#have been feeling this very acutely for several years now!!!

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 34: Fitz's Curtain Call

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June 1905

TW: mind control, captivity

"So here's how I see it, sir," said Fitz, walking down the hallway of the auction house alongside Miss Lily. "You want money, a motivation I'm well equipped to understand. I want an easy life with a rich, soft-hearted vampire. Putting aside the part where you kidnapped and brainwashed me, our interests align."

"They do indeed," said Miss Lily with a wicked grin. "I'm so glad you turned out to be so very reasonable."

Fitz, of course, was trying to cover up his terror with bluster, a technique he had honed very well over years of confidence schemes. He could feel the tug of the vampire thrall, feel it dampening his urges to escape or resist, feel it lulling his mind into submission. And it felt good, that was the worst part about it -- so easy to let his mind drift away from him, to dream about his newfound desire for fangs to sink deep in his neck. That particular fantasy was hard to deny, something akin to hunger or lust, filling his all too eager thoughts with the image of offering himself, and --

Shit. He had to stay focused. God damn these annoying, powerful, sexy, desirable vampires.

The enthrallment he'd been placed under hadn't done enough for his nerves. He still felt like he did the night before a big opening. Normally, the danger of an audience not liking him was that he'd be going hungry. Now, the danger was much, much more acute.

"Penny for your thoughts?" said Miss Lily, ruffling his hair. "You think too much for a thrall."

"Yes, the blessing and the curse you've afforded me," he said. "...Not that I'm complaining about the spell I'm under. Sir." He was fairly certain he still had something like wit to his name, and didn't want to encourage Miss Lily to change her mind on that point.

"So then, what are you thinking about?"

"The preparations for your little vampire soiree, sir," he said. "I was hoping I'd get a chance to take a shower and comb my hair. After all, it might be my final curtain call."

"So dramatic." Miss Lily laughed. Well, easy for her to do when she wasn't the one being sold. "Don't worry, you have an appointment with our chief stylist."

Fitz's eyes narrowed. He watched as a vampire led a group of empty-eyed thralls down the hall, all of them dressed in simple linens and looking like they hadn't been washed in days. "Are you serious about having a chief stylist, or are you pulling my leg, sir?"

"Oh, I'm very serious. I told you several times that you're prize merchandise."

"Lovely. So how does one style prize merchandise for vampires, sir? Am I going to be trussed up and placed on a silver platter, with an apple in my mouth for garnish?"

"No."

"Of course not, the platter wouldn't be silver. Gold, then, sir."

"It's actually traditional for high quality thralls to be put in fancy ball dress to be sold off."

"Well, you're in great luck, sir. Despite my intimidating masculinity, I actually pull off a dress very well." He was speaking from experience on this, as he'd had to wear all sorts of women's costumes for various theatrical and hiding-from-cops reasons. "They're all very low cut, I assume, to better show off the neck?"

"Oh, you do catch on quickly."

Miss Lily showed him in to a large, sumptuous dressing room, the kind that would be the envy of any of the small-time theaters he'd performed in. There was an impressively formidable vanity covered in all sorts of makeup, some of it very expensive-looking, but what really caught Fitz's eye were the racks of elaborate ball gowns. Miss Lily certainly wasn't pulling his leg about that particular detail.

"Hello, Florence!" said Miss Lily with the cheer of a woman who was about to have a very lucrative evening. "I've brought my special project for you!"

"Special project indeed," said the older woman, scrutinizing Fitz with a practiced eye like a jeweler appraising a stone. "Well, he's handsome, at least."

"Oh, you've got a good eye," said Fitz with a grin. "It's vitally important that I'm dressed to impress, sir, and I want to accentuate my finer points, of which I have many. Whatever will make me irresistible to Miss Lily's friend with the deep pockets."

Miss Florence's eyebrow lifted. "This is the thrall you're preparing for Alexander?"

"Alexander keeps telling me he wants a companion thrall, one who reads and plays instruments. He hates the recent trend of meek and muted thralls," said Lily. "Fitz here is very much the opposite."

"Exactly, sir," said Fitz, strangely eager to please these vampires, launching into his little spiel. "I can read, I can play guitar, I can do magic tricks, I can do real magic if you give me enough preparation time, I can tell your future, I can juggle oranges, I can wash windows, bake bread, mend fences, sew, and I play a mean game of poker. Plus, the handsome face, of course."

"Oh, my dear sweet devil. Be quiet, young man," said Miss Florence, placing her hand on his head, and suddenly he felt a deep compulsion to follow her command and stay perfectly still. She was looking him over more closely now. "He's far more charming when he shuts his mouth."

"They say that about me, too," said Miss Lily. "Perhaps that's why we get on so well."

Fitz couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him. He did respect Miss Lily, in a way, apart from the thrall that was placed on him. She played a good con game, and judging by the sheer expense of the outfit she had on tonight, she was raking in the cold, hard cash. Selling people for money was several bridges too far for him, but in another life where she weren't a vampire and had at least a faint impression of a moral compass, they could've gotten along.

"Anyway, I'll leave him in your capable hands," said Miss Lily. "Despite his talkative streak, you have absolutely nothing to fear from him in terms of obedience. He's a pushover to any kind of thrall, or even simply praise and flattery."

And any good thoughts about Miss Lily evaporated, as Fitz scowled at being described as an easy mark. It was far more true than he'd like it to be.

"Is that so?" said Miss Florence, petting his hair. "Can you be docile and still for me, child?"

"Yes, sir," he heard his voice say, meek and mild. He already hated Miss Florence's powers, his words catching in his throat and his muscles disinclined to obey his commands. The forced meekness and artificial calm made him feel so vulnerable. But he had no choice but to allow himself to be led to the dresses. Miss Florence was rummaging about, pulling this and that dress and putting them together on a rack.

"Here, I've put out appropriate dresses that could potentially fit and which might appeal to Miss Lily's friend with the deep pockets, as you so crassly put it," she said. "Go ahead and pick which one appeals to you."

Several days of thrall and prison related brain fog had made Fitz's decision-making skills -- dubious at the best of times -- particularly rusty. He didn't really know anything about his prospective buyers. He didn't really know anything about vampires and what would appeal to or discourage them, apart from necks pumping with blood. He could choose based on his complexion and hair, but --

"Focus, child. What calls to you?"

Fitz could feel Miss Florence's power over him lifting a bit. "I need to know what is most likely to appeal to the best target buyers, sir," he said. "For example, if older vampires are more well-mannered, I might go with older styles, but if --"

"You should choose what you want to wear. It's the only choice I allow thralls to make in this room," she said, her irritation apparent.

"Sir, what I want to wear is whatever will help me avoid being chained in a dank basement by a sadist, or a surgical removal of my personality, or -- " Fitz felt the spell being cast on him again, stopping his voice. 

"I'll allow you to try this one more time. You are to choose what you want. Not what you think an unknown patron would want, or what Miss Lily thinks you need to wear. What you want."

What he wanted? Fitz could start with freedom, even a few more days of it. That night of the magic show could easily be his last night as anything resembling a free man, and for all he knew, tonight was the last night he'd get to laugh and joke and pretend as though everything was fine.

When it came to what he wanted, a fancy ball dress didn't rate very high on his list of priorities.

Pointing this out would simply get him another swift dose of thrall dampening his voice, so instead he did what she wanted and perused the rack for something that might look flattering on him. If this was truly going to be his last night as anything resembling Phantom Fitz, he might as well go for the flashiest dress available.

Or perhaps he'd be purchased by a vampire who would appreciate his dramatic flair and show him mercy.

Perhaps he'd be purchased by a vampire who would appreciate breaking a confident human.

Regardless of the risk, he pulled out a very low cut dress made of crushed velvet in a deep red shade, the color of fresh blood, with golden trim. It was a stunning gown, exactly the sort of thing he might find alluring if he were a bloodsucking fiend. It was also suitably dramatic for a night that felt like both a beginning and an ending.

He checked the bust area as he looked it over, wondering how much padding he might need to wear with it, if it would accommodate him at all -- and he realized that it actually seemed cut for a man's figure. It did make sense that they stocked gowns cut this way, if they expected all of the fancy grade-A thralls to wear them.

"There you go," said Miss Florence, laying her hands on his shoulders, the hypnotic silence settling over his mind once more. "Now drop, and be calm and utterly still for me."

It was like cotton fluff filling his mind, dampening his thoughts. He could feel himself straining against it, so anxious from not being able to process and plot and scheme, but with no way of expressing that. He expected the peaceful nature of Miss Florence's power might be nice if he actually relaxed, but he had no intention of doing so. Not here. Not when so much was at stake.

He was pulled along into a bathroom, where he was unceremoniously stripped and dunked in a bathtub, scrubbed thoroughly with a thick pink bar of floral-scented soap. It felt nice to be washed, and he felt himself zoning out despite his resolve, mind wandering to the dreams Miss Lily had filled his head with. Dreams of the life he could live with a handsome and permissive vampire, of nights in an elegant mansion with a mysterious, dark master. The best case scenario.

Miss Florence sitting him down in front of a mirror and producing a pair of long scissors was what snapped him out of it. His golden hair, the feature he was so vain about -- and she was going to -- He heard himself involuntarily make a sound of distress, mind clawing against the vampire's spell.

"Oh, hush now, child," she said, as if she were talking to a fussy little boy getting his first haircut. "I have more experience cutting hair than any human barber."

While that was likely true, that didn't stop Fitz's chest from tightening as she chopped his hair far shorter than he liked to keep it. Vampires didn't want to have to deal with hair maintenance, he supposed, another unwelcome reminder of how little freedom he would have.

It was only hair. There were more important things to be concerned about. But his heart ached.

After rubbing his skin with sweet-smelling lotions, she brought him back into the main room and took out a small measuring tape. She began obsessively measuring every possible part of his body, from around his head to the size of his feet, in a way that seemed almost more like a ritual than an efficient way to measure him for a dress. Every time she brushed him, he felt the cottony prison for his mind growing thicker and more inescapable.

He was at least lucid enough to remember how to put on the undergarments required to wear fancy women's dress, with some assists from Miss Florence, particularly where it concerned the corset. Soon, the gown was being slipped over his head, and he found himself staring into his reflection in a large floor mirror as Miss Florence made adjustments to the dress here and there.

He looked stunning. And not just in the way he tried to convince himself every morning in the mirror, papering over his many flaws with cheap vanity. No, he actually looked fantastic in the deep red gown.

He only wished it were for a show and not for being sold to vampires.

And then the tailoring was done and he was whisked off to the vanity, Miss Florence applying makeup with a practiced hand. She was doing a much lighter look than the stage makeup he often applied himself, just enough to accentuate his skin.

"Now then, child, focus on me," said Miss Florence, dangling a ruby pendant in front of his face. It reminded him of the fatal pendant Miss Lily had used on him in his ill-fated five dollar bet. "You will remain calm during the auction."

Fitz felt something in him tug hard against that idea. How could he possibly remain calm when...

Miss Florence put a firm hand on top of his head, slowly swinging the pendant in front of his eyes. "You will remain calm during the auction. Repeat."

"I will remain calm during the auction, sir," his own voice droned.

"You exist to be a vampire's thrall. Repeat."

No, no, he was so much more than... "I exist to be a vampire's thrall, sir."

"You will know true obedience."

"I will know true obedience, sir." He could practically hear the echo of Miss Lily's voice convincing him how rewarding and pleasurable obedience would be. It had never been his strong suit. But the trance locking his mind said otherwise.

"Now, here is your final gift," said Miss Florence, taking his wrists with gentle hands, and snapping golden handcuffs around them. "You'll feel so much better once you've been sold off to a proper master, child. I can tell."

The amount of mesmeric power he was under made his twinge of despair seem distant, a storm cloud far away on the horizon. "Yes, sir."

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Next week is Christmas, so I plan to post a few Christmas specials (including at least one for Rare Bookseller) instead of a new part of the main story! The main story will resume in the new year, but until then, I have various AUs, asks, and a brand new series I hope to post.

Thanks for all your support for this silly little vampire story! I'm truly grateful for the reception I've had.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin @whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist @xx-adam-xx @ivycloak @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini @whumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @shinyotachi @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining-blog @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada @typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia @a-formless-entity @gobbo-king

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #2 – He Who Drowned the World by Shelley Parker-Chan

I’ve had this sitting on my bookshelf since it came out but, as so often happens, having it just laying around meant it faded to the background whenever I was deciding what to read next. Not the worst case of that (there’s a lovely of Cyteen that’s been sitting on my dresser and shaming me for at least a year now), but certainly long enough for me to regret it.

The story is a direct sequel to She Who Became The Sun, a low fantasy retelling of the fall of the Yuan Dynasty and the ascension of Zhu Yuanzhang to the imperial throne – though in this universe the ‘real’ Zhu Yuanzhang died a starving peasant child, and his sister assumed his identity and his destiny of greatness, willing to do anything and everything it takes to force the world into alignment with it. The book starts with her having lost her right hand, and only gets more emphatic about making her prove it from there.

Aside from Zhu, the narration’s split between several different points of view that fill out the struggle for the future of China. The book honestly does a better job with multiple POVs than the vast majority of epic fantasy I’ve read – every one is a thematic mirror of Zhu on one level or another, and every one has an arc dedicated to the book’s twin fascinations of what it means to be willing to do anything to achieve what you want on one hand, and gender nonconformity and queerness in an intensely patriarchal traditional society on the other.

The actual plot of the story is almost episodic – Zhu encounters some new obstacle on her way to victoriously marching to the Mongol capital at Dadu that can’t be defeated with the blunt force she has available, and she and some collection of the supporting cast goes on an insane adventure to snatch victory regardless. Then every so often there’s a cutaway to Wang Baoxiang (who, among all the other POVs, is easily the one that comes closest to deuteragonist status) scheming his way through imperial court politics in Dadu in his incredibly operatic and self-degrading scheme for revenge on his dead brother. The plots start affecting each other quite early, but I’m pretty sure it’s only in the last twenty pages or so that the two of them actually meet face to face (it is in fact a minor plot point that Wang can’t recognize Zhu when he sees her). It all manages to feel like it’s capturing a whole swathe of political intrigue beyond any one person’s understanding and feel fairly well plotted and cohesive as it comes together. Not that there aren’t plenty of points where you have to just run with it and not push back at what the book’s telling you but nowhere where it’s serious or blatant enough to actually be an issue.

