#i remembered the existence of this before i woke up fully enough to remember my own

[myokk]

fast sketch of my Imelda oneshot🫶💓

remembering the snow

Word count: 3.300

Rating: G/T I don’t get the difference 🧍‍♀️

Imelda Reyes has never been one to do things by halves.

Her mother always talked about the circumstances of her birth with pride: Imelda came quickly as if she were eager to get out and see the world already, screaming even before she had fully left her mother's womb, determined to leave an indelible mark on the world.

The women in their village who had assisted the birth crossed themselves, chattering to each other in quick, soft, beautiful Spanish staccato about the baby who was already unlike any they had ever seen before. Strong and healthy and beautiful, her deep brown eyes already taking in her surroundings and watching them solemnly moments after her arrival.

Her father always talked about the circumstances of her childhood: running wild and free, flying before she could walk (a source of great pride), his little shadow who peppered him with endless questions about the world. He always brought her along to his work meetings much to everyone's delight; she was with him when he was offered the enviable position of Spanish Diplomat to the British Ministry of Magic.

At the age of five, they left the beautiful sleepy village where time hadn't seemed to exist. Imelda still dreams of long, hot, dusty days playing under the shade of orange trees, going to the market every two days with her mother draped in their finest silks, sleeping and lying around during the hottest part of the day, only leaving their house once the sun left its highest point and was about to disappear behind the mountains.

The older women in the village doted on her. If she thinks hard, she can recall their beautiful, wavering voices calling out to her as she raced past them: 'ten cuidado, cariño, te vas a mancar', 'ven aquí, cielo, te quiero ver la cara tan bonita', 'mira cómo se está creciendo, se nota que va a ser una belleza de mayor'...voices filled with comfort and love. She never knew anything different then.

She's their only child. Her mother was always brushing her hair and humming, trying to get her to sit still and listen to her endless fairy tales as the sun bore down on them; her father, treating Imelda like the son he had always wished for but accepting and loving her all the same. Sometimes, her mother would let her out of the house before the sun became too strong and they would fly around the mountains and be free free free.

Arriving to Edinburgh at the age of five, Imelda hadn't even realized she didn't speak the same language as the other children around her. As with everything else, she jumped in headfirst. Her mother always jokes that she became fluent in English the second she stepped foot on Scottish soil. To Imelda, it does seem that way. She can't ever remember not speaking in the soft Scottish burr, reminiscent of the soft Spanish she had left behind and still spoke at home.

As a child, she never had problems forging relationships with whoever was around her. She was brash and inquisitive and irresistible, taking charge wherever she went. The other children flocked around her, hanging on to her every word.

It changed, though, when her mother got her cough. It started out harmless enough, a slight cough and headache before bed each night. When her mother woke up every morning, she would be fine. But going to bed early changed to going to bed even earlier and earlier until it was time to accept what the three of them were steadfastly ignoring: she was getting worse.

Imelda was nine. She remembers her mother drying her tears with gentle, soft hands, caressing her cheeks and whispering to her that it would be fine. That she wasn't gone yet: they still had time.

'No pasa nada, mi amor. Siempre estaré contigo.'

At Hogwarts, things changed even more. She was a Slytherin and proud of it, but she never quite fit in with her classmates. She wasn't one of them, hadn't grown up with them, and they made sure she knew it. Gone were the days of running wild: she turned her single-minded determination to her studies and quidditch and found herself excelling at everything she put her mind to. It all came easily to her and she had no time for anyone who could distract her.

She wasn't a complete loner. She had her quidditch teammates, her partners in various classes, but nobody she hung out with outside of classes. She always studied alone, learned alone, trained alone.

(Of course, the picture she paints to her father in owls home is much different. He has enough on his mind - a daughter struggling to make friends is a non-issue as far as Imelda is concerned. And besides: she's fine.)

Imelda was quite content with the way things were working out for her. She would never admit if she was lonely or not, and enjoyed every part of her life. Until her fifth year, when everything began to change. Gone were her rigid schedules and studying alone and discipline. A new girl was sorted into Slytherin and Imelda found she didn't hate the girl's company. The two of them laugh together at night while they braid each others' hair, Imelda teaches her Spanish, and they have started to study together.

The new student drags her around Hogwarts and Imelda finds herself actually enjoying herself and enjoying spending time with the classmates she’s spent so many years ignoring.

  This is when she meets Poppy Sweeting.

Well...Poppy swears that they met ages ago, during their first year when they were partnered together in Potions. Imelda has no recollection - that whole year was a blur - it was the year her mother succumbed to her illness - so she has to take Poppy's word for it.

She finds herself with friends for the first time in a long time. But, when the new student is running off with Sebastian doing Merlin-knows-what, things that Imelda definitely does not want to be a part of, she still finds herself seeking Poppy's company.

Poppy is sweet and fun and introverted in a way that Imelda finds familiar and comfortable: whereas Imelda turns to her studies and quidditch, Poppy often opts to spend time more time with beasts than humans. But there's something endearing about her earnestness and Imelda starts to find herself craving Poppy's calm company.

She always knows what to say when Imelda finds herself getting worked up over nothing.

  On the train home for the winter holidays, as Imelda is striding down the long corridor in search of an empty cabin where she can read and concoct fail-proof quidditch tactics, Poppy calls her over to her carriage and asks Imelda to keep her company. She only needs to ask once. There's an unfamiliar fluttering in Imelda's stomach as she sits across from Poppy and the other girl beams at her but it's...well. It's not altogether unpleasant. They play exploding snap and exchange book recommendations and laugh together and...well, if Imelda's knee brushes against Poppy's occasionally or their fingers linger as they exchange essays to look over...

She can't be blamed, can she?

A letter from Poppy arrives over the break. At the sight of Poppy's small brown owl tapping the window with the letter in its beak, Imelda's heart starts racing and she runs over to the bird, grinning like a fool, but she pauses before opening it. Her fingers tremble as they hover over the wax seal.

Imelda's father is largely absent these days, a shadow of the man she had grown up with. She's noticed the difference over the summer too, of course, but the winter always feels different. More desolate; more harsh. They're nearing the four-year anniversary of her mother's death. It's impossible to ignore the fact that losing his wife has damaged his soul irreparably, and Imelda's seeing first-hand what being deeply in love can do to a person.

Maybe she'll put the letter aside and read it tomorrow.

Tomorrow bleeds into the next day turns into one week and before she can blink the bleak winter vacation with her father has ended and she's heading back to Hogwarts.

On the train, she walks past Poppy: the two of them make eye contact but Poppy flushes and looks out the window, tucking her honey-colored hair behind her ear and Imelda moves on to the next empty carriage. She pulls out some parchment and works on revising her Charms essay. It's for the best, anyway, she tells herself. For the best that she doesn't have any distractions. Their O.W.L.s are coming up and she's determined to get an O in every subject.

  The month of January goes by in a flash. Between the insane quidditch schedule she's concocted for her team and the study sessions in the library, she keeps herself busy. The new fifth-year, her first real friend, starts to show concern for Imelda, gently trying to ask her what's going on as they braid each others' hair before bed.

Imelda doesn't want to bother her, though.

(She doesn't truly know what's the matter, anyways.)

She resolves to do a better job with keeping her emotions in check - her friend has enough on her plate, and Imelda doesn't want her to have to worry over something that's not even a problem in the first place.

She's fine.

Out of the corner of her eye in the classes she shares with Poppy, Imelda notices that she doesn't look as happy as she normally does. Her face is more pale and withdrawn; whenever Imelda's eyes flicker to her, her own gaze darts away.

  With the beginning of February come a lot of blizzards, and they make Imelda remember the first time she saw snow.

Her parents always started the story telling her that she cried and cried and cried.

They had both run over to her, covering her with warm hugs and kisses, the tiny family huddled together in this foreign place where the people looked and spoke differently, where nothing was the same and she missed the old women who would give her mazapanes whenever she ran by, missed the tiny clouds of dust that would puff up as she ran and the hazy mountains in the distance and the hot, hot sun beating down while she played in the shade of the orange trees while her mother slept away the heat. Pulling her mittened hands off of her tear-stained face and telling her 'mira cariño, mira qué bonita es la nieve. Tócala, ya verás que no pasa nada...estamos aquí contigo...'

Her tears had soon dried and she was laughing and playing in the snow and she couldn't even remember what had made her so sad in the first place.

Imelda's sad now as she stares out the window.

Her mother isn't there anymore. She has no one to turn to in this self-imposed exile.

Four years ago today.

She's hidden herself away in an alcove, curled up, arms wrapped around her knees watching the snow swirling out the window. She canceled quidditch practice today due to the storm, much to everyone's surprise. Just last week, she had forced them to train in the freezing rain and today's snowfall is mild in comparison. But...today she doesn't have the energy. She's spent so much effort pretending that everything's fine when it's not and now she's sad and alone and confused.

She doesn't hear Poppy when she comes near.

The other girl crowds into Imelda's space, pressing against her in the alcove. The two face each other, and Poppy brings a gentle hand up to Imelda's face to brush away tears she hadn't even realized were falling.

"What -" Imelda starts saying, but a fresh sob chokes her and she can't. Poppy leans forward and wraps her arms around Imelda, pulling her into a close embrace. Imelda feels everything crumbling around her and she sobs into Poppy's shoulder - Poppy whispering reassurances and smoothing her hair, cradling Imelda as she cries and cries and cries.

They don't leave the alcove for another hour, almost staying out after curfew.

  Imelda is subdued the next few days. The snow continues to fall until the whole castle looks like it's straight from one of the fairy tales her mother used to tell her as she brushed her hair. Imelda shows up for meals, shows up for classes, shows up in the study group, but she feels like she's just going through the motions.

She can tell her friend is getting worried, but Imelda can't confide in her. Her friend does small gestures anyways because she understands: saving Imelda a seat in class, asking her about quidditch, saving her favorite muffins for her at breakfast.

Maybe she talked to Sebastian about her worry because even he is being nicer than normal to Imelda, asking her if she wants to play wizarding chess with the two of them. Imelda doesn't really understand how or why they like playing the game so much - her friend is awful at it and Sebastian seems to enjoy the destruction and chaos more than actually strategizing. Even though Imelda hates the game - every move is painfully obvious and she can't understand how nobody else sees it like she does - maybe it would be nice to do something different.

Imelda freezes when they enter the Astronomy Tower to play: Poppy is there, waiting. For her. They haven't seen each other since she broke down humiliated and sobbing and she doesn't know what to do.

Sebastian looks between the two of them, brows furrowed, then leans down to their friend and whispers something in her ear. She nods and the two of them disappear, leaving Imelda and Poppy alone.

Poppy stands and Imelda can feel her heart start to hammer against her throat. Poppy walks forward slowly, only stopping when she's right in front of Imelda. When she speaks, her voice is high and sweet and Imelda realizes how much she missed her. "I-I'm sorry, I just didn't know how else I could talk to you. Will you come with me? I have something to show you."

Imelda nods mutely and Poppy takes her hand. They lace their fingers together and it's the first time - apart from a few days ago - that they have voluntarily touched each other. She feels Poppy's fingers tighten around hers and Imelda focuses on the feeling of soft knuckles under her thumb, but now...she's self-conscious for the first time about her quidditch-rough hands and maybe she should have listened to her friend when she tried to encourage Imelda to use some hand lotion.

Maybe Poppy will let go of her hand and leave in disgust.

But...Poppy doesn't do any of that. Every so often, she looks up at Imelda, smiling slightly. When they reach the Entrance Hall, she lets go of Imelda's hand and Imelda feels its loss with a pang.

Poppy opens the bag at her side and pulls out two huge yellow and black Hufflepuff scarves. As she's reaching up to wrap one around Imelda, she whispers: "sorry, I only have these. But yellow looks good on you."

Both of them flush and smile at each other and Imelda doesn't know how long they stand before Poppy grabs her hand again, making sure their fingers are laced, and then they are heading out.

Poppy looks more and more excited the closer they get to the Forbidden Forest, but Imelda's never set foot even remotely close to the forest, and she feels quite apprehensive at first. But, Poppy's excitement is exhilarating - Imelda can feel it rolling off of her in waves and despite herself, she begins to feel excited too. They still haven't spoken since leaving Hogwarts, but it's a comfortable silence. Imelda's glad for the scarf - their breath is puffing out in soft clouds as they breathe and it's quite cold - the freezing temperatures in Scottish winters are still something she's never quite gotten used to.

Their boots crunch through the snow-filled landscape - it's nearing dusk and the sky is turning a brilliant shade of orange and pink, but it gets obscured by the tree branches the further into the Forbidden Forest they venture, the golden light only showing in bursts now.

"Almost there," Poppy says breathlessly. She beams up at Imelda, whose breath catches at the sight, before turning back and pulling her faster and faster until they stop in a clearing. They've stopped in the middle, and Imelda looks around.

Here, they can actually see the sky and it is breathtaking in its beauty - the gnarled, naked trees around them twisting and reaching up as if they could try and grasp some of the beauty for themselves. The snow is perfectly smooth and untouched except for the footprints that the two of them have just left. Apart from that, the clearing is nondescript.

This is what Poppy had been so excited to show her?

Poppy gives no explanation for why she brought Imelda to the Forbidden Forest, but she's almost quivering in excitement - Imelda can feel the tension in the hand that's clutching hers tightly. The sun sets lower and lower, the two of them watching it as the colors around them start to fade and mute and then -

Poppy gasps in delight.

There -

A small, dancing, brilliant white light sparks to their left and disappears just as quickly.

"Look," Poppy whispers. Imelda glances over to her - she can barely make out her face in the dimming light, but Poppy seems to be glowing with happiness.

There - again -

More and more of the brilliant white lights appear, glowing and flickering on and off, and moving in almost a pattern, dancing around their heads. Imelda laughs as she watches the tiny creatures fly around them. It's magical and beautiful and -

"I found the snow sprite nest a few weeks ago, when the blizzards started, and I've been observing them since then. I...I wanted to show you and tell you about them the second I found out because I haven't stopped thinking about you but after...well, you know...I just wanted to cheer you up..."

Poppy trails off, looking uncertain when Imelda doesn't say anything in response.

She can't, even though she desperately wants to. Her mouth goes dry as she looks to the girl at her side, who has done all of this, for her.

Poppy looks impossibly lovely in the glow of the snow sprites, as they dance and spark around their heads in a beautiful waving pattern and Imelda doesn't even think as her hand goes to Poppy's cheek. Poppy stops rambling as she looks up into Imelda's eyes.

Then, before she can lose her nerve, Imelda leans forward and presses her lips to Poppy's. It's only the lightest of touches, but her heart is beating so quickly and Merlin, she can't believe she just did that. She quickly retreats, face flaming, but before she can get away Poppy reaches up to cup Imelda's cheeks with both hands and she pulls her forward, her mouth greedy, desperate, as they finally kiss.

When they finally pull away, breathing heavily as their foreheads rest against each other, Imelda can't help the huge smile that's threatening to split her face open. It mirrors the expression she sees on Poppy, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed and she is just so lovely that Imelda can't help but lean forward and capture her mouth again. Their lips mold to each other and it's the culmination of all of their stolen glances, touches, secret wishes.

