#at what point do i need to discuss this at therapy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

brucewaynehater101 · 2 months

Note

your posts about Tim being the parent in his time with Bruce+ Richard's parentification + Tim always planning of being a placeholder, got me thinking

What if Tim started off like that, playing parent for Bruce, ensuring he doesn't cross any lines or overworks himself

And just never stop?

His civilian life is starting to crack, and he's doing worse than he could be, but Batman has to be taken care off

In comes Jason who tries to kill him (great another Bruce) so his workload is doubled, and also Damian who has to be untaught murder

Well it's an escalation of what he's used to, but if he can deal with Batman, he can deal with his kids, time to bust out the books on therapy and deprogramming cult teachings

Besides, he's a placeholding for the two of them until they're better like Batman, so who better to teach them the ropes than him?

Let's toss in comments here and there that will clear misunderstandings between the Bats (excluding himself— he's temporary) and what about their interactions keeps the family apart

Like boy is neglecting himself to high hell, only stopping when it's literally impossible, and barely has a civilian life, but it's worth it for Gotham's betterment and the Batfamily's stabilization

Timestream? Well shit, he has to get Bruce back as per his job of keeping the family in order but the family is either not getting better or worse,

Let him just leave a bunch of personalized self-help guides and programmed schedules that'll ensure the bats are getting better while he's away

Oh hey Ra's, midn if I secretly learn everything about how Damian grew up in this fine League of yours so I can teach Damian what is so wrong about his childhood once I'm home?

So everything is getting better post BruceQuest, Richard can be a brother more (because Tim took on his job as parent-brother), Damian and his family are able to bond and understand each other (because Tim untaught an awful upbringing) and Jason feels like a member of the family (because Tim got Jason up to speed with how much he has always been loved) plus Bruce gets to be a father with his kids (because Tim kept the man out of his otherside inevitable self-made grave)

And say Batfamily, in a miracle of communication, realize that Tim has subsumed Bruce's role as caretaker and father

Not to the entire family of course, but even parenting for one sibling or parent as a kid yourself is one too many

And they remember all the comments Tim said to help the family get better subtly suggesting everybody but Tim is family

Like he's said "Your family," never "Our"

He says "You're a Wayne, a member of their family,"

He has to be referred to as Tim and Drake, never Wayne to catch his attention

And also imagine Richard saying "You can't keep being a parent to your brothers and father" and Tim going "glass houses, *tires to parent Rich*"

"NO—"

The shit storm that would happen if the batfamily realized that Tim donned Robin with the intention of always playing parent for Bruce, and then leaving once his intervention isn't need anymore

Yes! I absolutely love the ideas you incorporated with this. I didn't manage to hit all of them in my post, but I tried to expand upon them a bit:

At first, Tim wouldn't realize that's what he's doing. He just wants to help Bruce (even if that includes taking away the Batmobile keys, locking him out of the batcomputer, and using a rewards system when the man successfully takes care of his wounds).

Tim only comes to the realization that he's Bruce's parent when the YJ are being lectured by their mentors. At this point, the team has done far more dangerous stunts and missions than whatever the JL was lecturing them about. When the mentors come, Robin allows Batman to lecture him in front of the others. Tim knows they have to keep up appearances and can listen to a hypocritical discussion from Bruce to maintain the image of Batman Tim has spent so much time propping up.

After the other mentors leave, Tim pulls Batman into a private room for a chat. Bart, fearing that Robin is getting a second lecture, almost bursts in to save Tim. He's slowed down by the glare Tim sends his way. He's stopped by the conversation he overhears.

Tim, with his hands on his hips as he glares up into the cowl, lectures Bruce on all the behavior issues the man displayed the month that the YJ were away.

Bruce is just standing there, head slightly hung, as Tim goes on.

"This is why I feel I can never get away, B. I can't even leave you for a month before your excessive force statistics skyrocket! What am I supposed to do with you?"

Bart quickly leaves as he has a mental breakdown at this discovery. Two hours later, when Batman leaves, Bart asks Robin if he's Batman's father. Tim laughs it off at first, but after Bart lays out the evidence, Tim spirals for a few days at this discovery.

Once Tim accepts that he *is* like Bruce's dad, he decides to just embrace it. He and Alfred can share custody of the man-child (and this is also why Tim has the view of family that he does. His three examples of being a father are his own dad who constantly leaves, Alfred who maintains a professional distance, and Bruce who's his grieving son). Tim sees Dick as his brother, but he sees Bruce as his kid. It's confusing as hell, complicated, and Tim also doesn't see himself as part of the family at the same time.

While the teen is finally settling into his role as Bruce's parent, Jason comes back and tries to kill him. He doesn't know whether or not to laugh that Jason becomes his new responsibility at the same place Bruce officially (in Tim's mind) became Tim's.

The teen treats Jason similar to a grandson and son. He parents Bruce on how to interact with Jason, takes a few college classes and reads a few textbooks on PTSD, and interrogates LoA agents on the Pit. He slowly starts to feed them both phrases and perspectives so that they understand and interact with each other better. He almost wants to hit them both upside the head for their miscommunication.

It's not great, and Tim is so fucking tired, but they are getting closer to being a family. Tim can almost taste his retirement.

Then Damian comes into the family and tries to kill him. Tim wants to scream.

Damian isn't exactly friendly to Tim, but the teen spots a breakthrough when he catches how Dick and Damian interact. He, in what he later calls foolishly, drops some of the weight onto Dick's shoulders. Tim's tired trying to wrangle both Jason and Bruce into somewhat, even unhealthily, communicating with each other.

Then Bruce dies. It's unfair because Tim has lost someone who's both his son and his father to him. No one except Cassie could know about the amount of grief Tim is under because of that. Cassie, who Tim isn't talking to after the whole basement scientist cloning thing.

So, Tim finds evidence that Bruce is alive. He watches as Dick cracks under the weight of Batman and being a father to Damian. He's hurt (oh gods does it burn to lose his self-made but suffocating role that ties him to Bruce), but he understands why Dick gives Damian Robin.

Tim leaves, and he starts to discover himself. He became an adoptive father at thirteen. For once, even though he's heavily lost in the thralls of grief, he's free of that responsibility. He only has to take care of himself (an exhausting task he's never quite accomplished before) and he doesn't rely on anyone.

Still, despite his freedom, he sees Ra's offer for what it is. It's an opportunity to learn more about Damian. Bruce will need Tim's support when he returns, after all. If he takes down Ra's both for himself and Damian, that's neither here nor there.

When Bruce finally returns home, Tim starts to see his retirement again. He sees the progress he's enacting out of the family in all of their relationships. Like Tim's messy relationship with Bruce, Dick is both a father and brother to Damian. Jason and Bruce will occasionally meet at a diner. Damian and Bruce will have father-child outings outside of Batman and Robin. Cass returns home more often. Steph barges into the Manor for food or bugs different Bats on patrol. Babs is able to take time for herself outside of wrangling the Bats together. Duke is starting to join the family, but Tim doesn't imagine too much tension or difficulty with that transition. They'll be fine without him.

It's looking up. Tim can leave behind his the Wayne family.

Then Damian points out how Tim often uses "your" or "their" instead of "our" family.

Godsdamnit.

#dc comics #dc universe #tim drake #jason todd #bruce wayne #dick grayson #damian wayne #thank you for the ask!!!!#your ask has so many good ideas thank you!

794 notes · View notes

vavandeveresfan · 4 months

Text

Holy shit, the New York Times is FINALLY interviewing and listening to detransistioners.

The tide is turning.

Opinion by Pamela Paul

As Kids, They Thought They Were Trans. They No Longer Do.

Feb. 2, 2024

Grace Powell was 12 or 13 when she discovered she could be a boy.

Growing up in a relatively conservative community in Grand Rapids, Mich., Powell, like many teenagers, didn’t feel comfortable in her own skin. She was unpopular and frequently bullied. Puberty made everything worse. She suffered from depression and was in and out of therapy.

“I felt so detached from my body, and the way it was developing felt hostile to me,” Powell told me. It was classic gender dysphoria, a feeling of discomfort with your sex.

Reading about transgender people online, Powell believed that the reason she didn’t feel comfortable in her body was that she was in the wrong body. Transitioning seemed like the obvious solution. The narrative she had heard and absorbed was that if you don’t transition, you’ll kill yourself.

At 17, desperate to begin hormone therapy, Powell broke the news to her parents. They sent her to a gender specialist to make sure she was serious. In the fall of her senior year of high school, she started cross-sex hormones. She had a double mastectomy the summer before college, then went off as a transgender man named Grayson to Sarah Lawrence College, where she was paired with a male roommate on a men’s floor. At 5-foot-3, she felt she came across as a very effeminate gay man.

At no point during her medical or surgical transition, Powell says, did anyone ask her about the reasons behind her gender dysphoria or her depression. At no point was she asked about her sexual orientation. And at no point was she asked about any previous trauma, and so neither the therapists nor the doctors ever learned that she’d been sexually abused as a child.

“I wish there had been more open conversations,” Powell, now 23 and detransitioned, told me. “But I was told there is one cure and one thing to do if this is your problem, and this will help you.”

Progressives often portray the heated debate over childhood transgender care as a clash between those who are trying to help growing numbers of children express what they believe their genders to be and conservative politicians who won’t let kids be themselves.

But right-wing demagogues are not the only ones who have inflamed this debate. Transgender activists have pushed their own ideological extremism, especially by pressing for a treatment orthodoxy that has faced increased scrutiny in recent years. Under that model of care, clinicians are expected to affirm a young person’s assertion of gender identity and even provide medical treatment before, or even without, exploring other possible sources of distress.

Many who think there needs to be a more cautious approach — including well-meaning liberal parents, doctors and people who have undergone gender transition and subsequently regretted their procedures — have been attacked as anti-trans and intimidated into silencing their concerns.

And while Donald Trump denounces “left-wing gender insanity” and many trans activists describe any opposition as transphobic, parents in America’s vast ideological middle can find little dispassionate discussion of the genuine risks or trade-offs involved in what proponents call gender-affirming care.

Powell’s story shows how easy it is for young people to get caught up by the pull of ideology in this atmosphere.

“What should be a medical and psychological issue has been morphed into a political one,” Powell lamented during our conversation. “It’s a mess.”

A New and Growing Group of Patients

Many transgender adults are happy with their transitions and, whether they began to transition as adults or adolescents, feel it was life changing, even lifesaving. The small but rapidly growing number of children who express gender dysphoria and who transition at an early age, according to clinicians, is a recent and more controversial phenomenon.

Laura Edwards-Leeper, the founding psychologist of the first pediatric gender clinic in the United States, said that when she started her practice in 2007, most of her patients had longstanding and deep-seated gender dysphoria. Transitioning clearly made sense for almost all of them, and any mental health issues they had were generally resolved through gender transition.

“But that is just not the case anymore,” she told me recently. While she doesn’t regret transitioning the earlier cohort of patients and opposes government bans on transgender medical care, she said, “As far as I can tell, there are no professional organizations who are stepping in to regulate what’s going on.”

Most of her patients now, she said, have no history of childhood gender dysphoria. Others refer to this phenomenon, with some controversy, as rapid onset gender dysphoria, in which adolescents, particularly tween and teenage girls, express gender dysphoria despite never having done so when they were younger. Frequently, they have mental health issues unrelated to gender. While professional associations say there is a lack of quality research on rapid onset gender dysphoria, several researchers have documented the phenomenon, and many health care providers have seen evidence of it in their practices.

“The population has changed drastically,” said Edwards-Leeper, a former head of the Child and Adolescent Committee for the World Professional Association for Transgender Health, the organization responsible for setting gender transition guidelines for medical professionals.

For these young people, she told me, “you have to take time to really assess what’s going on and hear the timeline and get the parents’ perspective in order to create an individualized treatment plan. Many providers are completely missing that step.”

Yet those health care professionals and scientists who do not think clinicians should automatically agree to a young person’s self-diagnosis are often afraid to speak out. A report commissioned by the National Health Service about Britain’s Tavistock gender clinic, which, until it was ordered to be shut down, was the country’s only health center dedicated to gender identity, noted that “primary and secondary care staff have told us that they feel under pressure to adopt an unquestioning affirmative approach and that this is at odds with the standard process of clinical assessment and diagnosis that they have been trained to undertake in all other clinical encounters.”

Of the dozens of students she’s trained as psychologists, Edwards-Leeper said, few still seem to be providing gender-related care. While her students have left the field for various reasons, “some have told me that they didn’t feel they could continue because of the pushback, the accusations of being transphobic, from being pro-assessment and wanting a more thorough process,” she said.

