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dangerous-mess · 3 years

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Holiday Troubles

Characters: Aizawa, trans male reader

Contains: Unsupportive family, transphobia, homophobia, misgendering, mentions of a deadname (D/N), mentions of religion and praying, mentions of dysphoria, angst, hurt/comfort, angst with fluff ending. This was written mainly as a comfort fic during the winter holidays but wanted to post this here (originally posted on AO3). Please read with caution as this content may be triggering for some

Word Count: 2K+

The holidays were always rough for you, being not only gay but transgender as well. There were the off-putting tension and feelings every time you walked in the room, and the side glances and judgemental glares that were shot your way if you were even caught wearing something feminine and not masculine. Mostly from your parents and family, feeling the obligation that you had to follow gender norms in the hope to not only pass but to be taken seriously in your own identity.

The holidays got a little easier once you married your now husband. He made visiting your family a bit easier and made the holidays in general, more enjoyable for you. This year, unfortunately, he had meetings and a nightly patrol that he couldn’t get out of, so you were left to go to the Christmas family gathering by yourself.

The day came, and needless to say, you were a nervous mess. You dressed up in a suit, something masculine of course to appease your family and keep those comments at bay. Though, you knew you weren’t in the clear as there was still a high chance of being deadnamed and misgendered by family who were unsupportive or others who just didn’t try. Your husband, Shouta, let you know before he left early that morning that if you needed anything at all to give him or Hizashi a call and they would come and get you in a heartbeat. He said Hizashi, just in case he couldn’t be reached, which was fine with you, Hizashi had become a close friend to you.

You arrived at your parent's house a little later than they asked, just cause you were nervous and needed more time to prepare for this evening. You knocked on the front door, adjusting your suit as you waited for someone to open the door, only to be greeted by one of your younger siblings. They gave you a big hug, before dragging you inside where you were greeted by family. Your grandmother was the first to deadname you. She called out as you talked to your uncle, a devious smile on her face as the name rolled off her tongue. You cringed hearing it and so badly wanted to correct her, but if your mother caught wind that you did, who knows what drama may pursue. You endured the conversation with her, as she made sure to drop in your deadname every chance she could get.

“Honestly D/N, you really should stop playing dress up and realize that you are a girl. Your husband would be so much happier to have a wife who knows her place and not some confused girl.”

You took a deep breath and bid your goodbyes to your grandmother as you went to find someone else to talk to. Eventually, dinner was called, and you all gathered around and your grandfather said a prayer. You looked down at your feet the entire time, not really wanting to participate in the prayer. Soon it wrapped up and a line formed into the kitchen to get food. After everyone got food, everyone gathered around and talked, telling stories of things that happened within the past year in their lives, as well as asking questions to others to get the latest scoop. You just decided to eat silently, trying to not participate in the gossip fest happening before you.

“So Y/N, how are you and your husband doing?” Your dad asked before he took a sip of a beer. You held up your pointer finger, signaling that you needed a moment as your finished chewing food before you smiled and spoke.

“Oh, we are doing well! He sends his deepest apologies that he couldn’t make it, hero duties called.” You smiled, taking a quick glance around the room. Some whispers were exchanged, knowing it was about you and Shouta. It was clear that besides your family not supporting your identity, they also did not support your marriage to a hero. Especially a hero who was supportive of you and your identity.

“Honestly, how she manages to keep such a hero man, is insane. Like who would wanna marry some confused lesbian?” One of your aunts spoke out. You gripped your glass tightly, biting your tongue, not wanting to start any issues.

Other family members chimed in to add on to your aunt's comment and soon it became too much. You quickly excused yourself and went to the bathroom farthest away from your family. You pulled out your phone and texted your husband. You told him that you needed him or Hizashi or someone to come to pick you up, as you originally walked, as it was nice earlier prior to the sun setting. You quickly got a reply, saying your husband was on his way, and that he was getting someone to cover the rest of his patrol. You felt a bit bad to interrupt and have him leave his patrol, but god you just needed him right now more than anything.

You hid amongst the rooms as you waited for Shouta to send you a message or signal that he was here. Your mom called out your name, walking down the hall looking for you. The smile on her face dropped as she saw you and grabbed your arm.

“Come on Y/N, we are about to exchange gifts. Stop trying to hide and be nice and spend time with your family. It took a lot of work and effort to get everyone here, like your grandparents who haven’t seen you in ages.” Your mom aggressively whispered at you, as she pulled you towards the living room. You stayed silently, hoping that your husband would be here soon.

Your mom let you go and pointed to a chair near the tree. You sat down and were handed some gifts. You slowly opened them, trying not to draw attention to yourself. The first gift was in a gift bag, and opening it exposed a colorful piece of clothing. You pulled it out and it was a sundress. Although you didn’t mind breaking gender norms, dresses were never your thing, they held too many bad memories and made you dysphoric. You frowned, not having the energy to fake a smile. You felt your mind start to spiral before a voice pulled you out.

