#butch lesbians should kiss me on the mouth | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

junibb · 3 months

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I'm imagining you in a lesbian bar. You walk in and heads turn, older dykes lock hungry stares into you as you walk and ones more your age faun over you and offer to buy you drinks.

You're overwhelmed - it's your first time at this place. You were nervous. You didn't even expect to get a number, let alone a veritable swarm of lesbians cooing over you, hitting on you, touching your shoulders and thighs, buying you drinks. They bombard you with prying questions:

"This your first time here, darling?"

"What kinda drink do you like?"

"Do you have a girlfriend, sweetie?"

"Your tits are fucking awesome, can I touch them?"

You try to catch everyone's words, but they're all over you, asking you all sorts of things. Before you realize, you're agreeing to offers and requests you didn't even here. One drink, then another, and another. One hand on your chest, then another, and another.

You hear a question you don't understand, but your fuzzy head nods, and you barely utter an affirmative. Next thing you know, strong butch hands are pulling your legs open and riding your skirt up in your seat. You try to say wait, but as you open your mouth, a pastel femme leans into view with her tongue out. Something's on her tongue - a small square of some kind. She grabs your face and kisses you deeply, wrestling with your tongue as it dissolves with both of your saliva, and keeps making out with you long after whatever that was has disappeared in your mouth.

The hands riding up your skirt have pulled your panties to the side and begun expertly rubbing you exactly where you need it most. You whimper into the pastel femmes mouth, and she responds by breaking the kiss and climbing on top of you. She pulls her skirt up and shows off her throbbing bulge, pressing it against your check and grinding gently, giggling.

Between those drinks and whatever just dissolved in your mouth, you feel weak, fuzzy, completely at the mercy of this crowd of strangers. You don't know if you want to resist or not, but either way, it doesn't feel like you're being given much choice.

There must be dozens of hands all over you. The bulge of this gorgeous femme is throbbing, and has grown to full mast, her cock now grinding on your forehead. She moans and presses it to your lips.

"Open wide, beautiful, come on... Mmh, that's it..."

You do as you're told and find yourself gagging and slobbering on this girl's cock within seconds. She's fucking your face like it's her job. Your drool is dripping down her balls, onto your tits, and is being licked up by other gorgeous women.

That butch's hands have really gone to work, and someone's tongue is fucking your asshole as well. You feel pairs of lips on each of your tits and more sucking on your fingers - there must be two girls for each hand. They're everywhere.

"What a pretty little thing... I wanna use her next!"

"Ugh, no way, I want to fuck her in the ass - she looks so fucking tight."

"Mmfh, she is fucking tight. I can barely fit my tongue inside. Maybe you should stretch her out for me."

"Ah, fucking c'mere."

An eager woman you can't see grabs you by your thighs and shoves her cock deep in your ass in a swift, brutal motion. Nothing about her movements makes you think she cares how much pain you're in. Her long nails dig into your skin, undoubtedly leaving scratches and making your squeal, but that squeal is muffled as the fast-fucking femme currently lodged in your throat holds your head against her pelvis. She moans and groans, her balls clenching, as she dumps a thick, warm load directly into your stomach. Tears run down your cheeks, but once the femme has finished cumming, she goes back to fucking your face like a toy.

"Ahh, such a tight toy!! You're so good at swallowing my loads, gorgeous. Let's see how many you can take!!"

She grips your head, bunching your hair up in her fists as she fucks your throat faster and faster.

"Oh my god, listen to those gags, that's so fucking hot..."

"It is, but I kinda wanna hear her scream..."

The anal lesbian drilling away at your ass is going almost as fsst as the one mounting your face, and the butch's hands have moved on to wrap around your neck and squeeze.

"Ohhh, fuck, your dick is bulging her throat, sweetie, I can feel it. Good toy, keep taking it deeper. You know you love it."

"Her fucking ass is so goddamn tight - I'm gonna cum! Ah, shit!! Nngh!!!"

The cock in your ass holds deep inside and twitches, throbbing, pulsing, gushing heavy, hot ropes inside you. The anal lesbian sighs and pulls out, her presence being immediately replaced by the one who was tongue fucking you earlier.

"Ah, that's better. Oh, fuck, look at that cum just ooze out... her ass is so fucking perfect. Maybe when she passes it, it'll be looser and we can fit two cocks in here."

You're out of breath, you're drunk, you're high, you've lost track of how many orgasms have been forced out of you. You start welcoming them.

Then, you fade out of consciousness. Who knows if they'll stop, who knows how much further they'll take this.

But your addled mind loves it, and if you woke up and there were twice as many of them going ten times as rough, you would invite it. You love the orgasms, you love the attention, and you love the praise.

A beautiful fuckpet for dykes.

i'm. um. i.

✨️🩷💖💞❣️💞💖🩷✨️

this made me moan out loud. multiple times.

i love you? im. i love you

yes

#💌 little letters #🥂 drunkie drabbles #<- your new tag♡#i have a feeling i will be revisiting it a lot-#for.#research

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lilyrizzy · 2 months

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For the writing promot: yell 👀

The beginnings of a lesbian maxiel story bc…why not! cw: creepy straight guys & their slurs

“You two should kiss.”

It’s not the first time strangers have asked this of her and Max. It’s always guys too, hung up on the fantasy of two gay women being in the same room as each other, how it must mean they are entitled to a free show.

Daniel blames Pornhub and the videos she used to get herself off, hidden underneath her teenage bedcovers. All before she knew any better, before she knew where to find the stuff made for women.

Now, she just laughs like the good natured girl she is, while Max shoots the guy a death glare he can’t see.

The air of the bar is damp, sticky like you could cut it with a knife if you tried. Each breath she pulls into her lungs tastes a little like the tequila she’d merrily accepted and Max had refused, brought by the same assholes trying to hold their attention now. She might be a millionaire, but she’s not about to turn down free booze.

There are two of them this time, nicknamed Cocky and Cockless in her brain. She’s not going to bother remembering their names when she’s sure they know nothing about her beyond that she is a woman, a race car driver and bisexual.

“Maxy here isn’t my type,” she half shouts over the stready thrum of bass that is vibrating the floor underneath her feet. “As cute as she is.”

She shoots Max a wink, but it only has Max’s expression darkening and her eyes narrowing, all while Cocky, perched in the stool between them, grins. Cockless, stood besides Max, tries to get her attention by tugging at her elbow. She shrugs him off firmly, then harder when he tries again.

True to his name, Cocky is bolder. He leans further into Daniel’s space, not at all hiding his attempts to look down her top.

“I thought all the pretty girls were into the butch ones,” he says, a grin on his face as his eyes flick back up to hers, like they are in on this joke together. Like it’s not being made at both her and Max’s expense.

His words press against the same bruise that has been blooming across her chest since the day Max joined their team. Raw talent in the car and all cool confidence once you dragged her away from it. Everything Daniel both wanted and wanted to be.

It’s too much, too close to the bone, the same way the hand that comes to rest on her leg is, big and clammy, engulfing her kneecap.

“Daniel,” Max says, something deliciously demanding in her voice, like she wants this man’s hands away from Daniel’s body as much as Daniel does.

Daniel can’t make herself look at her, afraid she’ll give something away.

“Not me,” she forces past her teeth brightly.

Cockless has given up with Max, is instead flagging down a bartender to order another drink. Cockless, who seemingly only has eyes for Daniel, keeps laughing.

“And what is your type then, sweetheart,” he asks, and the condescension in the pet name is all it takes for her decide she’s done playing nice.

He’s running his fingertip of the hand not touching her across the rim of his glass. She’s sure he thinks is sexy, but in reality looks fucking stupid. She keeps the smile on her face and makes sure all her teeth are showing when she answers.

“Someone with a big cock,” she says sweetly, letting her eyes drag over his form. “But it looks like I’m not finding that here either.”

Finally she looks at Max who is still hovering at Cocky’s shoulder. Nodding at her, Daniel stands, shoving the creeps hand from her skin. Max doesn’t need words to know they are leaving, and instead simply follows as Daniel leads them away from the bar and back towards the teams booth booth. It’s filled with the foul mouthed Red Bull mechanics they call friends, that at least pretend not to imagine them fucking at all hours of the day.

“Hey!” The Cocky calls to their retreating back, and his sweaty fingertips slide against the bare skin of her shoulder for just a second as he reaches to stop her.

She turns, ready to tell him to fuck off, only to find Max already in his face.

“If you touch her again, I will break all of your fingers,” she tells him, like a promise. “And shove my cock down your throat.”

Cocky backs off, hands in the air as he mumbles something about, fucking dyke bitch.

Daniel hardly hears him over the pounding of her heart, the clenching of her cunt.

#ofc max has the big strap Daniel wants and needs;)#but more on that next time….#max/daniel #written for Lorna for being so brave today #fic

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princesscolumbia · 2 months

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Double Isekai - Chapter 7

I like this 'writing well in advance of public posting,' I should do more of it.

Summary:

Ranma & Nodoka start working on serious plans for the future

Preview below the cut:

"Oh, no way!" purred Nodoka in a deeper timbre than usual.

