#even if I have zero desire to transition or change my body in any way

[calamitaswrath]

Hmm. Hm. Starting to feel like I'm actually an "any pronouns" kinda person? Not sure, though.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: I

“And I can't wait another minute

I can't take the look she's giving

Your body rocking, keep me up all night

One in a million, my lucky strike.”

— Lucky Strike, Maroon 5

A/N: this idea started as just random concept drabbling between leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ and i and we never really thought it would amount to anything tbh!! but as we started putting more and more into the plot and characters, we made the spontaneous decision to make it a full on, multi-chaptered collab fic! we have so many ideas planned and so much to elaborate on and we’re just so mfing excited to share it with you guys :’) any and all feedback is greatly appreciated 💌 we hope you enjoy the first part and that you fall in love with this stupid emotionally unavailable moron the way we did! happy reading!!

andrea’s askbox : leyla’s askbox : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : 

word count: 17.2k

content/warnings: vampire!harry being a lowkey asshole while downing straight tequila like a psycho, getting to know The Crew, Mitch being the iconic legend he is, mentions of smut, and Harry working his immortal charm on an unsuspecting human girl with a peculiar scent and intriguing personality

///

Harry hates clubs. 

In his two hundred years of life, through many trials and tribulations, through tricky scenarios and annoying encounters, through thousands of unappealing circumstances and patience-testing events, he doesn’t think anything quite compares to the crowded, nerve-wracking experience that is a Los Angeles club on a Friday night during peak hours. 

According to his wise, humble opinion, it’s absolutely fucking petrifiying. He’d rather swallow a stake than have to spend hours in a dimly lit room with synthetic smoke choking his lungs, half-conscious humans stumbling around into him, and the stench of sweaty bodies mixed with liquor fumes, alongside the faint yet unmistakable waft of vomit. 

Yeah, Harry would definitely rather eat a red oak spear than have to shoulder that.

Despite his intense hatred for this Californian city during its after-hours, he can’t deny that he fits right into the scene perfectly. Decades of grooming and practice have made him a prime candidate for the fast-paced characteristics that come with the party nightlife. 

Fitting into these aspects aren’t something he had learned willingly; he didn’t really have a choice on the matter, considering his entire existence depends on mortals immature tendencies to get properly shit-faced and make stupid decisions in tightly-packed glorified bars. Harry never understood that— how a fog machine, strobe lights, and an undergrad amateur DJ could ever seem more appealing than the quiet, stable ambiance of a semi-formal bar. How deranged do people have to be to actually enjoy strangers spilling alcohol on them while attempting to shag someone else two feet away on the dance floor? 

Whenever he dwells too much on that thought, he gets a spiking migraine. After this long, Harry’s just come to terms with the fact that humans are regressing as a species. His conclusion is a bit cynical, perhaps, but hardly difficult to accept. One look at a news outlet provides enough proof to launch an Ivy League research project on the matter. 

He really shouldn’t be complaining, however, because the combination of overflowed close quarters and dampened inhibitions makes it the ideal hunting ground. Picking up a living blood bag at a club is basically as easy as walking through a vineyard and plucking grapes right off the stems. It’s practical, it’s fool-proof, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to feed and gets his more intimate needs tailored (a combo that he and his friends refer to as Laid and Drained).  

So regardless of his distaste towards clubs and their eager inhabitants, Harry had learned to mold his persona to fit the bill, making himself as approachable and desirable as possible. His life literally hangs in the balance; he’d put up with throngs of drunk sorority girls and their affinity for shitty perfumed drinks if it means avoiding desiccation. 

It’s not like it’s hard. All Harry has to do is make himself look more appealing than the other hundred men milling around the establishment, which— if he’s being brutally honest— isn’t that challenging. The moral, physical, and ethical standards of men have dropped frighteningly low since his time. Most of the ones that creep around clubs are overconfident, overzealous, boundary-lacking douchebags who think they’re entitled to a woman’s attention, and therefore make complete, utter fools of themselves in the process of trying to court one into their pants. Buying a girl one Sex On The Beach and dry-humping to Daft Punk isn’t the way to convince her to come home with you. 

Harry has developed his own guidelines and tactics for securing a nightly bedroom companion, and his ideas have been working wonders for him for decades now. 

The first and foremost rule is to clean up nicely. Personal appearance is everything. Humans are visual creatures; they build first impressions solely based on outward attraction. That trait is enhanced the higher their blood alcohol content rises. The drunker someone gets, the shallower they become, and it’s Harry’s job to work that to his advantage. And at the risk of sounding shallow himself, he thinks he does pretty alright in that department. 

Especially tonight, present in all the elements of his physique. He’s clad in a pair of high-waisted tan trousers that have been ironed to a crisp, his fitted graphic tee tucked neatly along his waistband beneath his black leather belt. His t-shirt is probably his favorite part of the entire look. It’s a baby blue sturdy cotton number with pastel yellow detailing along the cuffs and collar and a giant cartoon puppy in a striped bowtie taking up its center, smiling cheekily at the onlooker. Arranged around the doodle in faded Times New Roman bubble letters are the words WE’RE IN THE SHIT. 

Harry loves the irony of the article— the innocence of the drawing juxtaposed by the crude message. The piece is a conversation-starter— people almost always comment on it— and that’s exactly what he needs. Something to draw attention to himself and shadow all the other men. Something that shows he has a personality; that he has taste and a good sense of humor and isn’t just another walking genital. Plus, what person doesn’t enjoy a funny little contradiction, especially when it’s this cute?

On top of his graphic top, he’s wearing a tartan cropped blazer (open, of course) with a creme background and royal blue lines. The hem ends at the bottom of his ribs, exactly where his pants begin, and the jacket's hand-sewn buttons and strap detailings show that it's an expensive garment. It shows that he puts money and effort into how he looks, which is something anyone would appreciate when scoping for a possible hookup.

Harry’s shoes are the most casual factor of his fit. They’re a pair of light yellow Vans that match the collar of his tee. They’re plain, but he keeps them clean and they tie the whole look together without a hitch.

Accessories are everything, as well. Aside from the pearls arranged around his prominent collarbones, the gold-dipped cross hanging from a delicate chain around his neck, and the matching dangling cross earring on his right earlobe (again, he adores irony), he’s sporting a plethora of chunky rings on his hands, each unique and effortlessly complimenting his appearance. On his left hand, his index finger dots a ruby jewel embedded into a thick rusted band, another large metal one with dancing bears on his middle, and two clunky golden letters on his last two digits— his initials, HS. On his opposite hand, he has a medium-width plated ring on his middle finger with peace engraved along its rounded edge, an elegant lionhead number with an amethyst stone snug in its mouth, and along his pinky is a decently-sized opal set into a delicate polished frame. 

His two last rings are the most important of all. The lionhead is his daylight ring, which he hasn’t taken off since he transitioned. It keeps him from bursting into flames everytime the sun hits his skin. The opal was his mother’s, and it was her favorite. 

Harry’s attire is something he’s immensely proud of, even though a good amount of people deem him eccentric in the eyes of modern masculinity. He couldn’t give less of a shit. With his lightly tanned skin, alluring cologne and lacquered nails, his shirt stretching across the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and tapering waist, his thick thighs, sharp jaw, jade eyes, loosely tousled chestnut curls, and the vast array of dark ink littering his arms...

He looks good and he knows it. And all the people whose gazes glue to him as he passes by know it, too. Especially a random group of young women in line, who ogle at him shamelessly as he casually strolls past. He treats them to a sly wink, an irresistible dimpled smile, and a soft, cheeky greeting of, “Ladies.”

He gets off on the way they swoon at his refined English accent, giggling and waving. 

The only other component Harry has for succeeding in the club environment is simple, but it’s important: Don’t seduce, romanticize. 

Anyone— even inebriated idiots— can try and seduce a woman. And if she’s had enough tequila shots to cloud her thoughts, they just might succeed. But only a real man can romanticize a girl, and it yields way better results. 

Females are an emotional sect (Harry says that with zero misogyny; it’s just a scientific fact and he actually praises it), which means that if you entertain their interests and fluff their egos, they are bound to fall right into the palm of your hand. It changes the game completely because then they don’t feel that they have to pleasure you, they want to. They pursue the guy who flirts without being too vulgar, who appreciates and acknowledges their efforts, and who can go head-to-head with their wit by carrying unforced banter. They chase after him because he’s showing genuine kindness rather than just sexual interests and if he’s that attentive on the getting-to-know-you front, one can only imagine how skilled he could be in other bases. Chatting up a girl the right way, with patience and courtesy, builds credibility and prowess. And as a thank you, they’re usually more than willing to pay special attention to your needs, as well. 

Thus, romanticizing is always the expert move. So, yes, Harry detests clubs and the disaster that is adult recreation. But he’s fucking amazing at playing it to his favor. He’s great at calculating everything down to the smallest detail and he’s going to piggy-back on those skills for the rest of eternity. He’s so good at what he hates that his closest friends have anointed him the title of Walking Paradox. He’s more than happy to keep it. 

All of these thoughts are circulating around his skull, hyping him up for the game ahead as Harry and his friend group walk up to the bouncer at the entrance of the club they had chosen for the night, faint stars twinkling in the dark sky as the sounds and lights of the city fall away into background static. 

They cruise by the long line of people, hearing sounds of disagreement and grumbling coming from the other patrons waiting to get in. Harry casually tucks his large hands into the pockets of his light brown slacks as he pulls up in front of the burly bald man, who is wearing a black shirt with the club’s name printed in neon letters. The security guard is at least five inches taller than him, overswollen biceps and pectoral muscles rippling under the flimsy material of his work outfit as he crosses his arms over his barreled chest, cocking a single thick eyebrow at the seemingly young vampire. 

Harry delivers a good-natured smile up at the employee, despite the man’s obvious begrudging disbelief at what he is about to try and do. His friends chat quietly behind him, uninterested in what is happening; after years of being acquainted, they know that Harry is going to get exactly what he wants. He always does. 

He’s the best of them, that much is obvious. Not only when it comes to his experience with persuading sexual partners and getting himself a decent dinner, but he’s the best at convincing just about anyone to do anything, neutral of gender. He’s the second oldest of the crew, yet he seems to have the most knowledge and practice under his belt; his easygoing charisma, undeniable good looks, and dazzling smile could sway even the most stubborn of souls. Frankly, he’s so successful in getting his way that no one cares to try and argue for the leader position. Not when they can just sit back and let Harry do all the work. 

“Good evening.” Harry’s deep voice chimes giddily in the direction of the bouncer, his accent particularly heavy for no real reason. “How you doing tonight, mate?”

The guard— whose name tag reads Brock and Harry has to actively stop himself from snorting at how fitting the name is for such a brick of a human— looks down at him with a stony expression, voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Well, that’s great to hear!” The curly-haired boy’s simper widens, dimples popping into place as he skates into his next question with dramatic friendliness. “Haven’t had anyone cause you any trouble tonight, have you?”

Brock blinks once, attitude remaining coldly indifferent even in the face of Harry’s cheeriness. His words, however, are snipped and pointed. “Not yet.”

“I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.” The young man comments sympathetically, nodding his head along with the worker. “Totally understandable.” 

“Good.” The employee remarks in the same detached tone, shifting on his feet, obviously growing uncomfortable and irritated with the conversation. “So I’m guessing that means you know you have to get in line.” 

Harry glances over his shoulder at the lengthy expanse of people gathered along the side of the building, a light wind filtering through his freshly-shampooed ringlets as he studies the way the bright sign on top of the club casts alternating rainbow colors across the crowd. 

He makes a disapproving sound by sucking at his teeth, lulling his sight back onto the guard. “I don’t know, man. At this rate, I feel like by the time we get to the front of the line, it’ll be last call.”

“Maybe.” Brock shrugs offhandedly. “It is what it is, right? Fair’s fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry returns his gesture, but his posture shows no intention of moving, the corners of his rose lip set in a knowing smirk. “But since you’ve been having a good night, do you think you could find it in yourself to just let us through? We’d greatly appreciate it.” 

The bouncer’s face hardens, any shred of professional amiability washing out of his defined features. “I don’t think so.” 

The vampire’s shoulders sag in exaggerated disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s just five of us. Don’t think we’ll do much damage. Right, guys?”

Harry glimpses over his back to his friends, who let their conversation falter for a moment to throw out a chorus of half-assed agreements, trying to keep themselves from snickering. 

“We promise we won’t cause any problems.” Xander speaks up, jutting his chin encouragingly at the man as his lips twitch slyly. He lifts one of his hands, the smallest finger sticking out stiffly and wiggling around. “Pinky swear.” 

The rest of the group bursts into a round of light laughter, causing Harry to release a few airy giggles of his own.  

Xander looks over at Niall, raising his eyebrows and quipping in an innocent manner. “Right, Ni? No funny business tonight. That means no climbing onto the bar again and stripping down to your socks.” 

“That happened one time!” Niall exclaims incredulously, socking the taller boy in the shoulder as the others laugh harder than before, his blue eyes narrowed and face pinched. “Once! And it was only ‘cause Harry challenged me to a tequila shot contest.”

The Irish vampire’s accented voice drops darkly as he reminisces. “Fuckin’ hate tequila. Makes me act like a moron.” 

“As if you’re not one already.” Mitch pipes up in his usual soft dialect, chuckling as he ducks away from Niall’s vengeful fist. 

Harry cranes back to face Brock, thumb playing with his daylight ring as his hands stay relaxed inside his trousers. He shrugs one shoulder easily for emphasis. “See? You can let us through. We pinky swore.” 

The entire charade seems to have only infuriated the security guard more than before, his brows now fully furrowed and a deep, unamused frown etched across his previously pursed lips. His voice is on edge with barely controlled anger. “I’m not putting up with any shit. If you want in, go to the back of the line. If not, leave.”

Harry sighs grandly in defeat, head shaking slightly. “Guess I’ll just have to go the other route, then.”

The creature takes a step forward towards the employee, close enough that their chests almost press together. The bulky man stands his ground, though there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the smaller boy make such a bold move. 

“What the f—?”

Harry locks gazes with Brock, pupils dilating to twice their size, the usual emerald shade of his irises flickering a haunting red and looking sinister in the buttery light of the street lamps. Horror breaks across the worker’s face, the ability to form coherent sentences disappearing from his demeanor. Harry’s heightened senses can hear the way his heartbeat spikes, blood instinctively rushing into his chest as a response to the adrenaline materializing in his veins. The activation of human’s fight-or-flight modes is always so oddly pleasurable. Just feeling how they react so drastically makes Harry’s fangs tingle with longing. Fear is a good condiment, he’s learned; it gives blood’s usual metallic flavor a certain twang.

But at the moment, a beverage from this specific tap isn’t the one Harry has in mind. He has his interests set on something much tangier and full-bodied; maybe Casamigos golden tequila, or Don Julio's Blanco. Preferably mixed with a young office secretary or a Bath and Body Works employee instead of lemon and salt. 

All in all, Brock is just collateral for a much bigger prize, which lies behind the roped off area he holds dominion over. It’s Harry’s job to break that dam. 

Before the large man can fully react, the vampire begins working his compulsion strategy, tone coming out level and soothing, thick with persuasion and teetering along a sleepy undercurrent. “You’re going to let us through, and you’re going to forget we ever met.”

The guard’s pupils enlarge to match Harry’s, the look of utter terror on his face melting right off. His features go slack as the monster’s magical influence works its way through his brain, coating every neuron and bending him to the deliverer’s will. The man reaches over and removes the velvet rope blocking the group’s path, stepping off to the side obediently with an empty expression present across his appearance. 

The leader of the group smiles just as brightly as he had the second he’d walked up to the door. He passes by the worker, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and feeling the muscular man strain under his supernatural strength. “Thank you very much. You have a nice night, Brock.” 

Harry’s friends follow behind him, echoing his parting message and sharing a collective chortle.  

The second the group dives past the frame of the club entrance, the whole ambiance of the atmosphere changes. Harry walks across the top ledge of the establishment, coming to a halt at the railing that overlooks the main level of the club, his inhumanly sharp eyes bouncing around all the corners of the building to construct some type of familiar layout in his head. Amidst the blinking lights, thick artificial smoke, and swaying bodies, his keen instincts sketch a mental image for tonight’s hunting ground. 

The bar is at the far left corner of the club, squared off and taking up a large chunk of the colorful tiled dance floor. The music station extends across the entire wall at the opposite end of the tavern, stocked with massive speakers and a professional turntable. Harry’s brows jump in mild surprise— it’s not every day that a club puts so much effort into their mixer. 

The animated dancing area is packed with people, the crowd all jumping and grinding to the beat of the bass, moving as one large mass while the rotating strobe lights hang from the cavernous ceiling, bathing their moving silhouettes in neon reds, drunken blues, groggy purples, and electric yellows. The dim surroundings and heavy fog make all the hues more intense, giving the endless party that timeless quality which people tend to enjoy about nightlife. It’s the night to remember effect that movies and shows always hyperbolize; he thinks this way because he’s well aware that not even a third of these people are sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing, let alone recall it the following day. It’s comically ironic, really. 

But Harry profits off that liquor amnesia, so he brushes away his sardonic skepticism for the time being, settling his lean forearms onto the metal railing that lines the second story of the venue, which is meant to keep shit-faced customers from creating a messy lawsuit. He carefully absorbs the grandeur of it all, leaning his weight forward with a detached sigh, already flickering through the mental menu of his favorite drinks that he has expertly memorized. 

He’s in the process of choosing between a Manhattan— it isn’t a very complicated drink, which is exactly what he’s looking for; something simple and strong— or just straight tequila in a glass when he suddenly feels a familiar presence arrange itself beside him, bumping his shoulder playfully with their own.

Harry snaps out of his recipe retrieval, eyes casting to the side to land on his best friend of almost a century. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for the thin, bearded man to make the first move towards conversation.

“You’re a real dick, y’know that?” 

The green-eyed vampire sputters into spontaneous laughter, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the small pits in his cheeks jolt awake. His tone is humorous and full of fake insult for the hell of the joke. “Wow, alright. So I get us into the club that you chose and that makes me a prick? Good to know. You can handle the muscle next time, then, if you’re gonna talk shit.”

Mitch cracks a gentle jesting grin, which is very on brand for him. He doesn’t seem like much, with his skinny, lanky frame, delicate features, shoulder-length hair, and somewhat scraggly stubble. He’s quiet, reserved, and hardly engages with anyone outside of their immediate group. He’s always been that way for as long as Harry could remember. 

When they had met back in 1924 at a speakeasy in New York, Mitch had given off a mysterious vibe that Harry had found amusing and intriguing. His slightly sickly appearance and distant persona made the younger vampire want to get to know him better; it was just so peculiar that this seemingly impassive man was working at an illegal bar as a live musician. One would think that a performer would have to display an engaging character to keep a loyal audience, but Mitch had been all the talk of the underground despite his unemotional coolness. It was startlingly unorthodox and Harry just had to know more. 

Therefore, with a bit of help from his convincing supernatural abilities, he’d secured a spot as the black market club’s leading vocalist. He wasn’t anything worth a Grammy, but he could keep his singing in tune and follow Mitch’s guitar rhythms easily enough, all thanks to his limited experience with piano. He fit right in. 

From the first show they had put on together, it was like they had known one another in a different lifetime. They clicked so flawlessly it was almost fictional. 

Harry was lively and charming on stage, working the crowd to his favor as easily as he could knock back a shot, wrapping every single patron around his jeweled pinky without breaking a sweat. His witty temperament countered Mitch’s timid disposition perfectly and that uncommon dynamic had been the foundation to their friendship. Their humorous shenanigans on stage (which included Harry pinching at Mitch’s ass and making vague vulgar motions at each other while harmonizing) was a hit within the drunken community, and it bled into their personal lives. They went from only interacting on stage to sharing drinks together afterwards, to hanging out outside of work, to deep late night conversations about the world and their experiences.

Soon enough, they were closer than either had expected to become. And once they found out each other’s true identities (Mitch had transitioned during the American Revolution, when a vampire in his battalion had given him blood to heal from a wound, unaware that the next day, Mitch would suffer a fatal gunshot to the stomach that would trigger his transformation) they grew inseparable. They had remained that way ever since. 

Despite his friend’s withdrawn tendencies, the older vampire never hesitates to make his opinions heard, obvious in how he’d just full-bodied Harry with that snarky comment. Even when it’s at his expense, Harry appreciates and respects the rawness of it. He loves the way Mitch is honest and straight-forward with everything that crosses his path— it’s one of his favorite traits about him and definitely one of the characteristics that had led Harry to deem him his best friend. He’s probably the most fulfilling person Harry has ever met and their friendship brings him a type of comfort that he doesn’t receive from anyone else.

Vampires can be so detached and cold not only towards humans, but towards one another, and it gets old at times. It’s unsettling not having someone to truly confide in, and Harry is grateful that Mitch had been so willing to fill that position.   

Due to this, Harry rarely takes genuine offense in Mitch’s digs. They’re normally expressed as a joke and they’ve both been alive for so long that thick skin is a default.

“How was I dick?” Harry inquires, slinking his head to the side with entertained curiosity. “If anything, he was the one being an asshole. I asked him to let us in nicely and he practically spit in my face!”

Mitch snorts in amusement, shaking his head lightly as his eyes streak across the humongous room in the same cunning manner Harry’s had. “You and Xander didn’t have to mock him that way.” 

That’s another thing that makes Mitch the better half of their power duo— he still has a decent shred of humanity in his unbeating heart. Pessimistic conclusions aside, Harry does have a bit, as well...but his is more like a paper-thin pencil shaving than a shred. Barely there, but there, at least. 

The young man returns his companion’s snort, rolling his eyes up to the hanging lights over their heads. “Was just some harmless teasing. Nothing bad came of it.”

Mitch scowls scoldingly. “It was unnecessary and mean.”

Harry mimics his expression with his nose scrunched sarcastically. “We were just taking the piss, and it’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyways. Stop being such a kill-joy.” 

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.” 

“Or what?” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly, the amber specks around his pupils glinting tauntingly, faint black veins momentarily webbing across the whites of his eyes. He sweetens his voice into a honeyed drawl. “Are you gonna spank me, daddy? Have I been a bad boy?” 

Mitch belts out a feathery chuckle, shoving his friend with enough strength to send a regular human flying across the deck. But since the taller vampire matches his force, he hardly moves an inch. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m being serious!” Harry cackles, turning his hips and sticking out his ass towards his visibly disgusted acquaintance. “Go fucking in, if you want.”

He lowers his voice into a sultry hum, wagging his backside jestingly. “I like it rough, baby. Why don’t you bend me over this railing and show me who’s boss?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to roll his eyes to the ceiling, voice deadpan. “I think I’ll pass.” 

Harry juts his lower lip into a theatrical pout, sniffling faux tears. “You’re rejecting me that quick? Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

His best friend doesn’t even blink. “Still you.”

“I can live with that. And it’s probably a good call on your end to give up all this,” he signals vaguely up and down his tight torso with a ringed hand, grinning as he watches the veteran vampire pretend to gag, “because I don’t think Sarah wouldn’t be too happy about it.” 

Mitch’s humorous face immediately drops, eyes narrowing at the change in topic. “Very funny.” 

“I know, right? I’m a proper comedian.” Harry quips proudly, batting his lashes mockingly. “Where is Sarah, anyways? Have you heard from her lately?” 

Sarah and Mitch...They’re a complex couple, if they can even be called a couple. The two are more like occasional friends with benefits, “occasional” meaning “once every couple of months, if Sarah happens to be passing by.” 

Their relationship is open and very loose, mostly due to the fact that Sarah is fairly new to the world of blood-driven immortality and has decided to take full advantage of it. She’s been using compulsion to travel the world for the last three years since she changed, which had been the result of an unfortunate car accident. 

Mitch had been seeing her casually beforehand, keeping her around for the purpose of having a conventional feeding arrangement. Every time vampires feed, they heal the wounds they inflict with a bit of their blood, proceeding to then wipe the person’s memory with compulsion in order to eradicate any chances of getting caught. The caveat is that if a human dies with vampire blood in their system, they become one. 

Sarah’s death happened the day after she’d spent a night with Mitch, and one can imagine how distressed she had been when she'd awoken atop a metal table in a morgue within the basement of a hospital. Mitch had been there from the very first second she’d opened her eyes to her new life. Or rather, her dead life. He had helped her get accustomed to the next stage (meaning having to cut family ties in order to avoid a catastrophe— the less people that know the truth about the supernatural, the better) coaxing her through transition and teaching her the way to go about the rest of eternity without putting herself and others in danger. 

Vampires rarely have any compassion for life (usually out of spite, which stems from how their own lives were taken from them), so it’s not uncommon that bodies are found drained of blood in back alleys, abandoned warehouses, and washed up on banks of oceans and rivers. It could be either of two reasons, or even both: the monster doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions, or they never learned to control their urges. 

Harry’s crew isn't that careless. Through Mitch, they had learned restraint, taking up his practice of feeding enough to satisfy themselves without killing the host, healing them, and then erasing the occurrence from their memories. Mitch had come up with the tactic to cling to his humanity— to be as kind and nondestructive as possible— but if Harry’s being honest, most of their friends only play along because it’s convenient. No bodies means no police involvement, and no police involvement means being able to settle down in one place for an extended period, not having to stress about the annoying process of bouncing around the world for the rest of their lives to avoid detection. 

Keeping low was for the best, and when things get rough— whether it be a mistake on their part or a disastrous bender caused by another vampire passing through— they resort to drinking from blood bags until things tide over. Mitch has a contact at the nearest hospital, which is how he gets access to the stock, as well as how he managed to clean up Sarah’s passing so quickly. 