“Oh, D/N do you not like it. I made sure to even get the right size and everything. I thought you could put that on and surprise your husband when you go home. Imagine how he would react to see his wife, finally coming to terms with herself.” Your grandmother called out, staring at you the entire time. You went to open your mouth when another voice spoke up.

“Actually, I think my husband looks handsome and perfect just the way he is in the suit he is wearing, but thank you. Maybe we can save the dress and give it to one of my students, I know one of them would get much better use of it.” Shouta’s voice boomed out, making a hush fall across the room. You never heard the front door open, but then again Shouta was very good at staying silent. You looked at your husband, feeling all your emotions and feelings starting to rise to the surface. You caught a dirty look your mother gave you as you stood up and made your way over to Shouta.

He held out his hand as you got closer and held it tightly, quickly bidding goodbye for you both as he quickly led you outside to the car that was waiting outside and still running. “I had Hizashi drive me over, hope that’s okay.” You just nodded at him, not letting go of his hand until you got into the car. As soon as you and Shouta were in the car, Hizashi sped off.

“Heya listener, how did it go?” Hizashi asked out, peeking into the mirror looking back at you.

“I lasted longer than last year, so that’s a new record at least.” You joked, trying not to cry. At least not now, you had to make it until you were home and in bed, with your husband holding you close.

Hizashi talked most of the ride home, while Shouta kept glancing back at you. You tried to listen to what was being said, but you couldn’t focus, so you just looked out the window, slightly dozing off. You woke up to the feeling of being carried, your eyes adjusted as you saw Shouta was carrying you into the house and to the bedroom. On any other occasion, if he was carrying you like this you were bound to tease or crack a joke or something, but in this moment you just stayed in his arms, gripping onto him tightly. Once you both got to the bedroom, he helped you undress and slip on something comfy. After he finished helping you, he quickly changed and climbed into bed, pulling you close to him and holding you tightly.

For a while, you just laid there in his arms, fighting back the urge to scream and cry. Though, after he comforted you and let you know it was okay to be upset and that you could let it all out. In which you did, you sobbed in his chest for what felt like hours. You screamed and sobbed and let out all the feelings you bottled up for the few hours you were at the family gathering. Eventually, you ran out of tears to cry and were only left with your own thoughts. You were overthinking, mostly dwelling on the words your family spoke out to you this evening, and couldn’t help but question if it was true.

“Sho...I’ve got to ask you something, kind of important.” You gently pushed away and sat up in the bed, looking at him. He stared at you, and nodded, letting you know it was okay to continue on. You took a deep breath and went for it, “Am I enough for you? I brought a lot of baggage and trouble into our relationship and I know it can’t be easy for you dating me, specifically with the backlash and comments that get made by my family and others about me transitioning and just. If you were with anyone else, I feel like you won’t get all this drama and I’m sorry I’ve brought so much of it onto you Shouta.”

You watched as his facial expression changed and you quickly looked away, finding interest in anything that wasn’t his face, afraid of what his reaction not only meant but the words that were about to follow. “Y/N, please look at me.” You slowly looked up and he placed a hand on your cheek. “I love you Y/N. I love you for you, you are my husband and I won’t want anyone else besides me. You are more than enough for me. And we both have a lot of baggage but that doesn’t change my feelings for you, we can work through it all together. I meant what I said in my vows and at our wedding and I still stand by it. Forever and always.”

You fiddled with your fingers before speaking up, “I love you Shouta so much, I’m just afraid one day I won’t be enough, cause as silly as it is, I don’t feel masculine or manly enough, that you’ll find more of a ‘real’ man one day and just leave me behind.” Tears filled your eyes and you looked down, just wanting to hide under the blankets.

“Y/N Aizawa, you are absolutely masculine and manly enough. I will never find anyone else or more a man than you. You are all I want, and all I need. I love you so much, don’t ever doubt my love for you, cause it is never-ending sweetheart.” Shouta spoke out, lifting your head up and placing a small kiss on your forehead before pulling you into his arms, holding you close. You just stayed there close, as Shouta whispered sweet nothings into your ear as you drifted off to sleep.

Shouta always made the holidays more bearable, but he also made life in general easier. He made waking up a little easier and helped with your hectic thoughts to calm you down. He truly was the love of your life and the best you could ever ask for. You couldn’t have gotten any luckier to have a husband as sweet and perfect as you. He may not be the number one hero to the rest of the world, but in your eyes and his heart, he was, he was your number one hero.

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agameofme · 5 years

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Hiraeth

There’s writing that you have to do--as in, you’re obligated to do it--and then there’s writing that you need to do, as in, it’s just sitting there inside you, weighing you down, gnawing at the inner walls of your mind, needing to be expunged so you can do the writing that you have to do.