They have good reasons to be wary. Stephanie Winn, a licensed marriage and family therapist in Oregon, was trained in gender-affirming care and treated multiple transgender patients. But in 2020, after coming across detransition videos online, she began to doubt the gender-affirming model. In 2021 she spoke out in favor of approaching gender dysphoria in a more considered way, urging others in the field to pay attention to detransitioners, people who no longer consider themselves transgender after undergoing medical or surgical interventions. She has since been attacked by transgender activists. Some threatened to send complaints to her licensing board saying that she was trying to make trans kids change their minds through conversion therapy.

In April 2022, the Oregon Board of Licensed Professional Counselors and Therapists told Winn that she was under investigation. Her case was ultimately dismissed, but Winn no longer treats minors and practices only online, where many of her patients are worried parents of trans-identifying children.

“I don’t feel safe having a location where people can find me,” she said.

Detransitioners say that only conservative media outlets seem interested in telling their stories, which has left them open to attacks as hapless tools of the right, something that frustrated and dismayed every detransitioner I interviewed. These are people who were once the trans-identified kids that so many organizations say they’re trying to protect — but when they change their minds, they say, they feel abandoned.

Most parents and clinicians are simply trying to do what they think is best for the children involved. But parents with qualms about the current model of care are frustrated by what they see as a lack of options.

Parents told me it was a struggle to balance the desire to compassionately support a child with gender dysphoria while seeking the best psychological and medical care. Many believed their kids were gay or dealing with an array of complicated issues. But all said they felt compelled by gender clinicians, doctors, schools and social pressure to accede to their child’s declared gender identity even if they had serious doubts. They feared it would tear apart their family if they didn’t unquestioningly support social transition and medical treatment. All asked to speak anonymously, so desperate were they to maintain or repair any relationship with their children, some of whom were currently estranged.

Several of those who questioned their child’s self-diagnosis told me it had ruined their relationship. A few parents said simply, “I feel like I’ve lost my daughter.”

One mother described a meeting with 12 other parents in a support group for relatives of trans-identified youth where all of the participants described their children as autistic or otherwise neurodivergent. To all questions, the woman running the meeting replied, “Just let them transition.” The mother left in shock. How would hormones help a child with obsessive-compulsive disorder or depression? she wondered.

Some parents have found refuge in anonymous online support groups. There, people share tips on finding caregivers who will explore the causes of their children’s distress or tend to their overall emotional and developmental health and well-being without automatically acceding to their children’s self-diagnosis.

Many parents of kids who consider themselves trans say their children were introduced to transgender influencers on YouTube or TikTok, a phenomenon intensified for some by the isolation and online cocoon of Covid. Others say their kids learned these ideas in the classroom, as early as elementary school, often in child-friendly ways through curriculums supplied by trans rights organizations, with concepts like the gender unicorn or the Genderbread person.

‘Do You Want a Dead Son or a Live Daughter?’

After Kathleen’s 15-year-old son, whom she described as an obsessive child, abruptly told his parents he was trans, the doctor who was going to assess whether he had A.D.H.D. referred him instead to someone who specialized in both A.D.H.D. and gender. Kathleen, who asked to be identified only by her first name to protect her son’s privacy, assumed that the specialist would do some kind of evaluation or assessment. That was not the case.

The meeting was brief and began on a shocking note. “In front of my son, the therapist said, ‘Do you want a dead son or a live daughter?’” Kathleen recounted.

Parents are routinely warned that to pursue any path outside of agreeing with a child’s self-declared gender identity is to put a gender dysphoric youth at risk for suicide, which feels to many people like emotional blackmail. Proponents of the gender-affirming model have cited studies showing an association between that standard of care and a lower risk of suicide. But those studies were found to have methodological flaws or have been deemed not entirely conclusive. A survey of studies on the psychological effects of cross-sex hormones, published three years ago in The Journal of the Endocrine Society, the professional organization for hormone specialists, found it “could not draw any conclusions about death by suicide.” In a letter to The Wall Street Journal last year, 21 experts from nine countries said that survey was one reason they believed there was “no reliable evidence to suggest that hormonal transition is an effective suicide prevention measure.”

Moreover, the incidence of suicidal thoughts and attempts among gender dysphoric youth is complicated by the high incidence of accompanying conditions, such as autism spectrum disorder. As one systematic overview put it, “Children with gender dysphoria often experience a range of psychiatric comorbidities, with a high prevalence of mood and anxiety disorders, trauma, eating disorders and autism spectrum conditions, suicidality and self-harm.”

But rather than being treated as patients who deserve unbiased professional help, children with gender dysphoria often become political pawns.

Conservative lawmakers are working to ban access to gender care for minors and occasionally for adults as well. On the other side, however, many medical and mental health practitioners feel their hands have been tied by activist pressure and organizational capture. They say that it has become difficult to practice responsible mental health care or medicine for these young people.

Pediatricians, psychologists and other clinicians who dissent from this orthodoxy, believing that it is not based on reliable evidence, feel frustrated by their professional organizations. The American Psychological Association, American Psychiatric Association and the American Academy of Pediatrics have wholeheartedly backed the gender-affirming model.

In 2021, Aaron Kimberly, a 50-year-old trans man and registered nurse, left the clinic in British Columbia where his job focused on the intake and assessment of gender-dysphoric youth. Kimberly received a comprehensive screening when he embarked on his own successful transition at age 33, which resolved the gender dysphoria he experienced from an early age.

But when the gender-affirming model was introduced at his clinic, he was instructed to support the initiation of hormone treatment for incoming patients regardless of whether they had complex mental problems, experiences with trauma or were otherwise “severely unwell,” Kimberly said. When he referred patients for further mental health care rather than immediate hormone treatment, he said he was accused of what they called gatekeeping and had to change jobs.

“I realized something had gone totally off the rails,” Kimberly, who subsequently founded the Gender Dysphoria Alliance and the L.G.B.T. Courage Coalition to advocate better gender care, told me.

Gay men and women often told me they fear that same-sex-attracted kids, especially effeminate boys and tomboy girls who are gender nonconforming, will be transitioned during a normal phase of childhood and before sexual maturation — and that gender ideology can mask and even abet homophobia.

As one detransitioned man, now in a gay relationship, put it, “I was a gay man pumped up to look like a woman and dated a lesbian who was pumped up to look like a man. If that’s not conversion therapy, I don’t know what is.”

“I transitioned because I didn’t want to be gay,” Kasey Emerick, a 23-year-old woman and detransitioner from Pennsylvania, told me. Raised in a conservative Christian church, she said, “I believed homosexuality was a sin.”

When she was 15, Emerick confessed her homosexuality to her mother. Her mother attributed her sexual orientation to trauma — Emerick’s father was convicted of raping and assaulting her repeatedly when she was between the ages of 4 and 7 — but after catching Emerick texting with another girl at age 16, she took away her phone. When Emerick melted down, her mother admitted her to a psychiatric hospital. While there, Emerick told herself, “If I was a boy, none of this would have happened.”

In May 2017, Emerick began searching “gender” online and encountered trans advocacy websites. After realizing she could “pick the other side,” she told her mother, “I’m sick of being called a dyke and not a real girl.” If she were a man, she’d be free to pursue relationships with women.

That September, she and her mother met with a licensed professional counselor for the first of two 90-minute consultations. She told the counselor that she had wished to be a Boy Scout rather than a Girl Scout. She said she didn’t like being gay or a butch lesbian. She also told the counselor that she had suffered from anxiety, depression and suicidal ideation. The clinic recommended testosterone, which was prescribed by a nearby L.G.B.T.Q. health clinic. Shortly thereafter, she was also diagnosed with A.D.H.D. She developed panic attacks. At age 17, she was cleared for a double mastectomy.

“I’m thinking, ‘Oh my God, I’m having my breasts removed. I’m 17. I’m too young for this,’” she recalled. But she went ahead with the operation.

“Transition felt like a way to control something when I couldn’t control anything in my life,” Emerick explained. But after living as a trans man for five years, Emerick realized her mental health symptoms were only getting worse. In the fall of 2022, she came out as a detransitioner on Twitter and was immediately attacked. Transgender influencers told her she was bald and ugly. She received multiple threats.

“I thought my life was over,” she said. “I realized that I had lived a lie for over five years.”

Today Emerick’s voice, permanently altered by testosterone, is that of a man. When she tells people she’s a detransitioner, they ask when she plans to stop taking T and live as a woman. “I’ve been off it for a year,” she replies.

Once, after she recounted her story to a therapist, the therapist tried to reassure her. If it’s any consolation, the therapist remarked, “I would never have guessed that you were once a trans woman.” Emerick replied, “Wait, what sex do you think I am?”

To the trans activist dictum that children know their gender best, it is important to add something all parents know from experience: Children change their minds all the time. One mother told me that after her teenage son desisted — pulled back from a trans identity before any irreversible medical procedures — he explained, “I was just rebelling. I look at it like a subculture, like being goth.”

“The job of children and adolescents is to experiment and explore where they fit into the world, and a big part of that exploration, especially during adolescence, is around their sense of identity,” Sasha Ayad, a licensed professional counselor based in Phoenix, told me. “Children at that age often present with a great deal of certainty and urgency about who they believe they are at the time and things they would like to do in order to enact that sense of identity.”

Ayad, a co-author of “When Kids Say They’re Trans: A Guide for Thoughtful Parents,” advises parents to be wary of the gender affirmation model. “We’ve always known that adolescents are particularly malleable in relationship to their peers and their social context and that exploration is often an attempt to navigate difficulties of that stage, such as puberty, coming to terms with the responsibilities and complications of young adulthood, romance and solidifying their sexual orientation,” she told me. For providing this kind of exploratory approach in her own practice with gender dysphoric youth, Ayad has had her license challenged twice, both times by adults who were not her patients. Both times, the charges were dismissed.

Studies show that around eight in 10 cases of childhood gender dysphoria resolve themselves by puberty and 30 percent of people on hormone therapy discontinue its use within four years, though the effects, including infertility, are often irreversible.

Proponents of early social transition and medical interventions for gender dysphoric youth cite a 2022 study showing that 98 percent of children who took both puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones continued treatment for short periods, and another study that tracked 317 children who socially transitioned between the ages of 3 and 12, which found that 94 percent of them still identified as transgender five years later. But such early interventions may cement children’s self-conceptions without giving them time to think or sexually mature.

‘The Process of Transition Didn’t Make Me Feel Better’

At the end of her freshman year of college, Grace Powell, horrifically depressed, began dissociating, feeling detached from her body and from reality, which had never happened to her before. Ultimately, she said, “the process of transition didn’t make me feel better. It magnified what I found was wrong with myself.”

“I expected it to change everything, but I was just me, with a slightly deeper voice,” she added. “It took me two years to start detransitioning and living as Grace again.”

She tried in vain to find a therapist who would treat her underlying issues, but they kept asking her: How do you want to be seen? Do you want to be nonbinary? Powell wanted to talk about her trauma, not her identity or her gender presentation. She ended up getting online therapy from a former employee of the Tavistock clinic in Britain. This therapist, a woman who has broken from the gender-affirming model, talked Grace through what she sees as her failure to launch and her efforts to reset. The therapist asked questions like: Who is Grace? What do you want from your life? For the first time, Powell felt someone was seeing and helping her as a person, not simply looking to slot her into an identity category.

Many detransitioners say they face ostracism and silencing because of the toxic politics around transgender issues.

“It is extraordinarily frustrating to feel that something I am is inherently political,” Powell told me. “I’ve been accused multiple times that I’m some right-winger who’s making a fake narrative to discredit transgender people, which is just crazy.”

While she believes there are people who benefit from transitioning, “I wish more people would understand that there’s not a one-size-fits-all solution,” she said. “I wish we could have that conversation.”

In a recent study in The Archives of Sexual Behavior, about 40 young detransitioners out of 78 surveyed said they had suffered from rapid onset gender dysphoria. Trans activists have fought hard to suppress any discussion of rapid onset gender dysphoria, despite evidence that the condition is real. In its guide for journalists, the activist organization GLAAD warns the media against using the term, as it is not “a formal condition or diagnosis.” Human Rights Campaign, another activist group, calls it “a right-wing theory.” A group of professional organizations put out a statement urging clinicians to eliminate the term from use.

Nobody knows how many young people desist after social, medical or surgical transitions. Trans activists often cite low regret rates for gender transition, along with low figures for detransition. But those studies, which often rely on self-reported cases to gender clinics, likely understate the actual numbers. None of the seven detransitioners I interviewed, for instance, even considered reporting back to the gender clinics that prescribed them medication they now consider to have been a mistake. Nor did they know any other detransitioners who had done so.

