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hobiwonder · 5 years

Text

~Surprise~ | (m)

read insomnia first if you would like to get a contextual background

accidentally deleted the text when editing dggfdfdfdd.

Words: 2k

pairing: tae x reader

warnings: oral

You were nervous. To say the least. It’s not like this was the first time you had gone to the waxing salon but it definitely was the first time for you to get waxed down there.And for a boy no less? Yeah, even more rare. Usually you just used a razor and called it a day when the situation down under got a little too prickly. More so to stop Taehyung from whining like a baby being inconvenienced when he went down on you despite your protests. But of course, you too, were selfless sometimes and decided to alter you au natural state for your boyfriend. This Saturday would be your and Taehyung’s one year anniversary. Well, technically you’d only be dating for half of this duration but Taehyung refuses to not count the times you both had been friends with… benefits of sorts, claiming that you were smitten with him from day 1. Yeah, you couldn’t believe either that you were dating this man.

Nonetheless, you very much adored that man-child hence the mowing of the garden down there. While Taehyung never explicitly asked you to shave yourself clean, you could tell that he would enjoy that immensely. Especially from the way his eyes had glazed over when he had been reading the pricelist for the salon you usually kept on top of the fridge amongst other takeout menus. At first you’d laughed it off calling him a horndog for getting turned on by reading about Brazilian waxing. Then he had just let out a weirdly squeaky laugh and scurried out of the room to take a shower which was a million times odd in itself. Taehyung and no snarky remark or excessive pouting? Weird of course. But you being the receptive person you were had finally admitted that perhaps he was too much of a gentleman to request something like this from you. It was different when both of your brains were clouded with lust and carnal desires were being fired from his mouth left and right. But consciously asking you to wax yourself for him? Yeah, he wasn;t going to ask you that now. Maybe when both of you had just started dating? But certainly not now. He’d matured quite a bit since then frankly or maybe he just respects and likes you that much more now. Which, the thought of, brought all sorts of butterflies to your stomach.

And back then, you would’ve laughed in his face and would have said no in a heartbeat. Now? You’d frankly do anything for him. And so you had. Your boyfriend wanted your vagina bald, secretly of course, so you had gone and went through the painful experience to give him bald. And that wasn’t the only reason you were walking slowly towards your dorm, being sensitive and tender down there and all. Just the thought of telling him about it was mortifying. How does one even go about doing that? You’re mulling it all over in your head as you go to unlock the door but find it already open, only hinging it slightly to enter. Taehyung was sitting on the floor, playing overwatch on the computer that he’d set up in the corner of your room because he couldn’t live without playing the damn game at least once a day. You swear you were his sidepiece and the game was who he was actually dating.

“H-hey. Already back?” He was half listening to you as he frantically clicked his mouse and spoke in to the mic attached to his headpiece.

“Jungkook you fucking prick! We were so close to topping the leaderboard. Try to remember these are cartoon tits, not real!” Yeah, this was pretty normal.

“No I’m not going to calm down Jimin-ah. Not since I did all the killing! God, fuck.” Okay he did need to chill.

“Tae? You need some water?” Leaning down to kiss his reddened cheek you can hear the laughter coming from the headset faintly – the boys most likely laughing at him.

“No babe. What I need is for Jungkook to not get distracted by D.Va’s tits.”

“Hey these are actual girls playing those characters!”

“Do you realize how sad and pathetic you sound kook?” Jimin’s airy laugh is the last thing you hear before you straighten up and put down the containers of takeout you’d brought for dinner on your way back. Taehyung still immersed in the game, laughing along, bringing out a smile on your own face.

God. You’d become so different now. Too smiley. Taehyung could just sound happy and you would want to smile and hold his hands. Eugh. What had he done to you.

“Why are you looking horrified at the food? Is it not what you ordered?” Snapping out of your inner monologue, you just leave the containers packed to sit on your bed and wait for Taehyung to finish his game. There was no way you two were going to eat before he finished whatever round he was doing.

“Nothing. I-I’m fine.” Your wince doesn’t go unnoticed when you cross your legs to try and get a little more warmth around your centre. Your appointment was barely 3 hours ago. Right then, Taehyung is cursing at the monitor before he takes off his headset and looks back at you.

“I swear, I’m going to kill him one of these days.”

“Tae,” you deadpan, “It’s important to separate virtual reality from actual reality. Are you aware?” He’s sauntering over at you to tower above, cocking his head to the side before he leans down, placing his hands on either side of you on the bed.

“Where were you? I thought your waxing only took an hour?”

And everything was rushing back in to your head at the speed of light. You’d done something for your boyfriend which you were so excited about but so nervous to admit. Would he think you were trying too hard? Maybe you just read in to things too much and he is ambivalent to the whole concept? Oh god. Yu hadn’t prepared enough for this. Okay, it was now or never. You were no little bitch.

Just kidding. You just couldn’t keep your mouth in check. “I got a Brazilian wax.”

There. You said it. The cock in his eyebrow doesn’t tell you much.

“A Brazilian wax? Is that a type?” He was adorably confused and you couldn’t believe he didn’t know.

“Y-You really don’t know?” When he’s still just blinking down at you – yeah, this was even more unexpected.

“I got waxed… down there.” His eyes are all but bulging out of his head and you sigh internally. Okay, there we go.

“You waxed your pussy?!” This sounded way less sexy than you imagined and his disbelief has you rolling your eyes. Taehyung drops to his knees suddenly, still looking up at you. “For me? Really?”

You couldn’t believe the amount of adoration in his eyes. Really, this is all that was going to take to have him on his knees? You had to bite back the snort. God, your boyfriend was a simple, one-track minded man. A simple, horny man.

“Yeah. It hurt like a bitch so you better be thankful punk.” Taehyung isn’t returning your playful glare. In fact, he looks way too serious. You recognised this look and it was finally showing. But even after seeing him with such unabashed need apparent in his expression countless times – it never failed to have you tightening your legs, crossing them as you felt the arousal leak.

“Y/n… Baby?” His hands were searing your skin that wasn’t covered by the shorts, massaging your legs and brushing inside your thighs ever so slightly.

“Y-Yes?” your voice was small. Nervous but excited.

Taehyung glances down between your legs, taking a salacious little bite of his pink lips.

“Can I have a look?” Your panicky brain wants to smart mouth him but your ever growing wet pussy wants to shove his face in there. “Can I please see your pussy baby?”

His mouth is sin and his whisper is the silver platter he’s delivering it in. And you’re gladly taking the bait when your legs fall open, muttering a shy, ‘okay’. He looks like he’s about to open his most prized present as he carefully slide down your shorts, rubbing his thumb over your damp panties before shooting you a lascivious look that makes you shiver.

The small moan you suppress only develops in to a bigger one when Taehyung presses down on the button of your clit before sliding off your underwear completely, cursing under his breath.

“Fuck…. so pretty.” The way he looks between your legs makes you want to close them. He’s so focused and almost looks like he’s in pain. “You did this for me baby?”

“I-I wanted to surprise you for our anniversary.” You keep glancing between looking at his handsome face and his strong veiny hands kneading the soft flesh of your mound around your sex. You held back a wince when he slides his thumb down the sides of your nether lips.

“I love it. You’re so pretty,” he suddenly leans down and gives you a little kiss above of your clit, making your body jerk forward.

“Does it still hurt?” Taehyung slips his finger downwards to gather some of the wetness that had been leaking and you’re mortified. He hadn’t even done anything yet.

“J-Just a little tender.” Your voice is small and he can tell you’re still shy.

“You’re so pink and pretty, y/n. No need to be embarrassed.” His teasing little chuckle has you hitting his shoulder when your foot which he effectively secures on his shoulder.

“Be thankful I did this for you. I would’ve never gotten waxed.. there otherwise.”

“Gladly. All I want to do is thank you baby.” His cheesy line doesn’t get a retort when he starts kissing all around your core with his addictive mouth, shutting you up and instead making it difficult for you to breathe.

“You’re so wet baby. Do you want me to clean you up, hm? Fuck… your pussy looks so pretty I don’t even want to put my cock in here and ruin it.” That makes you whine in protest and Taehyung just chuckles away before giving your mound a hot lick.

“Mm. This is even better with you all smooth like this… I can eat you forever babe.”

You’re biting your own lips and looking down at Taehyung who looks so sinful you can feel the arousal dripping out of you. Gosh, he was so hot. His tongue had started to lick fat stripes all over your pussy now, catching your arousal in strings on his tongue.

“Does it feel better if I lick here now? Hm? How about this.” His tongue rests heavily beneath your entrance before he drags it upwards to your slit and stops at your clit, making you lose your mind as your whimpers get louder and more frequent.

“S-So good- ah.” He’s watching your expression as he licks and prods at the folds surrounding your clit – your labia, lips of your pussy. When he starts to moan along with each clit you can’t help the gush of liquid pouring out of your clenching pussy.

“You’re so sticky and wet baby. I love eating your cunt. All mine.” He’s growling his possessive words and your legs are coming to together to trap his head in as your hands find purchase on to the bedsheets underneath you. But before then can clamp shut, he’s pushing them apart and pinning them down while continuing to gorge himself on you. His chin was wet with your arousal and you were so close to cumming – you wanted him to get inside you already.

“T-Tae, please. I need you.”

“And I need to eat this cunt y/n. Don’t deny me.” He’s latching his lips on to your clit, forming a vacuum like sucking before he pulls back his mouth, dragging your flesh with it. The pressure is so intense you thought you might start hyperventilating soon.

“I’m so close,” Your whimper doesn’t make him speed up though. He’s taking his time, enjoying his leisurely pace, licking deep inside your folds until they were wet again with your juices to start all over again. You were whimpering with no apprehension now, bucking your hips in his mouth as you clutched the sheets for dear life. Being completely bare down there made every lash of his tongue all the more concentrated.

“Stay still y/n. I can’t eat you properly if you keep moving.” He almost sounds menacing as he growls for you to stay still, tightening his hold on to your legs even more.

“Y/n.” He warns again when your hips don’t stop jerking.

“I-I can’t. I’m so close Tae. Make me c-cum. Please.” You’re crying out louder when he starts to drag the flat of his tongue over and over on your clit. His movements are fast and rough, shoving so much desire inside your body as you try your best to keep still.

It’s when he slides his tongue as deep as it can go, caressing your inner walls that you gush all over his face.

“Fuck! You squirted babe. So hot.” His face is still shoved deep between your legs as he keep licking all over your trembling pussy. You’re twitching and crying as your grab on to his hair, not knowing whether you were pushing him back or pulling him forward. Him not backing away was not helping.

“Cum again for me baby. I love your smooth pussy. I just wanna keep licking you. God, you’re so addicting. Give me some more y/n. Come on.” His head is moving frantically between your legs, almost disappearing out of your view each time he dips low to start his tantalising licks from the bottom to the top where he sucked your clit for a few seconds before doing it all over again. You were too far gone to keep watching him at this point.

“Tae, e-enough. Oh my god,” you’re squeaking embarrassingly before you cum again, back bowing off the bed as Taehyung continues to drink you in. Making loud messy noises as he gulps noisily.

You’re sure you’d blacked out for a few seconds because you don’t remember when Taehyung had climbed on top of your trembling body.

“Best present ever.” You’re too tired to respond so you just pull him on top before falling in to a comfortable sleep.

a/n: thots?

#bts smut #taehyung smut #insomnia au #taehyung

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preserving-ferretbrain · 5 years

Text

The Victim Dilemma

by Dan H

Tuesday, 03 March 2009

Dan continues to overuse the word “paradox” and to be rude about Joss Whedon~

I’m going to start with an anecdote.

One of the only times I have ever actually had my mind changed about something by the simple act of having somebody explain their point of view to me was when I found a friend of mine wearing one of those white “make poverty history” wristbands.

I never liked the slogan. I thought it was idealistic to the point of naïveté. You might as well carry a banner saying “end injustice now” or “bad things should stop happening.” What my friend explained to me, and I think he was totally right, was that “Make Poverty History” wasn’t about a directionless call for “something” do be done, it was a way of saying “poverty is a problem to be solved, not something to wring your hands about.”

If we high-minded wealthy liberals are honest with ourselves, we tend to think of Africa as “the country the poor people come from.” On some level we all believe that starvation and suffering are what Africa is for. It’s nobody’s fault that millions of people starve to death despite the fact that there is, in fact, enough food to go around, it’s just the way of the world and anyway, if people stopped dropping dead in Ethiopia, what would Lenny Henry do with his time. “Make Poverty History” was a way of saying that our usual way of thinking about poverty is, in fact, totally fucked up.