Ranma recognized that exclamation, it was often her 'default' in their previous life when they saw something that was both shockingly unbelievable and yet extremely welcome and so deserved the appropriate pronouncement. "What...?" she looked up and saw her mother staring fixedly at one of the display towers featuring sunglasses. She roved her eyes up and down the display, unsure of what her mother spotted at first until her eyes landed on a particular pair in the style of... "Yer kidding?!" she blurted out.

Nodoka reach over Ranma and, using her significantly longer reach, grabbed the pair of mirrored aviator shades off the display and held them out reverently. She grinned wistfully at her doubled reflection in the shades, then the grin turned a little wicked and she looked down at her daughter, "You know, I am a redhead."

Ranma gave her a flat look, "Yeah, but y'aint Maori."

Her mother sniffed at her primly, "We work with what we have." So declaring she turned the shades and gingerly lined them up, sliding them onto her face and hooking them over her ears. She turned to a mirror mounted nearby to see how they looked and, with a minor adjustment, grinned hugely, "Oh, yes!"

Ranma scowled, "You look like a tool!"

"I look badass is what I look like!"

"You look like a soccer mom who's watched too much Top Gun."

Nodoka smirked and, in her best (which was honestly pretty lousy) working-class New Zealander accent, said, "You're just jealous that I," she combed her fingers back through her hair with both hands, pinning the longer tresses behind her head, making her hairdo strongly resemble the close-cropped cut of a butch lesbian and lifting her arms into a pose that was not too dissimilar to what might be seen in a muscle magazine's pin-up pages, "Make this look good."

Ranma just stared at her, deadpan, for several beats before pulling a lip back and sneering and, in her best posh, upper-class New Zealander accent, said, "You look ridiculous, Griddle! I'm not jealous in the slightest! You haven't even got the musculature needed to wear those glasses let alone swing a zweihänder!"

"You couldn't even lift it, it'd be taller'n you by a mile." Nodoka replied with a cocky grin, continuing the use of the horrible accent.

"I certainly could lift it, and I wouldn't even need a fraction of my power to do it. Now take those off before you make an embarrassment of the Ninth House!"

"But, my miniature night-maiden, you're already an embarrassment of the Ninth House!"

"Not as much as that pathetic excuse for a weapon you insist on carrying around. You are, by far, the worst cavalier I've ever taken into the field."

"I'm the only cavlier you've taken into the field."

They kept their gazes locked, Nodoka's eyes covered in mirrored lenses and mouth cocked in a sassy smile while Ranma's eyes were hooded and glaring, and her mouth pursed in a disapproving mou. A heartbeat more passed before they both broke down in giggles.

"What accent was that?!" Blurted Nodoka in her normal speaking voice, laughter making her words slightly musical.

"You try doing a proper Kiwi accent in Japanese!" Ranma cackled.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" they turned to see the receptionist at her desk, "Your daughter can be seen now."

Nodoka hugged Ranma and gave her a kiss on the head, "Remember, don't let your father's toxic nonsense that he dropped on you for ten years get to you."

Ranma nudged her mother with a shoulder, "I know, this isn't pass-fail, I can't 'win' at eye test." Her tone was a bit 'teenage whiny,' but her smile was warm.

(Start from the beginning on AO3)

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figthefruitfaeth · 1 year

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*chanting* COMPHET NANCY COMPHET NANCY COMPHET NANCY <3333

ANYTHING for my LIV!!!

comphet nancy aka the nancy wheeler is a lesbian agenda featuring a late bloomer gay awakening, soft butch robin, and a lot of mitski. Part 2 of 3 same scene if viewers at home would like to play along

cw: uncomfortable missionary sex, nothing bad she's just not into it

Her flight’s early, but she’s already packed—two suitcases lined neatly up against the door. Nancy should have enough time to call before, either here or when she gets to the airport. Robin might not answer, 5 am is pretty early for her. But, she is an hour behind, and when they’re done here Nancy could probably just catch her before she goes out—

Richard leans in, pants into her mouth.

“I love you,” he whispers, big eyes wet and bulging.

“Uh-huh,” she nods, leaning her head back further into the pillows. She moans, a little louder than the just simmering spark of arousal in her gut really calls for.

He groans, ducks his head into her neck, kisses moist along her skin. Then, he shifts, thrusts harder, hitting her much better. If she concentrates just right, she could come—

Richard gasps, shudders, and with one final thrust, comes to a stop.

bully motivate me into writing

#my work #ask game #i hope this is as funny as it is in my head :)#MWAH hope you like <3 #comphet nancy

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konno · 3 years

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you are so handsome

#butch lesbians (saki) should kiss me on the mouth #saki nikaido #zls #zls spoilers

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bellafarallones2 · 3 years

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a/n: t-rated indruck fluff from #21 on Veronica Bunch's college au prompt list: I get stuck with a late class that doesn’t end until 9pm and I’m always anxious about walking across the campus to the dorms, so you offer to walk with me and one night, I find out that it’s in the exact opposite direction that you need to go in

Duck had signed up for Performance Studies because he needed arts credits and because the meeting time, seven to nine in the evening Tuesdays and Thursdays, worked well with the rest of his schedule. He was less happy when the professor emailed out the homework for the first day: a reading that examined the question “what is performance?” for thirteen dense pages without managing to come to a conclusion.

By the time he showed up to the first class, he barely remembered any of the points the reading had made. Most of the other students already seemed to know each other, and were talking in groups when he arrived. Only one man, a tall guy with silver hair whose black roots suggested he’d spent an evening bent over a sink for it, was sitting alone and silent.

“Anyone sitting here?” said Duck.

“You?” said the guy hopefully. He was wearing jeans and a soft beige cardigan over his white shirt, and there was a small rainbow-flag patch on his black backpack.

“I’m Duck,” Duck said. “And my pronouns are he/him.” He still occasionally got read as a butch lesbian, and it was better to establish the pronoun thing right out of the gate.

“Indrid. I also use he/him.”

That was all they said before the professor showed up and class began. The professor genuinely cared about the material, which made the whole thing more interesting, though Duck was still distracted. Indrid had very nice hands, nails painted chipped black, and he doodled the entire class, filling a whole page with spiky fractals.

Finally nine o’clock arrived. The sky outside was pitch-black. “I’m not really looking forward to walking home this late,” Duck said as he stood waiting for Indrid to finish packing up. “Wish I had your punk privilege.”

“Excuse me?” Indrid looked amused.

“You know. You’re tall and you have piercings.” As Duck said that, Indrid stood up, revealing that he was even taller than Duck had previously thought. Jesus, this guy had Slenderman legs. “You look like you could throw a punch.”

“I could use my punk privilege to walk you home, if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate it, if it’s not too out of your way - I live on High Street next to the REI.”

“Yeah, I’m going that way.”

Duck held the door as they left the building and walked together down the half-lit street. The planes of Indrid’s face looked almost unearthly in the streetlights.

“You an art major?” Duck asked.

“Visual arts and math. I needed to take something in theater or music as a distribution requirement and this was the least theater or music class I could find that was also after noon.”

Duck laughed. “Yeah, I’m in the forestry program and I had to take something artsy.”

Indrid nodded. They walked in silence for a while, but Indrid didn’t seem to mind, his hands shoved into his pockets and his face turned up.

“This is me,” Duck said when they reached the REI. The door to the apartments above was almost unnoticeable next to the brightly-lit storefront.

“Alright,” Indrid said as Duck fiddled with his key. “See you on Thursday!”

“Goodnight!” said Duck when the door swung open, looking around. As soon as Indrid saw that Duck was inside, he turned and walked back the way they’d come. Duck wondered vaguely where he lived; this block didn’t have many students. Ah, well. A question for another day.

On Thursday before class Duck stopped at the snack bar for dinner and spotted a familiar head of silver hair. Indrid was drawing, his head tilted at an odd angle so he could both look at the page and drink from the straw on a sixteen-ounce cherry slushy.

“Mind if I join you?” said Duck.

Indrid looked up and his face lit up. “Of course! I don’t mind, I mean. Please sit.”

Duck realized then that what he’d assumed was art was in fact math, that Indrid was taking notes out of a slim, intimidating textbook. Duck recognized a couple of integral signs and that was about it. “Math, huh?”

Indrid nodded.

“I had to take Calc 2 for my major, I wish I’d known you then so you could have helped me with it.”

Indrid laughed, tapping his pencil. “I’d have been happy to. Certainly numbers make more sense than people do, sometimes.”

“Probably more sense than that performance reading.” Duck leaned forward. “I don’t suppose you’d be down to walk me home again?”

Indrid shrugged. “You’re good company.”

Duck met Indrid again at the local park that weekend. Their homework for the week was to record themselves performing in a way they did in their daily lives, and Duck didn’t feel like getting into gender, so he’d decided to show how he performed when giving a nature talk, and he’d asked Indrid to help film. (He’d offered to help film Indrid’s performance in return, but Indrid had politely declined, joking about performance anxiety.)