As Americans furiously debate the basis of transgender care, a number of advances in understanding have taken place in Europe, where the early Dutch studies that became the underpinning of gender-affirming care have been broadly questioned and criticized. Unlike some of the current population of gender dysphoric youth, the Dutch study participants had no serious psychological conditions. Those studies were riddled with methodological flaws and weaknesses. There was no evidence that any intervention was lifesaving. There was no long-term follow-up with any of the study’s 55 participants or the 15 who dropped out. A British effort to replicate the study said that it “identified no changes in psychological function” and that more studies were needed.

In countries like Sweden, Norway, France, the Netherlands and Britain — long considered exemplars of gender progress — medical professionals have recognized that early research on medical interventions for childhood gender dysphoria was either faulty or incomplete. Last month, the World Health Organization, in explaining why it is developing “a guideline on the health of trans and gender diverse people,” said it will cover only adults because “the evidence base for children and adolescents is limited and variable regarding the longer-term outcomes of gender-affirming care for children and adolescents.”

But in America, and Canada, the results of those widely criticized Dutch studies are falsely presented to the public as settled science.

Other countries have recently halted or limited the medical and surgical treatment of gender dysphoric youth, pending further study. Britain’s Tavistock clinic was ordered to be shut down next month, after a National Health Service-commissioned investigation found deficiencies in service and “a lack of consensus and open discussion about the nature of gender dysphoria and therefore about the appropriate clinical response.”

Meanwhile, the American medical establishment has hunkered down, stuck in an outdated model of gender affirmation. The American Academy of Pediatrics only recently agreed to conduct more research in response to yearslong efforts by dissenting experts, including Dr. Julia Mason, a self-described “bleeding-heart liberal.”

The larger threat to transgender people comes from Republicans who wish to deny them rights and protections. But the doctrinal rigidity of the progressive wing of the Democratic Party is disappointing, frustrating and counterproductive.

“I was always a liberal Democrat,” one woman whose son desisted after social transition and hormone therapy told me. “Now I feel politically homeless.”

She noted that the Biden administration has “unequivocally” supported gender-affirming care for minors, in cases in which it deems it “medically appropriate and necessary.” Rachel Levine, the assistant secretary for health at the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, told NPR in 2022 that “there is no argument among medical professionals — pediatricians, pediatric endocrinologists, adolescent medicine physicians, adolescent psychiatrists, psychologists, et cetera — about the value and the importance of gender-affirming care.”

Of course, politics should not influence medical practice, whether the issue is birth control, abortion or gender medicine. But unfortunately, politics has gotten in the way of progress. Last year The Economist published a thorough investigation into America’s approach to gender medicine. Zanny Minton Beddoes, the editor, put the issue into political context. “If you look internationally at countries in Europe, the U.K. included, their medical establishments are much more concerned,” Beddoes told Vanity Fair. “But here — in part because this has become wrapped up in the culture wars where you have, you know, crazy extremes from the Republican right — if you want to be an upstanding liberal, you feel like you can’t say anything.”

Some people are trying to open up that dialogue, or at least provide outlets for kids and families to seek a more therapeutic approach to gender dysphoria.

Paul Garcia-Ryan is a psychotherapist in New York who cares for kids and families seeking holistic, exploratory care for gender dysphoria. He is also a detransitioner who from ages 15 to 30 fully believed he was a woman.

Garcia-Ryan is gay, but as a boy, he said, “it was much less threatening to my psyche to think that I was a straight girl born into the wrong body — that I had a medical condition that could be tended to.” When he visited a clinic at 15, the clinician immediately affirmed he was female, and rather than explore the reasons for his mental distress, simply confirmed Garcia-Ryan’s belief that he was not meant to be a man.

Once in college, he began medically transitioning and eventually had surgery on his genitals. Severe medical complications from both the surgery and hormone medication led him to reconsider what he had done, and to detransition. He also reconsidered the basis of gender affirmation, which, as a licensed clinical social worker at a gender clinic, he had been trained in and provided to clients.

“You’re made to believe these slogans,” he said. “Evidence-based, lifesaving care, safe and effective, medically necessary, the science is settled — and none of that is evidence based.”

Garcia-Ryan, 32, is now the board president of Therapy First, an organization that supports therapists who do not agree with the gender affirmation model. He thinks transition can help some people manage the symptoms of gender dysphoria but no longer believes anyone under 25 should socially, medically or surgically transition without exploratory psychotherapy first.

“When a professional affirms a gender identity for a younger person, what they are doing is implementing a psychological intervention that narrows a person’s sense of self and closes off their options for considering what’s possible for them,” Garcia-Ryan told me.

Instead of promoting unproven treatments for children, which surveys show many Americans are uncomfortable with, transgender activists would be more effective if they focused on a shared agenda. Most Americans across the political spectrum can agree on the need for legal protections for transgender adults. They would also probably support additional research on the needs of young people reporting gender dysphoria so that kids could get the best treatment possible.

A shift in this direction would model tolerance and acceptance. It would prioritize compassion over demonization. It would require rising above culture-war politics and returning to reason. It would be the most humane path forward. And it would be the right thing to do.

*~*~*~*~*~*

For those who want tor ead more by those fighting the cancellation forquestioning, read:

Graham Lineham, who's been fighting since the beginning and paid the price, but is not seeing things turn around.

The Glinner Update, Grahan Linehan's Substack.

Kellie-Jay Keen @ThePosieParker, who's been physically attacked for organizing events for women demanding women-only spaces.

REDUXX, Feminst news & opinion.

Gays Against Groomers @againstgrmrs, A nonprofit of gay people and others within the community against the sexualization, indoctrination and medicalization of children under the guise of "LGBTQIA+"

#detransitioners #detransition #gender critical #New York Times #gays #lesbians #trans #trans insanity #long post #article #detrans #transgender #post trans #desisted

703 notes · View notes

uccmd · 10 months

Text

THE LIST of domestic things about Crowley and Aziraphale during S2 as my free therapy session:

The apology dance

Crowley knows why exactly Aziraphale might call him (the list consists of only three reasons) and can understand which is relevant at the moment by Azi's voice

Crowley doesn't wear his glasses in the bookshop

Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

"Ourselves"

"Do you need a lift somewhere?"

Them discussing their favorite romantic tropes like it've never happened to them

Crowley casually ordering the drink Aziraphale asked for

Crowley being absolutely done with everything but still managing to help Aziraphale every way possible participating in his investigation and making sure they're not killed

"OUR car"

Crowley actually letting Aziraphale to drive the Bentley!!!

They have a room where they discuss their questions and problems (like with the Gabriel's and Muriel's visits)

Crowley sitting on the arm of Aziraphale's armchair

"Good job" "You really think so?"

Aziraphale calling Crowley right away to tell him more about the clue and what he found out (aka searching for his praise)

Crowley supporting Aziraphale while he performs his little handy magic tricks

Aziraphale slowly getting more comfortable with calling Crowley his friend (aka "we go back in a long time" and etc)

"A little us time"

Them casually touching each other

Dancing while talking and talking while dancing

Crowley not letting other people buy or take Aziraphale's books while he is out of bookshop

Crowley trying to communicate with Gabriel after Aziraphale advices him to do so

Crowley cleaning up the bookshop while Aziraphale is on a walk with Metatron (he knows this place so well + «stress-cleaning» @sgam76 )

Aziraphale asking Crowley to be his assistant in the lethal magic trick and letting Crowley point the muzzle of a loaded gun at him when they can't use miracles

Crowley's hands shaking because his first shot ever was about to be made while he was pointing a gun at Aziraphale but when he just got himself together because fuck him if he will ever hurt his angel

Crowley trusting Aziraphale because he asked

Crowley waiting for Aziraphale to change his mind in the end until the very last moment

Aziraphale complimenting Crowley's work during The Begging

Aziraphale's attempt to put his hand on Crowley's shoulder during the kiss because he wanted them to be closer to each other

Aziraphale has a diary with a description of his every meeting with Crowley (as i suppose)

"But you like waiting inside"

How literally every character made a remark about their relationship being a little bit more than just friendship and how they're flustered by those comments

"I am, but rescuing me makes him so happy"

«Crowley going “NGK!” when Azi briefly corners him in the pub with a hand on his chest» @babbeldumpsterfire

"If any harm goes to Aziraphale-"

«“we both get PLENTY of use out of it” regarding the bookshop» @nightgoodomens

2K notes · View notes

neoarchipelago · 1 year

Text

And they were Roommates (part 12)

A/N: No comment. Send tips i need therapy.

WARNINGS: SMUT?! 18+ GROWN ASS SHIT? DIRTY TALK? SEX? FILTH? JUST PURE FILTH

It took probably a minute for the realization to set in. When it did, you stood up heading towards the hallway before being stopped by Price.

"Hey hey hey, where are you going?" He asked.

"I'm going to tell him and ask him if he's alright." You said with a frown, as it was obvious to you.

"Nope."

You frowned even more.

"We suspected it was." Gaz started.

"A sex drug." Soap added with a grin.

"We needed to make sure it was because it might have been dangerous but he's fine." Price finished.

"Alright, but why can't I go see him?" You asked, now crossing your arms.

"The lieutenant asked to keep you away…" Konig finally said.

You rolled your eyes. You started to walk again just to be stopped again.

"I know you're worried about him. But he's fine, he's home. The boys are going to stay to make sure he's fine." Price tried again.

You were starting to feel annoyed. You wanted to go see your boyfriend! Price sent you a look that left no discussion. You bit your lip turning your back on him, clearly pouting. He excused himself before leaving, now remaining with the boys.

"Come on, cheer up! We're all home." Soap tried dropping his hands on your shoulders.

"You're here to babysit me and keep me away from his door." You said with a glare.

Word of affirmation came from the three men, making you groan and head to the kitchen counter.

Time passed exactly like you had expected. After a good hour you were no longer the boy's priority as they played on the PS5. You had managed to sneak past them and walk up the stairs. They were underestimating you if they thought they could keep you away from him. You turned into another hallway at the top of the stairs and headed for his door. Unfortunately a large arm wrapped around your waist picking you up like you were made of feathers. You did your best not to yelp, glancing behind you.

"Konig!" You whispered-yelled.

"I'm sorry! You can't! The captain-" he whispered-yelled as well.

You tried to wiggle away but that big bear of a man wouldn't let go.

"Konig please! I need to see him…" you tried in a sad voice.

It wasn't fair. You were using his sensitive side to get what you want. You could see in his eyes. It was working.

"Sparrow… the lieutenant said no…" he tried again.

"Please… I need to see him… Just pretend you never saw me…" you whined.

He put you down slowly but kept a hand around your arm. You didn't move. Running away would be pointless and would ruin your little bargain. He kept his eyes on you until he sighed, letting go of your arm. You jumped, hugging him.

"Thank you thank you!"

You could hear him giggle. He pointed to the door and walked you to it. You were confused until he explained in a very low whisper.

"He's not going to open if he knows it's you…"

You nodded, finally understanding. God, you were so glad for this man. You made sure to buy him the latest Sims game with all the packs. You knew he loved it.

He knocked on the door.

"Lieutenant. It's Konig. I got something for you."

After that he quickly walked away. You watched as he left, listening to the sound of footsteps behind the closed door. The door swung open. Your eyes met his and he immediately froze.

"If you close the door… I'll be angry." You warned.

You could see his hand on the door frame. His knuckles turned white at the pressure.

"What are you doing? Where are the boys?" He asked.

His voice was deeper. Darker. You were so familiar with this, you've already heard it. And everytime something amazingly hot happened.

"I came to check on you. The boys are downstairs." You said confidently.

He chuckled darkly as he noticed it.

"Well. I'm good as you can see. So hop off little bunny." He warned.

"Let me in." You asked.

"Absolutely not." He grunted.

You frowned. You had to find a way to get in. You needed to be there for him. You wanted to be there for him.

"Why not?" You asked innocently.

You knew he liked it. You knew he loved to see you act innocently, he had said it once. It made him want to ruin you.

"Bunny. Not now." He warned again.

"Why?" You batted your lashes.

"The drug is still active."

"And?"

"Bunny…" he growled.

"Hmm?" You hummed as you stepped closer to the door.

"Go." He ordered.

You pouted. He was being stubborn. But so were you. Something inside you made you want to go inside. That little voice in the back of your head kept pushing you to stay with him the whole time. Perhaps it was the need to make sure he was ok. Perhaps it was the thrill of being in the same room as him when you knew he was horny. It was awful. Horrible. But you thought it might be interesting to rile him up in this state.

"Simon… please" you whined.

"No. Go back to the boys." He said firmly.

And then the idea spawned like a flash.

"You're right… I should go check if no one else was touched by the drug." You started as you turned around. "They may need some assistance." You finished.