I’m not sure it’s a complaint per se, but one thing that did take some adjusting to is just how, melodramatic I suppose? All the POVs in the book feel very profoundly and effusively, and also have absolutely zero awareness or understanding of their own emotions. This is particularly acute with Wang and Madame Zhang, but in every case there’s just a lot of characters being driven by emotions too large to be contained within them. It kind of feels like a musical, in that respect (but absolutely no other, to be clear).

Anyways, this is a book with absolutely massive amounts of Gender in it. With like, literally one exception, every POV is to some great extent defined by struggling against their position in the gender system of medieval China, and all the issues doing so their entire lives has left them with (Zhu is far and away the most healthy and well-adjusted about this.) Importantly, being oppressed and marginalized for being a woman/effeminate man/eunuch is in no way edifying or ennobling – it’s mostly left everyone involved deeply damaged and full of coping mechanisms that serve them poorly and everyone around them far worse. There’s basically no mention of even the idea of solidarity among the oppressed here – Madame Zhang tortures, mutilates and kills her own maids and her husbands’ consorts whenever necessary, Wang operatic revenge plot involves befriending and seducing a queer prince knowing it will get him killed in the end, Ouyang hates how effeminate his body is and deals with this by becoming a pathological misogynist – even Zhu doesn’t spare much to think about the cause of woman’s liberation beyond herself and her wife.Given the state of a lot of modern genre lit I honestly found this rather refreshing.

As both cause and consequence of the choice of POVs, the book has a rather interesting relationship with normative masculinity. There’s, as far as I can tell, exactly two examples of successful heroic/virtuous normative masculinity in the book – General Zhang and the Grand Councillor of the Yuan – and despite both being really incredibly competent and fearsome on the battlefield and legitimately selfless and honorable, both end up condemned as traitors to their respective lieges (both indolent, vicious, and generally contemptible men without anything in the way of redeeming features, themselves) and dying unpleasantly after being outmanoeuvred in court intrigue. Victory in the end goes not to those who are cherished by their society but the ones who are overlooked and brutalized by it but are willing and able to do whatever it takes and use anything and everything they can to claw their way to the top despite it.

Speaking of – the overriding throughline of the story is what it means to be willing to do anything to achieve your life’s ambition. Being willing to endure pain and suffering goes without saying, and while the book does put its leads through the physical ringer, that’s not really what it’s interested in. Are you willing to spend the lives of those who trust and rely upon you? Sacrifice those you love, or ask them to die for you? Betray those who have only ever shown you kindness? Are you willing to degrade and humiliate yourself, or lie and betray your own hard-won and precarious identity? And once you’ve done all that, and finally achieved your heart’s desire – well, are you really sure it was all worth it? Three cases out of four in the book, at least, ended up regretting it in the end.

This is a book that’s very concerned with sex and sexuality but, like, very nearly exclusively in offputting or unpleasant ways. There’s something like a dozen sex scenes (okay, ‘scenes with sex in them’ is probably the less misleading description. If you come looking for porn you’ll be disappointed) in the book and of them I believe exactly one that you could characterize as enthusiastically consensual and mutually enjoyable. Maybe three, if you count the incredibly toxic relationship which boils down to asking for help dong self-harm and it turns into a sadomasochist thing. Which never becomes/is never understood as sexual by the people engaging in it but describing it is definitely the closest the book gets to erotica. In any event, just somewhat surprising to see so much sex paired with so little romance, relative to most modern stuff I’ve read. Ties into how alienated literally everyone is from their bodies, I suppose.

Also I really don’t know enough about the historical memory of the early Ming dynasty to know whether all the stuff about how Zhu knows what it’s like to be nothing and how she’ll reorder the world to care for everyone is supposed to read as really darkly ironic or not.

[desswright29]

Me and yo’ Mama (Preview)

A/n: I figured that I would give you guys a sneak peak of the Finale of “Half Crazy” since you’ve been oh so patient with me. It is being worked on and it will be coming very soon! In the mean time. Enjoy this snippet.

The boy took his horns from the thief, and went on his way. He came to a house, and asked to be entertained. The owner refused, and sent him away, because his clothes were in tatters, and his body soiled with travel.

“Udaku…..MRS. Udaku!”

“Your Majesty.”

“Queen SHURI Udaku! Answer immediately before I find you in contempt of COURT!”

Shuri snapped out of her thoughts, staring out into the courtroom. Her eyes landed on the side of the defendant. There Okoye, and Nakia sat. And in the last seat closes to the aisle there sat Tolu, Sunglasses perched upon her face, a walking stick leaning against her chair. For as long as Shuri knew her, she’d always been at her side. Unfortunately, that very loyalty was the cause of her ailment. 

Shuri sat upright, unbuttoning her blazer with one hand, before man-spreading and leaning back into the chair on the stand. Her jaw clenched as her right arm rested on the armrest, her thumb underneath her chin, and her pointer resting on her cheek. 

“In your countries justice sytem the protocol is innocent until proven guilty, am I correct?” She spoke cool toned, even, yet authoritative. Never could you misconstrue her as weak.

The courtroom was silent as Shuri’s eyes roamed the crowd. The other world leaders sitting around  in judgement of her. A smirk slightly raises her left cheek. As she lets out a small menacing laugh. 

“Hm. Everyone in this room knows this is a witch hunt. America feels as though it finally has it’s opportunity to take down Wakanda and it’s resources. You want my people to beg and bargain for the freedom of their leader. If this was about justice, your British counterparts would’ve been extradited years ago for the sex-trafficking ring that we’re all acutely aware of. The Israelis government would be on trail for the several war crimes they’ve been committing since before you all were born. Which is saying a lot since the bulk of you are well into your 60’s. We all know that there are much bigger Fish to fry here. But, You know… What is it that the children say in your country.” She looks around at everyone sitting up a little more in her seat as she looked from person to person. “Ah! Evil twin, Evil twin.”

“Mrs. Udaku! What point are you trying to make here!” Shuri’s head swung in the direction of the voice. Her fist banging into the banister in front of her. Her eyes peircing through the elderly man. 

“MY POINT IS!  Mr. President… that I have not been found guilty. So you will respect my title and position as your worlds leader! My proper title is Queen Shuri Udaku, DAUGHTER of Romonda! The most powerful entity in this room!” Her eyes slowly left the visibly shaken man.

“It is best that you all keep that in mind for the duration of this trail.” She relaxed back into her chair, giving her blazer a slight tug. “Now where were we….Double homicide and attempted murder. Eh”

[rebeccathenaturalist]

Okay. Okay okay okay. So. This is a HUGE discovery. Death caps and destroying angels are two of the deadliest mushrooms in the world; both are in the genus Amanita. Both species contain both amatoxins and phallotoxins, though the latter are likely not a major factor in the massive cell death that occurs in the liver and/or kidneys after consuming these mushrooms.

The most medically significant of the amatoxins is α-amanitin. When a deadly Amanita is consumed, you're likely to get the expected gastrointestinal upset that accompanies many toxic mushrooms within a few hours, and they may last for a few days. Then you start to feel better--but you can't just say "Okay, learned my lesson, I won't eat THAT one again." That's because α-amanitin has been stuck in your liver and kidneys the whole time, destroying their cells left and right, and its deleterious effects are catching up to you. So you can expect to end up in the hospital, potentially dealing with acute organ failure.

Supportive care generally includes IV fluids and electrolytes along with penicillin, oral activated charcoal, and other medications, along with hemodialysis and hemoperfusion. Some people have needed organ transplants, and numerous people have died, especially those who got medical help too late.

While compounds from milk thistle (Silybum marianum) have shown success in treating amatoxin poisoning in a small study several decades ago, there hasn't been much follow-up since. Recently, researchers studied the molecular effects of α-amanitin, and discovered that the enzyme STT3B plays a crucial role in creating N-glycans that facilitate the cell death caused by α-amanitin. Then they went looking for anything that could inhibit STT3B from a list of possible treatments approved by the FDA.

Enter indocyanine green. Developed as a dye for photography in the 1950s, it received approval for medical use a few years later, and has been used for everything from measuring cardiac performance to opthalmology. But it just so happens to also significantly reduce cell death both in vitro in human cell lines, and in vivo in mice. There haven't been any in vivo studies in humans just yet, but results are very promising.

There's one limitation--indocyanine green must be given as soon as possible after ingestion. When it was given eight or twelve hours after α-amanitin poisoning, it was no longer effective due to cell death having already occurred.

Still, the fact that we now have a potential new tool in treating acute α-amanitin poisoning is a massive hope for the future. Couple this with increasing education about safe mushroom foraging and how to identify poisonous species, and we could see a significant reduction in poisoning from those two deadly Amanita species.

[bg-brainrot]

WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 4: In this Lifetime

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, fluff, grief

WC: 2k words, 4/?? chapters

Summary: Now 99-years-old, you've managed to ignore your worst impulses to run off to Baldur's Gate. One night's reverie finally breaks you.

Ao3 | [Ch3][Ch5] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

You hear it over and over again in your life, the advice passed down from your elders, from so many before you. Meeting people from past lives is never a good idea. It never goes the way you want it to. ‘This one is different, our bond was so strong.’ That's what they all say.

So for decades, you’ve been a good child, listening to your parents and keeping your interests purely theoretical, focused on research and nothing more. But your dreams are making it more and more difficult to keep to books…

Your reveries of the Hero’s life have begun to include more of what happened after the events of Baldur’s Gate. Of a life with a certain roguish vampire, going into the Under Dark, helping the spawn there. They’ve included adventures to Avernus, Waterdeep, a settlement on the outskirts of Reithwin where refugees started a new life. You encounter familiar friends, make new ones, lose friends along the way. The memories were full of laughter, hardships, and love– like a good book, the life pulled you in intimately.

So with every day that passes, it feels like the memories from the Hero’s life only grow more immersive. You feel engrossed in a way you haven’t felt with any of your other lives, to the point where your current life feels like someone else’s, not the other way around.

Naturally, you’ve researched this. It wasn’t an entirely uncommon occurrence to have such intense reveries of a past life. It seems to happen when your most recent life was, well, turbulent to say the least. Scholars were of two minds on the subject: either these memories are meant as a severe warning, an attempt to warn you away from making the same mistakes twice, or they are meant as a way to grieve a great loss, if you had lingering regrets that you couldn’t quite reconcile.

You’re honestly not sure why your past self is hellsbent on these intense memories, but you do know how they make you feel. As the years pass, you feel more and more of an abject loneliness, down to the very marrow of your bones. Now at 99 years of age, you wonder if that feeling will ever come to pass.

Tonight, as you lay your head down to rest and enter your trance, you feel that ache acutely. You feel like something is missing, and you hate it.

That’s why, when your eyes open to a pair of ruby red eyes, you’re not sure if the contented sigh that escapes your lips is coming from your present or your past-self. “Astarion,” you hear your past-self say, their voice as familiar as your own at this point. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing much darling,” he says, eyes focused on you quite intently. “Just memorizing every detail of your face so that I never have to go without.”

“When do you go anywhere without me?” you retort. You both are laying in a large, lush bed. You’re unable to tell what time of day it is, as the curtains are drawn tight, but by the way neither of you are dressed and Astarion’s hair is in a beautiful disarray, you think you’ve just woken up.

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you toward him. “I wouldn’t even dream of going somewhere without you. However– regrettably– I do have to blink on occasion.”

You laugh, and find yourself going along with your past-self’s actions once more. It’s odd being this in sync, but you don’t mind it. “Ever the charmer, love. I thought you’d have had plenty of my face after so many years.”

“Impossible,” he scoffs, running his available hand through your hair in gentle, repeating strokes. “After only a hundred years, my dear? You’ll have to ask me again after another few hundred.” His tone is playful, goading you to challenge his resolve. 

Your past-self hums happily, but your present-day mind is somber now. You know that, no matter how lovely this moment is, they don’t get another couple hundred years together. That, in order for you to be alive, witnessing this very moment, this domestic bliss is well and truly in the past.

Luckily, as Astarion’s lips meet yours, your past-self’s emotions overtake you, drowning out the building sorrow, melting away the concerns. All you can think is about him, the feel of his lips gently breaking yours apart, the playful lick of his tongue, his fingers squeezing your side firmly as he pulls you even closer.

It’s a lovely sensation to lose yourself in, a welcome one. So when your past-self pulls away from him, you want to smack them. At least give me this, you think. But no, Astarion was in their arms, not yours. Astarion lips were pressed to theirs, not yours. This was their ardent love, not yours. It leaves a bitter feeling in your mouth, as it did every time you’d been forced to remember the reality of it.

“You joke, but that’s something that’s been on my mind,” you say after catching your breath. “We really should have this discussion about… well, us.”

Astarion ignores your words, kissing your nose, trailing kisses along your face, down your neck. Your body warms under his loving attention, your hands move instinctively to run through his hair. Your fingers play with a few strands of his hair, soft as goose down when there’s no pomade in it, before they give a soft tug.

“Astarion,” you say, a stern tone to your voice. In this moment, you’re confused by your past-self’s feelings. They want to give in to his doting affections, that much is clear, but there's a little thorn of worry that won’t go away. 

“Mmm?” he asks, moving up to nip at your ear. “What’s that? You need me to ravish you? Gladly, my–”

“It’s been more than a hundred years together, Astarion,” you say, stopping his playful nibbles right in their tracks.

He pulls away from you, red eyes clouding over as he takes in your expression. “Is this the part where you say you’ve grown bored of me and tear my undead heart from my chest?” His words are joking, his face is anything but.

“Of course not, my beautiful, melodramatic love,” you say with a sigh. “Quite the opposite. I may not look it now, but I’m aging, will continue to age. I just want to make sure, before I grow too old, collect one too many wrinkles–”

“No such thing,” he says, silencing you with a glare.