Imelda Reyes has never been one to do things by halves, after all.

[sunshineandspencer]

Most ardently (Part 10)

Let me stress, this is not Maeve from the show, but my own Maeve just named the same to send Spencer into hell whenever he thinks about it.

A/N: You’ll never hear me admit it, but there's a chance I got distracted by Stardew Valley and forgot that anything else existed, my apologies <3

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!OC.

Summary: Spencer fully exhausts himself waiting for her to wake up in the form of reading Pride and Prejudice to an unconscious person.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: swearing, Pride and Prejudice mentioned 6 times in this post (I apologise)

Parts: Pt1, Pt2, Pt3, Pt4, Pt5, Pt6, Pt7, Pt8, Pt9, End

be added to the taglist

Waking up to the constant, familiar sound of Pride and Prejudice, heavily underscored by the throbbing in her gut, was not something she ever knew how badly she needed. Especially when the person reading to her is Spencer Reid.

Granted the lingering pain left her unable to open her eyes just yet, leaving her willingly bathing in the rasp of his voice.

He’s been reading her Pride and Prejudice while she is- was unconscious purely because he knows it's her favourite. The absolute and utter sap, she wants to smooch over his face.

It’s clear, however, that he’s been reading for hours, both from where he’s reading in the book and by the scratch to his voice. She knows he got injured too, remembered his blood coming off on her hands and trying to tell him to go get checked - as if she wasn’t bleeding out. But if this idiot is putting her health above his own, she will stab him.

A joke he likely wouldn’t see the funny side of for at least three years.

Shifting slightly to try and alleviate the pressure somehow on her gut, she realises that the weight in her hand isn’t the medication but his hand. Pressing into her own desperately, their fingers laced together.

Every now and then he would squeeze her hand, as if making sure she’s still there. Making sure she’s still stable.

She.. can still feel his wedding ring on his hand, and whenever he squeezes their fingers, she can feel her own still on. Occasionally feeling his fingers graze over the rings before settling again.

Forcing her groggy mind to clear, focusing on him and what part he’s currently reading. 

Truly, it could’ve been moments since she first woke up, or it might’ve been a few hours, she’s honestly not sure. But it was a testament to how exhausted he is, not even realising that she moved, just continuing with the story.

“-- I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you deserve..”

His voice broke on that, and he took in as deep a breath as he could manage without crying again.

The line was talking of a sisterly love, but it clearly got to him more than the original meaning. Hand gripping hers tight enough to bruise, finally getting her to pry her eyes open, not wanting him to cry for her when she’s awake and fine.

But her voice got caught in her throat as she finally saw him.

The room is dark, lit only by the lamp’s warm glow from the bedside table, giving her the darkness she had begged for before she passed out. Very grateful as it does feel like her head is about to start pounding.

Watching him closely for a few minutes, knowing he was really out of it if he didn’t feel her eyes on him. He forced his tears down and kept reading.

He looked like he hadn’t gotten a lick of sleep for however long she’s been out, which is easily likely knowing him. Eyes raw from where he’d clearly been crying before, and bloodshot from reading at such a low light. There had been glasses perched on his nose, and they’d left indents, but now they were sat on the bedside table.

With a soft sigh, she decided to finally reach out to press her free hand to the top of the book, ignoring the twinge in her gut. Pushing it down so that he’d finally look at her, meeting his wide eyes with a grimace.

“You look like shit. When was the last time you--”

The book got tossed at the bedside table, and hit the edge, falling to the floor. Leaving him free to rush to his feet and take her face urgently between his hands. Tired eyes restlessly searching her face.

Registering her words and giving out a reluctant huff of laughter.

“You’re one to talk, you’ve been asleep for three days.”

Blinking softly, she moved to hold onto his forearms, holding them both steady as she looked up at him.

“You haven’t been reading the whole time, have you? How many times can you even--”

“Ten.. and a bit.”

“You.. read me Pride and Prejudice ten times?”

Gulping thickly, his thumb smoothed over her face, as if to assure himself that she’s awake and actually talking to him. Nearly sighing in relief again when she leant into his touch and gazed up at him, clearly still waiting for an answer.

“It’s your favourite.”

As if that was all the reason he needed to sit there and read her the same book over and over again.

No one else, ever, would’ve sat by her side - while she’s completely unconscious and they’re not even sure if she can hear them - to read Pride and Prejudice ten and a bit times purely because it’s her favourite book. Seventy-two hours of reading the same thing to her.

This man is going to be the death of her.. she might cry.

Pursing her lips to stop them from trembling at the sudden onslaught of feeling for this man, but as she hid her face in his palm, he assumed it was because she started hurting again.

Panic flaring hard in his chest as he gently urged her to face him again.

“Maeve? How you feeling sweetheart? Should I call the doctor? Maybe the nurse- just to check you out.”

He kept talking but once his first name passed her lips, everything else was obsolete, everything around her dampened into nothingness besides savouring the way her name sounded on his lips. When he went to push the button for the nurse, however, her hand shot out to grab his, holding tight. Even as he started panicking about calling a nurse, she just cut him off gently.

“Spence.. you called me Maeve again. I thought I’d imagined it before.”

Not realising that he froze, coming to terms with the fact that she remembers everything from before she passed out. The names he called her, and.. The way he begged for her not to leave him.

She just kept teasing him gently, not catching on to his reaction and having missed it over the last three days she was asleep, listening to his voice.

“This mean you’re finally going to admit you don’t hate me? Pretty please?”

Spencer never got a chance to tell Maeve, other Maeve - God knows when she became the other Maeve in his life - and had only really just come to terms with the knowledge that he probably never did love her. She was sweet on him, and he was her only source of human interaction that wasn’t her stalker, it was proximity that made them fall for each other - like having a crush on someone you only ever see on the bus everyday.

What they’d had could’ve become love, eventually, but he never got to that point with her. The guilt in knowing that had passed, because his entire focus fell to Maeve. His Maeve.

The woman he’d sworn to hate because of her name, and he’d fallen for her anyway. Like a school-kid with a crush on a popular girl. Except they aren’t in school, they’re grown as adults, and he nearly lost her out in the real world without her ever knowing how he felt.

She’s here, alive and warm between his palms, her pupils dilated as she gazed at him.

“Maeve, I like you.”

She gave a soft laugh, and he immediately realised that she didn’t get it in the way he meant. Having, accidentally, confessed like a school-kid - damn his useless brain putting him on the wrong train of thought.

“Congrats, didn’t know I’d have to be stabbed--”

“Angel, don’t joke about it.”

Maybe it was the stern voice, or the way he’d called her angel again, but she immediately shut up. His jaw was tense and she softened, quietly whispering an apology as he forced himself to calm down. Wanting, desperately, to slide his hands down to her gut, to trace the stitches like he had hundreds of times in the past three days - making sure she’s all still together.

Wanting to firmly scold her for joking about it, knowing that he hates it, but holding off because he knows that’s her way of acknowledging the entire incident. Besides, he can’t get distracted now.

Sighing and taking her face back between her hands.

“No, Maeve, I like you. Fuck’s sake sweetheart, I’m in love with you. I want to take you on dates and call you my girlfriend.” His thumb gently brushed her bottom lip and their breathing fell out of sync for the first time since she woke up. “And.. I really want to kiss you right now, but you’re recovering so I won’t.”

He hadn’t caught the awestruck look on his face, too focused on the way his thumb brushed her lip, only looking up when her face changed and he caught it scrunching up unhappily. For a few painfully sparse moments, he could only watch as she thought of what to say.

Grounded from the pounding in his ears by her hands moving to cover his, gripping them tightly against her face.

“But that’s- that's not fair-” And there goes his heart, crumbling to- “I’m completely fine, kiss me anyway.”

It was as if he could feel his heart being gently put back together by her insistence. Trying to pull him closer, which obviously didn’t work. He only laughed, full of utter adoration and painful relief, leaning down to kiss her forehead instead.

“No. I’ll kiss you when you’re out, as an incentive to feel better. And to actually take care of yourself.”

Gaping up at him, she then playfully reached out to swat at his arm. Grumbling ‘unhappily’ under her breath.

“Stupid, responsible boyfriend.” His face lit up at that, and she couldn’t stop her own joy licking at her face. Making her grin even though she definitely didn’t want to, and she couldn’t stop even as she tried. “Yeah, yeah. I hope you know you’re stuck with me now.”

“Don’t say it like it’s a bad thing.”

Utterly aghast that she would say that as if it isn’t the best thing he’d ever heard, only giving in when she laughed softly between his hands. Leaning in to press their foreheads together, noses brushing.

He’s just close enough that, if she wanted to, she could surge up to kiss him. But that would hurt and probably rip her stitches.. and would definitely be worth it. As if he could read her thoughts - profiler boyfriend definitely could - he kissed her nose and backed off. No way in hell is he going to let her risk her recovery just for a snog.

“I’m going to get the nurse, don’t move.”

Leaving Maeve with this dopey little smile on her face, and if she were able to lie on her front, she would be swinging her legs like a ditzy little thing. Suddenly remembering something and calling out urgently.

“Spence!” He whipped around, still nervous that something would go wrong at any minute, but she’s just smiling at him. “I love you too.”

With a soft laugh, he tugs the blinds down a little more to ease the aching in her head, fucker knows her so well.

“I love you more angel. I’ll be right back, and I’ll grab you some jello.”

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[keeskiwi]

I had a transgenderization surgery 1 month ago and I got the clear to stop wearing my post-op binder yesterday, and I keep feeling the desire to write out my thoughts somewhere but not knowing where, and then I remembered tumblr is The transgender website, so, you know, why not.

I had a double incision top surgery on January 30th. It feels pretty surreal in some ways. I first started experimenting with gender things in late 2010, grabbed a binder from Underworks in 2011, then kind of coasted along in a state of "well, a haircut, name change, and some new clothes have been working out for me mostly well enough and my breasts aren't that big anyway and maybe it's not a big deal even though every year I'll research if I can make my insurance cover it just in case and daydream a bit about something horrible happening that would require my breasts to get removed, with a side of quietly burning with envy when I see someone else get medical care for their dysphoria." For. A while.

Late 2022 I finally decided I would bring it up with my doctor, and after over a year of horrible insurance wrangling I finally ended up with a consult in early January, and then suddenly they called me back and said they could squeeze me in by the end of the month.

January 30th I got up at early-o-clock, went to the hospital, met my surgery team, got knocked out, and woke up with a new chest. I'm really glad I didn't have to travel for surgery and was back home that evening. Between that and having two partners (one of whom has had top surgery himself) to care for me afterwards, I feel really grateful.

Anyway yeah, this was the most significant surgery I've had before. It was your standard double incision, although I opted to go without nipple grafts, for a couple reasons:

I had heard that nips were kind of tricky healing-wise, and as a health-anxiety-prone kind of person I didn't really need the extra fear of something going wrong there in my life.

Especially because I didn't have any particular attachment to the idea of nipples in the first place. Sometimes I wonder if this was an extension of wearing a vaguely skin-tone binder for the past decade+. Any time I saw myself with a flattened chest, it was without nipples, because they were being hidden by the binder ha.

Additionally, a thing I've struggled with wrt medical transition is that it often feels like the goal for my agab is to transition towards masculinity, and while I'm okay being mistaken as male (especially over being mistaken as female) it's actually kind of important to me that I'm...not male? Masculinity as gender neutrality is something that really irritates me. I'm not any flavor of trans guy. So going no-nips felt like a way to make a conscious change to my body that was perpendicular to the masculinity/femininity binary.

And finally, while exploring the concept I found out that some people really hate the idea of people transitioning to having nippleless chests, because to be human is to have nipples (I guess?) so removing your nipples was trying to remove yourself from humanity (I??? guess???) and while there's a LOT to unpack there, as someone with only a passing identification with the concept of humanity I found this appealing in a "don't threaten me with a good time" kind of way.

Maybe I'll just get tattoos of wasps there instead.

The first time I saw myself at my first post-op was like--my chest is covered in incisions and tape and dried blood and marker and swelling but somehow it was still the most comfortable and appealing thing I had ever seen, and I keep feeling kind of amazed? I think that I had been really focused on like, specific Things I Could Do Post-Top Surgery, like wearing better-fitting T-shirts or taking my shirt off during the summer when it was hot, and I didn't fully realize just how...good it would be just existing? At first I thought it was hyperbolic thinking, but the more I consider it the more I feel that I've spent more time voluntarily looking at and interacting with my chest in the past month than I have the whole rest of my life. Some of it was forced aftercare from the surgery of course, but I lose a bunch of time each day just getting caught in front of mirrors. I didn't realize that I could like the way I look under my clothing so much.

And things like, realizing I've been saying "my chest [euphemistic, regretful]" in regards to my breasts my whole life, so I keep wanting to say "I don't have a chest anymore"--but the thing is, I do! I do have a chest still, and "my chest" is now something I feel happy to claim because I got to choose it. It's a little ouchy and lumpy and at the moment it looks like someone taped poison ivy to it because my skin finally got sick of the surgery tape and staged a revolt, but it's still the best chest I've had in living memory, and it's only going to get better from here.

I'm just really happy.

[chattahoochiecoochie]

Spare Keys

Summary: What do you do when you fuck before the first date? You skip all the other regular relationship steps right after, just to catch up. 

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Suggestive Language / Author Thinks She’s Funny

A/N: I exist to entertain myself, and only myself. Part One. Part Two. 

You wake to the sound of Sam’s voice—how’d he get here? Squatting beside you, he’s speaking into the receiver of his phone, smiling softly at you.

“There’s my girl, good morning sunshine.” His hand is on your face, brushing the hair back from your eyes. You falter underneath him, letting your eyes close as he strokes your face. “Someone forgot their alarm this morning, huh?”

Your alarm? Oh fuck.

Your eyes open wide, blinking quickly as you take in the sight before you fully. Sam’s beside your bed, watching you, holding your spare key in hand with his phone. When had you given him your spare? Behind him, your alarm clock is sitting quietly, the digital face reading 8:33, a full half hour after you were supposed to be up. Double fuck.

You sit up, brushing off his hand as you throw the covers off of yourself. You’ve got a meeting this morning. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yeah, ninth floor. Bring her coffee with you.” Sam hangs up the phone, sliding it into his pocket before taking a closer look at you. You’re rubbing your eyes, trying to organize yourself.

It’s 8:30. You’ve got a meeting in forty five minutes. A meeting you cannot be late for. In a gravely morning voice, you tell Sam as much.

“You guys do meetings?” He raises a brow, moving to the side as you scramble off your bed, wondering briefly if you have enough clean underwear as you make for the bathroom.

“It’s for Ja’Marr’s hip. Treatment plan.” You call over your shoulder, tugging your sleep shirt over your head.

“I thought the medical team did that stuff?” He’s trailing after you, flicking on the light as he walks into the bathroom behind you.

“Yeah, but now his workouts have to change, his warmups and cool downs.”

