was back up to snuff. His voice- however- never did fully recover.

Rough and ragged, just like his wings.

He didn’t bind them anymore. He couldn’t afford to. If an insecurity was going to jeopardize the cause, then he had to do away with it. The only problem with that, though, was that this “insecurity” was a very clear trauma response.

Healing that would need time and energy he just didn’t have to give right now…

[spider--hyphen--man]

Me, for years: "I prefer to prioritize my physical health over relieving dysphoria. I would never bind unsafely."

Me, now that my gc2b binder doesn't fit anymore and haven't been able to lose weight to make it fit again, wearing 3 sports bras to flatten as much as possible: "shut up."

[diejager]

Kinktober day 7: Knife play + gags w/ Ghostface

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, knife play, gag, tell me if I missed any.

-> kinktober masterlist -> navigation

Waking up tied and gagged on your bed, the last thing you’d expect was to be fucked to oblivion. Like any normal person in this situation, you panicked and assumed you’d be gutted and left to bleed out on your bed. The same way any of The Ghostface’s victims were left: a scene of struggle, dried blood, moved furniture, and a cold, dead body in the middle of it all.

You were sure you’d become his next victim after many nights of paranoia following you everywhere and feeling unsafe in your own home. Windows left open, object disappearing and little pictures and notes purposely left behind for you to find out. It was as if Ghostface was taunting you, terrorising his prey before he ate it the same way you marinated meat before cooking it.

And yet, here you are, drooling around the red, ball gag he brought with him, wrists tied behind your back in an uncomfortable position, forcing you to slump over his seated figure. Despite the cool air rushing in through the open window, your body alight, coated in a heavy sheen of sweat, and thighs burning from lifting your prone body up and down his cock.

Ghostface made you ride him, gasping and panting over him, head hanging on his spit-covered shoulder as he trailed his knife down your side. You could feel every ridge of his girth, the veins that ran up to the tip and the mushroom head of his cut head. Shame ate at you, cunt leaking down his balls, walls clenching around him and clit twitching from the cold fabric of his leather. The utter betrayal of your body for finding pleasure in this.

He didn’t even bother wearing a condom, leaving you worried, but that was the least of your issues. The biggest being the big and dangerous weapon he held to your skin, cutting a thin line of blood without hitting too deep. You were in a delicate situation, torn between having to fuck yourself on his cock and live, or refuse and die a painful death: gutted and tortured, displayed like a work of vulgar piece of art.

“C’mon doll, move those hips faster,” his seductive drawl came through the staticky voice changer, it was deep and low, seductively deceiving with every pet name he spoke, “The faster I cum, the faster we’re be done.”

You bit down a scoff between gritted teeth, only huffing and groaning when the head of his cock bulldozed its way into you, hit your cervix with a hard thrust. He was lean and veiny, and shaved neatly, but long. What he lacked in girth, he made up with the length of it. He felt too long to be normal, bullying into you with little effort despite your initial struggle, but he slid in like a hot knife to butter.

Your hips stuttered when the sharp edge of his knife dug deeper, his wrist curling and twisting to draw precise lines on your skin. Every letter made him throb, the head twitching as you hissed and sobbed, teeth sinking into your lower lip. It started with “GH“, then his hips started thrusting up at “OST”, and his hand found itself on your thigh with a painful grip at “FACE”.

You shuddered, legs growing weaker and weaker, the adrenaline that had mercifully numbed your pain was slowly coming to an end just as you felt the agonising coil of pleasure tighten. You could hear him huff and pant through the plastic mask, nearly undetectable by the mic of his voice changer.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, head thrown back, driving his hips up, “Fuck.”

He painted your walls white, the heavy feel of him inside made you nauseous, and it only worsened at the sight of his finished work —”GHOSTFACE” was cleanly written on the side of your waist, simulating a branding —the signature on a finished piece.

“I’ll see you next week, doll,” he patted your thigh, knife cutting through your binds and took the gag off before he slipped out the window.

And just before he left, he turned around and curled his fingers at you:

“Tell anyone and I’ll know. Bye bye now. ”

[meguwumibear]

Purged Without Exception

A quick trip to the store gets you into some trouble. Suo is there to bail you out.

thank you @/acidbeats for commissioning this piece for the @ficsforgaza collaboration.

cw: attempted sexual assault and minor injury

You’re not supposed to be out this late. You know this. You know better. The streets of Makochi are unsafe for a lone woman like you, for a woman without any sort of fighting prowess. They used to be, anyway, before the Bofurin boys took it upon themselves to bloody their knuckles to keep the place clean.

The initiative has been going on for quite a few years now, and crime has been on a steady decline ever since. The students have made it their mission to protect your humble little town from all sorts of illicit activity, violent or otherwise. Whether they’re responding to petty theft or physical assault, the Bofurin boys handle each and every job with a violent sort of grace. It’s been some time since a random street thug could stand a chance against the gang of delinquents.

Perhaps that’s why you felt so comfortable running to the store at this hour. The odds of any sort of crime of late are slim to none. Violent crimes in particular are less popular than ever. Who’d risk provoking the ire of any of the current Bofurin students, let alone the alumn? An idiot maybe, or someone suicidal.

You didn’t think to grab anything other than your phone and wallet for the outing. All you needed was to restock on toilet paper, and the market is only a few blocks from your shithole apartment. Four years ago, you would never have ventured out without some sort of self defense aid on you. The protection of the Bofurin boys has made everyone so careless.

That’s why you aren’t prepared to fight off the first pair of hands that wrap themselves around your wrist and yank you into a dank, dark alleyway. There are three men in total hiding out in the shadows, and soon there are hands wrapped around your forearm, your neck, your waist. The attack is uncoordinated; the men trip over themselves trying to grope at you. You do what little you can to fend them off.

Untrained. Defenseless. Your head throbs and it connects with warm brick. Skin splits at the contact, cleaved open by the abrasive clay. There’s a strong grip on the nape of your neck preventing you from moving. Cold, calloused hands hold your face flat against the wall.  

Despite your earlier lapse in judgment, you are not in fact stupid. You know what kind of attack this is. You understand its purpose and goals of the hands that bind you.

It’s hard to hear much over the roaring in your ears, but you’re just lucid enough to pick out an eerily calm voice.

“Excuse me,” the man asks almost cheerfully. “Have I interrupted something?”

The hands attempting to undress you stall.

“Fuck off, eyepatch. Four’s a crowd.”

The grip on you loosens a smidge, and you turn your head to survey the scene.

The guy with the eyepatch is standing with his hands held in mock surrender, a coy smile on his face. There’s something familiar about him. You’ve seen him around town before. He pals around with a few of the Bofurin graduates. Which means…

“Easy,” he says, “I just want to escort the lady home.”

“You deaf?” one of your attackers asks. “We said fuck off.”

The man moves so fast your brain hardly registers it. One moment he’s standing at the edge of the alley, the next he’s flipped the man pinning you to the wall over his shoulder. The dude lands with a harsh thud on his back. From the way he’s flopping around, you venture the impact punched the air from his lungs.

The fingers of the remaining two clench into fists, but they seem hesitant to assist their friend. They sway unsteadily back and forth on the balls of their feet, looking at you, their friend, and finally at your rescuer.

“Run along, now,” your savior smiles. The corners of his mouth are pulled tight, sharp like a knife. “I just had this shirt pressed and I’d hate to sully it.”