Your eyes roll, but a smile still finds its way to your face. “Fine, let’s say you lose interest in me for some other reason–” 

“Impossible.”

“Astarion,” you say, pleading now as you grab his face between your hands. “I know you don’t want to have this conversation, but please just listen.” He nods silently in your grasp, eyes suddenly taking great interest in your shoulder. “Thank you. I just… I want you to consider what you want your life to look like. I won’t be around forever and you…”

“I will be. Forever sounds miserable when you put it like that,” he continues, a look of distaste on his face.

You shake his head in your hands. Even your present-day self wants to shake him, how dare he treat his life so flippantly? “Forever will be fantastic. Because you will be in it.”

“So what do you propose,” he starts, an edge creeping into his tone. “That I find another vampire to steal away with?”

You shake his head again. “No, you could never make it work with a vampire. You’re far too interested in my body heat.”

He laughs and it sounds hollow. “You make it sound like I'm nothing better than a needy cat.”

Both of your bodies shake with laughter at that and you release his head. “Well, if the paw fits.” You ignore the angry look he shoots at you and continue. “I guess I’m just asking if you want to set a limit to this? It’s very likely that an elf in their 700s would be too elderly for you to find, erm, interest in.”

“Darling, have you forgotten? I’ll reach 700 before you do,” he replies, looking at you as if you’d suddenly told him one plus one did not equal two.

“I know that, Astarion.” You think he’s being willfully ignorant at this point, and from the frustration you feel from your former-self, they likely think the same. “But you won’t look a day older than you do now, and you shouldn’t have to feel obligated to stay with someone who will.”

The pale elf looks at you, his red eyes scanning your face, much like he did when you first entered the memory. “I honestly could not care less what you look like, love. As long as it’s you.”

Your heart clenches at that, and you have trouble telling which of your bodies is the one reacting to his words. “Truly?” you ask, and the word comes out quiet, fear catching in your throat.

“Truly,” he repeats. “Besides, if the burden of being eternally magnificent falls upon me, I will gladly bear it for you.”

You lightly smack him on the chest at that, and Astarion catches your hand deftly in his. 

“In case it needs to be said,” he begins, before placing a single, soft kiss on your temple. “I will always love you. Whatever you look like, no matter how many wrinkles end up on your face. In this lifetime and the next.” When he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are filled with so much warmth that you are certain he means it.

His next kiss is slow, deliberate. It may have been your hundredth kiss or your hundred-thousandth for all you knew, but it was every bit as meaningful. As your arms wrap around him and he sets his mind to ravishing you, you’re not sure where your past-self ends and where you begin.

When you awaken from your trance, you feel so very loved. Not the you of the past, but you, right here, right now. He said he loves you. It warms you like a hearth on a cold winter’s day, it fills a part of you that you didn’t realize was missing. The world looks brighter, sounds sharper, feels as if it is an entirely new realm to explore.

You know what you must do now. He has always been the reason that your past-self has been so insistent, and now you understand why. You must find him. 

Of course, you’re not yet an adult. And you don’t have an established life away from your parents yet. And you have no clue what you will do if you don’t find him. All very valid concerns fighting for answers you don’t yet have.

Naturally, your parents vocalize them to you, even now, as you pack your bags, past the point of any logic.

“Enough,” you say, with a strength that stops your parents in their tracks. “This isn’t some childish whim. I have thought long and hard about this for nearly a century, and if I think any longer when I could be doing, I may as well burst into flames.”

They remain quiet for a moment. Your mother then asks you the question that you’ve been trying to avoid asking yourself, “Do you… love this man, the one from your dreams?”

You look at her for a moment. You’d practically lived an entire lifetime’s worth of important moments from the Hero’s life, certainly more of that life than any others. But it’s not just time spent in reveries, it was how this man invaded your every waking thought, compelled you to him unlike anything you’d ever felt before, unlike anything you’d learned in your studies. So you answer truthfully, “Maybe. I certainly won’t find out unless I find him.”

So you leave. You’re not certain where Astarion is yet– Nothing as helpful as an address came up in your reveries nor your studies– but you know where to start. 

Taking a teleportation circle to Baldur’s Gate, you remember the name you wrote down in your notebook so many decades ago, the very same elf who helped start the settlement in the outskirts of Reithwin. Halsin.

[lewis-winters]

for the touch prompts: no. 3, cold hands in warm hands for winnix?

Lewis comes to just as Dick finishes mopping the sweat off his brow.

"… mmMah?" he asks, more a sound than an actual word. But it's more than he's said for several hours, so Dick will take it.

Pressing a kiss to his feverish forehead, Dick hums in reply. "Feeling better?"

There isn't an answer right away. Lew has to adjust to being awake first, blinking up at Dick and the dim light illuminating their room, before smacking his lips together and frowning at the taste. By the time he's ready to speak, Dick has a cup of water in hand, guiding Lew to sit up some and take a sip.

He does, with some difficulty. "My throat's all achy."

"Your tonsils are swollen."

"I figured," he croaks, lying back down. "Sorry."

"No need to be sorry," Dick says, guiding him back down to the bed and tucking him in. Already, his eyes are drooping, weighed down by an acute exhaustion. But even in the throes of illness, that smart mouth remains, and it quirks a small smile up at Dick.

"I thought you were my mother for a moment there," he says. Dick thinks he was aiming for playful and sardonic with that quip, but with the infection stripping him bare it lands, instead, on the quiet admission of something almost close to grief.

Gently, Dick goes back to wiping sweat off his brow, running fingers through his hair. "Your mother, huh?"

Lew hums, closing his eyes at the sensation. "Dunno why," he mutters. "'S not like she'd ever taken care of me like this."

No. From what Dick knows of Doris Nixon, he doesn't think she did, either. But who knows, really? Dick's own mother had once said that she would always come, were he to call. Yet now, she hands the phone off to Anne on the rare occassions when he does, and barely acknowledges his existence outside of excuses she gives to her neighbours at church, when asked about his whereabouts. A mother's disposition isn't quite as steadfast as even mothers lead you to believe. Who's to say Lew's feverish delirium hadn't been drawn from memory? Who's to say Doris Nixon hadn't been so worried about her sick baby boy, in years past, that she'd deign to take over his immediate care, even just for the night? Dick hopes that she did. Hopes that it's true. It's a nice memory for Lew to have, and Dick always wants Lew to have nice things.

He tells him as much. Lew just laughs, a short burst of sound that's trying very hard to be upbeat.

"I don't think she'd've been as good at it as you," he says, earnestly, snaking one warm, clammy hand out of his blanket cocoon to grasp at Dick's. "C'mere, c'mere. Must be killer on your knees."

"I don't wanna fall asleep on you," Dick says, despite moving already, toeing off his slippers and awkwardly getting a leg up and over Nix's body because the other man refuses to let go of his hand.

"'S alright," Nix murmurs, dreamily, as Dick settles behind him, tucking his knees into the back of Nix's, and shifting closer until Dick's chest is against his back, and his arm is sandwiched between the crook of Nix's head and his pillow. All through this, he holds Dick's hand, going so far as to hold it against his feverish face and sigh. "'S cold."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"No need to be sorry," says Nix in the palm of Dick's hand, snuffling closer as if searching for more cool, more relief. "… Thank you."

Dick smiles, helplessly. "Go to sleep, Lewis."

Lew doesn't answer. Just shuffles closer and does as he's told.

[mbti-notes]

Anon wrote: Hi MBTI-notes. INFJ here. Many thanks for your tremendous insights. Your analysis of unhealthy INFJ’s has been absolutely spot on for me. I can see that I can be incredibly, sometimes laughably, unrealistic, have great difficulty being present, and alternate between too cynical and too trusting.

However, despite knowing about the INFJ weaknesses for several years now thanks to your blog, I keep making these mistakes. Some feel harder to change than others - like the difficulty focusing that, in my case, seems similar to ADHD.

I am trying a variety of things including finding the right mentors to bring me back to reality and hold me accountable, DBT, and improvements to basic physical self-care like sleep. I might also consider getting on medications for bipolar I (a diagnosis I have received due to two manic episodes, although they’re not sure if I need to be on meds) or ADHD.

In your experience, what is necessary to successfully close the gap between simply knowing about my problematic patterns and actually changing them? I am really hoping that improvements in emotional intelligence via DBT will close the gap, and also am trying to be more systematic about maintaining and improving my interpersonal relationships. Maybe it will be a combination of many small things like mastering physical health and routines, realistic goals, the right mentors, discipline, etc.

(From the INFJ who mentioned bipolar I). As an addendum, I just wanted to mention that the two episodes definitely involved some psychotic thoughts and behavior, but it's unclear if they fit a traditional manic episode, as I've not experienced periods of little sleep but high energy. It’s quite possible that BPD is a better explanation due to a connection in both cases with a romantic interest. I just wanted to mention this in case it impacted your response at all.

----------------------

"Knowing" about problems means being in possession of the facts, so it comes mainly through observation and gathering information. A lot of people go through life not knowing how problematic their thinking/behavior really is until they get critical feedback or generate very negative consequences. Even then, perhaps they still can't admit to having a problem and they use defense mechanisms such as denial to avoid confronting the truth. Getting through these defenses can be an arduous process. Even though knowing is really only the first step, it can already be quite a difficult step.

If knowing is only the first step, it means it's not enough. More is required. Knowing is not the same as "understanding". Understanding comes mainly through developing self-awareness, which involves the capacity to perceive and evaluate oneself accurately and objectively. Self-awareness can be described as low/high or shallow/deep. To improve self-awareness usually involves going inward, through reflection and introspection, to discover the roots and mechanisms behind psychological issues.

If knowing is about grasping the facts, understanding is about being able to provide a proper explanation of the facts. For example, a lot of people feel low self-confidence very acutely but they have no idea about how it came to pass or why they suffer. When you don't understand your thinking/behavior, it means you don't know the causes of it, the motivations behind it, or the factors that contributed to its manifestation.

That said, when people know but don't understand their problem, they are still capable of some small self-improvement. Generally speaking, they'll seek out advice from those in the know and try to discover some common rules, methods, or procedures for dealing with the problem, which allows them to become more functional in daily life. However, while they can improve a bit, their growth tends to be limited because it remains unclear whether the solution they've found is the correct one. Perhaps they feel some relief or progress, but it doesn't really seem long-lasting. Why? Knowing without understanding means every "fix" you try is basically blind and random experimentation. If something works for awhile, you don't understand why. If something doesn't work, you don't understand what went wrong. This is one reason why self-help methods have a high rate of failure; they simply don't get deep enough into the problem, so self-awareness remains too low.

Using the example of low self-confidence to illustrate, different people suffer for different reasons. For Person A, perhaps it's because of fear of failure that creates too much anxiety to feel confident. For Person B, perhaps it's because they lack knowledge and skill, so they feel too incompetent to approach tasks confidently. Person B needs to improve their knowledge and skill through learning and practice in order to feel more confident. But this remedy isn't going to work for Person A. Regardless of how knowledgeable or skilled Person A is, they will continue to fear failure, because it is an entirely separate issue that remains unaddressed by Person B's remedy. If you were looking to the above two cases for inspiration, you wouldn't get very far without knowing YOUR individual reasons for suffering low self-confidence.

It sounds like you are still in the stage of knowing - gathering the facts about your issues in order to name/label them correctly. It's good you've gotten some practical advice for managing your issues. Using the INFJ functional stack to frame the issues also seems to have been helpful for improving your self-awareness. However, what I'm still not seeing is true understanding. You haven't yet discovered the underlying causes/mechanisms and aren't able to provide an accurate and objective explanation of why you suffer from these issues. In short, it's just harder to solve a problem when you don't know the cause or how it arose.

This is probably one reason why you're running into difficulty with getting clear official diagnoses. People often view an official diagnosis as "the answer", but oftentimes the label is just a way to describe a particular set of symptoms. It doesn't reveal enough about what's really going on underneath the surface. The process of talk therapy ought to be aimed at making better sense of the symptoms, so it's important to pair any pharmaceutical interventions with talk therapy.

I never want to discourage people from self-improvement. I appreciate your willingness to seek out answers. You asked me what might be lacking in your approach and I've given you my best guess. You've focused a lot on "doing" and "following", implementing some commonsense strategies like physical self-care and learning from good mentors. This is certainly a step in the right direction. But from the perspective of analytical psychology, you haven't done enough to go within to understand your own individual psyche. It is likely that working on your emotional intelligence through DBT will deepen your self-awareness. But, at this early stage, there is no way for me to predict if it will "close the gap". If you care about understanding yourself better, be willing to take your therapist's reflections and inquiries as deep as you can go with them.

[yikes-strikes-again]

if i think about The Offspring too much i risk being creative about it. here's something. ao3 link

Beloved

rating: gen/no archive warning/fandom: Star Trek: TNG/characters: data, geordi, lal/grief-mourning, angst, bittersweet, family, one shot

And it was such a small thing that Geordi would never have remembered it if it weren't for now, but just yesterday, at the banquet, there was a moment when the ambassador from Xeno VIII approached them while they chatted at the bar in Ten Forward. He was flushed purple and had been gushing about Data before he'd even come within earshot.

Touching the arm of his fascination, he began spinning through all the advances in positronic technology his world had developed in the past few years. Geordi and Data had listened politely as he elaborated on the unprecedented complexity of the nanomechanical parts they could manufacture, the efficiency of the coolant system that allowed the simultaneous running of contact networks, the sheer scope of the emergent thought chains that purportedly surpassed the quadrant's largest quantum computers. He even suggested that Data study their work to produce another android like himself. Geordi specifically remembered him saying the words, "You could create a child of your very own."

At that point, he'd paused for breath and taken a sip of his drink. Data cocked his head in the way he always did before sharing his opinion.

"While I acknowledge the value of your species' contributions to the field of positronic robotics," Geordi now recalled him saying, "I do not believe that is necessary. I have already performed several experiments of the nature you describe, and after analyzing the results, I have decided not to continue my research. My interest in this subject is extremely limited." Then he'd stood up and walked away in a manner that Geordi would have described as "curt" if he didn't know better.

The ambassador looked confused. Geordi shrugged. "Guess he's made up his mind about that."