This brings us back, by a commodius vicus of recirculation, to Joss Whedon, Dollhouse and The Portrayal of Women (tm). Just to be clear here, my aim here isn’t to knock Whedon, it isn’t to make him out to be a misogynist, or to “prove” that he isn’t the great big feminist he says he is. It’s just that ol’ JW is the best case in point for what is a very, very difficult issue.

Taking the Country Out the Boy: The Issue with “Ex”

One of the things that people have identified as “skeevy” (to borrow a term from FB poster Viorica) about Dollhouse is that so far most of the women portrayed in it have been victims of some sort, the classic example here being the first episode, in which Eliza Dushku’s character is programmed with the personality of a hostage negotiator whose entire career was a reaction against the fact that she, as a child, was abducted and abused.

Others have pointed out that this was actually totally okay, because she responded to the abuse by becoming a strong, independent woman, and was ultimately able to take on her abuser and defeat him (although “she” was now Eliza, programmed with the other woman’s memories).

Now I can totally see the argument that says that a story about a woman who grows stronger in response to a traumatic experience is an empowering one. The idea that this woman took a horrific experience and made something positive out of it is arguably both powerful and affirming, and you could certainly make the case that by overcoming her abuser she ceases to be a victim.

The problem I have is that an ex-victim is, to my mind, still a victim.

Look at it this way. Virtually every procedural show (be it police, medical, whatever) has the Obligatory Ex Criminal (often also filling the role of Obligatory Ethnic Minority). The ex-criminal used to live on the wrong side of the law, but has since “gone straight” and become a cop/doctor/interstellar revolutionary/whatever.

But, when you get right down to it, their job in the series is to do the criminal stuff. They pick people’s pockets, break into places the plot needs them to get into, and generally act like the Thief in a traditional D&D party. The same goes for anybody who is ex-military, ex-CIA, ex-vampire or ex-priest, the thing which they are “ex” defines their character as completely as the thing they do currently, arguably more so. The woman Eliza gets patched into her brain in the first episode of Dollhouse isn’t a hostage negotiator who happens to be female and happens to be an abuse survivor, she’s a female-abuse-survivor-turned hostage negotiator. The character is still defined primarily by the abuse, if only because without it, the episode would be stripped of most of its conflict and therefore most of its point.

On Victimhood: The Heath Ledger Effect

When Heath Ledger died, the newspapers basically all said the same thing. He was a great actor, tormented by his personal demons, and his death was a tragic waste of a great talent. It’s the same when any actor dies, particularly if suicide is suspected. He was just too driven, too talented, too dedicated to his art. His genius was rooted in a very real darkness, and so on.

You might have noticed the use of the masculine pronoun above. Admittedly I do sometimes use “he” for gender-neutrality (there go my feminist credentials) but in this case I do mean it quite specifically.

When a famous woman dies, particularly if suicide is suspected, it's a whole different story. We are not told about her towering genius, and women absolutely never have personal demons. Instead we are told about how a poor, innocent girl was drawn all unknowing into the machinery of fame, and was helpless to prevent herself being chewed up and spat out like tobacco. Candle In the Wind makes references to Norma Jeane being “hounded,” “set on a treadmill,” “lonely,” and of course “never knowing who to cling to.” Not once does it point out that she was also quite a good actress.

Famous people go off the rails, but when a man goes off the rails, we focus on the loss of his potential, we say “has the man who did all these amazing things really come to this?” When a woman goes off the rails, we say “oh how sad, and to think she was once somebody's little girl.” When a man dies, or goes mad, or both we mourn the loss of his talent. When a woman dies or goes mad we mourn the loss of, for want of a better word, her femininity. We always think, just for a moment, how much happier she would have been if she'd just found a nice man and settled down.

This is one of those situations where I think there's Something Important here but I'm not entirely sure what it is. The problem is that, in general, women do have a tougher time of it than men, so chances are Marilyn Monroe really did have a tougher life than James Dean, but the fact remains that we remember one as a great actor whose life was cut short by a car accident, and the other as a tragic example of innocence crushed by the Hollywood machine.

The problem is that women, because of the nature of society, have slightly less control over their lives than men, and slightly fewer choices. This is a bad thing. The problem is, if you fixate too much on the (real, occasional) powerlessness of women you wind up presenting a situation where women, because of their gender, are incapable of controlling their lives, or making their own choices.

To put it another way, isn't Elton John singing “Hollywood made you a superstar,” just a little bit insulting to old Norma Jeane Mortenson?

The Paradox: Life Imitates Art Imitates Life

Much as I love dissing Joss Whedon for his various airs and graces, he's in a bugger of an impossible position.

If he ignores the victimization of women, he's not really doing his job as a “feminist,” but if he portrays it, he's only reinforcing the kind of stereotypes he's trying to fight against.

It all comes back to the problem with Africa or, to put it another way, Russell's “Superior Virtue of the Oppressed.” Put simply, we like to see other people suffer, not because we are cruel but because it allows us to feel secure in ourselves. We construct convenient fictions for ourselves – like the old classic about how blind people's other senses get razor-sharp to “compensate” for their lack of sight. We invest victimhood with virtue, and that is extremely dangerous.

Regular ferretbrainers will probably be familiar with our

Fantasy Rape Watch

feature. One of the fantasy rape clichés that I have a particularly hard time dealing with is the one you might call “Rape as Rite of Passage”. It's worryingly common in fantasy for female protagonists to get raped, and for this to form a crucial part of her development “as a woman” and contribute to her unlocking her true potential. It's just plain freaky, but it's really easy to see where it comes from.

When you are confronted with somebody who has suffered terribly, be they an abuse victim, a holocaust survivor, or whatever, one of the only ways we can cope with it is to convince yourselves that the sheer fact of their survival makes them admirable. Ironically it's a form of dehumanisation, we cope with the suffering of others by convincing ourselves that they are so inferior or so superior that we don't have to care what happens to them. The alternative is to accept just how awful, cruel and pointless the world can really be.

There is a very real danger in presenting “women who triumph in the wake of abuse” as role models or icons of female empowerment. In fact there are several very real dangers.

For a start, it passes an implicit judgement on people who survive abuse but are just plain broken by it: Eliza Dushku can get over it, why can't you? I would be interested in seeing the statistics, but I strongly suspect that in real life, being abducted and sexually abused makes you less likely to become a roaring success, not more likely. I also rather suspect that if you applied to train as a hostage negotiator and said that the reason you wanted to do it was because you were abducted as a child, they wouldn't even interview you (I understand that medical schools frequently reject people for citing “because I lost person X to disease Y” as their reason for applying).

And of course it also passes an implicit judgement on women who have just got on with their lives without having the good fortune to suffer horrific sexual abuse through which they can discover their inner feminine mojo. By exaggerating the triumphs of abused women, you wind up presenting a deeply disturbing view of the world where being raped is the highest thing a woman can aspire to. Not deliberately, of course, but in a work of fiction a woman who has merely succeeded is going to get less screen time and less audience sympathy than a woman who has succeeded in spite of abuse.

And finally, there's the sexual double standard. This one's a bit tricky, but I think it's telling that while abuse for a female character is a free ticket to sympathy city by way of prestige junction, for a male character it's just a little bit icky. I think, actually, I could get past the “abuse is empowerment” thing if it applied to men as well as to women, but when was the last time you saw a male character in a work of fiction who was abused as a child and responded by becoming a badass? A good badass, I mean, not a serial killer. And it's this that I think kills the whole idea for me.

The reason you never see an empowered response to abuse from a male character is because people find the idea of a man suffering abuse, particularly sexual abuse, wholly unnatural. Put simply, men are not supposed to be victims, and for a male character to be abused in that way violates some major social taboos in the way that the abuse of women doesn't.

And that right there is the big problem. The reason people are willing to accept the idea that abuse can be a natural part of the background of an empowered fictional woman is because on a basic level we accept the abuse of women in general as natural. Africans are there to starve so we can feel good when we send them food. Women are there to be abused and oppressed so we can feel good when we “empower” them.

Bit messed up really, isn't it.Themes:

TV & Movies

Whedonverse

Minority Warrior

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~Comments (

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http://serenoli.livejournal.com/

at 09:41 on 2009-03-03Nice article. :)

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Arthur B

at 10:11 on 2009-03-03Oh hey

Something Awful

are getting in on the

Dollhouse

dogpile. I like the article because it includes the line "Unfortunately, Joss, no prophecy, shadow space government, or super hooker company will ever make a woman completely and exactly as awesome as your mom."

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Dan H

at 14:12 on 2009-03-03The Something Awful thing is made of win. I rather liked the line: "he is beating Echo and trying to rape her all over. He is punching her and doing rape moves at her."

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Arthur B

at 15:29 on 2009-03-03"Yo! Maybe it is you that should be raped."

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http://fintinobrien.livejournal.com/

at 17:10 on 2009-03-03I just noticed the Whedonverse category. Is he the next Rowling for you, Mr Hemmens? :D

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Rami

at 18:15 on 2009-03-03I wonder if the Western

(abuse ∨ oppression) ⇒ empowerment

thought process is at all influenced by the Catholic Church's long-held creeds of

suffering ⇒ salvation

…

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Dan H

at 21:34 on 2009-03-03

I just noticed the Whedonverse category. Is he the next Rowling for you, Mr Hemmens? :D

Not exactly. I actually really like Joss Whedon. I loved Buffy to much it cost my my degree, and I thought Firefly was awesome when it wasn't trying to Empower Women (tm).

Basically I think that Joss Whedon makes excellent TV shows, which unfortunately stop every couple of episodes to make A Point About How Society Treats Women in a gratuitous and heavy-handed way.

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http://katsullivan.insanejournal.com/

at 21:13 on 2009-03-04Your point about men not being allowed to be victims takes my mind to Harry Potter. Despite his years of abuse by Muggles, Harry never "internalizes" the abuse. He hates them right back. He's never a victim to their alienation like Voldemort or Snape - who grow up to become monsters of sorts.

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Arthur B

at 21:51 on 2009-03-04Well, that's because Harry is inherently virtuous, whereas Voldemort and Snape are inherently sinful, like

those who are not of the Elect

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Wardog

at 11:07 on 2009-03-05Kat, that's a really interesting point. I'd never really thought about Harry's abuse from that angle before - I suppose partially because horrible things happen to children all the time in children's books and partially because, at least initially, the portrayal of the Dursley's is generally played for laughs. But it does seem to fall between two stools, being neither approached seriously enough or frivolously enough (I mean, they keep him in a cupboard!) to be anything other than shallow. I know he's not a protagonist, but it contrasts rather nicely against the treatment Snape who, of course, lives his entire life as someone who has never really got over being horribly bullied at school.

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http://sistermagpie.livejournal.com/

at 01:09 on 2009-03-06

when was the last time you saw a male character in a work of fiction who was abused as a child and responded by becoming a badass?

This of course makes me think of Batman, who did not suffer abuse but had his parents murdered in front of him as a child and went on to protect others. As opposed to many female comics characters who instead get raped and then get strong to fight back. There's definitely a difference.

I remember a show years ago, I forget what it was, but there was a main character who had near-psychic ability to understand serial killers because she'd been kidnapped and held by one for months as a kid. And what annoyed me so much was not only did the experience essentially give her a super power but it was like even as a child she was clearly so awesome that that's why she survived. So now she could always look at a killer and "see" how he saw things. I imagine she'd have a hard time relating to victims.

Also on the Elect HP question, I always thought this post was interesting on the subject. It was written post-GoF so long before DH was written.

http://skelkins.com/hp/archives/000149.html

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Arthur B

at 01:24 on 2009-03-06Hmm, there was a Spiderman comic where he helps some kid who's being molested, and reveals that he was abused himself by an older cousin before he became Spiderman...

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http://sistermagpie.livejournal.com/

at 03:01 on 2009-03-06I think I remember that. Though I don't know if he says he's been molested or maybe that he almost was but he told someone? I can't remember now.

Note, of course, that it's not part of his origin story. He's not defined by it.