All in all, Harry had only mentioned Sarah to tease his friend, knowing the slight sensitivity that comes with the subject. Vampires rarely form emotional bonds, typically because it can get really messy, really fast, whether that connection be to a mortal or to another creature of their species. All of them have baggage of some sort— you can’t die, resurrect, be forced to abandon your family, and be a slave to drinking blood for the rest of eternity and just...be normal. That type of extreme emotional turmoil is corrosive towards love. It’s always better to just avoid it all together. 

That’s why this is so habitual to joke about; it’s a way to deflect. 

Mitch sighs grandly, Harry’s question echoing in his skull. “I don’t know where she is, to be honest. Last we talked was, like, four weeks ago, I think. She was in Japan, said she was drumming for a new upcoming band. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Harry nods his head once in understanding, itching to steer the theme of their conversation elsewhere now that he knows the topic is in a more sensitive state than he’d imagined. He doesn’t want to push Mitch into a depressive episode when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Spending the night consoling his sulky friend in the bathroom of a club is the last thing he wants right now. 

“I guess that makes Sarah the asshole, then.” He pokes jokingly, bumping the older vampire’s hip with his own. “She’s ghosting you. Get it? It’s funny ‘cause she’s actually dead.” 

Mitch’s sad expression shatters like glass, replaced by one of unamused secondhand embarrassment at the shitty pun. “I fucking hate you.”

“All the people who were ahead of their time were hated.” Harry sing-songs, turning up his nose haughtily. “Copernicus, Socrates, Einstein— all of them were hated for being geniuses. I’m willing to carry that same burden.” 

Mitch blinks at him three times. “No one hated Einstein.”

The curly-haired boy’s lips twitch darkly. “I’m pretty sure Japan did.” 

“You’re going to hell.” 

“I’m already there, mate.” 

Mitch shakes his head, but even through the black lights, Harry can see him trying to ward off a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he speaks up again softly. “It’s not that hard to refrain from humiliating innocent people who are just doing their job, H.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re still on that?” The broad monster groans in exasperation, palms slapping down on the metal rungs below him. “We were just having some fun! But fine. If it helps you fake sleep at night, I’ll try and keep my condescending flare to a minimum.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mitch responds peacefully, tapping his nimble fingers casually along the railing, his action much less violent than his companion’s. “S’not too difficult.” 

“Whatever.” Harry scoffs, returning his intent gaze to the dance floor, scoping out the scene once again in hopes of finding a proper meal for the night. 

He zones in on a group of young women gathered along one side of the bar, their messy giggling and lack of balance giving away that they’re obviously sloshed off their faces. Seems promising enough. 

When he talks once more, his tone holds an attitude that plays on a grumble, but it’s somewhat distracted. “The least you could do is let me have some fun, considering I didn’t even want to come.” 

Mitch huffs, making an entertained noise in the back of his throat. “You say that every single time we go out, and yet you always end up taking someone home. Don’t know why you’re complaining.” 

Harry side-eyes him from his peripheral vision, the corners of his pretty cherry mouth dipping down grudgingly, mood defensive. “You drag me to these things so I’m not going to apologize for making the best of it. I put a lot of effort into my pick-ups! I deserve to get my dick wet.” 

“God, please don’t say that again.” His best mate physically makes a vomiting sound. “You’re acting like a spoiled fraternity douche.” 

Harry’s gaze ignites into flames, his back straightening out as he fully turns to face the shorter man. He’s never been insulted so low before. “Take that back!” 

“Take that back!” Mitch mocks in an exaggerated, high-pitched British accent, attempting to stifle giggles. 

“Take it back! You know how much I hate Gen Z.”

“Okay, boomer.” 

“You’re older than I am!” 

“I know. Your lack of maturity is a constant reminder.”

Harry opens his mouth, prepared to make a sharp comeback about how Mitch should have left the shaggy-haired stoner aesthetic back in the eighties, but then a heavy Irish accent interrupts his rebuttal. 

“What’s all this about getting your dick wet?” 

Both of the vampires turn towards Niall, finding Xander and Adam accompanying him in a loose semi-circle. 

Xander isn’t paying any attention, too busy tapping away at the screen of his smartphone, apparently engaged in a very riveting conversation with whoever is on the other side. Adam has his hands tucked into the pockets of his plum purple wind-breaker, looking over Harry’s shoulder, seeming to be adamantly searching for someone in particular amidst the mob on the level beneath them. Niall is the only one interested in their dying conversation, probably only because he heard something crude being mentioned. 

“It’s nothing.” Harry dismisses, but he can’t help but stick Mitch with a glare. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

Adam speaks up for the first time. “Charlotte and Ny texted saying they got here about ten minutes ago. Mentioned they were dancing near the DJ station, so I think I’ll go find them.”

“Sounds good.” Harry bobs his head in accordance. “We’ll see you out there, yeah?” 

Adam returns his action, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs that lead to the bottom floor. The leader of the group watches him trot onto the large spiral staircase, disappearing into the thick throng of people scattered across its wide steps. 

Harry shifts his attention to Xander, snapping his fingers a few times in his direction and giving a two-toned whistle. “What about you? What’s got your head?”

“Not what, who.” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making kissy faces at their friend. 

Xander ignores him, glancing up at the green-eyed brunette to let him know he’ll be with him in a second, returning his focus back to his iPhone. After a few more elongated moments of typing, the older man finally locks his device. 

“I have a date.” He throws out casually, almost as if it should be obvious. 

“A date?” Harry reiterates slowly, not quite buying it. Xander doesn’t date. He couch-surfs just as much as Harry does. 

“Mmhm.” Xander glimpses behind his fellow vampire, eyes carrying intention. “It’s just a random dude from Tinder. I thought it’d be easier to set something up beforehand, just so I don’t have to spend the whole night trying to figure out if a guy is making eyes at me or trying to keep his whiskey down.” 

“Smart.” Harry shrugs his sculpted brows, impressed. A cocky grin toys with the corners of his mouth. “But we both know no one will ever compare to me.” 

“Right.” Xander scoffs in a deadpan manner, gifting him a tight, aggravated smile. “If only you weren’t such an emotionally unavailable prick.” 

“Oh, like you’re mentally stable enough for a relationship?” Harry bites back, but it holds no true malice, just some petty rivalry. “Piss off.”

“Happily!” The other vampire exclaims, clasping his hands together for dramatics. “Have fun finding someone out there. I’m just gonna grab a to-go box for my already prepped meal.” 

Harry doesn’t bother watching him leave. Instead, he turns to Niall, pointing at him to symbolize it's his turn to share his plans for the night. “What have you got, Lucky Charms?” 

His friend breaks into a jolly cackle at the nickname, arms falling crossed over his chest, hands absentmindedly squeezing his elbows in thought. “Well, I dunno, Tea and Crumpets. What’s your game plan?” 

Before Harry can answer, Mitch butts in, feeling left out of the banter and somewhat hurt that no one had assigned him an alter ego. “What’s my country-derived nickname?” 

Niall gives the American a slow once-over, shifting in his dark brown Clarks boots, fitted navy slack riding up his thighs and allowing his rainbow polka-dot socks to peek out. He hums lowly in the back of his throat, a grin spreading across his rosy cheeks. “Biscuits and Gravy.” 

Harry chimes in, his own arms casually folding over his strong chest, index finger tapping on his bottom lip as if mulling something over. “I quite like We The People, actually.”

The Irish lad snaps his fingers as if having a sudden epiphany. “Uncle Sam!”

Harry’s emerald eyes twinkle with glee at seeing the way Mitch’s go half-lidded, no longer entertained. “Four Score And Seven Years Ago.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enou—”

Niall wags a finger at Harry, lifting one shoulder in question, seeking approval on his next idea. “Star Spangled Banner?”

Harry copies the boy’s motion from before, snapping his fingers and making jazz hands. “I Pledge Allegiance.”  

“Ok, I get it!” Mitch whines with annoyed finality, pushing off the metal railing with a curt grimace on his scraggly face. 

“You asked!” Niall rationalizes between hiccups of evilly delighted joy, cupping his stomach as if to keep it from splitting open. 

“Won’t make that mistake again.” The older creature grumbles, leaning his back against the rungs and looking off towards the distance, communicating that he’s done being a part of the conversation. 

Once Harry manages to reign in his giggles, he rubs at his nose with the side of his finger, releasing a wistful sigh. He refers to the question Niall had stated before their little bullying fest. “I think I’m just gonna do what I always do— sway a nice, pretty girl into doing some not-so-nice but very pretty things.” 

“Solid.” The Irish bloke remarks, toying with the plastic buttons on his silk beige top. “Not much to do other than that, to be fair. Adam’s usually my wingman, but I guess he abandoned me for a girl’s night.” 

“Mitch is mine, and he knows better than to dip on me.” Harry roughly nudges his best friend with his elbow, dodging to the side when Mitch tries to hit him in return. 

Niall hums softly in amusement. “Maybe I should make Adam sign whatever contract you drafted for that poor bugger.” 

The curly brunette snorts. “Good luck. Adam’s as stubborn as they come. But, hey, if you can’t find anyone, just come to me.” Harry’s irises flit crimson for a millisecond, an ominous smirk buckling his features. “You know I’m always happy to share.” 

“Thanks,” his friend exhales flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you’re taking tips,” Mitch pipes up, vaguely signaling at Niall’s shirt with his chin, “maybe don’t wear that stupid shirt next time. The elephant doodles look ridiculous.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not taking fashion tips from anyone who actually enjoyed living in Ohio, then.” Niall snaps in an exaggerated American accent, middle finger jutting towards the other man. “The only thing you know how to dress is a cornfield scarecrow. Must be why you look like one.” 

Harry forces down more laughter, clearing his throat softly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get hammered— girls hate that.” 

“Note taken.” The pale boy runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it up and adding texture to appear more laid-back and rugged. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later.” The younger vampire recites, giving a big thumbs-up. 

“Good luck out there. You, too, Boston Tea Party.” 

With that, Niall saunters away, leaving a fully laughing Harry and a grouchy Mitch in his wake. 

The two acquaintances decide to follow in everyone else’s example, descending down the looped staircase and chatting about Mitch’s latest gig at a new bar downtown. 

Harry praises Mitch's talent with his guitar, specifically the fact that he found a hobby which he enjoys so much that he’s willing to keep it as a permanent part of his life. It’s easy to get bored of things when you have hundreds of years ahead of you; everything can seem pointless, in the end. But Harry doesn’t think Mitch has ever let himself fall into those types of dark headspaces and he finds that extremely admirable. 

Harry wishes he could say the same. He’s no musical prodigy, that much is obvious, but he is an expert at playing a few specific French songs on the piano by memory. He rarely does it, though; only when he’s in a low state of mind, which— given the origin of how he learned said classical pieces— isn’t something he’s proud of. They’re tied to a very gruesome part of his past that he’d rather bury deep inside, but he can only push back his troubles for so long before they begin to leak out, staining the clean sheet of recovery he had sewn into place. Those arrangements just bring him a warped sense of comfort he can’t explain.

Even though he’s aware of the destructive aspects of the songs, he finds himself humming one now out of instinct as he elbows through squished bodies and flailing limbs. The second he notices he’s doing it, he cuts it off, focusing all his intention on making it to the other side of the room to the bar. It’s a hard trip when it feels like the walls of the building are closing in on him. 

When Harry finally breaks free from the Human Centipede re-enactment that is the club dance floor, he practically collapses onto the sleek glass counter. Death was less painful than that walk. 

He cranes his neck to the side wildly, suddenly remembering that his much smaller, much skinnier, much more crushable friend had been in tow behind him. To his utter shock, he watches as Mitch calmly weeds around grinding drunk couples with the poise and grace of a swan, filling the empty spot besides him without a single ailment in the world. 

Harry blinks at him blankly in silence, almost as if he’d grown an extra set of fangs. 

Mitch flags the bartender from all the way down the counter, not bothering to meet the green eyes peering at him in disbelief. “You’re so fucking dramatic, H.”

“How did you not die? Again?” Harry sputters, sight jutting all around the older vampire’s body, looking for any battle wounds or missing appendages. “I almost lost an arm in there!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t your favorite one, right?” Mitch smirks at his own lewd joke, the simper molding into one of genuine kindness when the mixologist slides up in front of them. “Hi, how are you? I’m good, as well, thank you for asking! Yeah, I’ve got something in mind. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the ‘just make me something sweet’ type of assholes.”

Harry zones out the rest of the friendly chat Mitch entertains with the employee, letting his gaze wander around the large auditorium-like room. He dances his vision over the DJ remixing music on top of the stage, head beginning to bop along to the beat that is currently shaking the seven foot tall speakers. He’s pleasantly surprised at how good this specific producer is. 

He continues scoping out the rest of the venue, taking notes of the different clusters of people that seem to hold promise for the plans he has in store later tonight. A small group of hippie friends here, a two-party duo of tipsy stoners there, and a clump of college students at the edge of the ruckus, stumbling around loudly. Things are looking somewhat decent, in his opinion. The hippies seem to be catching his attention more than the others— specifically, the one that looks similar to Stevie Nicks. That’s a fantasy that’s been waiting to be fulfill for decades now. 

Harry lulls his head forward again when he feels Mitch give a squeeze at his elbow, telling him that the bartender is waiting to take his order. He decides to go for the gold tequila, asking for it straight in a highball glass without any garnishes. The worker’s eyebrows jump up slightly at the unorthodox request, but he drops a polite, “Coming right up.” either way.

“You truly have no flavor.” Mitch tuts once their waiter has stepped away to prepare their drinks. “No taste buds whatsoever.” 

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my flavorless dick.” Harry chimes brightly, eyes crinkling shut as a result of a theatrical smile. 

The younger vampire goes to turn back around, legitimately interested in the girl he’d seen that looked like one of his seventies celebrity crushes, already running through scenarios in his head on how he’d get her into his bed for tonight. Weed and ABBA are probably good conversation starters for that, if Harry’s undisputed people skills have anything to say about it. 

As he’s rotating his torso, a blurred image catches his eyes. He does a double-take, honing in on a group of girls that look faintly familiar. He scans them carefully as they huddle around the corner of the bar area, laughing and toasting along to the multiple conversations they all have going at once. They look like the typical posse that would be a backdrop clique in a mainstream movie. 

He knows where he recognizes them from— it had been the same girls he’d spotted earlier up on the second deck.

Harry expertly surveillances each woman, picking out potential candidates as easily as he’d pinch petals off a flower. The one in the center of the group is obviously the leader, present in how she’s the prettiest and is somehow managing to juggle all of these interactions at once. It means she’s used to being the center of attention— probably strives under it. He throws her out as a potential; the last thing he needs is someone who everyone knows and seeks out. He wouldn’t be able to sneak away with her quietly. 

The rest of the girl crew all seem to be the same status-wise, appearing as supporting characters to the main one in the middle. He could choose any one of them blindly and it wouldn’t make a difference. They all seem so tight-knit, they probably share personalities, at this point. It’s like dipping his hand into a jar of jelly beans and they’re all the same flavor. That notion makes him laugh to himself a bit; maybe Mitch was right about his lack of taste. 

Then, Harry spots her, and all the other women immediately go up in smoke. 

It’s hard not to spot her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but not in a good way. 

The prospective contender is off to the side, sitting atop a barstool with her feet tucked along the footrest, tapping them against the metal rung awkwardly. She’s talking to one of the other people in the group, but the interaction seems forced and not very satisfying, obvious in both of their faces. She’s tracing her middle finger around the edge of her glass cup distractedly, the contents inside barely touched, the ice in her drink long-melted. She seems disinterested in the chaos her friends are causing, her expression bored and borderline regretful, as if she doesn’t want to be here. 

The further he sizes the girl up, the more appropriate she looks for the role he needs filled. Since barely anyone is paying attention to her, that means he can lead her astray without too much resistance from her acquaintances, if any at all. She appears somewhat unimportant to the narrative— merely a background extra— and it makes him wonder what she’s doing with this clique of women that can’t seem to be bothered by her presence. It’s sad, really. Sad, but beneficial, because that means he can succeed in making her the supporting protagonist of his narrative, at least for tonight. 

The girl is attractive, but not anything astronomical. She’s unconventionally pretty in a way that makes her relevant, but not particularly distinct in the eyes of regular men with presumptuous standards. She’s easy to pass up, and if Harry hadn’t been actively pursuing someone of her bashful persona to card into his plans, he wouldn’t have noticed her. At the risk of once again sounding shallow, Harry’s aware that— physically speaking— he’s very much out of her league. His above-average appearance gives off the vibe that he’d fit better with the leader of the group instead of with her, but he doesn’t want someone that would raise suspicions as a result of their absence. This girl, sitting along the edge of the party with barely any purpose and no one to really question her whereabouts, is exactly what he’s looking for. She’s perfectly imperfect for the cause. 

Harry continues to examine her meticulously, analyzing other traits that can give him a better feel for her character. She’s clad in a pair of high-waisted pastel pink silk pants that stop right at her ankles, accompanied by a flouncy creme lace blouse tucked into her waist. Tan wedges, no accessories, delicate rosey nail polish, and minimalist makeup. The boldest thing about her is the brick red shade of her lipstick, which is easily shadowed by the sparkly sequin dresses, five inch heels, and layered tops her friends are wearing. 

Harry likes her outfit, though. It’s concise and safe, which he can appreciate. Yes, perhaps she looks like she belongs in a dentist’s office rather than a Los Angeles nightclub, but he thinks there’s beauty in simplicity. She looks cute, and that’s good enough for him. 

“She seems interesting.” Mitch’s soft voice snaps him out of his detail-hungry haze, drawing him back into the reality that is the black lighting of the club and the deep booming of the music’s bass. 

His friend slides his tall drink across the glass counter, the amber liquid inside warping his reflection. 

“I suppose so.” Harry answers passively, shrugging one shoulder in indifference while accepting the cup, ringed fingers clinking against the crystalline surface. 

He takes a leisurely sip from the straight tequila, its tangy kick sending a warm surge up through his ears and down his throat, spreading into his chest and along the trench of his tummy. Alcohol really is the cure to everything. 

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, the strobe lights alternating across the glossy surface of his hazel irises, highlighting smugness. “You’ve been gawking for five minutes. Put your pride back in your pants and go talk to her.” 

The curly-haired vampire flashes him a light smirk over the rim of his drink, absentmindedly tapping his two initial rings along the bottom of the highball cup. “Ever so blunt, aren’t you?”

Mitch scuffs, taking a swig from his trusty beer bottle. Out of everything, that’s the one aspect Harry despises about his best mate— that he goes to a club and orders the same drink every time. Where was the fun in that? Where was the excitement of trying something new? When you have an eternity, the least you could do is utilize it to your advantage. Cycling through every cocktail in human history is a prime example of making the best out of immortality.  

But Mitch is a creature of habit— as are most of their kind— and Harry knows he won’t shake easily. Not when it comes to surrendering his preferred beverage, and definitely not when it comes to sticking his nose in Harry’s intimate business. Meddling and being irritating are what best friends are for. 

“What can I say? Pep talks are my forte.” The older monster remarks sarcastically, bumping his bottle against Harry’s glass in encouragement, using the spout of his container to point in the general direction of the mysterious girl. “Now go make dinner.”

“But, darlinggggg,” Harry whines playfully, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his slightly liquor-swollen lips. “I made dinner last night. Isn’t it your turn?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shoves Harry’s shoulder harshly, with just enough force that it actually has some type of impact this time around. “Just go, before she gets creeped out by your staring.” 

Harry’s own irises copy his friend’s actions as he pushes himself up from the bar, rubbing at the new sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout present. “Ow.”

Mitch blinks at him flatly, fighting off a grin. “You’ve had worse. Go.”

Harry swivels on his heel, once again facing the group of tipsy girls at the other end of the counter. It appears that most of them have dispersed into the dance floor, having found partners to entertain them for the time being, moving to the music as if there are no other people in the room. They had left behind three of their companions, one of which is Harry’s aspiring hookup; he gets the feeling that the two girls had stayed behind out of the kindness of their hearts, feeling too guilty to leave the runt of the litter all on her own. He hopes that’s the case because if so, the second Harry inserts himself into the situation, they’ll take that chance and split, leaving him to tend his meal in peace.

He tucks one large hand into the front pocket of his trousers, the grip on his glass tightening a smidge, rings biting into his skin as the condensation of the chilled tequila cools the small spike of pain. He spins his lionhead ring around his finger within his slacks, gradually drifting closer as he goes through a checklist of prized pick-up lines he could use to garner her attention. He ducks and dodges inebriated club-goers with ease now that he’s had something to take the edge off, finally reaching the end of the bar, slowly coming to a halt right behind his target for the night. 

Harry nearly passes out as soon as her scent hits him. 

It’s faint and tender and nothing quite like anything he’s encountered before, a mixture of honey and lavender that permeates through her normal perfume. He feels like his head’s been put through a wringer, his whole body clenching for a moment as raging sparks erupt across the pit of his belly. He indulges a deep breath, willing the blazing current away in order to keep his cool, but all he can see flashing before his eyes are images of her leaving traces of that smell smeared all over his face as he bobs his head between her quivering thighs.

He takes another penetrating inhale, centering his mind back into the present. He needs to behave.

Her friends spot him immediately, their side of the conversation faltering to ash. They give Harry a wide-eyed once-over, mouths parting in slight shock as they drink up his attractive appearance, gazes lingering along his thick chest as it strains the baby blue material of his tee. Their sights drag across his broad shoulders, dainty collarbones, and strong neck, faces gawking without remorse, blinking emptily at the slope of his sharp jaw and the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. They seem to be at a loss for words the second his dimples indent into place, his brows shrugging in a half-assed greeting before he cocks his head to side a tad, voice velvet as it directs towards the girl they had forgotten existed.  

“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”

Y/N jumps slightly in response at the new addition to the painfully dying conversation, not recognizing the heavy English accent and deep baritone that booms behind her. She had been wondering why Melissa and Isabel had stopped talking so abruptly, and she now has her answer. 

Y/N slowly goes to cast a curious glance over her shoulder and Harry can hear the pulse flaring in her neck from the sudden intrusion to her surroundings. His fangs prick along the inside of his bottom lip due to carnal instincts; he has to will them back into receding. 

 When her eyes land on the owner of the random words, her finger immediately halts its swirling motions along the hem of her glass.

‘Fuck.’ is the only thought that registers through her short-circuiting mind. 

The lanky, curly-haired brunette that stands before her gives a gentle yet confident smile, the gesture dazzling even in the low lighting of the atmosphere. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with deep pits carving into his cheeks, perfect teeth complimenting full cherry red lips, eyes the color of a rainforest canopy, and a broad frame that is somehow not overwhelming. He’s sporting neatly ironed tan slacks, a fitted cotton shirt with a cute yet crude graphic at its center, a fancy plaid coat, and crisp yellow Vans without a single smudge in sight.

Y/N can’t help but take notice of all the little details of his fit, especially the accessories. A beautiful pearl necklace laid along his delicate clavicle, a cross resting between his defined pectorals, and a matching earring dangling from his earlobe. Not to mention the array of clunky rings arranged along nimble fingers, hugging a tall glass carrying caramel liquor and somehow managing to dwarf the cup’s size. The extra decoration is sensual in such an unexpectedly delicious manner. 

The hand he has tucked in his pants ducks out to comb through his dark auburn ringlets and Y/N can feel her mouth water at the new round of elegant rings. The action activates the cologne Harry had thoughtfully spritz in specific pressure points along his body, the scent of tobacco and vanilla traveling through the fog-heavy air and causing Y/N’s stomach to summersault. 

The young man is as close to flawless as anyone could ever come. 

Y/N feels an unmistakable sharp pain shoot through her ankle, and she comes to the realization that it had been the tip of one of her friend’s heels. The reality check jars her out of the embarrassing daze he’d spelled onto her, open mouth snapping shut and her lashes fluttering over her previously unblinking eyes. 

“Oh! Uhm—uh—” She clumsily twists sideways to fully face him, swallowing thickly and tasting the remnants of the alcohol she’d barely been nursing. “N-No. I’m not— well, I don’t think…? We Ubered here so that wouldn’t make any sense ‘cause I have no car to drive...so...” 

The boy chuckles softly at her choppy monologue, his laughter warm and inviting, similar to the look reflecting off his shiney irises, the golden flecks around his pupils seeming to swell and shrink from the rainbow lights cascading across them. Despite being caught off guard and utterly embarrassed, she can’t seem to break eye contact with him. The longer she gazes into his eyes, the more relaxed she begins to feel, a fuzzy heat stemming from the center of her belly and spreading up her neck and ears. 

Y/N gulps heavily like before, willing her tongue to produce a less embarrassing comment. “Sorry. Let me...Let me start over…Hi.”

“Hello.” He quips back playfully, lopsided grin widening in fond amusement. He lifts his drink up a bit in greeting. “M’Harry.”

“Y/N.” The girl squeaks out, copying his gesture because it’s easier than forcing her disoriented brain to try and come up with its own. 

Harry flirts his intent up and down Y/N’s body slowly, checking her out without any subtlety. He wants her to know he’s interested. 

When his sight locks with hers again, he bats his lashes sultrily and pours as much passion as he can into his tone, accent weighing in just right. “S’nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Her entire face prickles at how her name sounds dripping from those faultless raspberry lips. She’d pay anything to hear him say it again. “You, too.” 

This is not what Y/N intended. This is most definitely not what she’d intended to happen when she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with some coworkers on a Friday night, giving in simply because she had promised herself she’d be more social within her new job. 

She had moved to California roughly two months ago, wanting to get away from her old life in the small, boring town she hated to call home. Buying the flight had been a drastic decision made when she had been under the influence of something she’d rather not admit, but the following day— after she had sobered up from a wicked hangover— she found herself not wanting to cancel the trip. Found herself craving the excitement and adventure of beginning anew somewhere far away from everything she had ever known. 