It was less awkward than Duck had been expecting. He walked around the park, pointing out the fungus on a tree trunk and a frog sitting with just its eyes over the surface of the water. Indrid, filming on Duck’s phone, smiled encouragingly whenever he met Duck’s eyes, and it was all Duck could do not to break his train of thought to grin back.

“Thank you for helping me,” he said when he was done.

“Thank you for the free nature walk!” said Indrid as he handed Duck’s phone back to him. Their hands brushed against Duck’s smooth phone case. “I come here to draw sometimes, but I’ve never noticed all that before.”

They watched everyone’s videos in class that week. Most of them were pretty boring. Duck cringed through the playing of his own video, though Indrid had done a good job with the camerawork, and a few of the music majors in the class had recorded themselves playing their instruments, which was at least nice to listen to. And then it was Indrid’s turn.

The video opened on a close-up shot of Indrid’s face. I am an artist, the voiceover said, Indrid’s own voice booming across the classroom. Sometimes I even look like it.

The Indrid on the screen bent his head - he was looking not at the camera but at a mirror behind it, putting on heavy eyeliner and spotty mascara. He switched out the subtle studs along the shell of his ear for something heavier, flashier, chain running between the holes. Then he stepped back from the camera and shrugged on a black leather jacket with spikes on the shoulders. A punk jacket. He posed, self-conscious, and as he started laughing the camera cut sharply to his face, again large.

I had an internship last summer with an insurance company calculating risk. He rubbed the makeup off his face with a makeup wipe, his eyes reddening slightly at the contact. He removed the jacket and folded it carefully before placing it out of frame. And then he picked up a pale blue button-down and buttoned it carefully down over his undershirt, and tied a tie in a perfect Windsor around his neck. He removed the bar from his eyebrow and the chains from his ears, which looked rather naked without them.

I perform to look like the things I know I can do. He dabbed concealer over the rosy maple moth tattooed at his neck, one wingtip peeking over the collar of the shirt. Then he held his hand out for a handshake, a business handshake, and sure, he looked like the kind of person Duck would trust to sell insurance. But there was something about his smile, something Duck wondered if anyone else could see. Something that lingered no matter what he wore.

Duck probably should spend less time thinking about his mouth.

“So my lease ends in January,” said Duck casually as they turned the corner onto his street. “And I’ve been having trouble finding other places that rent to students in this neighborhood, so I was wondering how you found your place.”

“Oh,” said Indrid, sounding guilty. “Well, I don’t know how much help I can be. I live up by the corner of 16th street and Broad.”

Duck did some quick mental geography as he climbed the step up to the front door. “That’s completely the other direction!”

“I know.” He was dressed like neither an insurance salesman nor a metal punk, today, with gold studs glittering in his ears like grains of sand and a soft, oversized sweater falling off one shoulder. The black roots of his hair had grown since the beginning of the term.

“You told me the first day of class that walking home wouldn’t be going out of your way! You know I don’t need walking home, right?”

“Of course. I just. Uh. I wanted to spend more time with you. I’m sorry for misleading you, we can stop if it makes you feel weird.”

Duck looked down at him. Indrid stood silently, awaiting judgment. “How about you come in?”

Indrid looked up. “I don’t mean to impose, it’s no trouble to walk home -”

Duck held out his hand. Indrid took it and followed him up the stairs without letting go. “You aren’t allergic to cats, are you?” Duck said when he finally had to take his hand back to unlock the door.

“Even if I was, I’d happily resign myself to sneezing.”

Duck opened the door and, as soon as Indrid was inside, crowded him up against it. Indrid slowly lifted his hands, trembling, and rested them on Duck’s shoulders. His gaze beneath his glasses flicked from Duck’s eyes to his lips and back again.

“Can I kiss you?” Duck said.

“Yes please.”

Indrid’s mouth was warm and soft and yielded so easily to Duck’s tongue, fuck, they should have done this sooner. Class would have been so much more bearable if he could have been looking over at Indrid’s lips the whole time knowing that as soon as class was over he could drag him out into the hallway, into one of the gender-neutral bathrooms in the arts building and kiss him silly.

“You don’t have any morning classes tomorrow, do you?” Duck asked when he finally pulled away enough to speak.

Indrid shook his head.

“Want to watch a movie and make out?”

“That sounds perfect.”

#indruck

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neon-vocalist · 2 years

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day 21: having friends over: damiaaron and cadnis

Originally written October 21, 2021

"Give me your seven, thy foul weed!" shouts Aaron at Cady.

"NEVER!" she replies louder, giggling and rolling over onto her back. "Here. You get a two."

"Nooooo..."

"Children, behave." Damian nearly trips over Aaron's leg as he comes in to set a bowl of mixed nuts on the coffee table. Janis looks over at him from the couch and shakes her head at him. He gets it. There is no getting Cady and Aaron together under any sort of control.

"Yes, Daddy," Aaron replies with a smirk.

Unprepared, Damian chokes on air. "Jesus Christ, Aaron," he stammers.

"You walked right into that one," says Cady, grinning at Aaron and flopping back onto her stomach. "Here, bud. Have an eight."

Aaron groans in frustration. "Janisssss. Make your girlfriend give me a sevennnnn."

"Damiannnn," Cady mimics. "Make your boyfriend give me a oneeeeeee."

"Absolutely not," Aaron replies. Neither of them notice that Damian and Janis aren't even interacting with them- instead, they're throwing mixed nuts into each others' mouths.

"Ha! I win!" cries Cady, wriggling on the floor like a gleeful slug and throwing her cards at Aaron, who dramatically groans and smacks his cards on the ground. "In your face, Aaron."

"Ughhhh," Aaron says again.

"Rematch?" Cady asks eagerly.

"After losing to you nine times? No."

"Damiannnnn-"

"No," interrupts Damian. Janis chuckles and drags Cady, cat-style, onto the couch. "You know, you and Aaron's friendship reminds me so much of me and Damian's early days."

"Yeah?" asks Cady. "Whaddaya mean?"

"Well, you and Aaron are best friends, and me and Damie are best friends. Did we ever get around to telling you how we met? It was really similar to you guys, actually. Maybe a little more queer." Damian cracks a knowing smile.

"Oh yeah?" asks Cady.

"Yeah. You wanna tell them or should I?" asks Janis.

"I'll do it.

Back when I was first finding out I was gay- about 14 years old, I'd say- there was this gay bar club thing. It's closed now because I think someone set it on fire. Not a homophobic thing, just drunk queers. But anyway. I was absolutely in denial. I was like, not gay, nope, straight, totally, girls are hot, right, yeah, girls are sexy. The club thing was divided into lesbians and gays, right? And I go to it this one night, and am like, uh, yeah, I'm a trans girl, totally in love with girls, uhuh, yep, ladies... and somehow I got in! I'm not sure who was in charge of that and how! But I show up to this room full of lesbians and I remember my first conscious thought just being, remember, you have to think these girls are attractive. The second one was along the lines of how do I act trans and lesbian. So I go up to the first girl and go, 'hey girly, you're lookin... nice.' And she gave me a look like I was a centipede and just... turned away.

So I was like, alright, plan B. I get up and walk away from the feminine shorty, who actually looked a lot like you, Caddie, and find the most butch-looking lesbian I can find."

"Which happened to be me," inserts Janis.

"Yep, it was Janis, 13 years old and angsty as hell. She was aggressively kissing some pink-haired chick in a powder blue maid costume, and when she saw me, I will never forget, literally shoved her away from her, against a wall, and grabbed me and told me, you look as uncomfortable as I am.

I was like, uh yeah, no duh, butch babe. Here I am, 14 years old and gay as absolute hell, in a sea of lesbians, one of which just rejected me. And she goes, pinky over there is a crappy kisser, and points at the poor little highlighter-haired child who got quite literally thrown at the wall. And grabs my arm and yanks me to a corner and gives me a spare fake ID? And is like the picture looks nothing like you but go get me a beer. And what do you do when a scary goth gay tells you to get her a beer?"

"You get her a damn beer," supplies Janis.

"Exactly, you get her a beer! So I go and I get her a beer and I'm not even asked for my ID, no idea how because I'm seven years younger than I should be, but alright. And I give her the beer and she takes a single sip, tips the rest over my head, and I guess that deems me worthy because she asks if I want to date her.

I'm like, whoa, okay! So I stammer over some words and I'm more scared than in love, because I'm actually not in love at all, it's like 99.9 percent fear and 0.1 percent confused gay boy, but I agree to go out with her. And she kisses me and is like, you're a worse kisser than pinky. And gives me her number and walks away."

"Now, let me intervene," says Janis. "I was thirteen and, I swear to God, went into that gay place with the intent of intimidating as many idiots as possible. Of course Damie here did not pass one bit for a trans girl, but he was very scared, and seemed very lost, so naturally, I gave the girl I was making out with a concussion and adopted him.

We dated for six months and I dumped him on our six-month anniversary. You wanna know what he said to me? He said, and I quote-"

"Thank God! I'm so gay and it's not for you!" Damian and Janis recite in unison.

"Yeah. And I was like, well alright, me neither! And then it turned out we were going to the same high school the next year. We spent freshman year hating each other with a capital everything. We had a rivalry to... well, to rival that of Cain and Abel. God and Lucifer. Batman and the Joker. Any iconic duo, you name it, we had it. And then..."