This is writing that I need to do so that I can get back to the writing that I have to do.

On a recent afternoon I got off BART at the stop near my home and there were Girl Scouts outside at a little table, selling cookies. In an instant an entire scenario played out in my head. I walked up to them, smiling, expressing enthusiasm about getting to buy some cookies, maybe making a comment about how much we all love Thin Mints, though I bet they hear that all the time. I bought a few boxes, wished them well, and went on my way. But none of this actually happened. Instead I just turned away and started walking toward my apartment. Reason being that I figured if I did, in actuality, approach them with the intent of buying cookies, the fact of my obvious transness might, perchance, have made one of the girls noticeably uncomfortable, or perhaps a parent of one of the girls, and I would pick up on this and then I would feel uncomfortable for having made them uncomfortable, and then the whole exchange would be tinged with awkwardness, and I’d just want to end it as quickly as possible to relieve their discomfort at me and my discomfort at their discomfort, and I’d walk away regretting that I’d put any of us through that. Of course I realize that there’s a chance that these particular young people and their present parents are perfectly comfortable around trans people, that there’d be no fleeting “How do I explain this to my daughter later?” flicker across a mother’s face, no girl hesitating awkwardly, caught in a moment of uncertainty about how to address me. But I can’t know for sure, and so even if I tried to approach the situation with the casual, carefree attitude that I wanted to, the fear of the possibility of things becoming awkward would be rattling around in me so loudly that I couldn’t hide it, and my fear of potential awkwardness would awkwardly poison the whole interaction regardless.

This happens all the time. This is how I live my life.

Last month, Bruno Ganz died. I love Wings of Desire, and his performance in it. Like his angel, Damiel, I sometimes feel like I’m observing life, but not really participating in it. I exist at a remove, wondering what real closeness and connection and participation in life are like. I know they can be wonderful.

“I wish I could see your face, just look into your eyes and tell you how good it is to be here...to smoke, have coffee, and if you do it together, it’s fantastic.”

The film punctures the lie that time heals all wounds. For many of us, the waiting and waiting and waiting is the wound.

Bruno Ganz was only a few years older than I am now when he made Wings of Desire. I don’t know why thoughts like that so often occur to me, but they do. I think maybe it’s because I’m so aware of time slipping away from me, time that I never get back, and I really want to start living before I die.

Today, and yesterday, and the day before that, I woke up starving for touch. Often the first thing I’m aware of when consciousness comes to me is a kind of ache in the body, like my skin is the frozen surface of a lake, and there’s warm water far, far below that could bring such relief, but it needs a warm touch on the surface to bring it floating up through the cold, to infuse my skin with life once again. This is one of the ways I am wounded by time.

Anyway, I want to tell you a story.

(Bionic Commando, NES)

It’s actually not about the person I met when I was young, though I wish it was. I’d have only very kind things to say about them, but to write about them would not be a kindness. And so, like so many stories that purport to be about someone else, this is actually a story about the person telling it, and the effect that the other person had on me.

Was I young many years ago, when this story I’m about to tell you happened? I don’t know. I mean, yes, I was, and I am. I’m very young. Young like Yorkie in San Junipero. Her body may be 60 or so, but she’s not really 60, because she’s experienced so little. In the virtual world of San Junipero, she has the freedom to be herself, a young woman looking to form connections and find love for the first time. Even there, her complete lack of experience surprises the woman she clicks with, but still, with Kelly she finds acceptance. She can let her walls down and be honest about who she is, what she’s missed out on her whole life, and what she needs now.

Now I’m physically 42 but really I’m no older than Yorkie. I go on dating sites like Bumble and I can’t help but be extremely aware that I’m very different from most of the queer women on there, not just because I’m trans, and visibly so (though that certainly significantly limits the pool of people who might want to even meet me for coffee), but because I’m so inexperienced, and so guarded, and so aware that it takes a special kind of person to make me feel safe, and able to be honest and real.

Of course, I have had long, close relationships before, but that was before I transitioned, and despite all my efforts to pretend otherwise, there was always a barrier between me and my partners, because those relationships were all predicated on a fiction, the role I tried so hard to play while gender dysphoria carved up my insides. I was profoundly uncomfortable with my body, and didn’t really inhabit it throughout all those years. It was as if my soul was hiding away, trying to make itself as small and as removed as possible from the anguish of reality, possibly curled up into a tight little ball in my left pinky toe, barely present in the real world, always seeking escape into books and songs and movies and video games.