All of Y/N’s friends back home had supported her without hesitation, egging her preposterous idea and congratulating her on “getting the fuck out of here.” Her family had been a little less supportive, but after a few heartfelt chats about following your ambitions and a budgeting lesson from her cousin, they had gingerly gotten on board. They understood that keeping her trapped in that lame town where nothing really happened wasn’t the way to ensure her success in life. Therefore, the people closest to her had swallowed their opinions and respected her choice to dive off the deep end, in search of something better beyond the borders of their tiny city. 

Within a week, Y/N had secured a decent job at a semi-popular cafe, courtesy of a connection from a family friend. Within two weeks, after many sleepless nights full of Rocky Road ice cream and the bright white pages of ApartmentFinder.com, she had managed to book a nice flat close to her place of work. It was a miracle, if she’d ever seen one. Especially within the crowded, expensive community that is Los Angeles. Within three weeks, she had been walking out of the giant glass building that was LAX with only two suitcases in tow, boarding an Uber to her new life. 

Things had never seemed more picturesque, she’d thought. Everything was falling into place in a way that seemed almost blessed by the universe.

Then, the culture shock hit. 

California was different. It’s was so fucking different than anything she’d ever faced and she wasn’t prepared for the social difficulties she’d have to hurdle. All her life, Y/N had grown up with the same people around her, spending every school year with them up until graduation, expanding her friend group as time passed. Even after high school, she’d remained closely connected with most of her graduating class. The region she lived in was tiny, tight-knit and friendly; it was hard not to. She couldn’t even go to the store for groceries without bumping into at least three people from her Algebra II class. 

Point being, it had been ages since Y/N had been put in a situation where she actively had to try and make friends. She’d been through that challenge way back in kindergarten and had never been hit with it again. 

Until it smacked her across the head here in LA.

Y/N didn’t mesh well with Californians, she quickly found out. They were all about crazy parties and club-hopping, whereas Y/N had been raised on community cookouts and mass sleepovers. They enjoyed getting cross-faded and streaking down the beach at two in the morning, meanwhile Y/N liked stripping down to her undies and spending the night binging Queer Eye while stuffing her face with Cheeze-Its and Snickers bars. They freely boasted about their sex adventures while bussing down tables at the restaurant, while Y/N’s intimate life had been nonexistent since the move. 

It was just...startling, to put it lightly. It wasn’t what she had expected at all, and that’s mostly her fault for not doing the correct amount of research before jumping headfirst into a cliche LifeTime film. 

Therefore, Y/N had made a pact with herself one month in, swearing to let loose and allow her surroundings to sweep her into a new dynamic— into a new, social butterfly version of herself. She’d started accepting the invitations from her coworkers to go out at night, and she’d started putting more effort into being open to wild experiences, no matter how scary they might seem. Shutting down and refusing to mold to her environment would only result in her having to return home with her tail between her legs, and she’d rather jump naked off a pier than see her parents’ faces wracked with pity. 

And that’s exactly what she’d done a couple nights ago, at the encouragement of the group of girls she was at the club with now. It had, in turn, ended in her coming down with a mild cold, but at least now she’d be able to tell her friends back home a cool story about dropping inhibitions. 

Dropping inhibitions is also why Y/N’s here tonight, dressed in the most party-like outfit she could put together, prodding an overly-boozy drink into her system, attempting to release some of the tension that had been building in her head for the last couple of weeks since she’d left her old life behind. That’s why she’s here, with strands of her blow-dried hair catching on the dark red gloss Melissa has slathered on her mouth in a thick layer. That’s why she’s here, with synthetic smoke scratching at her lungs and drunken men and women bumping into her every two minutes, most of them too busy sticking their tongues down each other’s throats to realize they’d almost toppled her off her seat. That’s why she’s here, with a blasé expression plastered across her features as her coworkers talk over her head without a second thought, her mind far away from the walls of this overhyped horror house. 

Y/N had been thinking about how she’d just started her Disney+ membership, finding comfort in putting together a mental checklist of all the movies she’s going to plow through the second she sets foot past the doorframe of her apartment. Indulging on her childhood was an ideal form of escapism, in her opinion. She’s positive Walt Disney would agree. 

That’s what her brain had been lost in when Harry’s deep, melodic voice had interrupted her daydreams, sending her spiraling into an embarrassing performance of nerve-induced hysteria. 

Now here she is, blinking back at him dumbly, eyes the smallest bit damp from the smoke machine and neon flashes of light. And here he is, smirking at her over the rim of his glass, eyes raking down her wired up body suggestively as he takes a calm sip from what appears to be the straight tequila in his colossal, bejeweled hand. 

The English boy takes a gradual step closer to her, wanting to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries that would make her uncomfortable. The scent of his cologne intensifies and she feels a fiery heat suddenly pour between her clasped thighs. It just hits her how long it’s truly been since she’s gotten laid and fuck, it’s sad.

Harry begrudgingly peels his attention away from Y/N for a second, aiming his words towards the girls standing behind her with their mouths still opened stupidly. Even from a respectful distance, his warm breath still washes across her jaw and cheek, causing electricity to zip down her spine. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a bit, do you?”

‘Yeah,’ Y/N thinks in the back of her muddled skull, ‘that’s definitely tequila.’

Isabel and Melissa slowly shake their heads in unison, glancing at each other as if to confirm he’d just spoken to them. 

The edges of Harry’s lips jolt into a kind, easygoing smile. “Thank you. Promise I’ll keep her safe.” 

Y/N feels her heart hiccup at his statement. If she’s not insanely mistaken, it appears to have carried an undertone of dirty intentions. God, she’s praying she’s not mistaken. 

The two girls clamber away on their tall pumps, rounding around Harry and pausing for a moment. They make moaning faces and vulgar motions behind him, encouraging Y/N to pursue the stranger. She then watches them disappear into the throng of crowded bodies, leaving her alone with the beautiful boy and her heart slamming against her ribs. 

Y/N focuses back onto Harry, licking her itching lips lightly, not knowing what to say next as he settles himself beside her. He rests his forearm on the counter along with his drink, tucking his other hand back into  his trouser pocket and fixing himself into a comfortable standing position, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. The friction between his jacket and the bar rides his sleeve up an inch or so, and Y/N gets a view of the anchor tattoo he has along his wrist, as well as the upside-down cross inked between his thumb and index finger. 

Harry catches her looking, mouth twitching with a smidge of arrogant self-assurance. He loves when girls drool over his tats. 

“I have more.” He remarks lightly, a pang of condescending pleasure shooting through his chest at the way she jerks and pins her gaze down to the floor. 

Blood rushes into her cheeks at the realization that she’s been caught and Harry’s teeth grind. It’s so hot watching her fidget for him. Maybe he finds her more attractive than he’d originally let on. “Would you like to see them?”

Y/N timidly coaxes herself into locking stares with him once again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, barely nodding with a soft, “Sure.” 

She looks so pretty like that, he notices, staring up at him all doe-eyed and shy. It’d probably look even better if she were on her knees.

Yeah, he definitely likes her more than he’d thought. 

Harry proceeds to shift about, shrugging his coat off his strong shoulders, letting it slip down his lean arms and reveal the plethora of dark tattoos strewn across his left arm. Y/N watches avidly, drinking up every flex of his biceps under the black paint and every twitch of his pecs beneath his cotton shirt, the tendons along his throat going taut for just a moment. That moment is enough for her to etch the image into the back of her eyelids for the rest of her life. 

Harry tosses the article onto the table, extending his arm over its surface for her to get a better reading. She doesn’t miss the chance, her pupils tracing over every line and stroke of the pen, over every shaded area and meticulous detail. 

His voice comes out as a low, garbled murmur, his own irises studying her features with just as much intensity. “You can touch them, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

After a moment of hesitation, the brim of her crystalline cup is replaced by the ridges of his smooth, tanned skin. She drags her digits over the naked mermaid, tracing the curve of her figure and the dip of her tail, then passing onto the stem of the large rose, ghosting over every thorn and prickle. Harry can feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and it’s making him throb. 

“They’re very pretty.” Y/N whispers, allowing her touch to fall away, palm finding refuge across the counter. “Did they hurt?” 

“A bit, yeah. But I’ve gotten so many done that I think I grew numb to the needle after a while.” Harry answers, shrugging one shoulder to show it’s no big deal. He grasps his glass once again and takes a drawn-out swig, extending the action just so she can see the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. Once the cup is back in its place, his tongue peeks out and swipes any leftover liquid from his rosy lips, which then settle into a coy simper. “Plus, I kinda like the pain.” 

Y/N’s breathing stutters in her lungs and she swiftly swerves the topic onto something much less explicit. “So why’d you ask if I was the designated driver? That’s kind of an odd question. Very out of the blue.” 

Harry lulls his middle finger across the hem of his glass, exactly how she had been doing earlier, the motion weighed by an innuendo. She seems to understand it, present in how she bites into the inside of her cheek. “I just figured that a pretty girl like you would have easily found someone to dance with. So when I saw you sitting here looking all bored with your drink barely touched…I just assumed, I suppose.” 

And there it is again— the blood pouring into her face. Christ, if she keeps that up, he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Thank you, that’s— that’s really sweet. Proper gentleman.” 

Harry runs his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes snapping to her tinted mouth for a second, establishing some sexual tension that he’ll expand on as they go. “Who doesn’t like a guy who knows how to treat a girl, right?” 

Y/N clears her throat softly, obviously phased by his forward compliment, but she tries to play it off. “To answer your question, I— uhm...I’m not really one for the club scene, I guess. Don’t really like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and turn down the invitation.” 

‘Good girl,’ Harry thinks, silently cheering her on for having more brain cells than the typical human. 

“Well, that’s where we share some common ground, then.” He chimes brightly, a soft smile bringing his dimples to life. “I don’t care for clubs, either, but my friends have an affinity for them so here I am.”

He gestures vaguely towards the general direction where he’d left Mitch, continuing his rant. “The choking smoke, the annoying strobe lights, the crowded floor, the drunk morons—”

“Bumping into you without giving a shit.” Y/N finishes his sentence, her vulgarity drawing a boyish giggle from her companion and now she’s convinced she’d do anything to hear him laugh like that again. “And there’s always a faint smell of vomit coming from somewhere.”

Harry slaps his hand down against the glass table in passionate agreement, voice pitching up slightly as his brows jump in emotion. “Right?! It’s fucking disgusting. Don’t understand how anyone could genuinely enjoy it.” 

Y/N nods vehemently, sharing the same expression of utter distaste towards the subject. “It honestly doesn’t make any sense to me, either. Why come here when you can go to, like, a nice bar somewhere, y’know?”

Harry blinks at her in astonishment, her opinion mirroring his own with psychic-like accuracy. “My thoughts exactly.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Y/N responds playfully, taking a hearty gulp from her drink since the first time he’d spotted her from across the room. 

After a comfortable pause, Harry speaks up, also entertaining another sip from his own drink, which is now nearly empty. “Are you from around here?”

She can’t be. Rarely anyone born and raised here is willing to bash the status quo, and never so openly. 

She’s once again mesmerized by the attractiveness of his rings, but manages to get her composure in check. “Kinda. I moved here about two months ago.” 

Precisely his point.

Harry releases a curious hum over the cup between his lips. “Let me be the one to officially welcome you to Cali, then! Where people go to shitty clubs for fun and tan themselves into a strip of leather.”

Y/N sputters out a half-suppressed giggle and Harry’s brows almost furrow at the weird fluttering in his stomach. He rarely gets it.

Y/N takes another deep gulp of what he thinks is probably an Old Fashioned, silently praising the way she’d finished it off so quickly. She crunches an ice shard between her teeth and lets it melt across her tongue before engaging again. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here either though, are you?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle a bit and she fights off an endeared smile. 

“What gave it away?” He asks, purposefully doing a thicker, fuller accent, his teasing nature making the grin she’d just stifled fully break through.

Y/N lifts a shoulder offhandedly. “Your accent seems a little too…posh for this area. Or even this hemisphere.”

Harry scoffs softly, the pinky around his glass sticking up jokingly as he kinks an eyebrow at her, a few rouge curls falling across his forehead. “Keen ears, mate.”

Y/N lifts her drink up a bit with a playfully knowing air, mimicking an English dialect. “Cheers.”

He places his empty cup down on the counter, his middle finger once more ghosting around the edge absentmindedly. She notices the pastel yellow polish covering his nails, tiny black smiley faces decorating the lacquer.

“I like your nails.” She admires, tipping her empty lowball towards his hand for significance. “Did you do them yourself?”

Harry glances at his fingers, stretching and wiggling them out, his features taking on a bit of pride. “Sure did.” 

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a guy at a club who could pull off nail polish so easily.” 

The left edge of his lips flicks upwards. “How do you mean?”

Y/N’s gaze bounces back to his and the tone twirling in his jade irises tells her everything she needs to know about keeping this conversation going: he enjoys being praised. 

She chooses her next words carefully, wanting to appeal to his interests. “I mean that it looks amazing on you. The color suits your skin nicely, makes your hands look good.” 

Harry breaks eye contact, glimpsing down at his shoes and she realizes he’s actually trying to hide a blush. The fact that she had managed to coax one out of him boosts her confidence while simultaneously making his own waver. He’s never like this— never so easily flustered. He needs to get it together.

Harry tilts his chin back up, lower lip strung between his two front teeth. His voice comes out as a flirty laugh.

“Known you for maybe,” he looks at the beautiful watch on his wrist symbolically, “ten minutes, and you’re already stroking my ego just the way I like it. I think that’s a record.” 

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s the liquor she’d just consumed too quickly, or if it’s Harry’s intoxicatingly alluring scent dulling the region of her brain that controls fear, but she’s suddenly filled with a strange surge of courage and her thoughts are spilling down her semi-numb tongue before she can stop them. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good at stroking, so an ego’s not too hard to handle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, surprised at her brazen reply. He might have misjudged her more than he assumed. However, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy this girl more than the one he thought he was going to receive. There’s just something about how she can match his banter without a problem, and how they share a lot of the same thoughts and opinions, that just lights a fire in his stomach. 

“Is that so?” His voice lowers in pitch and he scoots a step closer, fingers just barely brushing against her arm as he repositions himself against the bar. His question comes out as a sultry murmur. “What else can you handle?”

Y/N knows that she’s starting to cross a line, and with every passing moment, the likelihood of returning to her friends is getting smaller and smaller. She’s not mad about it. Riding off of the wave of confidence that had inflated her ego earlier, she mumbles her response back with the same tone and texture. “How about you buy me another drink and then maybe you’ll find out?”

Harry gives her a boyish grin and the indents that pop into his cheeks nudge his appearance from an incredibly attractive man to an adorable cheeky boy. He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks, only letting his eyes flicker away from her for the moment it takes to do it. “How do you like LA so far?”

“It’s...alright.” It’s Y/N’s turn to move closer to him now, flicking her hair off her shoulder, hoping that the motion releases the perfume she’d dabbed on her neck while getting ready. Judging by the darkening of Harry's eyes, it does just that. “It’s definitely a change in pace from where I used to live, but I think I’m slowly gaining the reigns. I feel like once I get acquainted, I could grow to love it.”

“LA’s definitely a toggle. You could either vibe with it, or it’ll eat you alive and spit you back out.” 

She bats her lashes at him in stunned fright at his bluntness, his face deadly serious without any twitch or give. 

Harry then bursts into high-pitched laughter, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching. “I’m just fucking with you, love. Ease up, hm?”

“You asshole!” Y/N exhales grandly, half in relief and half in indignation, slugging him on the shoulder. All she feels is hard muscle beneath. 

He continues to cackle, sticking his tongue out at her. “Looked like you were about to cry.” 

“It definitely crossed my mind, yeah!”

The bartender arrives with their fresh drinks and Harry tells the man to but both of Y/N’s on his tab. She feels her cheeks glow, telling him he doesn’t have to, but he waves it off and says he’s more than happy to serve such a nice girl as herself. Especially if she “hates the same things I do. Think of it as your initiation gift into the Anti-Club Club.” 

A handful of heartbeats tick by, full of comfortable quietness as they both savor their new beverages. Harry pipes up first, regaining their topic from before.

“But, yeah, Cali’s for sure a special place. You meet some cool people if you hang around for a while. But sometimes,” he pauses for a second, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite interpret. “But sometimes you can meet a really interesting person in just one night.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Y/N clicks her nails against her Old Fashioned distractedly as Harry fixes her with that beautiful emerald gaze that makes her ears tingle. She cocks her head to the side knowingly, flashing him a soft smirk. “Sometimes, you just happen to meet that one in a million.”

“A lucky strike.” He adds, lifting his tequila an inch off the counter and tilting it towards her in what appears to be a toast, irises dancing with a certain type of suggestive mischief. “To meeting interesting people.”

The human girl clinks the rim of her lowball to the edge of his cup, shrugging her brows and reciting his comment back to him. “To meeting interesting people.” 

Y/N measures how the rest of their interaction goes by how quickly her drink shrinks. 

When she reaches down to the first ice cube stacked on top, Harry has managed to coax multiple rounds of laughter out of her, his humor startlingly similar to her’s in the most refreshing way imaginable. She quickly learns that despite his broad shoulders, lean torso, dark inking, and flawless features, he’s a complete and total dork. His personality consists mainly of voice impersonations and contorting his expression into an endless array of silly faces, which she takes to easily.

By the time Y/N’s amber drink has reached halfway down its container, the default touch barrier between the two has broken completely. There had been a few caresses prior, but now it’s more frequent, more noticeable, and each touch extends in time. She had been the one to initiate getting physical, which had sat so right in her stomach because that meant he was respectful and patient— definitely unlike most men in clubs. 

The mortal girl had gently shoved Harry’s chest when he’d made an nonchalant joke about how losing his swim trunks at a nude beach had been both the best and worst experience of his life, her cheeks boiling as she had felt nothing but more toned muscle beneath the cotton fabric of his top. She had gone back to tracing at his tattoos the further they got into sharing anecdotes and opinions, glancing up at him for permission in the middle of their exchange and smiling to herself when he’d nodded casually without a second thought. As the conversations continue, they both unintentionally get closer in distance to the point where the arm Harry had settled on the bar is now fully wrapped around the small of her back. She willingly leans into him, their knees and thighs brushing with every shift of their bodies and those minute moments begin to pile up their excitement.

By the time the alcohol in her possession bottoms out, she is nearly sitting in his lap, faces only a few inches apart. Y/N can’t recall half of what she had said, the subject having steered into so many different places that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. Besides, she’s too focused on trying to keep a straight face as Harry plays footsie with her below the counter, his light yellow sneaker toying with her heeled velvet wedge. 

An important question on his behalf snaps Y/N out of her flirty stupor.

“So how do you like your new home?”

She blinks at him slowly, partially to try and give a seductive tinge to the interaction and partially because the liquor has started to truly settle in. It takes her a few heartbeats to process the inquiry. “I love it, actually. It’s a place of my own, for the first time ever. I couldn’t be happier.”

The corners of Harry’s swollen lips tick in genuine happiness on her behalf. “That sounds amazing. Congratulations on such a big step.” 

“Thank you! What about yourself? Renting anything neat?”

“Oh, I own a condo here.” He mentions casually, outlining the criss-cross pattern along the circumference of his highball glass. “I used to visit so often that I finally just decided to pull the trigger on one.”

“Look at you, investing in real estate.” She says in a teasing voice, her heel grazing around his calf slowly, cheeks sizzling as he parts his legs a bit to allow her the pleasure of traveling higher up.

“Mmhm.” Harry licks his red lips, free hand starting to trace over her own. The tips of his fingers are calloused and cold, the motion of them over her skin almost pulling a tremble out of her body. She does her best to restrain it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Is it nice?” 

“Hm?”

His lips twitch in endearment at how he’s managing to make her lose her train of thought. “Your apartment, darling.”

She rests the rim of her drink on the bottom of her lip as she speaks. “It’s nothing huge or fancy, but it’s a decent size and l can call it home. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N loves how Harry's eyes flit to her lips for what she thinks is the billionth time tonight, his vision sketching along the curve of her cupid’s bow and dotting every peak.

Another warm glow of confidence spikes through her veins and she’s talking before she can analyze her thoughts. “Well, at least I think it can’t get much better than that. Although, I could just be biased. Could probably use an outside opinion.” 

It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s suggesting, a light blush creeping up the base of his neck as he realizes how he’s stopped so abruptly. Humans usually never get him this unnerved and it’s one of many times she’s made it happen. “An outside opinion?”

Y/N lists her head to the side. It sounds like he’s accepting the vague invitation, but she’s so anxious to mess this up that she’s second guessing herself with every passing second. However, with every touch, she wants Harry more and more, and that’s enough to propel her towards a more direct approach. “Mmhm. Like yours, maybe. Would you like to come back and see it?”

Harry pauses for a few of her heartbeats, and then bobs his head in acceptance. She can breath again. 

He finishes off the last inch or so of his tequila, a wicked grin creeping its way across his pretty, flushed mouth, long fingers carding into his loosely arranged curls. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

A smile works its way onto Y/N’s own face at his response, her foot dropping back down his leg slowly. “I’m glad to hear.”

“Mm.” Harry takes her hand completely now and she almost moans at how much bigger his are, his rings pinching a bit, skin rough in some areas, but silky smooth in others. And strangely icy, but she enjoys it. “Shall we say goodbye to your friends first? I wouldn’t want them to worry about you.”

He knows her “friends” couldn’t care less, but he wants to be as much of a gentleman as possible. Romanticize, romanticize, romanticize.

Y/N snorts, knowing full well that they’d probably purposefully embarrass her in front of him as a joke. 

She squeezes his grasp lightly, giving him a soft smile. “You’re sweet, but it’s fine. They were actually behind you earlier, encouraging this whole thing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.” 

Harry hums deep in the back of his throat and the sound melts into a cute chuckle. “I’m glad they helped, then. Think you can deliver them my thanks some other time?”

The young woman chews on the inside of her cheek at his comment, realizing that it suggests he aims on keeping her occupied for the rest of the night and well into the morning. She has to will herself not to lurch forward and kiss at his annoyingly perfect lips right then and there. “I’ll make sure to pass the message along.” 

With one last cocky simper, Harry helps her down from the stool and pays off their tab, offering her his jacket since most of her outfit is made of flimsy fabrics. Y/N takes it appreciatively, lashes fluttering when his scent envelopes her like a blanket. It’s the unique smokiness from his cologne, mixed with a slightly sweeter smell that she assumes is his shampoo, and a bit of something that reminds her of a vanilla candle. The aromas are sewn into every thread of his coat and she can’t wait to have those scents glued all over her more deliberately later tonight.  

Harry turns and plunges them into the throng of partiers, weeding through bodies with a type of determination that makes her insides twist. His arm comes up in front of him as he plows people out of the way with absolutely no regret, leaving her to throw out a few half-assed apologies in his wake. The idea that he’s excited to be alone with her has Y/N’s insides churning. 

Once they escape all of the grinding limbs and tight spaces, stumbling into the cool air of the starry night, she takes a huge gulp of air. She prays it will tide over the jitters running along the inside of her tummy. She has just now realized how riled up he’d gotten her and it’s all coming to a raging boil. 

Harry paces past the bouncer, throwing up two fingers in parting. “Later, Brock.” 

The security guard gives the young vampire a confused look, not recognizing him at all and wondering how he knows his name. 

Y/N repeats Harry’s phrase for the hell of it, squeezing his hand jestingly and he glimpses over his shoulder, grinning at her with sheer amusement and something much deeper swirling around the specks of copper in his irises. If there was a bit more light, perhaps she would have noticed the way his irises had glinted blood red instead of olive green.

She ogles at the way his back muscles shift and flex below his pastel blue shirt, her mind vaguely taking note of the light yellow detailings along the cuffs and collar. The tee is intriguing and fun and she hopes he’ll let her sleep in it after they’re done. 

She also gets distracted by the baby curls decorating the nape of his neck. She’s itching to tug at them and see what his response would be. Would he shiver in her grasp and let out a soft moan, or would he smirk darkly and tell her to go harder?

Harry suddenly halts, snapping her out of her thoughts as he presents his car. Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off. “This is yours?!”

She gawks at the vintage jet black convertible before her, feeling like she isn’t worthy of its chic presence. It looks new, shining in the street lamps like a thousand diamonds, not a scratch or dent in sight. 

Harry unlocks the passenger’s door, opening it and guiding her inside with a gentle pull at their clasped hands, shrugging his brows playfully. “Hope it’s not too shabby for your liking.”  

“Are you kidding?” The human mumbles in awe as she ducks down into the patented leather seat, running her free hand over the elegant cover. She sighs softly at the way his smell is lingering inside the vehicle, just as much as it sticks to his clothes. “I feel like I should bow to it or something.”

He laughs fully now, leaning down to get a view of her sitting prim and proper in his favorite car, looking gorgeous in her flowy silk pants, lace creme blouse, and his own clothes. He gnaws at his bottom lip to withhold a needy groan. “I think you fit right in.” 

Y/N feels warmth erupt into her face and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to distract her fingers from shaking. “Looks like I’m not the only one that’s good at stroking egos.”

“S’hardly a task. You make it easy, doll.” 

It’s the second pet name he’s called her tonight— it’s strangely vintage, same as his car— and she can’t wait to hear what others he has in store. Preferably in the form of breathy pants and broken whines.

Y/N flicks her gaze up at him through heavy lashes, attempting to stifle a sheepish smile. “Quite the charmer.”