Then he'd caught up with Data a few minutes later, just as he'd started reciting one of his Spot poems to a drunken Lwaxana Troi, making Geordi completely forget that awkward moment. But now he was thinking about it, how strange it had felt at the time. Data had seemed almost offended for a second, which was unsettling, and even more unsettling was that Geordi couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. Data had described his interest in positronic robotics as "extremely limited," but he knew that wasn't true - his android friend had always taken an acute interest in his own construction.

It had been an accident. Earlier today, Data had asked Geordi to visit his quarters and feed Spot while he attended Dr. Crusher's tap-dance lesson. Geordi had performed his duty with honor and, feeling tired, leaned against the wall between a couple of Data's paintings. Then he had removed his visor - something he normally remembered to do only in his own quarters - to rub the spots where it dug in the most. But in doing so, he failed to see Spot approaching, or predict that she might pounce on his leg and dig her claws into the fabric of his uniform. Geordi started, and shooed her off, remembering that he had to be gentle with his friend's prized pet, but not that there was an easel mere inches away from his flailing. There was a loud thump.

Geordi sucked in a breath. He quickly reattached his visor and scanned the belongings he had knocked to the floor, relieved that there didn't seem to be any damage. He righted the easel to its original position and picked up the small canvas that had fallen face-down on the carpet.

His brow furrowed.

The lilac tarp had sloughed away to reveal an unfinished portrait, already saturated with Data's penchant for stylistic design and subtle color variation. Geordi saw a young woman sitting in an opalescent white room, hands engaged with a sketch of a bridge console. Data had dressed her in a sapphire uniform resembling recent prototype designs for Starfleet cadets, which Geordi remembered him showing him last week. More captivating than any of that, however, was her face. He squinted to see it better.

Her face was pale, narrow and sharp, with dark brown hair gathered around it in a stylish bob. The woman had red painted lips, a still-soft jaw that betrayed her youth, and a peculiar intelligence living inside her violet eyes. The eyes were by far the most completed detail of the painting. They bored into Geordi with such a particular presence that he felt compelled to make eye contact, as if Data's painted girl was real, as if, by some magic, she could see Geordi as clearly as he saw her. There was something almost...Soong-type about the look she gave him.

Geordi sucked in a breath and held it.

Suddenly, the door slid open, starting him, and Data was striding back into his quarters, pausing when he saw his friend still there.

"My apologies, Geordi," he said. "It seems I have wasted your time. The dance lesson ended prematurely because Commander Riker sprained - "

His gaze jutted to what Geordi was holding.

"Sorry, Data," he rushed out, "I wasn't trying to intrude. I knocked your easel over by accident, and was making sure I hadn't ruined your work-in-progress before putting it back." That would have sounded like a bad lie to anyone else, but luckily, this was Data he was talking to.

Data came up close and took the painting. "That is all right," he said quietly, and placed it on the easel. "It appears no harm has been done."

He stepped back to look at it. Geordi picked up the tarp on the floor and handed it over so that Data might reinstate whatever privacy he desired for his work. Data took it wordlessly, but just held it, as if he didn't realize Geordi had given it to him. Standing close to one another, the two spent a moment in silent observation. The only sound was Geordi's anxious sighs. He couldn't stop thinking about what Data had said to the ambassador yesterday.

Finally, he said, "What inspired you this time, Data?"

"A dream I had." Data loved to elaborate. Geordi waited; he did not.

He looked at his friend. The android's profile was as strong and unmoved as ever, but there was an incredulous quality to his voice. This suggested to Geordi that the subject of the dream had mused Data to a degree he hadn't expected. But looking at that pretty, tilted head, he couldn't bring himself to be surprised by that.

"She looks very sure of herself," was all he could think to exhale.

"Yes." Data brightened. "I believe that the next generation of Starfleet cadets will have the advantage of building off of recent advancements in curriculum material and educational philosophy. This will allow them to begin their training with a higher degree of confidence compared to previous generations of students. The aptitude Lal might have achieved in - "

He paused in seeing how Geordi had snapped his head towards him at the name. Data took his eyes from the canvas and cocked his head, just like his painted lady, mystified by his friend's distress.

"You wanted Lal to be in Starfleet," Geordi said, with devastated awe.

Data's facial muscles spasmed, as if making a terribly high-order calculation. "I believe it would have been the best way for her to acquire most of the skills I am often praised for by my friends and superiors. I am told that many parents experience a desire for their children to 'follow in their footsteps.' It would seem that I am no exception."

Geordi fell silent and shook his head. The more Data spoke on the matter, the more difficult he found it to swallow the heartbreak curdling in his throat.

"And you've been dreaming about that?"

"It appears so." Data's voice dropped in volume again. "Though I am aware that events perceived during sleep do not always make logical sense, they are often reflective of internal desires that may be advisable to act on in waking life. As such, I find myself compelled to search for a constructive action driven by my subconscious image of Lal as a Starfleet cadet. So far, I have failed.” Was Geordi imagining the mournful song in his voice?

“There is no way to repair Lal - her body is now in the permanent custody of Dr. Maddox in a state of irreparable dysfunction,” he continued, grimly. “I cannot act on the desires these dreams express.”

Dreams. Plural. Not for the first time, Geordi wondered if grief was even an emotion.

Then Data perked up. "I have found that the most satisfying way to process experiences I cannot use to refine my logical subroutines is to use them for artistic inspiration," he said. “Counselor Troi advised me to do so when I mentioned these dreams to her.”

It made sense, Geordi supposed. He had no traditionally creative hobbies himself, but he often dealt with things he couldn't understand by immersing himself in technical design. His feelings often came out in the engineering solutions he discovered. But what could possibly be gained from something like losing a daughter?

He thought again of what the ambassador had suggested. "A child of your very own." If a child was what Data wanted to begin with, it made sense that, armed with the knowledge he had learned, he might try to create another since the first one...failed. But he had expressed no desire to. In fact, he seemed emphatically opposed to the idea. Geordi felt wretched for wanting to pick his friend's brain on a matter so heavy, but he couldn't help himself, and he knew there was no way to offend Data with his curiosity.

"Data..." he began, as gently as he knew how, "do you ever think that you might want to, uh. Try again? You know, have another ch - android?"

Data looked over his work again. Geordi saw him stare into Lal's impossibly lifelike eyes, into time, medium, space, into indescribable dimensions. The foolish waking dream. Perhaps, deep inside, he had discovered something after all.

"No, Geordi," he said, very softly.

A minute muscle altered his expression.

"She was enough."

[purlturtle]

Why "You're not HSP, you're autistic!" isn't helpful but actually counterproductive

So first, let me explain my background on this:

I'm a social worker. Communication is my daily tool, especially with people in crisis

I identify as HSP but not as autistic. I have reasons for that.

I'm also a lesbian, and have been active in the queer community for literal decades. This includes discussion about labels, self-identification, labels based in discriminatory thinking, etc.

lastly, I'm acutely aware of intersectionality, internalized biases, and where they can lead us

Next, let me outline who this post is for:

anyone who is convinced of the above sentence (and wants to convince others too)

anyone who is uncertain which label applies to them, but feels like it might be one of the two

anyone who knows they are one or both of the above labels and wants to communicate with others.

I'll put my arguments under the Readmore, so as not to clutter up people's dashes; this is gonna get long. In essence, they boil down to:

You-messages like the above very rarely work.

telling someone their own identity typically doesn't work.

a researcher's ableism doesn't necessarily mean their whole entire body of work needs to be thrown out.

HSP and autism have several overlapping criteria, however that does not mean that HSP equals autism.

Lastly, let me tell you why it's important:

we all, no matter how we label ourselves, seek for tools (self help, therapy, apps, etc.) that will improve our lives. Some of the tools from the Autism Toolbox will work for me, some from the ADHD Toolbox too - but not all of them.

currently, there is another toolbox labeled HSP, and the tools in there are perfect for me. I only found them because I found the label HSP; I did not find them in the Autism or ADHD Toolbox. Maybe one day these toolboxes will be integrated into one, maybe under the autism label, who knows. But RIGHT NOW they are not. Right now, they are labeled HSP or SPS, and those are the terms I needed to search for to find them - no matter that the terms might be badly chose

"you're not HSP, you're autistic" denies that this HSP Toolbox even exists, and so people will not find all the tools that can make their life better.

Okay, here's the long form of my arguments.

You-messages like the above very rarely work.

Most people's gut reaction to being told "You are not X, you're actually Y!" is "who are you to tell me what I am?" or "who are you to tell me that my conclusion is wrong?" Such a reaction is, as stated, not helpful, and usually counterproductive. It puts the person being told "You're Y" on the defensive, and people don't change their mind when they feel defensive.

If you are truly convinced that this person is autistic, it is far more helpful to put this in an I-message, and temper it with a potentiality: "I think/it seems to me, from what you describe, that you could be autistic." And then to follow this up with, for example, a question like "have you ever considered that?" so that they can explain if, perhaps, they have already looked into that, or tell you that no, they haven't, what's your reasoning?

They might still react defensively due to their own ableism against being potentially autistic. But they can tell themselves "okay, that was just this person's opinion, I don't have to listen to them," which is actually a much less conflict-ridden outcome.

telling someone their own identity typically doesn't work.

Let's look at another way of telling someone their own identity: "You're not a gender non-conforming cis woman, you're actually trans!" - how do you, an internet stranger, know? All you have is a few sentences that someone posted somewhere; they, meanwhile, know their own lived reality 24/7 of however many years they've lived with it. Again, this kind of communication leads to defensiveness.

Even if it's true - and that's an important thing to keep in mind.

This person might be trans. That person might be autistic. But unless and until they are ready to hear that, to think about that as a possibility, to test apply that label to themselves and see if it fits? You telling them will do jack shit. Especially in a confrontative You-message. It might even lead to them taking longer to embrace that part of their own identity; out of spite ("just because some random internet stranger said I was doesn't mean I am"), out of fear ("I don't want people to know this about me; am I that easy to clock?"), of out internalized bias against the identity ("I can't possibly be this!").

a researcher's ableism doesn't necessarily mean their whole entire body of work needs to be thrown out.

I see the ableism in Aron's work. And in that of other researchers. Bias against autism is unfortunately still rampant, even in psychology, even in neurosciences. And I understand the pain of seeing that, of being belittled, dismissed, being made invisible. And I further understand the gut reaction to not want to have anything to do with a person who is like that, who does that.

That is not, however, how science works. Science needs to take an objective look at what is presented, check it for biases (among other things), and if found, check whether those biases truly invalidate the entire body of work, or parts of it, and then throw those out and also check if sense can be made of the data/findings without those biases.

That is what further research and peer review is all about, and that is being done right now. This has been the case throughout medical history, as well as all other sciences. Heck, for the longest time (including even today), one form of autism was named after a fucking Nazi ramp doctor.

Again, I know the pain that bias in science can cause. I've been at the receiving end, I know plenty of people who have been on the receiving end, I see your pain. I understand wanting to be seen, not dismissed. I understand wanting to lash out.

However, when you do so by telling people "you're not HSP, you're actually autistic", the only people that you hurt are the ones who are seeking help, who are vulnerable and in pain themselves. It wasn't all that long ago that especially girls and women (or people perceived as such by parents, teachers, doctors) were told "You're not autistic; girls can't be autistic." It hurt them. It denied them access to help that they sorely needed. Don't perpetuate that, please - even if you are truly convinced that this person is, in fact, autistic: please refer to the above two bullet points to understand why telling them in that way won't help.

HSP and autism have several overlapping criteria

and it is possible to be both, it is possible to identify first as one, then the other, and it is possibly to mistakingly think you're one when you're actually the other. However that does not mean that HSP equals autism in every single case - not according to current psychological and neurological knowledge.

I score well below the threshold for every single autism test. Like, it's not even close. Even the ones that test for typically-overlooked autism criteria, even the ones that test for how autism presents in women, all of them. The experiences that autistic people describe, of studying social interactions until they can mimic them perfectly, know what to say and how to react because they've seen other people do so and can replicate that - none of that is me. By all criteria known to current science, I am not autistic.

I have, however, undeniably a high sensitivity to external input, sensory processing sensitivity, funnel not filter, high-wired brain, however you want to name it. I don't care what it's called; all I care about is that I understand how I work, how my brain works, so that I can finally get the bottom back under my feet. That is why I was trying to see if I'm autistic: because that would have helped me make sense of what is going on, of how I feel wrong all the time; and it would have enabled me to seek out therapy that was actually helpful. I would not have minded an autism diagnosis; I would have welcomed it, precisely because of that.

And it was never the right fit. And god, how that frustrated me. And I know you know that feeling, of looking at this box and that label and this study and that doctor, and they all tell you "no, this isn't you, not precisely." And you know that you don't fit in with society, that you're different than other people, who seem to fit in so easily, who go through life so blithely when you simply can't, and you just wanna know why that is and how to change it, how to make things so that you can go through life blithely too.

The overlap between HSP and autism is large.

And maybe, further down the line and the years, science will come up with a concept that combines autism and HSP or SPS or whatever they call it currently. And when that time comes, I'll embrace that concept just like I'm embracing HSP as a concept right now, just like I would have embraced an autism diagnosis. But until that happens, we need to keep both of these labels, diagnoses, whatever you want to call them, open and available for people.

Because while the overlap is large (just like autism and ADHD have some overlap), it isn't a circle; it's a Venn diagram with some communal and some separate aspects. And I fall into the pool that isn't overlapping with autism. Others don't. Squares and rhombuses can coexist, and so can autistic people and highly sensitive people; I'm 100% convinced that plenty of accommodations, tools, helpful tricks work for us both.

But some of them are not fully the right fit, and that is important. In the end, that is what this is about, and why we need both terms, both concepts, and why conflating them isn't helpful: the people who fall under any of these diagnoses need to find the correct help, the correct tools for living their lives in the best way possible. The way I need to arrange my life, the strategies I need to develop and the accommodations I need to implement, have lots in common with what an autistic person might need - lots, but not everything. Just like different autistic people will need different things. And people with ADHD need different things (and also some of the same things). But when you point me only to the Autism Toolbox, I will not find everything I need, just like an ADHD person won't. And that makes my life harder than it needs to be.