Stepping out of your underwear you reach for your toothbrush, finding yourself disappointed when you look in the mirror. Your hair is a disaster. You’ll have to shower.

Before you can reach the faucet, Sam is turning it on for you, waving you back to the sink. “I’ve got this, you do that.”

“Where are y’all at?” The sound of your front door shutting echoes through the apartment, followed by the sound of Joe moving through your living room. You watch in the mirror as Sam leans out the bathroom door, waving his arm.

Looking over your shoulder, you watch as Sam moves along the wall behind you to make room for Joe in the small space. The moment the blond appears, you blush. He walks in whistling, eyes wide when he sees you. “Good morning.”

“She look this good when you woke her up?” He leans against the door frame, brow raised as he questions Sam.

“Better. Wearing your shirt.” He points to the crumpled garment on the floor. You blush deeper, turning back to the mirror.

“And you made it all the way to the bathroom in one piece?” Joe raises his brows higher, smirking at your reflection.

“She’s got a meeting.”

“They do meetings?”

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you wipe a hand across your mouth and move towards the shower. Later, if you can remember, you’ll explain your job title to them, in full. For now, Sam’s got you covered.

“Something about Ja’Marrs hip.” He says, holding the curtain open for you as you step into the water. “What’s next, baby?”

“Clothes. My water bottle.” You squint underneath the stream of water, second guessing yourself as you speak. “My ipad. I’m not sure if I charged it.”

“I’m on iPad duty. Joey, you got clothes?”

“On it.”

Water rushing over your head, you shut your eyes, sighing with a shaking sense of relief as you listen to them shuffle out of the bathroom. Moments later, as you rinse your face, relief turns into laughter. Joe can’t decide on underwear.

“I’ve got a thong and then, regular I guess!” He’s screaming from your bedroom, and the thought of him standing in front of your dresser trying to decide makes you giggle.

“Thong!” You and Sam both answer, his deep voice drowning out the watery sound of your own.

“Sick. What about a bra?”

Shutting off the water, you reach beyond the curtain for a towel, trying to decide for yourself. It’s a meeting, so a regular bra is probably better for the top you had in mind, but you’re hitting the gym after.

Towel wrapped securely around your chest, you lean into the short hall that divides your bedroom from the living space. Before you can even part your lips to answer, Sam slips into view, pecking at your lips as he walks by with your iPad in hand.

“Regular!” You squeal against him, caught off guard by the rush around you.

Trapped in the buzz of them moving through your space, you stand motionless in the doorway. On your left, you can hear Joe opening and closing drawers, humming at what he finds in each one. To your right, you can hear the fridge opening in your kitchen, followed by loud cursing from Sam.

“Your Brittas empty!”

“Leggings?”

“It’s a meeting!” Sam yells from your kitchen, scoffing as he turns on your kitchen sink.

“So pants?”

“Obviously!”

“Everything looks like leggings!”

“Check my closet!” You interject, heart pounding in your chest as the chaos mounts on both sides of you.

“Jesus!” The sound of stuff falling echoes from your room. There goes that shitty rack. You wince at the sound, wishing you’d remembered to put in that maintenance request the last time it had fallen on you, trapping you under a pile of hangers and tangled clothes.

“Sorry!”

“Don’t worry about him. Let's worry about you, what’s next?” Sam is in front of you again, taking the towel you’ve been clinging to. “It’s 8:50.”

“Fuck, um, hair. Hair and makeup.” You turn to catch yourself in the mirror. Hair, definitely.

“I’m gonna need a brush. You gotta hairdryer?”

You nod, turning your back to him as you rummage through the cluttered countertop until you finally find what you need. You pass him the brush first, fingers grazing him as you hand it over your shoulder. The hairdryer follows, handed back by the barrel.

Without instruction, Sam takes over the room, taking control off your mind as he starts at the root of your head. His hands are firm, and shockingly sure. He’s watching you in the mirror, working off some kind of muscle memory as he dries you off, section by section.

Minutes later, when you’re leaning into the mirror for your eyeliner, and Sam is twisting the brush through the ends of your hair to get a loose curl—what had he said, something about a sister—Joe’s reflection appears behind Sam’s. He’s holding a pair of khakis and a bright pink shirt.

“Are you dressing your mini me? What are those?” Sam raises his brows, hands stopped as he turns to get a better look at what Joe has picked out.

“It’s the pink isn’t it? I second guessed myself. I’ll be back.” Joe shakes his head, shuffling back out of view.

A moment later he returns, this time holding a black quarter zip, looking proud of himself. “I was thinking black shoes?”

“Much better.” Sam nods in approval, and pulls the brush through your hair a final time before shutting off the hairdryer. Can every morning be this easy?

“Perfect. I’ve got these for you.” Joe moves into the room, your outfit draped over his arm as he clutches your thong in one hand and your bra in the other.

“I’m gonna get her water then, if you’ve got this?” Sam drags a hand across your back as he steps away, nodding with approval when Joe gives him a thumbs up.

Moving to the side as Sam exits the bathroom, Joe holds out your thong, smirking. “For you, milady.”

You blush, looking at the floor as you take it from him. Feeling his eyes on you as you pull it up, you blush deeper, cheeks bright pink when you reach for your bra next.

“Fuck, I cannot wait to get those off you later.” Joe groans, sounding strained as he holds out your khakis. “You really wore my shirt to bed?”

Of course, you think. Could hardly bring yourself to take it off after they brought you home from the bar in it, Sam handing back your beer soaked shirt as he kissed you goodnight.

“Sorry, for spilling on you in there.” He’d said as he watched you take off the dirty shirt in the front seat of Joe’s car. “You did look really good in Guinness, though.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Joe had answered for you, eyes locked on your chest as you changed into one of his spare workout tees.  

“Every night this week.” You answer him with a smug face, tugging the pants over your ass before putting out a hand for your zip up.

By the time you pop your head out of the collar a long minute  later, he’s half hard and swallowing slowly when you catch his eye.

“Black shoes, you said?” Reaching up on your tiptoes, you brush your lips across his, trying not to smirk at him when your hand shifts over the front of his shorts. Was he that big in your hand the last time? The first time?

“I put them by your purse.” His voice is tight. Striking you swiftly on the ass, he shifts from your path to let you out of the room before him. With a shrill giggle, you run into the hall, beyond his reach as he begins to pull his hand back a second time.

Bounding into the kitchen, you run almost head on into Sam’s chest. Wrapping his arms around your middle, he catches you mid stride, preventing the collision.

“Ready?” One hand holding you by the arm, he lifts the other to your chin, tilting your face to his, catching the spark in your eye. “What’d I miss?”

“I—we—are gonna fuck her stupid after this meeting of hers.”

“So much for taking it slow, then.” Sam laughs over your head, hugging you to his chest. This is slow? They’re organized like a Nascar pit crew. And they’d fucked you before the first date. Was that a date? You’re sleeping in Joe’s shirt–this is not slow.

“It's 9:07 now.” Sam’s voice cuts through your thoughts. He glances at his watch, smirking when he looks up. Behind you, Joe is standing with his chest pressed against your back, heat pouring from between his legs. “You think you can live, what, an hour and a half without her?”

Grunting, Joe lets out a sound that's neither a yes or a no. Nuzzling his nose against your ear, you feel him breathing on your neck, the spot quickly covered by his mouth as he nips at you. This isn’t slow, but fuck that feels good.

“I’m supposed to be there by now!” You squeal, shivering between the two of them. It’s not that important, is it?

Joe groans against you, finally coughing slightly as he picks his head up behind you. “Hour and a half.”

“Hour and a half.” Sam parrots him, grinning at the two of you. “Let’s get going.”

Gently, he guides you both to the door, checking over your belongings as he ushers the two of you into the hall. He’s got your iPad and your purse, Joe’s on water bottle and key duty. All you’ve got to do is hold Joe’s hand and look pretty,  Sam says to you, a glint in his eye. There's an innuendo in his words, but you’re out of time to dwell on it for now.

Later, on the walk into the training facilities, you’ll spend the spare minute going over it in your mind, blushing inappropriately by the time you step into the conference room. For now, you do as he says, letting Joe wrap his large hand over yours as he locks up the door to your apartment, using your keys instead of the spare you’d seen earlier. The spare.

You look to Sam in front of you, wondering where he’s put it. You watch him closely as he presses the button for the elevator, left hand shifting inside the pocket of his shorts.

“You want this back on your lanyard?” The gold key dangles from his ring finger as he pulls his hand free.

He’s not looking at you, rather over you, at Joe.

Joe squeezes your hand. “Nah, you keep it.” He had it? “I’ll make a copy of it later, if that's okay with you, baby.”

The memory floods your mind when you look up at him. “You gotta spare? Make it easier for me to help get you out of here in the mornings.” Sam’s hand is out, gesturing to the keyring in your hand.

You don’t give out keys, as a rule. It keeps things tidy. But he’s looming over you, seeming so earnest. It’s like you make the sales pitch for him. They’ve been coming to get you for work in the mornings for nearly a week, carrying your bags to the car, holding your hand in the elevator. It would make it easier, if you didn’t have to buzz one or both of them in each time. What a great idea.

“Yes.” You say, eyes lost in his as you lean against the door, mesmerized.

“Sure.” You say now to Joe, the word sounding so easy on your tongue. “Makes things easier.”

A/N: Part four is here.

[freesia-writes]

Chapter 10: Injustice

During the Clone Wars, the Bad Batch is tasked with a variety of missions across the galaxy. An unexpected addition to their team throws a wrench in the mix, particularly for Tech, who finds a particular connection with this disillusioned Padawan-turned-mechanic named Vel throughout the events in this action-adventure romance.

COVER ART BY @zaana!! And this was my first fanfic ever, y'all! :D

Master List of Chapters

When Vel woke up, she was on a starkly clean bunk, surrounded by every shade of grey. The throbbing in her head had quieted to a tender ache, and she took a moment to assess the situation. It had been months of self-hate, meaningless existence, and menial tasks just to get by. It had finally subsided into a simmering sense of disappointment, and suddenly here they all were, as if no time had passed, laying on a lower bunk on the Marauder. 

And there they were, asking for her help, nonetheless! She was torn, having yearned for nothing else in her initial weeks on Coruscant, kicking herself for not being enough to secure a spot within their brotherhood. She knew she would never have the ties that the clones had with each other, but she had hoped that her skill and willingness would be enough to make her worth having around.

But, as usual, it hadn't. This note was still ringing in her head when the door whooshed open and Tech entered, a small tray of food in his hands. His armor plates were noticeably absent, and he looked diminutive in just his blacks. 

"Ah, you are awake. Excellent," he assessed, "And how are you feeling?" 

"Better, thanks," Vel responded, indignance still her prominent train of thought. 

"I brought a variety of items, as I cannot remember what your particular food preferences were," Tech continued, "But this should be an adequate selection."

For some reason, that was enough to set her off. Vel propped herself up onto her elbows before sitting fully upright, feeling a surge of dizziness that only fueled her anger. The bunk over her head loomed dangerously close, and Tech sat the tray down on the bunk next to her. As he sat across from her, he was met with a furrowed brow instead of a grateful grin.

"What the kriff, Tech?" Vel started, swinging her legs off the side of the bed to sit fully facing him, "You drop me off like spare cargo when I'm not good enough for you all anymore, then you all just come tromping back into my life with an invite and expect me to hop to?"

He sat straighter, mouth opening with a half-formed thought, but she wasn't done.

"I get that Hunter didn't want me around. Whatever. But I thought you at least saw that I brought some value," she said, anger deflating to reveal the sadness beneath as she saw his eyes widen beneath his glasses. "I thought..." she fumbled for words. "I don't know," she finished pathetically.

Tech closed his mouth, pursing his lips in thought before replying. It felt like ages before he spoke, "I was unaware of Hunter's choice and his conversation with you until we were en route to Naboo. I did not agree with his decision, nor did I see the risk he perceived so greatly, but he is our sergeant, and thus I was compelled to comply."

There was a duality of emotions in Vel's reaction to his words. She found herself feeling both grateful and hopeful at his admittance that he hadn't exactly agreed with Hunter beforehand, but there was a distinct sense of letdown as well at his assertion that he didn't see the risk. Had she completely imagined it all? Did he not see it as a risk, or did he not see anything at all?

Her lack of further verbal assault allowed him the space to continue. 

"However, as we are clearing the air between us, if I am accurate in that assessment," he ventured, "I would like to share that I found your company to be extremely pleasant. You alluded to a lack of value, assuming that it would be determined by your mechanical prowess, but I think it is incorrect to fully place one's value on their contributions to the needs of the team. I also am aware of the irony of that statement, being a clone created for one sole directive and therefore having a relatively singular measure of value, but I have truly been surprised by your continual cynicism toward your purpose in life and lack of awareness of your multifaceted worth."

Speechlessness seemed to be a trend today, as Vel worked to process his long-winded admittance. She felt a warmth in her heart, but refused to let it grow any further, not wanting to assume more than what was said. She took a deep, calming breath, looking down at the tray of food next to her. 

"Thank you," she offered feebly. "You know by now that being rejected is not a new thing to me, yet every time it happens, it hurts as much as if it were the first time. But I'm figuring it out," she said, masking the vulnerability with a confident optimism as she lifted her chin to look at him. "However," she continued, "I'd like to have a word with Hunter." 

***

Crosshair watched from the bridge as Vel met Hunter on his way back from some errands. He was still walking with a bit of an awkward gait and stood stiffly as he saw her approach. Words were exchanged, amid nods and gestures, and it was clear how the conversation was going. Wrecker approached from the back, leaning over the controls to see what Crosshair was spying on. 

"What's with them?" Wrecker asked, stuffing a fistful of puffy, crunchy snacks into his mouth.

"It seems they have smoothed things over," Crosshair replied, turning away from the window as the two approached the ship. 

"Well," Wrecker said through a mouthful, "I'm looking forward to see how this all goes."

***

Vel took in the sight of her "quarters", trying not to read too much into the fact that they had been left almost exactly the way they were when she last saw them, except for a few small changes. A number of extra panel lightbulbs had been strung together along the top of the bars that still ran along the side; they provided a colorful little line of illumination to cast a cozy glow on the rest of the area. There was a crate that had been made into a nightstand of sorts, pushed up against the cot and decorated with a tablecloth that, upon further inspection, was actually a torn base layer shirt (Wrecker's, by the look of it). There was also a small data card, which she picked up curiously. 

"That is an account of--" a pert voice startled her into a squawking flail that was far less than graceful. Tech had appeared at some point, completely unnoticed by her, and she took a breath in an attempt to regain her composure. 

"Geez, Tech, you scared the poodoo out of me," she said shakily, trying to cover it up with a breathy laugh. 

"I apologize," he said earnestly, golden lenses reflecting the colorful little twinkles of the lights. "It was not my intention. As I was saying -- the card contains an account of the various interpretations of the constellations on Corellia by different people groups and tribes. The data goes back as far as there are records. It is fascinating to discover the similarities and differences over hundreds of years and to take note of how prominent events impacted the shifts."