You were roughly pulled inside. The door was slammed and you were pressed against it. The sound must have alerted the men downstairs. You had therefore very little time to convince him.

"Do you really think this is a good idea?" He scolded. For a little second you thought you might have really fucked up.

"I just want to stay with you… I'm worried Simon please!" You whined.

"Fuck… stop whining." He grunted.

You extended your hand to his chest, his muscles flexing under your touch. His hand wrapped around your wrist in a flash.

"Bunny… please don't do this to me."

"Do what?"

"We talked about this. Taking things slow."

"I know. We are. Let me just stay with you." You whispered.

The sound of footsteps running up the stairs only made the tension grow. You looked at him straight in the eyes.

"Please… let me stay…" you begged.

He took a deep breath, eyes glued to you.

"LT?!" Soap called.

The air was tense in between the both of you. He wanted you to stay. You could see it in his eyes.

"Yes." He answered.

"Is… she?" Gaz asked.

"Obviously." He hissed.

Silence fell for a few seconds. The staring match in between the both of you seemed to drive him mad as his breath quickened.

"Do you want us to take her-"

"NO."

The roar made you jump. You didn't know if it was the offer of making you leave that got him angry, or the poor choice of words used… 'take her'.

The boys awkwardly agreed before leaving. He was letting you stay. You wanted to jump but you tried to contain your happiness. He took a step forward, eyes never leaving yours.

"Behave bunny." He warned one last time before letting go of your wrist and turning around.

He walked to the small sofa not too far from the bed and sat down, head falling back, eyes closed, muscles clearly flexing and breath quickening. You noticed how dark the room was, the curtains were drawn and night had fallen. You could still perfectly see the bulge in his pants from where you stood.

"Don't stare bunny."

How? He had his eyes closed! You bit your lip. You only noticed now that he wasn't wearing his mask.

"Why… don't you help yourself?" You asked, blushing. He groaned.

"I tried."

"And?"

He raised his head again, planting his eyes into yours.

"I can't cum."

A wave of heat rushed through you. His voice made your ears ring, fuck. It must be a torture. You wanted to help him. You really… wanted… to help him.

"Get that thought off your head."

You blinked.

"W-what?"

"Don't try anything, little one."

You rolled your eyes and looked away. You couldn't keep your eyes away however so you looked back at him. He had resumed his position, head thrown back. His fists kept clenching and releasing air. You wanted to help him. Fuck you wanted to get on your knees and relieve him.

You took a few steps forwards as he raised his head to look at you and follow your every movement. You say on his bed, not too far from him.

"How are you feeling?" You tried.

"Warm. Horny." He let out.

You smirked and he rolled his eyes.

"Why aren't you wearing your mask?" You asked, trying to think about anything else but the prominent bulge twitching in his sweatpants.

"There was blue powder all over it. Took it off." He answered in a groan.

You bit your lip. You couldn't stay there, not helping.

"Simon-"

"No."

You frowned.

"How?"

"Baby I can read you so well." He grunted.

You blushed. He made you warm just by his words. You stood up slowly as he opened his eyes again watching your every move. You remained where you were.

"I can help…" you proposed.

"Y/N. We talked about this."

"I know… but this is unexpected, and I want to… help you relieve yourself."

He frowned, swallowing hard.

"You want this to be our first time together? Not me."

You understood his point of view. Sure it wasn't the romantic, love making evening that you had pictured as a first time but… fuck he looked appetizing. And something about him going feral with you made you want to drop to your knees right away. Your head kept running over what you could say to convince him. And it showed up. You jumped in your little spot, gaining his attention.

"Where's your spare mask?"

He frowned but pointed towards the closet. You walked to it, opening it and searching for it. When you found it you turned around looking at him with a wide smile. He still looked confused, but you walked to him, fast enough for him to straighten himself in his seat. You stood in front of him, mask in hands, beckoning him to come closer so you could pass over his head.

He very slowly brought his face closer to you as you slipped his mask on.

"So… let's pretend, this isn't our first time."

"What?"

He straightened the fabric on his face, the movement making you bite your lip. You dropped to your knees, quickly enough that his hand grabbing your hair didn't stop your movement.

"Bunny. Fuck…. Get. Up." He growled.

You put your hands on his thighs and you looked up at him.

"Simon. Listen to me. This isn't our first time."

He sent a questioning look that you clearly recognized with just his eyes.

"This is my first time… with Ghost."

It took a second but it clicked. He chuckled darkly letting himself fall back but still holding your hair.

"You want Ghost to fuck you?" He asked in a dark voice.

"You did say… I was the only one to manage to turn him on."

You let your hands roam softly over his thighs. His hips instinctively bucked when you got a bit too close to the throb in between his legs.

"Are you sure?" He asked.

You nodded, licking your lips, his eyes noticing it.

"Ghost won't be nice. He's not going to be kind. Especially not under a fucking drug." He alerted.

You were anticipating him. Fuck you wanted it. You nodded again. He let go of your hair, smoothing it out. His hand slid over your jaw to grab your chin.

"Choose a safe word."

You blinked. He said yes? He agreed?! A safe word… hum… a safeword.

"Reaper…"

You didn't know yourself if that was a good idea but it's the only thing you thought of. It made him chuckle again.

"Reaper? You gonna call for your plush if it's too much? Alright… fair enough."

He sat himself more comfortably letting go of your chin. He looked at you, kneeled in between his legs.

"Alright little bunny. Let's see how much you can help me." He tilted his head to the side.

It's like something inside him shifted. You could see it in his eyes. The way Ghost showed up, taking over Simon.

"Go on, little one. Kiss it."

You blinked. What? You let yourself drop closer to his bulge, eyes never leaving him. You dropped a soft kiss over it, feeling him twitch. You wanted to smirk when he hissed. But right now, you knew better than that.

"Obedient. Good."

The comment made you squeeze your legs together.

"Bunny. Take it out. Come on."

Once more you obeyed, pulling his pants and boxers down with his help. You had to be honest. You knew he was big. You could feel it sometimes in the morning when he woke up next to you. But fuck. He was thick. He chuckled darkly, gaining your attention.

"Have you bitten more than you can chew?" He teased.

With a very confident look you grabbed his cock, letting your tongue lick its way from the bottom to the tip at an agonizing slow pace. Something in between a moan and a groan escaped his lips, making you feel proud. You kept playing with your tongue, making it swirl over his tip, your hands pumping him slowly.

"Mouth. Now." He ordered.

You were more than happy to oblige. You wrapped your lips around him, slowly sucking as you sunk deeper. His hands met your hair, pulling it into a ponytail and tightening it in his fist.

"That's it. Be a good girl for me."

The praise made you bop your head up and down. You found a steady pace, alternating to licking and pumping him with your hand when you needed a bit of air. The sounds he made went straight in between your legs. His grip tightened in your hair.

"Enough playing. Tap my thigh if you need." He warned.

You moaned around his cock, making his hips buck into your mouth. You put your hands on his thighs letting him fuck himself into your throat.

It took a bit of effort not to gag when he reached the back of your throat. He had fun pulling himself entirely out, watching the little line of drool connect your tongue to his tip. He chuckled darkly.

"Fuck, so pretty."

He shoved himself back in, making you moan again. He used his hand in your hair to drive your mouth the way he felt best. He let his head fall back, his hips bucking into your mouth. The tears burnt your eyes, your cheeks getting wetter by the second. His eyes fell back on you not leaving your face.

"So pathetic… you like it? I can see you squirm, are you wet already? Just by sucking me?"

You blushed, you wondered if that was even possible. He cursed again, his pace quickening. You had to dig your nails into his sweatpants, bracing yourself for his tip at the back of your throat.

"Fuck" he let out in a groan and chuckle. "You're gonna make me cum baby.."

The heat his words sent pulling to your stomach was insane. His pace got impossibly fast, the tears falling down your cheeks.

"So pretty… so, damn, pretty."

You closed your eyes, moaning at his praises.

"Open your eyes. Look at me." He ordered.

You complied, that sight of him over you, looking down at you as he kept using your mouth made you squeeze your thighs together.

"I'm gonna cum baby…"

Fuck… you never thought hearing him say it could make your head spin like this. You braved yourself to feel his cum down your throat but he had other plans.

"No, not inside, let me cum over your face."

You moaned in agreement. He bucked his hips again a few more times before pulling your head back, thick spurs of cum falling on your face as you closed your eyes.

"Shitshitshhit…Ah…Fucking finally" he groaned loudly, his moan mixing with his curses.

You took deep breaths and you opened your eyes. You felt his gaze immediately, making you shiver.

"Shit. You look amazing like that. You Gon let me take a picture?"

You blushed again but nodded, still trying to catch your breath. He grabbed his phone on the small table next to him and pointed it at you. His other hand grabbed your chin, his thumb over your lips.

"Open."

You did. His thumb touching your tongue. THe flash flickered, the tears in your eyes making it impossible not to close them.

"Good girl."

His cock twitched again. He hadn't softened at all and you were aching for him to touch you. He threw his phone on the bed, his attention fully on you again.

"Let's get serious now."

He took off his t-shirt using it to wipe his seed off your face.

"Get up baby."

He threw the shirt to the ground, helping you stand in front of him. He pulled at your shirt, getting annoyed when it wouldn't cooperate. He grabbed something else from under the table this time, the light reflecting on it before he slashed through the fabric. You gasped.

"Simon! I liked that-"

His gaze met yours, making you quiet down immediately.

"Who?"

Shit.

"Hum… G-Ghost" you tried.

"Again."

"Ghost."

"Entirely."

"Lieutenant Ghost." You blushed.

"Good. Forget it again and I'll burn it into your brain."

You bit your lip nodding. You eyed the knife worriedly.

"Breath. I won't hurt you."

Your leggins found the same fate as the air against your skin made it prickle with goosebumps.

He stood up, planting the knife straight into the wood of the table. He towered over you, reaching for his mask to lift it up to his nose before capturing your lips in his. His hands roamed your body very softly, a softness that was unfamiliar from Ghost. One of his hands reached the back of your bra unclasping it. It fell to the floor, but you were too busy drowning in his kiss to even care. He pulled you closer with his hard cock against your stomach. You reached for it, pumping him a few times, earning a little bite on your lower lip.

His lips left yours to attack your neck, bites and licks promising various marks for later on. It made you shiver and whimper each time, the roughness you were used to from Ghost coming back. He separated, grabbing your hand to take it away from him and turned you around. Your back flushed against him, his cock over your ass. You moaned wanting to grind back against him.

His hands touched your skin, making sure to not leave a single inch out. Finally he cupped your breast, your breath hitching at the sensation.

"You're so perfect, fuck look at you."

His fingers were quick to find your nipples and you played with them, rolling them softly and pinching. You moaned, letting yourself fall back onto him. You could feel his lack of patience. His left hand traveled south cupping you over your panties making you buck against his cock. He chuckled against your ear, letting his finger rub your through the fabric.

"Already wet for me…" he growled against your ear.

You nodded, biting your lip. His fingers were rough, torturing, you could feel his heart beating so fast in his chest, remembering he was still under the effect of the drug.

"I'm sorry baby, I have to have you… I can't hold back anymore…"

It made you smirk, hearing him say it made you moan in anticipation.

He had somehow taken off the rest of his clothes at some point and he wrapped his arm around your waist picking you up effortlessly, making you giggle in the process as he walked to the bed. He dropped you to your feet in front of it.

"Come on, lay down, on your back."

Once more you obeyed without discussion. You told yourself you'd be a brat another time.

The sight was amazing. You felt so lucky to have him. He lowered himself, grabbing your hips and pulling you to the edge of the bed. He knelt down, approaching his face dangerously close to your cunt. He made sure to bite your inner thigh, making you yelp.

"This is just a little glimpse of what you'll get, once… I'll be more in control."

You wanted to question him but his tongue through your folds made you moan out loud.

He chuckled.

"Oh… what was that? Do it again baby"

Another long lick at your clit made you moan again as he hummed against you. It was a distraction, because now he wanted it. He needed it. His tongue worked its way up and down, sucking and licking at your sensitive little point. You couldn't help yourself, the moans escaping your lips were stronger than you.

"Ah-h… G-Ghost…"

His grip on your thighs harden, you'd be bruised later on. You tried to arch your back but his hands switched to your hips, holding you in place.

"L-lieuten-ant!"

He froze. Shit. Was it bad? You shouldn't have?

He got up, this time grabbing you and throwing you higher on the bed. You yelped, watching him kneel on the bed before setting himself on top of you.

"That… fuck…" he cursed.

He was out of breath, a small layer of sweat covered his skin.

"A-are you alright?" You asked, concern coating your voice.