Currently, I find the tools that I need in a box labeled HSP. I don't care if they stay in there, if the box gets relabeled, if it gets integrated into the autism toolbox. All I care about is that I have access to them, that other people who need the same tools have access to them. I have started to work with an HSP coach, who I found because I found the label HSP, and when I tell you that my life has massively improved since then, I want you to hear that.

When you say "you're not HSP, you're actually autistic," one of the things you're doing is you deny people access to the tools they need.

And I won't stand for that.

[the1975attheirverybest]

Hello I wanted to talk to you about something. Would like to hear your opinion on it because I really respect it. So on Twitter Trumanblack was trening lately and I saw people being mad that truman Black came back.

Here's couple of tweets, to show you the perspective:

,He is escaping the reality through this character. Being sincere and open is the way to live life not hiding behing fictional characters. He needs to grow up and realize where his priorities are.

Ofc, we do not know him. His choice, his life.

Or

what the fuck happened matty. I don't understand what you're doing right now. should have left Truman in the trash. I don't get it.

Or

This. It seems he was used to dealing with difficult emotions through avoiding them in stage character (he admitted to this in an interview recently) & he wanted to ditch the character & embrace the emotions/be sincere things maybe got too raw & real so he is back in charakter

I'm sorry this message is so long. I'm just thinking about it all. Do you think 'matty' is gone and he will be acting and all that in the upcoming tour? Cause I wouldnt like it and it won't be good for him too :/

Again sorry this is so long

No, I mean, this is an interesting topic that I think we should 100% get into to "warm up" for the tour. I bet we'll have even more to say once we start getting content from the first new shows in September. (omg not too far away now aaaahhhh), so everyone feel free to chime in, but basically, here is how I think about it ( this is probs gonna be long. apologies in advance. im gonna add a "keep reading" so i dont destroy y'all feeds).

The first thing we need to remember is that Matty's "Truman Black" persona pre-dates the ATVB tour. He's always been "Truman Black." He's always been a jokester, a meme lord, a bit chaotic, a bit sexy, a pastiche or caricature of himself.

The question, then, is why? Why does he do this?

For several reasons. And he's been nothing but honest with us about them.

From as early on as 23 years old, when ST first started blowing up and the boys cultivated a following, Matty became acutely aware of the spotlight and the way that fans idealized and idolized him. Sexually desired him, saw him as this rockstar figure. And it made him uncomfortable because, well, no real human being could live up to such a fantasy, right? That's really what the song "Love Me" is about. He experienced this during album 1 and instantly wrote about it for album 2. like thats how strongly he felt it. He's more eloquent about it than I can ever be, so I'm going to link you to his explanation of "Love Me."

so, as he's pointing out in his explanation, he plays this kinda ridiculous character to "subvert" expectations. right? even in the mv, he has cardboard cut outs of sex symbols and heart throbs like Harry Styles etc. and he takes his shirt off and stands next to them and makes out with them and all that. Usually, the normal rockstar-fan relationship is that we project our fantasy upon the rockstar and the rockstar accepts it obligingly. But Matty's going "well this is really kinda silly, and it makes me feel sooo disconnected from myself if i turn into this person everyone thinks i am, so what am i gonna do? oh I'll just lean into the silliness." so if he can't do the "fake authenticity" of the cliched rockstar, hes gonna do a very authentic fakeness of being loud, and silly goofy funny messy larger than life, etc.

He explains it here (I've cued it up to the right moment in the video). He's right, if you're a stranger and you know nothing about him and you see him behaving in a Truman-black-esque way, you'd think "wow what an arrogant piece of shit this dude is." BUT if you realize that he's like "i KNOW that you all think of me this way. And YOU (the fans) know that I know that you think that way." we become in on the joke.

You know what im gonna say here. Postmodernism. LMAO. No, but for real. Postmodern art naturally has this "meta" habit. It's art that knows itself as art. It's aware that it's not real. Like movies that are constantly referring to themselves as movies. breaking the experience of illusion for you by constantly reminding you that what you are watching has been filmed and edited. it's not real life. Thats what Matty does with the "rockstar persona" constantly reminding you "it's not real. im just a character made up in all our heads. I'm actually a normal human being but my job is kinda fuckin mental."

So, I think those 4 points, from VERRRYYY early in Matty's career are the genesis of Truman Black. Thats what "Truman Black" is based on.

You could ask, well, if Matty has been this way from the very beginning how come it's such a problem now? how come this whole thing is a new issue??

I think its the perfect storm of this year.

The ATVB show was designed to push the blurry lines between Matty Healy/ Truman Black to their very limits cuz they added extra layers of meta-theatricality to an already meta situation haha. He plays himself in the couch scene, and the raw meat scene, but he's also kind of playing a symbolic version of himself that's supposed to apply to a lot of straight men, but then the show is also about the lines between his personal and his public lives.

Then he goes and does the Truman Black rockstar shit in the second half of the show. So, the tour really could've been called "Matty Healy: At His Very Truman Black-esque" and it would have been accurate. Like he took this concept and stretched it to see how far it could take him.

Then of course you have the podcast thing, the taylor swift thing, the twitter cancelation cycles, etc etc etc.

There were so many new eyes on him. and so much out of context (remember, meta-theatricality needs context. needs the audience to be in on the joke. we have to know 'oh hes making fun of himself being a rockstar') cuz if we don't have the context he really comes off as a guy who's in love with himself and his rockstar status haha.

Now that alllll of this background is out of the way, lets discuss the questions that you've brought up.

Is he Matty or is he Truman Black?

I think lots of people didn't notice that when he threw out the lab coat that was labeled "truman black" in the video, he wasn't serious. he instantly starts doing the robot dance, flipping the camera off with his finger, acting disruptive by riding the trolley thingy. All Truman Black behavior: mischief, breaking rules, etc. so it was a "meta" joke. he tossed the character then acted like the character. a contradiction. ironic. Truman Black's never been gone! he and Matty are intertwined necessarily. you can't separate one from the other.

Is he gonna be acting at all in S...ATVB?

Yes. He will. He's working with Brad Troemel whose sense of humor is very close to Matty's and who loves irony and postmodernism.

Does he use Truman Black to "hide from difficult situations" or to "run from his emotions" or whatever that tweet was saying? no. He uses it to deliver social critique. About masculinity being ridiculous, about our relationship to artists and the fantasy of perfection in Rockstar cliches, about performative wokeness.

Those are the very same beliefs that Matty Healy believes in. hes always criticizing these things in interviews and speeches and stuff. So, no, hes not hiding behind the character to disassociate he IS the same guy, just a slightly less dramatized and exaggerated version.Thats why he doesn't completely turn it on or off at any time. Thats why it's not that he was willing to stop it for a relationship and then start it again when it didn't work out. Thats not how Matty operates at allll.

He didn't throw out his belief that performative wokeness is harmful and stupid, he didn't throw out his belief that leftist masculinity is confusing, he didn't change who he is at his very core just to be mr nice guy, or to be sincere, or to get his dick sucked off by Taylor Swift, or whatever these people think is the reason. He's always been this way; he very likely will always be this way. Thats just how he makes art and how he thinks about the world.

He's always BEEN open to embracing emotions and being sincere. "I love you, don't you mind?" "we're only human we're just like you man" "I'll quote on the road like a twat," "im petrified of being alone, its pathetic," "im just pissed off because you pied me off after your show," "you pick a fight and i'll define it" "i said its cool i was messing but its true," "pretend that i know what it is (i wasn't listening)" "sorry that I quite like seeing myself on the news. im sorry that im someone that i wish i could change, but ive always been the same."

would an emotionally stunted anti-sincerity guy write ANY OF THESE LYRICS? idk, you tell me.

[scotianostra]

On February 6th 1665, Queen Anne, last of the Stuart monarchs, was born.

Anne had seventeen children during her life but not one survived to succeed her.

She spent her early years in France living with her aunt and grandmother. Although Anne’s father was a Catholic, on the instruction of Charles II Anne and her sister Mary were raised as Protestants.

In 1683, Anne married Prince George of Denmark. It was to be a happy marriage, although marred by Anne’s frequent miscarriages, still births and the death of children in infancy. She had many ailments during her life, one of which I can connect with, gout! A very painful form of arthritis, treatable nowadays but I know the pain and it is no surprise to hear she was carried around the court in a sedan chair, one source says

“she grew exceeding gross and corpulent. There was something of majesty in her look, but mixed with a gloominess of soul”

As I said earlier she there were seven times she miscarried and five children were stillborn, the only child to make it beyond being classed as an infant still died at 11, which must have been devastating for the couple.

Of the others, Mary died at just 17 months of smallpox, Anne Sophia was just 9 months when she passed away. William lived the longest and it must have been so hard on Anne, he was taken ill at his 11th birthday party when he complained of feeling tired, it was thought he was just tired from his exertions during the party where he had been dancing, later that night he had a sore throat and chills, followed by a severe headache and a high fever the next day. It wasn't till three days later a physician examined him and he was "bled", this was an ancient ritual and the young prince endured the withdrawal of blood from him in what was meant to cure or prevent illness and disease. His condition worsened and a second doctor visited on the morning of the 28th, that evening a third physician, the Queen's own, John Ratcliffe attended the boy. The three agree on a diagnosis, Scarlet fever, Smallpox were talked about, remedies of "cordial powders and cordial juleps" were administered and William was bled once more, to which Ratcliffe strongly objected to saying "you have destroyed him and you may finish him". Ratcliffe prescribed blistering substances, a painful method of draining away the black bile. Again it did not help his condition and he spent that night "in great sighings and dejections of spirits ... towards morning, he complained very much of his blisters."

Anne, who had spent an entire day and night by her son's bedside, now became so distressed that she fainted. However, by midday on 29th July he seemed to rally he was breathing more easily and his headache had diminished, leading to hopes that he would recover. The improvement was fleeting, and that evening, he was "taken with a convulsing sort of breathing, a defect in swallowing and a total deprivation of all sense". Prince William died close to 1 a.m. on 30th July 1700, with his parents beside him. In the end, the physicians decided the cause of death was "a malignant fever". An autopsy revealed severe swelling of the lymph nodes in the neck and an abnormal amount of fluid in the ventricles of his brain: "four and a half ounces of a limpid humour were taken out." A modern diagnosis is that he died of acute bacterial pharyngitis, with associated pneumonia. Had he lived, though, it is almost certain the prince would have succumbed to complications of his hydrocephalus.

Not to be put off the Queen gave birth to Mary on the 14th October 1690, the poor child was two months premature, and lived for only about two hours. George followed two years later, he lived a few minutes, just long enough to be baptised. A sad tale of trying to give her husband an heir.

Anne died on August 1st 1714 after a series of strokes, without that heir prompting parliament to pass the Act of Settlement to ensure a Protestant succession. Anne was therefore succeeded by the German Protestant prince George, Elector of Hanover.

The Stuart line of Kings and Queens was at an end, although many supporters of the Stuarts refused to recognise the Hanoverian succession giving rise to the Jacobite uprisings of the 18th century

[cambria-writes]

welcome to honey and the hatchet! I started writing this in like, 2015 when i was first binge watching the series. and obviously because i have a thing for older rogueish men that i can absolutely fix…

pairing: jane x named reader word count: 1,666 rating: PG13 warnings: description of murder scenes, blood, trauma

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𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖓𝖊: 𝔊𝔬𝔩𝔡

You sit patiently at a stainless steel table a the the CBI headquarters. It’s nearly midnight, and you wish you could think of better things to do. Think of other things at all, actually. Clear your mind of the corpse that had been lingering in it for the past several hours was something you desperately wanted.

“Miss Benraft?” A woman enters the ceiling-less room. You can’t help but notice how much confidence she exudes as she walks. You perk at the mention of your name and sit straighter. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting so long,” the agent apologizes and takes a seat in front of you. “I’m special agent Lisbon, this is Patrick Jane.” She gestures at the man who follows behind her.

He deposits a cup of tea in its saucer in front of you before sitting himself next to agent Lisbon. You incline your head in acknowledgement and cautiously bring the cup of tea to your lips. You’re pleasantly surprised; it’s sweet and doesn’t actually scorch your mouth. There’s the tell-tale sign of honey, what you’re sure is green tea, and a fruity note you can’t quite place.

   “Can you tell us what happened, Miss Benraft?,” agent Lisbon asks quietly and patiently. She seems like a wonderful person. Honest, patient, very strong. You keep your eyes downcast, attempting to stare through the bottom of your startlingly yellow teacup.

   “Tommy’s a local favourite,” you start slowly, trying to calm yourself to better recall the series of events. “I was walking home from a café and his house is on the way. His wife passed a few years ago so we, uh, you know. The other people my age. We make a point to make sure he’s okay, right? So when I noticed the front door was open I didn’t think much of it? Someone probably popped in to say hi, or something, no one really locks their door in that neighborhood.    “When I noticed the driver and passenger doors to his car were open, I got a little worried? So I walked up to touch the hood and it was cold. Um. That’s… the car had been off for a while, right? So I guessed he wasn’t bringing in groceries, and, um.”

   You paused uncomfortably and closed your eyes. Terrible idea; you could see the blood in the living room. You took a shaky breath and put the teacup back in its saucer. You flattened your hands against the cool table and screwed your face. This day could not be over fast enough.

    “It’s alright, Skye,” Lisbon offers softly, placing one of her hands on the table as well. Leans forward. Bless this woman, you think. She’s great at her job.

   You don’t see Mr Jane’s hand moving to cover your left one. The warmth startles you. Knee bangs against a table leg, teacups rattle in their saucers. You mutter a quick panicked apology. Notice that the hand still covers your.

   “You’re safe with us, Miss Benraft,” Mr Jane says quietly, his thumb barely rubbing yours. You look at both your hands on the table and frown. It’s the only expression your face seems capable of, right now. “Just breathe, slowly. In, and out. Just focus on your own breathing. In… and out.”