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Shim

at 07:49 on 2009-03-06The Dursleys thing to me brings to mind Roald Dahl, particularly Mathilda (the book, of course): the headmistress' comment that if you behave outrageously enough, the claims just sound ridiculous, seems pretty apt. The difference being that Dahl has a real talent for producing disturbing books while keeping them light enough to actually read.

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Arthur B

at 09:41 on 2009-03-06I've been inspired to

track the spiderlestation comic down

. (The rest of the Comics With Problems site is excellent, by the way).

FWIW, 4th panel of page 6 seems to imply that he was actually molested - he's objecting, but the narration notes that he was "too frightened to leave". In classic comic book style, Spidey concludes the comic by mentioning that he's actually been

haunted for years

by what transpired there, but he's now started the healing process, so we shouldn't be surprised if we never hear anything about it ever again.

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Dan H

at 12:04 on 2009-03-06Wow, loads of comments since I last logged on:

@Shimmin: I thought of the Dahl connection myself. I think the reason it works for Dahl is because it's so over the top that you accept it as metaphor. The "abuse" that Dahl's characters suffer is basically a representation of the way regular kids *feel* like they're being treated. Harry muddies the waters because we're always told that his childhood was an important test of his character, and because we have so many "real life" issues approached in the series.

@Sister Magpie: Batman is about as close as you can get with a male character (unless you count the Spiderlestation) but as you say there's clear blue water between "my parents were killed" and "I was raped". (Although TVTropes does observe that

Rape is the New Dead Parents

). If nothing else, having your parents murdered in front of you is still in the realm of fantasy violence, whereas rape isn't (which is why so many people thought that Spike attempting to rape Buffy was unforgivable in a way that

torturing people to death for fun

was not).

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 03:09 on 2009-03-22I know this is a bit off point, but I really hate the way bullying and victimization is treated in "Harry Potter". Snape is not a monster; he is a normal human being who, from what we see in the text, never received unconditional love from anyone and never had a place he felt truly at home, or even safe. Harry's reaction to what ought to be severe neglect/abuse, on the same level as young Sev apparently experienced, is completely unrealistic. He should not be as intact as he seems to be - not that he's altogether intact; Harry does show signs of narcissistic personality disorder, as well as being oppositional and defiant. But, if we are to take the Dursleys seriously, he should be much more scarred than he is.

Snape is deeply scarred. A scarred human being is not a monster. BTW, whatever one thinks of this character, he does a great deal of rescuing.

But, getting back to the original essay, it is a very uncomfortable idea that people should be special *because* they have been victimized. It seems almost a justification for victimization, doesn't it?

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Arthur B

at 14:04 on 2009-03-22

But, if we are to take the Dursleys seriously, he should be much more scarred than he is.

Well, that's precisely it: in the first half of the series, at least, we are not meant to take the Dursleys at all seriously. They're comic relief, or if you want to be really generous a satirical swipe at how the mediocre and conformist hold back the talented and special. (How Objectivist!)

Rowling asks us to take the Dursleys seriously at more or less precisely the same time as the series as a whole goes to shit.

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http://mary-j-59.livejournal.com/

at 18:27 on 2009-03-22Oh, I agree, Arthur! Another commentator online called the Dursley scenes schizophrenic from the outset. They - the Dursleys - are meant to be laughable, and yet, at the same time, their ignorance and cruelty are meant to show how very special poor little Harry is. It's queasy-making, really. But the schizophrenic attitude towards victims and victimization only gets worse, imho, culminating in Harry's torture scene in DH. Torture isn't bad, you see. It's only bad if the bad guys do it. Ugh!

But I will now stop hijacking this thread. Dan makes very good points, really. And the prevalance of this sort of violence against female characters in fantasy lit is worrying. But maybe, in the case of women authors especially, it reflects what they observe in real life?

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http://arkan2.livejournal.com/

at 23:30 on 2009-03-24Another excellent essay, Dan. You have such a marvelous way with words, and a marvelous way of articulating what I stumble and struggle for months to try to spit out. I quoted part of your "Make Poverty History" section in a recent argument because it was so well said.

"Admittedly I do sometimes use “he” for gender-neutrality (there go my feminist credentials)"

I don't think so. It's so common in today's society that you have to be truly anal about politically correct language to get it right all the time. We're never going to be perfect (well, not until we've made certain disgraceful human practices such as poverty and sexism history anyway), but that doesn't automatically make us completely antifeminist, or whatever. (See what I mean about being articulate?)

That Victim Dilemma is a real problem for me. As a writer, I see it as my duty both to point out the injustices in the world, and to portray the heroism of people who struggle against that injustice. And while there is something noble about men confronting violence against women, or white people standing up for the rights of people of color, that sort of stuff can slide into colonialist propaganda (people in Africa need white people to solve their problems for them)

waaay

too easily.

On the other side of the coin, you run the risk of romanticizing the poor, putting women on a pedestal, depicting the natives as Noble Savages, and so on.

However, I don't think this is an insoluble problem, especially once an author/writer is made aware of the risks.

As a possible solution to the damaged/empowered women problem, I'm going to bring in the show which I spent my last comment bashing:

Veronica Mars

. (It's kinda like

Firefly

, actually: intolerable main character who we're supposed to adore; problematic depictions of feminism (poorly executed sincere attempts at feminism in one case, excessively skeevy portrayal of feminists in the other); occasional highly questionable morals; and a couple other problems like that--while the other 90% is good-to-brilliant.)

Veronica Mars

, the title character was raped a year before the first season. Several other female characters are raped or sexually abused over the course of the series.

In Veronica's case though, it's quite clear that (like in the Spider-Man example mentioned above) she's not kick-ass

because

she was raped, she's kick-ass despite it. The other female characters are all firmly established before their sexual abuse, and afterwards, they don't become stronger or more dedicated or whatever, they try to go on with their lives and try to get over the bad experience.

(mary-j-59)

“But, getting back to the original essay, it is a very uncomfortable idea that people should be special *because* they have been victimized. It seems almost a justification for victimization, doesn't it?

Ha, well put. It's closely related to the idea that child abuse builds character.

Of course, sometimes adversity

does

make people stronger and “build character” as they say. Of course, all conscious human attempts so far to replicate such “positive” adversity to date have to my knowledge been dismal failures.

Rowling asks us to take the Dursleys seriously at more or less precisely the same time as the series as a whole goes to shit.”

Yet another spot-on observation.

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Wardog

at 10:40 on 2009-03-25Hi Mary-J - you didn't hijack the thread at all, I'm glad Open-ID is allowing you to comment.

The I-would-say-probably-inadvertent portrayal of victimisation / abuse in Harry Potter is one of the *many* problematic aspects of the texts.

He should not be as intact as he seems to be - not that he's altogether intact; Harry does show signs of narcissistic personality disorder, as well as being oppositional and defiant.

I'm never to sure what extent this is intentional - I know authorial intent is shaky ground at the best of times but I don't think we're actually meant to believe Harry has been damaged by his abuse the hands of the Dursleys.

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Arthur B

at 10:56 on 2009-03-25If Harry shows signs of NPD it's probably more a consequence of everyone in the world telling him he's the messiah (oh, and the fact that he is, in fact, the messiah) than being slapped about by comedy fatties in middle-class purgatory.

I think the big problem with the Dursleys is that, when you take away their comic relief aspects, they're basically there to plaster over a gap in the timeline. Harry's character is defined entirely by the death of his parents, the death of Voldemort, and the reaction of various characters to both of those events. This leaves an 11 year gap in the timeline where nothing actually important happens to Harry. Rowling's solution is to um and ah and finally shut him in a closet for 11 years.

Someone has almost certainly done a fanfic where Hogwarts and the wizarding world in general is just a delusion Harry has constructed to get away from the grimness of his home life (or, alternately, he's just a hopeless schizophrenic and the Dursleys actually go out of their way to help him but can't stop him running away spending months homeless dreaming of being a wizard). That would miss the point, but it'd also be pretty funny.

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Dan H

at 15:02 on 2009-03-25

If Harry shows signs of NPD it's probably more a consequence of everyone in the world telling him he's the messiah (oh, and the fact that he is, in fact, the messiah) than being slapped about by comedy fatties in middle-class purgatory.

Ah the age old question: is it narcissism if the universe really does revolve around you?

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Wardog

at 15:38 on 2009-03-25Is that a piece of fairy cake?

#Ferretbrain #Joss Whedon #Dollhouse #Heath Ledger

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pftones3482 · 6 years

Text

Clearer

Commission for @kyoshira7. Under a cut for a very long commission lol. It didn’t quite end how I wanted, but I was reaching the end of what I could do.

Sometimes Sam wondered what his life might have been like if he had been born as a woman.

He knew that he didn't want to become one; he had thought about that for a while, considered the idea that he might be transgender, and had dismissed it early on. It was always an option, in the back of his mind, but it wasn't really what he wanted.

He just wondered, sometimes. When he caught women crossing the streets at night to avoid him, when women shielded their daughters from him as they walked past one another on the sidewalk. He wondered what it might be like to not be the center of fear for some of the women in the world.

It angered him, a bit. He'd admit that. He had done nothing to warrant the fear of these women but be born a male. It wasn't fair for him. But it wasn't fair for them to feel that way either, and Sam recognized this.

He did his best to appear non-threatening, to smile politely, keep his hands down when he spoke, going against his natural instinct to gesture and speak at the same time. It seemed to work, but there was always the stiffness in the shoulders of the women he spoke to, the protective hands on their children's shoulders when they asked, most times begrudgingly, for directions.

He didn't think living as a woman would be easier. Sam knew that. He had a few female coworkers at his software firm, some higher up than him, and even the ones who knew more and had worked for the firm longer got belittled by coworkers and customers alike.

Sam wanted the experience, though. Wanted the chance to live as a woman, to see what they went through, in the hopes that maybe he could make it easier for some of them. He wanted to have a kid, not possible without a partner of his own, wanted to feel the connection to someone he had carried himself.

Okay, so maybe he had considered the idea of being transgender more than once. But it still didn't feel right to him.

Sam sighed and unlocked the door to his house, stepping into the air-conditioned entryway and kicking his shoes off onto the rug. The door clicked behind him, locking automatically, and he set his keys on the hook that was nailed to the wall before trudging to the kitchen.

His housekeeper, Moira, had left him a note on the fridge to let him know that the plumber was coming in the morning for the downstairs powder room. There was a smiley face drawn next to her name, and Sam let out a chuckle at the sight of it. Moira was too adorable for her own good, and a great housekeeper to boot.

He tossed the note into the trash under the seat and pulled open the fridge, leaning in and grabbing a beer and sandwich fixings. He kicked the door shut and settled everything onto the marble countertops, popping open the mayo and mustard and reaching into the bread box, where Moira had stored a fresh loaf of Italian bread.

It crunched under the knife as he sliced it, slow, methodical, setting two thick slices down on a plate before returning the loaf to the box and shutting it. Making a sandwich was probably the most mechanical set of movements in the universe, Sam mused as he slathered the bread in the dressings and then topped it with turkey and American cheese. It was the same action every time, the back and forth of the knife, the setting of the meat and the cheese to get the perfect amount in every bite. Nothing was different about it, except perhaps the type of meat on it.

He put the ingredients back in the fridge and took his snack to the back deck, settling onto his reclining chair and kicking back to look at the fading sun.

It had been a long day at work, and Sam was honestly ready to give up. He didn't feel as if his life was going anywhere, didn't feel as if he was succeeding in the ways he was meant to. He sighed and took a forlorn bite from his sandwich, munching thoughtfully as the sky darkened.

If anything, he wanted some kind of experience that just...made him appreciate the other side a bit more. Nothing extreme. A day in the life of a different gender.

He puffed his cheeks out and leaned back in his seat, setting his food down on the side table and staring up at the heavens. He wasn't sure how long he stared, watching as the sky darkened from blue to deep orange and red to navy to full, inky black, but eventually instead of clouds he was star gazing, picking out the pin-pricks of light as they jumped to life.

Sam's eyes caught sight of one-star drifting across the sky, not as fast as he might have thought a shooting star would move, and he sat up in excitement, tracking it's path across the sky.

He hadn't seen a shooting star since he was a kid, sitting on the roof of his parent's garage with binoculars in hand. He had made a wish to get the new Batman comics for his birthday. Oddly, he had. He had brushed it off years later as his parents overhearing his eager wish, but now Sam stood up and leaned against his porch railing, clutching his drink in his hand and staring up at the star. It was nearly on the horizon, and Sam remembered the myth he had been told that, if he didn't wish before the star was out of sight, it wouldn't come true.