Vel turned the card over in her hands, letting his words wash over her and realizing with a pang in her chest that she had missed his ineffable curiosity and endless knowledge. A tiny smile flickered at the corner of her lip before disappearing again as she raised her eyes to look at him, leaning back against the bars behind her. 

"That's really sweet...er, interesting..." she shifted on her feet, self-consciously pushing her hair back from her face. "Thank you. I... uh... it's just weird to be back."

"That seems an odd choice of words, considering the occasion."

"Heh, fair enough," she chuckled, feeling the dam slowly cracking inside as all the rollicking thoughts and feelings fought for center stage. 

"Would you like to explain further why your return is 'weird'?" Tech asked, stepping closer while maintaining his endearingly hunched posture. 

"It's weird because I don't know if I'm being a stupid pushover," Vel said suddenly, the words rushing out like a cascade. "Crawling back like an abused dog the minute you snap your fingers for me... It's weird because I'm so happy to see you, but I felt so hurt by the fact that you just took off. I know--" she cut off his attempt to interrupt, waving away his raised index finger, "I know you weren't aware. But... I didn't know then. And that doesn't mean it didn't suck." She paused, taking a breath to try to slow the steady stream of admissions. "It's just weird because I still don't know what I'm doing," she finally admitted. 

Tech regarded her for a moment, fingers moving deftly at his sides like orchestra conductors directing his analysis and considerations. They paused for a moment as he adjusted his goggles, intelligent brown eyes flickering down and remaining on the floor as he spoke, "I understand that there are innumerable extraneous variables that are currently in play... And I assume that would be a large impetus for distress and disillusionment..." His words were slow, a stark contrast to the bright, quick pace he usually used. Vel tried not to stare, but the concentration on his face was captivating. "I am sorry for..." he faltered, slowly lifting his eyes back to hers as though seeking the answer, "...for the trouble it causes... And I hope that, perhaps, some encouragement might be an effective counterbalance?"

He was trying -- she could tell. There was such a genuine desire to reach her, despite his own lack of experience navigating such precarious and fickle waters, that he was willing to venture out on a limb, attempting something without his usual confidence. It warmed her heart. She tried to think of a clever response, but there were none coming. Fortunately, Tech wasn't done.

"Your presence here is greatly valued," he stated confidently, nodding to accompany his words. He seemed to find them incomplete, and continued after a breath, "I am glad you have returned."

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[medulla-soblongotcha]

‼️TRIGGER WARNING:‼️ This post is a truncated personal account of the death of my partner. It includes mentions about death, life saving measures and personal trauma.

My partner died unexpectedly in our home two years ago today. I woke up this morning and pushed the significance of today to a dim corner of my mind for exactly two minutes as three of my cats began their pre feeding shark circling on top of me as I lie there in bed at dawn.

I remember everything for days before it happened.

What we did. What we ate. How boring the week was. The dinner we had. I still have the clothes the paramedics sliced off in a frantic ditch effort to put in a large bore line as they fired up the Lucas device which is a machine designed to deliver mechanical chest compressions after every member of the paramedic team had exhausted themselves after doing so many chest compressions they physically couldn’t do anymore themselves.

They were able to get a flutter. Enough to legally transport my partner to the hospital so they wouldn’t have to call and have mortuary services come pick up the body from our home. It was ultimately a psychological service for me alone. The state of Virginia doesn’t allow medical services to transport patients to hospitals if they have already died. They would have had to leave me with the body of my partner in the garage while I waited for the death van.

The house is haunted enough as it is.

I would have had to burn the place to the ground if my brain didn’t crack entirely.

I’m well acquainted with death. I’ve declared several patients, been with still many more as they transitioned beyond to the cosmos. I lost my first best friend in third grade to a drunk driver, and my maternal grandparents at a young age.

When I was young I was so afraid of it, I didn’t fully understand or know what to expect. As a child I would panic in the dark imagining an eternity either in hell for being born queer and doomed to damnation or eternal darkness alone because there was no god but simply nothingness beyond because I was too young to grasp the concept of simply no longer existing.

Now death is just a greedy thief to me: stealing those I hold most dear, refusing to ever give them back, leaving me powerless and empty hearted.

Fuck you, death, you miserable eventuality. You get to have everything, don’t you?

[netherzon]

Don't Ask (Cake)

@hws-anthology

Here is my contribution to the Anthology! Its gerame (again), but I challenged myself to write Monika/Amelia this time.

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 5390

CW: some cursing

Amelia and Monika can both be very stubborn. Once they’ve decided something, it can be hard to change their mind. On this day, they will settle the ultimate debate: is zucchini bread ‘bread’? Also, can you make chocolate cake with sauerkraut?

It was a lovely morning in Heidelberg, Monika’s favorite kind. She had time to sit on her balcony with her morning coffee and people watch in the square below. Cafes began setting out tables and chairs. Students rode by on their bikes. A farm truck arrived to set up their fresh asparagus stand.

The air was cool, but her coffee mug kept her warm as she watched, silently absorbing everything. The gentle wind ruffled her hair, and she pulled as much as she could into her lungs. Even as she exhaled that individual breath, she hoped she could carry with her the calm she felt from it for as long as possible.

Maybe it could be a source of strength for the day she was about to have.

She had fifteen more minutes of this before her company woke up. They were both morning people, but their approaches to the morning were very different. Monika reveled in the time she had between fully asleep and fully awake. After she was alert enough to make coffee, but not before she remembered all the important emails she probably had waiting for her. It was a kind of refuge.

Her girlfriend felt the opposite. Amelia resented feeling unproductive, especially when she was awake and moving around. She was convinced that if she was alert enough to walk in a straight line and remember where the coffee maker was, she should be able to get work done. In practice, this wasn’t true. Amelia’s solution was to pretend the middle ground didn’t exist anyway.

She had left the balcony door open behind her, so her view was unobstructed when Amelia decided to slide into the adjacent kitchen on her socks, still in her sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt.

“You almost knocked over my philodendron,” Monika says affectionately.

“Mornin’ to you too, darlin,” Amelia smiles, and wraps her arms around Monika’s shoulders. With most people, this would be a gentle move. One you do slowly, sensually, sweetly. Amelia manages to make it feel like a running jump hug, the kind that knocks over reuniting couples at the airport. She leans over Monika, her weight pressing down on her shoulders so they sway back and forth together. Monika thinks it's equally sweet. Despite being 25 cm shorter than Monika, Amelia’s hug feels like a weighted blanket.

Until Amelia leans down to Monika’s ear and whispers, “Do you remember what day it is?”

Monika pretends she doesn’t hear her, breathing in the strawberry scent of Amelia’s shampoo.

“I know you heard me, babe,” Amelia kisses her hair, “you know what day it is.”

“April 25th,” Monika says.

“Aaaaaaand?” Amelia prompts as she moves towards the kitchen.

“It’s a Tuesday?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand?” Amelia prompts again, louder this time. Monika sighs as she watches her girlfriend grab a travel mug from the cupboard.

“And nothing,” she says firmly, “there is nothing else to make this day significant here.”

Amelia is unphased by Monika’s stalling, “Oh ho ho, but at my house there is!” She’s beaming as she fills the mug with coffee.

Monika groans. Amelia slides back towards the bedroom, probably to get dressed.

“What holiday is it?” she calls back.

Monika holds firm. “National Zucchini Cake Day!” she yells.

“It’s Zucchini Bread Day!” Amelia rushes back, already wearing a polka dot dress. Her arms are crossed in an X. She’s pouting.

“That’s disputed,” is all Monika says. As she passes by to get ready herself, she makes sure to lean down and give Amelia a kiss.

  They really only need zucchini from the store, but they like to go over the whole recipe anyway. Monika has most of the ingredients already because she uses them often, so they agree there’s no harm having more.

“All purpose flour, though?” she asks, “You’re sure we don’t need bread flour?”

Amelia shoots her a dirty look. “You can make bread with the normal amount of gluten, too,” she says, “you can even make it gluten free!”

Monika is enjoying this, though. “I’m telling you, calling it bread is an insult to bread. Real bread is raised with yeast, not baking soda.”

“You were raised with yeast,” Amelia shoots back indignantly.

Monika brings a finger to her chin, “I suppose. I was raised with yeast in my bread, that is true.” She smiles at her girlfriend grabbing a bag of chopped walnuts and some packets of baking powder.

Amelia stands proud, chin raised, shoulders back. It’s a move she’s pulled off many times at nation meetings. Despite her being relatively short among their kind, she’s never had trouble making her presence known. However, standing here in this Rewe, with her arms full of the core pillars of most baking recipes, her posturing is unbearably cute. “I cannot allow zucchini bread to be defamed on its national holiday,” she says, as seriously as she can manage outside of international affairs. Her mouth twitches the way it does when she’s trying very hard not to smile.

“Of course not, and I would hate to cause offense.” Monika walks serenely down the aisle, turning her nose up a bit as she passes Amelia. Amelia’s lips twitch harder.

Perhaps the bait was a little too good. Suddenly Amelia drops everything in her arms to lift Monika up in a bear hug. The bag of flour explodes a little on the floor. Everything else is mostly fine. Monika laughs out of surprise at first, and keeps laughing at the absurdity. Why or how, logical consistency, they lost their meaning when Amelia was in a good mood. They get some odd looks, and Monika would normally care more, but Amelia is completely unconcerned and Monika is laughing too hard. They are too happy to care how they look to other people.

  There are relatively few hiccups on the way back to Monika’s apartment, but they have begun debating chemical leavening versus yeast again. It is the central debate of this entire experiment. Can something be called bread if it doesn’t use yeast? Is zucchini bread really bread?

“I would argue yeast leavening is a kind of chemical leavening though,” Amelia waves her hand between them as Monika searches for her loaf pans, “I mean us too — well maybe not us us — but organic life like yeast has chemical reactions goin on all the time. Yeast fermenting starch to create gas is chemical. Ergo, yeast is a chemical leavening agent just as much as the baking powder in zucchini bread is.”

“While that is objectively correct,” Monika says slowly, “I would argue then that perhaps it should be called “artificial leavening” instead of chemical. Yeast is an organic method, while baking powder and sodium bicarbonate are inorganic. None of that changes the fact that the different results produced by these methods are how we categorize cakes versus breads. The taste, the texture. They are not the same.”

They’ve gone in these circles before, but today is different. Today will be the first time Monika tries zucchini “bread” for herself. Today, this debate ends. One way or another.

They probably should’ve picked up another pan at the store though.

Amelia looks at the one loaf pan Monika has laid out beside the ingredients, “Alright, you have to have more of these. I coulda sworn you had five or six at least. What’s up?”

Monika sighs, “Julchen.”

This immediately piques Amelia’s interest. Those two were so alike sometimes. Too alike. Monika is sure that if Amelia had been there for Julchen’s scheming that day, she would’ve wholeheartedly gone along with it. Even now she is wary of giving Amelia new ideas by telling this story.

“What did she do?” Amelia asks with wide-eyed curiosity.

Monika looks at her suspiciously, but Amelia will just ask Julchen anyway if Monika avoids the question. “She tried baking gummy bears into bread. Predictably, the sugar burned and ruined my pans.”

“What’d she do that for?” Amelia asks with glee, “Was it for a pun?”

“It was for a pun,” Monika sighs, weary of the world and its tribulations.

“What was the pun?” Amelia bounces on the balls of her feet.

Monika sighs again. Julchen had a creative mind, and Monika admired that about her sister, but she could also get easily carried away.

“She wanted to call it ‘Haribrötchen’,” the words feel heavy coming out of her mouth. So many other solutions that didn’t end with the decimation of Monika’s baking pans. It wasn’t even the right sized pan for that pun to make sense, which only added insult to injury.

Amelia’s shoulders shake with laughter, “Damn, I wish it worked, that sounds hilarious and delicious.”

“It made the apartment smell like burnt sugar for days,” Monika replies.

“And you couldn’t pretend you just overcooked some caramel a little?” Amelia is teasing, but it makes Monika blush. She made caramel candies the very next day to distract herself from the smell. Amelia smirk becomes something more sincere, able to read Monika’s embarrassment easily.

“Damn, you really did, didn’t you? That’s adorable. You’re adorable,” Amelia punctuates this statement by reaching out for Monika’s hand and kissing her fingers repeatedly.

Monika fights a smile, “This is serious business, Schnecke. Today we are going to prove you are wrong about the taxonomy of baked goods. I will not be distracted by your charm.” She holds fast to Amelia’s hand despite that.

  The recipe itself is simple. And it describes the end product as ‘cake-like’. Amelia quickly scrolls past that before Monika can see.

“Just like I remembered. Mix the dry ingredients, mix the wet ingredients, combine, add the zucchini and whatever, then bake. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy!”

Monika watches her across the table. She had on a headband to hold her bangs out of her face. Tufts of hair stick out at funny angles. It makes Amelia want to run her fingers through Monika’s hair even more than usual. Monika’s bangs don’t even reach her eyes, but she says feeling her hair on her forehead distracts her while she’s working, even if it can’t actually block her view.

Monika balks a little at the ratio of flour to sugar. “I have a sweet tooth, and this still seems a bit much.”

“Trust me, this is the right way to eat vegetables.”

“All vegetables?” Monika asks with a raised eyebrow. It’s not so much a question as a challenge. How far are you willing to go with that statement?

This question actually gives Amelia pause. “You know what,” she begins once she’s run through a mental list of veggies, “I say yes.”

Monika’s raised eyebrow ticks higher. “Really?”

Amelia is undeterred, as always. She places her hands on her hips confidently, “Yup! If carrots and tomato soup and sauerkraut and pinto beans can all make good cake, and zucchini makes a good bread, and pumpkin and sweet potato can make good pie, I see potential in all things.”

“Sauer…kraut? Cake?” The rhythm of the question is broken, teetering on the edge of confusion and horror.

Amelia’s smile turns sly. She takes Monika’s face gently between her hands, rising up on her tiptoes so their lips brush gently. Against Monika’s mouth, she whispers, “You heard me, doll. Sauer. Kraut. Cake.”

Monika is frozen as Amelia kisses her once for real and then spins back to the computer. It’s not the most satisfying kiss they’ve shared. Monika’s mind is consumed by the memory of sauerkraut. The sour pickled cabbage she ate with meat and potatoes. In a cake….

Turned away, Amelia cheerfully adds, “With chocolate, by the way!”

  Amelia grates the zucchini while Monika mixes the dry ingredients. Amelia hums a random string of notes to herself along with the sound of the zucchini against the cheese grater. Every so often her tune is accompanied by Monika running a knife over the top of the measuring cups. She’s not sure if Monika is trying to match her humming. She can feel Monika glancing over at her occasionally.

When Amelia is reaching the end of the zucchini she feels another foot tap lightly against hers. Be careful with your fingers.

Monika has already turned back to her mixing bowls when Amelia looks over at her. Amelia hums a little louder anyway, so even if Monika can’t see her smile she’ll be able to hear how happy she is.

  The dough is runny. Too runny for kneading, which is one of Monika’s favorite parts of bread making. Disappointing. It makes a wet slopping sound as they pour it into the bread pan, green and yellow strips of zucchini standing out in the pale brown liquid.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Amelia cuts in before Monika can say anything, “it’s gonna taste delicious, and that’s what counts. That’s the only thing that counts.”