"We became partners on a year-long project sophomore year," says Damian, grinning at Janis. "And we became thick as thieves. So when we saw you dating Aaron?"

"Well, let's just say I had 20 bucks on the fact that you'd have a similar origin story to us," Janis says, glancing at Cady, who's sitting on top of Aaron's back, and they're both enthralled in the story.

"And I had 20 bucks on the fact that you and this disaster lesbian would end up together by the new year."

"So we both got 20 bucks and had to give away 20 bucks."

"So we both ended up not actually gaining any money."

"Thoughts?" asks Janis, smirking down at Cady, who's watching them openmouthed, as if it's finally hit her what was going on.

"That was wild from start to finish," says Aaron. "Like, that was one rollercoaster of emotions."

"That was iconic," Cady says finally.

"Wasn't it just?" Damian asks. "So yeah. Now you know how Janis and I became friends. Wouldn't you say it's basically a wilder version of your story?"

"Pretty much, yeah. The only thing that we have and you lack was a lion costume."

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yamithediaperdork · 3 years

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Don’t be a git all your life (Harry potter, XXX, ye be warned.)

Draco whined as he looked at himself in the mirror. here he was, a year 7 student and 18 god damn years old and because he kept wetting the bed every night for 2 weeks he was being forced to wear nappies at night by his own uncle. Truthfully he should of been nappied after his third strike but Snape twisted the rules as much as he could before even he had to make Draco pad up. Still it was easier to be mad at Snape then himself, and besides that Draco was still sure someone was making him wet despite being told that was stupid. Little did Snape or anyone else in the slytherin dorm that Draco was actually quite right. Not only had some of his late night snacks been tampered with thanks to help from students in hufflepuff, but his nappies had been toyed with as well, though the blond prat wouldn't find out how for a anther half hour at least as over in the gryffindor dorm they were waiting for things to quiet down for the night. Shockingly or not quite so much, with the ridicule the former top dog of slytherin had endured over his bed wetting and with Snape deciding to pamper him for the night well before Draco would of normally gone to bed, the blond decided to forgo his normal habit of sitting in the common room and being snide. Even Crab and Goyle had taken to calling him pee pants so he locked himself in his private room and decided to lay down early, only to groan and huff as the bed crinkled under him, Uncle Snape had gotten him rubber sheets to go with the terrycloth diapers and rubber pants. "Fuck my life.." Draco whined and tugged a pillow over his head.

"So, are we sure this will really work?" Ron asked for about the 12th time and making Hermione roll her eyes. "Maybe I should of teased it on you first if you think I don't know what I'm doing." she snapped, making the ginger go paler then normal. "You wouldn't! Harry!" Ron whined and looked to his best friend for help. "Hermione don't tease Ron like that. and sides, he's YOUR boyfriend..do you really wanna share him?" Harry asked. "Hmmmm touche..I guess your save for now." she teased and kissed Ron's cheek, then in a lower voice added "your still getting pegged tonight." The fact Ron was his girlfriends little butt slut wasn't exactly a well kept secret with Ron being a moaner and a pillow biter didn't really matter to him as he went crimson all over. it was in fact the problem of him being a little butt slut that had lead to tonight's fun and Draco's impending humiliation. Once Draco had learned of how the mud blood and the weasley did it, he'd gone out of his way to ridicule Ron and play up Hermione as some sort of butch lesbian, and had started up false rumors that Ron dressed like a pretty princess for her. needless to say gryffindor as a whole had decided to do something about it, and found the perfect revenge. the diapers that Draco currently had pinned snugly to his hips had been enchanted and weren't coming off till they were thoroughly soaked and were part of a niffy little portal spell. more to the point, the part where things came out, with it directed right at the blonds virgin though not for much longer's rosebud. the entrance for said portal was a flesh light that all the boys in the dorm were gonna make use of tonight. there was course a risk Draco would go running for help but Hermione and Harry doubted it, Draco would of been too mortified to waddle out in the bulky diaper while having his black cherry stolen.

Draco was having a miserable time trying to drift off, the crinkling of the sheets and his pants was bugging him plus if he was being honest he was used to rubbing one out before bed. Again he hadn't counted on how early his uncle had wanted to pad him and now here was, nappied like a baby and getting semi wood off and on despite NOT having a thing for the fucking things. With all the baby powder uncle Snape had used, Draco knew he'd have it under his finger nails and if Uncle Snape checked..so just reaching in there and helping himself out was out of the question. and there was no way in hell he was gonna risk pillow humping. it would be just his luck with how things were going as of late that he'd be fucking a pillow/the diapers and someone would come in. with his rep at a all time low as was, he didn't even wanna think about the rumors that would spread though the school if that happened. Laying on his back and trying to push out how much he wanted to rub one out and tune out the crinkling, Draco was trying to count sheep in his mind when something odd started to happen in the back of the nappy. Something was poking him..poking between his cheeks and then press on his.. "..Oh fuck all kinds of no!" Draco squeaked out even as he A) figured out was in his diaper and b) the head of a fat cock slipped into his hole.

"Fuck me, tight little git!" Harry grunted, sliding the flesh light down his 7 inch cock and making a face. "well always said he was a tight ass." Fred joked. him and George had come back for the night after hearing the plan, along with some other past members of the dorm. "Come on Harry, you're not gonna let a little thing like a tight hole stop you are you?" one of the other boys joked. "man, if potter can't get in I'm screwed." Oliver joked, stroking his 11 inches of fuck meat. "In hindsight, should of let Hermione go first.. fake cocks don't get bendy dick." Harry joked, pulling the flesh light back, and then ramming it back down. "AHHH! THERE we go!"

Draco Screamed into his pillow, glad that for the most part his room was much more sound proof then anything anyone else had as the fat cock rammed it's way in and suddenly he was no longer a anal virgin. "No No no no no!" Draco whimpered and thrashed about, the fat cock was pushing all the way and FUCK! it was hitting something in him that made his whimpers of despair turn into a slutty moan. 'ok..nope. I'm NOT being turned into a fucking butt slut.' Draco thought rolling onto his back (which sadly helped the cock assaulting him get in deeper with each thrust and had Draco mewing like a fucking kitten, he moved his hands to try and tug off the diapers, he'd risk soaking the bed and getting a spanking from Uncle Snape if it meant stopping this before he assgasumed. Only as he tried to tug the baby pants down they refused to move. he couldn't even get his fingers under the slick material and whined, figuring uncle Snape had enchanted it to keep him 'honest', though then again he doubted his uncle would of arranged for him to take the dicking he was getting at the moment. 'then again, he's a weird one.. I keep finding pictures of Harry where he's drawn potters mothers hair on the kid..' Draco thought then gasped and clenched his cheeks. every fucking thrust was coming in harder and hard and hitting Draco's special place and the blond formally hetero boy found himself bouncing up and down in his diapers, trying to get the dick to hit his happy spot harder. refusing to surrender to just cumming from his ass, or at least that's how Draco painted it in his mind, he reached down and rubbed the front of his nappies with both hands.

"F-Fuck me! he's helping!" Harry gasped pumping the flesh light rapidly and wondering if he was going to end up with a right arm twice the size of the left if he kept this up. "Ha! knew he'd give in." Ron said and stroked his teenie cock, using a thumb and a finger on his 2 inches of glory. "Hurry up harry! I'm next!" "Oh Sweetie..Um..Maybe you should tamper your expectations.." Hermione said, sweat dropping as some of the other boys laughed. "What's that suppose to mean?" Ron huffed. "It Means she's not pegging you cuz your a hung stud ya git." George laughed. "I-I can still fuck! Hermione tell them how much you love it when we do it without the strap-on!" Ron whined and squeaked. "Ron, Sweetie? don't embarrasses yourself and just use this." Hermione said and handed her cute little dick lover the strap-on as Hary cried out and fired off a load. "...this is so unfair." Ron grumbled. "Aww, I'll use the blue dragon tonight after if you stop whining." "The blue.." Fred started "dragon?" George asked, both of them wearing amused looks. "Y-You two shut it." Ron whined and then took the modest 6 inch long but very thick dildo from his girlfriend and kissed her cheek, whispering deal in her ear.

Fuck, Draco had just creamed hard and taken a load up the ass. he could feel anther man's seed slowly leaking out of his once tight hole as he laid on his side, trying to recover. 'at least it's over..no way someone who just filled me THAT much has anther load in him..' Draco thought, looking down at his slightly puffy tummy and pushed a hand on it. instantly a wet farting noise was heard and he scudded up his face as he involuntary shat out a heaping load of man milk. '..right..lesson learned. don't do that.' Draco thought and whined, hugging a pillow close and getting ready to shut his eyes. cue a new challenger approaching and suddenly he was more stuffed then before, spit flying out of his mouth and bark coming out from the force. the small part of Draco able to think as this new massive intruder stuffed noted this had the makings of a VERY long night indeed.