"What the hell," he muttered to himself.

He shut his eyes and wished silently. For something different in his life, for understanding about what it was like to have been born differently, if only for a bit.

When nothing happened after a minute had ticked by, he opened his eyes with a small chuckle, shaking his head. Foolish, really, to believe in childish things. It never got anyone anywhere in any real-life situation.

Sam let out a huff, downed the remainder of his beer, and then took the empty can and the remains of his sandwich inside, tossing them into their respective recycling and garbage cans before setting the plate into the dishwasher and closing the door with his foot.

He went through the monotony of bed preparation with his wish in the back of his mind, brushing his teeth and then spitting into the sink and staring at his reflection for several long minutes, noting the weary bags under his eyes, the stubble on his face, the way his hair was starting to grow out from its buzz cut.

If he was in a movie, Sam supposed that he would have some intellectual, revolutionary inner monologue, but all he could think about was how wonderful bed sounded.

He pushed off of the sink and left the bathroom, collapsing into bed without bothering to remove his clothes. For some reason, he was suddenly exhausted. Sure, he had been tired when he got home from work, but it hadn't been nearly this bad.

Must have been the stargazing, Sam reasoned with himself as he curled up into the blankets and snuggled into the silk sheets under him. That always made him sleepy when he was a kid. That plus the beer...totally the reason.

He fell asleep clinging to his pillow.

"Mommy?"

Sam groaned and rubbed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into the sockets as hard as he could muster. Where was the tiny voice coming from? And what was that blaring noise?

"Mommy, th'alarms goin' off."

"What?" Sam managed to croak.

His voice was...way higher than it usually was in the morning, like if Pat Benetar and Ariana Grande had a baby. That weird combination between alto and soprano. And why was Moira calling him "Mommy?"

"Th'alarm," the voice said again, and Sam realized slowly that it was not a woman's voice, but a child's. "It's been going off for like, a whole hour. Are you late?"

Work.

Sam bolted upright in bed, flinging the blankets off and faintly registering that the blankets were not the soft silk he had fallen asleep on, but rather a soft lavender cotton. He frowned down at the sheets and....why were they blurry?

Why was everything blurry, actually?

"Mommy?"

Sam turned slowly to the child next to him – and yes, they were indeed a child – and squinted down at the form. "I can't...see," he said slowly, his voice still too high for his own comfort. Was this some weird dream?

"Oh!" the child said gleefully.

They leaned over to the table at Sam's right – he didn't have a bedside table there – and plucked something off the top, handing it over with a bright smile that Sam could only make out because of the number of teeth being used. "Here you go! I'll make breakfast!"

The kid bolted before Sam could say otherwise, leaving him to open up what were definitely glasses and slide them onto his face. Sam had never needed glasses in his life, and he blinked rapidly when he put them on, everything suddenly becoming crystal clear.

His bed was no longer a king, but rather a full. The blankets were older and purple and cotton, but clean. They smelled like flowers. The room was small, more of a closet than a room, and a dresser sat tucked into a corner, overflowing with folded clothes on top – the clear time of someone with no time on their hands to put things away.

As Sam slid out of bed, his gaze still sliding around the room, he stumbled, his feet hitting the ground sooner than he was prepared for. He yelped, catching himself on the bed, and looked down to see if perhaps he had tripped on something.

Oh.

He was wearing a baggy t-shirt and boxers, but even he could see (and feel, now that it was registering in his head) the presence of weight on his upper chest.

Her upper chest.

Sam bolted to the bedroom door, furiously looking down the small, carpeted hallway and spotting what was definitely a bathroom at the head of the staircase. Sam was in the space in two seconds flat, gripping to the mirror and staring with wide eyes at the image presented.

Disheveled blonde hair, hints of brown at the roots that suggested dye, tangled into a sloppy bun at the nape of the neck and falling out from a night of restless sleeping. Clear cleavage under the t-shirt, a mess of tie-dyed colors that could only be the work of a toddler. The eyes were rimmed with a soft darkness, the only part of the body Sam could say was the same, and they glinted a dark brown color.

"What the fuck?" Sam muttered. Then, louder: "What the FUCK?"

Before he – she – could process anything further, a piercing beeping sound registered from down the stairs, and Sam spun to the door, staring down the steps and then pattering down them quickly, trying to ignore the tugging of the excess weight on her chest.

When Sam skidded into the kitchen, he – she – found it filling with smoke, the small child that had woken her up frantically blowing on the burning toaster.

Like, literally burning. The toaster was on fire.

Sam's eyes flickered around the kitchen, some instinct dragging her to the cupboards under the sink, and she pulled out the fire extinguisher that was there, aiming it at the toaster and squeezing the handle.

Foam shot out from the nozzle, dousing the toaster and the child next to it, and for a moment the pair stood in silence, the screeching fire alarm still going off. Sam put down the extinguisher slowly and then glanced up, finding the alarm mounted over a door that appeared to lead into a backyard.

On habit, Sam stretched up to turn it off, finding with irritation that she was now several inches too short to just hit the button. Instead, she had to drag a chair over from a table in the corner, clamber up, and smack her thumb into the button.

When she climbed back down and turned around, the child was in tears. "I'm sorry, M-Mommy," he whimpered, clutching to the front of his shirt and wringing the hem with his fists. "I didn't m-mean to. I j-just w-wanted-"

Something about the look of the kid broke Sam's heart, and she knelt to the floor in front of him, reaching out and awkwardly squeezing a shoulder. "It's okay," she found herself saying. "Everything is fine now."

The child sniffled pathetically and then bolted from the kitchen, leaving Sam to wobble into a sitting position on the floor.

Okay, so he...she. He was a she. Right? That seemed to be the consensus, between the new body and the child calling him – her – Mommy. Sam was a woman, and a woman with a child to boot.

The next question Sam had was why.

Why was he a woman? How did he turn back? What had happened?

The phone was ringing.

Sam pulled him-herself off the ground, clinging to the wall, and rounded the corner into what was obviously the living room to find a land line (who the fuck still had land lines?) going nuts in the corner.

The caller ID rang up as some law firm that Sam had never heard of before, and she answered with trepidation, gnawing on a thumbnail as she dragged the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

"CHARLOTTE. Where the HELL are you?" demanded an angry male voice on the other end of the line. "You're an hour late, and we need to go over this case!"

"I...there was a fire at home," Sam (was he Charlotte now?) managed, eyeing the foamy mess in the kitchen. "Sorry."

There was a long pause, and then a deep sigh. "You and Blake all right, at least?"

"Who's-?" The kid. "Yeah, we're all right. He's a little freaked out, though. Don't know if I'll be able to make it in today."

Yet another long pause echoed in Sam's ear and she gnawed on her lower lip, lifting her gaze to the ceiling and crossing her fingers. Finally, the man gave a long groan. "Yeah, okay. Fine. I'll give the case to Johnson. See you Monday."

That's right, Sam mused as she hung up the phone. It was Friday, meaning that she had the whole weekend to figure out what the hell was going on.

"You did wish for this, you dunce," Sam muttered under her breath.

A small thud came from upstairs and she glanced at the ceiling again, shoulders slumping. The kid – Blake, she recalled – had seemed pretty freaked out.

"Parental instincts, don't fail me now," Sam muttered, huffing and moving back to the stairs. She climbed slowly, eyeing the family photos on the wall.

The very first one was the girl whose body Sam was inhabiting, Charlotte, at what seemed to be a rather young age. She was holding onto a baby in the picture, Blake, Sam assumed, and two older people were on either side of her, most likely her mother and father. No sign of a husband or wife, and the bed Sam had woken up in was pretty small, so Charlotte didn't appear to have any kind of permanent partner.

The rest of the photos were pictures of Blake throughout the years, in the bathtub, holding onto Grandma's fingers and toddling towards the camera, eyes squinted up in delight. His hair was a dark brown, eyes darker, and his skin tone was a lightly tanned color, the same tone as Charlotte's. He had a freckle under his nose, Sam noted.

It was easy to find Blake's room; aside from Charlotte's room and the bathroom, it was the only other door in the hallway, and it was decorated with superheroes.

Sam knocked with two knuckles, feeling nervous all of a sudden. "Uhh...Blake? You okay bud?"

"Go 'way."

His voice was muffled, and Sam pushed open the door slowly, squinting into the dark room. Blake was flopped face down onto a car shaped bed, pudgy fingers curled into his pillow. Sam stepped into the room slowly, shutting the door behind him, and hesitated before stepping over to the bed and squatting. "You okay?"

"You're mad at me."

Sam blinked in surprise. "What? No I'm not."

"Yes you are. I did a bad thing."

Sam settled onto her knees and reached a tentative hand out, setting it on Blake's back. "I'm not mad. Promise. I was just...a little scared."

Blake peeked up at that, brown eyes watery and lower lip puffed out. "Why?"

"Well," Sam said slowly, lifting his gaze up to avoid the probing eyes of the toddler. "There was a fire. So that's scary. But you were next to the fire, and that was scarier, because you could have gotten hurt."

"But I'm a big boy, you said so," Blake protested.

"Yes," Sam admitted, sitting back on her haunches. "But fire is still pretty dangerous. So we shouldn't touch it or play with it."

Blake nodded sagely and then sat up, shoving a fist against his eye and rubbing furiously. "Kay. Do you have to go to work now?"

"Nah, I'm taking the day off," Sam declared, giving the kid a warm smile. "Thought it would be more fun to hang out here."

"So Miss Patsy isn't coming over to watch me?" Blake inquired.

"Who?"

Blake frowned, his eyes glittering. "Miss Patsy. The neighbor."

Shit.

"Where's my cell phone, Blake? Do you remember seeing it? I can't seem to find it."

Blake bobbed his head and slid from the mattress, hopping to the floor in his socked feet and pattering out of the room. Sam rose and followed him back to the bedroom she had woken up in, watching as he trotted to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer, dragging out a phone. "Here it is!"

It was a flip phone. An honest to god flip phone. With the size of the house and the way Blake's room was furnished, Sam thought that Charlotte would have at least a basic smartphone, even if not a great one. Sam hadn't used a flip phone since 2007.

She took it gingerly and opened the cover, eyeing the lit screen on the inside. There was one missed call, sure enough, from a "Patsy Bennet" that Sam assumed was the neighbor in question.

She pressed the green phone button to call back, lifting the device to her ear and listening as it rang once, twice, and then -

"Charlotte, thank goodness. We saw smoke from the kitchen, are you and Blake all right?"

Sam blinked at the chipper voice and glanced down at Blake, who was staring intently at his fingers like he was in the midst of an epiphany. "Uh...yeah. Are you still able to watch Blake for an hour or two? I need to uh...I need to run to work, sort a few things out, and then they're giving me the rest of the day off."

"Really? Wow. You must really have freaked them out if they're doing that. Yeah, bring him over. Patrick is waiting for him to come play. See you in five?"

"Sure."

"Okie doke!"

The dial tone rang in Sam's ear and she turned to Blake, who was staring up at her in amazement. "D'you know we have ten fingers AND ten toes, Mommy?"

Sam managed a grin. "I sure did, buddy. Come on. We need to get ready to go see Miss Patsy."

Wrangling a toddler was much more of a challenge than Sam had anticipated. Sam was able to get dressed in thirty seconds flat, though that might have had something to do with how much she was trying to avoid looking at Charlotte's body while changing. But Blake was another challenge all together.

For one thing, Blake had a surprisingly short attention span and, just when Sam would be getting ready to tie a shoe or help put on a shirt, he would bolt for something in the room and start to play with it.

For another, Blake seemed intent on learning how to do everything step-by-step. Which in and of itself wasn't a bad thing, it was good for him to learn how to tie his own shoes, but Sam was kind of having an internal crisis.

"Blake, seriously, I told Miss Patsy I'd be over in five minutes almost fifteen minutes ago, you can show me that stuff when you get back," Sam finally groaned in exasperation when Blake had come bounding over with yet another art project.

Blake didn't seem to take offense, merely beamed and said, "Okay Mommy!" and then bounced to put away the item before heading for the stairs.

"Finally," Sam muttered.

They got out the door, Sam finding a set of keys next to it, and Sam let Blake lead the way over the small stepping stones in the tiny front yard that led to the neighbor's yard, blocked off by a short fence.