    He continues that way for a moment, and you’re acutely aware of what he’s doing. You breathe as he tells you regardless, feel the tension ebbing from your muscles. Flowing out. Shoulders slump with a stuttering sigh. Apparently satisfied, Jane removes his hand and leans back in his chair, crosses his legs. Looks at Lisbon. Oh, yeah, that’s self satisfaction all over his face.

   You continue forcing yourself to breathe steadily. “Right, sorry, it’s just…”

   “We can do this tomorrow if you need to,” agent Lisbon offers helpfully. You shake your head. “Alright. Take your time.”

  You don’t quite laugh; the sound is choked and probably sounds more painful than intended. You clear your throat. Steel yourself, and continue.

   “So. The car hadn’t been on for a while, the doors were open and the front door was open, and I got worried.”

  “Why didn’t you call 911 right away?” Lisbon’s tone is soft and inquisitive; you don’t read the accusation in your voice that you think is there.

   “He’s ninety… Tommy was 93, he was old. Old people tend to uh. Well, forget? Things? So I thought, maybe he just got distracted, and I didn’t really want to deal with upset first responders because I called emergency services for no reason, so I mean. I waited to see if there was actually something wrong.    “So, I went up to the front door and noticed that the frame was busted at the handle and I just. I, um.”

  Take a deep, steadying breath. Warm hand on your again. Jane’s face is so impassive. He barely seems disturbed by any of this. Lisbon seems far more upset by this murder than he does.

   You remember to think about it later.

  “I dialed 911 when I saw that. I was calling out for him when I walked through the door and that’s. That’s, uh. The kitchen’s down the hallway when you come in and the living room’s just of to the right and that. That’s… jesus christ.”

   You stop yourself when you feel a lump rising in your throat. Down the rest of the tea, hope the heat will help dissolve the anxiety and fear. You’re so close to being done, to being able to go home. Though, really, you’re not sure you want to. It doesn’t feel nearly as safe right now.

   “That’s when you found him,” Jane completes, helpfully and thankfully. You nod and screw your eyes shut again. Not vomiting while recalling the image is hard. You manage, somehow.

   “Yeah. Yeah that’s when I saw the body. He was white a snow and there was. Just, there was so much blood, and his eyes were open? And he wasn’t… it didn’t look like he was breathing so I, I just… What happened? After that? I don’t remember.”

   You place the teacup back in its saucer with a slightly louder clanging of porcelain than you’d like. Agent Lisbon and Mr Jane look at each other with a look that probably holds an entire conversation that you’re blissfully unaware of.

   “Did you see anything, before going inside the house?,” Lisbon asks, with a hint of hesitation that you don’t miss. You shake your head slowly. “Nobody, no cars around?”

   “I don’t think so, no. What happened? You two look like you know something I don’t,” you try again, wringing your hands in your lap and leaning forward.

   Jane clearly his throat and leans on the table with his elbows. His posture feels conspirational. You can’t quite figure out what’s bothering you about it.

   “Well, Skye, the 911 recording has you on hysterics on the phone and then just, nothing.” He motions vaguely in front of him before clasping his hands together. “EMTs found you in Thomas’ kitchen looking into the sink and kind of muttering to yourself.”

   Don’t look at him directly, and frown at his hands. “...was the sink full?” You repeat yourself; you’d asked too quietly the first time.

   Lisbon frowns at Jane before looking at you. “Yeah, it was. Did you do that?”

  “I don’t…” You shake your head. “I don’t know, I can’t remember what I did after dialing 911. Do you know what I was saying?” You grab the edge of the table in front of you, look at the agent.

   “EMTs said they couldn’t make out what you were saying,” she replied, although it feels uneasy.

  “Something about a hatchet and a river,” Jane adds. Frown deeper. A hatchet? There’s no river near your neighborhood either? “Does that mean anything to you, Skye?”

   Shake your head again. Haven’t seen a hatchet in years; haven’t had the need for one, really. The sink, though, it still bothers you. Silence hangs for a moment after that. More and more people start milling around. A skeleton crew to staff the early hours of this investigation is your best guess. You run a hand down your face. Through your hair.

   What a shitty day.

   If you hadn’t gone for coffee, maybe…

   “Well, Miss Benraft, I think that’ll be—” agent Lisbon begins, but you interrupt her.

   “Sorry, uh, was the sink—the water in it, was it clear? Was it like, dishwater? Or something?”

  Lisbon frowns. “It was clear,” Mr Jane replies smoothly. Ah, there is is. Some kind of facial expression on him that doesn’t look forced. He looks genuinely intrigued, if not a little confused.

   You nod to yourself. “One um. One last thing? I don’t really feel safe going back home. I mean I live close by so is. Is there anywhere..?”

  You leave the question hanging, but agent Lisbon seems to get the gist of it. “Sure, of course. I can see about booking a room at a nearby hotel for you and have someone stand guard, if that’s okay?”

    “Oh nonsense Lisbon,” Jane pipes up. The eagerness in his voice does nothing for the tension back in your body. “She can stay here, can’t see? I wouldn’t mind talking with her more.” He turns to you, and there’s something not quite right between his expression and what’s in his eyes. “Would that be alright with you, Miss Benraft?”

   Off guard, you flounder for words. “Um, sure? I mean I don’t mind? Is that really okay? I mean it’s not like I saw anything and I really don’t want to get in the way—” You turn to agent Lisbon but she seems to be nearly as confused as you are. She’s about to reply, but gets waved off by Jane.

   “Of course it’s fine. You said you can’t remember what happened after the call, right? I can help you remember.” He stands and take both your teacups and offers his elbow to help you up. “Come on, I’ll make you another cup of tea."

[capricorn-season]

From Trans to TERF: My experience as a desister

Hazel

9 September 2023No Comments

I’m Hazel. I’m a 31 year old woman, who was diagnosed as autistic in adulthood. At age 17, I experienced Rapid Onset Gender Dysphoria. Here is my story.

TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of self harm and suicide.

Background

Looking back, I can see how several things in my childhood and teenage years contributed to the fact that I ended up experiencing gender dysphoria.

My mother was the type to relish the fact she had a daughter. She wanted to dress me up in pretty dresses, with bows in my hair and frilly socks. If you know anything about autistic sensory issues and Pathological Demand Avoidance, you can probably begin to understand why being pushed to dress in uncomfortable, excessively girly clothes would be unpleasant to an autistic girl. I started to eventually reject everything ‘girly’. I refused to wear dresses or skirts – it was jeans and t-shirts exclusively, even at weddings. I rejected the colour pink, despised the idea of make-up, and ended up in friendships with exclusively boys. It didn’t help that my mother would often tell me that I ‘should have been born a boy’ in reference to my gender non-conformity.

Feeling ‘not like the other girls’ (and not in the quirky, attention seeking way) is quite common in autistic girls (and women). Being autistic in general can make you feel like you don’t fit in, that you’re different to everyone around you. I didn’t ‘feel’ like a girl, because the girls around me felt so alien to me. I didn’t relate to them at all. In my early teens, I used to look at them like odd sheep, all with the same hair, clothes, bags etc. They were the weird ones. But by my mid-to-late teens, I felt like the weird one. I didn’t fit in. I didn’t feel like a ‘normal’ girl. It is easy to see how, when introduced to trans ideology, it would be so easy for me to latch onto it, convincing myself that I ‘should’ have been a boy.

My peer group didn’t help. It’s not easy, being an atypical teen. I was told to ‘stay in my gender’, amongst other hurtful things. I couldn’t make friends with girls, and I didn’t feel like I could fit in with my guy friends, because I wasn’t one of them. I wanted to dress ‘like a boy’ and act ‘like a boy’, without strange looks, bullying or criticism from my college classmates. Sadly, it didn’t seem possible. It felt like the only way I could live how I wanted was to become male.

Period of Dysphoria

My period of acute gender dysphoria began in September 2009, 3.5 months short of my 18th birthday. It was all-encompassing. I felt like I needed to transition NOW to ease my dysphoria, otherwise I would surely end up committing suicide. It didn’t take long to come out to my then-boyfriend, my mother, and some of my friends. It was easily one of the worst periods of my life. I wouldn’t have listened to anyone who told me that I was wrong about how I felt. I was self-harming daily. The urges to end my life were intrusive. I really did feel like I was just surviving day-to-day, trying to stave off the urges to commit suicide by imagining a future where I’d be on hormones and have surgery. A future where I would feel like myself. My mental state ended with my mother telling me that I was ‘fucked up’ and ‘not welcome’ under her roof until I’d had psychiatric help. (My mother was emotionally abusive and we haven’t been on speaking terms since this happened, but that’s another story.)

I cut my hair very short, and I started to dress more ‘like a boy’ than I ever had previously. I’d never been entirely comfortable with my body, but now I couldn’t stand it. I’d sleep in boxers, but the presence of my breasts made me want to die. Transition, and surviving long enough to get that far, was the only thing on my mind.

My suicidal feelings lifted a bit after my mother kicked me out, and I went to live with my dad. Her emotional abuse undoubtedly contributed to my depression. The gender dysphoria persisted for about a month after that. It actually dissipated on night, along with my depression, almost like magic. I was home alone, and my plan was to get into the bathtub with my self-harm blade, and cut myself deeply, with the intent of bleeding out. Instead, I felt my depression and my dysphoria lift, and I got out of the bath feeling ‘female’ again. The next day, I went shopping and bought myself some feminine clothes. There was definitely some kind of shift that happened inside of me that night, one that I’m still not able to explain.

I still occasionally feel ‘male’ even to this day. But it’s a feeling that I can easily shake. With age has come the ability to not care what people think of how I dress or how I behave. I now accept my body for what it is, and I no longer believe my body parts or my chromosomes should have any impact on how I should live my life. I am an adult human female, but by no means do I have to act like a stereotype.

The Depo Shot

One thing that has always stood out to me, is the fact that the onset of my gender dysphoria was exactly around the time I was weaning off the depo contraceptive injection. I’d only had one injection (intended to last 3 months) but the side effects were too much for me to handle, so I opted not to get the next shot when it was due. Throughout my gender dysphoria, my hormones were still messed up from the shot. I know this because I wrote in my transition journal that my period was late, and I was worried I may be pregnant, and about the impact that that would have on my dysphoria.

David Ludden Ph.D. at Psychology Today describes Rapid Onset Gender Dysphoria as occurring in adolescence, the overwhelming majority of which are females who had experienced no signs of dysphoria prior to puberty. It makes me wonder just how many of them experienced gender dysphoria starting around the time they started hormonal contraceptives. It’s by no means something I’ve studied, it’s just a thought that I’ve never been able to shake. If anyone has any relevant experience, I’d love for you to comment below, or to contact me on Xwitter.

Experience With Hormone Blockers

In my late 20s, I sought out treatment for Pre-Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder. This led to me being administed Zoladex, a GnRH Analogue (gonadotropin releasing hormone agonist) to stop my menstrual cycles. It is also referred to as chemical menopause.

GnRH Analogues are also used as puberty blockers for children with gender dysphoria. I want to share why I, as someone who has actually been on this medication, finds this practice to be horrific.

The side effects of Zoladex can be brutal. I felt so horribly depressed and suicidal in just the one month I stayed on it that I knew I couldn’t let myself have another injection. I felt so awful about myself – my self esteem was through the floor. Life felt pointless. That month was very difficult to survive. The thought of pre-pubescent children being given these very powerful medications chills me. Depression is listed as a side effect on the patient leaflet. Other side effects include loss of bone density leading to an increased risk of osteoporosis, reduced heart function, blood clots, liver problems and psychosis.

Where I’m At Now

How do I see gender now? I suppose I would call myself a gender atheist. I am now comfortable with the fact that how I choose to present myself to the world has nothing to do with what genitals I have. I am an adult human female, but by no means do I have to act like a stereotype.

I used to be a trans ally, even until very recently. However, the way things are going with the Trans Radical Activist community has me concerned. As a feminist, I despise the fact that trans-identified males are taking away from women at every turn. In sports, in private spaces, even in prisons and women’s shelters. As a woman who has been abused, I do not want men accepted into places where I am vulnerable, such as public bathrooms. Women have fought hard over many years for their safety and rights. I find it horrific to see those rights and safe spaces being ripped away by men who want to play dress-up. Women have always been oppressed. Only now, men are allowed to dress up as us, and oppress us further. If we have anything to say about it, if we are uncomfortable, we are labelled as bigots, TERFs, and often faced with violence and death threats.

The damage the trans community are doing to the LGB community is also very apparent. LGB people have fought for acceptance and the right to live peacefully for years. Their work is now being undone by garish, loud and violent trans-identified males, who have tarnished the Pride flag with their behaviour. Lesbians are being called bigots now because they refuse to sleep with trans-identified men. #LGBwithouttheT is now trending more than ever. I do hope that LGB people can protect the progress they have made, before too much damage has been done to their reputation.

The reaction from trans people to my speaking out as a desister has been… Interesting, to say the least. These are the same people who would have told me, aged 17, that if I felt like I was trans, then I was trans. The same people who would shout from the rooftops that only an individual gets to say what their gender identity is, and anyone who questions it is a bigot. Those people now tell me that I was ‘never really trans’, which is a phrase often used to silence desisters and detransitioners. It seems that these trans activists believe that anyone who desists or detransitions was ‘never really trans to start with’, a logic would conveniently put the detransition rate of actual trans people at 0%. I’ve also been told (just yesterday, actually) that I wasn’t a real person, and that my Xwitter account was fake, created just to discredit and harass trans people (despite my profile being 3 years old, and me mostly posting about cats). Trans-identified people are determined not to acknowledge the existence of desisters and detransitioners, so much so that they will deny what is right in front of them.

Quotes From My Transition Diary

I want to finish with some quotes from my Transition Journal. I hope that these will give some insight as to what went on in my head, as a 17-year-old autistic ‘trans’ kid.