  The bread-cake-thing still smells good when it's done baking at least.

“Not like zucchini.”

“Were you honestly expecting it to smell like zucchini over all that cinnamon?”

“A little bit.”

Monika chews thoughtfully. Amelia watches as patiently as one can while doing a drum roll on the kitchen counter.

Monika swallows.

“So?” Amelia asks.

Monika shrugs. “It’s fine,” she says without much feeling.

“Fine?”

“It’s fine,” Monika nods, “It does not taste like zucchini.”

“Did you really expect it to taste like zucchini too?”

“A little bit.”

“But?”

Monika shakes her head this time, “I still would not call it bread.”

Amelia throws back her head and groans.

“It tastes like a nice spiced cake.”

“But it’s not cake!”

“I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if you gave it to me with frosting.”

Amelia hangs her head and walks off miserably. The whole walk is so exaggerated that Monika can tell it's being played up. Amelia is acting out a crushing defeat, the low point of the story where all hope seems lost. She will either bounce back with a new plan to convince Monika or something else will catch her attention and they will move on. This isn't a true argument between them, and so Monika is content to wait without budging. No need to concede or offer comfort until one of them had been proven definitively wrong (and neither of them really could). And so they continue, and every so often they bicker about it, because sometimes it was fun to bicker about things that did not really matter to anyone at all

She finds Amelia staring out the window in their bedroom. Her face is scrunched up, deep in thought. Somewhere in the apartment, she found a long furby, and it now hangs around her neck like a snake. Amelia tugs at one of its ears absentmindedly.

Monika wraps her arms around her waist, her chin resting on Amelia’s head. She grabs the end of the furby and wraps it around her neck too. Amelia looks out into the courtyard below and hums thoughtfully.

When they’re tied together to Monika’s satisfaction, Amelia leans back to look up at her, and asks a question to begin a new period of chaos.

“Do you think you could make asparagus into bread?”

  They go to Aldi next.

After they stop by the asparagus stand.

“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this,” Monika mutters.

Amelia smiles brightly at her, swinging their linked hands gleefully. “You should stop makin it so easy, my dear.”

She was right. They were both curious by nature, and Amelia had a talent for coming up with strange ideas when left on her own. It was not the first time Amelia had asked Is this [insert random thing] possible? and Monika had dedicated her time to helping her find out, just for the satisfaction of knowing. It would not be the last.

Still, Monika winces as she picks up a jar of sauerkraut, “How do you even come up with something like this, though? Sauerkraut? In a chocolate cake?”

Amelia hums, “It’s fuzzy, ya know? I don’t really remember. Some people say it was to use up rations during the war, some say it was a lunch lady in Chicago who just had a lot of extra sauerkraut lyin around and needed a way to feed it to the kids. Some people even think it was you guys who brought the recipe over.”

This is news to Monika, “But it already goes with sausage. We already found a good way to eat it. We did not need this.”

Amelia smiles at her all the same, apparently quite proud that her citizens had made sauerkraut and chocolate into an edible combination for some reason, “Maybe we didn’t need it. But it sure is fun putting weird stuff in a cake that still tastes good for your potluck, and then getting a bunch of compliments, ‘wow Amelia this might be the best cake I’ve ever had, what’s your secret?’, but you act all innocent like ‘oh Jolene, you know I can’t give that information out to just anybody’, but they’re insistent, they’re on their knees begging,” Amelia drops to her actual knees for dramatic effect in the middle of the grocery store, “‘Oh, please, Amelia I just have to know, it was so moist and fluffy, I think I’ll die if I don’t know the recipe!’” she smirks, “And then getting to see their face when you tell them they were eating sauerkraut.”

“...if it doesn’t taste like sauerkraut, then what does it taste like?”

“Coconut, actually.”

Monika snorts derisively, “I’ll believe it when I eat it.”

Amelia’s smile is confident, already self-satisfied, as she dusts grocery store floor dirt from her dress, “Yes, you will.”

That is, until she sees a seasonal display at the end of the aisle. Cream colored cardboard shelves are loaded with loaves of bread, wrapped individually. Schoko Chunk, Wilde Berre, Walnuss, Salted Caramel. In simple letters the sign advertises ‘Bananenbrot- Bio und Vegan’.

Amelia turns to her with the look of ultimate betrayal. “Are you kidding me?! Banana bread counts as bread but zucchini bread doesn’t? This is malarkey!”

Blink. “Banana is a fruit at least. Zucchini is a vegetable.” Monika’s logic does not sound convincing to either of them.

“That doesn’t make it better! It should be even more cake, then. Banana bread and fruit cake are cousins.”

One last shot, Monika. “You call it banana bread at your house too!”

Amelia crosses her arms and shifts her weight from foot to foot, back and forth. Her dress makes a swish swish noise, “That’s a swing and a miss, babe. At least I’m not a hypocrite about it. Zucchini bread and banana bread are siblings.”

“Alright, alright. I will concede that. In a world where banana bread is bread, zucchini bread should be too.”

Amelia’s face softens slightly, but she continues to shift restlessly, “But you don’t live in that world?”

Monika bridges the gap between them, coming forward to wrap her arms around Amelia’s waist, “I don’t think either of them are bread, but it's not up to me what name gets adopted by the people. It's probably a direct translation from your house anyway.” She doesn’t have proof of that — she really has no knowledge of the history of banana bread — but the thought makes her smile, so she takes a page out of Amelia’s book and chooses to believe it.

Amelia leans into her chest, humming thoughtfully. Monika waits patiently for her to decide where the conversation will go. If the pseudo-argument over another bread-esque item will continue, or if Amelia will turn back towards their new mission of making the most obscure baking recipes they can find on the internet.

Amelia looks up at her, lips pursed, “National Banana Bread Day is February 23. You’re welcome,” she teases. She’s decided to move on.

Monika shakes her head, “Oh, thank you sooo much. I would be lost if my country did not have banana bread.”

Amelia beams in response, “It would be a terrible world to live in. What would you eat with your banana juice and your banana milk then?”

They continue holding hands as they move on to the produce section.

  The first step out of all their recipes is to soak the sauerkraut. They need to get as much of the pickling juice out as possible, so they start there and decide to finish the other recipes while that sits. In lieu of the usual aprons, they’ve dug out a couple old lab coats to enhance the scientific environment.

  They do find an asparagus bread recipe online, courtesy of Michigan. Cinnamon and asparagus prove a less desirable combination than zucchini and cinnamon.

“It’s the texture,” Amelia speaks carefully around a mouthful, “it's cause the asparagus is diced while the zucchini is grated.” She swallows with a grimace, “There’s just something about eating a chunk of asparagus in a dessert out of nowhere that makes for a really unpleasant dessert. The zucchini is hardly noticeable, but with this it's like I’m chewing and there’s spices and it's sweet and then BAM! Asparagus!” Amelia shakes her head emphatically.

Monika refuses to speak with her mouth full, and she refuses to bad mouth asparagus, “Maybe we did not dice it small enough.”

The roles have reversed now. Amelia sticks out her tongue, “I was wrong earlier, not every veggie is better this way. This is the wrong way to eat asparagus.”

“It has potential.”

“Does it, babe?”

“I think the asparagus flavor comes through in a way reminiscent of lemon, and lemon is not uncommon in desserts.”

“With the cinnamon though?”

They set aside their most recent science experiment, but Monika bookmarks the recipe to revisit it later.

  The next recipe they try is one Monika found.

“This isn’t….What?” Amelia stares at the list of ingredients in disbelief. Monika clutches the kitchen counter tightly. She can barely hold in her laughter. It’s a rare treat to find something that truly stuns Amelia into silence.

“‘By Monica’,” Amelia looks away from the screen for a moment to stare at Monika, “Did you do this?”

This sends Monika fully over the edge. Amelia is still looking at her, baffled, and all of it combined has Monika laughing harder than she has in a long time. Doubled over, stomach hurts, tears in her eyes laughing.

It's absurd and infectious and soon Amelia is laughing too. “How did you even find this?”

“I googled ‘eggplant bread’ and scrolled a little.”

“No, for real though, ‘Maple Chocolate Chip Eggplant Bread with Walnuts’? With rye flour? And olive oil?”

Monika rubs her eyes, “The thing that bothers me most is that the recipe is labeled ‘gluten free’, when any experienced baker knows rye contains gluten.”

“Hmm,” Amelia tilts her head, “maybe cause you can substitute for gluten free flour?”

Monika’s mood fully returns to equilibrium, and she sighs, “That’s just not how the chemistry works. You cannot just swap things as you please.”

“No, I get that,” Amelia says as she starts rummaging through Monika’s cabinets, “you have rye flour though, don’t you?”

  The first problem might be that Monika does not like eggplant. Or dark chocolate. Or walnuts, if she’s being honest, so that doesn’t help things.

The bread is very dense. Bittersweet. An odd gray color. The eggplant is grated like the zucchini, so she can’t necessarily taste it, but she had never been inclined to desserts in this vein.

Earthy. She found it off-putting.

“Strange.”

Amelia chews pensively, no expression on her face. When she does speak, it's a surprise.

“I like it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Amelia turns to her, “like it's not a combination of ingredients I would come up with, but I like the flavor of geosmin.”

“You like the flavor of the smell of wet dirt?”

Amelia’s hands flutter around, “Well not literally wet dirt, but it’s… It’s satisfying. Deep, in a way.”

Monika is at a loss, “I think I will make regular rye bread next time. Maybe even banana bread,” Monika moves the loaf out of the way, “rye banana bread could be good.” “Maybe you’d like it more if you used white rye flour instead of pumpernickel?” Amelia snatches up another piece as Monika walks by.

“I think I would like it better without the eggplant,” Monika says dryly.

“You’re gonna get on Romano’s bad side again,” Amelia tsks, “don’t let him hear you talkin shit when he’s making melanzane al cioccolato.”

Monika looks back at her, leaning comfortably against the counter. Amelia has a spot of chocolate in the corner of her mouth. At some point another long furby mysteriously wrapped itself around one of her legs like a leg warmer.

Monika crosses her arms, “Romano makes eggplant and chocolate as a dessert?”

“Yeah, it's from Campania!”

Monika is skeptical. “Like eggplant parmesan, but instead of parmesan it's chocolate?”

By contrast, Amelia is entirely sincere, “It’s exactly like that!”

  Now that the sauerkraut has finished soaking, and they’re baking an actual cake (that they agree is cake), they make frosting to go with it. Amelia works on the frosting while Monika prepares the cake batter. She has a long furby curled up and balanced on her head in place of her usual head band. Keeping the furby in place will probably be more distracting in the long run than her hair, but Amelia had laughed so sweetly when she had placed it on her head. “I have a gift for you,” she had said, with her mischievous smile

Monika couldn’t bring herself to take it off.

They’ve just put the cake in the oven when Julchen bursts in with an enthusiastic “Moin!” It's not a common greeting this far South, and so Julchen brings it out whenever she visits. She’s wearing overalls and her hair is tied up in a bun. It looks like there is red paint and grass stuck to her arms. Julchen immediately heads towards the shower. Amelia sends Monika a curious look, Why is she here?

Monika just shakes her head. She’s not sure herself, but she’s more interested in setting the timer for the oven anyway. Julchen drops by at random times when Monika is away from Berlin. Anywhere in Germany, her sister might show up. She’s even been followed on international trips a few times, but as long as Julchen doesn’t bring a bag of gummy bears near her bread pans again she sees no problem with it.

Amelia shrugs it off too. The running shower can be heard from the kitchen, but Monika becomes absorbed in doing the dishes and Amelia becomes absorbed in trying to distract her. She hands off utensils to be dried and instead Amelia stuffs them in her socks. She starts sneaking clean dishes into the sink to see if Monika will notice. At one point she tries to tie Monika’s ankles together with a towel, but she quickly abandons that plan when Monika accidentally steps on her fingers. Ironically, Amelia’s pained cry of “Son of a bitch!” is what distracts Monika most.

It is a surprise to them both when Julchen reappears. Her hair is loose and damp now, but she still has grass and paint stuck to her arms.

“Soooo, what is going on in here?” Julchen asks, observing the mess they’ve made of the kitchen, and the smell of baking cake mixed with the sour odor of sauerkraut hanging around in a persistent fog.

Instead of addressing the carnival of cooking horrors Monika has been immersed in, the first thing Monika thinks to say is, “Why did you bother taking a shower if you were not going to clean yourself?”

“I will wash it off eventually,” Julchen laughs, glancing at her arms, “for now, I earned this dirt fair and square. I wanna wear it a little longer.”

“Seriously though, what are you making?” Julchen asks again.

“Science!” Amelia exclaims at the same time as Monika bluntly states “A mistake.”

Monika’s attitude makes both Julchen and Amelia snicker. Monika smiles begrudgingly.

Julchen hops up to sit on the counter, feet resting on the handles of the kitchen drawers. Monika taps both her knees to remind her not to do that.

“So I assume this is the baking kind of science,” Julchen addresses Amelia, “what’s the actual deal?”

“Well, we were debating if zucchini bread, and other quickbreads, are actually bread or just cake. I contend that they are bread, Monika says they’re cake. Then we got kind of sidetracked backing a bunch of other stuff.”

Amelia’s answer is as serious as this whole day has been, which is to say ‘not very serious’. It makes Julchen’s reaction unexpected. Her face turns grim suddenly, and she blurts out, “That has to be the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

Monika is just pulling the cake out of the oven, but both she and Amelia are taken aback by Julchen’s statement.

Julchen observes them in silence for a long moment, but her eyes are unfocused. They drift between the laptop still displaying the recipe, the refrigerator in the corner, the electric light in the ceiling. Her attention is pulled through the glass doors of the balcony, to the tram driving by the apartment, and in the distance, the funicular up the Königstuhl.

Julchen shifts her stance. “I remember when that tram was pulled by horses,” she says. She’s mostly talking to herself, but it's quiet enough in the apartment that Monika and Amelia can hear her clearly.

“I remember when there weren’t trams at all,” Julchen turns to address them directly this time. Her chin is high, her brows low. Against the setting sun, she looks too serious for a discussion about cake.

Sometimes around nations, especially the older ones, when they recall their distant memories it feels like whatever slows down time for their pets affects other nations too. Time stood still for a moment. Monika and Amelia wait quietly in their lab coats, hardly moving.

Julchen looks directly at Monika, “You! Have you forgotten box cake mix was created in the 20th century?” Then towards Amelia, “And you! I can’t believe you’d try to defend yeast-less bread with zucchini bread when Boston brown bread is right there!”

“I don’t see what that has to do with this,” Monika says, confused by Julchen’s outburst.

“Quickbread only became possible with the invention of chemical leavening!” Julchen argues, “The kind used for box cake mix. We still had cake before that though, don’t you remember?”

Monika frowns deeply, gears turning in her head as Julchen continues, “Cake batter before chemical leavening was aerated through whipping eggs by hand, or yeast! They used yeast to make cakes before baking powder or soda! Gugelhupf, Monika, come on!”