Now I’m uncomfortable with my body for an entirely different reason: it seems to prevent people from seeing me for who I really am. I’m definitely in less pain having transitioned, and there’s a relief in living with the integrity of being honest with the world about who I am, but still, the world can’t see me clearly. I’m misgendered constantly, and because I know I’m not clearly seen by the world, fear factors into every decision I make. I’m never free of it. Do I dress the way I dress because this is how I want to dress, or do I dress the way I dress because I’m trying to make myself invisible, because I’m afraid of drawing potentially hostile attention to myself? I don’t know, and as long as fear remains present, I can’t know.

Whether or not it’s true, I feel as if I exist entirely outside the marketplace of desire as a queer woman, and that the only times people want me are when they see me as something I’m not. One woman I dated briefly repeatedly misgendered me and even admitted to me once that she fantasized about me being a man. One woman made a pass at me by saying that she saw me not as a woman or a man but just as a person. How can I be present in a relationship if I know that I’m being seen and desired expressly as things I feel like I’m not, and not as who I am?

Loneliness is hallmarked by an intense desire to bring the experience to a close; something which cannot be achieved by sheer willpower, or by simply getting out more, but only by developing intimate connections. This is far easier said than done, especially for people whose loneliness arises from a state of loss or exile or prejudice, who have reason to fear or mistrust as well as long for the society of others.

--Olivia Laing, The Lonely City

So. Let’s talk about Alex.

I’ve written about Alex before. I don’t know if i’ll write about Alex again. Some writers are fond of saying that all of us who write essentially write the same story again and again and again, but I’d like to have a new story to tell. I know Alex wants that for me too.

It was several years ago now that I met them. I was in a weird place at the time, having just gone through an intense defrost cycle on my heart. After focusing on transition and not giving much thought to relationships for many years, I’d had an encounter that made me painfully aware that finding love, closeness, and connection was supremely important to me.

There’s a great deal I can’t tell you about Alex that I wish I could tell you. What I can say is that they just had a particular kind of sincerity about them that put me at ease. Very few people can do that. I didn’t feel the anxiety around them that I feel around so many people. I didn’t mind just existing in silence with them. Time with most people drains my batteries. Time with Alex recharged them.

Alex did and still does things that I admire greatly, and I find them fascinating as a person, and I wanted more than anything to engage in the endless process of getting to know them. In the 1990 Hal Hartley movie Trust, a character asserts that respect, admiration and trust equal love. I don’t know if it’s as simple as that, but I do know that all those ingredients were there.

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I could tell that Alex knew what suffering was in their own way, and that they struggled sometimes, which is essential if I’m going to be able to relate to someone, but Alex wasn’t wounded in the same ways or the same places that I was wounded, which is also essential. If you put me next to someone who’s like me, there’s just a chasm between us. All we can do is spin our wheels. Alex was someone I could relate to and understand, and also learn from.

Anyway, it eventually came to pass that Alex knew how I felt, just as I knew that Alex would never see me the way I wanted them to see me. The circumstances of this dual revelation would make for a more symbolically fraught movie scene about the anguish of a lifetime spent feeling invisible than anything I could concoct in a work of fiction, but I won’t go into the particulars. Suffice it to say that the next night, Alex and I met, I guess in the hopes of clearing the air. We sat on Alex’s couch, and Alex put their arm around me.

I suppose that’s the sort of thing you might do if you grow up in a somewhat healthy family that teaches you that your love has value.

The effect it had on me was the feeling of years and years and years of ice melting away, warm water rushing to the surface, my skin and my soul awakened in a way they never had been before. I simultaneously wanted to kiss Alex and to fall asleep in their arms. I wanted to sit there talking and laughing quietly while letting phrases like “I love you” slip out of my mouth, and I wanted to cry, to let loose all the grief that I’d carried around with me for so long and had never been able to share with anyone. I actually did laugh at the sheer wild luck of it all, of finding myself in that moment, and I laughed, too, at the wonderful surprise of discovering, after spending all my life in moments that I couldn’t fully inhabit, that really being there, right there with Alex, was the easiest thing in the world.

If I died tomorrow, and it turned out that, like in Hirokazu Koreeda’s film After Life, I had to choose just one memory to take with me, that would be it, the time I spent in Alex’s arms that night.

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When I left, it felt as if the whole world was vibrating. That’s not an exaggeration or some kind of metaphor. I mean that it felt to me as if everything was humming, as if all of existence had become charged with life, or perhaps as if all of existence were always charged with life, and for the first time I could see and feel it, because for the first time I was part of it.

Maybe this is what Sam meant in Gone Home when she said she felt like a shook-up can of soda. Maybe almost everyone experiences something like this when they’re young, and they learn that they can be loved. But I still haven’t learned that. I’m still waiting for my first mutual experience of it. I don’t expect love to mean undergoing a massive spiritual experience every time the person I love touches me. Not at all. I want to get to a point where being held by someone I really like doesn’t feel like winning the goddamn lottery. But when you’ve waited for it for as long as I have, it’s powerful, when it finally happens. I don’t expect love to be grandiose. For the most part, my time with Alex wasn’t grandiose. It was low-key friendly get-togethers, conversations over drinks at bars, playing games together, or just working quietly on our own things in the same place at the same time. That was all it had to be.