"I'm fucking burning. I need to fuck you."

He positioned himself in between your legs, letting the tip of his cock rub against your clit. You had a mix of worry because of his size, of pleasure from the way he rubbed your clit with it and somewhere amongst the fog of your brain you had a glimpse of something about needing a condom that was very quickly lost by his tip at your entrance.

"Safeword ?" He asked.

"R-reaper…"

He grinned before pulling back his mask down, pushing his hips into your slowly. The stretch burnt, but fuck it burnt good. He bottomed out, throwing his head back.

"Shit.."

He slivered his arms under your knees, grabbing your waist.

"I'm sorry… you're gonna have to take it."

He pulled out before slamming right back into you. You gasped. Fuck, you didn't have much time to get used to his size, but he still felt so good, making you feel so full.

"I.. fuck… I need to ruin you… shit"

He slammed again his hips into yours, starting out a slow, steady yet deep rhythm. You moaned each time, the more you got used to it the more you felt yourself burn for him. You could see he was restraining himself, the more he let go of his will to fight the drug the more he slammed into you. He was fixed at the sight of his cock burying himself into you.

"G-Ghost!" You moaned, gaining his attention.

"L-let… go!"

He frowned under the mask at your offer.

"Plea-se… lieut-enant…"

He liked it. You, moaning his rank. Shit shit shit. You'd remember that. His pace quickened, this time his eyes staring right into your soul.

"Fuck… you sound amazing"

You wanted to blush, if your face didn't feel so hot already. His thrusts made your eyes roll back, he managed to hit your sensitive spot each time.

"And you… feel… heavenly." He growled.

You were finding it hard to keep your voice at an acceptable volume, your high building itself faster than it ever did. He looked down at you with a chuckle that made you shiver.

"You gonna cum already bunny? I can… feel you… clenching around me."

He kept his thrusts exactly the way it made you moan a little louder, his cock pumping in and out of you, reaching deep inside you. He groaned again, his head falling back.

"Fuck… I'm… I can't handle this. Fucking drug-"

He kept pounding you, the knot deep in your stomach threatening to break.

"Cum bunny." He ordered.

You whined in between moans, his gaze falling back to you. You didn't think his eyes would be able to make you feel this heat, this feeling. His eye contact was exactly what you needed to let yourself tip over the edge. That, and…

"Cum."

Your mouth fell open at his order, the waves of pleasure crashing over you as his own thrusts quickened. He groaned right after you as he pulsed deep inside you. Fuck. It felt amazing. You were out of breath. But he twitched inside you again, not softening for a second.

"More.."

You blinked, w-what? He grabbed you, making you spin around, your dizzy mind barely understanding. You braved yourself on all four. He had managed to stay deep inside you even like that. He pulled out again, you moaned, your sensitiveness making you twitch. He slammed right back into you, making you cry out.

"W-wait!"

He resumed his pace, his hips thrusting into you. The more you fucked, the less he had control.

"So good… you feel so. FUCKING. Good."

You moaned again. His pace was much more erratic this time, the bed shaking. His hand came to wrap around your throat, pulling you up against him, his other arm securing your waist. You whined again, the new position making you shake a bit.

"Good girl. Good fucking girl." He hissed against your ear, making you clench on his cock again.

You almost couldn't believe it, your second orgasm building up again deep inside you. You fucked back against him, making him tighten his grip on your neck, the lack of air making your cheeks tingle. What was that sound… Was it you? Shit who cared.

"Baby… cum again… come on… cum with me"

It was all you needed to explode again. This time you saw stars, he made sure to bury himself deep inside you as he came again. The warmth inside you and his praises in your ear made your orgasm only more intense.

You were both out of breath, he had let go of your neck, both his arms holding you against him.

"God.. good girl… so good bunny…"

You whined again. You felt a mix of his cum and your juices dripping down your thighs. You wanted to say something, something about a fucking condom, but he beat you to it.

"You need to see it."

Your brows furrowed a bit. What… Did he mean? He thrust again inside you, a warning that he was far from done. You whined.

"Lieutenant..!"

He stopped, not moving an inch.

"Do you want to use your safeword…?"

You thought for a minute, no… you could take it, fuck you wanted to take it. He was on the drug but shit, he didn't realize you were the one addicted here. You shook your head.

"Good. Reach back. Arms around my neck. Hold tight."

He slipped out of you, the sensation making you whine. You obeyed anyhow. You yelped when he slipped his arms under your knees lifting you up. He stood from the bed, walking to the mirror. You shook your head when you reached it, the sight almost pornographic. He stood behind you as he held you up against him, legs wide open. You could see his cum dripping out of you, his cock twitching against your ass.

"Damn.. so good. Look at you, my cum dripping out of you, my tags around your neck…"

You only noticed them now. You were still wearing them. You bit your lip, closing your eyes.

"Feeling shy? Look. At me."

You shook your head.

"Bunny. Eyes. On. Me."

You opened them, looking back into the mirror.

"You're gonna pay for disobeying me. Shove my cock back inside."

You blinked.

"B..but… my arms?"

"I'm holding you. You're not going anywhere."

You bit your lip, slowly letting one of your arms fall from his neck, you reached down feeling the tip of his cock against your fingertips.

"Shit.."

He was just as sensitive as you, you could see it in the mirror, the way his tip had reddened. You brought it to your entrance and he trusts back into you, making you whine.

You wrapped again your arms around his neck, trying to hold yourself up against his restless pace.

"Look into the mirror."

You felt shy yes. But fuck did it send hot wave through you watching him balls deep inside you as he groaned against your ear. The dog tags jumped on your stomach, your breast bouncing with each thrusts, his muscles flexing under his movements.

"I-I… I can't!"

You were too sensitive, too out of breath. Each thrusts kept rubbing against your G spot, another orgasm rising.

"Yes. YES. You can."

You had long lost the fight against your moans, you were loud, probably too loud.

"I'm… GHOST!"

You threw your head back, a cry leaving your lips, ears ringing when another orgasm hit you.

"Fuck. The way… you clench, shit, I'm-" He hissed.

He moaned loudly, his cock twitching as he spilled again inside you. The way he kept thrusting even through your orgasms made his seed pool at the base of his cock.

"Im.. loud…t-too… loud…" you tried.

"Fuck that." He chuckled again.

He pulled out, cum dripping to the floor again. He walked you to his door, putting you down there and helped you stay up.

"Hands against the door. Let's give them a show."

You opened your mouth, eyes widening but a moan came out as he thrust his still hard dick right back in. You felt dizzy, your head spinning. You were unsure you could take more. His hips slamming into you, his groans and the sound of skin slapping mixing with your own shaky voice.

"Can't! C-cant!"

"S-safeword?" He moaned in your ear.

You answered with a moan again, not able to form an answer. His fist slammed against the door above you as he forced himself to stop, letting you catch your breath.

"Bunny. Need you awake."

You shook, legs ready to give in. His arm wrapped around your stomach, holding you up.

"Bunny." His voice was firmer.

You moaned in answer, telling him he had your attention.

"Safeword? If you need to. Say it." He warned.

He was struggling to hold back, his own hips bucking into you a bit when you clenched around him from the sensitiveness.

"Fucking hell. I need it. An. Answer."

You tried to gather your thoughts. Could you take more? You wanted to, you wanted to be his good girl. You could hear it in his voice, in his hisses how deep he was in his high. Fuck you wanted to keep going. You were unsure your body would follow.

"Y/N-"

"No… n-no safeword…"

He let out a shaky breath as he started moving again, slower this time. You were thankfully for it, but you couldn't stop the moans leaving your lips.

"More… fuck I… need more baby…" he grunted.

His pace got faster again, the door shaking underneath your hands and his fist. They'd hear it. Fuck if they didn't hear it until now, which was highly unlikely, they HAD to hear this.

Tears pricked at your eyes, another orgasm building up, this time the burnt was almost aching you.

"Cum..gon..cum.." you mumbled in between moans.

He chuckled, pounding into you again restlessly, chasing his own high again.

You cried out this time your legs giving out, you were thankful for the muscle of a man torturing you with his cock as he caught you. You didn't know if he did so just to pound into you more.

"Ever-y time… you get.. so.. tight" he hissed through gritted teeth.

He cursed again, his dick throbbing inside you. You felt his cum fill you up again if it was even possible.

"Good girl… my bunny.. fuck.."

He slipped out again, picking you up and placing you on the bed as gently as he could in his state. He kneeled in between your legs, wiping a tear off your cheek.

"One more."

You shook your head, this was too much way too much. You never came this much before you couldn't.

"One last one. The high is fading."

You couldn't speak anymore. You wanted to be his good girl. You wanted to take it.

"Nod if you can take it."

And you did. Shit. If you died, this was the best fucking way to die. Fucked into oblivion. He slapped his tip against your sensitive bud making you squirm underneath him. He slowly, agonizing slow, thrust back inside inch by inch. Through the tears you could see his eyes, as he obsessively watched his dick enter your sensitive pussy. He was lost, completely feral, Ghost owning you completely. His eyes flickered to yours.

"You can take it."

It wasn't a question. It was something in between an order and a fact. He was slow this time, his thrusts long and deep, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You're mine."

"Mmyours…"

He chuckled.

"Look at you, fucked out, can't even speak."

You moaned, you were too sensitive, it was too much, you couldn't hold back the tears.

"You. Belong. To. Me."

He made sure to punctuate every word with a thrust. He grabbed the dog tags, tangling his fingers in them as wrapped his hand around your neck. He didn't squeeze. He simply rested there. You felt sore, sensitive, your body overwhelmed, your mind mush. All you could hear was his mix or praises and dirty talk as he fucked himself into you again.

"My bunny.. my sweet girl"

You moaned out loud again. Back arching, your own hands wrapping around his wrist.

"You're so full of my cum baby…"

And you remembered. Throughout the haze and the pleasure.

"No… c-..condom.."

He thrust even deeper.

"Shit… fuck, you're right."

You had meant it as a warning, as a revelation to him, but somehow he went nuts.

"Gonna fill you up again…"

You whined. He was too lost to care, fuck, he was so lost that he was letting himself enjoy that fact, without a single thought about the consequences.

You felt the tension build up again, your cheeks burning and tingling as your vision blurred.

"L-lieuten-ant.."

"Shit..love it when you moan my rank.. again."

He made sure to hit that sweet spot inside you to help you moan it out.

"L..fuck.. lieu…tenant!"

He slammed himself deep again. You were so close to breaking again, but you also knew you were too close to the end.

"I… can't! I..pass..out"

He chuckled, his thumb reaching to soothe your lips.

"You scared?"

A bit. If you wanted to be honest. But shit it was thrilling.

"I got you. I'm right here, you can let go." He growled.

And you knew you could. Whatever happened you knew he was there.

"Go on baby… let go, I'm gonna cum with you"

You could feel yourself reaching it, your ears ringing tears falling down your cheeks, Vision blackening as it finally hit. You felt your throat burn, probably from your voice but your ears didn't work. The last thing you felt was his hips bucking into you as he spilled himself deep in you one last time.

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

tags 1:

@lemontails @cabreezer0117 @tomhardy411 @brxghtixghtz @shuttlelauncher81 @pinkdazelight @sirenbunnylol @snortangeldust @novausstuff @gasstationfifacard @emotion-not-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @simpforavillain @minimisthios @catied32 @poohkie90 @watermaylon-writes @thereealink @meimhem @sorryi-mtrash @gaymistakeboiii @bittersw33t-lotus @gh0stm3g @freckledmuffin @itsasecrets-things @xback1021 @connierk690 @feedthefandoms995 @friendlyneighboorhoodgothicpagan @dead-noodles @critter-mylo @honeymariee @badame0224 @kitty-satan1 @all-good-things-have-an-ending @tianotfound @thriving-n-jiving @hailstrum18 @kiruoris @thats-s0-ravenn @makastaco @abajointrossyearl @kaylynninice24 @cated18 @swg141 @ghost-2513 @whore4dilfs @yggrid @jaehyacinths @juneitoo @misscherrypitpie @topgirl17 @mildlyhopeless @feyredarling92 @thegirlintheshadows101 @badbittywitty

3K notes · View notes

tanadrin · 1 year

Note

I'm imagining the very unfortunate 13 year old trans boy who has top surgery and then grows more later as puberty progresses.

(I know that 13 year olds don't get top surgery unless there's something VERY weird/wrong [for instance: cancer] going on with the kid's body.)