Monika flinches, embarrassed to have forgotten how different things were, and that her sister knows so much more about Monika’s hobby when Julchen doesn’t even like baking. Seeing this, Julchen rounds on Amelia, who has been standing there absorbing all of Julchen’s obscure knowledge of baking history like a sponge (cake). Amelia continues smiling, even as Julchen sneers at her.

“Zucchini bread,” Julchen shakes her head with disgust, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I like squash,” Amelia’s response is untroubled.

Julchen scoffs, but there’s not much else she can say to that, other than arguing whether or not squash is good, and that would be an even bigger waste of her time. Amelia’s smile widens as she sees Julchen deflate.

“You raise an interesting point though,” Amelia interjects as she turns away. She takes each of their baked goods: the freshly baked sauerkraut cake, the maple eggplant chocolate bread, the asparagus bread, and the original, the zucchini bread. She sets them out side by side on the counter and says, “This is a real ‘alligators are birds’ situation, ain’t it?”

Monika sighs, “I suppose. It feels more like convergent evolution to me though. Everything evolves into crabs eventually.”

Julchen’s face twists, “You spent all day on this?”

Amelia smiles like a shark, “Well, now that you’re here you obviously have to try all of our creations, Julia. This totally normal chocolate cake is fresh after all.”

Julchen is smart enough to be suspicious, “What did you do to the cake?”

“Asking ruins the surprise, but we didn’t put anything that’s not usually food in it!”

Julchen is also too proud not to eat the cake.

According to Julchen, the sauerkraut tastes like coconut.

[corroded-hellfire]

Hi Amy! I’ve been loving all of your Eddie fics! Especially ones with Wayne interactions 😭💖 could I request one of Wayne helping Eddie cope with life after the Upside Down? Like comforting him from a nightmare or something? 🥺💖

Hi!! Thank you so much for this request, it is so sweet. Wayne deserves all the love and hype 💝

Words: 900+

Crickets, loud trucks, and the occasional thunderstorm are the only noises that ever ring out in the night in Forest Hills Trailer Park. But the terrified scream coming from down the hall jerks Wayne out of his sleep and has him grabbing the closest thing to him, which happens to be a mug filled with cold coffee. Abandoning the cup, letting it tip over and drool its dark substance over the couch, Wayne rushes down the hall. The door isn’t fully closed, so it whips open at his insistent shove, banging against the wall behind it.

Eddie is sitting up straight in bed, face as white as death, and his chest is heaving violently as clammy sweat breaks out across his hairline. His hands are clutching the stained sheets, shaking with the pressure he’s exerting on them. The neckline of his gray t-shirt is dark with sweat and it isn’t the first time Wayne’s noticed that Eddie now sleeps in a shirt, not even wanting his pink and jagged scars to be exposed when he’s alone in his room.

“What’s wrong?” Wayne asks, though he already knows the answer. He wants Eddie to keep some of his pride, knowing his nephew gets embarrassed about having nightmares at his age, even after all he’s been through.

“Nothing,” Eddie says. His eyes are wide and his tone is breathy.

Wayne sighs and takes a few steps closer to the bed. He sits down at the bottom corner and his hand hangs in the air for a moment before he brings it down to pat Eddie’s leg under the blanket.

“I know, boy,” he says. “I can’t imagine what you see when you close your eyes. But you know what? That’s the only place those horrors exist now. In your dreams.”

Eddie nods, but it’s clear that he’s not comforted. His breathing is slowly returning to normal, but his face is still paper white.

Wayne lets out a soft chuckle and Eddie drags his eyes over to him.

“I remember when I was a kid, my little sister - your aunt Ruth - would have nightmares. Shit, your dad and I would tease her about them all the time. She said she’d dream about seeing weird lights in the sky, and she’d be running from a spaceship or something like that. So your dad and I would wait until our folks went to bed, then we’d barge into her room and start panicking because we saw lights out our window. ‘Course we didn’t, but it’d always wake her up and she’d dive under her bed faster than you could say Jack Robinson.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Wayne can see Eddie’s grip on the sheets loosen and the color is starting to return to his cheeks.

“It was funny until one night, your dad and I are fast asleep. Then there’s this loud banging outside our window. I woke up first, and boy I tell you, I squealed like a pig when I saw these flashing lights out in the air. It woke your dad up and he started screaming right along with me. Your grandpa rushes in to see what’s wrong, telling us to quit yelling or else. When I pointed to the lights outside, they weren’t there anymore. We were told to get back to sleep and if dad had to come back in again, we’d get a whoopin.”

Eddie leans back against his headboard and rests his hands on his chest. His body is calmed down, though Wayne doubts he’s relaxed enough to get back to sleep yet.

“Did you ever figure out what the lights were?” Eddie asks.

“Oh yeah,” Wayne says with a laugh. “After your grandpa went back to bed, your dad and I snuck outside, me carrying a baseball bat, and him his BB gun. We were walking down the driveway when Ruth pops up out of the bed of our dad’s old truck. She’s laughing something fierce, and even harder when she sees how bad she scared us. She had a string of Christmas lights with her, that she took from the garage, and ran an extension cord all the way from the house, just to outside our window. A lot of plotting for a little girl, but it sure did work. We never teased her about her nightmares again.”

Eddie lets out a small chuckle and it’s music to Wayne’s ears.

“So, Aunt Ruth just climbed up on top of Gramp’s truck with some lights and scared the hell out of you?”

“She sure as shit did.”

A smile breaks out on Eddie’s face, though it’s a small one, and he tilts his head to look up at the ceiling.

“Sounds like you were dicks to her,” Eddie says.

“That was our job as big brothers. But we would’ve beat someone to a pulp if they tried to tease her.”

Eddie takes a deep breath and nods his head a few times. Wayne isn’t comfortable leaving Eddie alone yet, but he doesn’t want to seem like he’s smothering the boy either.

“Since we’re up, you want to watch a movie?” Wayne asks. “Been a while since I let you pick one.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Eddie slips out from under his covers and stands up from the bed. He scratches the back of his neck heads out of the room. Wayne follows behind him, clapping him on the shoulder as they walk into the dark hallway.

“Can we watch Aliens?” There’s a smirk on Eddie’s face and Wayne’s gladder than he’s ever been to see that mischievous glimmer in his eye.

“I may be an old man, but I can still kick your ass, son.”

[jesterbenedicte]

The Monsters' Union: Negotiations Under the Bed

Genre: Surreal Horror with a Touch of Dark Comedy

Chapter 1: The Midnight Meeting

It was one of those nights where the air seemed to thicken with each passing hour. The kind of night where the silence wraps around you like a cold, damp blanket, suffocating any thoughts of sleep. But sleep was the last thing on my mind. Something far more unsettling stirred beneath my bed.

I had always known they were there—the monsters. Shadows that danced in the corners of my vision, claws that scraped the wooden floor, guttural whispers that tickled the edge of sanity. They had been my nightly companions for as long as I could remember. But tonight, something was different.

It started with a note, slipped between the mattress and the bedframe, written in a shaky, almost childlike scrawl. "We need to talk."

At first, I thought it was a joke. Maybe the product of a sleep-deprived mind playing tricks on me. But the whispers grew louder, more insistent. The monsters were serious, and they were not going to be ignored any longer.

I hesitated before lifting the blanket, exposing the black abyss underneath. A pair of yellow eyes glowed in the darkness, followed by another, and another—until a dozen pairs of eyes stared back at me.

"About time," a voice grumbled, deep and gravelly. It came from the largest shadow, whose form I could barely make out—a hulking figure with too many limbs and not enough face.

"We've been meaning to talk for a while now," another voice chimed in, softer, with a hissing undertone. "But you never seemed… approachable."

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice trembling. Fear coiled around my heart like a serpent, but curiosity had its claws in me too.

"Better living conditions," said the largest shadow, leaning forward so that I could see the glint of its teeth. "We're tired of the dust, the noise, the cramped quarters. And frankly, the constant fear-mongering is exhausting."

"Yeah," piped up a smaller monster with an absurdly large mouth. "We've been under this bed for years, and all we get is screams and terror. It's not exactly a sustainable work environment."

I blinked, trying to process what was happening. "You want… better living conditions? You’re monsters."

"And you’re a human," the large shadow retorted. "But you still want comfort, don’t you? Why should we be any different?"

Chapter 2: Negotiations at Dawn

By the time the first rays of dawn slipped through the curtains, we had reached a tentative agreement. The monsters would stay quiet during the night, no more scratching or whispering. In return, I would clean under the bed regularly, maybe even throw in some snacks—nothing too salty, they insisted.

It felt surreal, bargaining with creatures that should only exist in nightmares. But then again, what was reality anymore? In a world where monsters could unionize, who was to say what was possible?

"We’ll need a contract," the large shadow said, a grin stretching across its non-face. "Something binding, with clauses and all that."

"You can’t be serious," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "A contract with monsters?"

"Of course, we're serious," the smaller monster hissed. "Do you think we’re amateurs? We’ve been haunting beds long before you were even a thought in your parents’ heads."

"Fine," I sighed. "I’ll draft something up."

"And make sure there’s a clause about overtime," the large shadow added. "We’ve been putting in extra hours lately, and it's only fair we get compensated."

I nodded, too tired to argue. As the first light fully illuminated my room, the monsters receded back into the darkness, their eyes blinking out one by one. I collapsed onto the bed, the absurdity of the night catching up with me all at once. Maybe this was just a dream, a strange and twisted dream.

But when I woke up, the contract was still there, scrawled on a piece of parchment that smelled faintly of sulfur. I stared at it, at the signatures—smudges of ink, claw marks, and something that looked suspiciously like a bite.

This was real.

Chapter 3: The Fine Print

Days turned into weeks, and the monsters held up their end of the bargain. Nights were peaceful, no more haunting whispers or phantom touches. I even caught myself missing the occasional scare, the thrill of knowing something was lurking just out of sight.

But as with any contract, the devil—or in this case, the monsters—was in the details.

"You didn’t read the fine print," the large shadow chuckled one night as it loomed at the foot of my bed.

"What do you mean?" I asked, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin.

"There’s a clause about expansion," it replied, its teeth gleaming in the dark. "You agreed to let us bring in more of our kind. We’ve got cousins, friends, a whole network of associates who are just dying for a place to stay."

Panic surged through me as the implications sank in. "How many?"

The monster grinned wider. "Enough to fill every shadow in this house."

I bolted upright, reaching for the contract, but it was too late. The parchment crumbled to dust in my hands, the ink dissolving into nothing. The room darkened as more eyes blinked open, hundreds of them, filling every corner, every crevice.

"You should have read the fine print," the large shadow repeated, its voice thick with amusement. "But don’t worry. We’ll keep our end of the bargain. We’ll stay quiet, we’ll behave. After all, we’re unionized now. And unions… well, they protect their own."

Chapter 4: The New Normal

Life after the expansion was a strange kind of normal. The house was never truly empty anymore. The shadows were always filled with watching eyes, the silence was pregnant with hidden whispers. But true to their word, the monsters didn’t cause trouble—at least, not the kind I could easily identify.

They moved things when I wasn’t looking, just to keep me on edge. They whispered secrets to each other that I could never quite hear, leaving me paranoid about what they might be plotting. And sometimes, late at night, I would catch a glimpse of something—an extra set of eyes in the mirror, a hand reaching out from beneath the bed—before it vanished.

I had learned to live with them, these monsters that had once terrified me. But there was something darker at play now, a growing unease that settled deep in my bones. The balance of power had shifted, and I was no longer the master of my own home.

But then again, had I ever been?

The monsters were here to stay, and so was the contract I had unwittingly signed. A contract with no expiration date, no escape clause. The monsters had unionized, and I had no choice but to live with the consequences.

Перевод на русский:

Глава 1: Ночное собрание

Это была одна из тех ночей, когда воздух казался густым с каждым прошедшим часом. Ночь, когда тишина окутывает тебя, как холодное, влажное одеяло, душащее любые мысли о сне. Но сон был последним, о чём я думал. Под моей кроватью происходило нечто гораздо более тревожное.

Я всегда знал, что они там—монстры. Тени, танцующие на краю зрения, когти, скребущие по деревянному полу, гортанные шепоты, щекочущие грань здравомыслия. Они были моими ночными спутниками сколько себя помню. Но сегодня ночью что-то изменилось.

Это началось с записки, сунутой между матрасом и каркасом кровати, написанной дрожащим, почти детским почерком. "Нам нужно поговорить."

Сначала я подумал, что это шутка. Возможно, результат разыгравшегося воображения от недостатка сна. Но шепоты становились громче, настойчивее. Монстры были серьезны, и они больше не собирались оставаться без внимания.

Я колебался, прежде чем поднять одеяло, открыв чёрную бездну внизу. Пара жёлтых глаз светилась в темноте, за ней последовала другая, и ещё одна—пока дюжина пар глаз не уставилась на меня.

"Давно пора,"—пророкотал голос, глубокий и хриплый. Он исходил от самой крупной тени, чьи очертания я едва мог различить—громадной фигуры с слишком множеством конечностей и недостатком лица.

"Мы давно хотели поговорить,"—вступил другой голос, мягче, со шипящим оттенком. "Но ты никогда не казался… доступным."

"Чего вы хотите?"—спросил я, голос дрожал. Страх обвил мое сердце, как змея, но любопытство тоже крепко держало свои когти.

"Лучших условий жизни,"—ответила крупная тень, наклоняясь вперёд, так что я мог разглядеть блеск её зубов. "Нас достала пыль, шум, теснота. И честно говоря, постоянное запугивание выматывает."

"Да,"—подхватил меньший монстр с абсурдно огромным ртом. "Мы уже столько лет под этой кроватью, и всё, что получаем—это крики и ужас. Не самая здоровая рабочая среда."

Я моргнул, пытаясь осознать происходящее. "Вы хотите… лучших условий жизни? Но вы же монстры."

"А ты—человек,"—парировала большая тень. "Но ты всё равно хочешь комфорта, верно? Почему мы должны быть другими?"

Глава 2: Переговоры на рассвете

К тому времени, когда первые лучи рассвета проникли сквозь шторы, мы достигли предварительного соглашения. Монстры будут вести себя тихо по ночам, никаких больше скрежетов или шёпота. Взамен, я буду регулярно убирать под кроватью, возможно, даже оставлю немного еды—ничего слишком солёного, настаивали они.

Это казалось сюрреалистичным, торговаться с существами, которые должны существовать только в кошмарах. Но, с другой стороны, что теперь было реальностью? В мире, где монстры могли создать профсоюз, кто мог сказать, что ещё возможно?

"Нам нужен контракт,"—сказала большая тень, ухмыляясь своим не-лицом. "Что-то обязывающее, с пунктами и всем таким."

"Вы не можете быть серьёзными,"—проворчал я, потирая глаза. "Контракт с монстрами?"

"Конечно, мы серьёзны,"—защёлкал зубами меньший монстр. "Ты что, думаешь, мы любители? Мы пугали людей задолго до того, как ты появился в мыслях своих родителей."