Of course, I knew even as I was sitting there with Alex, being brought to life by their warmth and their presence and their touch, that they didn’t mean for it to affect me so profoundly. They were just trying to comfort me, their friend, in the hopes that it might be easier for me to let go, to move on, to just be friends. The next day they texted me and asked me if I was feeling better. What could I say? That the night before had changed my life, that it was the most incredible thing I’d ever experienced and that I was, if anything, more full of yearning than ever before, that all I wanted was to hold them and be held by them?

I said that yes, I was feeling better, and left it at that. That was years ago now, and in all the time since, I haven’t met anyone else yet who has felt like a chance to me the way Alex did.

Sometimes some of my friends say that monogamy is bullshit. The people who say this around me, though, are always attractive people for whom love and affection and touch are widely available around the city in or the planet on which they live. When people ask me if I’m poly (as they occasionally do, I suppose because I’m a queer-identified woman living in the San Francisco Bay Area), all I can do is laugh. I can’t even find one person I like and who likes me who I want to know deeply, with whom I feel safe, with whom I can be vulnerable, with whom I can take my time to form a bond of closeness and trust. If my life were completely different, if the world taught me to move with confidence rather than fear, if the world taught me that I was seen rather than invisible, would I be poly then? I can never know the answer to that. We are all shaped by our experiences within the world, the messages the world sends us about ourselves, and if the world sent me different messages about myself, I’d be a different person. But I do resent the attitude among some that polyamory is inherently more enlightened or radical than monogamy. I think that in this world, where people so often use other people and then dispose of them, there’s something radical about ordinary devotion to one person, between two people who know each other deeply, trust each other completely, have seen each other at their worst, and still support and rely on each other.

The other question I get, I guess because of my lack of experience, is whether I might be asexual. But I’m not. When things are firing on all cylinders, I’m definitely sexual. But I really need to feel safe and seen with someone, seen and desired as the woman I am, and the world doesn’t make me feel that way, so it takes time for me to feel that way with an individual. Over and over again on the dance floors of life, I see people seeing each other, desiring each other and being desired, and I feel invisible, and I’m still dancing on my own.

Alex felt like home. I’m still looking for home. Not the exact same kind of home that Alex felt like. Everyone’s love makes a different kind of home. Just a home, one where I feel safe and seen, with someone I trust and respect and admire and can learn from and have fun with and be myself with, a home where I’m inclined to let down the walls that I have spent so long building up. In a world where everything about my life is complicated, feeling the way I did about Alex was the simplest, easiest thing. I know it doesn’t stay that way, but it seems to me like a good place to start.

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save-the-spiral · 6 years

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Day Twenty-Two- Expensive

Welcome to day twenty-two of inktober 2018. I’ve written one of the finale type pieces of The Serpentine King’s story, and it’s right here. Warnings for violence, imprisonment, abuse, malicious misgendering, transphobia, child abuse, and other things in that wheelhouse. Don’t worry, SK isn’t doing any of the shitty stuff.

(link to prompt list) (link to inktober tag)

The Serpentine King rested his chin on a gloved hand, examining the walls of his throne room with vague boredom as he waited, his heart racing in secret. His court milled around, whispering and trying to stare at their king without him knowing.

Of course he knew. He’d been the leader of the kingdom for almost two years now. How could he not know?

He himself sigh faintly, unintelligible to anyone around him. He almost wished he had drank that wine at dinner while he had a chance. It’d be better than waiting around at least another hour for-

The doors to his throne room burst inward, slamming against the walls and making every courtesan jump. The king just rolled his eyes and watched the proceedings, his long hair obscuring the snake coiled around his neck. Emerald had been his watchful little spy during his reign, but as the time comes for what may be his final battle, he preferred having his familiar with him.

Two trolls in brown toga-like clothes stomped in, both with identical clubs over their shoulders as they walked in time, their yellow eyes dull, catching the disturbed looks of everyone in the court. Their mucus colored skin was covered in grime, and they both grunted and groaned, almost ghoul like.

A woman followed them. She was tall, with a mass of curly blonde hair twisting and flowing around her head, an untamed lion’s mane bewitched with strange cosmetic magics. Her pale blue eyes were shining, and even from the long distance the king could tell she was examining him.

Emerald tightened around his neck for a brief moment, curling her head into his collar bone, communicating her confidence in him, even when he internally fretted over the early arrival of his enemy. She wasn’t supposed to come for an hour yet. His guards were supposed to withstand more than what they likely did.