‘I felt like I should have been dressed like all of the other guys there, and just didn’t feel right dressed as a girl. And the more masculine I dress, the more comfortable I feel. I wore a shirt and tie to college the other day and felt great until people started questioning me. And it feels like the only way I can be myself without being questioned is by being a boy… Which is fucking scary.‘

‘My entire life I’ve never worn make-up wilfully. I dressed entirely like a boy from the age of 14. I cut my hair short in January. All of this just makes me feel so much more comfortable. And it’s so hard making friends because they girls don’t like me and the guys don’t really understand why I am as I am. I’ve been told “stay in your own gender” and other things but I really just do what I feel comfortable with. I feel like everything would be so much fucking easier and so fucking right if I was a boy. I’d just be able to fit in fine, be friends with who I want, wear whatever I want, without being fucking questioned every step of the way.‘

‘I’m not a girl. Just looking at me – how could anyone have watched me grow up and think I was meant to be female? I’ve never been girly, I’ve never wanted to wear skirts or dresses or make-up… I’ve always wanted to play the drums and make male friends and play football… I remember wanting to be on the school football team in year 4 and in year 7, and always hating the idea of being on a girls team. An all-girls school has always sounded like a personal hell to me, and I always hated doing girls sports in PE. I remember wanting to join the boys PE class, too. It’s always been there, I’ve just never been conscious of it until recently.’

[skrunklybf-archived]

honey (02); levi ackerman x f!reader

summary: despite the hard labor, despite the sarcasm, despite the heavy sighs... despite it all, levi ackerman could be sweet, given the right circumstances (and the right scout).

tags: canonverse, fluff, slight jealousy, slight possessiveness, levi is bad with feelings

wc: 3.2k

notes: <3 love you all

part one | part two

children always want what they can't have. the saying rang true -- true enough, anyway, levi thought bitterly to himself.

jean boy can't have you. too risky, too... disgusting, levi decided one night, though he couldn't necessarily pinpoint why the idea was so disgusting.

children, with their sticky fingers, can't be trusted with beautiful things. that's why fine jewelry is locked away in stuffy cabinets, for safe keeping.

and he had effectively hidden you away, even by means of busying you with cinderella treatment. whether the strategy was fair or not didn't exactly cross his mind very often, not until hange made some flippant comment before the start of a meeting one morning.

"really working your team to the bone, eh?" they examined their fingernails casually, picking dirt out here and there, "well, at least some of them."

levi rolled his eyes quietly, watching them over the bridge he formed with his interwoven fingers. "disrespectful brats."

"really? even [l/n]? didn't know she was such a spitfire," hange smirked. "coulda sworn the poor thing was scared of her own shadow just two or three years ago. and now she's your right-hand? how interesting, captain levi."

a lot can change in two or three years, levi wanted to bite back, but held his tongue, knowing it wouldn't have been true about you. anyone with half a brain knew how committed you were to your career, to your livelihood as a scout, since the very beginning.

"yes, quite riveting." he replied dryly.

one could say the good captain levi took advantage of your performative personality, knowing you'd already laid your full trust in his selfish hands, acutely aware of your need for validation from your superiors. it's not as if he tortured you, though -- he threw nothing on your plate you couldn't handle. still, levi pondered how you felt, what you thought. the hour or two of your time he stole to tuck away in his own pocket several times a week tasted familiar and almost calming on his tongue, like a lavender tea. to you, though, was he shoving hot coals down your throat? surely he would know. surely you'd stop showing up, maybe confront him, maybe even report him for being inappropriate.

what a thought. was it necessarily wrong, though, to... watch after his squad? to maybe find solace in the company of someone not so mind-fuckingly obnoxious?

was it wrong to want to be around you?

perhaps. and perhaps it was wrong of him to... isolate you, the way he had been, reluctant to share his prized possession with the rest of the class. that was just it, though, wasn't it? you weren't his. you weren't an object at all -- rather, you were more like the last rays of sunshine before a long winter. warming, sweet, fleeting.

levi thought back to when you were sick. gross, sticky snot leaking from your face and heavy bags tugging under your eyes. even then, with the candle light catching the sweat beading your hairline, levi felt a squeeze in his chest. he held the food tray out to you, arms fully extended as to maximize the space between you. soup, bread, an apple and a cup of honeyed tea. your hazy eyes flickered between his still face and the offering in his hands.

"... well? take it, or i'm dropping it on your feet." he mumbled lowly. a tiny smile crept over your lips, taking the tray and brushing his cool fingers in the process. you were absolutely burning up, your fever surely cooking your brain at that point.

"thank you, captain. you're very kind."

very kind.

he wondered if you'd still say that after the hours of scrubbing, lifting, sweating at his beck and call. he wondered how you still threw a smile and polite greeting at him every morning, despite his general coldness. and he wondered, too, why you'd come by just to sit with him after all this.

levi knew the words very kind were rarely spoken in the same sentence as his name, let alone pointed right at him like that. but walls, he wasn't heartless. maybe you could see that. maybe those words were something he didn't know he craved until you spoke them.

he had something to chew on until the next time you lightly rapped your knuckles against his office door.

... and chew, he did. it'd been two weeks -- two weeks since you'd graced levi with your calming presence, nosing around his bookshelves and making good use of the lonely arm chair diagonal from him. he found himself staring at the furniture in discontent. such a slow point of the year gave the captain very little to distract himself with. he poked his gaze out the window, to the ants of scouts coming and going along the paths below, seeming leisurely in the warm sun.

maybe he really had done something wrong. he wasn't called humanity's most socially adept, after all. sighing, he ran a hand over the short part of his undercut. levi found himself utterly ridiculous as he stood and left the ever-shrinking office to its lonesome.

the captain found it lightly intriguing (and mildly convenient) how easy it was to track you down, almost as if his legs simply knew where to take him. how embarrassing, he mumbled in his head, that someone actually has me acting like this.

pushing through the bitter self-deprecation, levi stumbled upon your light laugh floating down the hallway to the infirmary. the door laid cracked, your profile visible through the opening. it wasn't so unusual to find you lending a helping hand. it was, however, quite curious to see who's knees you were dotting antiseptic over.

"sit still, big baby." you rolled your eyes, pressing the cotton pad flush to jean's scuffed skin. he hissed through gritted teeth and yanked back a bit. "i said sit still!"

"well my bad, [y/n], you're literally rubbing poison in my wounds."

"ah, yes, poison. poison keeps you from getting infected, right, jean?"

"or so they say. i'm not really a doctor."

levi watched jean soak up your chiming laughter, the younger man grinning, looking so proud of himself. that's what levi meant by disgusting; that sinking feeling in his chest, like choking down a fist full of ice.

unwilling to watch any more, the captain pushed through the door. both of your heads snapped in his direction, though jean let his long smiling face fall harder than you did, nearly crashing through the floor.

"good afternoon, captain." you hummed, returning your gaze to jean's nasty scrapes. like a vacuum, the fun and ease sucked itself right out of the air. the man under your care mirrored the greeting in a much more subdued manner. levi cocked a curious brow.

"really, kirstein? you needed [l/n] to kiss your booboos?" he asked.

jean grumbled, "well, 's only fair, captain. she caused them."

a tiny gasp left your lips, fingers working away, wrapping bandages in a meticulously neat and tidy manner. "that's a lie." you stated dryly.

"no it's not."

"it's not my fault you tripped trying to carry too much at once. you're a majestic show pony, not a pack mule."

levi rolled his eyes, completely disinterested in whatever squabble the two of you fed into. he hushed you both with the raise of a hand. "[l/n], we need you for an errand run into town. be ready at my office in an hour." his even voice left little room for complaint, as usual. you and the captain locked eyes for a moment as he spoke. "get the kid bandaged and tucked into bed, maybe read him a bedtime story, since he misses his mommy so much. heard you're quite charitable like that." turning on his heel, levi let the words hang in the air as he left, a small swell of pride stirring his stomach at the sound of your muffled laughter (and jean's disgruntled groan).

truthfully, there was no pre-established we when he told you about your new task. he was one, you made two, so together you became we, technically speaking.

still, swimming in golden air and chattering villagers, levi walked with no guilt weighing his shoulders, several feet ahead of you as you gawked at yet another market stall.

the fluffy loaves of bread, sweet dusted pastries and little tins of candied fruit glittered like gold to a weary prospector. the captain watched you buy a few treats and trot over to him with the aromatic bag in hand. a warm smile graced your lips. "do you want one, captain?" before you could dig your hand into the paper sack, levi sucked his teeth and snatched it out of your grasp. "no." he replied, beginning to walk again, this time slower than his usual stride.

"hey, i asked if you wanted one, not all of them." you toddled up to his side, eyeing the arm full of goods he lugged with a flat expression. maybe you were going a little overboard, but there were too many interesting things for sale for all your money to sit so idly in your pocket. besides, watching levi snag everything out of your hands and carry your things for you sparked a strange flutter in your chest. it made you feel giddy, seeing him be so chivalrous, even with such a stoic demeanor.

"they're all yours. i prefer to keep my teeth in my head, but if you're ready to rot yours out, be my guest."

strolling over a stone bridge, you hummed in soft contentment and let levi guide you. he hadn't bought a single thing yet, despite the sense of importance his words carried in the infirmary earlier. he hadn't even told you what it was he needed, or where you were headed.

it felt like a pattern with the captain, to have so much go unsaid but have so little of it be questioned. he wanted you around, then he didn't; he kept you close in field formation, then he punished you at base; he ignored you for weeks, then demands you go out to the markets with him. part of you wondered why the tug of war felt the tiniest bit endearing coming from levi. certainly he wasn't the best with words, you gathered that much from the sarcastic replies and biting remarks that lived on the tip of his tongue. certainly he had strange ways of showing he cared.

he opened a door for you, working around your bags with ease. inside, a tiny tea shop -- shelves lined with intricately painted cups and little bundles of wildflowers welcomed you, a slightly sweet earthy smell making your eyes flutter. of course, the good captain levi needed his personal fix.

while waiting for the older man behind the counter to gather what he had asked for, levi let his gaze wander over to you. what a brat, he thought, shifting the bags in his arm. you admired the art and fine painted pottery against the far wall, eyes wide and cheeks rosy from the setting sun outside. as much as it deflated his pride to admit it, levi knew he missed your presence. he knew how ridiculous he was for it. a captain, helplessly falling for his scout. still, he found himself craving the smile on your lips and the gentle tone you graced him with all afternoon:

"thank you, captain,"

"that's sweet of you, captain."

levi bit his tongue until he tasted iron.

what a fool he was for being so enamored with you. and what a gracious fool he was for holding out the small golden jar, packed beautifully with a delicate ribbon circling its neck.

"what's this?"

daytime drawing to a close, the two of you journeyed back to your horses, back to the monotony of headquarters. he packed away your things in his saddle bags before turning to face you.

"the honey i put in your tea. you liked it, right?"

feeling warm, you nodded. "is this for me? why?"

levi cleared his throat. suddenly, his chest felt very tight. searching for anything else to look at, he ran his hand down the side of his horse. "my work gets done faster when you're there." he said carefully. "i'd like it if you'd join me in my office again, before dinner."

a giggle trapped itself behind a sweet smile. levi indulged himself and allowed a peek in your direction. "are you trying to bribe me? quite out of character, captain. you must really miss me."

he sucked his teeth and rolled his eyes, "watch it, brat. i'm sure sitting pretty with your feet propped up feels a lot better than shoveling shit and scrubbing piss off the floor." you were right, though. completely right, as usual. you scrunched your nose at him, playful as ever with an air of joy encompassing you.

"calling me pretty now?" another giggle. and levi felt his ears burn. finally experiencing what you considered the upper hand when it came to the captain left you almost dizzy. wordlessly, he went to mount his steed, attempting to escape the embarrassment washing over his form, but was held back by your fingers around his wrist. "i'm kidding. thank you, levi." you gestured to the pretty little jar he'd bought for you, "you're very kind. i missed you, too."

absolute music, your words were angel songs. bristled, the sound of blood rushing in his ears, levi watched you for a moment. how did you manage to look so fucking peaceful all the time? so serene? he looked down at your hand, holding him in place. with your fingers still wrapped delicately around him, levi felt extra stiff in his posture, moving to peel himself from your hold. he cautiously held your hand in his palm instead, running his thumb over your soft skin, refusing to make eye contact. just watching his face was never enough to gauge what he was feeling anyway, but you internally sighed, melting a little under the unexpected touch.

"levi..."

"i'm not used to this." he said suddenly. silky dark strands of hair fell into his face, looking softened from the typical even mask he wore day in and out. "you brats are supposed to be insufferable. and you are, mostly. but you're... more tolerable... than the rest, than anyone else, really." levi sighed heavy enough that you could feel his hot breath skirt over your hand, still sitting in his surprisingly gentle grasp.

sensing how hard the gears were turning in his head, you blinked softly at your captain, blaming your burning face on the setting sun. "i'm glad you find me tolerable," you hummed, "i really enjoy my time with you. it feels different than when i hang out with the rest of the squad, or even my friends from back home. i don't feel like i have to put on a face, or be someone else." levi chanced a glance at you through his dark lashes. watching the glimmer in your eye, the dusting of your cheeks, a certain harmony settled itself in his chest.

"maybe more than tolerable." he carefully raised your hand to his lips, gracing a soft kiss over your knuckles. "... i feel the same. but, [y/n]," his casual use of your first name sent a chill through you, "i trust you would tell me if all that wasn't the case."

you furrowed your brow. "what do you mean?"

with a firm tug, levi closed the gap between you both, laying one hand on your waist and the other on your shoulder. he sucked his teeth quite characteristically. a cool expression laid over the slightly nervous one he wore just minutes before. "would you tell me if you found this to be... out of line?" slender fingers held your form so delicately, yet the weight of him settled on you like a security blanket.

"i would," you replied, "but i... find it quite tolerable." gaze locked, you watched the captain mischievously, soaking in how his lips twitched into a smirk.

"i'm glad you find me tolerable."

"more than tolerable, really."

feeling brave, you let your hands creep up his strong chest and settle on his shoulders, fingers idly tracing up and down the sides of his neck. the proximity was intoxicating, feeding the herd of butterflies occupying both your bellies. levi cleared his throat. a tiny crack chipped from his cool demeanor.

"am i wrong to assume you might tolerate something more from me?"

with words so enticing, curiosity bumped your brows up your forehead. you watched his eyes sink to your lips, then back up again, almost as if he'd been caught doing something scandalous. your fingers found their way into his soft buzzed hair.