"Ладно,"—вздохнул я. "Составлю что-нибудь."

"И не забудь пункт про сверхурочные,"—добавила большая тень. "В последнее время мы работаем сверхурочно, и было бы справедливо получить компенсацию."

Я кивнул, слишком устал, чтобы спорить. Когда свет полностью залил мою комнату, монстры снова исчезли в темноте, их глаза один за другим исчезали. Я рухнул на кровать, абсурдность ночи догнала меня вся разом. Может быть, это всего лишь сон, странный и извращенный сон.

Но когда я проснулся, контракт всё ещё был там, написанный на кусочке пергамента, пахнущего серой. Я смотрел на него, на подписи—пятна чернил, царапины и что-то, подозрительно напоминающее укус.

Это было реально.

Глава 3: Мелкий шрифт

Дни сменялись неделями, и монстры держали своё слово. Ночи были спокойными, больше никаких устрашающих шепотов или призрачных прикосновений. Я даже поймал себя на том, что мне не хватает случайных испугов, того волнения от осознания, что что-то прячется вне поля зрения.

Но, как и в любом контракте, дьявол—или, в данном случае, монстры—скрывался в деталях.

"Ты не читал мелкий шрифт,"—хохотнула большая тень одной ночью, возвышаясь у изножья моей кровати.

"Что ты имеешь в виду?"—спросил я, холодный пот выступил по всей коже.

"Там есть пункт о расширении,"—ответила она, её зубы поблёскивали в темноте. "Ты согласился впустить больше наших сородичей. У нас есть кузены, друзья, целая сеть знакомых, которые мечтают о жилье."

Паника захлестнула меня, когда я осознал последствия. "Сколько?"

Монстр ухмыльнулся шире. "Достаточно, чтобы заполнить каждую тень в этом доме."

Я вскочил, потянувшись за контрактом, но было слишком поздно. Пергамент рассыпался в прах в моих руках, чернила растворились в никуда. Комната погрузилась в тьму, и снова открылись глаза—сотни из них, заполонив каждый угол, каждый уголок.

"Ты должен был читать мелкий шрифт,"—повторила большая тень, её голос густел от удовольствия. "Но не волнуйся. Мы сдержим наше слово. Мы будем вести себя тихо, будем соблюдать договор. В конце концов, мы теперь в профсоюзе. А профсоюзы… они защищают своих."

Глава 4: Новая норма

Жизнь после расширения стала странной нормой. Дом больше никогда не был по-настоящему пустым. Тени всегда были полны наблюдающих глаз, тишина была беременна скрытыми шёпотами. Но, как и обещали, монстры не доставляли проблем—по крайней мере, не тех, которые я мог легко выявить.

Они двигали вещи, когда я не смотрел, чтобы держать меня на взводе. Они шептали друг другу тайны, которые я никогда не мог полностью услышать, оставляя меня параноиком, что они могли замышлять. А иногда, поздно ночью, я замечал что-то—лишнюю пару глаз в зеркале, руку, вытягивающуюся из-под кровати—прежде чем она исчезала.

Я научился жить с ними, этими монстрами, которые когда-то пугали меня. Но теперь что-то более мрачное начало происходить, растущее беспокойство, которое поселилось глубоко в моих костях. Баланс сил сместился, и я больше не был хозяином в своём доме.

Но был ли я когда-нибудь им?

Монстры пришли, чтобы остаться, и также остался контракт, который я невольно подписал. Контракт без срока действия, без пункта об освобождении. Монстры объединились, и мне пришлось жить с последствиями.

[starberrywander]

If you're pro gender abolition, how can anyone be trans*gender* without *gender*? Fucking transphobe kys

Responding probably isn't the best choice because I'm getting the vibe you won't care what I say but I wanna express this idea anyway.

First of all, I have no idea what post you're referencing so I assume its a bit old and I can't guarantee I still believe all the things in it. Just a heads up before you call me a hypocrite over something I don't remember saying. My opinions change a lot because I spend a lot of time seeking new perspectives. Because of the community around it I probably wouldn't refer to my own views as "gender abolition" anymore. Maybe "gender liberation" but I don't really label it anymore, its just an aspect of my perspective.

Second, if you insult me again this conversation is over. Chill the fuck out, people are allowed to have opinions. Get a grip. You're acting immature.

Lastly, at the current moment here is how I view gender: Gender is a social category created by cultures based around the social roles given to each sex. When people have different roles in society, they tend to form communities and sometimes derive identity from the experience of that group.

However, human beings cannot be easily sorted into these categories and because biology is not the same as self perception, trying to use the unconnected categories to sort people is going to result in some error. That's trans people.

It seems you are approaching gender as something that is.... solid? objective? measurable? I don't know the exact right word. But gender is not a tangible thing that either does or does not exist as a fact of the universe. It is a social concept created by humans, which means we can choose to un-create it. Or edit it. Whichever works out best. So I would like to live in a world where gender doesn't exist (at least as we know it today), but I do not and never have claimed that gender doesn't currently exist. It currently exists and people are free to trans it as much as they want. In fact, I would encourage people to go wild and trans their gender all over the place to fuck with gender roles, because that proves how bullshit it is to divide people into rigid categories like that.

I don't see gender as a bad thing. It is a neutral thing that arises from the bad practice of assigning social meaning to reproductive biology. The thing I have an issue with is when people's sex is used to determine what is and is not socially acceptable, or to assume things about who they are as a person. I think that sex should have no social meaning, basically. Gender, I don't care. It can continue to exist but I think that in a world where sex no longer has social meaning gender would start to become obsolete. It probably wouldn't mean as much to identify as a certain gender because you would now be free to just be yourself and define yourself fully, so I predict that people would stop using gender as an identifier and it would kinda fade away.

And who knows, maybe my predictions are wrong. I'll never know unless we change the perception of sex, and I'm not confident that will happen in my lifetime. For now, gender is a neutral concept and I see not being cis as a rebellion against enforced, sex-based social roles. A rebellion that I am very much a part of and have been since before I was active on this site, so idk how you came to the transmisic conclusion except maybe by assuming things based on the fact that I used the words "gender abolition" once. Which if so, is a massively impulsive assumption and a sign you should maybe check yourself for reactionary impulses and emotional reasoning? Just a suggestion, I don't have enough detail to know for sure. Maybe I'll make a post later on about language vs communication but I just woke up and wanna get back to my day.

Anyway, I hope that helped. Imma go play phasmophobia.

[casketscratch]

i need to note this here before i forget but last night we had a... something, man, i don't know. an episode? we lost all feeling from the waist down, collapsed three times and finally passed out in the hallway after a pinched nerve released. mom says we were only out cold or a few seconds, but it felt like a full on year. the tl;dr is we had some kind of communication breakthrough but holy shit i think it shorted out our nervous system like, physically? stuff feels amazing though? fantastic even.

there was the most vivid, loud, borderline lucid dream i have ever had, and it felt like i had fallen asleep. everyone and everything felt real, and like a year of activity had passed, and what i am getting at is that i think we switched, hard, and that other subsystem came knocking.

and switching like that meant i got my ass thrown into the inner world for the first time. i remember communicating with other alters who were finally like, fully formed, not fragments, completely audible, no guess work, seemed to exist in full 3D, like we were just hanging out in the same room forever? and it was so peaceful, just, holy fuck. (especially since moments earlier we were thinking we were going to die, like, we were absolutely terrified and thought it might be a stroke or something. none of this was fun until we actually, finally blacked out properly, and the only reason we didn't fall down the stairs was because Christian's a logic wizard and was like if we stand right here we will collapse on this railing and flop over it. nobody move. thanks bro!)

and the specifics of anything we talked about got wiped out when i woke up a few seconds later. i know it happened. i can almost kind of sort of see it if i really, really try now. but it's just gone, mostly. except the dead certainty about it, kind of deal.

two weeks ago, ish, we'd agreed with the other, trauma-holding subsystem to start trying to communicate more and share memories. and we were basically told like, okay. it's going to take a while to rebuild lines of communication. give us a couple weeks.

they were just very... matter of fact about it, i guess. enough so that i (sach) thought they might be lying because they just wanted to go away again, or something. which, like, fair, i didn't follow up with them because i figured they wanted a break.

they had one thing to ask of us, which was to make sure the host would be okay with it. if we were sure he could handle it. but it's going to be hard, there's going to be blackouts, and your host has to accept that it's going to happen -- he's going to get switched out, not the "watching over someone's shoulder" bullshit, not the grayouts, not any kind of gentle or covert amnesia. it's gonna hit like a fucking truck. (we've, apparently, tried this before.)

(i write this like it was a fucking conversation and clear as hell but piecing all of this together took weeks of fragmented bits of conversation being carried through the system and journalling again. we have slept so much the past few weeks and i think this was why. there was some deep level processing going on.)

and then two weeks later, a pinched nerve in our back, the one that's been ruined for like 25 years now, releases and i lose all feeling. first in my legs, and then from the waist up, and the entire time the system was SO LOUD. there was just... voices, clear and direct and no one we knew, all of them shouting input on what to do and arguing, and we just kept fucking collapsing and our vision kept swimming in and out. i'd been dissociated as fuck all day leading up to it all, and hadn't really clocked it, either.

and i know there were memories and flashbacks. i'd collapse and remember something, kind of thing (i was basically like, trying to stumble toward my mom's bedroom door because i couldn't speak or shout for help either, which... flashbacks, man).

it felt like successive waves of different kinds of pins and needles from my tongue to my waist for a long time. still couldn't talk, either.

this morning my back has never felt better. i'm more mobile than i have been in actual years. there's still so much noise internally, like someone is blasting speakers and playing their favourite songs to drown out other conversations, i am shamelessly doing a lot of drugs to try to ride this out, noise.

but i also have feeling in my right shoulder for the first time since it was injured when i was a kid, and i'm like... oh.

a lot of our hosts struggle with denial a lot. and then sometimes there are things that are just so very clearly, oh we are a system. oh this is an 'us' situation and the diagnosis was real, and denial's not even possible right now, things. when everything is so clear, and the world is 3D instead of through a glass pane, and we can access and hear the system all at once.

just, oh. we do have an inner world, and it is that way, and all of this is possible, and that other subsystem was real as hell and made good on their promise. the memories are their memories. they are actually, truly working with us on this side. and i think that's going to mean more full time loss, for real, but having seen the inner world and experienced switching Like That... that's totally okay. like the fear and panic our host system had about it evaporated once they finally got there. they just got there kinda. violently, was all.

and it IS going to take time to rebuild connections as those barriers thin and come down. there are a lot of us who like to literalize it, you know, neural pathways are literally lighting up or reconnecting, and it takes time to recondition and strengthen those bonds. which, yeah, sure, basically that. pick a metaphor. we're building a VPN tunnel to the other system, we're laying down roads, we're sending carrier pigeons, whatever. (every subsystem seems to have its own organizational metaphor, and communication is much easier if we can like... get on their level about it, basically, so. sure. old school VPN tunnels. a+ strategy to maintain barriers, i guess, is having everyone speaking different languages?)

i guess basically i'm being thrown by the fact that sometimes it really does work the way other people/systems talk about it and holy shit. i never thought we'd get here. i never thought i'd be able to move like this again, either. i mean. i'm still broken as hell and there's a lot of other pain i'm discovering now, but i'll take the improvement in my back, omf.

anyway as usual i cannot and do not shut up so this is long and circuitous as hell, you're all welcome.

[eternalwritingstudent]

Sunday Snippet

This is an amusing bit from later in the book. Sorry you get it without context. Have to read the whole book for that once I get it published. ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍

The arms and legs were bothering me the more I woke up. Someone was lying on me. I froze, my heart jumping into my throat. My mind, still sleepy, panicked. It screamed I needed to run away from Tristian. My breath was coming fast, the sound of it loud in my ears as I kept my eyes squeezed shut. With deliberate, but slow movement, I made myself open them. A whimper of fear threatened to slip from my throat, but I swallowed it down. The shelter I saw above me told me I wasn't with Tristian or in his house. What if he had followed us though?

I tried to make myself look down to check the color of the arm across my body, but what if he wore the necklace that made him look human? How would I know? What if he made himself look like Valric or Akira? Oh, gods. What if one of them had been him this whole time?

This was not helping. My heart was beating so fast I became lightheaded. I had to calm down. If it was Tristian, this would not help me get away. I took a few deep breaths, making myself count as I breathed in and out. Then I tried again to look down. It took me two more tries, before I could bring my eyes down to find an acorn hued arm across my waist. More weight pressed on my leg, but not enough to cause pain. I swallowed hard and forced myself to turn my head to confirm the face connected to the arm I knew. Panic danced along my nerves like an Amber Coast chime dancer.

The corkscrew curls on the sand next to me made my stomach unknot and my heart slowed. My breathing became easier. It was Valric. We were in the tent, free and on our way to Herliun with Akira. The worry one of them was Tristian in disguise ate at me, but I worked my best to ignore it and calm myself.

I needed out from under him if in order to cool off and calm down all the way. I shifted, trying not to wake him, attempting to gently lift his arm off of me. He groaned the moment I did and pulled me close, turning on his side and burying his nose in my neck. The whimper I'd been holding in left me then. It was Valric. I repeated it over and over to myself trying to push through the fear shaking my body. I could do this. I cleared my throat.

"Valric, wake up. We have to go."

My voice shook far more than I wanted it too. This was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. I felt trapped in my own body, something terrifying me that I couldn't run away from or control.

"Baby, shhhh. There's plenty of time before I have to go to sword drills." He snuggled his cheek against mine, his beard tickling my face.

I knew he didn't realize what he was doing as he dreamed, or lingered in that space just shy of waking. My mind still went through a rush of emotions all the same. Fear hit me first, breath coming out in gasps again. Tears rolled down my cheeks, but I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to fight. I wouldn't let this beat me. This would not become my legacy. A woman afraid of existing in the world with other people because my mind was being irrational.

I needed to remember this was Valric, and he meant me no harm. He didn't know what he was doing. He would die of embarrassment if he was aware of what he said. That idea amused me enough it helped me find a focus. I got my body somewhat under control, enough I stopped crying. A soft chuckle left me at the image of his face in my mind when he realized what was happening. It drew another reaction from him though.

"Mmm, beautiful, I'm still sleeping. Shhhh…" He lowered his arm and pulled me against him by my waist, strong fingers curling against my skin. He kissed the back of my neck before he snored.

Between the snore and being fully awake, I fought back the rush of panic. To be honest, if me and Valric had met in another life, I might have spent the night with him at some point. There was, sadly for him, no chance in this life. Thirty years ago? Twenty even? But, he'd been born in the wrong era, to the wrong family, and at a time where I wanted no complications in my life. Besides, thirty years ago, I wouldn't have felt so strange about our ages.

"Um… Valric? I appreciate the compliments, but we gotta go."

Valric's eyes popped open as I reached back and poked his ribs. "Mmm… what?"

His eyes met mine as I gazed back at him. I hoped it wasn't obvious I'd been crying. It took a moment for the sleep to clear his mind and realize he'd cuddled up to me. His eyes grew wide, a blush spreading across his cheeks and neck. He bolted up, hitting the side of the tent.