After stuffing Draco and unknown to Ron, bringing him to 3 earth shattering orgasm, it was time to share the fun. every boy in the dorm and a few of the girls taking what was known as the Granger approach had they're fun with the flesh light, it was time for the main event. In truth, it had been a semi kindness on the behalf of the gryffindor's to have everyone else go first as by this point Draco's hole had been opened up and transformed from just a shitter to a full fledged boi pussy. Still if Olivier had gone first Draco might of ended up in the medical ward. Having a bit of a heart and knowing how many girls he'd left bow legged for hours, the ex captain of the team made sure to lube his horse cock up nice and slick and while he was more then a little eager to bust a nut, he took it slow for Draco's sake. Or at least that had been the plan but after waiting a hour for his turn, the second he felt the hot sloppy hole what was Draco's new pussy the stud's self control went out the window and he beat his meat with the flesh light like it owned him money.

"F-Fuck..So..So much..My..My ass.." Draco had need groaning, one his belly with his head hanging out over the bed with a waste bucket under him. the bucket itself had a coating of cum that the poor blond had ended up puking out because his guts where getting so filled and he was all but broken. "Puh..puhlease..nuh moar.." Draco whimpered. his cock couldn't even fire off any more shots of cum and he had been drygasming for the past three dicks. Somehow he didn't think his plea was gonna be answered and so he tried to push out as much cum into the seat of his swelled nappies as he could, not even sure if he had shit himself for real and vaguely recalling he had pissed himself once or twice. His efforts to dump his bowels were short lived as the biggest cock yet rammed it's way home and it was just too much for poor Draco, who deep down knew he deserved every second of this punishment and the blond blacked out.

Snape was tried and grumpy, well grumpier then normal but he knew he should do one last check before bed to make sure Draco had kept his diapers on. of course he could of locked them on but the prospect of doing that and then the boy -ugh- soiling himself and expecting Snape to help him change was more then a little unpleasant to picture. opening the door to his nephew's private room however the last thing he'd expected to find was Draco with his eyes wide up but glazed over and foaming at the month, making weak mewing noises and the back of the boys diaper was moving on it's own. the smell in the room was one of semen and shame and Snape toyed with what to do..then did the smart thing. he turned around and walked out, pretending he hadn't seen shit and left this headache for someone else.

In the whole messy aftermath Draco was left changed in many many ways. he found himself unable to cum anymore unless his ass was being used like a pussy and found himself needing diapers 24/7 for both needs even though he'd been healed up. His studies tanked and he was basically kept at the school by the grace of Snape and dumbledore who pitied the boy.. and by the fact in a degrading way Draco became more popular then ever as the boys was just a needy cock slut. Harry and the others were never busted though it was implied several times by various teachers that they had figured out what happened and the flesh light? Harry had decided to the disappointment of many that it was too dangerous to keep around their dorm, but did find it a new home in the hufflepuff dorm.

the end

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cuntess-carmilla · 4 years

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The thing about the toothpaste flag (that shitty recolor of the lesbian flag) that some mostly white gay men are claiming as their own, is white gay men act like they're the most creative and innovative people in the world and then pull shit like that, always on the backs of wlw, trans women, and gay moc.

(Almost?) all the actually innovative and amazing things coming from "gay culture" (quote marks because there’s no UNIVERSAL gay culture; race, ethnicity and location change things) either comes from gays of color, or actually comes from trans women (also often trans woc at that, especially Black ones), and tbh many times also Jewish gays and trans women regardless of their race.

Then there's how much these white (and often gentile) gay men straight up steal the creative efforts of wlw or demand that the creative efforts by us include THEM, as if they ever did the same for us and as if we ever demanded the same from them. Such as the dudes who DEMAND angrily that things created by wlw MUST include them too. Like, these dudes demand from independent online wlw artists (such as my friend @orquidia) to draw mlm content when they're artists who've expressed, time and time again, that they make SAPPHIC art. Like, my friend Iv is bi, drawing m/f romance art is more personally relevant to them than content about only dudes lol.

But no, we must ALWAYS cater to them. When have they catered to us, though? Imagine if we went around behaving the same way.

The male entitlement is so bad that when wlw started making fucking moodboards for fun FOR OURSELVES dudes were ENRAGED that WE weren't making moodboards for THEM as if it was so fucking hard to just fucking copy our ideas themselves as they always do. But no, WE somehow were responsible that there weren’t fucking moodboards for them! Because they still see women as owing our labor to them! Incredible.

Same with shit like when the reclamation of "sapphic" became more popular and they were like QUICK, WE NEED OUR VERSION OF THAT and made up "achillean" which makes no fucking sense since it lacks the historical value of "sapphic" and Achilles wasn't even a real person. "Sapphic" was originally used to medicalize and brutalize wlw. WE didn't make up "sapphic", cishets made it up to insult and marginalize us and we reclaimed it centuries after it stopped being commonly used in that way. Not to mention, Sappho was an actual real fucking person. "Achillean" is literally QUICK, WE NEED A NEW SLUR THAT MIRRORS THE GIRLS'.

There's a reason most of the dudes using it are white. This obsession modern and usually younger AND WHITE gay and bi dudes have with being a perfect "male reflection" of lesbians and bi women is soooooo white gender binary.

You don't have to be! You can and SHOULD develop your own cultural elements independent from us, or if you’re gonna create things that have relation to us, it should be an organic result of you BEING IN COMMUNITY WITH US, like femme/butch was (which regarding its use in the ballroom scene, happened in Black and Latine LGBT communities, which isn’t surprising as LGBT poc tend to be less stupidly separatist).

But so many of you refuse to even consider us wlw as Actually Gay, even those of us who're lesbians (by the way, you shouldn't do it to bi women either), let alone to consider us as a valuable and important part of your communities. If you bitches thought of us as Actually Gay you wouldn’t constantly accuse wlw who so much as accidentally glance upon mlm media, of fetishizing you EVEN WHEN IT COMES TO LESBIANS LIKE COME ON, WE DON’T WANT YOU (let me repeat, still not ok and still stupid regarding bi women, they can and do relate to gay content in general because they’re a type of gay woman!).

You go so far to not consider us Actually Gay that you act like we face no violence, like corrective rape is "just" because we're women and has nothing to do with homophobia and thus it doesn't count as homophobic violence so wlw are still “privileged”, as if misogyny wasn't an INTENSIFIER of homophobia. Don’t get me started on how you all act regarding ~representation~, or, ykw? I will start.

You all act like there's more wlw representation in media than mlm representation when 1) that's verifyingly false, and ours mostly happens in fucking cartoons only, 2) the wlw rep in mainstream media is MOSTLY CREATED BY WLW OURSELVES after fighting for DECADES for our content to not be censored, both as creators and as fans. And you act like it's a privilege? We fought so hard to get scraps, and that’s a privilege to you. You disregard even our most defanged activism and believe we were gifted wlw rep because society loves us THAT MUCH in your eyes! We didn’t FIGHT for it, it was handed to us on a silver plate.

Did you see how much we campaigned for Harley Quinn (questionable a show as it is) to get a 3rd season just so we could actually see Harley and Ivy be an established couple, after the comics 100% erased their relationship, and you call that we got it PRIVILEGED? HQ is one of DC’s most successful pieces of media and according to the creators themselves it’s actually very fucking cheap to make, and it was still not certain that we were going to get a 3rd fucking season when, had it been a show just as profitable with a straight main couple you KNOW that would’ve been a given.

Even you boys' "analysis" of why we get to see wlw in cartoons is so stupid and exemplifies how much you refuse to understand our realities and struggles. It almost only happens in cartoons because love between women is never taken seriously and neither is animation, as it’s associated with kids.

You think we get it in animation because straight men get horny for us (which, by the way, they don’t when our love and lust are portrayed in a SERIOUS humane way, only when it’s a performance for men), when it happens in media that's mostly aimed at KIDS. Korrasami and HQ are the only examples I can think of that weren’t intended for a super young audience, but you fix your mouths saying it’s because we’re sexy to straight men. Do you REALLY think it happens in mostly children’s media because of our sexualization by men? Do you realize that would mean we’re being shown to children as a sexual product? Don’t be stupid. Other than Harlivy in HQ, none of them are shown doing more than kissing and holding hands.

If it were true that we get wlw in cartoons because of our fetishization by straight men, it would also mean that our fetishization IS A PRIVILEGE, because it'd be getting us humane and complex representation. Do you hear yourselves? Our fetishization gets us RAPED AND BATTERED. Gee, for people who got so passionate about being fetishized only after wlw talking about our own fetishization that also has way more dire material repercussions than annoying fujoshis started to get traction you sure do seem to think that when fetishization happens to YOU it’s a crime against humanity but when it happens to wlw it’s a fucking privilege.

Only reason we've gotten that representation is, again, because we've campaigned for DECADES to get ANYTHING, and some of us made the work of basically infiltrating the creative field and made + pushed for our content to be published/released with tooth and nail. It wasn't GIVEN to us, we FOUGHT for it.