The two still on their feet exchange a final glance at one another and decide to cut their losses. They back out of the alley quickly, clearly afraid your rescuer may change his mind about dirtying his freshly pressed shirt. The third staggers after them, limping along, wheezing for breath.

Once he’s certain you’re alone, the man bends over to pick something off the ground: the toilet paper that started the whole ordeal. He approaches you slowly, like he’s nervous one wrong move will scare you off. When he’s close enough, he offers the roll to you.

“I hate guys like that,” the man offers conversationally. The smile he flashes you now is warm and inviting. “Some people just never grow up. A bunch of petulant kids. It’s hard for them to imagine themselves in your position. I enjoy helping them broaden their minds.”

The hand that reaches for the toilet paper is shaky. The palm is red with blood. His eyes don’t miss the tiny droplets that spill onto the plastic packaging.

“That looks like it hurts,” he says, features schooled into a calm grin. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He leads you back to the convenience store. The lady at the front recognizes him immediately—even calls him by his name—which isn’t unusual; the Bofurin boys are a bit like celebrities around these parts.

Suo exchanges pleasantries with the worker and attempts to purchase some first aid supplies, but the woman insists he takes what he needs, on the house. There are perks, it would seem, to purging the town of those who would cause it harm.

The bathroom of the shop is small and poorly lit. A lone, fluorescent light flickers above you as Suo gently dabs an antiseptic wipe along your palms. The disinfectant bites. The wounds sting despite Suo’s tenderness. You fight your instinct to flinch and fail.

“The cut isn’t deep,” Suo notes once he’s certain the lesions have been properly sterilized. He drops your palm to brush a tendril of loose hair out of your face. “I’m more worried about this.”

You wince as he touches a fresh antibacterial wipe to your forehead. Fresh tears pool in the corners of your eyes. You try to blink them away, but they insist on falling. They slide down the slope of your cheek bones and pool underneath your chin.

“I can walk you to the nearest clinic,” he offers. “Just as an extra precaution.”

You shake your head and immediately regret it. The motion aggravates the injury, and your vision blurs from the pain.

“Can’t afford it,” you tell him.

He frowns as he continues to see to the wound. His movements are slow, precise, like he’s used to treating these types of injuries. You watch his face as he tends to you. His features are knit in quiet contemplation.

“It looks like you hit your head pretty hard. I’m no doctor, but I’m worried they may have given you a concussion.”

You shrug as he pulls his hand away. “I’m tougher than I look. My friends always say I have a thick skull.”

He hands you an ice pack from the pile of first aid supplies he’s brought. “For the swelling,” he says. Then, once you’ve pressed the cold pack against the growing bump, “You should take better care of yourself. If not for you then for your friends. I’m sure they’d hate if something were to happen to you.”

You let out a long, slow breath. Suo isn’t wrong. Your friends would be devastated if you got yourself into some sort of trouble.

“Bofurin boys are good for more than just fighting,” you say, pondering his advice and admiring his first aid.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he smirks, lips full of promise. “You have no idea.”

[aclassitag]

Announcing Krem Week!

#kremweek2024 — 22-28 July 2024

background art credit: @xfreischutz [link to original post]

*text prompt list under the readmore

This year will mark 10 years since the release of Dragon Age: Inquisition! In celebration of that anniversary and the game that gave us our first trans character, here is a prompt list - and dates - for any who would like to participate! All sorts of creative content is accepted so long as they are not A/I generated. (See examples below)

*If you want to portray Maevaris Tilani instead, that is also fine!

Please read the guidelines!

If you have any questions, reply to this post and I will do my best to answer :)

Prompt list:

1 — Anniversary 2 — Euphoria / Expression 3 — Casual / Formal 4 — Family / Love 5 — Respite / Fight 6 — Play / Satiate 7 — (Free space!)

Guidelines:

Use the tag: #kremweek2024 (@ this blog is fine too) — If you want to portray Maevaris Tilani instead of Krem, that is also welcome! Please @ me so I can rb :) For non-Tumblr folks that somehow got here: You may post submissions, please link your socials. You may choose one of two prompts in a day or do both. You may also combine as many prompts as you want from any or all of the days into a single work, just mention it somewhere.

Types of content allowed:

Illustration and writing are the most obvious forms of art allowed, but they're not the only ones! Literary arts fanfics, drabbles, poetry, plays, lengthy headcanon/meta posts (for headcanon and meta posts, minimum of 100 words+) Visual arts doodles, paintings, graphic design, photoshop memes, photography, animation, tiktok skits, abstract, fiber arts (embroidery, knitting, etc), ceramics Audio art fanmixes(curated playlists), original or cover songs Other crafts are also welcome! e.g. culinary, resin, woodworking, etc etc ..essentially, whatever type of art it is, I'll accept it so long as it falls within rules and is related to Krem or Maevaris :) For things that are more abstract, do include an explanation of your thought process on how it relates to Krem. E.g. you made Krem's Seheron Fish Wrap or Rice Pudding, take photos of your cooking, and post that (with the explanation that it is Krem's recipes) - that's an acceptable submission! You're allowed to explore different mediums everyday! You don't have to stick to one form of art for the whole week. I will be attempting to schedule reblogs in the 'prime time' for engagement, and in the interest of fairness, things like headcanon posts, fanmixes, and WIPs will not take priority in that time slot over fully rendered illustrations or complete fanfics. They will still be reblogged, but scheduled for other time slots.

Content Rules:

No A/I generated content. (Specifically GenAI content) As above, any and all forms of art is welcome. It must be human made, and by you. The whole point of working off a prompt is to explore a creative process, anyway - do yourself a favour and just enjoy making something! It doesn't have to be pretty! No reposting of other people's works. This must be your own creation. Obviously, no transphobic content. No harrassing others over their specific headcanons - be it in regards to any trait or quirks that come with being a person. People come in all sorts of wonderful variety, please respect that. In addition to above: No whitewashing, racism etc. Please note that Krem is not pale-skinned in canon, and I will not be reblogging content of him being portrayed as pale. 18+ works need to be labelled. On this blog, its tagged as "#adult art". Please add content warnings as appropriate. (E.g. portrayal of binding with bandages should have a warning label of "cw: unsafe binding", etc.) If your post/submission is lengthy, please insert a read more. This helps readability on the dashboard. Progress / WIPs are fine too!

General tips:

First and foremost, do what you are able to! Don't feel pressured to complete a full week if you need to take care of yourself first. Some people work on the prompts before the week even begins, and only post it day of. You are not required to do this, but if you really want to fill something for each day, this helps reduce stress day of.

Mod things:

The mod isn't from the Americas, so due to timezone differences, there may be a delay in reblogging people's works. Either way I will not reblog the moment that it's posted in order to screen properly. Posts will be queued between 30mins-1hr apart, if there are multiple entries being submitted at the same time. All submissions will also be requeued after a week for later perusal :)

[mono-socke]

fips suffering for 1,8k words straight, ft. trans fips

request from: me

(cw: angst, unsafe binding)

Fips starrte direkt gerade aus. Sein Tag war absolut beschissen gewesen. Zwar war ihm, unglücklicherweise, mehr als bewusst, dass sein Ruf in der Öffentlichkeit schon länger eher miserabel statt geachtet und respektiert ist, jedoch konnte er diese ätzenden Möchtegern-Kritiker und Promi-Tratsch Zeitungen weniger und weniger leiden.