Minors absolutely can and do get, for instance, breast implants--but only if they're cis, and only with parental permission. The fucked up thing is that a lot of medical procedures that are considered perfectly safe and uncontroversial as long as you're cis (puberty blockers, HRT, various kinds of plastic surgery) get rhetorically transformed into a big scary cloud of evil for trans people, and even transphobes who are nominally opposed to, say, breast implants for sixteen year olds certainly aren't going to spend nearly as much time, if any at all, railing against that sort of thing in public. Because all of this is a post-hoc justification for an intense disgust they feel at gender nonconformity, not actually a principled defense of anybody's rights.

This is also why you can't rhetorically pin them down on any single point. They'll lie about GCS; and when you point out that's a lie, they'll go "well, what about puberty blockers?" And if you point out that puberty blockers are pretty safe, were invented to treat precocious puberty in cis kids, and their effects are entirely reversible, they'll leap to bathrooms or FUD about nebulous issues of "women's rights," and if you try to pin them down about that, they'll circle right back around to lying about GCS, hoping any onlookers have forgotten about or missed that part of the discussion.

I have very little sympathy for people who argue so transparently in bad faith and whose pyschosexual obsessions are so nakedly on display. Books like Irreversible Damage lay bear the extent to which transphobia is almost wholly about cis peoples' anxiety about their own gender and gender expression, in the same way that homophobia is often straight people twisting themselves into knots about their own sexuality. What these people really need is therapy, or an ayahuasca retreat, or to do some yoga about it, but that would require the uncomfortable process of cultivating self-knowledge, so plan B is "make sure I don't have to be confronted with evidence that the human experience is more diverse and complicated than I have been previously willing to believe."

3K notes · View notes

dulcesiabits · 8 months

Text

an artist's swan song.

summary: an injured wrist is the last thing you need before art school applications. no one understands your frustrations-- no one but the boy at the physical therapy office.

notes: 6.3k words, fic, author's notes, discussion of acl tears and carpal tunnel syndrome, they/them pronouns for reader but chigiri calls reader miss artist, takes place before blue lock

The doctor tells you that you’re lucky.

Lucky that you caught the injury so fast, lucky that you were diligent enough to go to the ER as soon as the numbness in your fingers started, lucky that the damage would be minimal, as long as you were careful.

You stare at your black splint the whole time he talks, tight and itchy against your wrist, an alien weight. So this is what luck looks like?

“You’ll need to do these stretches everyday for five minutes at home,” the doctor says, handing you a sheet of paper with exercises for wrist stretches. It trembles in the air in front of you, before your dad swoops in to take it.

“Thank you,” your dad says, clasping a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll make sure they stick to the regime.”

The doctor nods, smiles, and wishes you luck, before ushering the two of you out. His white coat blurs like a streak of paint as the door closes and he takes off his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes. Your hand twitches for your oil paints to capture the scene, but they’re still lying at home, half-rolled tubs scattered in your room.

“Are you okay?” your dad asks quietly, once you’re out in the hallway.

You nod, rubbing at your splint.

“Don’t do that,” your dad says. “The doctor told you that you shouldn’t strain your wrist unnecessarily.”

“I’m not straining my wrist,” you murmur, and he rubs your back affectionately.

“Still, try not to poke at it, okay?” You round the sterile white hall, and your dad brightens. “Look, a vending machine. Why don’t you go buy something to drink?” He pulls out his wallet, shoving a few yen coins in your hand– your good hand– before you can protest. “I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Your hand hovers in front of the buttons as you amble over to the machine, eyes blurring over the rows of canned drinks and bright colors and happy mascots, before you decide on a single iced black tea. The machine whirs as you slip in your coin, the can slides out– and then it stills, stuck right against the front of the glass. Of course.

You smash your sneaker against the glass pane of the vending machine, your trapped can of iced black tea rattling. One kick. Then another, and the stupid can still won’t drop. You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes. You can’t even get a vending machine to work. Because here you are, in this stupid physical therapy office, when you should be at the art prep academy preparing your portfolio and practicing for your art college exam, but you can’t strain your stupid wrist to pick up your brush.

Something thunks against the vending machine. You slowly open your eyes, just in time to see a boy raise his crutches and slam them against the glass, and, miraculously, your drink drops into the open space below with a pleasant clink.

“I hate this machine. It always gets stuck,” he says.

Half-braided red hair, slender nose, soft mouth. If not for the crutches and the black brace running down the length of his right leg, you’d wonder if he was an angel, not another patient.

“I want you to model for me,” you murmur, entranced by the way his silky hair shifts on his shoulders.

“... What?”

You slap your hands over your mouth. “Sorry! I– You’re pretty, so I– I! I’m an artist. Was an artist? Am?” you ramble, cheeks heating as your words trip all over themselves and the furrow between the boy’s eyebrows grows deeper.

Unexpectedly, he laughs, then points at the vending machine. “Don’t forget your drink, Miss Artist.”

You scramble for the can, pulling it out and offering it to the boy. “You should have it.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s yours.”

You turn, slipping another yen coin into the machine, and in a few seconds, you have another can of black tea. “This way we both have one. So it’s okay, right?”

He tilts his head. “I guess it is.” You consider him again; he really is pretty, pretty enough that your hands itch to sketch him, to capture the outline of his profile. You’re floating at the discovery of a once-in-a-lifetime beauty, a muse– but the brace on your hand slams you back down to earth.

“I think that guy is trying to get your attention,” the boy says, pointing behind you. It’s your dad: he’s watching the two of you with curiosity, but waves his hand once your eyes are on him.

“It’s time for us to go,” your dad says. “Ah, but do you need a minute? New friend?”

The boy gathers himself, forcibly crams the can of black tea you gave him into his pocket, where it bulges out, threatening to fall. “I have an appointment in a bit. So I should get going.”

Your feet won’t cooperate with you. “It was nice to meet you, um…”

“Chigiri Hyoma,” he says.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” you say, then wince. To see him at the physical therapy wing again would mean his injury hadn’t healed. Were you trying to curse him with a slow recovery?

But Chigiri only smiles, a simple act that makes your heart do funny somersaults in your chest. He really is an angel. “Sure. See you around, Miss Artist. Thanks for the tea.”

“Who is that?” your dad whispers, once the two of you are farther down the hall.

“An angel,” you mumble, before flushing under your dad’s quizzical gaze. “I meant a friend! A friend. I think.”

“He seems like a nice boy. It’d be nice for the two of you to get along,” your dad says earnestly.

You glance at Chigiri one more time, the edge of his face lit in a soft glow from the sunshine, his back turned towards you. What is he thinking?

At home that night, his profile still lingers in your mind as you crouch amongst your haphazard piles of sketchbooks and discarded art supplies. It’ll be months before you can use them again, so you might as well take the time to clean, something you’ve neglected in the rush for the upcoming entrance exams for art college.

Oil paints. Pastels. Sticks of charcoal. You’ve dabbled in a lot of different mediums over the years, saving up all your change just to buy supplies from the art store a few subway rides away from your house. Cheap materials work just as well as expensive ones, and it doesn’t matter what you use as long as you have paper in front of you. Your first memories involve you crouching in the living room, a crayon fisted in your chubby hand as you scribble nonsensical shapes all over the white kitchen wall, something that caused your dad endless suffering when he found you.

Your dad did save up to buy you a nice set of watercolors for the art prep academy you’ve been attending, and though he only smiles and encourages you to keep painting, it’s a strain on your finances. Art isn’t cheap, and your only hope is to get into a public art school by passing the entrance exams. But now… it looks like you can’t even do that, thanks to your wrist.

Carpal tunnel syndrome.

That’s the diagnosis the doctor gave you, an illness more common in people three times your age, brought on by repetitive trauma on your wrist that led to a pinched nerve.

Unusual for someone as young as you, the doctor had said. But you’re lucky, because of the fact that you’re young and the injury is light, so you’ll heal in a few months with rest.

But time isn’t a luxury you can afford. You were supposed to pass the exam. Get into an art school. Practice, graduate, become an artist. Your dream, once so solid, has burst like a bubble just as soon as you begin to reach towards its hazy outline. Every second you’re resting is a second wasted, a second that could have been spent practicing and improving.

“How did you get this injury?” the doctor had asked.

Because of art. Because you couldn’t stop drawing, because then it would feel like you were drowning in the water. Freelance commissions. Constant practice. Art club and art academy lessons. You’d forgotten to breathe these past few months, forgotten to eat or rest.

But all of that came back to bite you, in the end. No more art, the doctor had said. At least until you’re healed. And even after that, you wouldn’t be able to keep up the excruciating pace you once had.

You flop down on your futon. Your classmates must be in the middle of class by now, honing their skills. And what are you doing?

You’re floating in a small boat in the middle of the ocean, unmoored. No oars, no maps. Just the rocking of the waves, unsure of where you’re going to end up, your dream like a distant land. The shape of it, once rendered real with each stroke of your paintbrush, is undiscoverable now.

—

It’s only a month later that you visit the physical therapy office again for a follow-up appointment. The weather has turned chilly by then, a brisk bite of cold that heralds the coming winter. This time, you go alone, taking the subway until it screeches to a stop at your destination. In the hospital, it’s the same white walls and sterile air, a place unmoored from time.

“Keeping up with your stretches?” the doctor asks.

“Everyday.”

“Good! And how’s the sensation in your fingers?”

“Not as bad anymore. They don’t shake, and the numbness is mostly gone.”

The doctor nods. “Perfect! You’re on the path to recovery. Let’s keep the brace on for several more months. Keep up with the stretches, and don’t forget to lay off of drawing until you’ve recovered.”

Your appointment is over, but you’re not in the mood to go home yet. Instead, you wander down the halls aimlessly, nurses and patients bustling by with a purpose. You don’t even realize you’re looking for Chigiri until you spot him in the hospital cafeteria, crutches leaning against the table and poking at a plastic bear full of lychee jelly.

“Chigiri Hyoma,” you say on instinct, his name rolling smoothly on your tongue.

“Hm…?” He looks up. “Oh. It’s you, Miss Artist. Back again?” He unscrews the bear’s head, and hands you a small capsule of jelly. “Want one? My friends brought me this, but I can’t eat all of it.”

You rip the plastic lid off and squeeze the jelly into your mouth, the sweetness sliding down your throat. “It’s good.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Glad you liked it.” The rest of the jelly, you notice, is untouched.

“Appointment go well?” you say instead.

“Yeah. It’s not like I can make my knee any worse. I’m doing stretches and exercises to strengthen it, but…”

The expression on his face makes you ache, if only because you’ve seen it so many times when you look in the mirror: your body, a sudden traitor, and the world you thought you knew crumbling beneath your feet.

The words are out of your mouth before you can process them. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

There’s no hesitation as Chigiri looks you right in the eyes and says: “Yes.”

Shuffling out of the hospital into the cold air, jackets and scarves wrapped tight, you and Chigiri make your way aimlessly down the street. He had dumped his lychee jelly with the receptionist with a pretty smile and a “I can’t finish all of this. I hope you can enjoy it with your colleagues,” and then you were off down a block of glass storefronts in bright colors. Few other people were out on the street, so the two of you might have been the only people left in Japan.

You keep glancing at him now and again, his pensive face, the stillness of his expression like a pond glazed with frost.

“You said you wanted me to model for you last time. Is that why you can’t stop staring?” Chigiri says, without turning to face you.

You start. You thought you had been careful, but he’d caught you nonetheless. “Um! A little! You’re very… pretty.”

“I get that a lot. My teammates used to call me princess,” he says, snorting. “That, and Red Panther. Local newspaper made it catch on, and everyone gave me crap about how cheesy it was.”

“Teammates?”

“Football teammates. I was the fastest on my team. Not that I can play with my knee like this.” His crutch taps a sharp staccato beat on the ground. “ACL tear.”

You rub at your own splint. “It’s carpal tunnel syndrome for me. I would have wanted you to model for me if it was still… if I could… ah, well, I can’t draw for the next few months.”

Chigiri nods. “A football player who can’t run, and an artist who can’t draw. That’s kinda funny, isn’t it?” There’s a note of bitterness in his voice.

“It won’t be the same once we’re healed,” you say matter of factly, words blowing small clouds into the sky. “Everyone tells me it’s not the end, that I can do something else, but… I don’t know. I won’t be able to draw like I used to. I can heal, but… I’ll still remember what this felt like.”

His face twists into a small smile. “Yeah. You’re the only one who hasn’t tried to comfort me, or told me it’ll be okay. Because it won’t be. It won’t be the damn same.”

Because your body will remember. Even having this injury once opens the door for your wrist to tear again. And next time, it could be even worse. Unrecoverable, even, to the point where any hope of an art career will be shattered beyond repair. That must have been what it felt like for Chigiri, too, and football.

“Every second spent healing feels like I’m losing time,” you murmur.

He nods. “What were you going to do before the injury?”