A woman was sitting on her front porch step holding a mug of what smelled like coffee, watching with a grin as who Sam assumed was her son Patrick went bouncing across the yard after a ball. A tee was set up in the corner, and he was holding a plastic bat.

"Mommy can I go play?" Blake pleaded.

"That's what we're here for," Sam said, voice monotone.

Blake stared at her for a long moment, his lip puffing out after a lapse of silence. "Mommy, you have to say goodbye."

"What?"

"Our special goodbye!" Blake whined, tugging on Sam's hand. "Pleeeeaasssse?"

Sam was at a loss. She had no idea what Blake wanted, or where to even begin, and she knelt in the grass slowly, dew seeping into her jeans. "Uh...how about you start?"

"That's not how it goes though!" Blake whimpered.

His eyes were getting glassy again, and Sam was about to panic, when the woman – Patsy – called out, her voice tinged with a sickly sweet Southern accent. "Hey! Charlotte! Come here for a second!"

"Sorry sweetie, I gotta go."

Sam bolted, feeling a coil of guilt in her stomach, but she moved rapidly towards Patsy, plastering a smile on her face. "What's up?"

"You sure the house and everything is all right from the fire?" Patsy asked, her eyes filled with concern.

Sam nodded. "Oh yeah. Fire extinguisher worked, and I unplugged the toaster."

"All that smoke was from the toaster?" Patsy yelped in disbelief.

"It sort of caught on fire," Sam admitted.

"How?"

Sam shifted on her feet, suddenly aware of how the next part would sound. "Um...I wasn't fully awake and Blake was trying to make breakfast for me."

"Jesus."

Patsy looked disappointed, and Sam winced. Apparently, Charlotte was not nearly as clumsy as he was. She was.

It was getting easier to think in feminine terms for himself, but Sam was struggling. He had to keep correcting his own brain, because if he started referring to himself as "he" while he was trapped in a woman's body, he was going to go insane.

Ah, fuck, he – she – was doing it again.

"Yeah, well...thanks again for watching him while I run in to work," Sam managed.

Patsy looked up from where she had been watching the boys play. "Of course, dear. I'll keep an eye out for Scott, too."

Sam had no idea who Scott was, but she played it safe, giving a weak smile and an, "Okay, thanks."

Sam left the yard before Patsy could answer back, booking it to the old Impala sitting in the driveway and sinking into the worn driver's seat.

What the fuck was going on? Who was she? Where was she?

Sam hadn't seen any kind of computer in the house, but Charlotte had to have one. Though even if she did, Sam wouldn't know the password to turn it on.

There had to be a library nearby, so Sam put the keys into the ignition, turned, cringed when the car spluttered, and then backed slowly out of the driveway.

She went left down the road, staying cautious until she saw a speed limit sign. Eventually she came to the end of the road, hesitating before making another left on a whim.

It took nearly eight minutes, but Sam finally maneuvered out of the neighborhood and onto a set of busier roads, one named Elm street (so helpful) and the other Winchester avenue (slightly better). She found herself maneuvering the streets, circling the district until she spotted the familiar sign that featured a person holding a book, directing her towards the right.

The library was easy to find after that, and she parked and went in with light trepidation, the doors whooshing open in her face and guiding her into a relatively small lobby.

Stairs led upwards to the right, and slightly behind her was an elevator. A sign on the wall listed each level, the first as the lobby, the second as the adult floor, the third the children's, and the fourth the city archives.

After a moment of thought, Sam shifted her shoulders, cringing under the feeling of bra straps digging into her skin, and started climbing the stairs.

They were steep, and it didn't help that the summer heat made them muggy as well, leading her to have to pause at the top of the landing and take a breath, heart racing. Sam nearly put a hand over her heart until she remembered that she probably should be keeping her hands down at all times.

The second-floor door creaked as she pressed it open, and Sam winced, poking her head in. Seeing that it was totally dead – everyone was probably at work, now that she thought about it – Sam stepped inside, shoving her hands awkwardly into her jeans pockets and glancing around.

It was split up on the floor, the left-half filled to the brim with books and the other half with books lining the walls and plush chairs scattered along. Sam headed in that direction, breathing out a sigh of relief when she found the computers lining the other parts of the walls, dividers between them. Only one person was there, at the far end, an older man who looked like he'd rather be doing anything other than be there.

There was a librarian sitting behind the desk, jotting something down on paper, and Sam opted not to bother him, instead sinking down into the closest swivel chair and toggling the mouse on the screen.

A box popped up, asking for her library card number, and Sam cursed in her head, moving to dig through the purse that she had grabbed on the way out the door.

It was cluttered with a million different things – crayons, tissues, a small first aid kit, a checkbook, a paperback novel, and, way at the bottom, a fuchsia wallet.

Sam pulled it out and unzipped it, flipping open the sides and beginning to thumb through the card holders, bypassing the million store discount cards and finding the library card tucked away behind a Starbuck's gift card.

She typed in the number as it appeared on the card and breathed a soft sigh of relief when the screen lit up with the pre-programmed internet browser, leading her to Google.

From that point, Sam didn't really know where to go. What did she look for first? Body switching stories? Nearby spell casters?

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for just another moment before she did the only thing that made sense.

Where am I?

She clicked Enter, and the tiny button in the top of the screen asked to know her location. She hit yes instantly and the browser flickered, pulling up the library address moments later.

Montana. She was in Montana.

That certainly explained the Southern-ish accent Patsy had, but it didn't explain why Charlotte herself didn't.

Montana was...how far was Montana from Philadelphia, actually? She typed it in carefully, making sure to get the town name right, and clicked search again.

2,000 miles. 32 hours by car. 195 by bike.

Sam cussed softly and thumped her head into her hand, staring at the screen. Her job was going to be wondering where she was, what she was doing, she was going to be fired. Unless...

Sam sat straight up and logged off the computer, bolting from her chair and back into the stairwell, flying down the steps and stopping in the lobby, whipping out her phone and dialing her own cellphone number from memory.

The line rang several times and Sam paced the entry, gnawing on a thumb. Finally, after four rings, there was a confused, "Hello?"

That was her – his – voice speaking to her. "Um...is this...is this Charlotte, by any chance?" Sam squeaked.

A long pause, and then a whispered, "Holy shit," came through the line.

Sam managed a weak chuckle. "Hi."

Charlotte, who was in his – her? - body, laughed, though it sounded forced. "Hi, Sam. That's...that's your name, right? Jesus Christ, I got yelled at by a strange woman this morning for not being up in time to go to work and – oh my god is Blake okay, is he-?"

"Blake is fine," Sam got out, sinking down onto a random chair in the lobby and leaning her head into her hand. Her heart was pounding. "He's with uh...with Patsy. I hope that's okay."

"Yeah," Charlotte breathed. It was weird to hear Sam's voice coming out of the speaker. "Yeah, that's the normal arrangement. Looks like you have more figured out than I do."

"My housekeeper's name is Moira," Sam found herself saying, shoulders relaxing from their tensed position as she talked about the less confusing parts of life. "She's really great. She probably won't look at you weird if you ask odd questions."

"Noted. Um...Patsy is a bit nosier? But Blake is really smart, if you need help with something just ask him."

"He seems like a smart kid," Sam said, realizing that she was already very fond of the kid.

She could hear Charlotte's smile in his next words. "Yeah, he is. He...he'll be okay with you, right?"

Sam frowned, the nervousness coming through the line loud and clear. "Of course. Seriously, I love kids. They're great. I actually..."

She huffed and glanced away, eyebrows furrowing. "I actually made a stupid wish last night, that I wanted to...you know, have kids, see what it was like to...to be a mom. As dumb as that sounds."

There was hesitation in her voice, but also a challenge, like Sam expected Charlotte to fight her. Instead, Charlotte seemed to gasp. "That's...pretty much what I wished for last night. Except I wanted...I wanted to be able to just exist, be seen as me, not just...a female lawyer."

Sam frowned, gears twisting in her head. "So...we both made wishes last night. Mine was on a shooting star-"

"Same. Sam, you're not really suggesting...?"

"What other explanation is there, Charlotte?"

There was a long silence, and then Charlotte breathed out. "So what do we do then? I don't know about you, but I made that wish in the moment. I...as good looking as you are, Sam, I do not want to spend the rest of my life in a man's body."

"Fair point. Ditto goes for you," Sam admitted, shifting her weight in the chair. "Like, you're beautiful, and Blake is great, but this is...not very comfortable for me. Plus I'm sure you want your son back."

"Of course," Charlotte murmured.

Sam frowned, tapping her fingers on her knees. "Well...if we changed by wishing on a shooting star, what if we do it the same way?"

"How do you mean?"

"What if we find another shooting star and just...wish to be back to normal?"

Charlotte hummed, and there was a clattering sound in the background. Sam winced, and Charlotte chuckled nervously. "Sorry," she grumbled. "Your hair dryer is...really confusing."

"Green button for cold air, red for hot," Sam said instantly, before freezing. "Wait, did you...shower?"

"...yes?"

Sam squawked and Charlotte stammered in her ear. "I'm sorry, but you just...damn, Sam, when was the last time you really showered? You did not smell good. Jesus, I didn't look or touch anything if that's what you're freaking about. Hell, I'm sure you've taken a fair gander at me."

There was bitterness in his voice, and Sam instantly got defensive. "Excuse you, I didn't fucking look at anything. I saw that I had boobs and freaked. I'm not an asshole, Charlotte. I got dressed without looking – by the way, bras fucking suck – and I haven't even taken a piss yet. Jesus."

She scowled and almost considered hanging up the phone, but Charlotte spoke before she could. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I'm just really used to..."

"Guys being douchebags, right?" Sam muttered.

"Yeah," Charlotte admitted, his voice apologetic. "My ex is...not a good guy. Watch out for him."

Sam frowned, eyebrows crinkling, and she sat up in her seat. "Scott?"

"Yeah, how did you-?"

"Patsy mentioned him, when I dropped Blake off. I...you don't want him near him?"

"No. He's not abusive," Charlotte explained slowly. "At least, not physically. But...I won a settlement a while back, a pretty large amount, and 90 percent of it went into Blake's college fund. The rest of it is in my savings, but he feels like he's entitled to it, for being Blake's father."

"So you don't have to have this shitty flip phone?"

"Seriously, that's all you got out of this?"

"No," Sam said with a roll of his eyes. "I'll keep him away from Blake, promise."

"Thank you," Charlotte said, voice filled with relief. "Um...so back to this shooting star business...what if it only works because we wish at the same time? Like what if you see a star and I don't, or vice versa?"

"Good point," Sam muttered. Her nails dug into her jeans, and she paused while the older male patron from upstairs passed her, giving her a brief once over before leaving the building. "Well...fly out here."

"What?"

"I've got plenty of extra funds that you could easily take a flight out here. Plus, then you could see Blake."

Charlotte hesitated, and Sam could almost hear him thinking. "Are...are you sure?"

"Yeah. Have Moira take off work for you."

"Oh...okay. Speaking of work...I'm assuming you didn't go in today."

"Yeah," Sam said, nodding. Her legs were starting to cramp, so she stood and walked towards the door, holding the phone to her ear.

"The case...went to Johnson?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

Sam froze, guilt coiling in his stomach. "That's not a good thing, is it?"

"No, no, it's not your fault, you would have been useless anyway, it's just...we're both up for the same promotion. Ugh. Okay, here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna get Moira to call off for you for a week, buy a plane ticket, and fly out there. You call in, say that you're sick or that Blake is sick, and offer to take all the cases home in order to work on them. I'll do the cases for you, and we can...figure this out."

Sam nodded. It was the first solid plan she'd heard since waking up that morning. "Okay. Okay, that works."

The doors whooshed open, letting her out, and Sam glanced up in time to catch the old guy from inside leering at her. He caught her eye, winked, made a lude gesture with his closed fist and tongue, and Sam quickened her pace, rage filling her core. "I'm gonna fucking murder him."

"Who?"

She had forgotten that Charlotte was still on the line. "Uh...I'm at the library. This gross old guy. I'm going to deck him."

"No."

"What?"

"You can't," Charlotte said, his voice filled with regret. "Being an attorney means that if you get into legal trouble, I could lose credibility. Or my job. Or my license. Being a woman means that if you punch him, he punches back, and it doesn't end well for you. Ignore him and walk away."

"Walk away? He just made like...a sucking gesture at me!"

"It happens. Walk away, Sam."