‘Santa habe ihn zerstört’ hieß es seit neustem überall. Pff. Als ob.

Dass Klaus selber Musik machte, hatte ihn noch nie wirklich gestört. Dass er ihm somit jegliche Art der Aufmerksamkeit wegnahm, die er überhaupt noch bekam, schon eher. Um genau zu sein, sehr sogar.

Fips’ Selbstbewusstsein war noch nie sonderlich hoch oder stabil gewesen. Er tat zwar gerne so, als würde ihn die Meinung Anderer nicht interessieren und als wäre er ohnehin der Beste, aber in wie fern er sich selbst mit diesem Schauspiel überzeugen konnte, war eher fragwürdig. Ohne die Bestätigung die ihm seine Fans früher gaben, war es deutlich einfacher für ihn in alte Verhaltensmuster und Anfälle von Hass und Wut zu verfallen.

Und da es an sich keine spezifische Person gab, die verantwortlich war für seinen ‘Absturz’, wie es das Internet gern nannte, fraß er das meiste in sich hinein. Wie früher schon, damals, vor mehreren Jahrhunderten. Statt zu versuchen, gesund mit diesen Emotionen umzugehen, versuchte er eher, sie zu ignorieren.

Leider ging er so allerdings auch schneller an die Decke. In letzter Zeit fuhr er so ziemlich jeden an, der auch nur eine Kleinigkeit falsch macht in seinen Augen. Egal worum es ging. Zwar war er nie absichtlich gewalttätig, oder fügte Menschen langfristige Verletzungen zu, aber nach und nach verlor er mehr und mehr die Kontrolle. Oft realisierte er auch erst im Nachhinein, wie groß die Ausmaßen seiner Wut wirklich waren.

Hilfe suchen war keine Option. Niemals. Bei wem denn auch? Bei seinen Brüdern? Vergiss es. Er durfte nicht schwach vor ihnen sein, das hatte er sich vor unzähligen Jahren geschworen. Er musste stark sein. Er schaffte das alles auch allein. Etwas anderes war undenkbar.

Wie würde er denn vor den Anderen dastehen? Oft genug hatte er schon alles vermasselt, war zu tollpatschig, um Dinge selbst hinzubekommen oder nicht stark genug. Seine Brüder wussten das natürlich. Sie trauten ihm nichts mehr zu. Keiner von ihnen hatte wirklich Respekt vor ihm und auch noch nie gehabt.

Warum auch? In ihren Augen wäre er für immer nichts weiter als der kleine, tollpatschige und schwache Bruder, den niemand wirklich da haben möchte. Warum sollten sie ihn denn auch als etwas anderes sehen, wenn diese Beschreibung doch so gut zu ihm passt?

Er hasste es. Hasste es, der jüngste von allen zu sein. Hasste es, nicht die gleiche körperliche Stärke aufweisen zu können, wie seine Brüder. Hasste seinen Körper. Hasste sich selbst.

Natürlich wusste Fips, dass er weder für sein Alter noch für seine Biologie etwas konnte, und trotzdem regte letztere ihn mehr auf als alles andere. Warum, Gott, warum war er der einzige, der so herausstach? Warum durften seine Brüder alle genau das sein, was er immer werden wollte? Es war unfair. Es war immer schon unfair.

Zugegeben, als sie Kinder waren, war es deutlich schlimmer als heute, aber ‘gut’ wäre es noch lange nicht.

Fips hatte seinen Körper schon immer gehasst. Zumindest seitdem er sich von denen seiner Brüder unterschieden hat. Warum musste er denn auch als einziger nicht biologisch als Junge geboren werden? Was hatte er denn getan, um nicht dazu zu gehören?

Das erste Mal, dass ihn das wirklich gestört hatte, war, als die Nonnen begannen, ihn anders als die anderen zu behandeln. Ihm wurden die Haare nicht geschnitten, er bekam andere Kleidung, er musste andere Aufgaben erledigen. Es war zum Kotzen. Und auch seine Brüder behandelten ihn irgendwie anders, gingen anders mit ihm um, als miteinander.

Es half auch nicht, dass sein Körper sich mit den Jahren mehr und mehr entwickelte, und das nicht in die Richtung, die er gerne hätte. Seine Brüder bekamen Stoppeln, tiefere Stimmen und Körperstärke. Was bekam er? Oberweite und Menstruationen!

Zu dem Zeitpunkt, an dem sein Körperbau sichtlich anders war, wusste er längst, dass er kein Mädchen ist. Er hatte dies seinen Brüdern auch erzählt, wenn auch extrem nervös und aufgeregt. Er hatte ihnen gestanden, dass er die Femininität seines Namens nicht leiden konnte, und sie gebeten, ihn Fips zu nennen. Früher war es nur ein Spitzname gewesen, der ab und an mal gefallen war aber nie große Ernsthaftigkeit trug, doch so wurde er zu seinem richtigen Namen.

Seine Brüder hatten ihn überraschenderweise akzeptiert und selbst wenn sie sich ab und an schwer taten, versuchten sie ihn nicht anders zu behandeln. Seitdem waren sie fünf Brüder. Keine Schwester mehr. Endlich.

Doch so sehr sich die anderen auch bemühten, ihn so zu behandeln, wie er es wollte, fühlte sich Fips manchmal verarscht von ihnen. Auch wenn sie es nie zugaben, hatten scheinbar nicht alle ihr inneres Bild von ihm verändert. Klaus war deutlich beschützender ihm gegenüber als den anderen. Und das sollte was heißen, schließlich spielte Klaus schon immer gerne den Beschützer für alle.

Ständig versuchte er Fips, die schweren Aufgaben abzunehmen, oder ihm zu helfen. Und während dies nur nett oder zuvorkommend gemeint war, wurde Fips nur genervt von ihm. Traute er ihm denn nichts zu? Glaubte er wirklich, Fips würde das nicht allein hinbekommen? Rhun war nicht anders. Zwar wurde Fips keine körperliche Hilfe angeboten, jedoch war Rhun, ebenfalls wie Klaus, ihm beschützerischer gegenüber als sonst irgendwem.

Selbst nachdem sie alle das Kloster verlassen hatten, kam Rhun mehr als einmal bei ihm vorbei, als wäre es zur Kontrolle, dass ihm auch ja nichts passiert sei. Sie lebten alle allein, warum zur Hölle wurde denn nur er besucht? Nichts trauten sie ihm zu.

Über die Jahre schottete Fips sich mehr und mehr von den anderen ab. Er brauchte sie nicht. Er brauchte ihre Hilfe nicht. Wenn es Probleme gab, konnte er diese auch allein lösen. Er war stark genug. Er musste es ihnen beweisen.

So vergingen Jahre, Jahrzehnte, Jahrhunderte. Seine magischen Kräfte wurden stärker, doch der Hass auf seinen Körper nahm nicht ab. Man könnte doch meinen, er hätte irgendwie die Option, mit Hilfe von Magie irgendwie seinen Körper zu verändern. Aber nein. Natürlich nicht. Fips konnte zwar Wunden heilen, aber dadurch wurde der Körper ja nur in seinen ursprünglichen Zustand zurückgesetzt, nicht in etwas neues verformt.

Je älter er wurde, desto mehr Möglichkeiten hatte er, sich selbst maskuliner aussehen zu lassen. Zur Zeit des 21. Jahrhunderts gab es dann auch Geschlechtsumwandlungen, aber da keiner der Wächte wirklich gescheite, legale Dokumente besaß (war auch schwer, wenn man über 500 Jahre alt ist) war dies keine wirkliche Option.