You cup your hands around your mouth, blowing on them to keep warm. “Art college.”

“I was going to go to nationals,” he says. “You’re a third year?”

“Yeah. You, too?”

“Nah, second year. This was my chance to win.” Chigiri looks up at the sky, gray clouds reflecting in his eyes. “I was a genius. Everyone told me I was going to do something special. That I could go pro, and lead Japan to the World Cup.”

“But is genius even real?” you say.

“What do you mean?”

“Well… any skill can be honed with enough hard work,” you say simply. “That’s what I believe, anyways. Calling someone a ‘genius’ or ‘talented’ ignores all of the work someone put in to reach that point. People tell me I’m talented, but… I just really love art. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“I never thought of it like that.” Chigiri spares a glance at you. “You’re stronger than I am.”

“I don’t know if I’m any stronger than you. I still got hurt. Geniuses, hard workers… we’re all the same in the end,” you reply. He doesn’t respond to that.

The stretch of storefronts gives way to a grassy clearing, a small park consisting of a dirt path and a stretch of trees. “You want to stop by?” you say, pointing.

“Looks like it could be a football field,” Chigiri murmurs. There it is again. That sad, distant look in his eyes, like he doesn't know where he’s going. Lost, adrift.

“Teach me how to play,” you say impulsively.

“Football?”

“Tell me how to score a goal,” you say. “I want to know.”

Chigiri’s laugh is a short, sweet melody. “All right. Let’s go pick up a football ball, and I’ll teach you how to score. Looking for a career change already, Miss Artist?”

“I just thought… I wanted to learn more about it, that’s all,” you say softly. You want to learn more about him, but you bite the thought back.

“Then… teach me how to draw,” he says. “How about that?”

“Deal!”

After a quick stop to a nearby sports store, you’re on the grassy field, a football poised beneath your foot, while Chigiri calls instructions from a nearby bench. He can’t venture into the field, not with his crutches, but you’re close enough for him to watch.

“Use the top of your foot to kick! Not your toe!” he says, cupping one hand around his mouth.

“Like this?” You try to adjust your posture, but Chigiri shakes his head. You shift your foot under the ball again, but it wobbles away from you. You dash after it, trying to stop the movement with your foot, only to kick the ball farther away instead.

You turn to Chigiri with wide eyes, but he’s smiling at you, his eyes crinkling at the corner. “I don’t know if the football life is for you, Miss Artist,” he says.

“I’ve never played before,” you say defensively, retrieving the runaway ball. Once you’re back in position in front of Chigiri, you adjust your posture again.

“Don’t look afraid of it,” he calls. “You’re supposed to control the ball. It listens to you, not the other way around.”

You sigh, then give the ball a tentative kick, watching it sail across the air, curving to the left. “I don’t know how you shoot it straight,” you murmur.

“It depends on the angle of your kick,” Chigiri explains.

Once the ball is safely tucked under your arm, you make your way back to him, flopping down on the bench. The cold seeps through your clothes, and you shiver. Without a word, Chigiri scooches closer to you, until your shoulders are touching.

“Football is hard,” you groan. “The fact you were able to do it… I’m impressed, Chigiri.”

“They did call me a genius, you know? But… I did practice hard,” he acknowledges. “Sometimes, I wake up in the morning, thinking I need to hurry to practice because I’m late, before I remember… my knee. And it’s winter, so there’s no practice going on, anyways. But…”

“It’s important to you.”

“Yeah.” He nudges you with his elbow. “Hey, your turn. Teach me how to draw, Miss Artist.”

You pull out a mini notebook and a pen from your pocket. You always carry some form of paper and writing utensil with you, just in case, and it’s hard to shake off the habit, even with your hand the way it is.

You set the supplies on Chigiri’s lap, and he twirls the pen in his hand as he picks it up. “So,” you begin, “Um… Usually, you have to observe what you want to draw. With sketches, I usually try to measure the dimensions of the object with my pencil, but… you can just try to freeform it! Notice shapes. Everything is made up of shapes. You could try… drawing that streetlight–” you point– “or that tree. You should try watching how light falls on it, too. From what angle? Where do the shadows land?”

“Observation… Shapes… Light…” Chigiri mutters seriously, and, for some reason, he quickly looks at you before looking away.

He begins to draw, his pen whirring furiously across the page. Content, you stare into the gray sky, before turning to observe his progress. The drawing… well… you can’t make anything out, except for a few lines extending outwards of what appears to be… a circle?

“Chigiri…”

“Yeah?”

“Um… you should try turning the paper as you draw,” you offer. “Don’t just use the pen.”

He flicks his wrist and the notebook slides sideways, but his pen slips and the line curves away. He throws it down in exhaustion. “How do you do this all the time? This is hard.”

“Don’t say that! I think it looks good!” you offer. “It’s a nice… um… tree!”

“It’s not a tree.”

“... Horse?” You say, squinting at the page again.

Chigiri flips the notebook closed. “You don’t deserve to see my art. I’m not telling you what it is.”

“No, it’s okay! You tried your best. What did you draw?”

“I’m not sharing.”

“I played football for you,” you say plaintively.

“...Ugh. Don’t laugh,” he warns.

“I won’t,” you promise, and Chigiri sighs, flipping open to the page he had been doodling on.

“It’s you,” he says, with a long-suffering sigh, the tips of his ears reddening.

“It’s me? It’s cute! It’s really cute!” you say earnestly, taking the notebook from him. On closer inspection, you can make out what’s supposed to be a… neck? And your eyes. And this must be… your nose and mouth.

“You thought it was a horse,” he grumbles, but he brightens at your praise, regardless of his moody tone.

“It’s a very cute horse. I make a very cute horse? Ah, I didn’t mean to offend you— I really do think it’s—”

Chigiri bursts out laughing. “It’s fine. It can’t be helped if it looks like a horse.”

“Well.. now that I’m looking at it like this… it doesn’t look like a horse. Not at all.”

“You don’t have to make me feel better,” Chigiri says.

“I’m not! I really do like it!”

Something wet touches your cheek, and you look up. It’s snowing, soft flakes dancing through the sky.

Chigiri holds out a hand, catching snowflakes on his palm. “We should head back, just in case it gets worse.”

“Ah, okay.” You stand, and he grabs his crutches.

“Thanks, Miss Artist,” he says. “This was fun.”

“Let’s meet up again soon,” you say. “If you want.”

“I’d be mad at you if you just abandoned me now,” Chigiri teases. “Give me your phone number.”

After exchanging numbers with numb fingers, the warm glow of your time with Chigiri doesn’t fade, even on the ride home. It balloons in your chest, until you’re filled with light. In your room, you carefully rip out Chigiri’s sketch from your notebook and pin it over your desk wall. It’s not skilled at all, but it really is cute.

How long has it been since you enjoyed yourself like that? No, how long has it been since you enjoyed art?

You press two fingers against the mouth of the drawing, remembering Chigiri’s face scrunched up in concentration that afternoon, trying to capture your likeness.

—

A few weeks later, as you’re slipping on your boots, your dad stops you at the doorway. He tries to smile at you, buttoning his suit jacket for his office job, but it comes off as more of a grimace. You’ve been spending all your time with Chigiri lately, and you wonder if your dad is going to press you about him.

Instead, he asks, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do next year?”

“For what?” You tie the laces, pat down your coat, but something in your dad’s expression makes you pause with one hand on the door knob.

“For college,” he says. “Do you have any back-ups lined up? I know you’re still recovering, and you really wanted to go to art school, but I don’t want you to neglect all your options! Your grades are still good enough to land you somewhere in Tokyo.”

You bite your lip so hard you almost taste blood. “I was going to take a gap year.”

“Gap year…? That’s okay, as long as you’ve talked to your counselor, but…” His voice trails off in concern.

But art isn’t a viable career option. Don’t pin your hopes on one dream. You need to grow up, to be reasonable, to learn when to quit. Art can be a hobby. That’s what all the adults in your life have always told you, saying it was for your own good, but until now, your own dad hadn’t been one of them.

You scuff at the ground. “I am thinking seriously about my future, you know.”

Your dad sighs, a quiet, gentle sound. “I know. I know you love art, but I want you to have more than one option in your life. I want what’s best for you, because I can’t always be here to take care of you. Having a dream is nice, but you’re almost an adult. Do you understand?”

“I get it. But I’m going out with a friend today,” you say abruptly. “I’ll be home in the afternoon.”

You run out before your dad can respond, but your hands are shaking as you swipe your card and descend the subway steps, the warm underground hair heating up your face as the train rumbles by. Why is it that all the adults in your life only know how to tell you the same thing? Why is giving up on your dreams the only way to grow up? Because, deep down, you know they’re not wrong. The art world is unforgiving. There’s no guarantee of a good future or even a job. But… you thought your dad, at least, would understand you.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” It’s the first thing Chigiri asks you when you find him leaning against a bench, crutches by his side, waiting for you by the subway exit.

“Yeah, I did. I’m just a little cold,” you lie. Chigiri doesn’t push the issue any farther, but his eyes feel like they’re burning into you the longer you try to keep your expression neutral.

“Do you want to sit inside somewhere?” he asks finally. “If you’re cold, we don’t have to go too far.”

A swarm of people floods past the two of you, and you press closer to Chigiri, afraid of being pushed away in the rush. You can feel the ache of winter deep in your bones, seeping through the thread of your gloves and coat. The sky is a faded blue, the sun’s light watery.

“As long as I’m with you, I don’t mind going anywhere,” you tell him, and Chigiri tucks his face into the fold of his scarf, but not before you catch the bright rose of his cheeks.

“Let’s just walk around, then,” he says.

Most people don’t brave the winter cold unless they have a destination in mind, but you and Chigiri wander aimlessly. Just the two of you, chatting about this and that, pointing out funny displays in stores or commenting on the foods you’d like to try when you pass by restaurants with their menus pasted on the glass.

It’s comfortable with him. Warm. If you had to name the feeling in your chest, you could only compare it to the spring sun. You could go anywhere, do anything, under the light of his smile. There’s a genuine understanding with Chigiri, like a language without words.

When you lean closer to Chigiri, he doesn’t move away. He raises a hand from the top of his crutch, hovering in the space between the two of you, and when you catch his eyes, he pauses, before dropping his hand and tightening his grip on his crutches.

“Are you okay, Chigiri?”

“I’m fine,” he says moodily, but there’s no heat behind his words. “I just can’t wait until I get this brace off,” he adds, so quietly you almost don’t catch it.

You pass a trio of students flying down the street, canvas tucked under their arms and bookbags slung across their chests. One of them pauses when she sees you, stumbling to a halt, her mouth parted.

“No way! It’s— whoa, I haven’t seen you in weeks!” she says, and recognition jolts through you. It’s Mika from your art prep academy, and the fact she’s here— ah. Of course. Just because you stopped drawing, didn’t mean everyone else would have, too.

“Hi, Mika,” you say weakly.

“I thought you dropped out!” she says, and her friends crowd curiously around you and Chigiri.

“Things came up.”

“Skipping class to go hang out with your boyfriend? I get it, he’s a cutie,” she says teasingly, winking at Chigiri. “And here I thought art was the most important thing to you.”

“I didn’t— he’s not—” you begin, your thoughts tangling themselves into knots. You hadn’t explained anything to your classmates, or your teacher. You had quit when your hand started going numb and you couldn’t keep up with the pace, despite your teacher begging you to stay on. What could you say now?

Chigiri takes a step in front of you. “They didn’t drop out for something like that,” he says politely, but there’s an edge to his voice. He also didn’t refute their assumption that he was your boyfriend, you realize. “Don’t assume things about them.”

“Ah, of course! I didn’t mean to…” Mika’s voice trails off, embarrassed. Her eyes glaze over Chigiri’s crutches and leg brace, and you discreetly shift your sleeve further over your wrist splint. “Sorry. Are you going to go to classes again?”

“I don’t know yet,” you say haltingly. “I might… take a gap year.”

“Eh? But you were the best artist in our class! That doesn’t…” Mika shakes her head. “Sorry. There I go again, assuming things. Good luck with your gap year, okay?”

You wave her off, and she and her friends run down the street again, scarves flying behind them. Still, the wind carries their voices to you.

“That’s good for you, right, Mika? Less competition for college! I can’t believe that someone who quit so easily was the best person in your class,” one of her friends murmur.

“Cut it out, Aki! Don’t put it like that. But… I guess even talented people can only go so far,” Mika replies softly, their banter fading as they get farther away, specks of blurred paint in the distance.

You can’t be mad. You really can’t. You didn’t give anyone a reason for why you dropped out, and didn't want to explain the truth: that your body broke down. That you can’t keep up. Your classmates, with shining eyes, chase after the dreams that were once yours. Their judgment would have been embarrassing enough. Their pity— and calculated relief— would have been worse.