“Merry meet, my lord.” The woman called out from the end of the hall, faking a curtsy with her golden brown cloak.

“It would be improper to speak as if we were strangers, wouldn’t it?” The king responded after a brief, silence filled moment. He gestured her and her minions forward.

The trolls didn’t do much- most minions of such low caliber couldn’t, and they showed it by growling and waving their clubs threateningly whenever a courtesan appeared to be too close.

“King of Serpents, it is truly and honor to be in your presence.” The woman finally said as she was merely ten feet away, her trolls falling to either side.

“Queen of Rogues, I would say I wish I could say the same, but I don’t enjoy lying unnecessarily.”

The court seemed to settle in for the show at that point, watching as their king on his high throne of gnarled wood, towering above the queen of thieves, began to handle whatever might befall the kingdom.

The queen raised an eyebrow, stepping back and standing tall. “I come with a simple proposition, sire. It would be a shame to miss it because of your immaturity.”

“It would be a shame if I murdered you where you stood for your disrespect, but I hope neither of us will leave this meeting disappointed. Because I assure you, if I am disappointed, you are not alive.”

The Queen of Rogues tilted her head, smiling patronizingly. “As I just told you, the deal is quite simple.” She raised an arm, the sleeve of her cloak falling to reveal an almost skeletal arm covered in bracelets. She snapped her fingers, blue magic radiating out from them as she let her arm fall to her side again.

Immediately, two people in ragged clothing emerged from each side of the doorway, one of them dragging an unconscious person in one arm, the other joining them and twisting their arm up, the prisoner’s body beginning to slide painfully across the floor.

“I’ve picked up an... interesting prisoner in my travels and business deals.” The woman said, and amused smile picking up on her face as the king’s eyes narrowed, his hand falling to the arm rest as he sat forward, trying to see who this person was.

The queen waved her hand dismissively, and the two ruffians threw the child onto the rough floor, letting them skid painfully across the stone floor. The girl was still unconscious, not even moving from her position.

“A very, very interesting prisoner.” The woman repeated herself quietly.

The king blinked, staring at the prisoner, trying to crush the hope in his chest.

Raising an eyebrow, he scoffed. “And how might you convince me your ‘prisoner’ isn’t yet another illusion or construct of your making? You’re infamous for your trickery, Milady.”

The queen raised a thin hand to her lips, chuckling. “You flatter me! But she is no construct.” Her hand fell limply to her side as her face became blank, approaching the girl.

“Constructs don’t feel pain, you see?”

With that, the woman slammed her booted foot into the girl’s ribs, making her curl in on herself and scream through gritted teeth.

The queen looked up at the king with a satisfied smile, her teeth bared and a little too sharp. Her boot was still pressed into her prisoner’s side, and she dug her toe into the girl’s ribs, making her squirm with pain.

The girl’s eyes opened, her brown irises locked on the king’s green gaze.

“From what I’ve gathered,” The king drawled without pause, “This is supposed to be an exchange. What, exactly, is it you want?” The last sentence was sharp, a bit too cruel. He was tipping his cards, and he knew it.

But that was his daughter, right there, suffering. And he could do something about it. She stared him right in the eyes, with recognition there, still grunting as the woman had a boot on her chest.

“My girls.” The woman said simply, shrugging her shoulders, her boot laying flat on Mari’s chest, kicking her over so she lay on her back, eyes closed again as her head knocked against the floor, her breath coming out in a wheeze.

“I give you this one, I get what’s mine. Simple, really.”

The Serpentine King couldn’t help but smirk at the challenge in her eyes, leaning back now in his throne and trying to recover from seeing his daughter so helpless. “And what does that say about your parenting skills, if one child of mine is worth two of yours?”

The whispers and mutters grew into a muted roar in the throne room, like the blood pounding in his ears. “Every one. Out. Now.” The king’s voice echoed suddenly, and the court was soon emptied of everyone aside from the queen, her trolls, the ruffians, the king, and his daughter.

The queen looked properly affronted, at least once everyone left. “I won’t be choosing between my daughters or-”

“Last I checked, you only have one daughter, and one son.”

“She is not my son-”

Celyn lifted an arm in the air sharply, and a large vine sprouted from the base of his tree-like throne, twisting through the air and first slamming into the trolls, making them disappear in twin poofs of golden dust.

The vine then smacked into the two rogues that had carried Mari in, and they both hit a wall with sharp cracks, falling unconscious or dead, which wasn’t Celyn’s concern.

No, not when he guided the vine to ensnare the despicable woman in front of him. Not when he practically leaped from his throne to rush to his daughter’s side, to cradle her head in his lap as he examined her for life threatening injuries, felt the numerous bumps on her skull and saw how different she was from the child he once knew.

With a tight fist, the vine squeezed around the woman’s throat until she fell limp, until it was just moments away from killing her. Until Emrys ran in from a secret corridor behind a tapestry, Haley, Noah, Morelle, and Morae on his heels. They had come too late though.