Sam did as Charlotte asked, sliding into her seat and slamming the door shut. "Jesus fuck."

"Sucks, doesn't it?"

Sam took a deep breath and her shoulders slumped. She leaned back against the seat. "Yeah. Yeah, it does. Okay. Um, I don't know how charged your phone is, so I’m...hopefully I can find my way back to your house."

"All of my login codes are taped to the inside of the bedside drawer," Charlotte informed her.

Sam found himself smiling. "Mine are taped under my desk."

"Thanks. Give...give Blake a hug for me, okay? I'll text when I'm about to fly out."

"Will do. Bye, Charlotte."

"Bye, Sam."

She found the house again after only a few mishaps, pulling into the driveway and shutting the car off, taking a deep breath and dragging her hands down her face. Jesus fucking Christ, what had she gotten herself into? It was just a wish, how was she supposed to know that it would actually come true?

Sam kept trying to tell herself that it was all a dream, but when she got out of the car, the sun burned the car under her touch, the gravel under her feet got in her shoes and stung, the rose bushes at the edge of Patsy's yard prickled her skin. She would have woken up now if she was in a dream, would have had some kind of weird addition to everything, like the sky turning purple or Benedict Cumberbatch crawling out of the house windows.

It wasn't a dream.

She had to keep telling herself that as she climbed Patsy's porch steps, shifting from foot to foot as she pressed the doorbell.

The door opened a moment later and Patsy looked at her, befuddled. "Since when do you ring the doorbell?" she demanded incredulously.

"Uh...sorry. Was a little lost in thought, not thinking," Sam fumbled, shooting her a sheepish smile.

Patsy tilted her head, and now that Sam wasn't quite so confused about who she was or what the hell was going on, she could better appreciate Charlotte's next-door neighbor.

She was plump around the middle, and yet she was tall, which Sam found an endearing combination. Her hair, an ashy blonde color, was drawn back into a loose braid that fell over her shoulder. She was wearing jeans and a floral blouse, and there was paint covering her hands. Her feet were bare, and her eyes glittered a deep green color in the sun. There was a pair of glasses resting on top of her head, which Sam also found kind of cute, and a smattering of light freckles along her nose and cheeks.

“Are you coming in?” Patsy asked. “The boys are finger painting.”

That explained the hands. Sam shifted. “Um...sure.”

Sam followed Patsy inside, taking in the interior of the house. It was laid out much the same way as Charlotte’s, with low ceilings and wide rooms. The front door led into the living room, with a staircase off to the left. Patsy crossed through the living room, picking her way over scattered toys, and Sam took her time following, eyeing the pictures on the wall.

Similar to Charlotte, there were a lot of photos of her son on the walls. But unlike Charlotte, Patsy clearly had good relationships with Patrick’s father, given that he was in the majority of the photos.

That thought made Sam a little sad, though she couldn’t quite place why.

Her train of thought was lost when her foot caught on a toy train and she squawked, flailing to the floor with a thud and a groan. Patsy was at her side in moments, eyes wide. “Oh gosh, are you okay?” she breathed.

“Fine, fine,” Sam grumbled, allowing Patsy to grab her by the hand. “I just...trip when I get distracted.”

“What distracted you?”

Sam frowned and nodded to the family photo as they stood up, twisting her lips up. “Just that picture,” she explained.

Patsy’s face slumped a bit, and Sam lifted an eyebrow in confusion. She didn’t notice. “Oh. Yeah. It’s...coming up on a year now. Patrick’s been kinda sad lately. Blake helps a lot, so it’s nice to have him over.”

Sam really didn’t have a good response to that, seeing as she had no idea what Patsy was talking about. She settled for wrapping a hesitant arm around her shoulders and giving her a side hug. Women did side hugs, right?

Patsy leaned into it and sighed, so at the very least Sam had gotten that right. She found herself speaking again. “Let’s go see the boys, mm?”

Patsy nodded and Sam let her lead the way through the living room and into the dining room, where the boys were sitting around the table. It was covered in newspapers, and they were absolutely covered in paint. Blake was in the midst of flinging a glob of paint onto his piece of paper, which was dripping with reds and blues, when he saw the adults in the doorway.

“Mommy!” he squealed, flinging his hands up.

Sam watched in mild horror as the paint left his fingers and splattered into the ceiling, leaving a dripping blue mass on the otherwise pristine white paint. Sam looked at Patsy slowly, who had a hand over her mouth, and breathed out a weak, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Patsy said after a moment, tearing her eyes away from the ceiling and turning to look at Sam. “Uh...I shouldn’t have left them alone.”

“Blake, apologize to Miss Patsy please,” Sam said, making her voice stern.

Blake at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry, Miss Patsy.”

“It’s okay, buddy,” Patsy said, her voice warm. “Your mommy is here to pick you up, do you need help out of your smock?”

His smock was merely a large white t-shirt, or at least, what had once been a white t-shirt, and Blake squirmed out of it easily, handing it back to Patsy and then waving a cheerful goodbye to Patrick, who was eyeing the paint with a look in his eye that was too hungry for Sam’s comfort. She ushered Blake out of the house, eyeing the photos again on the way out but making sure not to trip again, and across the lawn to Charlotte’s house.

As she approached the porch, she caught sight of a larger man peeking through the windows of the house, one hand shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun and the other hand knocking on the panes. “Charlotte! I know you’re home, your car is here!”

Blake had stopped when Sam did, and his hand tightened. “Mommy, is that-?”

Charlotte’s warning rang in Sam’s ears and she scooped Blake up onto her hip without thinking, immediately turning around and quick stepping to Patsy’s house.

She had only made it several steps before there was a gleeful yell and footsteps behind her. Sam’s heart rate spiked and her forehead beaded with sweat, and she suddenly realized -

She was terrified.

Sam had never been scared of another man in her life. Well, maybe except for her father, but it was a healthy fear, the kind of fear that kept her from doing pot and drinking before it was legal.

This, though.

The palm sweating, finger trembling fear that coursed through her, the terror that she wouldn’t get out of this encounter alive, the absolute dread at the fact that Blake was in her arms and wasn’t fighting, wasn’t speaking, was instead burying his nose into her neck.

It was a terror that Sam had never felt in her existence.

She suddenly understood why women crossed the street at night.

“You taking the day off work?” the raspy voice behind her droned.

Sam took a breath and turned around, her grip tightening on Blake. “None of your business,” she snapped, but her voice shook.

The guy, who Sam just knew was Scott, smirked at the sound. “Playing hooky, eh?”

He was lean but tall, with clear build to his upper body. A pack of cigarettes poked from his shirt pocket, and he had a ragged beard and mustache. His hair was unkempt and greasy, slicked back into a weak bun on top of his head. The jeans he wore were tattered, the shoes more so, and he smelled like tobacco and body odor. Sam could practically taste it on her tongue.

“Just leave,” Sam bit off.

Her grip was almost too tight on Blake, but she refused to let him go, to let him look up. Scott scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets. That didn’t reassure her.

“Look, ‘m just here to ask if you could loan me like...fifty bucks. Y’know I don’t want more than that.”

“Except if I give it to you you’ll keep coming back,” Sam spat, her entire body trembling with rage. “That money is for Blake’s college fund.”

“Hell, the boy is four years old! He ain’t going to college for more than a decade. What’s fifty bucks gonna hurt?”

“She said no.”

Sam almost groaned in relief at the sound of Patsy’s voice. The woman stood on her porch, phone in hand, and her eyes were narrowed. “Don’t make me call my sister again.”

Sam had no idea who her sister was, but it seemed to piss Scott off. His eyes glinted with anger and he took a step back. “Y’all are bitches. Can’t even help a boy’s father out.”

“You are not his father,” Patsy spat. “You’re a fucking dick is what you are.”

Sam winced, clinging closer to Blake and lifting a hand to cover his ears. He didn’t seem to be listening much, though. Sam could feel the dampness on her shirt where the tears were leaking in, and it pissed her off.

“Get off my property, Scott,” Patsy threatened. “Or my sister and the whole fucking police department will be on your ass the rest of your life.”

“Fuck both of you,” Scott snapped.

He flipped them off and left the yard, and Sam heard a vague sound that reminded her of someone kicking a car. That explained the beat-up appearance of the Impala, at least.

Footsteps behind her, and then Patsy was at her side, a gentle hand on her elbow and the other hand running it’s fingers through Blake’s hair. “Want me to call my sister?”

“It’s okay,” Sam stammered out. She loosened her grip on Blake just enough that he could shift in her grasp. “Thank you.”

“Of course, love. Call me if he comes back, mm’k?”

“I will.”

Sam crossed the yard again and went up the porch to Charlotte’s house, unlocking the door and then shutting and re-locking it behind her. She sat down on the couch, let go of Blake fully, and suddenly realized just how badly she was shaking. “You okay?” she found herself asking Blake.

Blake bobbed his head, looking up at her with wide, teary eyes. “You said the bad guy wouldn’t come back.”

Sam winced at the crack in his words and she brushed his hair from his face in what she hoped was a soothing manner. “I’m sorry. Sometimes bad people don’t know when to stay away. Here. How about you go change into something without paint all over it, and then we can spend the day...watching cartoons and eating popcorn?”

Blake stared at her. “Popcorn for lunch?”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay!”

All worries gone, he bolted up the stairs and Sam sighed, pulling out her cell and lifting Charlotte’s - or rather, her – contact from the recent calls history. She put it into a text and for a moment couldn’t remember how to type on a flip phone.

The habit came back pretty quickly though, and she managed to send out a somewhat coherent text.

Saw Scott. Blake is fine. When r u coming?

The phone buzzed in her hand a moment later and Sam answered the phone, glancing to the stairs. “Hi, Charlotte.”

“Blake’s okay?” was his immediate question.

“Yes,” Sam said, nodding even though Charlotte couldn’t see it. “Patsy got rid of him by threatening to call...her sister?”

Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. “Her sister is the chief of police. Good. To answer your question, I’ve booked the soonest flight. I’ll actually be out there tonight. If you could...pick me up? Is that weird?”

“Maybe a little,” Sam admitted with a weak chuckle. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll look up how to get to the airport and everything. You doing okay?”

“Yeah. Moira seems...suspicious. And your boss was surprisingly chill with you taking like a week off.”

“He’s a chill guy.”

“Seems like.”

They lapsed into awkward silence, until a small thump from upstairs brought Sam back into focus. “What happened with Patsy’s husband?”

“What?” That clearly hadn’t been what Charlotte was expecting.

“Her husband. She got all teary eyed, said Patrick was upset and stuff.”

“Oh. He uh...he was in the military, and he got killed in combat around this time last year. It’s been pretty hard for them.”

Sam wilted a bit at that declaration. “That’s awful.”

“She doesn’t like to be reminded of it.”

“Mommy, I’m reeeeaadddddyyyyyy!”

Sam snorted and shook her head. “All right. When does the flight get in tonight?”

“It said around 8. So...I guess I’ll see you then?” Charlotte asked.

“You’ll see yourself then,” Sam teased.

“Right. Jesus Christ, this is so weird.”

“Preaching to the choir.”

The directions to the airport fluttered on Sam’s lap. It had taken her almost ten minutes to figure out how to do up Blake’s car seat, and now she was sitting in the pickup lane at the airport, scouring the crowds for – well, her own face.

It was a trippy experience to say the least, and Sam already had whiplash. In less than 24 hours she had gone from a simple man to a single mother of a toddler who was a fucking lawyer across the country.

Some warbled voice filtered across the loudspeaker outside, one that Sam couldn’t understand, and she glanced up in time to see herself – himself? - step out of the exit, her old duffle bag clutched in hand.

He was looking around, a bit anxious, and Sam had to cringe at the outfit Charlotte had elected to put on. Khakis and plaid? Really?

Sam hesitated and then beeped twice, watching as he turned towards the sound and slumped in relief. He rushed forwards, pulled open the passenger side door, and froze.

“Sorry,” he breathed after a minute, managing a weak smile. He tossed the duffle onto the floor and slid into the car. “That was...just a little freaky.”

Sam hadn’t taken her eyes off him. “Trust me, I know.”

Charlotte glanced back at Blake, who had drifted off in his car seat, and visibly relaxed. ”He’s okay.”

“I told you he would be,” Sam grumbled, pulling into traffic.

Charlotte huffed and looked forward. “I know. Sorry.”