Wirkliches Interesse daran hatte er auch nicht. Inzwischen hatte er genug Mittel und Wege, um ohne medizinische Behandlungen seinen Körper zu verstecken.

Die Verbände um seine Brust waren zwar echt nicht gesund und das wusste er auch, aber das hielt ihn nicht auf. Seine Rippen taten ständig weh unter dem Druck, und bei jeder Dusche fielen ihm die unzähligen blauen Flecken auf seiner Brust ins Auge, und er war sich ziemlich sicher, wenn seine Brüder wüssten was er seinem Körper antat, würden sie ihm eigenhändig die Bandagen abnehmen und verbieten. Aber seine Brust wirkte flach und alles andere war ihm egal.

Und wenn schon. Ein paar blaue Flecken machen doch nichts. Und zur Not konnte er seinen Körper immer wieder heilen.

Und nun stand er, wie so oft schon, in seinem Badezimmer und starrte stumm nach vorne. Die Augen, auf die er traf, starrten mit der gleichen Emotionslosigkeit zurück. Oh, wie er sein Spiegelbild hasste.

An neutralen Tagen war es ihm relativ egal. An guten Tagen schaute er sogar gerne in den Spiegel. An schlechten Tagen mied er jegliche Art der Reflektion seines Abbildes.

Heute war grauenhaft. Alles sah falsch aus. Er sah falsch aus. Alles störte ihn.

Sein Kiefer wirkte zu weich, seine Wangen genauso, seine Schultern zu schmal, und auf seine Brust wollte er nicht mal einen Blick wagen. Seine Haare fielen ihm über die Stirn. Wenigstens waren sie nicht schon wieder übertrieben lang gewachsen.

Fips konnte sich noch glasklar erinnern als seine Brüder ihm das erste Mal heimlich die Haare geschnitten hatten. Sie waren damals sieben gewesen, die anderen hatten von den Nonnen alle die Haare geschnitten bekommen, nur er nicht. Er hatte zwar nachgefragt, jedoch meinten die Nonnen, er solle seine ‘schönen, langen Haare nicht ruinieren. Kurze Haare seien nur etwas für Jungs’, meinten sie.

An diesem Abend, nach dem Gottesdienst, hatte er Klaus gefragt, ob der ihm nicht die Haare schneiden könne. Und obwohl dieser extrem zögerlich war, konnte er zu Fips betteln, nicht nein sagen. Nach kurzer Zeit fielen dutzende Strähnen langer Haare auf seine viel zu große Kleidung, die er sich von Klaus geliehen hatte. (Er hatte sich oft Kleidung geliehen. Die Kleidung seiner Brüder war größer und verdeckte somit seinen Körper besser.)

Das Endergebnis war vielleicht etwas unordentlich und durcheinander gewesen, aber Fips hatte seinen Bruder trotzdem fest und dankbar umarmt.

Er würde nie die Reaktion der Nonnen vergessen als sie ihn am nächsten Morgen mit kurzen Haaren trotz ihrer Verneinung sahen, und auch nicht die Strafe und den Tadel, die er bekam. Allerdings würde er auch nicht vergessen, wie frei er sich gefühlt hatte. Als ob eine Last von ihm genommen wäre.

Und jetzt stand Fips da, elend wie lang nicht mehr, und angewidert von seinem Spiegelbild.

Er hob langsam eine Hand und fuhr sich selbst über seine Wange. Wenig überraschend war sie komplett flach. Weich. Keine Stoppeln, nichts. Es wäre zwar echt unlogisch gewesen, wenn er auf einmal, nach all den Jahren Gesichtsbehaarung gehabt hätte, abgesehen von der Hasennase natürlich, aber dennoch enttäuschte ihn die Textur fast ein wenig.

Fips wusste noch, wie neidisch er damals gewesen war, als seine Brüder anfingen, Stoppeln zu bekommen. Rhun hatte sich mal beschwert, wie oft eine Rasur nötig war, um keinen Bart zu bekommen, und Fips hatte sich inständig gewünscht, überhaupt diese Möglichkeit zu haben.

Sein Spiegelbild starrte ihn genauso hasserfüllt zurück, wie er es anstarrte, und bevor er es wusste, stieß er eine Druckwelle von sich. Eine kräftige noch dazu, wenn man bedachte, dass der Spiegel prompt in dutzende Scherben zersprang. Den dazugehörigen Schrei hatte Fips komplett ausgeblendet.

Woher kam diese plötzliche Wut? Er hatte keine Ahnung. Alles war wohl zu viel geworden. Diese gottverdammte, aufgestaute Energie. Scheinbar konnte er sich erneut nicht kontrollieren. Wieder einmal. Großartig.

Vielleicht hatten seine Brüder doch recht. Allein bekommt er wohl offensichtlich doch nichts auf die Reihe, wenn ihn unwichtige Kleinigkeiten schon auf die Palme brachten.

Tief atmend fiel sein Blick auf den zerbrochenen Spiegel vor sich. Wie war das noch gleich mit dem Aberglauben? Scherben bringen Glück? Aber ein zerbrochener Spiegel bringt doch auch sieben Jahre Pech?

Scheißegal. Warum kümmerte es ihn überhaupt? Es gab wichtigeres zu tun. Diese drecks Scherben waren doch nur wieder ein Zeichen seiner Schwäche, wie instabil er doch war. Er konnte das nicht zulassen. Er musste stark bleiben. Egal unter welchen Konsequenzen.

Mit zusammen gebissenen Zähnen, geballten Fäusten und gekonnt ignorierten, heißen Tränen die ihm über die Wange liefen, verließ Fips das Bad und sah sich zornig in seiner Umgebung um, vielleicht in der Hoffnung sich mit irgendetwas abzuregen um sich nicht weiter in seine Wut rein zu steigern.

Er schafft das alles auch allein. Er braucht die anderen nicht. Er ist auch so stark genug.

Er wird es ihnen schon noch zeigen.

[dead-spider-in-the-sun]

(He shudders)

.. I remember that…… they said i needed to stop hanging around such a troubled kid…….. … I…. I had a future there,,, for the city ……

(He looks nauseated at the thought)

…:… part of me’s glad it happened like this ………….. I don’t think I would’ve made it out……

(An older teen sits on the ground. They have raggedly cut blonde hair and hollow blue eyes. They wear a loose tank and pajama shorts that are both blood stained. There are open, bloody gashes on their arms and legs, though they don’t seem to be actively bleeding. They look sick, exhausted and confused)

@krashqueen-motorbaby

[stroopwaffelz]

CW: artistic nudity

Pierre’s anatomy & shape theory!!

No Pierre unsafe binding☹️☹️

[jestersdlc]

Hmmmmm.......

cw implied child abuse (it's not super obvious but the text and further context implies it) Wildcard muck up dood

Text: ...It hurts pa...

Context: forced and unsafe chest binding while very young.

... ..also the legs are too short but this is just a muck up.

[hxneyfarm]

Doc: An Introduction

written for @strangerthingsocweek | rated G/T | wc: 841 | cw: mention of unsafe binding practices | tags: nonbinary character, transmasculine gareth emerson, canon typical monsters

I'm not gonna lie, y'all, it was hard to find someplace within the canon universe to introduce Willow Byrne, since they were created from a deeply expanded AU (and then AUs upon AUs and etc etc) BUT we've done it!