A moment of silence suspends in the air, a light breeze filtering through Harry’s curls, swaying the jewelry around his neck as well as the earring hanging from his lobe. Harry speaks up with a type of hushed desire she hadn’t heard from him yet. “Can I kiss you?”

She blinks up at him once in mild surprise and then releases a sigh of utter relief. “Fuck, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Her hand reaches upwards outside the confines of the car, knitting into the thick fabric of his shirt and yanking him down. The second their mouths meet, it sets off a dozen fireworks in the pit of her stomach. His is softer than she had imagined, wet and warm, and his tongue carries the sourness of the tequila he’d been swishing the whole night. 

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and then a quiet whimpery moan streams down his tongue onto her itchy skin. “Christ, that was hot.”

As much as she loves the taste of him— the tartness of the alcohol mixed with an inherent sweetness his lips carry— she forces herself to pull away, but keeps her sweaty forehead pressed to his. “Yeah. It was.”

With one hand still gripping the car door, Harry uses his other to cup her chin lightly, guiding her into another kiss. Now that they have both developed a feel for the other, this one is less tentative than the last. She tastes so fucking good on his tongue, like strawberry syrup—probably from her lipgloss— orange bitters, and bourbon. He just has to have more of it.

A helpless gasp escapes Y/N when Harry's teeth graze against her upper lip, only nipping enough that she craves more. More of anything he has to offer. 

He pulls away and the whine that plucks her vocal chords feeds his eternal soul like nothing else has in a while.  

The young man grins at her for a moment, half in smug satisfaction, half red-faced and desperate, before carefully closing the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He slides in with ease, shuts his own door and buckles up with a click of the belt. The simple action has never looked so attractive before, but she’s certain that anything Harry does with his ring-covered hands would be attractive.  

He fishes his keys from his front pocket, asking her where she lives in order to try and orient himself. As it turns out, she’s not too far away from his own flat. He knows exactly which condominium she’s referring to without having to even search it up— a perk of living here for a few decades.

He also chuckles to himself a bit at the fact that she hadn’t mentioned he shouldn’t drive under the influence. Vampires have an extremely high tolerance due to their self-healing properties, so the drinks he’d had only gave him a soft, warm buzz. He just finds it comical— and slightly arousing— that she’s so eager to get at him that she’d let that detail slip her mind.

Harry starts the car, but doesnt pull out of the parking spot. Instead, he glances at Y/N as a crease appears in his beautifully sculpted brows. The idea of something displeasing him bothers her, and she’s about to ask what it is when he murmurs a quick, “Just a second, dove.” He reaches across to grab her seatbelt, pulling it over her body and securing it into place on her behalf, making sure it’s nice and proper before leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t know why he cared to do it, but he had. 

The simple action leaves another layer of heat on Y/N’s cheeks. Having him bent over her like that was just a teaser of what was going to unfold later and it already has her mind spinning. She can only imagine how much of a mess he’s going to leave her when there’s no clothes restraining them.

“Thanks.” She whispers, playing with the tips of her fingers.

“No need to thank me. Just wanna keep that pretty face in one piece.” 

He plops one hand on the steering wheel as he shifts into reverse, carefully backing out of his spot. His arm ducks behind her seat, head turning and veins chiseling into his neck. It takes all of Y/N’s willpower not to lean up and begin to darken his tanned skin with hickeys. 

Harry cruises up to the exit of the club parking lot, waiting impatiently for the turn signal, digits tapping away at the leather below them. Y/N can see him throwing pained little glances at her from her peripheral vision, obviously restless to feel her skin sliding against his. Each look causes the warmth between her thighs to swell. 

She’s talking before she can stop herself, voice bashful and soft as ever, yet full of boldness from the liquor she’d consumed. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something to you that’s gonna get us both killed.”

The tapping of his fingers halts and he cranes his head to face her fully, ignoring the flashing green arrow on the stoplight before them. 

Harry reaches over the center console, his nose dragging up the length of her cheekbone, causing her to squeak out a tiny whimper at the feathery sensation. It’s the first time tonight he’s touched her so intimately. 

The sentence he grits out next makes her entire body visibly shutter, his breath hot against her ear, damp lips smearing over her jaw as his oath burns into her flesh.

“And if you say something like that to me again, I promise you I’ll pull this car over and make you eat every fucking word.” 

[spenciegoob]

Who Needs Luck?

A/N: hi! I solely wrote this because of my 3 recent visits to NY (no, I sadly did not meet mgg)... plus i’ve been going there my whole life.. this is becoming the longest authors note, but as i’m writing I just want to say the people who work at food trucks in nyc are the nicest people ever, ask them about their day (AND TIP OMG PLS)

Summary: Reader invites Spencer to go to New York City with her where he finally sees the beauty right in front of him.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff!

Content Warnings: reader can’t drive very well (I apologize if this is a callout post), slight road rage, language

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.4K

____

I never considered myself a lucky man. Life had proven time and time again that no matter how many four leaf clovers I set out to search for, how many pennies on the ground faced heads up I stumbled across, luck was never on my side. I’ve learned to live with it, accepted my fate as the world’s smartest punching bag long before I was even in college.

But then I met her, and as cheesy as it sounds, I didn’t need luck that morning.

The second I woke up, the universe seemed to have it out for me specifically. I swung my legs over my bed, and in my half asleep daze stepped on my glasses, successfully breaking them. Unable to see on my short trip to the bathroom, I stubbed my toe… twice. Once I finally finished my morning routine more methodically, I walked out of my apartment only to bump into a stranger, sending the coffee she was holding all the both of us.

I had tried to apologize so many times, cutting my words short when they didn’t feel right. I had gotten through a series of “I’m, uh, oh, I, you,” before her smile interrupted my thought process, leaving me awestruck instead.

“That’s okay, but you owe me a coffee now.” She giggled, actually giggled, even with the scorching liquid causing her shirt to stick to her body. “Maybe… together?”

I didn’t hesitate to agree, taking her up on the offer that weekend and never looking back. Even when a loud crash, followed by a quiet, harsh ‘shit’ woke me up in a startle, there was no regret. Maybe just a little concern for my girlfriend who now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, can be seen holding her knee on the floor of our bedroom.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispered out, grabbing onto the dresser to stand straight again. Once she was on her feet, she came over to sit on the edge of our bed, immediately running her fingers through my hair. If I wasn’t so worried about her knee, I probably would’ve fell asleep again.

“Are you okay?” She giggled at my scratchy morning voice before nodding her head. It’s then I realized how the sun hasn’t even begun to rise, the room still pitchblack. “What are you doing up?”

“Getting ready to go to the city, sleepyhead,” she said as if it was the most obvious answer, but truthfully, it left me with more questions.

“At... 5 am?” I sat up, glancing at the alarm clock three times just to make sure I was reading it right. She may have always been a little strange, but usually at a reasonable hour.

At this, she stood up to continue getting ready for the very early morning. Now I notice why she fell, the piles of clothes leading to the closet had to have at least half of her outfits compiled together.

“Well, yeah. I want to get there before noon.” Even in my perplexed state, I rose from the bed and carefully tiptoed around haphazardly thrown clothes to reach her.

While wrapping my arms around her waist still hidden under my t-shirt, I questioned. “It’s right outside? You have 7 hours.”

She turned to look at me funny as if I wasn’t the one digging through clothes and waking up before dawn to walk literally 5 minutes to my desired location. My eyebrows must have subconsciously furrowed at one point, because she brought her hand up to stroke her thumb on my forehead. Immediately, I felt the tension melt, no longer caring to correct my confusion. She still did it anyway.

“Not DC, silly. New York!” I wish it were untrue, but my heart dropped at her words. She was leaving, going to a city I wasn’t familiar with beyond reading about, solving cases, and memorizing subway maps. Is this how she feels every time I board that jet?

“W-what? You’re just going to New York City?” I inwardly cringed at how desperate and sad I sounded, but I really didn’t want her to leave.

“Mhm,” she mumbled, turning back around to return digging in her closet.

“For how long?” Please change your mind. Please change your mind. Please change you-

Realizing that I was fully awake, she let out a boisterous laugh, allowing the way it bounced off our four little walls to return back to us. It was a sound most treasured. “I was hoping to get back around 9.”

“What?” I leaned back to look at her like she was absolutely preposterous. I mean, she was!

“Roadtrip!”

That’s how I found myself in the passenger seat of her car, no coffee in my hand because I wasn’t allowed until I have “a real cup of coffee.” Whatever the hell that means better happen soon, because as much as I loved watching the way she concentrates on the road in front of her, my eyes were starting to droop.

“It’s going to be another 4 hours. You can sleep, my love.” How she knew me so well, I will never be able to figure out, but I was out before we even made it across state borders.

That however, didn’t last very long. My girlfriend may be short and sweet, but behind the wheel? That’s a different story. The horn to her car is a very familiar sound when I’m jolted awake by a sudden stop.

“Really, asshole? Go!” She yelled, slamming her hand against the top of the steering wheel before looking over at me. “Hey, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to wake you yet. I forgot how awful drivers are here.”

“Where is here exactly?” I questioned, sitting up from my slouched position to find cars practically on top of each other on a road not wide enough for two lanes.

“New Jersey. We’re 10 minutes away.” Wow, I didn’t realize I slept for that long, and I have to admit I’m a little surprised I wasn’t woken up sooner.

“How are we 10 minutes away? It’s at least another 30 to get to the tunnel.” Looking at our surroundings didn’t help me determine our exact location. To the left of us, there were dozens of graffiti murals on the side of what I assumed was another elevated highway. To the right, sidestreets with local businesses ranging from auto repair shops to fast food joints to gyms.

“Nuh uh, stop analyzing mister. You’ll know when we get there.” She waved a finger in my directions, putting a pin in my scrutinization. I pouted right back, successfully playing along to the theme of her scolding me like a 5 year old.

“I don’t like surprises you know.” It was the truth, but her contagious laughter that filled the car made me slightly less disinclined to stop asking questions.

“Oh I know, but trust me, you’ll like this one.” She went to go reach over to grab my hand from where it was resting in my lap, but stopped short and retracted in favor of slamming the horn. “Oh, come on!”

***

“So you drove to a train station... in New Jersey?” I asked while she was… attempting to park the car.

“Well, yeah. I’ve been taking this route since I was a little girl.” Once she finally figured out how to evenly space a two door convertible in a very spacious parking spot, she unbuckled her seatbelt, and was quick to grab her bag from the backseat. “Well, come on mister, we’re going to miss the train.”

To be quite honest, I have never been so lost in my life. I could probably pinpoint our exact location on a map if I wanted to, granted I was given any sort of information, but part of me didn’t want to. Scratch that, all of me didn’t want to, because my entire life has been planned out in front of me before, but right now, I get to be spontaneous with the most beautiful girl on the planet.

“Don’t let go of my hand,” she told me, lacing our fingers together and pulling me forward. “Don’t stop to look around, you will get pushed.”

We made it inside, and if I thought the DC transit system was bustling with people constantly, this place was so much worse. There were hallways left and right, all packed with people in a rush. It seems everybody had some place to be and zero time to get there.

“Upstairs.” We walked up two flights before reaching a platform, buying our tickets and making it just in time for a train to arrive. “I know they come every 8 minutes, but thank god we made this one,” she said as she sat down.

The cart we were in wasn’t too crowded, and once I finally found a map on the wall across from us, I saw that it was a direct ride to the World Trade Center.

“You said you took this train when you were little?”

“Yeah, I went to the city a lot as a kid. This was the easiest, and the cheapest way there.” A small smile played at her lips, obviously the product of some childhood memory. “I used to hop it.”

“Of course you did,” I laughed back with her, thinking about how an innocent looking child would be the first person to get away with sneaking onto the train.

***

“I said it before, I will say it again. Do not let go of my hand.” This time it was more stern, and if I were being honest, I would say that it got me the slightest bit nervous. She must have noticed, she always does, because she continued. “Don’t worry, it just gets congested and I don’t want to lose you.”

She was right about that, it indeed was very congested, but that was okay because she was holding my hand, and I would follow her just about anywhere if it meant she kept looking over her shoulder and smiling when she saw me. Once we made it across the way, and in front of heavy looking glass doors, she turned to me and started walking backwards.

“You okay? This is definitely not off to a great start.” She was wrong, it was off to a perfect start.

“Yeah, I’m okay, but you might want to watch where you’re going,” I said before her back hit the door.

“Please I can get here with my eyes closed.” And then we were outside, and all 5 of my senses were hit immediately. The sun was shining down on us, and before I could complain about not bringing my sunglasses, she handed them to me. My heart fluttered at the innocent act, taking the sunglasses with such gratitude even though she had already moved on to retrieve hers. “Do you smell that?” She asked.

“There are a lot of answers to that question,” I told her, not knowing if she was talking about the smell of the construction happening at the corner, the permanent garbage smell or something entirely different.

“The hotdogs, silly. Come on, there’s nothing like ‘em.” This time, I laced our fingers together, not because I was scared of losing her, I was, but I just really wanted to be closer to her. She didn’t mind, in fact, she let out a content hum and leaned her head on my arm as we walked to the stand.

“Can I get four hotdogs with sauerkraut and two grape sodas,” she asked the vendor, who politely nodded before moving on to prepare our food.

“You’re going to have a heart attack by 35,” I said as I nudged her with my shoulder. She gave me a small push back before answering.

“Is that a doctor’s diagnosis?” She asked as she took our now ready food into her hands, after paying the man before I even had time to blink. I just grabbed the two cans of soda and followed her where she was making a beeline for a park bench. “Watch out for skaters.”

“Yes, it is indeed a doctor's diagnosis.” I unwrapped one of the hotdogs before taking a bite. I closed my eyes and let out a content hum. “It may be a little worth it.”

“Exactly.” We sat there quietly, enjoying the warm weather and sounds of wheels against pavement. At one point, she rested her head against my shoulder, and I am convinced wherever she went would be Heaven.

***

“Are your eyes closed?” We found ourselves with both our hands interlocked, my eyes closed while she walked backwards. I gave an ‘mhm’ before she continued. “We’re here, just keep them closed, and…” her words trailed off. “Okay open.”

I opened my eyes to her holding her arms out in the middle of the largest bookstore I’ve ever seen. “Surprise!” My eyes were bouncing everywhere. It wasn’t too crowded, the large stairwell across the store catching my eye first. There were bookshelves tens of feet high, all loaded with different genres and authors. To the right of us, tiny knick knacks and pins and socks. It was beautiful.

“Wow,” I whispered out, still stuck in my place admiring our surroundings. She was beaming up at me, a hint of pride at her successfulness to drag me 6 hours away to the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.

“The Strand has always been my favorite place in the city. Come on, let’s go explore.” She grabbed my hands again, pulling me deeper into the store towards a shelf labeled adult fiction.

***

Six books, three pairs of socks and a postcard later, we were back on the busy streets of New York, aimlessly walking and admiring the tall buildings and different attractions. Well she was, I was admiring the way she was looking around like it was her first time here. Maybe I should have been paying more attention to our surroundings, but no amount of skyscrapers or fountains could possibly ever match up to her level of beauty. 

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?” I asked randomly, startling her into jumping a tiny bit before giggling. She stopped us, turning to face me fully before reaching up to grab my face in her hands.

“Once or twice.” The kiss we shared on the New York streets were no different than the ones before, but this time, it felt like a silent promise. A passing between two lovers that no matter where we are, our love is the most beautiful thing there is. “I love you too, dork.”

___

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[love-toxin]

a/n: in which darling can’t bear to spend a moment apart from the person she loves the most. 

warnings: post-canon/set in the future, yandere reader, female reader, quirk kink, roleplay, oral, cum eating, pet names, yandere/yandere, unrequited love, rejection. 

word count: 1.6k

"H-Here...I brought it."

You always looked so cute when you paid a visit to the hideout. You liked to tuck the thick envelopes you brought with you in your coat, and the little vials stuck with a cork packed safely inside your pocket. She'd only seen you for a month or two, but you were her most eager customer...and, fortunately for you, her favourite. 

As much as she liked the freedom of villainy, it didn't exactly pay the bills all of the time. Stealing could only get her so far, and there were few other options she could turn to after burning so many bridges throughout the years...but lucky for her, there were plenty of freaks out there, and plenty more who would happily save up their pennies for a chance to cherish someone they would never have otherwise. Though there were very few that were as bold as you, or half as cute. 

"Look at this! Nearly twice as much as last time…"

You held out the packages to her with a bland expression on your face, your hands shoved back in your pockets while she twirled the vial between her fingers and thumbed through the cash that padded the envelope. 

"You really like this guy, huh?"

Your features grew sour when she spoke up though, and she could tell she hit a nerve. 

"It's none of your business." 

Toga stuffed the envelope in her breast pocket and popped the cork open on the bottle, the blood still warm and bitter on her tongue in a way that she had quickly gotten used to. This was a weekly occurrence at the least, so she was naturally prepared for the outcome--that didn't make the transformation any less amusing to her, though.

"I think it is, actually. After all, your business is my business, sweetheart…"

Her voice changed first, her sweet, chiming tones growing low and gravelly--and after that the transition was quick, her blond hair puffing into soft spikes and her chest shrinking into a washboard of hard, sculpted muscle, while her blood started to boil beneath the surface and she felt the need to grit her teeth and release all her tension in a fiery shout. But that would be less than preferred in the dingy warehouse side of the hideout, where someone might hear and come investigate...and there were other ways that you wanted to spend your money than getting caught by the heroes with a villain. 

"You just gonna ignore me, kiddo? I'm not gonna take that from some brat."

Her heart beat ferociously in her chest at the sight of you looking up at her, your eyes wide and a soft blush warming your face. She advanced on you until she could slam her hand against the wall just next to your head, and chuckled as you flinched and found yourself trapped by the body that loomed over you. She knew you so well, she knew you were already ready to give yourself over completely. 

"...I love you, Ground Zero…"

Your voice trembled in a soft whisper, each word a betrayal of the façade you put on day after day. You were icy to the touch, and you pushed people away before they could even think about getting close to you--she knew you were that way. And she knew that there was only one person who would ever have the chance to slip past those towering walls that you built up. Well, maybe two.

"Speak up! Don't fuckin' mumble at me."

She papped you on the cheek, not enough to hurt, just to get your attention--but you were quick on the uptake, her wrist caught in your grip as you scowled and bit back with twice the venom dripping off your tongue. 

"I said you're mine, Ground Zero."

You yanked her in, your pull aided by your precious fingers curling around her collar--and your kiss felt even more possessive than your words, lips claiming hers so feverishly that you even bit down on her tongue. Not that she minded, though…not when it was you. 

"Nobody else can have you. I'll slit the throat of anyone that gets near you…"

Your muttering into her ear made her heart flutter--was this how people felt when she spoke those same words? It couldn't possibly feel as good as when you did it though, your hand wandering between her legs to grab at something she could still be a little clumsy in using. The cock in her tight pants twitched at your touch, moving on its own as if it knew you desired it, and she let her pleasure slip in a moan that made you shiver visibly and your grip grow even tighter. 

"Little freak.."

Toga's mind raced, for once feeling like the man whose body she had possessed was speaking right through her. But even if it was involuntary it seemed to work just fine, considering the fact that you'd already snuck your hands beneath her zipper and started feeling around for what you had been craving all week. Her cock stiffened the moment your wrapped your fingers around it, and once you pulled it out to meet the prickle of the cool air, she had a sense that she wouldn't need to do much as you sank to your knees in front of her. 

You looked so cute like this. Your little body fit so perfectly beneath this one, your palms sweaty as you worked her up and your face perfectly positioned to meet the tip as it bobbed in front of you like a treat. You looked like a puppy in her eyes, not just because of how eagerly you accepted her touch--but because of how loyal you were to this little fantasy, and so willing to have it played out again and again and again. 

"Tell me you love me, Ground Zero, or I'll cut your fucking thing off." 

The drag of your hands on her cock slowed, your lips plushy and soft as you gently mouthed at the head before pulling away. She wasn’t wholly sure if this was part of the fantasy, or if you were calling her out for getting wrapped up in your touch--but she laid a strong hand in your hair and gripped it tight, the facade not yet broken as she yanked you forwards and let your mouth cushion every inch that she humped inside you. 

"You've got a dirty fucking mouth, princess. Let's wash it out, huh?" 

She growled with a smirk plain on her face, and the way you let your eyes drift back into your head as she sank into your throat made all the difference. It wouldn’t usually matter to her customers if she came or not, but it did to you, and you had already adapted to the new shift by cupping her sensitive balls in your soft hands and squeezing them in time with the tease of your tongue on her veins. Toga had never had a wish to be a man even when she transformed into one, but the way you slobbered all over this cock that wasn’t hers made her wish she had been born as such--no, actually, that wasn’t it. She wished she had been born as Ground Zero himself, so you would lavish all this love and attention on her instead. 

“A-Already gonna cum, hah...you’ve been practicing, haven’t you, princess?” 

She moaned out what she intended to sound as gruff and forceful, but the pleasure of having you suckling on her so sweetly caused her breath to hitch and her blond spikes to sway as she threw her head back. Your grip grew stronger and your tongue even faster, but in turn hers became weak enough that you could slowly pull off of her cock inch by inch, before you popped off with a lustful slurp and replaced your mouth with an equally skilled hand. 

“Yeah. I’ve been fucking some stupid, slutty villian while you’ve been busy...that good enough practice, Katsuki?” 

She groaned out something absolutely intelligible, her mind blanking as you returned to lapping at the tip and sucking off every drop of precum that leaked out. Both her hands came to rest against the wall just to hold herself up, since she couldn’t even get a word out anymore--you totally dominated her senses with barely any effort, and before she could warn you of anything she was cumming deep into the hot recesses of your tight little throat. Spurt after spurt you swallowed in stride, each one even hotter and thicker than the last, that by the time she stopped trembling and her breath came unstuck from her chest, she finally realized that her cock had shrunk to almost nothing and her body was returning to its normal state. You got to your feet unperturbed, a few pearls of her cream dribbling down your chin that you wiped with the back of your hand--and when you spoke up, she had to reply with a “huh?” before she realized that you had mentioned that you’d met Ground Zero the other day. The real Ground Zero. And did she want to know what he said to you? 

“...He told me I was a fucking creep.” 

Your expression betrayed no emotion, but she knew at once that your heart had been broken from within. She could only imagine how angry you must have been at your obsession rejecting you...she knew that same pain all too well, even though she had now absolved herself from that terrible time. 

“I’m weak, too. Too weak to try and change that. So guess what that means for you?”

She wasn’t sure where you were going with this, or if you were just spilling your feelings in the afterglow to someone that would never tell a soul. At least, that’s what she thought, until she caught a glimpse of some shiny silver handcuffs slipping out from your coat pocket, and a knife dropping from its hidden place in your sleeve and into your grasp. 

“If I can’t have Katsuki...then I’ll just take the next best thing.” 

[bestnoncannonship]

I'm drowning in the gender sandbox guys.

I am agender. At least....I think I am. It's the closest to what I'm feeling. In that I really do not have an attachment to any gender and cannot conceive how people identify with a gender. Like....they just FEEL a gender? All the time? No matter what they look like and what they're wearing they FEEL a gender?? Whaaaa??? Sounds hella fake but okay.

And now I'm gonna talk about that and my experience for a while, in a series of ways that's probably gonna get the gender and sexuality neo-puritans to come yell at me for not being ritually pure enough in the way I talk but.....I'm talking from my own brain, baby. This is the toolkit I'm packing right now and the world I live in and I just need to spit it out. Maybe see if it resonates with people who know more than me. I don't know. Help.

I didn't question being a woman for the longest time. I grew up in a rural area culturally dominated by "Christians" (Not Catholics. I was Catholic. That comes with a whole different set of religious traumas pre-installed. I mean the ScAaRy protestent and nondenom Christians.) You didn't question anything. Not an adults orders. Not authority. Certainly not straightness. Gender was biological. I'd never heard of a trans person. There were rumors of Gays™. For most of my life it was just "Gender is the meat suit you got stuck with, right? I got stuck with this meat suit so it's my gender, I guess." And when I finally left the middle-o-nowhere for Le Citè and I met some (mostly bianary) trans people I was like "OH! OKAY!! Having strong feelings about being in the wrong meat suit can make a gender!" And the non bianaries that I met were still playing on that bianary scale. The "bit of boths" and the "different genders for different days" varieties. They has strange attachments to genders. And the whole retoric of "Questioning your gender and feeling things about you gender is the indicator that you might be trans!!" Just furthered my feeling that I must just be female by default cause like.....I didn't question anything. I didn't think about gender. I had a COMPLETE lack of feelings about gender whatsoever and that was normal, right?? Just meat suit gender. I certainly didn't have a strong feeling about wanting to be the opposite: *gag* a man?? A straight white man? Nope! I have no desire to be a bianary man and frankly I find 99 percent of men and male culture traumatic. So I must just be meat-suit gender.

And yes, I wanted to scrape my breasts and hips and thighs off with a cheese grater. But I wrote that off as a symptom of having started putting a finger down my throat after meals when I was 6 and having a family that forced hour upon hour exercise with their thighs and tummies wrapped in saran wrap and sang "I don't love her! She's too fat for me!" to a literal toddler and put that same toddler in oversized clothes to hide the healthy baby squish that toddlers HAVE. OF COURSE I wanted to die when my breasts grew in and my hips and thighs filled out. They were evil fat deposits. And they meant nothing but unwanted attention from yucky men. (Lesbianism to be discovered some 15 years later. My comphets we're almost as bad as my compgenders.) It had nothing to do with gender. Gender is just the meat suit ....and I already hated the meat suit by the time I had breast buds, they just enhanced a disgust that I thought was normal by then. Everyone kind of hates their meat suit, right?? Yes I wanted to look like men sometimes.....but they were skinny heroin chic men. I also wanted to look like kate moss. I wanted to look like a sideways door but my family is Italian and we have hips and thighs. It's just the meat suit I was assigned. Just have to learn to deal with it and dress it in the way that it looks most socially acceptable and get on with life. And my meat suit had a very gendered look, even in the deepest throws of my illness. "All woman." "The curves of a real woman." So that was just the hand I was dealt. Like having a hard to match foundation undertone. You don't gotta like it, it's just reality. Yes, I wanted to wear nothing but waistcoats and gay vampire clothes but they weren't cut for my body type so *shrug*.