“S’okay.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment, until finally Charlotte squirmed. “It’s faster to take Mapleton.”

“Okay.”

Sam switched lanes and turned left, easing the car onto the smaller road and then sighing. “Look, this won’t end well if we’re awkward with each other. Especially because Blake will probably pick up on it and ask us five thousand questions. So...how should we go about the next few days?”

Charlotte hummed, pulling out Sam’s smart phone and squinting at it. “I don’t know how you use this thing,” he admitted. “But...when we get back, we could look up the star patterns, see how that goes.”

“Works for me,” Sam decided.

“Right here.”

They got back with minimal effort, Sam unbuckling Blake while Charlotte shifted behind her. When Sam lifted him into her arms, Charlotte frowned. “Why can’t-?”

“How would he feel if he woke up in the arms of a stranger?”

Charlotte sighed and shook his head. “Right, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Sam said quietly as she opened the door and stepped aside, letting Charlotte pass. “He’s your kid, you’re allowed to be worried about him. You have a lot more to be worried about than I do.”

“Moira seems to care about you a lot, though,” Charlotte whispered, dropping his bag at the edge of the couch. “She’s a good person.”

“Yeah, she is,” Sam said, her voice fond.

Blake shifted in her grasp, blinking blearily at Charlotte. “Mommy, who’s’at?” he grumbled, rubbing at his eye with a fist.

“That’s...Sam,” Sam said, eyes shooting to Charlotte with a weak grin. “He’s gonna be staying with us for a little while. He’s working on some stuff here.”

“Mm’k,” Blake yawned. “Can I go to bed now?”

Charlotte chuckled, voice low. “You must be really tuckered out if you’re asking to go to bed.”

“Me n Mommy watched a whole buncha movies today.”

“Did you now?” Charlotte said, his tone indicating that he didn’t like that.

Sam winced. “Yup. Let’s get you to bed, buddy.”

When she returned to the main floor, she found Charlotte in the kitchen, holding the burned toaster in hand. “What the hell happened?” he demanded. “I wasn’t even gone for 24 hours!”

Sam scowled. “To be fair, it’s been a pretty fucked up day. If it wasn’t for Patsy I would have decked your ex.”

Charlotte slumped, putting the toaster down. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. He thinks that because he’s Blake’s father he’s entitled to everything that I have. Patsy is a real blessing sometimes.”

“Yeah. She’s pretty great.”

Sam hadn’t realized that her voice was fond when she said it, but when Charlotte leaned over, an eyebrow quirked on his face, she froze. “What?”

“Don’t you go getting a crush on my friend. All I know about you is that you respond to catcalling with violence and that you somehow caught my toaster on fire.”

Sam spluttered out a protest, but Charlotte wasn’t listening. “I’ll take the couch, so that way-”

“It’s your bed.”

Charlotte glanced up, an eyebrow raised, and Sam gave a weak smile. “I’ll...I’ll take the couch. It’s okay.”

“What about Blake?”

“It’ll be okay. Seriously, go ahead.”

Charlotte eyed her slowly and then tilted his head. “All right. Keep an eye out on your weather app for any potential meteor showers or anything, though.”

“Will do.”

Over the next week, Charlotte and Sam put their full efforts into researching falling and shooting stars. Sam went into the law firm dressed in a scarf and fake sneezing into her hand, picked up the cases that Charlotte asked for, and brought them back. He worked on those during the day while Sam ran errands, dropped Blake off at Patsy’s, and researched.

The more Sam got to know Patsy, the more she had to admit that Charlotte might be right.

The first clue was when Patsy “met” Charlotte for the first time. Sam saw the once over she gave him, saw the quirk in her lips, and envy settled low in her gut.

Envy. That this woman was ogling HERSELF.

The second clue was when Sam caught herself smiling as the woman giggled at a joke she had made, her stomach fluttering a bit as Patsy covered her mouth to cover her laughter. It was a shame, really; she had such a lovely laugh.

The revelation that she genuinely found Patsy attractive and funny and wonderful came almost five days after Charlotte had gotten back.

Blake had become very attached to him, calling him “Uncle Sam” whenever they were together. Sam could tell that it hurt Charlotte a little, that he was struggling not to do the cutesy things with Blake that he’d like to be doing, and that made her work harder to find the right time to switch back.

To hopefully switch back.

Because really, they didn’t know if their plan would work. Didn’t know if it was all a fluke, if they would ever truly be themselves again.

Hell, sometimes Sam still expected to wake up from a dream.

The sixth night after Charlotte had gotten back, after they had put Blake to sleep, they were researching once more. Sam had convinced Charlotte to dip into the savings just a little bit and buy a smartphone to replace the old flip phone, and he had consented upon realizing that it wasn’t actually as expensive as he thought it was.

At least, when he stayed away from Apple it wasn’t.

Around 9:30, Charlotte sat up and slapped Sam on the shoulder. “There’s a meteor shower around 3 am tonight.”

“What?”

Charlotte looked up, eyes glinting, and Sam started grinning. “Are you serious?”

“Yes!”

They both whooped and high fived.

They had gotten much closer over the last few days. Charlotte had stopped worrying that Sam would be a bad influence on or hurt Blake in any way. He had seen how good she was with him, and slowly his fears had dissipated. Sam had confided in Charlotte about the fear that she had felt when Scott had confronted her and Blake, and Charlotte had guided her through that fear, made her feel better about the whole situation.

Packing up their equipment, Sam suddenly realized how much she was going to miss both of them. Charlotte and Blake had become like family she never really had.

Sure, her parents were still alive. But she never saw them, and she was an only child. Charlotte had become what she suspected a sister was like, Blake like a nephew, and Sam wasn’t sure she was really ready to give that all up.

Not to mention, Patsy and Patrick.

Though she hadn’t gotten to know Patrick quite as well, he was a great, empathetic kid. And Patsy herself was an amazing, tough woman. Leaving them would be almost as hard, if not harder, than leaving Charlotte and Blake.

“Sam?”

She looked at Charlotte, eyes wide, and blinked. “Yeah?”

Charlotte frowned, his fingers tightening on the back of his chair. “You okay? You seem a bit lost there.”

“I...was just thinking about how I don’t really want to leave.”

Charlotte looked taken aback, and then slowly he smiled. “I don’t think Blake really wants you to go either. He really likes you. Or at least, my version of you. Plus Patsy has been eyeing you all over the place.”

“She has?”

“Geez, have you not been wearing my glasses? Hell yeah she has.”

Sam flushed and looked at the floor, eyebrows furrowing. Charlotte took the silence as invitation to keep speaking. “I mean...there is a house for sale down the street. It’s certainly not as fancy as yours, but you definitely have the money to drop on it. And I’m sure Moira would love to get out of Philly.”

Sam whipped her head up. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. I can tell she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t seem like a city girl.”

Sam hummed, a smile twitching on her lips, and Charlotte put a hand on her shoulder. “Just think about it, eh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

3 am came too quickly. They were outside at 2:30, just in case, sitting on the front porch steps and staring out into the skyline.

Living in a big city her whole life, Sam had never really had the chance to truly appreciate the stars. Now, out in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, Montana, the city pollution was low, and the town that Charlotte lived in didn’t have much light pollution.

The sky was littered with stars, glittering and flickering along the skyline. Sam had seen the usual constellations of course; the Big Dipper, Ursa Major, Orions Belt. But out here, she couldn’t see those, could see constellations that she had never seen before, ones that she couldn’t even name.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured out loud, flushing after she realized she had spoken.

Charlotte, who was cupping a mug of coffee in his hands, tossed her a small smile. “Isn’t it? I was only in Philly one day, but...damn, how do you stand the noise?”

“I just...grew up with it,” Sam said with a shrug. “It’s never really something I realized I could live without.”

“Mmm.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, staring up at the stars.

“Why did you make the wish?” Charlotte asked suddenly. “To be a woman, I mean. A mother, specifically.”

Sam fidgeted, taping her fingers against her arms. “I...I thought it might be better. Mentally, somehow. I wanted a kid of my own, but I didn’t have that opportunity. I just wanted to know...how you felt, I guess.”

Charlotte hummed thoughtfully, and Sam shot him a look. “What about you?”

“Truthfully?”

Sam nodded.

“I wanted to stop being treated like a pair of tits and more like the lawyer I actually am. And I...raising Blake is tough. He’s an amazing kid, but sometimes there’s only so much you can handle.”

“I get that,” Sam said softly.

“I miss him, though,” Charlotte murmured, taking a sip of his coffee. “My boy. I also...dicks are really uncomfortable.”

Sam chuckled, clapping a hand over her mouth. “I could say the same about boobs,” she said with a laugh.

Charlotte grinned and shook his head. “All women agree with you on that, trust me.”

Silence again, eyes turning back to the sky, and Sam’s breath hitched. “There,” she whispered, pointing.

A single star, or more likely, a comet, streaked across the sky, and the duo looked at one another.

They closed their eyes, wishes unspoken, and after a long minute, opened them ago, still the same.

“It didn’t work,” Charlotte said sadly.

“Not yet,” Sam remembered. “We fell asleep the first time, right?”

“Right.”

They stood, regarded each other, and then went inside to go to bed.

Sam passed out on the couch and woke up in bed, staring at the ceiling with perfectly clear vision. For a moment, he thought he had fallen asleep with Charlotte’s glasses.

And then he felt the soothing comfort of his old flannel pajama pants, the lack of awkward weight on his chest, and he sat up, lifting a hand to his face to find morning stubble scratching at his fingers.

“Shit,” he muttered, and it was his terrible, stinky morning voice he was speaking with.

He whooped and leapt out of bed, sprinting down the hall and flying down the stairs to find Charlotte sitting up on the couch, staring at her hands with a small smile on her face. She looked up at him and gave him a thumbs up and he tilted his head, running for the door.

“Where are you going?” Charlotte demanded, voice baffled.

“I’m a dude and Patsy is straight!” he shouted back at her.

Her laughter followed him out the door and he darted across the yard, cursing at the cold dew on his bare feet and pattering up Patsy’s front stoop quickly.

He was breathless as he hit the doorbell, and she answered a moment later, eyes tired, a robe on, and a coffee mug in hand. Her eyes glazed over him once, twice, and she lifted a brow.

Sam was suddenly very aware that he was only wearing a tank top. “Uh...morning.”

“You’re not wearing shoes,” Patsy noted, a hint of laughter in her voice.

Sam smiled sheepishly. “I uh...I know. I just...had the urge to come over here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Would you maybe...like to go to dinner? I know we don’t know each other really well, but I feel like I’ve gotten to know you this week, and you’re an amazing woman.”

Patsy’s lips quirked upwards. “Aren’t you going back home, soon?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It depends on your answer,” Sam said. He still hadn’t quite caught his breath.

Patsy leaned against the doorjamb and lifted her coffee to her lips. “Yeah,” she decided finally. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

Sam whooped, kissed her on the cheek without hesitating, and sprinted back to Charlotte’s house.

He had to call Moira. They were buying a house in Montana.

#my writing #commissions #writing commissions #oc characters #this one was tougher #mainly because sam and charlotte couldn't end up together and that threw me off a lot

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prettywordsyouleft · 6 years

Text

Superstitious

Summary: Your bad luck had been your only friend growing up. Now that you’re studying at university, could you meet someone who accepted you?

Characters: Lee Taeyong x reader

Genre: fluff / supernatural au

A/N: Welcome to the first story of Frightful October! Admittedly this happened all too fast. The idea was to use a different idol and more supernatural elements but this literally wrote itself after a gifset of clumsy Taeyong, and I’m so happy with it! I hope you enjoy this!

Word count: 3024

Your whole life had been built up on superstitions.

As someone who had been ill as a child, you had heard many old wives tales given to your parents to nurse you back to health. But since then you had been nothing but clumsy, relatives and family friends would always remind you to be careful.

“You were born with bad luck, you mustn’t make it worse!” your Grandmother had chanted for your entire childhood.

So naturally you became cautious.

You avoided all the common superstitions. At first your cousin had chastised you for being so foolish. No one could have such bad luck just because of a few folklores. But there had been one time where you missed that it was Friday the 13th and came home with a broken arm and a bad case of pneumonia from a simple school trip. From there on, you stayed home on those days. Mirrors weren’t something you allowed yourself to get too close to since you were eleven; only just recovering from what you felt was an extremely difficult adolescence, and you were certain it came from breaking a large mirror in your family home. You never stood on train tracks and cracks, or walked under a ladder, just in case. Umbrellas were rarely used by you, and if anyone opened one inside around you, it would send you into a fizz.