There’s something about quiet days at the clinic that sets Willow’s teeth on edge, gets their anxiety pumping in a way that it hasn’t since their stint at the emergency clinic in Indy just after graduating veterinary school.

It’s the days like this, where Willow has all the time in the world to sit and eat their lunch in peace and quiet, to monitor their surgical patient as he comes out of the anesthesia, that Willow knows in their heart of hearts that something major is going to come barreling through that door at about ten till seven as Willow’s techs and receptionist are just beginning to clean up the clinic.

It’s been a good day so far, is the thing. They started the day successfully wrangling a fractious cat into submission for her vaccinations, and then overseeing their newest tech’s first dental on an elderly Yorkie, and then performing a neuter on a hundred pound yellow lab. And then it was time for a late lunch when Willow’s youngest employee—Gareth Emerson in his black band tee shirts and tattered jeans—pushes open the clinic door with his backpack slung over his shoulder and dark circles beneath his eyes that spoke volumes about his workload between school, home, and here.

Willow likes Gareth a lot. There’s something about him that Willow recognizes, down to their very soul. It’s something that—had Willow grown up in a different environment—they think maybe they could have had for themself at that age. 

Willow has seen the Ace bandages wrapped tightly around Gareth’s chest when he changes out of his school clothes and into his scrubs. Willow hasn’t brought it up, and likely never will, but they hope that Gareth recognizes them the way they recognize him.

As he’s restocking the syringes at Willow’s work station, Gareth is,,, fidgety. That’s really the only way to describe it. He keeps looking over at Willow, real shifty-like, all anxious buzzing and tappy fingers.

“Hey doc?” he says at last. Willow glances up at him, over the rim of their glasses, and sets down the patient chart they’d been perusing to give their employee their whole attention. “So my buddy Eddie, uhhh… he found this… weird dog, he said? I dunno what it is, but he was wondering if he could bring it in and have you take a look? Maybe see what’s wrong with it?”

It’s not what Willow had been expecting Gareth to say, but the way he says it… it sends a chill up Willow’s spine, one that they can’t place.

“Sure,” they shrug, tugging their glasses off to rub their eyes. “Probably just a stray with mange.”

“I dunno…” Gareth mutters, his voice heavy. “This thing… Doc, I don’t want you to think I’m crazy or anything, but I’ve seen it. I don’t think it’s a dog at all.”

There’s that chill again, creeping across the back of Willow’s neck, the one that hasn’t fully gone away since the day they rolled into Hawkins. 

There is something wrong with this town.

Gareth’s friend Eddie shows up with all his boisterous, boundless energy, with his dimples and his hair and his larger than life laugh, twenty minutes before the clinic closes. He is carrying something wrapped in a leather jacket like he is hiding it from the sun. Whatever it is—mangy dog, rabid raccoon, sickly feral cat—is squirming in his tight but careful grip, trying to run, trying to escape the fluorescents and the overwhelming scent of medical equipment.

Gareth is frozen in place, staring hard at the bundle in his friend’s arms. There’s a fear in his eyes that Willow hasn’t noticed in him in the few months he’s been working for them. Gareth has muzzled demonic chihuahuas and coaxed terrified, reactive rottweilers out of hiding without so much as batting an eye, but whatever his friend has dragged in here scares Gareth, and that makes Willow nervous.

For his part, Eddie is still grinning ear to ear, cooing at his mystery bundle, calling it Gamgee and talking sweetly to it like he’s shushing a nervous cat.

Heart racing, Willow motions to the exam table before them and tells Eddie to set the “dog” down there. 

He does, and he pulls back the leather jacket it’s wrapped in to reveal the monster beneath.

Willow does not believe in monsters.

This thing is a monster.

“That is not a dog,” they breathe to Gareth.

“I know.”

It’s… flesh. It’s not flesh. It’s plant matter. No, it’s not. Willow wants to reach out and touch it. Willow is terrified that if they come into contact with its flesh it will kill them. 

The monster turns its head—if it can even be called that— toward Willow.

It doesn’t have any eyes but Willow has the unsettling feeling that it can see them anyway. It tilts its head, like a curious dog.

And then its face splits open, blooms like a flower of blood and guts and viscera and Willow feels ill.

The thing screams. 

The fluorescents above them shatter.

[voidedleylines]

FFXIV Write 2024 Day 1: Steer

Happy new FFXIV Write year! Excited to be participating in my 2nd year of it :3

Without further ado...day 1!

Rating: G || No CWs apply || ARR setting || Thancred & Lahabrea

His body ached and twitched as he leaned along the wall in The Waking Sands. Every tireless moment was spent trying to break the shackles this Ascian had him trapped in. He needs to get control back so he can steer this wretched thing away from this place, away from Minfilia. Away from all the work they have done.

Already now this Lahabrea has caused catastrophic setbacks to the Scions and their mission; and he’s used Thancred’s own body to do it. It made his blood boil and there’s been sometimes now when the Acsian is too tired or missteps that he’s been able to push back and attempt to flee, but it never lasts long. Often caught along the outskirts of Ul’dah and forced to turn back around. But he sees each time as a small win and hopes- knows - each time would be closer to the last.

“Thancred?” a voice reaches out and he now realizes he’s standing in the Solar with Minfilia. Their newest recruit, an imposing figure with an even more imposing title of Warrior of Light, lingers behind her. Freyalin, her name was.

He’s nowhere near in control right now and he realizes in horror how unsafe this is. Quickly and with all the might his stubborn soul has he, he thrashes about. Reaching to gain any control back as he feels himself step forward.

“Thancred, a-are you alright?” Minfilia asks now. The warrior of light takes a step in between them; blue eyes calculated and cautious as they squint down at him.

In one last fit of defiance he’s able to stip his legs from moving.

“What’s your plan you bastard,” he screams out from inside, “you can’t just kill them unceremoniously like this. Surely it wouldn’t be fun for you.”

“I care not about ‘fun’,” the other voice rings out, the annoyance is clear and for a brief second as he takes his own step back Thancred feels smug.

“Apologies, m’lady I- I got lost in my head a moment,” he explains, painfully trying to convey the weight of that statement. “Do not let me keep you, apologies for interrupting,” he takes stock of the two of them and the slight blush of the Warrior of Light’s cheeks and wants to inquire further but the hold on himself is quickly slipping so he bows and leaves the room without another word.

He barely gets to his own private chambers before he’s shut away again. “Nuisance,” Lahabrea says aloud. “You would do well to give up the trite emotions that bind you here and let us bring back the time of eld.”

Thancred listens little to the prattle that happens as he now is too tired to care even a little of what this thing had to say now. Any energy left would have to be saved in case he found himself wandering back to the Sands and trying whatever that was again.

For now at least Minfilia was safe, and that would just have to do.

[my-castles-crumbling]

Chapter 9- Clandestine

Guys, I've discovered Lana Del Ray. So if this chapter is a bit emotional, blame her. Okay, CW: LOTS of dysphoria, as well as a lot of discussions about binding, safe binding, and depictions of unsafe binding. Blink-and-you-miss-it misgendering. Some quick medical stuff. Anxiety, depression. Hints at self-harm, but not really.

Second year was not much different from first, if Regulus was honest. Rooming with Barty and Evan. Walks with Sirius.

He didn’t feel older. Classes weren’t much harder. He enjoyed being back. He felt safe.