Anyway, back to how white gay men (often the gentile ones) constantly take from us (gays of color, wlw, trans women, Jewish gays) but then turn around and think they’re the pinnacle of culture; I'd just fucking like it if you could at least treat us with basic respect and recognize our amazing creativity if you're gonna steal our creative labor constantly, OR if you refuse to do that, THEN MAKE YOUR OWN FFS.

Pick ONE struggle!

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terrestrialgarden · 4 years

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I hate coded language

I feel like the queer community's weird obsession with coded language/ coded body language is really limiting on how you can experience friendship or just general communication; I constantly see queer people talking about things like “oh she touched my shoulder so she must be into me” or “they said [insert seemingly normal thing here] they totally want me” and thats just- so stressful for me as an arospec person. I feel like everytime I try to interact with other queer people Im always being misinterpreted, from my gender to what I mean when I say “do you want to come over?” I have had the issue of someone who is lesbian or wlw thinking Im a) a butch lesbian (and not bothering to ask) and b) trying to hook up with them, this has happened SEVERAL TIMES and when I look back the only indication of me wanting that is something like “hey could you come to the bathroom with me?” or “can I walk with you?” (yes these are actual examples) putting aside the issue how “you should ask someone before trying to kiss them” you should just!!! ask!!! if thats what Im trying to do!!! I understand we’re not really taught how to communicate in relationship settings but that doesnt mean youre not obligated to learn. Adjveorvbru this is just a vent because Im sick of having to overanalyze everything that comes out of my mouth.

#arespec #aromantic #I swear I cant even imagine how these people act with their friends #like? do you hug your friends? or is to gay for you? is all affection inherently romantic to you?#Idk I realized these experiences really shaped the way I view wlw people and Im trying to unlearn some stigma now #afab

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iberico-long-pork · 4 years

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Hannibal role reversal au + serial killer Will au picks

Sleeping in the knife drawer - emungere Rating: T, Wordcount: 2.9K Tags: Role Reversal AU, Agent Lecter, Doctor Graham, Serial killer Will Plot: Hannibal is sent by Jack to recruit Will as an advisor. It takes persuading. Sample:

“You don’t use the space,” he said.

“I don’t use most of the house. How much space does one person really need?”

“Usually one’s life expands to fill the space that contains it. Unto overflowing, in some cases.”

Will walked to the window and cleared away a mass of cobwebs with his hand.

“I’ve expanded as much as I’m likely to,” he said.

“You’ve contracted. Away from your practice in the city. Alone out here. Alana said she was the only person whom you see regularly.”

“Most people don’t like me.” Will grinned, sharp-edged and bright as a knife blade. “No idea why.”

“Do you offer to show all of them your attic?”

“No. Maybe you’re just special.”

// Spectacular dialogue, light read

Watch Your Back (There’s a New Killer in Town) - OneWhoSitsWithTurtles Rating: E, Wordcount: 73.8K Tags: Role Reversal AU, Agent Lecter, Doctor Graham, Serial killer Will, sub Hannibal, Dom Will Warnings: Exhibitionism, Knife play Sex: Versatile, mostly dom Will sub Hannibal Plot: Hannibal is sent for a psyche eval to Doctor Graham. Will decides to court him. And teach him that killing is okay. Sample: "Hannibal," Will spoke softly, drawing Hannibal's gaze back to him. Hannibal watched him as Will took a carving knife and cut a small slice of the roast off the end. Will speared the seasoned meat onto a fork and presented it to Hannibal, who balked.

"What do you fear?"

Hannibal swallowed, eyes flickering between Will's face and the meat.

"That I'll like it."

Will held the fork aside and cupped the back of Hannibal's neck with his other hand, bringing him in for a kiss. Hannibal kissed him back but his uncertainty soured the brush of their lips and Will asked, "What else?"

Hannibal looked away but Will turned his face forward again with a hinting touch to his jaw. Hannibal swallowed.

"That if I don't, you won't want me anymore."

// Amazing dom/sub relationship, good writing, good pace

Coping Mechanism - Cinnamaldeide Rating: T Wordcout: 1K Tags: Role Reversal AU, Agent Lecter (past as doctor), Doctor Graham (past as officer), Serial Killer Will Plot: Before their scheduled appointment, Special Agent Lecter and Doctor Graham share a cigarette and some friendly considerations. Sample:

He admitted his own addiction when he noticed he had a favourite brand. An indulgence Hannibal found soothing after having pursued dangerous murderers and sensitive psychopaths. Certainly not as satisfying after an amorous encounter, as was often believed. He had taken to smoke before his appointments with his psychiatrists instead, which shouldn’t have been such an easy association.

“I thought doctors were supposed to know better,” a voice distracted Hannibal from his long inhales, fume rising above his head in a slow, languorous ascent. “Don’t you know how it tarnishes your lungs?” his therapist needled, arms crossed on his chest and shoulder loosely resting on the wall. Their appointment was scheduled in a few minutes, but Mr. Graham was an observant man, knew where to find him. Knew aiming at Hannibal’s pride often proved effective.

“You know doctors are notorious for not following their own advices,” Hannibal answered, puffing a fine line of grey, volatile smoke away from him. “It prepares me for our encounters,” he offered, curious to see how Dr. Graham would process that information.

// Pleasantly slow and casually sensual. Like a breather scene in a movie.

Identically Different AU - Pragnificent Rating: E Wordcout: 243K Tags: Role Reversal AU, Agent Lecter, Doctor Graham, Serial Killer Will Warnings: Past child sexual abuse, Trauma Sex: Versatile Plot: Doctor Graham plans to influence his new fascinating not-really-patient, Agent Lecter. When Will befriends the prickly agent and invites him to dinner, he doesn’t expect him to recognise the taste of the meat he served. And that’s only the beginning. Sample:

“I’ve seen setups like this before,” Hannibal says, his mouth feeling as though it has been stuffed with cotton, “though this is the first one with feather pillows.”

“Your comfort is important to me, Hannibal.”

Hannibal doesn’t justify that with a response.

He looks around the basement. A half-empty bottle of bourbon and two snifter glasses sit on the small table next to Will. On the other end of the basement, metal tools hang from a pegboard on the wall, gleaming dangerously, and in the corner there is a large stainless steel work table with two meat hooks hanging near it.

Hannibal works on accepting what all of this means without letting it frighten him. He tries to draw on the colder version of himself, the one that kept his feelings on lockdown and didn’t worry about Will or Will’s approval.

“I meant to take things much more slowly,” Will says, and it’s hard to know if he should credit the note of apology in his voice. “But I wasn’t expecting dinner to be the thing to give me away. Hannibal, there’s something important that you haven’t been sharing in your sessions, isn’t there?”

// HEED WARNINGS (It’s not properly listed in the fic tags). Fascinating but dangerous series. Long fic.

sweet awakening - Romennium Rating: T Wordcout: 612 Tags: Role Reversal AU, Doctor Lecter, Serial Killer Will Plot: Hannibal has been getting too close to catching the prolific serial killer. Will decides to visit him in the middle of the night. Sample:

Hannibal woke up abruptly, heart in his throat. His poor organ doubled his pace in the moment his not-yet awake brain realized that his body couldn’t move. Someone was sitting astride him, completely blocking his chest and his arms.

Hannibal moved, trying to dislodge the body above him, but his attempt didn’t do anything but make the weight of the intruder press into him even more and the hand shutting his mouth moved to partially close his nose as well.

In a millisecond the air to his lungs diminished drastically and panic grew, making him believe he was suffocating. A rational part of him, but completely overwhelmed by fear, told him he wasn’t suffocating, but his lungs seemed to burn and the air, there was no air and his sight-

“Sh, sh, Doctor Lecter,” a calm and reassuring voice whispered into his ear, “calm down, Doctor.”

The hand moved away from his nose and Hannibal tried to take a deep breath.

“Yes, Doctor, that’s good, breathe, everything is okay,”

// Very short and spicy. Snack fic.

Raw Material - RubyBakeneko Rating: E, Wordcount: 3K Tags: Role Reversal AU, Doctor Lecter, Agent Graham, Serial killer Will Sex: Top Will, Bottom Antony Dimmond Plot: Betrayed by his psychiatrist, serial killer Will Graham escapes to Italy. There, he reflects on the nature of his relationship with Hannibal, and he meets someone who provides him with an opportunity to work through some of his issues. Sample:

Will misses him terribly and without respite, the weight of his heartache a miserable fury that makes him feel ill. He imagines they are together in bed, that he is pressed up against the heat of Hannibal’s back with a possessive arm draped around his shoulder. He dominates Will’s dreams, which are by turn so luridly explicit that he comes in his sleep and so painfully romantic that he wakes in tears.

Hannibal has survived Will, the way few have done before him. He might arrive in Italy any day now, to kill Will or to kiss him. His heart races at the thought of either.