Chigiri grabs your shoulders, his face more serious than you’ve ever seen him.

“Are you okay?” Chigiri says urgently, and it’s only then you realize you’re crying.

“I want to draw,” you whisper, tears choking your voice.

Chigiri wipes away each beading tear with his thumb. He pauses at the weak sound of your voice, rubbing tenderly at the wet trails on your face, as he could wipe away your sadness, too. “Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”

“I want to draw, Chigiri. I don’t know… what I’m supposed to do now.”

“Do you like art?” he says.

“I do. But…” The shape of your dream is so fragile. You’ve only realized this now, how many people strive for the same thing you want. How easily you could be buried under the crush of artists, lost before you have a chance to make a name for yourself. One mistake. One stroke of bad luck. And it can all crumble apart in your hands. “But I’m so scared.”

“It’s your dream,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. Don’t–” his voice breaks. “Don’t give up now. Don’t give up. You can heal. Who gives a damn if you don’t get into art college this year? You have the next, and every year after that. It’s important to you, right? So don’t give up,” he says furiously, but you can’t tell if he’s talking to you or himself. “It doesn’t matter what anyone says. It only matters what you want.”

And what do you want? Fame? Recognition? Talent? No. No, none of those really matter in the end. What really matters to you…

“I… I want to draw,” you sob. “I want to be an artist. I want to make my dream come true. I don’t… I don’t want to forget what it’s like to love art.”

“Then don’t.” Chigiri crushes you to his chest, and you sob quietly into his coat as he clings to you. Are you holding him, or is he holding you? You can’t tell. You wrap your arms around him, and the two of you hold each other like it’s the end of the world. And maybe it is, an end to the world the two of you thought you knew, to the people you once were.

“You really are like an angel, Chigiri,” you say, voice muffled as you speak into his chest.

His laugh vibrates pleasantly through his chest and into your heart. “I’m not. I’m not that nice. I just don’t want you to be sad. You remind me of… myself, sometimes.”

You fist your hands in the fabric of his coat. “So what? You’re still nice to me.”

“Maybe I’m only nice to you,” he says.

“That’s okay.”

On that quiet afternoon, Chigiri holds you until your tears dry and you can face him again. You can’t be a good adult. You’ll cling to your dreams like a stubborn child and never let go, even if you have to rebuild yourself from the ground up, again and again. When you tell Chigiri this, he smiles at you, and it feels a bit like salvation.

—

A few weeks later, your wrist brace comes off, though you’re diligent to keep up with your stretches, anyways. Chigiri celebrates with you, taking your wrist in his hand like he’s holding a bird’s wing, the pads of his thumb brushing along your pounding pulse.

“Let me be the first person you draw now that you’ve recovered,” he teases. “Don’t I make for a good muse?” You can’t look him in the eyes, because your expression will betray you.

The weather warms before Chigiri can walk again without crutches and a leg brace. When he can, he shows up at the entrance of your school after class one day. Your classmates giggling and murmuring as they pass by him. He waves when he sees you, ignoring all the eyes on him. Maybe he’s used to it. You aren’t surprised, considering how pretty he is.

“Hyoma,” you greet him, clutching the straps of your bag. You’ve started to use your first names with each other, a simple intimacy that makes you tingle all over. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” he says. “I got invited to a special football training project.”

“That’s amazing!” You clap your hands together. “Are you going to go?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says haltingly, unconsciously tapping his hand on his right leg. “But when I got the letter, I just… wanted you to be the first to know.”

“If that’s the case, then…” You fumble in your bag and out a square of paper, offering it to Chigiri. “This is for you.”

Chigiri unfolds it slowly, revealing a pencil sketch of him, mid run, his form blurring as his legs stretch across the ground. You’d sketched it the day after he’d taken off his crutch, and he had invited you out. The two of you had spent all day together at a nearby park, and when you asked him to show you the football forms you hadn’t been able to grasp the past winter, he obliged.

But Chigiri stares at the paper for so long, you wonder if you had hurt him somehow.

“I’m sorry if it’s presumptuous of me to give you that,” you say shyly. “I just… wanted to give you something for good luck. Because I know you can do it, Hyoma. You can keep playing football. I think you look beautiful, sprinting across the field.”

“Then I want to give you a good luck charm, too,” he says slowly, tearing his eyes from the page, a strange note to his voice. “Is that okay?”

You nod. Chigiri cups his hands around your cheeks and kisses you on the forehead. His lips are softer than you expected, and it takes your breath away.

You pull away, flustered, and only now do you see how intense Chigiri looks, the way his eyes are concentrated solely on you. “Hyoma–!”

“If you say my name like that, I’ll kiss you again,” he says bluntly.

“Hyoma, that’s not–!” This time, he kisses you on the cheek.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “I wanted to do that.”

“That’s… not fair,” you mumble.

“But I thought you knew I wasn’t fair,” he says. “You’ve spent this much time with me, after all. You should have realized by now that when I like something, I don’t hold back.”

“I never said… I didn’t like it,” you protest, and he grins.

“Then I can do it again?” he asks.

“Not in front of my school!” you squeak.

“Okay, then I’m going to kiss you as much as I want when we’re somewhere else,” he says, unrepentantly.

“Fine!” you say, and, in a surge of courage, lace your fingers with his. Chigiri jolts in surprise, and you smile at catching him unaware. “What was that good luck charm for, anyways?”

“For your dreams,” he says simply. “Because you’re not going to give up, are you, Miss Artist?”

You’re still afraid. Of your body giving away again. Of not being able to make it. Of being nothing without art. But you’re even more afraid of giving up, of becoming an adult who doesn’t believe in their dreams, of losing your passion forever. Carefully, this time. You’ll do daily stretches so you don’t strain your body. You’ll go back to the art academy. You’ll keep trying, and you’ll keep drawing, because that’s what you do as an artist.

“I won’t. So don’t give up either, Hyoma,” you say quietly. He squeezes your hand in response.

“You’re braver than me,” Chigiri says ruthfully.

“I’m only brave because you believe in me. So, let me believe in you,” you reply. This time, you’re the first to lean in to kiss Chigiri, to give him his own good luck. Because no matter what happens, the two of you will keep running.

#liya writes #blue lock #chigiri hyoma #chigiri hyoma x reader #chigiri x reader #hyoma chigiri #hyoma chigiri x reader #x reader #blue lock x reader #blue lock chigiri #chigiri hyouma x reader #ANYTHING FOR MY PRETTY BOY!!!

360 notes · View notes

sykosomatic · 11 months

Note

Thank you for accepting my request!! It was delicious😭❤️ i love the way you write Hannibal. Not to be greedy or anything, could i request hannigram x ftm reader? He just took his first shot of t, and his two lovers want to celebrate *wink wink*

you’re so welcome!! this is perfect, i love it so much <3 i love all the ftm x [insert character here] i’ve gotten recently! it’s so inside my comfort zone it’s crazy <3 companion fic to this.

i hope you enjoy!!

hannigram x ftm reader taking his first t shot!

(reader wears a binder/is pre-top-surgery)

cw: threesome/group sex, praise kink, creampie finish, double penetration, oral sex (afab&amab receiving), anal sex (afab&amab receiving), p in v sex, fingering (afab&amab receiving).

thanks to your lover, hannibal’s, connections in the therapy world, you’d finally gotten your hands on something you’d been waiting on for what felt like forever: a prescription for testosterone. at this point in your social transitioning, you figured you were ready to take the next step. it was a little nerve-wracking, as most new things are, but so exciting all the same.

your other lover, will, had kindly offered to go pick up the prescriptions with you; you’d shown some apprehension at the thought, and he’d immediately offered his assistance.

once you’d gotten back to hannibal’s place, you got all settled in; your testosterone vials and needles sitting up on the counter. they looked a little daunting; you’d never used a needle on yourself before, so this was going to be a really different experience for you. the doctor had explained to you how to do it, and it seemed pretty straightforward. but still. nervous.

you didn’t necessarily want to do it with hannibal and will watching you; just because you were nervous you may look silly, and you didn’t want them to get worried if you did it wrong. but then again, you didn’t want to do it without them, because what if you did do it wrong?

you decided to do your first shot on your own; you wanted to make sure you could do it by yourself, and wouldn’t they be so proud of you when you did?

you took a breath, grabbing the stuff you would need and heading to the bathroom. sitting on the toilet, you prepped everything the way the doctor told you to, and prepared yourself for the feeling of the needle going in.

it was surprisingly easy, but the sting and pinch were going to need some getting used to. letting your breath out, you cleaned up and put everything away, opening the bathroom door to see the two men standing outside the door.

you smiled at them, shaking your head. “worried about me, huh?” you asked them. hannibal stepped closer to you and inspected you, asking you how you felt. “i feel fine,” you assured him with a small chuckle. “it went really well… it was a lot easier than i thought it would be.”

will smiled at you, nodding as you spoke. “we knew it wouldn’t be a big deal. well..” he corrected, looking at hannibal. “i did, at least.”

“we should celebrate, no?” hannibal asked, kissing the top of your head. “such bravery and expertise should be rewarded!” he exclaimed, leading you and will to the kitchen.

hannibal popped open a bottle of wine and started pouring three glasses, handing them out. before long, he and will were discussing how proud they were of you, making your face flush; the wine wasn’t helping, either.

“so handsome and so perfect,” hannibal said, in response to will leaning in to put a hand on your thigh. “both of you,” he added playfully, making will sport a wry smile. hannibal stood and walked over to stand behind you, massaging your shoulders gently. he leaned in to kiss will’s lips deeply. it was clear the two of them were planning a different kind of celebration. you were excited.

hannibal’s hands dipped to start rubbing your chest, his fingers brushing over your nipples once he’d found them. you leaned your head back against him, watching him and will kissing passionately. warmth spread into your stomach and you could feel yourself getting ridiculously aroused.

will pulled away from the kiss he shared with hannibal to start kissing you, his hands starting to tug at your clothes; he was asking permission, and you eagerly allowed him to undress you. hannibal watched the two of you, starting to undo his own pants and taking his shirt off. before long the three of you were undressed and the two of them started leading you into the bedroom.

will pulled you into his lap on the bed, his legs draped over the end as hannibal came up behind you. being sandwiched between the two of them turned you on an insane amount. will started to kiss your neck, licking stripes up your neck as hannibal leaned in to kiss your lips. both of the men’s hands explored your body, hannibal’s on your hips and grabbing your ass and will’s exploring your chest and pinching your nipples.

you moaned into hannibal’s mouth as you felt will’s fingers exploring your wet slit, playing with your clit while he teased your nipples. hannibal put his fingers in your mouth for you to slicken up as he followed will’s lead. he slid one finger into your asshole, making you moan and buck your hips against will’s fingers. will slid two fingers into your pussy, curling them up to hit your g-spot. the two of them played with you for a little while before you ended up squirting all over will’s hand.

the two of them praised you for how handsome you were, how well you took their fingers and came for them, peppering your skin with kisses before they moved positions. will laid on his back, starting to slide his cock into you, stretching your sweet pussy out. hannibal began to finger will’s ass as will fucked up into you and grabbed your ass. you leaned in to kiss him as he got finger-fucked, and then leaned back to kiss hannibal as he slid his cock into will’s stretched asshole.

the two men moaned in beautiful succession with you, all of you in complete bliss. their hands explored you and each other. after a few final rough strokes, hannibal bottomed out inside will and came deep in his asshole, making him in turn cum deep into your pussy.

but they weren’t done; hannibal slid his cock into your asshole next, making you shiver and whine, scratching on will’s chest. his curls lay over his face, covered in sweat. will hadn’t taken his cock out of you yet. he started rocking his hips again after you’d gotten adjusted to hannibal’s cock, the noise of the creampie inside you squelching as his balls slapped your taint.

the three of you finished again, and you were flipped over on your back so that hannibal could eat you out; his tongue was magical as he licked will’s cum out of your hole. his tongue slid in and out, and circled your clit. you shuddered and came a third time, grabbing his hair and wrapping your legs over his shoulders. hannibal proceeded to clean off will’s cock as well, will laying right next to where you were as he got sucked off. he gave you sleepy kisses, waiting for hannibal to come back up for air. the two of you shared slurping on hannibal’s cock until it was cleaned off, and fell asleep naked on the bed, fully satisfied.

#slashers #writing #asks #drabble #male reader #requests #slasher smut #ftm reader #hannibal x reader #will graham #nbc hannibal #nbc hannigram #hannigram #hannigram x reader #hannigram x male reader #will graham x male reader #hannibal x male reader #🚄 anon

480 notes · View notes