But he struggled in some ways. Namely, with his body, which still insisted on betraying him daily.

Being in a room with Barty and Evan was wonderful in many ways. It was a reminder that he was considered a boy, here. That people looked at him and saw a boy. That he fit in with the other boys.

Bit it also made him ache, in a way that was difficult to describe. He watched Barty and Evan continue to change in the open room as he shed his clothes in the safety of the bathroom. He stared in the mirror for far too long, changing into shirt after shirt, wondering if he could actually see a small curve on his chest, or if it was his brain playing tricks on him.

Sometimes he had to sit on his hands to resist the urge to claw at his very skin. It wasn't that he wanted to hurt himself. It was just that his body kept changing, kept getting worse, and he sometimes felt the primal urge to just–

Sirius and Pandora and Dorcas were so well-meaning. They listened to him rant and rage and scream. They helped him on days when he just felt wrong, like a square peg in a round hole. They comforted him.

He’d taken to hiding the rock Potter had given him for his birthday in his pocket. When he got anxious or particularly nauseous when looking in the mirror, it helped to worry it in his hands. Flip it over and over. Feel the smooth surface. It was calming, somehow. It allowed him to focus on something else, anything else, besides the way his body didn’t fit.

He slept in the bandages almost every night. He knew it was bad for him. He felt the way his chest bruised and his back ached and the rashes and scratches burned. But he found that he needed it. He felt so invalid, like he wasn’t truly a boy without them. If he thought too much about it, he found himself close to tears- why did he have to go through this just to achieve the same feeling most people naturally had?

But he pushed that resentment down, and just re-tightened the bandages daily, forcing himself not to think about it too much.

It could be worse, after all.

--

“Did you hear?” Evan asked, one October evening as the three of them lay lazily in bed avoiding homework.

“That you’re a prat? Yes,” Barty replied lazily, dodging the pillow that Evan threw.

Regulus snorted.

“No, that Potter is replacing DeSilva this year on Gryffindor,” Evan clarified, scoffing a bit.

It had been a huge topic of conversation amongst anyone who followed the Quidditch games- Gryffindor had always been alright, but their Chasers had been lacking. A good Chaser would make them a problem, especially to Slytheirn, whose Keeper was shit. People had wondered why DeSilva hadn’t been kicked off in previous years, but Gryffindors were too nice, and had the policy that once you got a position, you kept it, as long as you didn’t do something morally wrong.

Of course, Regulus had watched Potter play. So, he knew they were a bit screwed, now.

So, why was he excited at the news?

“Potter’s not bad,” he commented, trying to keep his voice even.

“We’re fucked. Between Flint and Goyle, there’s no way,” Barty grumbled.

“Flint’s gotten better at covering the right hoop,” Evan said reasonably. “Too bad Goyle’s captain, or they could kick him off. He’s such shit. But I heard his daddy bought the whole team new brooms, so we’re stuck with him until he graduates.”

Barty grunted in frustration. “Maybe he’d catch the snitch if we charm it to make whistling noises. Always thought he followed Crabbe around like a puppy.”

“Next year, he’ll graduate and Reg will be Seeker. Then, we’ll stand a chance,” Evan shrugged. “Until then, I’m betting on Ravenclaw. Pandora says their Seeker is decent.”

Regulus nodded vacantly, reaching into his pocket to turn the rock over and over.

Privately, he was betting on Gryffindor.

--

Pain.

All he felt was pain.

Crawling up and down his ribs, punching at his back, stabbing at his chest.

It was jarring. Scary. Terrifying.

It hurt to move, hurt to moan, hurt to breathe.

He’d never woken up to pain like this.

He needed help, and he knew it. But his entire being shied away from waking Barty and Evan. He didn’t want to bother them (both were not ones to be awoken before absolutely necessary) and he was terrified they’d ask to see or touch where it hurt.

But as he tried desperately to sit up only to fall back in a groan of agony, his gulps of air causing shooting aches, he knew there was nothing for it.

“Help,” he croaked, even the movement of his talking searing his entire torso.

He had to call twice more before Evan’s grumpy-but-concerned face stuck through the curtains. He immediately went pale. “Reg? What- what’s wrong?”

But he was starting to feel faint. He couldn’t escape the pain, and he was starting to feel almost claustrophobic with it. Like he could either breathe and hurt or hurt less and have no oxygen. There was no way out.

His head spun. He tried desperately to stay conscious. He couldn’t let them see. What if they saw?

The last thing he remembered before passing out was Evan yelling for Barty.

--

“You fucking idiot.”

He opened his eyes to sunshine and mumbles and his chest feeling far too exposed and empty, even with the blanket covering him. The bandages were gone. “That’s my line to you,” he sleepily shot back to his brother, blinking, trying to get Sirius’s face into focus.

“Not when you break your own ribs,” Sirius said roughly. Admittedly, Sirius looked like he was the one who should be in the hospital bed. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and the deep circles under his eyes made him look almost skeletal. His hands, which had wrapped themselves around Regulus’s forearm, all had fingernails that were bitten down raw. He looked distraught. “I gave you that fucking bandage to help you, Regulus. How tight–?”

“It’s not your fault, idiot,” He murmured, looking down. Perhaps he had been keeping the bandage a bit too tight.

“I didn’t know,” Sirius whispered, looking like he was trying to convince both of them of the fact. “I had no idea that- that this could happen.”

Regulus chuckled, ignoring the small twinge in his healed chest. “Same. I suppose Pomfrey is pissed?”

“I convinced her not to owl mother,” Sirius shrugged. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You…erm…might have to lay off the bandage for a while. Pomfrey said something about permanent damage to your back. If you….y’know…keep it up as much as you have.”

Remulus blinked, trying and failing to fight against the despair creeping into his brain as the tears formed. “So…so….” he mumbled, unsure about how to put his thoughts into words.

“Maybe…only a few hours a day? Or…a bit looser?” Sirius suggested hesitantly.

Regulus balked, feeling the anger and fear and disgust all bubble within him, his self-control wavering. “And then what, Sirius? How do I explain to Barty and Evan that I’ve suddenly got tits?”

He felt the nausea build within his stomach and he almost choked, picturing for just a moment having to walk around with an unbound chest. Picturing the looks. The reactions. The disgust.

“You…you don’t have…” Sirius argued weakly, looking as if he truly had no idea what to say.

“I do! I do, and there isn’t a thing I can do about it, because our parents will never let me take the potion. So I’m stuck like this until I turn seventeen!” Regulus said loudly, allowing some of his carefully-controlled anger to boil over. “And you tell me, how many people in Hogwarts would honestly be okay rooming with me, knowing that? Who thinks that’s normal?” Sirius sighed, looking helpless.

“You are normal, Reg. There’s nothing about you that’s–that’s bad or wrong.”

“Tell that to our parents,” Regulus spat, turning away from Sirius a bit. “Tell that to my body.”

Sirius inhaled a bit. “Just….just promise me you’ll keep it a bit looser, okay? I can’t…I can’t bear it if something were to happen to you.”

The genuinely terrified look on his face was what broke Regulus from his anger. He deflated, allowing the defensiveness to flow out of him. “Alright,” he murmured, allowing Sirius to pull him into a hug. “That hurts, you prat,” he whispered as Sirius squeezed him tightly.

But when Sirius made to let go, he felt sad, as if he wished his brother hadn’t let go.