To counter your bad luck you had every lucky charm and well intended chant incorporated into your life, your keyring sported a rabbits foot, your bedroom door had a horseshoe up the right away, and you would always knock on wood, say bless you when someone sneezed, and admittedly, you carried salt with you always.

You could say you were more than prepared to combat any bad luck coming in threes.

But this made you different. People didn’t like being around you because you were a beacon of bad luck in your little town. Everyone knew about you. Growing up, you were soon blacklisted off of any sporting team, the last to be chosen for anything and those who ended up with you were instantly depressed. Group presentations were something you simply didn’t do; even teachers would rearrange the assignment so you could work on it alone. And if they weren’t doing that to help the students they would set up feng-shui or their own lucky talismans whenever you were in their classes to ward off any bad luck you might produce.

Any misfortunes that happened to the township was blamed on you, and only you. Even your family were spared from being lumped with you, others sympathising with them for having such a daughter. It made you feel less loved by them, and soon you preferred to be alone anyways.

You were used to being ostracised, but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt any less.

Because you had no one to rely on, you turned to your inner passion. It had been by mistake that you had stumbled upon the world of magic and folklore, studying up further superstitions when you were fourteen, in hopes to find a way to be accepted. Being hormonal and going through puberty had made you especially lonely, and desperate. But instead of finding a magical cure, you found yourself intrigued by supernatural things. You started studying mythical creatures, immortals, shape shifters, and other magical beings. It was like a whole new world, one you longed to belong to. You felt closer to these folk, and hoped to discover them one day. You had tried everything. You had often walked in the forests surrounding your township, even though you ran the high probability of coming home limping from tripping over, only to hope to see some sign of a woodland fairy or nymph, to cross paths with a wolf that held human eyes, or to step into a witches’ coven. It never happened, though you never gave up hope that one day you would meet someone who could accept you and all your bad luck too.

Your favourite thing to study about was witchcraft and you had dabbled in it from time to time, mostly to humour yourself, but sometimes it had been out of desperation again. To find a cure to your clumsiness, or to make at least your parents like you.

And on the night of school prom, to have Oh Sehun somehow fall in love with you and pick you up to take you to the dance.

You knew it wouldn’t happen. Your Grandmother had built it well into your psyche; you were just a really bad apple.

Somehow, perhaps because you had so much time to study due to not having a social life, you won a scholarship to the university you had picked as your choice. Your parents had been hesitant to let you go, unleashing your bad luck on others had always been something they tried their best to prevent, almost keeping you captive all these years. Your township had been tiny; going to the city would be overwhelming for someone like you, so they believed.

You only saw it as freedom. No one knew you, perhaps you could start anew, and not have bad luck there, you had argued. Though deep down you doubted that too. You were destined to carry around talismans and every lucky charm for the rest of your life.

All the same you finally made it, ignoring the party that you knew the township was throwing the same day you left for Seoul. Because the idea of leaving them was something to rejoice yourself. Even though you were scared a lot that day.

You were hyper alert on the train ride to your new home, not allowing yourself to rest even though you had been up since 5am. You had to make sure you didn’t harm anyone else unintentionally. And you had been successful, but it was terribly exhausting too. When you finally made it to your dorms, you pulled out your room information, looking up at the tall building and then back at your number.

#127.

You groaned as you found the stairwell. You hadn’t taken an elevator in your entire life. Instead you were left climbing up twelve flights of stairs with all your luggage. You were thankful when you saw the door number ahead of you, unlocking it and reaching to turn on the light. Nothing changed; the room was still in darkness. Groaning, you went into your tiny kitchen area and turned on the faucet, and nothing came out except and odd gurgle sound.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t cry. Today you had escaped your bad luck in your hometown.

But it was hard to hold the tears back and to grasp onto hope.

Surprisingly, after that night your life did take a turn for the better. For the next month, you had managed to not harm yourself more than usual, and not bother anyone else. You actually got hired for a part time job and kept it so far, all whilst navigating your university life with some success. It had given you a sense of acheivement and confidence to finally be in a bustling environment that no one knew you, and be seen as another student, not the one who everyone needs to avoid like the plague.

But that also blinded you for what was to come next. You had been so focused on yourself, that you hadn’t once expected there to be someone like you out there. You had spent years trying to find at least one other who suffered from bad luck like you. And not one person had ever appeared.

Until your world collided with Lee Taeyong. Literally.

“Ow!” you cried as you found yourself on the ground, rubbing your elbow lightly and then looking around yourself. Your stuff was everywhere, but it was mixed in with more than it should have been. You found the culprit sitting on the ground and rubbing at his own leg too. He laughed sheepishly and got up, holding out a hand for you to take. You reached up for it, but he pulled you up too fast and you struggled to gather your balance in time, both of you toppling back onto the grass. Except you were now on top of him, and blushing profusely.

“Ah, sorry,” he said weakly, laughing again. “I’m kind of clumsy. I didn’t mean to pull you down on me like this; honest it wasn’t a plan or anything. I was genuinely meaning to just help you up, but perhaps I shouldn’t have because now we’re like this and I’m rambling and I should really just stop, right?”

You nodded.

This time you both got up by your own device, the taller boy biting at his lip for a moment and then thrust his hand out for you to take. “I’m Lee Taeyong.”

“Y/N,” you greeted, shaking his hand and looking at all your things on the ground.

Taeyong’s eyes followed your gaze and immediately set to collecting your papers. “I’m so sorry about this. Honestly I am so useless at times!”

“Don’t feel like that, I’m clumsy too. It could have easily been me,” you assured, smiling at how alike he sounded. You were certain you had been more than over accommodating to others in the past when you made a mistake. It almost made you feel bad for Taeyong, but the sting in your elbow reminded you not to grow too helpful towards him either.

If he was clumsy like you, it could be a recipe for disaster.

“I think I’ve collected them all,” he stated, handing you the pile and then glanced down at his watch. He gasped. “Oh I’m late for class. It was nice bumping into you, well I mean not literally, but figuratively, and I hope to see you again and not harm you of course!”

He was off, his words trailing after him and you couldn’t help but giggle to yourself at how adorable he was. Unlike you, he took his clumsiness in his stride, his bubbly nature seeming infectious. You wondered if he was truly as clumsy as he said, and had been ostracised. Shaking your head, you doubted it, with his handsome looks he would still be accepted by others for sure.

You headed off to the library, which was thankfully uneventful for the rest of the walk there, and settled into studying quietly. And then there was a loud ringtone that startled you and the others around you. For a moment you stared, waiting to see who would silence their phone until you realised it was coming from inside your stash of papers. With colour flaring to your cheeks, you fumbled around to find the source of the noise, a mobile phone appearing as you scattered the papers quickly. You all but jumped on it to silence it, answering the call on the unfamiliar phone.

“Hello?” you whispered.

“Oh thank god, that’s you Y/N, right? It’s me, Taeyong. I think you have my phone.”

Getting up and moving away from all the glares, you walked over to the windows before answering him. “Since I answered it in the middle of the library, I think yes, I do.”

“Ouch, I forgot to put it on silent. Stay where you are, I’ll come to you.”

And then the line went dead before you could tell him what floor you were on.

You waited of course, though there were three libraries on campus, and you weren’t in the main one. It was cutting it close to when you would need to leave for your part time job, and it was making you anxious, your eyes abandoning the ancient text in front of you to keep a look out for Taeyong. Eventually you packed up your belongings whilst you waited, and then even your seat when someone came along and the study area was full. You decided to move down to the lobby just in case when the phone rang again.

“Where are you?” he asked with a pant and you sighed lightly.

“If you had of let me tell you before you hung up, you’d have met me by now,” you scolded, surprised with how annoyed you sounded.

It wasn’t lost on him. “Sorry, I have bad luck and now I’m throwing it on you. Tell me where you are, okay?”

You didn’t answer right away, you were stunned. “Bad luck?”

“Yeah, my whole life really. But I promise once I get my phone back you won’t be put out by it again, I’m really sorry. So where are you? My friend Doyoung needs to get to his part time job and for me to give back his phone.”

Without hesitation you told him your exact location and hung up, your chest instantly full of palpitations. Why were you so worked up? Like Taeyong said, once he had his phone, you could simply leave and not be involved in his own fate with Lady Luck again. But it bothered you the longer you thought about it. Was he brought into your world by his or your own luck? Was this a sign to put weight into or not? I mean, just today you had two encounters with him. And whilst the campus was large, who was to say you wouldn’t find him again. Would you be alright then? Or propelled to the ground once more?

A small part of you then remembered a folklore you had read from years ago. Most people think those with bad luck should avoid each other. But not only can they find relief in each other, it can also cancel out their fated luck altogether. It’s important to search for someone with similar characteristics so that the fate can change for the better.

You felt a feeble sense of hope at the thought, rocking on your heels softly as you waited for Taeyong to arrive again. And just when you saw him, you waved so he could find you and was shunted by a passer-by, your footing unsafe yet again. You saw Taeyong speed up to catch you, just in time for you to both fall to the ground. Again.

For a moment you sat still, and then you laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. Taeyong soon joined you, and you both didn’t care that others were staring at the two people sprawled on the floor of the library lobby, laughing to themselves at their situation.

Eventually you got yourself up, this time offering your hand out to Taeyong. You pulled with the right amount of strength for him to just lean in a little too close but not topple you both back over. You shared an accomplished smile.

“I feel like I need to introduce myself properly to you,” you announced, feeling lighter than you had all day. Taeyong regarded you for a moment, before smiling encouragingly at you. “I’m someone who also has bad luck. My whole life really.”

“That was my line,” he quipped but grinned at you all the same. “Who would have thought two people with such luck would cross paths. This could be disaster you know.”

“It could,” you agreed, though you saw the determination build in his warm brown orbs. It made you glad he hadn’t stepped back yet.

“Or it could be something magical,” he uttered, your head nodding softly. Despite only just meeting, he felt compelled to brush you hair away from your face. And you allowed him, considering it was not like you hadn’t been on top of him earlier on. “Hi then.”

“Why are you saying hi again?”

“Because you introduced yourself to me as being my fated partner in bad luck, it only felt right to accept that,” Taeyong stated matter of factly and you couldn’t help but laugh. “Unless-”

“I accept,” you cut in, surprising him somewhat. And yourself too.

“So, Y/N with the origins of clumsy bad luck, should I make it up to you for falling all over you earlier with dinner?”

“Can’t,” you responded airily and he stopped following you as you both started walking to the exit. “I have work.”

“And after work?”

“Sleep?” you suggested, Taeyong’s mind clearly thinking too much. Your eyes widened and you shoved him playfully. Of course you did.

He managed to right his balance just in time, grinning triumphantly at your now cringing face. “You’re testing me.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be around each other,” you revoked with concern and jumped when he shifted back to your side and took your hand.

“You accepted this fate a few minutes ago.”

You nodded but didn’t remove your hand. His was warm and you liked the feeling. “And I almost made another accident for you just now. We’re doomed.”

“At least if I fall now, you’re coming with me,” Taeyong mentioned whilst raising your linked hands, smiling at you charmingly.

“Is this how you made it through life so far? Grabbing the hands of people so you knew at least someone would come down with you?”

Taeyong blushed lightly and shook his head. “Actually you’re my first. I wouldn’t dream of holding another girl’s hand until now. What if I caused her a rash or something?”

“Taeyong!” you cried, trying to yank your hand free as he laughed loudly.

And just like that you made your first proper friend. Someone who wasn’t scared to be in your personal space, and was prepared to fall if you did.

And over time you did just that. You had countless bruises and scrapes, and he had just as many. But he never abandoned you once, and soon you were kissing those booboos better.

As a child you thought you needed someone who was mythical to be your friend. Someone who had magic within them, who could somehow counteract your bad luck. What you really needed was someone just like you. Who didn’t mind when he got hurt because of your bad luck, and who let you curse him out when it was his that attacked you.

Because Taeyong came to readily love you. Bad luck and all.

________________

Welcome to Frightful October, a collab between myself and @this-song-thats-only-for-you ... this week’s theme is Spellbound! To follow more of the stories check out the links below:

Other stories in Spellbound: Superstitious // Incantation // Love Spell // A Gift

Frightful October Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Request Guidelines

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