Did I start to have way too much fun cosplaying and embodying male characters? Yes. But that was just identifying with characters. I'd always identified with characters. Did I still distinctly identify with the character's gender, even when I femmed the costume to avoid the hellish pain of binding? Yes. Did it make me feel weird when people referred to my Thor as a woman, even though it was technically a femme? Yes. But that was just feminism. Heroes don't need to be called girl heroes. No gender issues here!! Besides it's not weird in fandom circles to stongly identify with people across gender lines. The fact that I found the gendernope option if there was one available in the fandom and *attached* was surely just coincidental. Right??

Did I absolutely loose my mcfreaking mind when the gyno started talking about having to take my uterus away because the amount of blood it was loosing was doing irreparable harm to my body? Yes. My gender is my meat suit. When you take it away....what am I???? A *gag* man??? Nothing at all?? Am I still even human?? If I am not *gag* male and you take away the female part of the meat suit am I an aphid? A plant? A chair? But I was comforted by a chorus of voices saying "No!! You're a WOMAN. Infertility doesn't make you not a woman! You still have a woman's body!! Because you're a woman!!! Just look at you in your skirts and with your long hair!! You're a woman!!!" So.....still a woman, I guess. Because I still LOOKED like one. Gender = the PRESENTATION of the meat suit. That made sense. The structure of my meat suit made me limited to woman-presentation. So I was woman.

Then, it was the stupidest thing, I was talking to the other half of my life on the 4/5 train on the way to a friend's house about HER issues with gender presentation and the amount of attention to detail it takes to be socially acceptable as female and she said "You just know you're a girl. Like if they just picked you up and put you in a robot body you'd be a girl?" And I was like "......no? I'd be a robot?????" "But you'd still feel like a girl???" "No.....I'd feel like a ROBOT." "BUT you'd still like hear she/her and identify with those???" "No. I'd probably identify more with It/it's because that's what I'd be. A ROBOT!" And she's like "But what if your brain got transplanted into a boy body???" "Then I'd be a boy." "But what would you feel like?" "A BOY?" "Okay but what if you had a very neutral body with like no genitals? What would you feel like then??" "I mean....then it would depend on how I'm dressed. I'd feel like what I was dressed like." And we went around like this till she surmised that my entire relationship to gender was basically "You are what you look like." Which is apparently NOT how people relate to their own gender. They "feel" it somehow?? (I genuinely thought "FEELING" like a gender was what made trans people.) I feel nothing. I identify with a lot of things and ZERO of them are a gender. I thought that was normal. I thought that was the default. Apparently it's not. And then if you ask me what I want to be.....I can't answer. I really don't want to be a gender. I guess I want to be able to put different genders on at my will, like outfits, for societal convenience. But I don't "identify" with any of them. Hell, I have sweaters I identify with more than any particular gender. But there aren't really systems in place for describing and portraying that.

Gender.exe was not installed.

I did a lot of research. Agender felt closest. I actually felt closest to a Good Omens meme about Aziraphale describing his gender as "No, thank you!" That's what I feel like. But all the agender folks were vibing that moment. So I joined 'em. I am aware that puts me under the trans umbrella, but I don't really identify with that word. I don't feel like there's any transition. Any changing. Can't change what was never there. Also I feel like it's for people who....CAN present as their gender. I would be seen as an invader in those spaces. Its not bad enough to justify being in those spaces. I can live with being gendered. I just don't have one.

In the society we live in one cannot present as "not a gender". Someone with MY body definitely cannot present as "not a gender". The clothes that they make in size "giant human with planet tits" are agressively gendered. And even in a binder.....they're still REALLY there. (Yes, a reduction is desirable but I don't have reduction money.....and you can't reduce the fact that I'm the bowl shaped robust extreme female hipbone they use in Forensic Anthropology textbooks.) It is what it is. My body will always be perceived the way it's perceived. And frankly a lot of what we perceive as genderless is just "skinny body in masc style with short hair and makeup". That's not really want I want. I don't want to cut off my hair. It's my one really good feature and I've worked hard to grow out these Valkyrie worthy lengths. Mens clothes are so limiting. And there are no gender: no thank you clothes. (One well meaning friend kept trying to send me "genderless" clothes......but it was all rail thin afabs in mens clothes with short hair and heavy makeup. That's not looking genderless. That's just being skinny.) Gender no thank you presentation is very tied to short hair and thin bodies. So I've accepted that I don't get to play in the gender sandbox outside of the privacy of my own mind. It's a societal flaw. But whatever.

But pronouns are starting to really bother me. Everyone is so into them and identifying with them. And like.....I don't get it. I don't get the joy. I don't think I've found the one. Like.....I'm used to she. I will always be read as she. I will always be Miss and Ma'am in stores and restraunts. So I just kind of roll with it. I don't hate it. I don't like it. It's just a thing that I have to have to exist in society. Like a social security number. I actually think I identify with my social security number more. There's no point in making myself uncomfortable with something that's just going to be a part of my life. And I don't want to be the kind of person who expects people to address me by a pronoun they can't see and aren't used to. It's too much to ask of the average citizen of a gendered society to go through that much gender theory for just me. So "she" is an inevitable part of my life. And He....well ......I don't hate it. I dont like it. It's just there. I certainly don't get called it. And I'm not capable of presenting it well enough for this to be relevant. Now they......fuck I HATE they. I hate that it's the acceptable pronoun for anyone not bianary male or female. It just rubs me the wrong way. When people refer to me as they, I feel like they're referring to me and the host of mental illnesses I carry around and you don't have permission to address those troops thank you very much. They causes a genuine squick. But it's kinda the only widely acceptable option. I kinda like "it". I VIBE with it. It feels good. Unfortunately the people in my life have a certain reluctance about calling me it as they believe that happy vibe around a traditionally dehumanizing pronoun may be a trauma symptom. They might be right so I'm tabling "it" till I find a good therapist. Also...I cannot ask strangers to call me it. I don't have the confidence it takes to explain why and I frankly don't want to be faced with the criticism and questions I would face because I am unable to make my body be perceived as Nonbinary. I don't have the confidence or conviction to face that every day forever. Ditto neopronouns. I also haven't found one that I vibe with at all yet.

And queer labels get harder when you pull away from gender entirely. Like ... I am a Lesbian. I am solely attracted to women. But now I'm getting a lot of "You can't be a lesbian if you don't have a gender!!!" And like ...can I??? I like being a lesbian. It feels right. It conveys what I want it to convey. I like the exclusion of men entirely, after being taught to structure my life around men. I have a kinship with womanhood. It's where I was raised. It's how people see me. I just don't identify with it. It's not how I see myself. I guess that can kind of exclude me from the label? All of our terms are defined by being attracted to "your own gender" or "the opposite gender" or "both your own gender and other genders" and like ... I don't have a gender. And the opposite of nothing is....?? Fuck if I know? So what term am I allowed to use? I love queer for exactly this reason. But it just doesn't have the same clarity that lesbian does.

So I'm just kind of in a hole rn. Grappling with the fact that I really don't have a gender in a gendered world, and dealing with the fact that so much of our understanding and acceptance of gender is about presentation, a door closed to my body. I don't have the confidence or the spoons or the knowledge or the experience to fight this fight. The path of least resistance is sticking my head back into the sand and going with straightforward womanhood....but now it feels like I'm lying. I feel like an intruder in woman's spaces. And I can't go in men's spaces, they see me as....well...a woman. Lesser.

Someone out there who's better at the genders please help.

[transmedicalism-saves-lives]

Why did you choose to go down the medical route instead of getting therapy for your discomfort with your body, which afai understand, we both agree is out of the normal / a pathological condition? Why not address the root issues you have with your born sex instead of jumping to plastic surgery? Doctors don't tell anorexics that if they feel more comfortable starving, that's valid but the medical industry profits off of transsexuals undergoing insanely pricey sergery that aren't technically lifesaving but they're sneakishly presented as such. If no surgery means a transsexual remains in severe discomfort which leads to suicidal thoughts, then these thoughts and their origins need to be treated as the problem, not a healthy functioning body. Lastly, I'm sincere and if you choose to answer sincerely too, that'd be for me of interest to read.

Okay, hi! Thanks for reaching out. I’m really glad you asked, because the thing is, your question itself shows a common misconception. 

I did go down the therapy route. I went down the therapy route for five years before the first time I injected HRT. That included more therapists than I care to count, some practices that left me crying into my bedsheets, and a lot of hard work that came to nothing. 

Thing is, I liked being a girl. I never wanted this. I miss being treated like a girl, it suited me much better. Not to mention, I’ve had an extreme phobia of needles since I was strapped to a cot and stabbed with them for over two hours when I was five, because all my veins had collapsed due to blood cancer and they couldn’t get the needle in any of them. The prospect of a weekly injection turned my stomach, and surgery? Surgery is terrifying, and it hurts so much. I already knew how much surgery hurts. Transitioning wasn’t something I ever desired. 

But dysphoria is so hard to live with. I don’t think anyone who hasn’t been through something like this could quite get it. It isn’t about hating how you look exactly. I can look at pre-transition pictures and admit I was pretty. Even back then I was well aware I was pretty. I looked better then than I do now. It was like there were bits of me missing, and that caused serious physical distress. My breasts, they always felt separate from me, like a parasite that was latched onto my chest and would not go away. My voice sounded false, even the way my body hair grew looked wrong, and not in a ‘I should be hairless’ sense.

I was not suicidal, I want to make that perfectly clear. I have never wanted to be dead, but the things I did to try to make my body feel some semblance of normalcy were dangerous. If I did nothing, I couldn’t get through the day. I’d end up leaving class to vomit a few times every day, or else dissociate until suddenly I realized I hadn’t noticed an hour pass and had mentally skipped class. My grades took a nosedive, and the consequences of that were awful. I don’t like talking about them. But, binding worked a little bit. Binding made it easier to get through the day. I used bandages until I got a real binder, which was dangerous enough, but not as dangerous as the time I dissociated in the shower and figured that I could end this right now if I just cut them off with a breadknife. I still have a scar from that. Even binding, the safest option, wasn’t that safe when it went on for years. It also wasn’t enough. Oh, have I mentioned I used to intentionally blow out my voice so that I’d sound less female? That was also a probably not smart thing I did. 

It took between when I was thirteen and when I was eighteen for me to give up on therapy. That’s half a decade of trying it your way, a good percentage of my life. I couldn’t keep doing it forever and more than that, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to spend every moment feeling like things were crawling on me, like my skin was full of parasites. I didn’t want to spend forever unable to properly enjoy sex, or let a partner see me naked without vomiting on her (sorry Rachel, honestly, you were the best friend I could have had at the time and I hope you find every happiness). I want a normal life. I want a house, a wife, as many kids as possible, I was so sick of this thing making it impossible. 

When I first put the needle in, I was scared. I had so many thoughts flooding my mind, like, “This is the wrong choice, you’re ruining your body, you can’t come back from this, nobody will ever love a freak like you, this is dangerous, how could you be so stupid?” But then the changes started, and all those voices were gone. It felt so good. I could sing again without hating it, I felt genuinely comfortable whenever I had a binder on. Transition did in two months more than therapy did in five years. How could I not want that? 

I got top surgery once it was clear that, no, my breasts were not actually healthy anymore. Binding, which kept me from dissociating, getting sick, or god forbid trying DIY top surgery again, had also been impacting my lungs, and ribs. I’d also had bruises there for the past few years. Surgery hurt, but binding forever would have ended up much, much worse, and not binding just wasn’t an option for me. Top surgery was hard. It was painful. But, I can run again without any problems. I don’t wake up with bruises anymore. I’m never going to have to run to the bathroom to cough up my lunch because I felt something move that shouldn’t have been inside me. I feel good now, whole. 

I feel like everything that was keeping me from being alive is gone. I’m free, and while I do intend to have bottom surgery (I want to have sex that isn’t one-sided before I die and urination is horribly uncomfortable) I don’t think I’ve ever felt so normal and relieved. There’s no more pain. It’s over. Therapy wasn’t giving me this. Two years and most of it is fixed, after five years of zero progress. 

I hope this helps you understand my decision. It was the only way out that I could see, and for me, it was what gave me my life back. I might never have died without it, but I wouldn’t have felt alive. It’s what I needed. Thank you for reading all of this, I really appreciate you taking the time to try and understand me. 

[hellomynameisbisexual]

When I first met my husband, Neal, I thought he was gay. Maybe that's because he told me he was gay. So while I was attracted to him, I figured he would just be my gay best friend. Then, one night, we wound up in bed together, and let's just say that he did not act like a gay best friend usually acts. In fact, he seemed more comfortable with my body than plenty of straight men I'd dated had been. And after a hot-and-heavy weekend, I knew a lot more about Neal than "gay" had hinted at: He'd been married before (to a woman), and he was (still is) attracted to both sexes. Since his divorce he'd mostly dated men, so he'd gone with "gay" over "bi" when we met, but deep down that's what he is: bisexual. I was not entirely surprised, and I was definitely not disappointed.

However, I did have some concerns. Early in our relationship, which got super serious, super fast, I was anxious: I worried Neal would change his mind, say that he was actually truly 100 percent gay after all, and leave me for a man. (Maybe you've heard the joke? A man who says he's bisexual is gay, straight, or lying.) Another part of me worried whether a bisexual guy could ever really be monogamous. Also, didn't being with a man who was interested in men and women mean that I was competing against everyone in the world for his attention?

I just wasn't that familiar with bi guys. Bi women are practically mainstream: Megan Fox, Lady Gaga, Anna Paquin, Jessie J, and Evan Rachel Wood, to name only a few, have all spoken openly about being bisexual. When a woman says she's bi, it makes her more desirable to men. But few celeb men are out as bi—and you never see two guys making out in a bar to get women to pay attention.

Plus, I must admit I wondered whether all the stuff people say about bisexuals might actually turn out to be true—that they're untrustworthy, just going through a phase, or slutty; that they'll break your heart or give you STDs and probably cooties too.

Dating a bi guy, even one as great and as honest as Neal, was daunting to think about.

The sliding scale of sexuality explained

Understanding the basic science of bisexuality helped me a lot. Ritch Savin-Williams, professor of developmental psychology at Cornell University, who has done extensive research into arousal patterns of gay and bisexual individuals, puts it simply: "Bisexual men are attracted to both sexes. They have variations in how much they lean toward women or men." It's important to note that Savin-Williams, like most social scientists, differentiates between sexual orientation and sexual behavior. "So a guy could be attracted to 70 percent men and 30 percent women," he says, "but still meet a woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with and be monogamous. His orientation is bi, but his sexual behavior is straight." Conversely, if someone is having sex with both women and men, then he is behaviorally bisexual, regardless of what he says his orientation is.

What many women struggle with is not the fear that a guy is bi but the fear that he's temporarily bi and will eventually identify as gay. It's not a weird thing to worry about (I worried about it!), since many men have done exactly that. "Before homosexuality was as accepted as it is now," says Allen Rosenthal, a researcher at Northwestern University, "homosexual men often identified as bi in the process of coming out, like getting their feet wet. But it was a disservice to genuinely bisexual men because it left a lot of people with the impression that bi is a transitional orientation." The good news is that the reasons the bi-to-gay move used to be so prevalent—societal and family pressures, fears of being openly gay—are lessening. These days, it's more OK to be gay, and that's making it more OK to be bi. Progress!

So Could You, Should You? We asked glamour.com readers if they'd date a bi guy. The results:

__I'd have a lot of questions,

but maybe.……………………………16%

No way.………………………………..36%

Totally, why not?…………………….48%

In other words, two out of three of you would consider it. Explained one commenter: "If he's into me, he's into me. If he happens to be into guys too, well…we only have more in common!"__

Our little nonsecret

Neal assuaged my anxieties by being so enthusiastic about me that I had no reason to doubt his attraction. I was impressed by his self-awareness too. He realized he was bisexual when he was 20, and he still considers himself attracted to both sexes, at a ratio of about 80:20, women to men. My friends said he was an improvement over more macho guys I'd brought home in the past, and no one really made a big deal about the bi thing. They'd already seen him with men and with women, and we run with a pretty arty crowd. Bottom line: I was in love. As the years passed, I saw that Neal had more integrity and self-knowledge than anyone I'd ever known. And so, reader, I married him. We've been together and monogamous for 12 years, married for eight.

Neal is comfortable with his sexuality. He's "straightish," in the terminology of a gay friend of ours. But he is kind of "gayish" too. He is a performance artist, eccentric, and has—true to stereotype—better style than I do. And if I'm like, "Wow, Mike is superhot," he doesn't stare blankly but says, "Totally. Because of the way he plays guitar, right?"

Generally, we don't tell the world about Neal's orientation (well, until now!). Not everyone is as supportive as our circle, and to be honest, I have zero interest in talking with someone who thinks I'm in a sham marriage just because my guy doesn't go, "Ewww!" when Channing Tatum takes off his shirt.

There have been a few bumps along the road. Early on, Neal confessed that he had a crush on someone else. In the moment before he told me who it was, as my heart sank, I thought: Oh God, it's a man. He's gay. He's going to leave me for a man. I am a fool. How did I not see it coming? How stupid could I be?

Then he told me who it was: a woman. And we worked through it. In retrospect, I think we would have been OK even if it had been a man. In the years since, we've weathered crushes I've developed too, and a million other surprising and not-so-surprising things. I don't think we're any more open-minded than most couples—but the amount of honesty required at the beginning of our relationship has served us well.

Talk, then talk some more

So how do you make it work with a bi guy? "If I were a woman involved with a bisexual man," says Savin-Williams, "I would have very honest communication with him about what he means when he uses the term." Trust me, I asked Neal a lot of questions about what he was into and what to expect as our relationship deepened. Would he commit to monogamy? What kind of boundaries did we need to set up? Be clear about what you're asking, warns Lisa Diamond, professor of developmental psychology at the University of Utah. "The question Are you attracted to men?' is different from Would you want to have a sexual relationship with a man?'" she points out. "Many men might say, It's a hot fantasy, but not one I would act on.'" At that point the question becomes whether or not you're OK with the fantasy. On the other hand, if he says he wants more than a fantasy when it comes to men…then he might not be the guy for you.

No matter whom you're dating, part of love is taking that leap into the unknown. "The only way to be truly sure," says Barbara Hernandez, a family and marriage therapist, "is over time. It depends on the values of the person, and the strength of commitment, and whether both partners work hard at it." Good advice for any couple, even a straight-as-an-arrow one.

At some point, if you're still freaking out about whether your bi guy is really bi, you might need to acknowledge that what you're worried about is whether he's really yours. "We all need to be honest with ourselves," says Diamond. "I wonder if the underlying concern isn't the same one we always have: Does he really want me? Is he going to leave me? That's a concern as old as the hills." With Neal, I came to look at it this way: If he was choosing to be with me, then he was choosing me over all men and women everywhere. And that felt kind of awesome.

Believe it or not, Neal's sexuality doesn't come up that often in our daily lives. My failure to close drawers, his inability to throw anything away, and an ongoing disagreement on who is the more lenient parent are all topics that cause more strife than his sometimes thinking men are hot. Really, who can blame him? Men are hot, especially ones who are honest and confident. Especially ones who, even though they may be attracted to lots of people, pick you.

[potatopossums]

I'm sure many of us think about our identities a lot, especially in our late teens and throughout our 20s.

I've always found that process to be quite tiring. It feels circular, endless, and often anxiety-inducing in my experience. Although I appreciate the fruits that it eventually bears, it can be frustrating at times when I feel as though my self-work goes unrewarded, or not rewarded well enough. I get upset when certain habits keep resurfacing, or when old anxieties I thought I had finally resolved return stronger once more. It often feels like a whirlwind, and it makes it so easy to want to give up and just be as horrible a human being as I would normally be if I weren't trying so hard.

There are plenty of insights I could give as to how to reframe this issue mentally. I've taken lots of cognitive behavioral therapy; I know the tips and tricks, and I'm not here to knock those. Yes, they can and have worked for me, and have made a noticeable difference in how I feel. That's not my point right now, despite my better therapy'd judgment.

I think many of us grew up not really thinking about our identities. It's not like we didn't think about them at all; of course we did. We understood more or less what it was like to be in relation to others. But we didn't have a full grasp on the complexity of that. And now, many of us have a deeper, more diverse understanding of the world. As adults, we are familiar with so many social concepts. We can even look back on our own childhoods and apply our new knowledge and reframe everything. It should be a step in the right direction, and it is—but sometimes it doesn't feel like it.

That moment, or rather that process, is not one step. The moment you can look back on your own life with a very new perspective is not a simple thing. Doing that can sometimes, rather unexpectedly, cause your entire identity to shift. And that sort of change is transitional. And take it from trans people: although many of our transitions are wonderful, they're also very complicated and life-changing in not solely positive ways. And never, I mean never, are they an easy matter.

Change of any kind is challenging. Absurdly so, in fact. And I think a lot of our stress over it is caused not only by the fact that we need change, but the fact that change is difficult even when we surrender to it. Upon realization and understanding of the need for change, we don't just miraculously glide through growth as a protagonist goes through a classic training montage. Our lives are messier than that. We fuck up way more than a few comical moments for the gag reels. We sweat so hard and it just doesn't pay off sometimes, maybe a lot of the time. And that is so demoralizing.

We can want to be anything. The sky is practically the limit. But becoming that is anything but graceful.

This is not meant to be discouraging. It's meant to be empathetic. If you related at all to this, I want you to remember that sigh of upset relief you might have experienced while reading. I want you to remember that some rando on the internet said something about pain and frustration that resonated with you. I want you to remember how many people liked or reblogged or interacted with this post. Remember that feeling of being heard and seen for exactly where you are. You're in a messy spot right now. You don't want to be there. Neither do I. Neither does anyone else around you. It's okay to be where you are. I won't tell you that you did your best, because sometimes "doing our best" isn't even what we want. Sometimes "doing our best" doesn't represent our true desires, be it for that day, that week, or that year. Sometimes we are genuinely stuck, despite all we've done. Sometimes we don't have the energy to try at all.

So here's what I'll tell you instead. You were a human being today. You tried, or maybe you didn't. Maybe you thought really hard about trying. Maybe you did the bare minimum. Maybe you did absolutely nothing. Maybe you literally got in trouble for doing nothing.

And look, you're still fucking here.

You're alright. Take a breather. A real breather. The kind where you actually do get to forget the world and all your responsibilities for a moment. Really try. I know you've been trying to forget how much stuff you need to do all day anyway, so here's your free pass. Fuck all that stuff for five minutes.

Do something 100% for you right now. Something you can do easily, something you can start basically right this second, something you know you'll like. I don't care how simple or easy or stupid it is, whether it's watching a video or listening to a song, or giving yourself a neck massage, or simply taking a breather, or spacing out and imagining your happy place. Whatever it is that you can do right now, with zero prep. No dawdling, no trying to figure out what to do for the whole time. Gut instinct, there's no wrong answer, just pick something. And do that. For five minutes. Don't look at the clock. I'll wait, and so will the world.

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Check in.

Note your emotions. How your body feels.

Notice that, and let it pass. Perhaps later you'll remember it, and perhaps not. Maybe a mix of both. That's normal.

Comfort is found in repetition. Excitement is found in the new. Make sure you have equal parts of both today, even if you must allot it yourself.

The most beautiful feeling you can have is when you accept that you have earned the right to fully enjoy your rest. That acceptance is just as much internal as it is external.

Thank you for resting today.

[itsbuckysworld]

Yoga 101 | pt.1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader Guest Appearance: Natasha World: AU.

Warnings: fluffy, mentions of smut in the form of thinking too much about how sexy bucky is, language.

Summary: Yoga would be the perfect activity for relaxing and just letting your mind go blank, if the yoga instructor wasn’t so fucking nice and so damn hot.

A/N: written for the #omnomwritingchallenge1.1k. My word choice was yoga, so I present to you, Yoga with Bucky. AND THIS IS SO LATE IM SO SORRY @omnomsauruswrites

Smooches! xoxo L

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED until i get back in the groove of writing and finish at least half the things I’ve planned to write.

Huge huge huge thanks to @delicatelyherdreams, @caitfairwrites and @sunmoonandbucky. Through the almost a month that took me to write this, they helped me with typos, cheering me on and assuring me this was worth writing. I will forever be so grateful to them, and they are now stuck with me loving them too much so whoops. Gifs not mine

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»»————-　　————-««

You stepped out of your car with your brand new yoga mat rolled nicely under your arm, and looked at the text on your phone and then at the building in front of you. This was the place. You groaned slightly.

Your friend Natasha had suggested – well, more like forced you – to sign up for a yoga class. You’d argued right back that you didn’t need it and that there was no use signing up for one when you could probably download an app and do the stretches at home just fine, but she was not having it. You remember her stern stare and calm voice telling you that you definitely needed it, and could benefit from it, and something about how you just had to believe her. Plus “yoga at home isn’t the same as yoga in a class”. It wasn’t even the same commitment, and before you could protest anymore, not that she’d back off if you did have something to say back, she had pulled up the page for a yoga place that had great classes and teachers, saying she had tried it herself.