--

Regulus stayed in the Hospital overnight that night. Something about 'making sure his blood vessels were okay', or whatever.

His friends visited, and he reassured them that he had been out the night before practicing Quidditch (true) and he must have hurt himself during a particularly crazy dive (false). Barty and Evan seemed to buy it, but Dorcas and Pandora gave him maddeningly disbelieving looks throughout their visit.

It was a different visitor, though, that made him much more nervous.

Remus Lupin entered the Hospital Wing late the second night, definitely after curfew, and certainly after Pomfrey had gone to bed. He made Regulus emit a small yelp of shock when he showed up, as he hadn’t been expecting the taller boy to show up at all, let alone at such an hour.

“It’s just me, sorry,” Remus muttered, as if he often visited Regulus at midnight in the Hospital Wing. “Sorry, it’s just arrived, or I would’ve been sooner,” he continued vaguely, waving a small package around.

Regulus eyed it curiously.

“I….I need to tell you something,” Remus continued, sitting gently on Regulus’s bed. Regulus pulled the covers over his chest more securely, a bit nervous about how close someone else was while he was so….exposed.

“Go on,” he nodded, wondering what was so important that Remus had to sneak into the Hospital in the dead of night. “Has Sirius done something stupid?”

Remus snorted. “No…Sirius wanted to tell you himself, but…” Remus trailed off, and Regulus momentarily worried Sirius had gone and gotten hurt or something, but then Remus met his eyes. “I was there. Last night when they brought you in.”

Regulus felt his heart sink. He’d been so nervous that Barty and Evan would have seen too much when he was brought in. He hadn’t even thought about another student being there already.

“I…I came in at around 4:30…with a migraine,” Remus murmured.

He really did get a lot of migraines, Regulus thought briefly.

“Sirius came with me. So…we were already there. When you came in.” Remus looked a bit awkward as he spoke. As if he wasn’t sure how much to reveal. “They made your friends wait outside. But Sirius refused. And I was…well, I couldn’t leave.” He looked apologetic, now. “They….they healed you. And then…Sirius got very upset, and…well, you should know he did everything possible to protect you. He argued with Pomfrey and Slughorn for a good ten minutes about contacting your parents. He won, in the end. Well, you know how stubborn he is.” Remus shrugged a bit awkwardly.

Regulus waited quietly for the other shoe to drop. He had a sinking feeling, from how Remus was speaking and acting, that there was more to it.

“You should know, Regulus…I’d already guessed. Before last night,” Remus finally sighed, meeting Regulus’s gaze.

His heart sank. He’d guessed? He’d known?

“How?” he whispered. If Sirius had told, he would…he didn’t know how…

“Sirius talked about you, in our first year,” Remus shrugged. “He mentioned…well, he mentioned a sister.”

Both Remus and Regulus winced at that.

“And then he came back from Christmas and he insisted that he’d only ever had a brother. I’m guessing that’s when you…?” Remus asked gently, raising his eyebrows a bit.

Regulus nodded.

“Yeah, so…I tried to ask, but he didn’t seem to be willing to talk about it and…dunno, it’s not my business, is it? So I figured I'd let it go,” Remus shrugged. As if it was the simplest assumption in the world. That it wasn’t his business, so he should just let it be.

Regulus was again overwhelmed by the feeling of thankfulness for Remus Lupin. He was so unassuming…so kind. He’d known (or guessed) for years and had said nothing. Because he’d guessed, rightfully, that Regulus would be uncomfortable with it.

“But it’s my business now, Regulus, because Sirius is going a bit spare,” Remus said a bit louder, looking stressed. “He said…I mean, feel free to tell me to fuck off, but…he said you’re using a bandage for your…?” he used his hand to gesture to his own chest.

Regulus nodded, looking down. “There’s a potion,” he found himself volunteering, strangely comfortable talking about it with Remus. “But I can’t take it. Mother and Father…they’d probably rather I was dead,” he chuckled humorlessly. “Barty and Evan don’t know and….I don’t…they can’t. So this is what I have.”

Remus studied him for a moment, then handed him a package. “You know there are people like you in the Muggle world too, right? My mum’s Muggle, so I was raised in both.”

He shrugged. He’d never really thought about it. “I guess…sure.”

“Well…what do you think they do? Surely they can’t take a potion,” Remus said patiently, like a Professor trying to talk a student through a difficult question.

“They cry?” Regulus volunteered, snorting at his own humor.

Remus smiled a bit. “Well, probably. But also, they have other options.”

“Like?” Regulus asked, feeling a strange bubble of hope in his chest.

“Well, some of them take medicine. It’s like potions for Muggles,” Remus shrugged. “Some of them just….cut things off.”

“What?” Regulus yelped loudly.

They both realized his mistake and whipped their heads around to Pomfrey’s door, but they heard no stirring.

“You’re fucking with me, surely,” he mumbled a bit quieter. How on Earth did Muggles actually survive without accidentally killing themselves?

“Nah,” Remus grinned. “I have a….cousin, I think? She told me about it.”

Regulus gaped for a minute before looking down at the package. “So, what’s in here? A knife? Gonna help me chop off my–”

Remus scoffed. “Sirius would kill me. Plus, Muggles have professionals that do that. No, she also told me about those,” he said, gesturing to the package. “I wrote her for one this morning. Said it was for a friend.” He shrugged.

Even more confused, Regulus ripped open the package to find–

“Is this a fucking bra?” he asked, barely controlling his embarrassment and anger. He almost threw the offending garment across the room in disgust.

“What? No!” Remus said, shaking his head vehemently.

It…looked like a strange mix of a tank top and a sports bra. But, it was missing some of the things Regulus remembered from seeing his mother’s bras. There were no cups, no small hooks, no lace or femininity. Instead, there was just a zipper on each side. And it was…less stretchy? The material had give, but it was a firmer stretch. Like it wasn’t meant to give much leeway.

“It’s a binder,” Remus shrugged. “Muggles use them. They kind of….” he gestured to his own chest again, “suck it all in.”

Regulus stared at the fabric for a few moments. “There are things that are meant for that?” he asked, though it was more out of wonder. Clearly, there were.

“Yeah, so…this is better than what you were using before because it’s meant for that purpose. And these zippers here,” Remus pointed at the two zippers on each side, “loosen it when you need a break. So you don’t end up back here.”

Regulus laughed, half-shocked and half-ecstatic. “Why did you do this for me?”

Remus gave him a weird look again. “Well….first, Sirius has been driving himself crazy. All he wants to do is to help you. To make sure you’re happy. And safe.”

Regulus felt a pang of guilt at that.

“But also….” Remus continued, looking emotional, himself, now. “I…secrets….secrets are hard. And I can…I can…well, I can imagine what it might feel like. To have a secret that you’re so…so scared about people finding out. But it’s…it’s a part of you, and you can’t change it.”

He looked so genuine. So empathetic. So understanding. Regulus swallowed thickly, trying not to let any tears fall.

Remus sighed, “It’s hard, erm, I imagine…when you have a secret like that. And if you can find something that helps…people who support you…I would think that would make it…so much easier. Right?”

There was emotion there. Raw and real, and Regulus had a feeling Remus had his own experiences with secrets. But he was so thankful to have Remus accept him and help him with his own that he decided not to push. For now.

--

Guys I can't with this chapter. Remus is just so amazing and we love him. Read the full WIP or leave comments or kudos here!