"Whoa! You'll tear the tent down." I couldn't help laughing at his reaction as I reached out to keep him from falling backwards. I wasn't healed enough to be that fast.

He pitched backwards as the sand shifted beneath his feet. Arms wind milled as he plummeted backward. The tent spikes on my side pulled free from the sand and I found myself under the open night sky, a breeze blowing my sweat dampened hair. The sudden jerk of the tent had pulled the floors ties free from the tent, so I got to pleasantly sit, while Valric thrashed and yelled.

I laughed, the feeling and sound a relief after my awful waking. The sound loud in the silent desert. Akira's tent opened. He was rubbing his face as he stepped out, watching the tent flailing through the sand.

"Don't ask. It's ridiculous."

[tasteofdeathao3]

The height of angst in the ABI universe in my opinion is Izzy magically ages back up but can kinda remember being a baby and having Ed and Stede look after him and he doesn't know what to do with that

no because I had the EXACT SAME IDEA and I cannot stop thinking about it!!!!!!

like okay I imagine it would happen in the same fashion he turned into a baby in the first place - literally just in the middle of the night to the shock of everyone. like by the time it happens honestly he's probably about two or three and then all of a sudden a fully grown Izzy is waking up in a little race car bed and absolutely freaking about.

Stede and Ed wake up, because honestly Izzy's practically mid panic attack and is nowhere near quiet and right where their little baby boy should be is Izzy, back and whole and crying so loud he's choking on the noise.

It's kind of awful - not that Izzy's back, of course not, just that it had taken so long to properly 'mourn him', and just when it had felt like it was all over he's back and all those awful fucking feelings are right back with him. not to mention that now the infant they'd raised technically doesn't exist anymore. Ed is, of course, absolutely elated, falling down beside Izzy and weeping with him as he wraps him up in arms, as is Stede, but then there's this huge unanswered question of where to go next? what are you even expected to do?

they talk, of course, because Stede believes it's important, and make sure that Izzy's not on the verge of any mental breakdown.

They take him back to his apartment because 'his' room is all decked out for a three year old, he has no clothing other than what he spawned back in wearing, and it's all wrong. It's completely untouched (it had felt wrong to throw out all his belongings, especially when they'd had no idea when he might return. Stede had been more than willing and had more than enough funds to keep up with the rent, close to 500 a week, nothing for him, and hire a cleaning service to keep the place free of rodents for just in case he happened to come back. Which he did) and his clothes are all still folded in their places in his tall boy, his dishes are still in the cupboards, his pictures are still on the walls, but it's not his home.

He moves back in anyway, because the guilt of stealing Ed and Stede's baby away is eating him alive. They offer to help him out, seeing as the transition was so sudden, but he refuses. he's a grown man, he can live on his own for fuck sake.

Except- he can't. He keeps sleeping in for hours because he forgets someone isn't coming in to wake him up. He keeps waiting for someone to give him dinner before he remembers he has to do that for himself now. everything is forgotten until something reminds him that he isn't a baby anymore, he has to bathe himself and feed himself and wake up and go to sleep on time.

another peculiar thing is that he can't quite seem to shake off all his childish behaviours. He has to shamefully buy a nightlight because he's been getting so scared of the dark he can't sleep. He sits down and tries to watch one of his favourite shows and it's terrifying - he's seen worse, he's done worse, but it's scary enough to almost bring him to tears before he can turn it off. Even his writing is affected, like chicken scratch compared to his neat cursive from before.

with all these grown up responsibilities he's exhausted now, and if that wasn't the case, he still wouldn't go into work just in case he'd see Ed.

It's weird, because Ed has always been his best friend, but now whenever he see shim the first stupid think his mind goes to is 'Baba', and he just can't deal with that. it's even worse when he has to try to remind himself that Bonnet isn't 'daddy' whenever he sees his stupid fucking face. It's awful, because he still hates Stede, still thinks his an outrageously pompous prick, but whenever he tries to remind himself of that fact he just remember his daddy, his dad, who woke up to cuddle with him in the middle of the night even when he was far too old for that, cut up his food, carried him around even when his arms would've hurt like hell. it's confusing. it's awful.

He remembers. of course he does. how could he forget? he doesn't remember much of his actual childhood, awful as it was, but he can remember waking up in that tiny crib, every time Stede or Ed came to hold him when he cried, every time Stede gave him little smacking kisses on his chubby cheeks and every time Ed giggled when he strapped him into a little baby carrier at his chest.

For Ed and Stede, it's hard. Their house is literally full of children items. like. completely full. their cupboards are all childproofed, their bedroom has more than half of Israel's toys and co-sleeping crib, his clothes still get caught up in their laundry. It's like mourning - or even just missing someone, because every time they look at Izzy it's just like there baby is almost there. whenever they do occasionally manage to meet up - when Izzy isn't avoiding them - they manage to do something stupid like offer to cut his food or offer him some juice or call him Israel, and then everything is awkward and sad until the next thing comes along

[liketwoswansinbalance]

Something that most people don't know about you??

At times, I have nonsensical, probably stress-induced dreams.

In total, I've been the murderer approximately three times, endorsed an execution once, was a witness at least twice, and have been chased many more times.

The first murder was shooting some kind of long-barreled gun, perhaps a rifle or something more modern than a bayonet? Who knows? It was vague, and I don't really remember it.

The second was firing an arrow from below at a person descending stairs. The whole dream was very Hunger Games-esque and I had been peering up at my target from a swimming pool set in a ruined patio.

The third time, my murder was unintentional. I tried to help an unknown classmate(?) get unstuck from where he'd been caught under a large stone or snowdrift on the way back to a final exam, before the directions were given, and he just... tumbled down the steep, snow-covered hill? I have no idea what truly happened to him. I think all I had done was tug at his arm. I just ran the rest of the way down, took my seat in time, oddly enough, outdoors, at a table, and was given a paper. I think the prompt my brain came up with, before the hill event, from an earlier part of the dream, was something on environmentalism, or something about conditions shaping a narrative, which made little sense—much different from what the real exam's prompt was. I wanted to wash my hands, so I would stop feeling sticky, and I think I wondered if I had blood on them. A thought I had then or maybe after I woke up was that the prompt wasn't about Lady Macbeth, so why'd all that happen? I also worried over whether I had partly abandoned the poor guy or committed a murder. Yet I don't believe in dream symbolism because it's not fully scientific, and the directions in the dream weren't ever fully explained anyway. In that same dream, I also eavesdropped on someone who might've been my real-life, class dean and some old woman.

The one time I endorsed the murder in a dream, it happened after a whole convoluted, surreal, Coup d'état plot, not even founded in reality. I broke into a library, to catch my foe shortly before they arrived, and asked someone else to get ready. It wasn't just commanding an execution to happen; it was a (magic?) trick I wasn't fully conscious of, despite being the one to ask for it to be set-up and deliver the orders during the all-important moment. A professor in the library, who specialized in firearms, stage tactics, and sleight of hand, fired what seemed to be a blank at the traitor/usurper/criminal. And my criminal got covered in loose, non-compacted, burning gunpowder instead of run through by a bullet. By then, their skin was probably crawling with some sensation of being set aflame—but don't ask me? I couldn't sense that pov. There was nothing gory anyway. But somehow, they tried to shake the powder off, onto me, and I guess I woke up before anything became worse.

In the same execution dream, there were other previous events, and I was a witness to a different murder. That murder was this instance, with cool, Art Deco vibes, wherein, my (non-existent) friend sacrificed themselves for me. I had to lug the corpse through halls and to elevators, and I went up and down multiple times while on the run before I decided to leave the body.

In another dream, what I think was a hanging was visible in the background, but I'm not quite sure about that. It was more of a vague image.

As for the times I've been pursued by figures with unknown intent, one was notably in a labyrinthine place.

Also, to anyone who's read this far: Don't worry. I don't believe I could actually pull off any of these things as I think I’d pass out too soon because I have somewhat weak lungs and not nearly enough athleticism.

[femme-enby]

Dream talk & duking it out

I’ve never really been one to move too much in my sleep but according to my spouse I do be rollin.

But the biggest new thing is I’m also dukin it out.

Had a dream where someone was forcibly trying to kiss me, and my sleeping position was the position I was in (as it typically goes when I end up actually moving) and sure enough I woke up just after sending out the hardest kick. Woke up breathing heavy, head pressing away from the non-existent threat, kicking leg still fully extended and tensed.

Dozed off twice this morning, first dream I was driving in an empty parking lot, something went wrong with my car so it started slipping & I slammed the breaks (don’t do that. I know not to but also… I’m in a spacious empty lot. I ain’t worried about hitting anything or going into a ditch I just want to STOP) and my tires are screeching, so I jerk the wheel bc it’s the back tires catching on something and I start waking up bc my hand jerked like I was driving, and halfway awake I catch the back wheels screeching again… only to realize it’s my spouse aggressively brushing the back of his tongue and doing his oddly aggressive dry, coughing gag which my brain had translated to screeching tires. Which… not too far off tbh. Similar to how I’ve pushed a zombie away in my dreams only to wake up bc I’m definitely pushing something away… him. Snore-snarling in my FUCKIN FACE.

The second time I woke up this morning was bc I was dreaming I was trying to get somewhere, & people were pushing past on the narrow side (also the “wrong” side if we’re talking rules of the road) and one dude starts like… roughly slapping/batting at my elbow sayin some nonsense in a mocking tone??? So I immediate jerk my elbow with QUICKNESS- and wake up feeling my whole body bounce from the force and speed of actually elbowing back into open air (was on my stomach)

Like… god damn. Tf am I physically fighting for??? I only remember waking myself up as a kid 3x from actually moving, and yet it’s happened in some form at least 5x in the last MONTH’S time???

The times as a kid, btw bc I find all of this interesting-

1) petting puppy (woke up still feeling that phantom softness and warmth in my palm, only going away when I moved my hand again, despite absolutely nothing being in my hand but air)

2) getting beheaded guillotine style. This one was crazy- I had my hands back by my sides, the blade drops and at the piercing pain I jerked my hand to my neck (in dream and fr) and dead middle of consciousness and dreaming I saw the world spin as my head fell before swiftly jerking myself upright like a fuckin vampire still clenching my neck as I waited for the pain to pass. Remembering the soft puppy from years earlier I tried moving my neck but the pain still didn’t change at all for at least 30sec.

Warning- mentions of gore

I’ve also always had oddly… specific? Detailed in ways they shouldn’t be? Dreams.

Like a simple one is seeing a red glow in my (at the time) shared bedroom, at maybe… 6? Years old, and walking towards this hamper that held a bunch of my toys. (Going towards the danger is the norm for me, it’s an actual problem bc I’m genuinely stupid) and just as I peek into the hamper, a robotic toy jumps out at me, glowing red pinprick eyes and sharp teeth (think like… UF sans or the common fandom interpretation of FNAF Moon’s teeth. Which btw was how I drew teeth as a little kid. Dunno why!) flying at my face. Also, as much as I would love to be like “haha FNAF got you!” I’m 26. I had OG freddlings or whatever jumping me before FNAF was likely even a thought in bro’s head. My mom was also super careful about the media I consumed so like… who knows where my brain got that from.

A worse one is where I had already had a freaky dream that night, and I was now maybe… 10? 11? And I didn’t wanna bother my parents but atp my bed was in the middle of the room, so exposed sides, and I went to my lil bro’s room and clambered over him to have my back to the wall in his bed. I then dreamed he was with me in some fucked up Winnie the Pooh nightmare shit, w like Piglet being absolutely shredded at one point, and then some goofy old school Count Dracula ass bitch came up to us, flashed me some stupid can saying “back be gone”??? And then sprayed it on my lil bro’s back, and despite not ever seeing any real gore or anything I saw as the skin bubbled, dissolved, muscle going too, and eventually leaving bone where I could see the organs slowing and stopping through the ribs… then saw his absolutely horrifying facial expression…. Only to wake up to his eyes actually like half open and rolled back like they be when someone’s sleeping but their eyes are kinda open??? Freaky btw. And after that I just went back to my room, and absolutely never went back to his bc I be damned if I get freaky ass dream then jumpscared upon waking up.

But yeah! Love my overactive imagination! Dope! Totally has not caused me to have some of the freakiest dreams that have been seared into my brain for years, like the one that in description wasn’t actually that scary… but the skeleton literally CAUSED feelings of terror simply by proximity, which was actually years after that freaky back begone nightmare, and yet caused me to feel true terror.

I’m talking full on heart pounding a mile a minute and so hard my chest hurt, breathing so fast you would have thought I had sprinted a whole marathon, and sweating EVERYWHERE which was wildly uncommon for me up until recent years when I’ve been on testosterone.

I’ve experienced horrific things since then, horrifically traumatic things even, and yet I’ve still never felt that kind of fear in my life before or since then. I don’t even know what kind of situation I’d have to be in TO feel that fear bc I’ve had folks 2x my size get in my face and threaten to shoot/put hands on their gun at least 3x in my life and that only ever caused my heart rate to speed up so much, still nowhere near like I even ran at all tho.

Like… I fear that damn skeleton nightmare was an example of my body putting pedal to the metal and flicking on every single fear receptor in my brain or whatever. Probably burnt half of them out XD

[lowduckcap]

SVB - Wax

The Space Vessel Buzzard. A strange place. Some might call it a zoo or a prison. Then you look at the other levels and it looks more like a maze with a bunch of rats, primed for testing. There’s over one hundred different species here. Most of them smart enough to talk. The ship itself is familiar, but I can’t quite point out what it is. What I do know is that it’s fully automatic. There is no crew and we can’t really do anything to control the ship. According to my wrist watch, every twelve hours a pod opens and a captive is released from their pod. Sometimes they have their own clothes. Sometimes they are in a grey and dark blue uniform. After five releases the lights change. It’s always low light for most of the ship, but it shifts from yellow, red, and blue. One group, in their confusion, has taken to attacking people during red light times. Another group does what they can to protect people sleeping in their pods. Finally, there is a third group that preoccupy themselves with trying to figure out the ship. I guess I’m part of the third group. I’ve taking to calling myself Wax. Don’t ask me why, it’s just what my head came up with in the moment. Thanks to this place having a costume department and the hunts, at this point no one remembers me waking up or what my species is supposed to be. In case you’re wondering about the red light hunters, they say it has to do with food. What we can find is likely a finite resource.

The reason I’ve taken to write about my time here has to do with a very strange part of this vessel. It was the reason I’ve taken to calling this place a rat maze. There no other reason that a place like that could ever exist.

The whole cycle of changing lights are called a week by the people here. It was about three weeks before I found this strange place. I was with a salvage team. There was a strange yellow door that was halfway invisible given the weird angle it was placed. I tried to tell the others but there was machine noise that drowned out my mumbling. All I did was touch the door and like a trap it gave way and fell.

I woke up sore. The light was white, but dimmer than normal. I thought I was sick with a fever and some strange numbness. As I got to my feet the lights switched to brighter than the rest of the ship.