A yoga class was the last place you wanted to be today. Your day hadn’t been the best and you were still on the fence about the whole thing despite knowing deep down you needed something to help you destress. Your job was growing more and more stressful as the days went by, and your limbs ached in the mornings because you had so much pent up tension keeping you from a restful night’s sleep. On top of that, you didn’t have time anymore to fit in any other type of exercise to keep yourself active and it was starting to bother you. Even if you weren’t on top of fitness and gym trends, you liked to try and keep your body active, it was part of a healthy life and right now, your life was just work, work, work; stress, stress, stress.

So you frowned as you looked at the time slots, the classes and what not, and before Natasha had gone home from your place that night, you had signed up, quickly so as not to retract, and decided to make space for the supposedly never intrusive, always helpful – as Nat had put it – activity.

You found the room you were supposed to be in and set up at a perfect distance from the front – not too close you’d be all up next to the teacher like an eager student, and not too far that you’d miss out on what the teacher explained – and sat quietly as the room filled in.

You placed your hands on your thighs as you kneeled and exhaled, eyes closed.

You wish you hadn’t as the ruckus eased around you and next time you did glance around, there was a man setting up at the front, clearly the teacher.

To be clear, you didn’t care that the instructor was a man. What you were absolutely freaking out about – battling to remain completely calm on the outside – was that the instructor was a Greek god of a man.

“Good day class. How’s everyone doing?” All the ladies and the one other guy in the room greeted him back, but not you. Your brain didn’t know what words were anymore.

He invited the class to sit on their mats in a relaxed position, and you quietly took him in. The chiseled jaw, the lean muscles – God bless that tank top he was wearing. His hair was pushed back somewhat messily to a small bun, some strands hugging the back of his neck and a soft beard. For a moment you were so captivated by how good he looked that you stumbled from your seated position to what he called next a moment too late. He was so gorgeous you hadn’t even noticed or cared for the shining metal arm – if anything that dark metal with gold accents really suited him – but you definitely didn’t look at it. Not when he did warrior pose and showed his back muscles.

Delicious.

“And breathe deeply,” he said, his voice resonating around the room.

Breathe? Oh, right! You were supposed to breathe, and focus on the class and relax. You shook your head, doing the best you could to maintain your balance as you copied his moves and changed poses.

For the most part, you thought yoga would be simple. A couple of nice stretches and breathing exercises to clear your head and give you peace of mind – and really pop your back because, God, was your office chair a torture device. On paper it sounded delightful, but this? The truth was it was absolute torture and more than a little embarrassing.

You struggled through every pose, noticing how minimal the looks from the rest of the class towards the teacher were. The Adonis of a man would call something like Half Moon to the left to warm up, and no one would bat an eye, switching their bodies to extend an arm and a leg in the air, somehow keeping perfect balance, and yet there you were, doing the pose too late, focusing on copying the person next to you to get it right and fighting for your life to not fall flat on your face, the leg that was planted on the ground shaking with stress.

And you’d expect to move to Half Moon on the right, right? But he would transition over to whatever King Dancer on the left was, and there you were back at zero trying to figure out what the hell was happening.

You lost your footing more than once. Tried – and failed – your best to discreetly shuffle your yoga mat even further from people, because, you know, yoga mats are supposed to not slip.

You could feel your face burning red hot, not only from the physical activity that was rushing to be up to speed with these yoga freaks and fighting “Lady Gravity” for the most part of an hour, but from failing miserably at even the relaxed poses in front of everyone, specially when you locked eyes with the instructor and his lips curved into a smile, watching you struggle with the extended side angle, clearly laughing at your excuse of a yoga pose. God, why did he have to be so cute? You think you would be a little less flustered had he been a woman or anyone other than every hot movie star melted together watching you fail miserably.  

Yet you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. His voice was gruff and soothing, strong and tender. He would remind everyone to breathe and you found it hard to, because he gave you chills. The way he exhaled along with some words, making your mind wander. He walked around the class at some point, observing people’s forms, correcting positions and giving tips. You were absolutely sure you’re going to have wild dreams just based on how warm his hand was when he touched your elbow, indicating you to extend your arm properly while doing Balancing Table, his voice fading away as you kept impure thoughts at bay.

As the class did final stretches he kept his eyes on you, that smile of his still there, and you could see it mocking you. You could hear it in the way there was a bit of a laugh at the beginning of his sentences, and you puffed out your cheeks with a frown. He was cute but he was an ass for laughing at you. He moved to extend a leg almost to his forehead, hands grabbing his foot and eyebrows raised at you, before talking to the whole class.

“Let’s extend into Heron, right leg up” and without hesitation everyone did so, the same pose he was showing you before.

Oh wait, was he teaching you what was coming next? It was a relatively easy pose – had it not been for the position of your other leg – and for the last few minutes of the class, he kept transitioning into poses before calling them out, looking straight at you and giving you a small smile when you did your best to copy them. Okay, a little less of an ass now, still very cute. Damn.

The room started to clear out after a few moments in Corpse – a pose you knew well – and you took your time reincorporating afterwards, too comfy to move. Then you arched your back that somehow still felt impossibly sore – weren’t you here to release that tension? Where was that desired pop? – before you stood to pack up your things.

“Hi there”

You recognised the voice behind you, the one you had been hearing it for the past 40 minutes, giving directions and huskily delivering material for you to think about on lonely nights. Another shake of your head put you in the right mindset to face him.

“Hi!” your response was a little excited, but you didn’t have energy to feel embarrassed anymore. “Sorry,” you said, and the man shook his head, chuckling slightly.

“You’ve never done yoga before, then?”

“That obvious?” He laughed out loud this time, but you knew he wasn’t laughing at you.

“What gave it away, my terrible balance or my deer caught in headlights face at everything you said?”

“I think it was more the fact that you only knew Corpse.”

You were in trouble. He was even more good looking up close. From the distance you had been at during the class, you could only see defined muscle. From arms length, he was so much more. Smooth skin. Long dark lashes that made ocean blue eyes pop like none other you had ever seen. A killer smile that made the cutest crinkles appear by his eyes, and his laugh was gorgeous. All in all, it wasn’t fair. Whatever flaw he had better come up really quick.

“I don’t really mind the stumbling, Lord knows I can’t keep Half Lotus Tree for long –” you gave him a pointed look and he clasped his hands in front of his chest – “you have no idea what that is. Right” The two of you chuckled as you danced on the balls of your feet, biting the inside of your cheek. He took a deep breath and continued, “Point is, you shouldn’t sign up for an advanced class if it’s your first time. Mainly because you could injure yourself.”

“Wait, advanced?” You blanked. “I mean, duh, of course it was advanced, but I signed up for beginner.” You fished inside your bag for your phone.

“I don’t teach any beginner classes. I don’t think we have any this time around.” He grimaced, an apologetic look painting his features.

“No, I definitely –”

Advanced Yoga, 6PM, room 505 – you read it when you pulled up the email, eyes running over the words over and over. Everything made sense now. You sigh and run a hand down your face.

“Okay that’s… great. My mistake. This whole thing was probably a mistake.” He made motion to say something but you put your hands up, waving them in front of you. “I should go. Sorry again for… that. Thanks for the class, I guess.” And with that you turned on your heel and walked away, wanting the earth to swallow you whole. Did you seriously just go in the wrong class, made a fool of yourself, and then thanked the guy for it?

It was decided. You’d call and try to get your money back, yoga was clearly a bad idea. You stepped outside and fumbled with your bag in search for your keys, huffing and puffing, blowing a strand of hair off your face. A hand is placed on your shoulder and they turn you around.

“Excuse me, miss?”

You look to find the yoga instructor again. Bucky, the email said. You had missed that too the first time reading through. If anything it’s nice to finally put a name to the face, anything to stop your brain from calling him a hunk of a man.

He’s fixing his bag on his shoulder and giving you a concerned look that warms you inside. For some reason it’s sweet almost, how he looks at you and gives you a side smile. There’s something about how welcoming his features are that you can’t quite place. “I know it’s none of my business but… please- uh, would you consider continuing yoga?”

You arch an eyebrow at him, and he takes his hand off your shoulder, taking a few steps back as he stammers through his sentence and waves his hands in front of him.

“I mean. It’s really good. I know I probably sound like the cliché yogi in movies, but… It helped me a lot, at the beginning I didn’t even want to try, but it helped so much that… That’s a story for another time I guess –” He chuckled then, scratching the back of his head with that metal hand of his and curiosity peaks inside you – “I just know, it’s a great outlet, or aid, to whatever your life is right now.”

He didn’t assume or act like he could read you, and didn’t try to sell you that you’re clearly stressed – maybe so much that people can see it from down the street – and yoga is the magical ointment that takes it all away. He’s not trying to convince you to stay because he gets paid or because he just wants more people in his class. The way he looks at you and speaks to you, he’s really sharing something that helped him for the sake of it.

You sigh.

“I don’t know. I clearly can’t stay in an advanced class. Maybe I should just try again when there’s a beginner and...” You shrugged – “I don’t know”

He bites down on his bottom lip and it takes a lot from you to not look, to not let your mind wander.

“Are you free Wednesdays and Fridays?” His question snapped you out of your thoughts – so much for trying not to get them derailed – and he cleared his throat. “I teach an intermediate class those days. Same time. It’d be easier to show you the basic moves, and maybe you could come a little earlier and I could run you through them and… get you up to speed in a way?”

You gape at him for a few seconds, his scrunched up brows and soft features, almost resembling a puppy. You won’t admit it just yet but Bucky is selling you on this yoga thing too well. A nervous chuckle escapes your lips, and your fingers play with your card keys. Intermediate wasn’t beginner, there was no way, right? The universe must be saying something and you should be listening.

“Maybe yoga isn’t the thing for me, you know? Intermediate could still be too hard for me to–” There’s a car honking by the entrance that cuts your sentence short. Bucky motions the car to wait and he turns to look at you with understanding covering his face. And yet it’s like Bucky can read your hesitation, almost tipping over to say yes, and he has one last pitch to finish selling you on everything.

“I get it. But hey, look, if you want less commitment to start –” He opens his bag and pulls out a notepad and pen. He uses his knee to scribble something, and he’s handing you the ripped piece of paper with his metal arm, the other hand busy steadying his bag back on his shoulder – “There’s this free open air yoga group on Saturdays. 4PM. I join them most times, worth a shot.” The smile he gives you has your knees feeling like jelly – you would have gotten a great use of some jelly legs back in class to do any of those twists. A little late now, joints – with a little wave and a wink added to that dashing smile of his, he’s leaving you there on the lobby, staring at the piece of paper with the address and other details of this “zero commitment” group, scribbled in his neat handwriting. You sigh knowing very well you’re not going to be coming back to yoga.

»»————-　　————-««

Damn you, Bucky Barnes.

That’s all you’re thinking as you lock your car and enter the fated park on Saturday. Damn him for being so cute, and such a fierce advocate for stupid yoga.

Natasha has this gloating look on her face as she follows you. A proud, shit eating grin. She hasn’t stopped crowing that she sold you on yoga, that you were wrong, and she was right about you ending up loving it, so much so that you even mentioned a Saturday class – one she had to tag along for. She’s really feeling like she’s on a high horse right now, and who are you to knock her off? You could live with a little mocking. Besides, the last thing you wanted was for her to know the real reason you were coming to this yoga class was that damned Bucky Barnes. Although, the moment you find him, she’ll definitely smell it off you.

Damn you, Bucky Barnes.

You didn’t want to even admit it to yourself, but after three days of looking at the stupid piece of paper, and having the time and place burned into memory, you couldn’t lie to your own face anymore; you were going to go to that stupid outside class.

As the two of you near the area where you see people set up mats on the grass, you’re not paying attention to Nat as she talks about whatever. You’re too busy trying to spot Mr. Too-Hot-For-Words in the distance.

Jesus, why are you so desperate to see him? Oh, right, he was cute and nice to you, that’s why.

When you do spot him, there’s a sudden urge, a tingle all over your body, to turn back around and go home, hide under your covers and down a pint of ice cream. Abort. There’s no way you can do a yoga class with him around! Not only are you a beginner, but you have learned in just one instance that you can’t focus when he’s there to look at. This was a horrible idea.

But just your luck, he spots you as well and your eyes meet. His beautiful, beautiful eyes. No turning back now. Damn him for looking so good in those gym shorts and fitted sports wear. Damn him for having his hair down, does he not know how he looks? Damn him for rushing to meet you, a wide grin drawn on his face, as if he’d been waiting for you.

“Hey,” he places a hand on your shoulder, “you came!” “I came.” You say shakily, cheeks feeling on fire, an awkward laugh catching in your throat and you hear Natasha immediately going silent. Not good, not good.

Bucky glances up and greets Nat with a firm handshake, introducing himself, and then returning his attention to you, with that teeth baring smile of his, crinkles by his eyes. There’s something wrong with your heart, it’s beating too fast.

He claps his hands together and clears his throat.

“I’m glad you could come. So this ‘class’–” he air quotes – “is very… What’s the word? Free?” another chuckle escapes his lips and the wind moves his hair, making him look like he’s in a commercial for something – his scent, definitely. He smells so good.

“You just join whatever little group you feel like and you all do a routine.” he waves his hand, motioning for you to follow him a little farther from the group, where his mat is placed. “I was thinking maybe you can be with me, and I can show you the basics, if that’s ok with you?”

You stutter, trying to find the words to say, and in a last attempt at some help, you turn towards Nat, hoping she’s read the situation and can help you out, but just like the little shit she can be, she’s just giving you a knowing smirk and not saying a single word.

“Sure,” you look back to Bucky. “Nat and I would love to” “Uh, actually…”

Okay, now you want to say something Natasha? She gives you a coy smile.

“I think I’m going to join that group over there, they seem more up to my speed.”

You glare at her. Of course Natasha, what a great friend, you’re basically screaming at her with your eyes and she’s just nonchalantly acting like she doesn’t know what she’s doing wrong. You begin to hate that she knows you too well, and that she’s so cheeky and mischievous you should have seen something like this coming. You should have not let her tag along for this damned class.

“You’re not new to yoga as well?” Bucky asks, genuinely interested, and Nat waves a hand in front of her face as if dismissing the idea. “Oh no, I used to go to the center, I was in a class with Ms. Potts last year.”

“Oh! Ms. Potts is so amazing!” Nat nods at him “In that case, yeah, that group would be more up your alley.”

“Cool.” In a simple skip she’s gone, leaving you with Bucky who looks straight out of a photoshoot.

Thankfully he didn’t read any of the looks shared between you and your best friend. That or he’s deciding to ignore them, which, bless him if he is; the last thing you need is any more embarrassment.

“Shall we begin?” There’s that forsaken smile again, like he doesn’t know it makes you lose the ability of speech whenever he flashes it at you. Like he doesn’t know he’s got to have lines of women fantasising about him while he does his poses. Like he doesn’t know your heartbeat is the same as whenever you jump on a treadmill and do cardio.

You’re giving yourself the pep-talk of a lifetime inside your head. You can do this, all you have to do is stay focused in the stretches and positions and, no matter what, do not embarrass yourself by letting your mind wander off to more… Bucky-related things, when you’ve literally been left alone with him under the wonderful shade of oak trees. Easy enough, right? He isn’t even that cute. You can do this, you got this. You so got this.

He grabs your mat from your hands and sets it up perpendicular to his, offering his hand to help you get down to the first seated position and making shivers run down your spine.

This is going to be impossible.

Damn you, Bucky Barnes. Damn you, Natasha.

»»————-　　————-««

A/N: Hope you guys liked this! Part two will be coming tomorrow :) What did you think of yogi bucky?

Please any feedback is greatly appreciated, i was very doubtful of this piece.

Have a good day lovelies!

HERES MY ASK   |||  Masterlist

xoxo, Little L.

[kidrat]

(k just gonna put it here: dont rb)

it’s.. late. but it’s so strange how gender and attraction are so hard to untangle. it’s not just who you are and who you like it’s specifically the combination of those things and ultimately who you want to be attracted to you as what gender. even if it’s nobody and nothing. I’m confident that I’m aro but as for attraction outside of that.. I’m transmasc, pre transition, and because I’m not who I am yet the idea of attraction just isn’t something that feels tangible. Like ig gender is more ‘basic’ and necessary than gender, at least for me. 

I know I experience some degree of sensual/physical/aesthetic attraction (as in, so far, not the orientation type attraction, just a desire to touch/be close to/look at certain people) that is very strong sometimes. This doesn’t exclude me from being aspec, but recently I’ve wondered if this attraction would move beyond hypothetical for me were I to transition into a more Me version of myself and/or specifically have higher testosterone levels long term. Until then there is literally no way to asses what I’m feeling. 

The thing is it’s not a case of feeling attraction that I can’t act on yet, or even feeling like I might experience attraction at all, it really is just this bundle of preferences I have and a sense that I should poke more at them when I can, and this vague idea that certain people would be attractive to me were I a boy/at least more easily read as masc, and even more strongly that I would want certain people to be attracted to me were I those things. 

So I don’t really feel eligible to connect with any kind of community based on these vague feelings yet, and honestly depending on which aspects of my life I choose to prioritise when deciding how far to transition, I may Never feel eligible - and this isn’t about imposter syndrome this is about how far far removed I am from the possibility of those feelings and like.. how I am literally not the person who gets to have them as I am now. 

I know that again, the idea of someone (specifically, if I’m honest, boys) recognising my masculinity and being attracted to me on that basis is a pretty good one, but again, I’m not the person who gets to have that yet and while I’m still in my current body with zero way of indicating an inherent masculinity to people (not talking about passing. just Seeming masculine in some way at a glance even) the idea of anyone being attracted to me is still repulsive. and even in that hypothetical future masculine form I don’t know if that even means I would feel something back (though I think I could access some form of attraction via wanted attraction towards me) or if I would want to act on it.

I think neurodivergence probably doesn’t help. I know that fundamentally I feel a lot of things differently to other people. Even if I were a cisgender man, or otherwise felt comfortable exploring attraction in the body I’m currently in, would that feel like normative attraction??? Especially factoring in that like I said I can’t imagine my aromanticism changing. I think being aro means you fundamentally experience sexual orientation differently regardless of what that orientation is. And, as an autistic person who needs more time alone and personal habitat (?) than other people, and doesn’t even do friendships normally, what would a relationship look like for me even if I was alloromantic and in that comfortable body? It’s entirely possible a romantic relationship still wouldn’t be appealing even if I knew I felt attraction. 

Basically what it comes down to is that [see my previous post about how gender is ten things and is different for me depending on the aspect of my life] attraction, or more specifically the ability to explore the possibility of attraction is locked behind this wall and I guess it’s frustrating that the one thing that might unlock it is a decision that’s still in progress and has like a 50% chance of not coming to fruition. And I hate having a hypothetical that I feel could be something real and not being able to grasp at it.

[thecloserkin]

book review: Carolyn Slaughter, Relations (1976)

Genre: Gothic psychological suspense

Is it the main pairing: yes

Is it canon: yes

Is it explicit: yes

Is it endgame: no

Is it shippable: yes

Bottom line: I read this concurrently with Wuthering Heights and allow me to play sommelier—10/10 recommend this wine pairing for maximum gothic extraness. tw: suicide

There’s boatloads of sex but this is not a horny story. It’s a lyrical story—in the sense of expressing direct, spontaneous feeling. Not that a story couldn’t be both (Wuthering Heights is both horny and lyrical) but I actually want to spend a minute defending this book to my past self. The first time I read it, I was unimpressed because Relations wasn’t much of a Love Story. You know the kind I’m talking about, you know the beats you’d expect it to hit: here is a pair of siblings tOrMeNtEd by their iLLiCiT pAsSiOn!!! I mean, the mode isn’t always tragic or dark but even the cream-puff versions of this arc entail some sort of line being crossed or feelings being caught. We are used to characters who begin in initial-state, a journey brings them to end-state and a clear delta separates the two conditions. This book says: fuck that. Fuck change. Fuck growth. My best days are behind me and I’m ok with that because now my brother is lost to me and I give zero fucks about anything else. We have a novel steeped in the symbolism of winter (the season of loss & deadness that is impermeable to change). Our pregnant heroine dreads her impending due date, in part because the child is not her beloved brother’s; but mostly because having a baby is just about the biggest change a body can be subjected to, and she’s actively averse to change. All she wants is her brother back. If you’re looking for characters to fall in love, as in transition from feeling one way to feeling another way, this is most likely not the book for you. But I enjoyed it a whole helluva lot and let me tell you why.

The predominant note of this story is MELANCHOLY. It’s backwards-looking rather than forward-looking, things just keep getting worse and worse for our protagonist and yet she’s unapologetic about what she did: she loved her brother, loves him still and always will. What I admire is that she is steadfast in the face of remorseless despair. Compare these quotes, this one from near the beginning: “I feel listless, often close to tears. I am beset by fiendish pangs.” This is from near the end: “I am hollow, clanging with emptiness; there is no solution.” Do you see what I mean by no delta between initial-state and end-state? I think there is an important distinction between this book and Forbidden, which holds out the promise of a happy ending only to snatch it away at the last minute, in that Relations puts its cards on the table & promises no such thing. It’s melancholy all the way down (well, three-quarters of the way down it transpires this book is in fact a high-concept Folgercest prequel I SHIT YOU NOT friends read it yourself).

In the novel’s present, our girl Catherine is entombed in a emotionally sterile marriage; in the past she grows up warmed by the sun of her brother Christopher’s regard & affection. Slaughter chooses to locate these strands at two crucial points in Cathy’s development—age ten (prepubescent) and age thirty (the age at which women’s “biological clocks” start ticking—this is relevant because Slaughter is writing in the 1970s even if Cathy is living in the late Victorian Era). We should note here that Christopher is older than Catherine by two years, aka the universally acknowledged INCEST SWEET SPOT (I know some of you favor twincest but you are WRONG and I will prove it in my forthcoming monograph on the topic). At age ten, Cathy and Christopher have intercourse for the first time after stumbling on their father’s secret porn stash. The sex is more mechanical than enjoyable, and that’s the point: they start banging out of curiosity, keep banging out of habit, and only later do hormones and feelings kick in. Ten- and twelve-year-olds just don’t get horny the way older kids do, and that is, again, the entire point. Slaughter structures it so the sex happens first (in the very first flashback chapter). The feelings don’t follow, the feelings don’t emerge, the feelings were there all along. What the sex does is seal a secret between the two of them, the secret of their father’s porn stash (hidden in an abandoned wing of the house).

If we turn back to the present, we find Catherine yoked to a man who excites zero feelings in her. By her own admission she married him because “I found him pleasant to listen to and he never made any demands upon me.”These are the qualities that recommend a husband to her—that he impose no psychic demands whatsoever! All her energies are already absorbed in reminiscence lol. We find out he proposed to her with a speech worthy of Pride & Prejudice’s Mr. Collins, and that he possesses not a particle of passion. Which is exactly how Cathy wanted it:

I entered the marriage in a state of apathy; simply undergoing it because of Mamma’s pressure, and because there seemed no other real alternative apart from marriage open to me.

We were married in the winter of my thirtieth year.

I walked down the aisle in a state of complete inertia, my sense muffled by the laudanum … I wished with all my heart he could have been my brother.

File away that glancing reference to winter; more on that later. For now please focus on how numb she is—not discontent, just apathetic. Cathy insists the present brings her nothing but pain and insists she doesn’t regret the choices that brought her here. She’s unrepentant about loving Chris, and explicitly rejects the conventional moral framing that would view her past self as “sinning” and her present self as “redeemed”:

I could not rid myself of the old and over-riding passion of my childhood. I decided eventually that no one would ever, could ever, be what my brother had been to me.

If I could have felt then, and now, that there was some evil in what we did, then I could have borne it. But I could find no evil in it.

I would not be so oppressed if I could but feel my past was wicked and scandalous. If I believed that, i could gladly submit to the institution or the grave. But some buoyant spirit within me keeps insisting that what I had was fine, and contained elements of true beauty.

“The institution or the grave,” she says. Those are the choices. If you want to have Thoughts and Feelings and not just a Body, then your lot as a woman is to end up either in a sanitarium or dead in childbed. Only when she looks back at her childhood does Cathy perceive a time when it was different, when Christopher, at least, saw her as a whole-ass person. Yes, this is another entry in dr. thecloserkin’s ongoing “Incest vs. the Patriarchy” series; if you guys thought I was going to stay off my bullshit for more than ten minutes then joke’s on you hahaha. Here are some quotes that show she was getting her emotional needs met as a child (she’s borderline suicidal as an adult):

leaves me with only the memory of such complete intimacy. It is beyond my reach now, and perhaps I shall never agin recapture it though I live to be ninety.

there was no discord in our interests and desires.

We talked all the time. We never ran out of conversation; I never grew tired of his speech.

It never occurred to me…that we would not always be together. There seemed no need for anyone else—he filled out my present and my past.

Ok so if everything was so idyllic back then what the heck happened? How did it all fall apart? Slaughter withholds the crucial revelatory scene until close to the end, but the story up till then is permeated by a very Gothic sense of creeping dread. The elephant on the horizon is change. Cathy and Chris are on the precipice of puberty, which portends seismic changes in their bodies, and the accompanying changes in their roles as they inch toward adulthood. Cathy doesn’t handle it well:

the old fear. A fear of things changing; of his face looking at me in an unfamiliar way; of our world altering and growing cold about me.

There seemed no question why it should not always continue in this way, and no reason why our bodies or our minds should change or suddenly not fit.

Our life became a little cloister: and I never wanted to leave it. The idea of change haunted me.

I was insisting, always, like a child, the nothing must change; nothing must happen to destroy our life together.