[stardew-obsessed-ora]

I've been really busy, so I haven't been able to write anything I've wanted to in the past little bit. Regardless, I'd really like to expand on the concept of Trans Morris and my HCs revolving around him. They've been sitting in my brain for a while, and I'd love to share them with the audience.

Word Count: 1.5k! CW/TW: uhhhh not sure what to put here but Has themes of self doubt, dysphoria, and less upbeat societal stuff around the beginning OH ALSO UNSAFE BINDING IS BRIEFLY MENTIONED.

୨﹒Trans Morris HCs

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- I see Morris as a Trans guy who experiences dysphoria. (He/Him) - I imagine he first realized he didn't align with his agab as a young child. He realized he had more of a connection toward masculinity and toward other boys, but it never really clicked until he was older. All he knew was that he didn't like wearing anything overly feminine, and that he preferred to wear his hair up to make it look short. I imagine as a kid he’d pitch an utter fit being forced to wear any kind of dress, but it was just brushed off as him being a defiant kid. - Its not that his parents wouldn’t have been supportive, they just didn’t understand what his issue was, and were left even more confused when kid him tried to explain it. - He went through his teen years knowing something was off but never quite understanding what it was. There weren’t answers for him in any of the books he looked through, nor were there answers around him. It was isolating. It felt right being mistaken for a guy when his hair was up, and it felt mortifying when people corrected themselves. But it shouldn’t have. Why did it feel like that? - He was raised entirely oblivious to LGBTQ+ identities. After all, he was raised sometime in the late 80s/early 90s. Identifying as anything within the community was still seen as a taboo, so to say. He had heard about it in passing, and even heard about it in a somewhat positive light from a few people, but was too nervous to look into it himself. For every positive thing he heard, there were dozens of negative things. I heavily HC this man as having been bullied. It was terrifying to him. He was terrified of the possibility of being something that wouldn’t be accepted. Of something which was such a large part of other peoples’ existence being something that caused his more turmoil. A part of him felt like he was just looking for attention, and the other part felt like it’d be a dead end and that he’d end up worse off than he already was. He’d likely look into it too much and mislabel himself. Self doubt! Confusion! Imposter Syndrome! - Sometime in his teens he started feeling horrible dysphoria and ended up giving himself one of those choppy botched haircuts on numerous occasions. - Dysphoria hoodies were practically an everyday outfit. If anyone asked, he’d just tell them that hoodies and sweatpants were comfier to be in. - He fell victim to the bandage binding trap. He wanted to try to use anything to hide his chest, and so, he tried to bandage bind. Obviously after a bit of trial and error he realized this was an outright horrible idea and stopped bothering, resorting right back to the hoodie grind. - He started fully transitioning sometime when he was in his 20s. - He had absolutely no idea what the fuck being trans was, nor what how he felt was considered. He was nervous over bringing up how he felt, as it seemed entirely alien. He felt like it wasn't worth bringing up to anyone, and that it was in his head, really. If his parents didn’t know what he was talking about, if none of his peers understood, then clearly the issue was him. Right? He didn't know what transness was until he caught a conversation from a coworker within his department about it and realized their experiences and emotions aligned with his.

- Bro was standing there in his Joja apron thingy like :O.

- He didn’t confront them about it or anything, but knowing someone else felt similar to how he did was enlightening. It felt like there might’ve been people out there who understood his experiences, and that he wasn’t alone. There were people like him, and they were thriving.

- Eventually he’s able to find more information and resources pertaining to his feelings and he looks into LGBTQ+ identities as a whole. This is when he’s finally able to seek gender affirming care for himself, and also be able to better understand himself as a whole.

- The day this man started binding a weight was seemingly lifted off of his shoulder. It was more difficult for him to find a binder at first due to his size, but when he did… He stared at himself in the mirror for a solid 10 minutes in disbelief. It was his first ever experience with gender euphoria, and he could have cried on the spot.

- Coming out to his parents was another weight off of his shoulders. Well- after the long-winded explanation he had to give. His parents weren’t unsupportive, but they were entirely clueless like he was. It took a lot of examples and carefully expanding on concepts for them to finally start wrapping their head around his identity. They’re still a bit confused, but they’ve got the spirit!

- He actually let his mom help him with figuring out his preferred name! His dad rushed in to give his own input and ultimately they decided on his current name as one he liked :3 

- Pre-T his voice was lower on the register, but after taking testosterone his voice noticeably changed. He didn’t have to force a lower voice when speaking anymore. Of course, he did end up making it a habit to force a higher voice around people he didn’t quite trust anymore. At least until it was difficult to.

- Adjusting to testosterone injections was… not fun! I don’t headcanon he necessarily has a fear of needles, but he does hesitate every fucking time he gives himself a shot if there isn’t a distraction around for him to focus on. - bro has definitely done his T shot in a dingy ass joja restroom before

- I personally headcanon that even as a lower ranking Joja Employee he didn’t have much of anyone to speak to, so there wasn’t really anyone for him to come out to aside from his parents.

- He worked overtime constantly so that he could eventually afford top surgery.

- Post OP was even better than he could’ve imagined. After getting over the soreness of the procedure and resting for as many days as he could before the Joja demons wrangled him back into work, he stared at himself in the mirror and just grinned. Seeing himself the way he had always wanted to look was everything he could’ve dreamed of and more. He felt sheer gender euphoria and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was still sore as hell from surgery he would’ve probably pranced around.

- He was able to walk around his house with a shirt off more often, if not, almost all the time during the hotter seasons.

- Over the years I imagine he grew into his identity more and came to be really proud of who he is, and what he’s been through. Though, he still prefers only bringing his identity up to people he can trust. He’s still skittish over the thought of being chastised by others and still worries about the possibility of being outed to someone he can’t trust. Hate him for being a corporate drone, don’t hate him for who he is!

- He still experiences dysphoria, but it isn’t even remotely as bad as it was in his younger years. He can still be found in blanket-nests on the off day though, and he’s definitely snuck into a hoodie after work on numerous occasions. Why doesn't he wear a hoodie during work hours, you may ask? He's a FORMAL man who craves FORMALITY and STYLE. Removing his suit on work hours would be like removing a part of his soul, it'd be embarrassing stepping out and being seen as so informal for once.

- He looks at his surgery scars fondly, thinking of how far he’s come and how much farther he’ll inevitably come. - Coming out to any friend he makes is ultimately nerve-wracking for him, but he always says it with such a prideful, soft smile. - Despite being more discreet about his identity, he would 1000% be happy helping younger trans folk figure out their identities and help them grow into themselves. - He's not the best boss in the world, but by god is he great when it comes to inclusivity and making sure everyone is heard and accommodated and heard on that department. He's the guy who would absolutely risk his job yelling at some executive over their backwards ass views. Yes, he's a corporate suck-up, but he's not a big enough one to let that slide. - Bro absolutely reps that tacky Joja Brand Pride Merchandise every pride month. (and all year, for that matter. pride is an all year affair and hes letting it be known no matter how awful the mug is) - Eventually, with a lot of hesitation on his end, he openly comes out as trans and is greeted with just about nothing but support from the acquaintances he has. It took him by surprise for sure, but he could've swore he viewed the valley in a much softer light that day, and even moreso post community center. - After this, he's able to go to the beach topless, which was one of his longtime future goals. Not only does it feel reaffirming, but its the marking of him fully coming into everything regardless of his age. Plus, no longer would the days of a tank top and socks and sandals remain!