"am i wrong to assume you're asking to kiss me, levi?"

flushed hot, levi cleared his throat again.

"what a brat," there it was, the roll of his steely eyes. he didn't argue, though, so you took this as a sign to lean into those remaining few inches -- with levi abruptly holding his breath -- and place a chaste kiss to his lips. his heart pounded into his throat, eyes wrenched open to watch your relaxed face so close to his. levi could count your eyelashes if he wanted to (and he wished some day he'd have the chance to properly).

just as he allowed his lids to slide closed, you pulled away, patting a hand on his cheek.

"we'd better head back, captain, they're serving dinner soon." you said coyly.

levi grumbled in a way you could only take as his version of a quiet whine.

perhaps captain levi wasn't made of stone. he wasn't a tin man, either. over time you came to realize levi ackerman had a soft, gooey center that he hid so well behind sarcasm and general indifference; he had a side to him very few people got to see.

you were lucky, you realized, combing your fingers through his soft hair. the man hummed lowly against your chest. limbs tangled, breaths gentle, levi let his eyes slide closed as you massaged his scalp. yes, you were lucky to have humanity's strongest soldier wrapped around your finger, but even luckier to have gotten to know the man behind the pretentious title: the real levi ackerman -- he's made of honey.

[brunchbitch]

thought i would do an update since it's been a while!

9/27/23

things are going well with settling in to seattle! i'm doing lots of wedding stuff - got measured for my dress and had a makeup trial last week so it's starting to feel real! 10 months from today! next steps are sending out save the dates and deciding on catering, which will be fun bc we get to taste test everything.

a is doing well! he is taking a creative writing course that starts this week, and hockey starts this week as well. the seattle kraken have an adult league with over 100 teams (!!). he had tryouts (i almost wrote auditions lol) a couple weeks ago and got placed in the second highest division! i'm excited to go see some games, but the first one is tomorrow night at 10:45!!!! so if that's any indication of average game times, maybe i won't make it lol.

it has been raining every day for about five days now... it's reminding me of one of the hardest parts of living in seattle. i need to invest in a happy lamp and get some vitamin d.

as for the job front, i'm feeling frustrated and, before calling the DOH this morning, very confused about my path towards being a licensed independent clinical social worker (licsw). the requirements are pretty different in seattle. you start out getting licensed as a social worker associate advanced (lswaa), which basically means i have the necessary education but haven't gotten required post grad supervision to apply for the next level, which is a licensed advanced social worker (lasw). i'm required to obtain 3200 hours of supervised experience under an licsw which, full time, would be about a year and a half. then i apply to be an lasw, and once i'm approved i can take my sw generalist exam. THEN to become an licsw, i need 4000 additional supervised hours (~2 years full time). so 3.5 years working full time before i can get my licsw, and then have to take the clinical exam. in ma, it would've taken 2 years to get my licsw. i'm not sure why wa state requires so much more, but it explains why the pay ranges have been higher than what i expected.

i've been studying for the exam, bc that's what would be the next step in boston. so that was wasted time lol. hopefully some of it will stick in my brain so i'm not starting from square one when i start studying again in ~a year and a half. so now i really need to just focus on getting a job. i've had one interview and they never even got back to me. i probably would've turned down the job anyway (not exactly what i was looking for - a lot of independent time and not much of an ability to collaborate with other social workers, which i think is important being a new grad), but it still would've been nice to be offered the job lol. i've been getting so discouraged but trying to remind myself that something will work out eventually. even if i hate the job, i can stick it out until i get my supervised hours at least. and then i can look elsewhere.

i have a screening today for a job that is pretty close by my house. it's a primary care center that serves a lot of people who have high resource needs. i was hoping for a more acute setting (like inpatient hospital), but it does seem some of the patients would be pretty acute. so we'll see how the screening goes.

mental health is good - i've really appreciated being able to see L again. still smoking a shit ton, which concerns her, but trying to do better this week.

luna and lia are good - they've definitely adjusted. lia is sleeping on top of her cat tree right now hehe. unfortunately luna is getting a dental done at the vet right now and she had to have two tooth extractions :(. she's had several extractions before due to resorptive lesions, but the last few years her teeth have been good so i was hoping they wouldn't have to take any out. so she'll be on pain medication for a few days, but she's been through that before. i'm going to shower her with love when she gets home!

[ronearoundblindly]

Do You Two...Fondue? (15)

Warning: Very emotional smut which is split between two chapters. (Minors DNI) soft! but also :cough: determined!Steve.

For America, Part One (see previous or series)

He’s regretting not waiting for some water. His throat aches from all the forced swallowing. However, if he’s got to have this conversation, at least Steve’s rooms are private and have faucets.

When you open his door, you don’t turn on the lights, and his eyes shoot wide.

“Really?” You tick your head to the side with zero explanation, forcing him to enter a room he’s lived in for years as if it’s foreign soil. “Now,” you say when the door seals behind him, “you have four either normal, or more likely, heightened senses, while the other has been taken away…kinda. If—see—when you turned off the lights at the hotel, one of the things that did was make my other senses work harder to get the experience—“ you snort out a laugh but quickly stifle it “—of the room.”

He can vaguely see you in the dark, even where everyone else would see black. His sight is obviously fine. Better than fine. To his eyes at the hotel, you were the most exquisitely detailed charcoal drawing, undulating in rapture beneath him. In bright light, the fine hairs over your skin have a dusting effect like chalk, and when you’re still asleep as dawn breaks, it evokes the oil-painting mastery of the classics. You’re so peaceful, made of smooth layers of color painstakingly built into pure beauty.

None of that, however, addresses the problem. “I don’t think—I mean, I haven’t ever noticed something boosting my…feeling.”

“Yeah, it’s not the perfect metaphor, but basically, there are other pieces to, uh boy—focus—“ he hears your sharp inhale and notices you shiver “—to experiencing pleasure. That’s why I asked if you get excited before you’re touched.”

“Did you just…was that your reaction to my cologne?” He’s miffed, acutely flattered, and a little bashful.

“Yeah, yeah, crisis at hand, Sketch. Focus.” Though he inches forward, you continue. “Your thoughts are recreations or fantasies of senses.” You clear your throat and stand up tall. Steve doesn’t know why but you stare at the floor even in the dark. “For example, you’ve…made several faces that—and you don’t—didn’t even touch me, or you weren’t—but just the look…I mean, wow.”

He notices something, and he feels like an idiot for not understanding this sooner. He didn’t put it together all those times before, the ones where you looked at him a certain kind of way and (if he was close enough) he could smell you. You’re talking about a visual, auditory, or olfactory cue that had a physical response, or really anything not-physical that has a physical impact on a body. You’re talking about how he can feel when you feel, and that has never been dampened by anything. His nerve-endings don’t have to signal his brain; that part is all memory and imagination and empathy. It’s exactly like how looking at a sketch of you immerses him in the moment he was trying to recreate in two dimensions. He can hear what you were telling him as he switched from pencil to pencil.

“Just wow,” you repeat with a whisper. 

Steve thinks about the time on the couch, right behind where you’re standing, and he remembers hearing your voice lower and your heart race. He remembers kissing you and being struck by how the same glorious, wet warmth from your mouth was being pumped up and down him. It’s the first time he wonders whether he has to grip himself so hard to come or whether that simply makes him come faster.

He hears your shoes thud against the floor behind him as you kick them off. 

“Steve,” you purr with a smile, “what are you thinking about?”

He swallows again, having forgotten all about that water he thought he needed. Seems he is salivating just fine but can’t think of any words. Neither of you is surprised.

On the couch, you caught him off-guard, too tired to understand or protest. In the hotel, he focused on you and that was enough. Now, he feels vulnerable, exposed, even in the dark with all of his clothes on, even when you cannot see him. He can’t get his body to move.

The slow crackle of your dress’s zipper jolts him, making his own skin tingle lightly. It’s the barest rustle of fabric when it falls, a hint of midnight blue puddled against the faint cream of his carpet, and when you step forward, there it is. He can hear your heartbeat.

That rhythm soothes him every night you’re here, every night you’re with him. He hopes that becomes every night, full stop. He closes his eyes, focused on the base of it like a subwoofer in his head.

“Shall I tell you what I’m thinking?” Another step forward, thick honey words dripping into his ears.

He smells you now, breathing as deeply as he is, standing as close as you are with so little on. He’d recognize your scent anywhere, remembers how potently you stayed on his fingers, enjoys that you linger on his sheets. He may be stunned by how often you reek of excitement for him, but he’s not disappointed in the slightest. Since you’ve brought the cocktail of everything to his attention, he’s realizing how much of his own fantasizing has not been about touch. Just the sound of your voice makes him smile.

“I’m gonna marry you, Steve Rogers.”

Now, those. Those are sounds that create a physical response for Steve. His hands are at your jaw as his lips find yours, gentle, plush, hesitant with a building need. He’s still waters with an undertow raging. What Steve thinks but can’t say is that he is sick of thinking. He wants to know what it’s like to be with you, wants to know what you sound like each and every place he touches, wants to know what you taste like over every inch.

He’s so caught up in kissing that he only notices you’ve unbuttoned his shirt when his belt clinks as you untuck the ends. The base of your heartbeat reverberating in his head is matched by the slightest bit of shaking across his whole body. His insides are running in all different directions, so he tries to regroup.

“What did you call them,” he mutters between kisses, “my lips, at the hotel?”

He’s so tall that his looming slowly presses you both into the wall.

Your voice is hoarse, ragged. “What is this a pop quiz?”

The only way for him to move closer is to slide his knee between your legs, but touching you is steadying the jumpiness inside his chest. The more he cages you in, the more he feels engulfed by you, his safe space, and when he looks down, there you two are, draped in dark shades like an early Van Gogh, together.

This is the image he wants, the art he’s inspired by: you and him, happy, blended, harmonious. It makes him whole. It makes him joyous.

Steve starts with a low note, hums it deep within his chest, pitches it higher, and then drops it back down. The melody rumbles through his muscles. His body relaxes, and he can tell the moment you recognize the song. He moves his hands to your hips, the back of his fingers grazing over your nipples on the way down, just like in the hall, just like he’s thought about dozens of times. You sway together, minute shifts that shake off his final hesitations because the song is so true, just like your song on stage was earlier.

He can’t help falling in love with you. All of his senses, every single one, tell him you understand, that you are all-in, just as he is.

When he gets to that bar, the line he’s hung his fantasies on for so long, you softly sing the words, “some things are meant to be.” Your hand squeezes the back of his head, and he can feel the band of his mother’s ring glide down his neck.

His hands. His life. His whole body is yours.

Steve slides both thumbs into the elastic of your underwear and begins to draw small circles. He has to toe off his shoes anyway, so he makes a deliberate show of nudging his thigh deeper between your legs, the meat of his muscle actually holding your weight. The movement drags you against him, and the reaction is instantaneous. It’s because he can see that he knows your mouth drops open. It’s because he can hear your sharp breath and raised heartbeat that he knows how worked up you’re getting.

“Luscious,” he says, lips landing just beneath your ear, “that’s what you called them.” He begins to blaze a trail down, and finally, it’s because he can taste that he finds the spot where tart lemonade spilled on you earlier.

Salt, sugar, lemon, and sunscreen. It’s more perfect than any ‘happy birthday.’ You’re perfect and practically gushing with need of him, body writhing and whimpering beneath his broad, steadying hands.

He’s half-teasing, half-serious. The balance finally feels right. Steve is not a dominant man, but he does enjoy the exploration of, well, anything to do with you. He’s still a man—or perhaps just himself? because he isn’t judging anyone’s preferences—so embarrassment is not a turn-on for him, especially when the embarrassment is failing you. While he’s still not sure he can finish the same as you, he is determined to please you. He’s still nervous though.

“Don’t,” he starts, feeling that flutter of warrior butterflies again, “don’t let me ruin this.” Steve stretches to press his forehead to yours. “Please.”

For a moment, you hold him, quiet and comforting, before asking, “pop quiz. What did you say when you proposed?”

He’s about to recite his practiced little speech, but you beat him to it.

“You already make me happy, Steve Rogers.” You kiss him gently on the lips. “You’ve already made me a better woman.” Another kiss to his cheek. “You take on the whole world everyday, but—“ you pull him closer to whisper in his ear “—I’m gonna marry the shit outta you.”

Steve snorts. Of course. Of course, you know just how to break his little spiral of doubt. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I believe the word you are looking for, sir—” your hands slide down his torso while you smile, grabbing his belt buckle “—is insatiable.”

It’s not dominance or submission, he figures out. You two have been swinging back and forth like a tide, rolling between each other’s spaces and needs, and now, as you’ve calmed to the middle, finally in sync, it’s become a vibration, a hum of little waves that dance and sing together. Just like the words of your song: it’s a game of give and take.

While Steve’s brain is all art, music, and poetic romance, your hands pop the button of his pants and unzip them. He forgot he buried the idea of physical intimacy being fun a long, long time ago. He replaced it with thoughts of difficulty and logistics, only to pile on more  strange phobia and critiques of modernity. He has to laugh, a shaky combination of self-deprecation and nerves. This doesn’t come easy to him, but that’s because he never really imagined he’d get this. Girls aren’t lining up for the guy they might step on, but girls also don’t stick around to be stepped on by a guy’s life.

But you. You’re different. Steve’s in awe of how you’ve kept all these sides of you preserved even when he has witnessed how hard that’s been. You’re still playful, poking at the hem of his bottoms to make him take them off, shivering with a giggle as his hair drags across your chest when he stands again. You’re still cheeky and serious and sexy and delicate. 

Nothing, nothing he has thrown at you, purposefully or accidentally, has deterred you from wanting Steve. All of him. The complete and unabridged version. You’ve systematically excavated the original Steve, the part of him excited to love the right woman. You’ve encouraged his old hobbies and his new interests. You’ve befriended his team and stuck up for his decisions. Steve actually feels whole again, and he can’t wait to thank you for the rest of his life.

(Next part)

(Apparently, I can't stop writing this steve x reader pairing to save my life. It just keeps going on!)