“Emrys, Haley, you two grab Mari and get her out to the prepared wagon. Morelle- plan Success is a go. Morae, you deal with her.” Celyn ordered, letting Mari settle gently on the floor and standing up.

The four wizards dispersed, leaving only Noah with his bag full of supplies and journal in hand with the king. He was taller than Celyn, a growing boy with ink smudges on his face and fingers, with tired eyes that were panicked at the sight of his knocked out mother.

“Noah, with me.” Celyn muttered quietly. The young man followed him back near to his throne. “I need you to take care of Emerald, okay? Make sure she is safe, and that she gets to the wagon.”

“Sir, I can handle-” Noah was looking at his mother, at her limp form with dark bruises around her neck.

“Noah. Look at me son.”

Noah’s brown eyes snapped back to him, his breath hitching. He and his sister had taken refuge in Celyn’s castle for almost a year now, and there were subtle changes, but one of the most obvious was how he didn’t deny this moment from himself, how he just accepted the word, accepted being Celyn’s son, with no protest, no questions of how deserving he might be.

Celyn continued, letting his familiar twine around his arm and reach towards the boy in front of him. “I know you can withstand many things. I know you have in the past. But right now? I need you to do this one task. And then we worry about the future afterwards.”

Noah let his free hand reach out, his tanned, freckled arm a perfect resting place for Emerald, who curled her head into his neck once she finished slithering up his arm. “One step at a time.” Noah said quietly under his breath.

“One step at a time.” Celyn agreed.

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trackingthislamp · 7 years

Text

Partners In Crime

Pairing: Peter x OC

Summary: Peter puts himself in trouble for defending his classmate in class from transphobic teacher. They both get detention, and some churros.

Word count: 1.3k

A/N: This is a trans boy Peter x non-binary OC story. Not particularly romantic but just some casual fluff. The OC goes by ze/hir pronoun :)

“Y’know you didn’t have you drag yourself into this.”

Peter withdraws his sight from the small television on the desk, slowly turning to his classmate on the left, who isn’t paying attention at Captain’s speech about responsibility at all. He blinks his drowsy eyes, struggling to support himself up.

“Uh,” he shrugs, “s’not a big deal. I mean- it is a big deal though. The way Mr. Crawson talked to you was simply awful. Anyone who saw that situation would speak out for you.”

“Not everyone.” Hir voice fades a bit, but the smile on hir face widens. “There were a full class of people, but here’s only you and me.”

Peter grins back, but looking away as he immediately feels silly. “Sometimes people just, well, need some more courage… I guess? Like, it was very badass of you… ‘gender isn’t real and you’re free to suck my ass!’ you really snapped him there.” He recollects, doing a cutting throat gesture.

“Ah-ha! You should look at his face!” Ze burst into laughter, then quickly hides it with a few coughs when ze spots Mrs. Lambert raising her eyebrow. “You’re not bad yourself. ‘Gender is as fake as that toupee on your bald top.’ Shots fired, Parker.”

“Ha, call me Peter though.” Peter straightens his spine, doodling absently on his notebook. “I just realized we never properly talked to each other before? S’kinda crazy. You’re—uh…M-M…”

“Mneme. M-N-E-M-E. Nee-mee.” Ze writes down the letters on the corner of the desk, “Or you can call me Jupiter XL, I won’t mind. Sounds like a code name.”

The topic of Captain’s speech has changed to about respecting the elders. But neither of them are listening. “Woah, it’s a moon of Jupiter?” Peter whispers with excitement, “I only remember Io and Europa—sorry that I sound dumb. There are like, uh, 60 of them?”

“69.” Mneme winks, “I discovered the name from Greek Mythology—the ancient Muse of Memory. I love it. Better than my dead one.”

“That’s dope. I love names with stories” Peter coos, starting to doodle the solar system. Mneme extends one hand to draw a Saturn that is twice bigger than Peter’s Sun. “So, what about your story then?” ze says, coloring the planets with glitter pens.

Peter’s hand stops, hesitates, “uhh…” his pencil hovers above the Earth, “I’m not really a guy with a lot of stories.”

“Oh c’mon, Pete, you got the most amazing internship that makes every kid in the school wish they were you.” Mneme throws the eraser at his direction, “You’ve probably had after tea with Tony Stark, just right by the window of his office, you talk about schools and he calls you son.”

“Actually he calls me under—ugh, actually I don’t see him often. The CEOs don’t come down from their office to talk to the interns, y’know—”

“But you’re friends with Spider-Man aren’t you?” Mneme interrupts with an excited tone, “The hero of Queens and the Star of Midtown? I saw it on the news, the accident in the monument. You were there too, weren’t you? I keep imagining what if I was there, in the broken elevator, ready for my death, thinking ‘bout what if they misgender me on the newspaper… then suddenly this tight-suited fella appears and save the day! That’s like the most dramatic plot twist ever. I’d probably be so excited that even give him a kiss—if he’s comfortable with that, o’course.”