He silently dares Hannibal to find him. I’m here. Come and get me. // Poor Antony, I hoestly really love that character. Light read

+++ ( ‘Hannibal is Hannibal’ fics)

Wolfman - Cadaverish Rating: E, Wordcount: 38K Tags: Canon Divergence, Serial killer Will, Serial killer Hannibal Sex: versatile Plot: The Biloxi Wolfman has a crush on The Chesapeake Ripper. Hannibal doesn’t know that. But he does have an interest in Will Graham. (In which Hannibal wastes time trying to bring Will to the dark side when Will already has lower moral standards than Hannibal) Sample:

Gideon has paused obligingly to peer out the window set into the front door, likely checking for police sirens or curious neighbors, but all it really accomplishes is giving Will the chance to take several long strides, closing the distance between himself and Gideon. He allows his last step to connect loudly with the hardwood floor and Gideon starts, turning around to look at him.

“Special Agent Graham,” he drawls and Will gives him a grin that has nothing human behind it.

// Tfw Hannibal actually has higher moral standards than Will OvO

Astronomical odds - xzombiexkittenx Rating: M, Wordcount: 2.5K Tags: Pre-Season AU, Serial killer Will, Serial killer Hannibal Sex: Mutual handjob Plot: Based on the joke: ‘ Picked up a hitchhiker last night. He said, “Thanks! how do you know I’m not a serial killer though?” I replied, “The chances of two serial killers being in the same car are astronomical.” ‘ Sample:

There’s a knife strapped to his ankle, a loaded gun in his bag, and he’s not above using his teeth if he has to. He also has mace. He met a nice butch lesbian truck driver who picked him up off Interstate 20, drove him as far as Abilene, bought him dinner, and insisted on giving him her mace. She’d been so worried about him and his ‘pretty face.’”

“Honey,” she’d said, over burgers and shitty diner coffee, “girls like you find trouble without even looking. Take it for my peace of mind.”

He’d realized she thought he was a sex worker. Will hadn’t tried to change her opinion of him. No one was looking for a serial truck stop male prostitute. He’d run that angle for a while, down in Louisiana, but it was too much trouble. The clothing was hard to hunt in, and he didn’t like men pawing at him while he got them to the secondary location.

He wonders if Hannibal thinks he’s a sex worker. Hannibal has nicely manicured nails, strong-looking hands, and fantastic arms. Will’s not sure he’d complain if Hannibal made a move on him. He hasn’t decided if he wants to kill Hannibal or not but on balance he also hasn’t decided if he wants to try for a roadside quickie or not.

// Honestly hilarious. They make inside jokes thinking the other’s not getting it, and run into each other at a body dumping site. Light fun read.

#hannigram #hannibal #ficrec #iberico's picks

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thepersephonecabin · 4 years

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Questions of Faith (fic)

Short daisy/basira fic about daisy stepping in when some Islamophobes in the station have something to say to basira.

Just as a heads up, I’m not a Muslim, so I’d love input from Muslims about Basira’s characterization and how Islamophobia is dealt with in this fic!

Check out full list of warnings and notes on AO3

The Hunt was the only religion Daisy had ever known, even before she’d known it had a name.

But that didn’t mean she had never had a crisis of faith.

Being a gay cop, even after the Thatcher era, was never easy. Turns out, that even if you did replace the bastards who led the witchhunts and raids on gay bars and BDSM clubs back in the day, it didn’t erase centuries of systemic oppression, no matter how hard you tried.

Believe it or not, Daisy first joined the force for that exact reason. To take out the trash.

She’d gotten the idea in the late 90s. She was sixteen at the time, and had snuck into a local gay bar with a fake ID. It was her first interaction with the gay community, the first time she’d tasted beer. She was so naive back then, a baby butch with a fresh boycut and leather jacket she wasn’t allowed to wear with her school uniform. Not that that had ever stopped her. In truth, she was rather proud of herself when the school’s nuns ripped her a new one for donning it over her green plaid skirt and white blouse, even if the traditional sweater was cozier.

She’d always been a bit of an agitator, just like her Dad, a staunch Welsh nationalist. So she did the things most “bad” kids did. Listened to loud music, snuck smokes outside the school gates, kissed girls she shouldn’t. Mum and Dad didn’t like that last one one bit.

But she did it anyway. Really, going to the bar was just the next phase of her teenage rebellion. She was pretty excited about it, too. At least until the butch bartender caught onto the fact that she was underage. That bartender was about halfway through manhandling her out the door saying, “Look, kid, it's nothing personal. It's just sometimes things go down in places like this that a kid shouldn't be here to se-"

Daisy was about to tell her to take a goddamn hike and that she'd seen plenty of things no one her age should've seen anyhow, thank you very much, when a whole squadron of police officers burst in and chaos erupted.

Long story short, an hour later, Daisy was sitting in the police station wearing a pair of handcuffs surrounded by a dozen or so drag queens and kings, men in leather, and assorted other characters from the club- the bartender, a young lesbian couple barely older than her who looked scared shitless, leaning on each other for support as much as their restraints would allow. The police were responding to an “anonymous tip” about a drug deal in progress, but from the looks on the faces of the others who were taken to the station with her, it seemed that this an excuse they’d heard many times over.

They were booked one by one, but it seemed that she was the only one shepherded into the captain’s office after fingerprinting.

The chief- Reynolds, collar number PC2729 according to his uniform and badge- was a white man with grey hair and facial hair that was still a tad brown in some places. He had smile lines and crow’s feet, and for some reason that made her angrier than anything else did.

He gave her a smile as she was pushed into the room and onto a cold, metal chair in front of Reynolds’ desk. Daisy sneered at the officer that had brought her in, pulling her arm from the woman’s iron grip with a little more force than necessary simply for the sake of being contrarian. Reynolds’ smile widened.

As the door shut behind the female officer, leaving Daisy alone with Officer Reynolds, the man cleared his throat and said, “Alice Tonner, sixteen years old, no priors. Booked on possession of a false driver’s license, underage alcohol consumption, resisting arrest, and assaulting an officer. Normally, for someone your age, a first-time offender, I would simply confiscate that fake ID, call your parents, and let them handle it.”

“But?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

“But, assaulting an officer is a very serious charge, Alice. According to the briefing my officers gave me, you struck one officer in the face, elbowed and kicked several others until you were tackled. It makes me wonder if this is truly your first time getting into things you shouldn’t, or if you are simply a repeat offender who hasn’t been caught until now,” Reynolds said.

“Don’t see how it’s your business anyhow,” she challenged. “Maybe I have done something like this before and maybe I haven’t. If your subordinates can’t do their jobs and stop crime, that sounds like your problem, not mine. And if your subordinates didn’t assault innocent civilians in that club first, I don’t think that I would have had to defend myself against them.”

“When criminals pose a significant threat, it is sometimes necessary to use appropriate force to subdue them,” Reynolds said calmly, and still smiling. “It’s simply every officer’s duty to enforce the law.”

“Sure,” Daisy laughed, shifting forward in her chair. “Enforcing a tip from an ‘anonymous do-gooder?’ I don’t think so. Dispatch records and calls to the authorities are public record, after all. Charge me if you want, but the first thing I’m doing if you do is calling my father’s attorney and submitting a FOI request. Do you really want to pretend that I’ll find a call from some worried mum that would justify- what did you call it? Appropriate force?” Maybe having a nationalist parent wasn’t so bad after all. At least it taught her her rights.

Reynolds wasn’t smiling now. “How does a nice little girl like you get wrapped up in a place like that anyway? If you’re so concerned with the quality of policing in your-” he made a face, “ community , maybe you should try our jobs and see just how easy it is, Alice.”

Daisy saw red. “My name is Daisy, actually, and if you knew anything about me at all, you’d know this little girl isn’t so nice,” she snarled. “Thanks for the tip, 2729. Maybe I will try your job, and maybe when I do I’ll come for criminals in higher places. Like this office, for instance.” She took a minute to appraise the room exaggeratedly. “Nice trophies.”

Officer Reynolds stared her down for a moment. Daisy didn’t know what he saw, but whatever it was, the next thing he did was call the female officer back in and say, “Officer Nicholson? Take Miss Tonner up front and telephone her parents to pick her up. She’s free to go.”

Officer Nicholson wasn’t exactly pleased with the decision to let someone who had struck several of her fellow officers only an hour ago free without even being formally charged, but in the end it wasn’t her call. Daisy was released to her parents with nothing more than a slap on the wrist and a stern warning noted in her permanent record. All things considered, if mouthing off was all it took to get out of an arrest, it made a little more sense now why Calvin Benchley had gotten away with everything for so long.

Two years later when she appeared for her police academy interview, and the officer in charge asked why she wanted to be an officer, she remembered Reynolds, and his too-wide smile and his crow’s feet. She was coming for him. Maybe not even him, maybe just the very idea of him.

At first, it was tough. The other officers made no secret as to how they felt about a dyke like her in their ranks, but Daisy was more ruthless than any of them could hope to be. She closed more cases, by any means necessary and left those impotent, rent-a-cop, busybodies in her dust. When she got sectioned, it almost seemed like the natural next step for a person like her, but now she had scarier suspects to go after.

Years passed, vampires burned, and Daisy never really considered that along the way she might have started to become the same type of monster she joined up to stop. By the time a new officer fell into her precinct, the homophobic pricks that had fueled her for so long were afraid of her. They were at least smart enough to keep their slurs to the locker room. Whenever she did catch wind of them running their mouths, she made sure to give them a scare, and she reveled in the way they fled with their tails between their legs. Or she did, at least for a little while, but soon, it felt like it wasn’t enough. It was getting boring.