And here is where I connect her fear of change with her favorite season, winter:

I was afraid of change. It seemed menacing. I realized the sadness and bleakness of the winter really suited my nature best. It made me feel more real; sadness now seemed more real than happiness; more permanent, and therefore easier to bear.

the seasons change and find me the same. Nothing touches me, nothing makes me laugh or weep. I have no real substance.

OMG SHE’S A FUCKING REVENANT

”You are so thin. Your limbs are slim as these winter branches.”

I have touched my roots, my beginnings, the things that have formed me.

This book is an anti-change pro-winter manifesto. Winter is the season of desolation, where nothing grows, and if there is one change she adjures above all others it’s the life presently taking root within her womb:

If I am a seed about to burst, if I am to flower, the old seed, my Self, must die. Some new thing will grow out of me; but I must perish. I cannot have it; I cannot allow it to happen. I must protect myself from this that would devour me.

My body continued to change according to its own will, nothing could shift the determined embryo within me … I cannot bear the thought of this thing growing within me, living off my blood … I feel nothing but doom, and a great fear if this shall finally come to pass.

The progress of her pregnancy is literally making her mentally ill. I want to link this horror imagery to child!Cathy’s musings on the decomposition of her father’s corpse:

I wondered if all the flesh had fallen off by this time. I imagined his bones growing into the wood of the coffin, and the trees growing into his skull, the roots twisting around his rotting limbs.

People who read this passage and think “this is a really tight horror aesthetic but what is it doing in the middle of my luscious love story” are missing the point. This is a horror story. But instead of framing the incest as the impure act that violates and threatens our accepted categories, we are invited to view the pregnancy as a gross & unnatural hijacking of Cathy’s body. Her body’s fecundity defeats and puzzles her. She actually tells us about her nightmare wedding before she tells us about her real wedding; in her nightmare she looks at her bridegroom and:

transfixed with horror because he is without the male member — all that resides in the space between his thighs is a burnt-out stub—like the hacked branch of a tree deadened and blacked by many winters.

So far we’ve had body horror associated with (1) her father (2) her husband (3) her unborn baby. Notice who’s not on this list? Notice who she always thinks of with tenderness? Notice who doesn’t ever evoke an iota of fear or horror in Cathy? That’s right! Her brother. The whole incestuous affair is really an own-goal on patriarchy’s part, because the same doctor who warns Cathy’s mother against Cathy’s “wild and unnatural attachment to her brother” goes on to say:

Little girls, Madam, are the scourge of the earth. They have no future, but to grow into that unhealthy state of womanhood, with its unclean festerings and grotesque swellings of the abdomen. I would that little girls could always stay the pure young things they are before the age of eight.

This is some next-level IT WAS EVE’S FAULT SHE ATE THE APPLE spin. Can you blame Cathy for taking this venerable authority figure at his word, and staying “pure” by staying a child, by warding off womanhood and childbearing altogether? goodforher.jpg

Real quick here are some lighthearted episodes from their childhood since it’s not all doom and gloom: Christopher marches next door to confront the Frenchman who is maybe sleeping with their mom and is definitely perving on Cathy. Christopher returns the Frenchman’s gift of silk stockings with a grand declaration of “My sister Catherine has no need for these.” That’s right shut him down Chris!!! Also: Cathy falls into a frozen pond and Christopher rescues her. Their negligent mother blames Christopher. Cathy is shaking with pneumonia and all she wants to do is “make the sad look leave my brother’s sweet face.” Christopher refuses to leave her side until she rallies from the fever. He is thirteen:

I think that Christopher and I half-died together in that terrible week, and afterward, when the terror had passed, we were never quite the children we had been before.

Congrats kids you have undertaken a symbolic journey to the underworld!!!! Good job.

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS

It wouldn’t be a real incest story without a third sibling, an odd-man-out who helps us triangulate our main pairing’s relationship. Edward is a sociopath and a bully. Parents playing favorites always wreaks havoc with children’s sense of self-worth, but I think in this case it’s 90% down to Edward just being a bad egg (fwiw their father, when he was alive, did favor Christopher). Edward is a peripheral figure for most of their childhood; he appears only to “bang on our door to tell us to be silent for our giggling kept him awake.” That’s right, our door—teenage Catherine and Christopher share not just a room but a bed (!). Edward resurfaces as an adult to beg for Catherine’s intercession with his wife. He married an heiress, and now he seems to have soured on her. He talks about her “malady” and her “hysterical nonsense.” She has “phantom confinements.” They are “phantom” because she is barren. Sir you are literally a Victorian dude named Edward who keeps his mad wife locked up in the attic, you can sit allllll the way down. A heavily pregnant Catherine rolls up to Edward’s house just in time to witness his wife’s suicide: ”I had to make sure there was nothing inside me,” explains the poor woman, lying in a pool of blood after cutting her abdomen open with a knife. This seems fine. This whole society seems fine, right? Catherine reflects: “Ill-health or madness was her only solution, married as she was to a man who so complacently felt himself her superior” and “We are sepulchered alive in this close world, and want more room.” If this applies to her sister-in-law’s tragic fate it applies with equal force to her own situation. Cathy may not be physically barren but her inner life is empty af.

I’m going to talk about the breakup now. The climax of this book is the last time Cathy and Chris have sex. Contrast the arc of many slow-burn stories where the climax is the first time the main pairing has sex. Cathy’s menses doesn’t even arrive until after the incestuous affair is over! And what precipitates the breakup? Well, their mother decides to take the family on a seaside vacation. This is the summer when everything changes (Cathy’s favorite season is winter, and she abhors change). As for what changes, exactly, it’s kind of unclear? Wasn’t like they got caught having beach sex (which they had a ton of). The forces of change are wholly internal. They’re growing up. They’re waking up to the existence of social taboos that will brand their love “unnatural” & worse. As readers we can see that Catherine and Christopher’s attachment is as natural as breathing, and it’s actually the Incest Is Icky crowd that’s drawing harmful artificial boundaries. What happens is there’s a local girl who has obvious designs on Chris. She’s a nonentity but the mere existence of someone outside of Catherine and Christopher, someone who views one of them as an object of sexual desire, sort of punctures the bubble they’ve hitherto been living in. They can’t pretend society doesn’t exist or that what they’re doing isn’t immoral by its lights:

”We have never felt bad before. It just happened and there was no harm in it. I see no harm in it now—I cannot feel suddenly that it is wrong … but even if it is, why does it signify? Nobody knows.” ”Yes, but why does nobody know? It must be because we have deliberately tried to hide it?”

Christopher is the one who unilaterally decides that incest is wrongdirtybad and it has to end. Christopher is the one who seeks out Rando Local Girl and fucks her just to prove how serious he is about ending it with Cathy, which imo was inflicting a pointlessly cruel injury for no reason?? Wtf Chris I thought you were one of the good ones. What I love about Cathy is the steadfastness of her conviction—she accepts Christopher’s decision but she is far from convinced by his reasoning, his deference to social norms. Here’s Cathy’s take: “it seems to me that to live in a way that is contrary to one’s own nature, to live in a way that is false, that is the evil. The discontent grows like a cancer.” Authenticity ought to count for something, no? But these kids and their beautiful love are ultimately outmatched by, and broken by, the weight of social mores:

I could not bear to think of anything changing. I wanted it to stay the same dear way it had always been; ever since I could remember … but the spell was broken; we could not pretend any more. We had to stop being children. “Please. Once more.”

And that’s the breakup scene. It’s devastating. Cathy keeps staring at this one beauty mark on Christopher’s familiar well-loved face and she’s crying and I’m crying too. Recall that they’re still sharing a room/a bed up to this point? “The first night alone was the worst,” says Cathy. Imagine losing the person who is your whole world….overnight. Oof. There’s a time-jump of a few years, and Chris announces he’s off to—I think South Africa? I think this is around the time of the Boer War? I didn’t make any detailed notes and I’ll be damned if I’m going to fish for my copy of the book just to confirm what we already know, that it’s the 1800’s and the sun never set on the British Empire:

”I must get away from here and see something different; begin again…I cannot imagine a day without your face, or your sweet companionship. I do love you. But this must be for the best.”

Christopher goes off to doing colonial-settler stuff, initially. Here’s his first letter home:

I want you to be happy and grow up straight without me.

As opposed to growing up crooked, or growing up gay?? Here are subsequent letters where he seems to have done a complete 180:

thought it would be simpler to be away from you, from the constant temptation. It is not. My nightmares terrify me, they are eating my brain. I don’t know how long this can last.

AND THEN he writes he’ll be coming home for Christmas! I must’ve missed the memo where this story turns into a straight-up Folgers fic but that’s about where we are. It’s literally Folgercest. He goes to Africa explicitly to get away from her. Time and distance cannot suppress their feelings. He comes home to find her still waiting for him:

”Why have you clung to me, or rather the memory of me. For surely the memory is better than this twisted, pathetic creature before you?” “I have found no one better,” I said simply.

Asdfdfkdfjd this reunion scene is heartbreaking bc Christopher and Catherine are barely five minutes in each other’s company before Edward intrudes, claims to have found them in a compromising position, claims to have suspected all along about the incest, almost comes to blows with Christopher, tells him to get out. And Chris does. Cathy doesn’t even get to say goodbye. Edward’s presence is so clearly a case of entrapment—he was expecting Chris to come to her, he was expecting to catch them doing something “inappropriate” even though it sounds like they were only embracing—that there is no doubt in my mind Edward’s intent was to hurt Cathy and Chris, rather than to protect Cathy’s reputation or whatever bullshit he was spouting. We have seen from Edward’s abuse of his wife that he is no kind of moral authority. He does, however, succeed in “making me feel unclean, and dirt was attaching itself to me with every foul word he said.” In this scene Edward is handy synecdoche for patriarchy, which berates Cathy with accusations of sinfulness while actively stifling her every creative impulse and intellectual endeavor. If this book has a villain (and I don’t think it does; it’s not that kind of book) Edward is it. I find that edifying. It’s not Cathy’s husband who’s the primary antagonist standing in the way of her self-actualization—the husband is no more than an empty suit—it’s her other brother. One brother saves her and the other damns her.

After Edward runs Chris off and Chris goes back to Africa there are a few more letters, including this one: “that nothing has changed in my heart. That I love you with the passion of our youth, with the strength of all these long, long years.” Thank you for the affirmation Chris! I needed it even if Cathy didn’t. But the war is ramping up and Chris is headed into a combat zone and the odds of his survival do not look good. Cathy is already preparing to grieve him. She’s also preparing to go into labor any day now. These two threads, her brother’s impending death and her child’s impending birth, merge in the final pages of the book where Cathy is just clearly SO OVER IT:

I have nothing to fight, yet the waiting is most terrible … I have nothing to do but wait. I have nothing to leave.

It is hard to go on. How can I escape this life, this round of boredom and other births? O, that I could be ten and happy!

That’s the end but come on. Raise your hand if you don’t think this girl will 100% yeet herself into the sea and they’ll rule it “postpartum depression”? Anybody? No?

[universally-the-same]

Exercise, intuitive eating and stepping into power

My intuitive eating journey is starting to welcome the idea of movement.  For my whole life movement equaled exercise, which equaled a need to lose weight.  Pretty much the only times that I would exercise with any regularity where when I was in the throes of trying to change my body as a result of being surrounded by diet culture.

There are two other circumstances I can think of when I would exercise regularly.  The first being the many times I was in physical therapy rehabbing a body part due to an injury.  The other time is when I was about 18 years-old.  I was out late every night country line dancing, and I was going to the gym for fun.  Weight loss did end up being a side effect of this time in my life, but it was probably the most intuitive period in my life as an adult.  

I would eat whatever I wanted, and I only ate when I actually needed food due to my hectic teenager schedule (because you know... I was busy working, going to school and just living life to the fullest).  I danced because I loved it.  I worked out at the gym because it felt good.  And I ate what I wanted because I felt that I deserved it due to all of the exercise I was doing.

Now, the food part was still tied up in diet culture because I was eating what I wanted to eat because I felt I deserved it due to the exercise, but the point is that I wasn't restricting myself, I enjoyed my food and I enjoyed the movement I was doing with my body.  It all came very naturally to me.

At this point in my life, I was the thinnest I was as an adult.  But aside from weight, I felt truly fulfilled in many other ways.  I was traveling with my best friend.  I had worked through my childhood mother issues as best as I could, I had an amazing support group of people that loved me and encouraged me, my stepsister and I had grown incredible close, and I had even given up the incessant need for a boyfriend... I believe because I was finally at a point in my life where I was finally starting to "do me".

Until this morning, every time that I've looked back on this part of my life I've always obsessed on the weight loss part, and how incredible it would be to be able to replicate that.  Over the years, I've realized and I've accepted that this body is now 20 years older, and at that time... I had undiagnosed Graves Disease so my metabolism was in constant overdrive. Since than, my thyroid has changed and I now have Hashimoto's Disease so my metabolism is working against me.  

When we created our vision boards for Winter Solstice in December, I placed a picture of myself as a teenager in the center.  I also did this Spring of 2018 as a form of motivation for my weight loss.  This year, when I chose a picture, instead of focusing on a picture that emphasized my body. I was drawn to chose this picture that captured my spirit in what happens to be a smaller body.

At the time I didn't really realize that's what I was doing, but as I've been going through this whole process of tapping into my intuition on a whole other level, and getting back in touch with my inner child, I'm realizing that what I want more than weight loss is to feel whole and to be happy.

"Thanks" to diet culture, I always thought that weight loss would be "the thing" to make me happy.  So weight loss turned into this elusive thing that I've only ever been able to obtain when my body was sick, or when my life was full of restriction and the need to exercise (and the reasoning that it would help burn more calories which would help me lose weight).

When I did the Optavia diet last year, the diet was so incredibly restrictive that I wasn't allowed to exercise because of how dangerously low my caloric intake was.  This in itself should have set off a red flag, but it didn't because I was completely enamored by the success stories and my search for happiness through weight loss.  I sincerely believed that it was the answer and that if I could just stick to it long enough to get down to the size I wanted, then I could transition off the plan and maintain a pretty restrictive diet for the rest of my life.

Does that sound like happiness?  I was miserable.  My thyroid was thrown for such a loop due to the heavy amount of soy protein I was eating in place of real food.  Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have been able to exercise because I had zero energy.  I was filling my mornings with promising pep-talks of lunchtime naps hoping that 40 minutes of sleep would be able to carry me through the rest of my day.  Most days it didn't and I would need another nap after work so that I could make it through the evening.  

Luckily, I wised up and transitioned myself off of that diet before things got any worse.  Shortly after, I went on the vacation of a life time where I  allowed myself to eat what I wanted.  It was vacation after all, and I've never been one to restrict myself for holidays and special occasions.  But what I didn't realize was that this would continue after I got home.  I now understand that the cyclical nature of dieting is restrict, restrict, restrict and our bodies finally get to a point where enough it enough and we binge.  This is one of the reasons for yo-yo weight cycling.  

In intuitive eating, there is a stage you go through where you have to allow your body to have what it wants.  As counter-intuitive as it sounds, this stage is very important because the trust that was broken within the body during restriction needs to be rebuilt.  The idea behind this is that when we diet, we know that it is a purposeful restriction (of food choices, calories, portions.. whatever it may be) but our actual body doesn't know that.  Due to our nature, our body is programmed to think that we are entering a period of famine, so when when the time/opportunity comes to replenish itself, it's going to take advantage of that.  

This is the phase that I am in on my journey.  I could write a separate post of everything that I've been experiencing during this phase, but the coolest part is actually witnessing the trust being reestablished within my body.  It's something that I really can't explain at this moment, but I felt it was important to share this information on restriction because I'm going to tie this in with exercise in a moment.

But before I do, I wanted to write out a quick timeline.  I started Optavia last May.  Our trip was the very end of October.  That December is when I created the vision board with that photo, and this past January is when I started seeing my new therapist who introduced me to intuitive eating.  

This past year, I have been very resistant to exercise.  The only form I've done has come in the form of walking when exploring on vacation or day trips, and yoga.  I'm happy to say that my yoga practice has been particularly strong this year, though I think that's in part to my not really viewing yoga as exercise.  While yoga is fantastic for your body, for me, it's always been about the spiritual part.

But recently, I've noticed that movement/exercise is slowly started making a reappearance in my life.  For the last few months, I've had this little voice suggesting I wake up earlier on my work-from-home days and hit the gym.  This week, I finally found the desire to really want to do it.  I woke up early, drove to the gym and did a total body work out.  

While working out, I listened to my body.  I was mindful of what it wanted - just like with food.  I did the amount of weight that felt good.  I did the number of reps/sets that felt good.  And I didn't worry about the clock and how long I had been there.  When I was satisfied with my workout, I left.  

I've been practicing listening to my body while eating these last few months, and let me tell you... it felt so amazing to tune into my body while at the gym.  In the past it was all about competition which sounded something like this...  How much weight did I lift last time?  Let's see if we can beat that!   Oh look... I'm lifting more than the person next to me!   I'm pedaling harder than them, or not fast enough.. let me push myself harder...

I've always known that this thinking it what set me up for injury, but I'm really now seeing just how much it was.  The liberation that comes from releasing all the self-imposed expectations and just doing what feels good, or listening to my body and eating what I really want in the amount that my body needs (vs. under or overeating)... these things leave me satisfied.  A word that I've taken for granted for too long.

All of this mindfulness and reconnecting with my body has me thinking about patterns in my life related to exercise.  I'm realizing again, this connection to nature's cycles.  Reflecting back over the years, I have a tendency to want to want to be more active in the spring time.  I tend to struggle with exercise during the winter months.  This is so fascinating because this coincides with the cycles of not only trees and plants, but animals too.  

So many plants and animals go into dormancy/hibernation in the fall and winter.  It makes sense that I would also want to retreat.  In the spring, everything starts to wake up.  The plants and trees blossom and bud, animals come out from hibernation, they start mating and procreating so wouldn't it make sense that there would be an inherent desire for my body to "wake up" and want to be more active?

I'm so excited to go into this year with this new perspective and to be able to honor it without being attached to the stories and expectations to be something other than what I am.  Reconnecting to my spiritually was an important step towards finding myself, but I never expected the healing that would come from this intuitive eating journey.  The liberation that has come from releasing all of that and allowing myself to be me, and figuring out who exactly that is has been such a beautiful process.  

The more that we release those ties that bind us, the more powerful in self we become.  The more we recognize and honor that power, the more we can help change the world and create one where our unique identities are embraced instead of stigmatized.

  *this blog post was originally posted on my My Curvy Journey blog on 5/23/2019 and moved to my Universally the Same blog.

[lovemesomesurveys]

1. If you found a baby turtle on the side of the road, would you pick it up and keep it? No. 2. Did you and your mum ever have a big fight that caused you to move out? Nooo. 3. Has the last person you kissed ever been to your house? Yeah, a few times. 4. Have you had a good day today or was yesterday better? It’s only 3 in the morning. We’ll see. I have a doctor appointment this morning; though, so it’s not going to start off great. 5. Do you have any plans for the upcoming weekend? Nope.

6. How about you, do you have a bf/gf? No. 7. Could you date someone very attractive, but who thought they were better than everyone else? Absolutely not. I wouldn’t give a shit how attractive they were if they were like that.  8. So do you have a best friend? Yes. 9. What would you do if your best friend kissed the last person you kissed? My mom would never do that. 10. Do you dislike anyone? No one I know. 11. Did you message your best friend today? No. I’ll see her later on, we live together. 12. Do you think you will be in a relationship two months from now? Nope. 13. Do you always feel like you’re making mistakes? Always. 14. How do you feel about your hair right now? I love the color since I just got it done a few weeks ago and it looks healthier since I got it trimmed, but still I hate that I don’t do anything with it besides throw it up in a pony tail. I’ve never been good at styling my hair, it never comes out good. I have long hair, it would be nice to actually do something with it. 15. Does anybody have a tattoo with your name on it? Well, I’m sure there’s people with “Stephanie” tattooed on them, but not anyone I know. 16. Who did you last see shirtless? An actor on TV. 17. How would you feel if you got the person you liked? I don’t like anyone in that way. 18. Do you think you can last in a relationship for six months without cheating? Yes. 19. Do you like to make the first move? Noooo. 20. Do you think you will ever be married? No. 21. Have you ever tried your hardest and then gotten disappointed in the end? I’m a big disappointment to myself and everyone else I feel like. 22. Is it possible to be single and happy? Yeah. I mean, I’m single and unhappy, but it’s not because I’m single. 23. Was the first person you talked to today male or female? It’ll be male (my brother). 24. Do you remember who you liked on New Year’s? No one. 25. Are you a morning person or a night person? I’m barely a person. 26. Could you go the rest of your life without drinking alcohol? I’ve gone 7 years so far and have no desire for it. 27. Have you ever felt like you weren’t good enough? I’ve always felt that way. 28. Is there anyone who likes you? Not in the romantic sense. 29. If the last person you kissed saw you kissing someone else, would they be mad? Ha, no. They wouldn’t give a single fuck. 30. Do you understand football? I get there’s touchdowns... that’s about it. ha. 31. What’s the first thing you heard this morning? It’ll be alarm. D: 32. Who last called you beautiful? My hair stylist did after she finished with my hair.  33. Did you talk to someone until you fell asleep last night? No. 34. How many kids do you want when you get older? Zero. 35. Are you the type of person who has a new boyfriend/girlfriend every week? Uh, no. I’ve been single for 7 years and haven’t even talked to anyone in that way in 4. 36. Ever been called a jerk/bitch? Yes, playfully. 37. Do you have feelings for anyone? Not romantic ones. 38. If you fell pregnant to the last person you kissed, what would you think? “Fell pregnant.” I’m a virgin and can’t have kids anyway, so. 39. What’s your full name? Stephanie is all you need to know. 40. Are you young or old? I’m old. 41. What’s the gender? I’m a female. 42. How’s your heart been lately? Physically, it’s fine.  43. Why aren’t you in bed? I am. 44. Did you do laundry today? No. 45. What kind of computer do you have? A MacBook Air. 46. Are there always other fish in the sea? So they say. 47. What can your tongue do? I can’t curl it or make a clover or anything. 48. What do you think your mum does when she goes out? My poor mom doesn’t do much outside of work, taking care of my family, especially me, and caring for a family friend. She hardly gets any time for herself.  49. Do chickens have feelings? Yes. 50. Do you think the body is the most beautiful thing that was ever made? We’re made in God’s image. I need to learn to love myself and my body, though, cause I definitely don’t. 51. So how are you feeling today? Blah. 52. Where is your sister right now? I don't have a sister. 53. Name five things you did today? So far just YouTube and surveys. 54. What kind of phone do you have? An iPhone XR. 55. What are you listening to? An ASMR video. 56. What do you smell like? Like me. 57. What colour are your eyes? Brown. 58. Have you ever done a Chinese fire drill? No. 59. Do you know someone named Betsy? No. 60. What colour is your mum’s hair? Black. 61. Do you have a dog? Breed? Name? Yes, a 3 year old German Shepherd/Lab mix named Princess Leia. <3 62. Do you remember singing any songs as a kid? Yeah. A lot of Barney songs, especially. 63. Are you married? Nopeee. I’m very single. 64. When was the last time you talked to one of your siblings? Last night.  65. Do you play an instrument? I played some piano back in the day. I regret not keeping up with it, though. I wish I took it more seriously. 66. Do you like fire? I like bonfires or fire in the fireplace. I love that autumn fire smell. However, you’ll never catch me lighting a fire. Not even a candle. I’m a big scardy cat. 67. Are you allergic to anything? Tangerines. 68. Have you ever been to a spa? Nope. 69. Do you miss someone? Always. 70. Views on premarital sex? I’m just waiting to be in a loving committed relationship. Someone I’m very comfortable with. He’ll have to be someone very patient and understanding. 71. What is a noise that you cannot stand? Eating sounds--slurping, smacking, sucking... I CAN’T. 72. Do you know how to do a cartwheel? I can’t do that. 73. What is the most you are willing to spend on a pair of sunglasses? I don’t wear sunglasses as someone who has to wear glasses because I’m basically blind without them. I’ve had the transitional glasses in the past, though. I don’t have them currently cause I didn’t want to pay for that. 74. Does your mum vacuum early in the morning while you’re asleep? No. 75. Do you shower naked? Uh, yeah?  76. Does wearing glasses really make people look smart? It can. Doesn’t make me look smart, though ha. I’m not fooling anyone. 77. Are you ADD or ADHD? No. 78. Do your band-aids have cartoons on them? No, we just have the boring plain ones. 79. Have you ever kissed someone you shouldn’t have? No. 80. In one word, how would you define yourself? Disappointing.  81. Tell me about a dream you had recently? Nah. 82. Who’s the funniest drunk person you know? I haven’t been around drunk people in a long time. 83. How did you feel when you woke up? I haven’t gone to bed, yet, but I know I won’t be happy when my alarm goes off. I have a doctor appointment in the morning. :/ 84. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up this morning? It’ll be “ughhhhh I don’t want to get up.” 85. Name something great that happened on Friday? I don’t know, it’s Thursday. Ask me tomorrow. 86. When was the last time you saw your father? Last night. 87. Do you wish someone would call or text you right now? No. You know... it’s weird. I heard from Ty out of the blue yesterday for the first time in almost 5 years and it didn’t stir up anything in me like it would have in the past. 88. Have you ever been kissed by a person whose name starts with J? Yes. 89. Do you crack your knuckles? Yeah. 90. What were you doing twenty minutes ago? This. 91. You’re thinking about someone, aren’t you? I am now cause of that question where I talked about Ty. 92. Have you held hands with anyone in the past twenty-four hours? No. 93. What would you do if your partner still kept pictures of their ex? I would have an issue with that. 94. What if your partner went through your cellphone? I don’t want that kind of relationship. Like yeah, we should have nothing to hide, but still there’s just no reason for it. 95. What if your partner was flirting with another girl/boy? I’d most definitely have a problem with that and would say something. 96. Ever liked someone you thought you didn’t stand a chance with? Yes. 97. You want someone/something? I’m already looking forward to lunch. 98. Is there really a difference between Coke and Pepsi? There absolutely is. Coke all the way. 99. Is there any emotion you’re trying to avoid right now? I’m hungry, but it’s 330 in the morning and I’m not going to get anything. I’ll get something later after my doctor appointment. 100. Are there any mistakes with your recent ex you wish you could have changed? It really doesn’t matter anymore. 101. Has anyone ever been with you while you were throwing up? Yeah, my mom many times whenever I was sick. That’s even still to this day as an adult. One of my former friends was with me a few times after getting sick from a littleee bit too much to drink. :X 102. Background on your computer? Alexander Skarsgard. 103. Have you cried recently? Yes. 104. Who has hurt you the most? Myself. 105. Are you happy with where you are relationship-wise now? I’m perfectly fine with being single. 106. What language do you want to learn? I want to be fluent in Spanish. I should start practicing again, it’s been yearsss so I’m definitely rusty. 107. Your ex’s car breaks down and they ask you for a lift. Your response? I don’t drive, so I’d be of no help. 108. Would you hit a member of the opposite sex? I’d only hit someone out of self-defense.