An awkward smile appears on Peter’s face, but Mneme is too concentrating on drawing a Spider-Man mask to notice. “Well… yeah, yeah he’s really a cool guy.” Peter mumbles, rubbing his eyes, “I think… I just think it’s cool that he uses his power to… you know… like… save the little guys, and do good things. It’s-it’s really nice I think.”

“Yeah? A brave guy with a big heart. I love that guy.”

“Haha,” Peter lets out a dry laughter in a weird pitch, “he wasn’t really that brave though…he was actually pretty scared when he was on the top of the monument. Uh, I mean, he told me so...”

“Bravery doesn’t equal to being fearless.” Mneme takes a break from the drawing, tilting hir head. “The real courage is that despite your fear, you still choose to face it because you know you’re doing the right thing.”

Peter beams a shallow smile, “Woah, you should sign that on my yearbook.”

“Definitely will!” Mneme chuckles and points at television with hir pen. They aren’t even quite sure what Captain is on about now. “Look at that guy. I dunno everything about his story, but m’sure he got his reasons to choose his own path. I don’t think he’s a criminal. At least I don’t believe so.”

“Yeah.” Peter nods, and swallows the ‘except he kinda beat me the hell up’ down to his stomach. “I wish I could be like that because… I feel like m’just scared and can’t even tell what exactly is the ‘right’ thing to do.” He leans backward to the chair, staring at Captain’s smiley face. “A few months ago, I tried to impress Mr. Stark with my hard work. I thought as long as I put enough effort in it, he’d see my ability eventually… But all I did instead was mess everything up. And I even lost my internship temporarily… luckily he decided to give me a second chance. Yet still… it makes me wonder if I’m really ready for the bigger challenge.”

The confession is followed by a moment of silence that makes his stomach strains. But then he hears Mneme’s voice again. “Pete, you’re only 15. And sometimes you just gotta allow yourself to make mistakes. You really think Stark or Captain America don’t make mistakes like yours?”

“I understand that. But it still feel pretty much…defeating when it happens.” Peter sighs, “I don’t know, I feel like m’kinda eager to get approved. Maybe that’s where it goes wrong.”

“Eh-eh, you gotta stop right there, baby boy. There’s nothing wrong with expecting approval from others.” Mneme pouts and wiggles one finger, “You just have to remember that no matter how people see you, you’re still valid. Alright? Anyone who disagree owes you 5 billion, and they better turn on their locations.”

That finally makes Peter laugh. He presses his fist against his lips to cease the giggles, “You’re such a gem, Jupiter.”

“Jupiter XL, get my code name right, Spidey XX.”

“Spidey XX? Seriously?”

“Why not? M’sure your wall-climbing friend will appreciate that.” Mneme throws hir hands up, “Picture this: you’re sitting in the Avenger’s headquarter, giving orders to your crime-fighting partner. ‘Wall-Climber, this is Spidey XX, there are 10 bad guys on the east side of the building, you copy that?’ ‘Spidey XX, this is Wall-Climber. 10 bad guys, east side, got it. Over.’ ”

“That’s literally not gonna happen!” Peter’s cheeks redden, “Because I—”

“Kids! You’re here for punishment, not for parties!”

Mrs. Lambert’s holler almost makes them jump from the chairs. Neither of them notice that she has been standing by their desks for a while. “Apparently this is too easy for you kids and y’all haven’t really learned from your lesson yet. That only means—” she starts writing rapidly on her clipboard as the two kids exchange looks with each other, “—one more week of detention. Don’t give me that look! And think about what you’ve done wrong. Now finish your assignments and I don’t wanna hear any noise again!”

As soon as she turns around, Peter quickly glances at his partner in crime, who’s sticking hir tongue out behind hir notebook.

“Pssss,” Peter whispers, taking a peek at Mrs. Lambert’s direction, “Have you tried the best sandwich in New York? Delmar’s sandwich? We should totally get some later.”

“Hell yeah, Spidey XX.” Mneme gives him a peace sign, then narrows hir eyes. “What were you gonna say earlier? Right after you said, ‘it’s not gonna happen’.”

But Peter only replies with an innocent smile, “It’s classified, Jupiter XL.”

Ending note: Thank you so much for reading! This is my first Peter fic, I hope you enjoy this small piece I attempt. Also apologies if there is any possible mistake since I clearly haven’t beta’d the fic yet haha. If you have any idea, I’ll really love to hear from you :) Xx

#peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker fic #peter parker x oc #trans!peter parker #xanthe writes

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