[official-transsexual]

FAQ

(last updated September 11, 2019)

Q: What is dysphoria? A: Dysphoria is a diagnostic term meaning “profound distress or discomfort.” It is a common symptom of many psychiatric disorders. It's been used this way for over a century (example 1, example 2, example 3). “Gender dysphoria” refers to dysphoria that occurs as a result of incongruence between a person’s assigned sex and gender identity.  To meet the diagnostic criteria for the psychiatric disorder “Gender Dysphoria” the DSM-V specifically states that the incongruence must cause “significant distress or problems functioning.” Sex/gender incongruence that doesn’t cause this distress or dysfunction is NOT considered disordered.

Q: I was told that the APA defined gender dysphoria as “conflict between a person’s physical or assigned gender and the gender with which he/she/they identify.” A: This particular line is a quote from a page on the APA website that was meant to briefly summarize the diagnostic criteria for Gender Dysphoria. It is not the full diagnostic criteria, which is described further down the page. Along with the checklist of traits, the diagnostic criteria for both children and adults include “distress or inpairment functioning” as specific necessary condition: “In adolescents and adults gender dysphoria diagnosis involves a difference between one’s experienced/expressed gender and assigned gender, and significant distress or problems functioning [...] In children, gender dysphoria diagnosis involves at least six of the following and an associated significant distress or impairment in function, lasting at least six months.” Again: that “distress or problems functioning” criteria is mandatory; this is why the line meant to summarize gender dysphoria uses the word “conflict” instead of a more neutral term like “incongruence” or even “difference.” The APA’s endorsed expert opinion on the subject states more explicitly that “not all transgender people suffer from gender dysphoria.” According to members of the APA workgroup responsible for writing the Gender Dysphoria diagnostic criteria, the term “dysphoria” was chosen based on the logic that “if the new diagnosis would focus more on the dysphoria aspect (e.g., in the name) than does the current one, no separate distress criterion would be necessary, because the distress would be defined as inherent to the diagnosis” (sci-hub pdf). Note that they ended up keeping the distress criterion in the diagnosis despite the redundancy, presumably because they were afraid that it might not be clear enough that they were referring to distress while using a medical term that literally means “significant distress.” The exact DSM-5 criteria (which I transcribe here) further makes it clear that gender dysphoria requires distress, rather than simply gender incongruence.

Q: Why does it matter how we define dysphoria? A: It’s a matter of relevance. When discussing gender dysphoria in the context of the medical model, the relevant definition is the one that gets used within the medical system.

Q: But what if we worked to change the medical definition of gender dysphoria? A: I’ve see this idea brought up in my notes a few times, and it’s honestly just a terrible idea. The overpathologization of distress responses is a huge concern within psychology, and it’s one of the reasons the medical definition of gender dysphoria is so limited. Extending that definition to include things like “feeling bad when you’re mistreated” is, at best, a step backward. 

Q: What makes a person transgender, if not dysphoria? A: An incongruence (mismatch) between their gender identity and their assigned sex category.

Q: How can someone know they're trans without dysphoria? A: Many non-dysphoric trans people cite "gender euphoria" as their main clue. Others simply describe feeling a strong desire to be a certain gender that differed from their assigned gender. 

Q: Isn't that just dysphoria? A: No. As I've already pointed out, dysphoria is a diagnostic term referring specifically to profound distress. While it's certainly common for these other signs of gender incongruence to be accompanied by distress or discomfort, these are not themselves always inherently distressing experiences. The very epicurian idea that gender euphoria is simply a result of gender dysphoria is a false dichotomy based on a zero-sum understanding of pain and pleasure.

Q: Does this mean being transgender is a choice for non-dysphoric trans people? A: No. While all of us, dysphoric or otherwise, have a choice in what labels we use & which identities we claim, the process through which gender identity is formed is incredibly complex and not incredibly well understood. Non-dysphoric trans people may have less incentive to come out or transition than those of us who do experience dysphoria, but this isn't the same thing as choosing to have a transgender identity.

Q: Why would someone who’s 100% comfortable with their body transition? A: First off, most people aren’t 100% comfortable with their bodies, and there’s a wide range of experiences that exist between” complete and total comfort” and “significant distress.” Non-dysphoric trans people seek out medical transition for various reasons, including legal barriers to social transition (eg medical requirements to update ID), feelings of euphoria associated with specific traits, or simply a desire to present in a way that is more congruent with their identities.

Q: But why would non-dysphoric trans people seek out treatment for a condition they don’t have? Isn’t that like a doctor prescribing chemo drugs to someone without cancer? A: Many people- cis and trans alike- take HRT for reasons other than treatment of a disorder, including preventive care against future poor health or the potential for quality of life improvements. As of 2016, an estimated 1.67% of adult men under the age of 65 were making insurance claims to cover testosterone supplements, most of whom are cis men; the authors note that men over the age cutoff of the paper were expected to use testosterone supplements at higher rates due to age-related hypogonadism (in this case, the natural, non-disordered decrease in testosterone production cis men experience as they age). Additionally, doctors actually do prescribe chemo drugs to people without cancer fairly regularly, it’s called “off-label use.” A common example of this is Methotrexate, a chemotherapy drug which is regularly prescribed to treat noncancerous conditions like rheumatoid arthritis and ectopic pregnancy. Hormonal transition is itself considered an off-label use of HRT, regardless of whether the person transitioning is dysphoric 

Q: What sources say that you don’t need dysphoria to be transgender? (Note: this list is not intended to be exhaustive) A: The American Psychiatric Association explicitly says that dysphoria is not necessary “ Not all transgender people suffer from gender dysphoria and that distinction is important to keep in mind. Gender dysphoria and/or coming out as transgender can occur at any age.”  The World Health Organization's ICD-10 acknowledges the existence of non-dysphoric trans people with its description of "transsexualism" as "usually accompanied by a sense of discomfort... or inappropriateness." The American Psychological Association: “A psychological state is considered a mental disorder only if it causes significant distress or disability. Many transgender people do not experience their gender as distressing or disabling, which implies that identifying as transgender does not constitute a mental disorder.” The American Academy of Pediatrics describes gender dysphoria as a potential consequence of being trans: “ Some youths experience gender dysphoria when the incongruence between assigned sex at birth and asserted gender identity becomes so distressing that it impairs the youth in school, relationships and overall functioning... However, there is no evidence that risk for mental illness is inherently due to a gender-diverse identity.” The Canadian Paediatric Society provides this definition of Gender Dysphoria: “Describes the level of discomfort or suffering associated with the conflict that can exist between a person's assigned sex at birth and their true gender. Some transgender children experience no distress about their bodies, but others may be very uncomfortable with their assigned sex, especially at the start of puberty when their body starts to change.” The World Medical Association cites the APA definition of dysphoria: “The WMA asserts that gender incongruence is not in itself a mental disorder; however it can lead to discomfort or distress, which is referred to as gender dysphoria (DSM-5).” WPATH states that "the criteria currently listed for [Gender Dysphoria] are descriptive of many people who experience dissonance between their sex as assigned at birth and their gender identity... The DSM-5 descriptive criteria for gender dysphoria were developed to aid in diagnosis and treatment to alleviate the clinically significant distress and impairment that is frequently, though not universally, associated with transsexual and transgender conditions” (emphasis added). 

Q: I was told the American Psychiatric Association isn't trustworthy, so why do you use it as a source? A: I've written a big post here analyzing criticism of the APA (and particularly, their handling of trans identities); the short version is that the APA has been very heavily criticised in the past for supporting many of the same positions truscum advocate in favour of today. While the APA & DSM aren't perfect, they aren't exactly the mess truscum claim they are either.

Q: What about brain scan research? Doesn't that prove dysphoria is required? A: No. Brain sex research in interesting, but the results are nowhere near as clear-cut as many people believe. Yes, there's been studies that have observed similarities between the brains of dysphoric binary trans people and cisgender people who share their identities. This is correlational research that can't be used to infer causation without further evidence, and researchers still aren't sure what exactly it means. There's also the problem of attempting to apply a body of research to non-dysphoric trans people that includes few, if any, results from non-dysphoric trans participants.

Q: How can someone transition without a dysphoria diagnosis? A: Depending on where you are, there may be clinics in your area that operate on an informed consent model of transition. Unlike the traditional gatekeeper model of transition, informed consent models allow anyone who is competent to make their own medical decisions to receive transition care. Note that this does not mean that they block (or should block) mentally ill people from transitioning, even those with delusional disorders; instead, this is about ensuring that a transitioning person is capable of understanding the changes to their body that transition care would lead to, and minimizing the risk of a crisis during a dangerous situation.

Q: What about John Money/David Reimer? Is this evidence that gender is not actually a construct? A: John Money was a conversion therapy advocate who believed that he could force a child to identify with the gender of his choosing, and that there was no point in someone identifying as male without a functioning penis. Nothing about this disproves the idea that our genders are constructed, though it does demonstrate that the process of gender construction is beyond human control, at least on an individual level. Some of the terms Money coined may still be in use, but his claims about being able to force children to identify as a specific gender are pretty thoroughly rejected outside of the conversion therapy crowd. Additionally, bringing up the fact that certain terms were coined by Money without recognizing that those terms are currently used in a context that otherwise rejects his views is often used as an attempt to poison the well.

Q: What does "radscum" mean? A: it's an old term for the category of rad/fem than includes what we now call "TE/RFs" and "SW/ERFs." It was still commonly used when the term "truscum" was coined to refer to post-HBS transmedicalism. In the communities I was active in, the term "truscum" caught on specifically because of how it reflected the relationship between the two groups (transmeds and radscum have a long history of co-operation, regardless of how any individual truscum today feels about that).

Q: Is it true that the person who coined the word “tucute” was a cis woman pretending to be trans? A: No, it’s not.

Q: Why did you remove my response with sources from the replies of your post? A: I didn’t.

Q: Will you promo my discourse blog? A: Sorry, no.

Q: Will you promo my fundraiser?  A: Please add a link to this post as a reblog or comment instead of messaging me. About the mod:

Q: what are your pronouns? A: Ey/em (like “they” without the “th-”)

Q: Why do you call yourself "transsexual"? A: I've been using the term transsexual for myself for roughly a decade, and I refuse to give it up because some kids decided they own that word now.

Q: Do you ID as queer? A: That's one of the labels I use, yes.

Q: What other identity labels do you use? A: I'm being intentionally vague about certain aspects of my ID on this blog because it's interesting to watch what assumptions truscum make, but in general I'm neither straight nor cis & I use a variety of labels depending on the context I'm speaking in and the information I'm trying to communicate to my audience.

Q: How old are you? A: Over 30 (which is part of the reason why I stick to responding to people who interact with me first instead of seeking out bad posts to argue against)

[singlemums-supportsystem-blog]

The Choice

From the age of 20 I knew I wanted to be a mum. At the time I didn’t really think of the logistics, I imagined my life would go as it did for my parents. Fall in love, get married and have some kids. 

But at 22 I had been single for a number of years and didn’t really know about meeting someone. The bodily desire to have a baby was quite intense during these years and I started to consider becoming a single parent a few years down the line.

I know 22 is quite young to be thinking of these things, but I already had a well paid, stable job and had been self reliant for many years. I knew at the time I was in absolutely no position emotionally to have a baby but I was just considering it for the future. My mum was around 27 when she had me and this has worked well for our relationship. School friends whose parents were older often found it hard to talk to or relate to their parents, something I never had trouble with. 

I knew I wanted to be a fairly young mum, especially if I was going to do it alone. The older you get, the more difficult it can be and the more strain it can put on your mind and body. (Not in every situation, I understand). So I decided that I would follow the similar age gap that my mum and I have, aiming to have a baby by 27. This of course left me 5 years at the time to build up savings, climb the job ladder and look into buying a property. 

Shortly after deciding this, I moved jobs and met the love of my life. . . Typical :)

Slowly the idea of being a single parent drifted to the back of my mind. We talked about buying a home together, what we would name our kids and all round just planning for the future. He owned his own place and I moved in after dating for a year. I was open about my dreams of motherhood from the start, however as time went on, the more closed he became when I was talking about the future. We sat down one night and he told me that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be a dad or not. He asked for 6 months so that he could work out what he wanted from life. During those 6 months I tired my best not to bring up babies and even tried to figure out why I wanted to become a parent. Did I really want a child? Was it just a phase I was going through? Could I make that sacrifice? Should I stay with him and not be a mum or leave the best man I had met for a future I didn’t know was certain? 

It was a very difficult time. I decided at the time that I wouldn’t give up something as certain as my love for him, for a future that was so uncertain. I didn’t know I could even have children. 

I was feeling okay about my choice until we received some news. His brother’s wife was pregnant. As soon as the words entered my ears I broke. Looking back, I had been trying to convince myself that being childless would be fine, as long as we had each other. I knew I was lying to myself and it felt terrible knowing what the outcome might be.

When the 6 months had passed, I knew he was still not ready to make a choice. I turned 25 the month after and it dawned on me that I was getting close to my (loose) deadline of 27. I asked him for an answer by the end of that month and we decided to part ways. Not out of hatred, we didn’t fall out of love or fall in love with other people. We simply wanted different things in life. We were both strong enough and loved each other enough to want what was best for the other. He knew he could never give me the life that I wanted and I knew the life I wanted wasn’t for him.

(Side note - He is and will always be a close friend. We love each other dearly but have transitioned to just friends)

So I found myself back on the single parent pathway and once again sat down with myself to work out if this is what I want and is it something I can do. Financially I am in a very good position and I am just about to buy my first home. These are things I knew I would need to have in place before starting the process of getting pregnant. 

So why did I choose to do this alone rather than wait to find another potential partner? To start, I am not ready to move on. While my break-up was clean and very peaceful, it has still left a hole in my life that I am not ready to fill. Timing is also a big consideration. I know that age is still on my side but giving myself a year of being single, then another two or three getting into a new relationship and sorting all those potential feelings out leaves me at or close to 30. I am also aware that I could have the same thing happen, where after a few years we part ways and I am back to ground zero on my own, only its 5 years down the line. 

By that point I would likely be 31 or 32 by the time a baby came about (if all went well). And, while this is not old (by far), in terms of how I would like to lead my life, this is not what I want. I want to stick to my plan but I also know that could change at any moment because life is unpredictable. I am not closed to meeting someone forever, I just want to move forward with some clarity and definition to my life.

So knowing that I want to start the journey is one thing, actually moving forward is another thing. From here I’ll start detailing all my thoughts and what I go through on my journey to being a parent. I’d love to hear the journeys that others have taken.

I am not writing this to offend anyone, only to open up to conversation and show other people that perhaps others are going through the same thing. We can all help each other out, rather than judge and criticise.

[empressxmachina]

--Also on Wattpad--

Mouse Trap, pt. 3

“I can see you just fine.”

“Oh… Oh, my god,” Lauren breathed in her own panic and filth, slid down her wall with her back to it, toppled in a puddle of regurgitated food, sweat, fear, and tears.

If she was indeed in one of his spaces as it had appeared, then it was sensible that he could see her whenever he desired. Knowing how or, worse, why, however, was another story that she wasn’t sure that she wanted to read. As exciting as the technology seemed, was she as safe as this overbearing onlooker tried to claim?

With every new action and word, Lauren’s confidence waned.

The enhanced zoom on the screen was then stretched further out, revealing the entire plaza that held Lauren and later, eventually, the whole block in which it was contained. Everything not within a certain radius from the center was smudged into a blur, almost as if he rubbed it all out for himself, giving all that was untouched a tilt-shift feel. Her form, now more antlike than ever, was illuminated in a bolder, verdant glow to differentiate her from everything else, which proved immediately useful.

Mesa Metro was, in her eyes, the miniature megapolis she had only envisioned it was to him up and over yonder.

The snapshot then became a living map of sorts, changing to a silent video with a snail trail in Lauren’s same green hue following her as she exited the area, taking some insectile public transit as far as she could go before walking the rest of the way. The rest of the days between then and now was spent with her glow spiraling in the same place as where she currently was: home, never leaving, never having expected a response.

With as much surveillance as she had for her things and how dystopian Mesa Metro could be at times, she never felt more out in the open than she did now. Luckily for her, there seemed to be no footage of her inside the house. Still, how much had he already learned of her domicile with her glasses and watch just sitting there?

Did his omnipresence include space within walls, too, or various altitudes of places, or other angles than the locked bird’s-eye – more like a midday sun’s eye – view? What were the chances he already figured out her house’s floor plan and her place in it?

“I haven’t gotten to probe your existence from end to end to know for sure, yet,” a new message started, somehow still legible from her further distance away, “but much is already clear.”

“Y-Yet?” Lauren echoed, audibly coughing from her own confusion. Whether he meant that he hadn’t finished or hadn’t started, she could only wonder... and hope he’d reconsider both options.

But she didn’t have to, for long.

“One could say I’m already halfway deep in prodding, managing this conversation and all,” the transcriptions continued. “So, why stop now?”

Lauren’s heart sank, her wishes vanishing like his words every few seconds. ‘Halfway?’ In only some minutes!? She was officially stuck in quicksand with not enough calmness to get herself out. The remaining semblances of peace she could imagine were all in the after, nothing in the now. With that crater from a pen’s cap still fresh in memory, multiple visions of ends of days once again flashed in her head, ranging from elongated and cataclysmic to subtle and swift, all of his doing, surely, and it was all her fault.

“Well… with you not having manipulated your new ‘update’ for some time, now, perhaps you’ve seen enough of it.” Truer words had never been spoken. Lauren had seen enough of a lot. “Though with that research I appear to have interrupted, I would’ve guessed otherwise, believing you’d want as much as you could get.” That statement did nothing to relieve Lauren, either, proving he could go and had gone further into her data – her existence, even – on top of reading her psyche unfortunately well.

How deep would he go? How far could he go?

The dictating carried on. “You’ve fawned over me with your tiny files up to moments ago, and you’ll continue to do so. But in this now, despite all that…”

The ellipsis lingered, and Lauren waited for a judgment to be dealt unto her. Whatever she was to get, she deserved. She couldn’t say the same for Mesa Metro and all past it if it came to it, despite their flaws; she prayed she’d be forgiven when it was all over. That end wouldn’t be today, it seemed, as the foul stench of a new purpose – extreme subjugation or maybe just her upchuck – began to waft over her.

“…I grow tired of this single-handing for what should be a two-way affair, so I shall leave you to satiate.”

Before she could say or think anything else about this whole encounter, the disembodied domineered, shutting down his presentation, sucking every visual and word into a simulation centered on the screen. For uncomfortably long, it left a frozen void in which Lauren could only stare at her drained, draining self as she pushed off the wall and crept toward it.

Just as it started, it was nothing again.

Time went as slowly as her computer was dark, and she hated having to think for herself again. There were too many new variables now, and none of them made any sense.

“What… the fuck… was that?” Lauren interrogated herself, running a hand through her stringy hair, slumping in her chair. “Was… Was that shit real? Any of it?” With the pains in her body and the wetness on her clothes, there surely was no denying something bizarre went down just now. But saying that this was the first time she had ever gone delirious and malnourished in her own home would be a lie.

It was late. Lauren hadn’t gotten proper meals, exercise, sleep, or sunlight for days. The lack of lights on her computer showed that it wasn’t merely on standby or sleep mode but was entirely shut down, probably from inactivity. Her glasses and watch mirrored that, fading to a dim lime on the now dormant network connection. Her phone had died. Her room was a mess. She was a mess.  

Her present was a repeated past and a probable future. Nightmares as daydreams were a constant for her. While there was no way of denying the astral projection and municipal annihilation from days ago with her data and the outside news, she couldn’t think of any sane reason why a higher being like that – he – should waste effort on someone – something? – like her. Directly her.

She didn’t deserve the attention. She never did before, so why now?

Lauren could feel the essence of sleep attempt to overtake her, pulling her toward another haggard hibernation at her desk, despite her bed being within reach. On instinct, she began to pull her hoodie’s hood over her head and retract her arms out her sleeves to make a makeshift cushion that’d hopefully bolster her and any nearby gear and tools on her eventual fall out of consciousness.

A crick in her neck was eminent in a couple of hours as her figure faltered down… but the Fates decided to bring it in early with some sun.

Just as her eyes were to close, the computer suddenly awakened, shining its near-blinding light across Lauren’s scleras. She jerked back into action, seeing her lock screen come into focus.

“S-See?” she argued through a yawn. “It was just an update, after all. No need to worry.”

With no intention of continuing research further into the morning, Lauren decided to just play it safe, checking that the update didn’t set any progress back. If it had, she’d have to make a journey into one of her several external drives or servers and make a new surface-level copy. Going from program to program – note-takers, stimulators, other data aggregators – all appeared to be well, softening Lauren’s heart for a quick retiring to bed.

Her last stop was her blueprinting software, where she had a deconstructed view of the materials and layers used to construct her space-warping lenses and its logging watch supplement. So much technology stuffed within such a narrow space. Companies tried to do less with less success, yet here Lauren was, literally going out of the box, out of this world.

It was a marvel to see in action, and it was even more marvelous that it worked. Lauren knew she had prowess – she wouldn’t be freelancing, otherwise – but she was also her harshest critic. The collections of her own comments on her own works badgering how and why she did things in a particular way (and how they somehow managed to work) probably weren’t right for her mental state, but they pushed her to work harder with each new design.

The text and links in her margins and other documents linked externally were worthy of their own analyses and bibliographies. They all followed a just-as-intricate organizational system, too, categorizing thoughts by time, purpose, solution, and the like, along with graphic dividers like color, font, and size. With how frequently Lauren looked at her green sheen and its related script during testing and active use, she vehemently didn’t use them to jab at her own processes.

So, despite her tiredness, it was clear to see the lone flag of that scheme, amidst the waterfall of colorful banners and bubbles, slightly bolder and more massive than the rest.

“What?” Lauren questioned, scratching her scalp with uncertainty. Doing so showed her that she required a shampoo session, finding filth collecting under her nails, but that was an issue for another time. “Did… Did I make this?”

Hovering the mouse cursor over that flag, she found its author listed as not her name or alias but instead “<null>,” leading to several possibilities, all discomforting. A) it was her own comment, and self-referencing was apparently terrible, now, B) an invalid character was put in the wrong place, which could have its own map of reasons, or C) an unauthorized entity had gotten access to the system. Nothing in the background showed any signs of a virus, and nothing in the foreground gave any clue as to which cause was the true one. So, with bated breath, Lauren clicked twice and dove in.

The window hung for a period, a loading circle replacing the pointer and her anxieties with doubts of security again. She knew that doing anything when not at 100 percent or at least sixty percent had such a high probability of something going wrong or something important going missed. But she couldn’t back out now, not with her computer likely to lock up. Luckily, all stayed free and open, and that flag dimmed from being accessed. Though, from the looks of it, there was no reason why its reference should’ve frozen her system as it did.

It was a PDF with just a handful of pages, and two of them were blank.

The bookends were empty, and the inner layers didn’t have much to them, either. In fact, one of the pages was an exact copy of a print that Lauren had already made. Her materials list as diagrams was reposted as the second page. The page after that was similar, except that about half of the items were deleted. But the last page was a puzzle: an almost literal puzzle.

The second page was copied again; however, the missing items that Lauren knew were replaced with a new set in a similar style. They were all recognizable in some way, reasonably findable from a store or online, but a combination that she had never considered. Both as a group by itself and in totality with everything else, the question was how they all fit together.

Its creator, quickly made visible to not be herself, clearly knew what they were doing with the additional subtitle in the footer of the page: ‘to satiate.’ At the realization, a chill ran down Lauren’s spine.

It hadn’t been a dream.

There were no instructions, just visuals, and as the genius she was, Lauren knew what they all were meant to be, stating their purpose with a wheeze,

“An earpiece.” An optimized headset with a mic and speaker from which she felt a disgusting aura of déjà vu.

This was his earpiece: the one that put her in this debacle in the first place.

If her intuitions were right, then the construction wouldn’t be complicated. Maybe time-consuming, sure, based on the glasses and watch being the bases for it, but not hard. They would make things harder if she went through with making them, though. But did she really have a choice?

She was just a circuit in his machine, instructed to make new circuits for new machines for her circuitry in his machine to interact with the said machine and its circuits. It was laid out in front of her, like her monitor’s light across her face, including what would probably be an everlasting truth:

Her death would be heard.