The new officer, Basira Hussain, was a new sort of breed, she thought. They didn’t know each other well at first, since at first, Basira wasn’t sectioned like her, but Daisy liked Basira. She liked the way her name rolled off her tongue- Ba-si-ra , she would whisper to herself in the comfortable isolation of her own darkened rooms at night, just to taste the shape of the syllables. But most of all, Daisy was surprised to find that she liked the way Basira wasn’t afraid of her. It was refreshing, she thought, to finally have someone around with a backbone.

When she wasn’t tracking, interrogating, or disposing of suspects, Daisy dedicated her time at the office to dissecting Basira’s movements and habits. It gave her an excuse to ignore the paperwork.

Unlike her, Basira likes paperwork. Once when Basira was happily depositing reports in the proper outbox, she caught Daisy staring and demanded in a teasing voice, “What? Unlike you, some of us actually complete our reports, and even enjoy getting work done. Shocking for you, I’m sure.”

She’s been watching me, too , Daisy thought with a delightful thrill. Daisy plastered on a playful smirk, and stretched her arms over her head, catlike and languid. “What’s that old saying? Something about working hard or hardly working?”

Basira rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth quirked up. “Mock me if you want, Tonner, but I don’t mind the tedium of it. It feels nice, to be able to mindlessly do a task and check it off your to-do list.”

How adorable , Daisy thought. How positively quaint. “I suppose I can understand that. But if you ask me, desk duty’s a waste of your talents. Also, you can call me Daisy.”

Basira raised one perfect eyebrow at her, “And what talents are those, Daisy ?”

Daisy shrugged noncommittally, hoping it wasn’t entirely too obvious how something deep inside her purred at Basira saying her name like that. “Well, you don’t seem to mind me being around, so I assume that means you’ve got balls. Someone like that should be out there,” she jerked her chin at the window, “handling the real police work. Not stuck inside.”

“Filing reports is just as important to our job as handcuffing people,” Basira retorted. “Otherwise, how would we account for everything, and make sure we’re not taking advantage of our authority.”

“And do you think everyone is truthful on those reports?” Daisy asked, leaning forward on her elbows, the way she did in interrogation rooms.

Basira was silent for a long time, appraising her, and finally she said, “You’re strange, Daisy Tonner.”

Daisy wasn’t sure she knew what that meant, but she categorized it as a win and moved on.

After that, Daisy and Basira were a bit closer, trading playful conversation whenever Daisy was actually in the office. It was strange, how Daisy was usually itching to go out on assignment, always ready for a stakeout, but now, she actually missed the opportunity to sit at her desk across from Basira for a while.

One day, she came into the office to find Basira crouched behind Daisy’s desk, facing the wall. She was rolling out what looked like a small rug, and tensed when she realized Daisy was standing there, watching.

“Sorry,” Basira blushed. “I just need a place to pray. I usually do it here since the position is right and you’re usually out. I can find somewhere else, if you like.”

Daisy blinked, feeling dumbfounded, “No, no, it’s fine. Carry on. I’ll be quiet.”

As she slid into her chair, and heard Basira shifting, and then begin muttering to herself softly carrying a quiet harmony, Daisy pondered this.

Daisy had never really spent much extended time around Muslims before Basira. She knew Islam was the second most common religion in Wales, but her community had been predominantly Christian. In London, of course, things were a lot more multicultural, with a high population of immigrants and asylum-seekers. But still, she’d never found herself thinking that much about it.

Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed by how much she really didn’t know about Islam, and she was a bit discomfited by it. She didn’t like feeling like she was fumbling around something, and she liked the knowledge that she’d spent a few months sitting across from Basira without giving any thought to her culture even less. Now she was sitting on her desk flipping through a folder and not taking in any of the information, just to stop herself from Googling stupidly obvious questions about Islam while Basira was right behind her.

Unluckily, she didn’t have much time to stew in this, because some of the other officers, Shadley and Packwell, her mind helpfully supplied, began stalking toward them with intent.

Daisy looked up from the file, brows furrowed, glare on, but Shadley and Packwell didn’t notice her at all, their gaze was decidedly fixed on Basira. A quick glance told Daisy that Basira was tuned out, still in the motions of raising and lowering her body to the ground in prayer. Daisy whipped an arm out, and moved to stand, to prevent the other officers from interfering, but she was a second too late, and Shadley pushed right by to stand inches behind Basira.

“Hussain, get back to work,” he ordered loudly. The whole room had to have heard him, but horrified, Daisy looked around, and everyone- every single person but her- was ignoring it, steadfastly going about their business with their heads down.

Basira’s brows furrowed, but otherwise, she made no sign of having heard Shadley. Clearly, she was used to this.

“Did you hear me, officer? Someone’s got to go over these traffic reports.”

“Step off, Shadley,” Daisy growled, fists clenched. “She isn’t bothering anyone. Go do your own damn reports.”

“She’s bothering me,” Shadley retorted.

“And me,” Packwell pitched in.

“I’m warning you,” Daisy told them, doing her best to shoulder her way between them and Basira. “Walk away.”

“Or what, Daisy dyke?” Packwell asked. “Got yourself a little girlfriend?”

Daisy ignored that. This wasn’t about her. It was about keeping Basira safe.

But then quick as a flash, when her eyes were on Packwell, Shadley reached down, put his hand on the headscarf Basira wore, and yanked .

Red flooded Daisy’s vision, and distantly she heard Basira make a surprised, pained grunt. Daisy’s body was on autopilot as one hand reached over, grabbed her leather jacket off her seat and tossed it at Basira, and her leg kicked out and smashed into Shadley’s shin hard.

Shadley howled with pain, but Daisy didn’t give him time to recover. She wrapped her hands around his collar and threw him up against a file cabinet with an audible bang. A dispatcher manual toppled from the top of the cabinet from the impact, but Daisy didn’t hear it over the almost inhuman growl that ripped through her throat.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” Daisy snarled, putting her nose right up to his, “or the next time I swear to everything, I’ll rip you limb from limb, do you hear me? Do you hear me?”

Shadley whimpered, pathetic, and nodded. He was shaking. She liked that.

“I don’t want either of you to say a word to her unless it’s specifically related to a case. If I catch you so much as looking at her with ill-intent, you’ll regret it. Now get out of my fucking sight.”

She pushed him with all her might at Packwell so that they collided and toppled to the floor messily. They both scrambled to their feet and got away as fast as they could. The other people in the room hastened to look away, pretending as if nothing happened once again.

Daisy was still seething, sneering at the place Packwell and Shadley had vacated. She wanted to hit something, she wanted to kill something.

Then, as suddenly as they came, the thoughts dissipated as she felt a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder, and heard Basira say, “Daisy.”

Daisy let the tension in her shoulder release, and foggy through the adrenaline, she turned to look at Basira’s stern face, her hijab readjusted so it looked as if it had never been out of place at all.

“It’s alright,” Basira said. “I can handle myself.”

“I…” Daisy began, and then blinked a few times to clear her head. Shame began to creep in. She hadn’t meant to overstep her boundaries. “I know you can, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made such a scene.”

There was something unreadable in Basira’s eyes, but her mouth twitched, and she said. “It’s alright. It’s good to know you’re looking out for me. But maybe next time, don’t assault another officer in the middle of a police station with everyone watching, yeah?” She pressed Daisy’s leather jacket into her hands. “Thanks for letting me use this, by the way.”

Daisy was too stunned to make heads or tails of how quickly the mood had shifted, and soon Basira had gathered up her prayer mat, and had returned to her own desk, quick as you please.

The next day, when it was time for Dhuhr (Daisy had spent some time that night looking up the proper times for prayer throughout the day), Basira gave her a nod as she walked around Daisy’s desk and rolled out her mat. This time, Daisy stood once she was through, and made herself a physical curtain between her desk and the file cabinet, so no one would get through. She idly looked over and ticked boxes on the report she’d been working on before Dhuhr started, but mostly she just stood, feet shoulder width apart so she was ready to protect if anyone tried anything, throwing looks at anyone who passed by.

When she was finished and had rolled up her mat, Basira asked, “What are you doing now?”

Daisy tried to sound playful, but also a little submissive as she spoke, wanting to show Basira that she would listen, if Basira told her to stop. “Doing my paperwork as you’ve so frequently recommended, Basira, dear, and stretching my legs of course.”

“I see,” Basira said, quirking a smile. “And the timing of your leg stretching wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with yesterday, would it?”

“Of course not,” Daisy said with mock surprise. “Not everything is about you, you know.”

Basira rolled her eyes and snorted, “Sure, it’s not. Whatever, see you again at afternoon prayer.”

“Looking forward to it.”

From then on, during all their time at the Met, whenever it came time for Dhuhr, Asr, Maghrib, and oftentimes even Isha, because Basira so frequently worked late, Daisy stood watch, and they never had any incidents like the one with Shadley and Packwell again. Basira often rolled her eyes at Daisy’s “guard dog” nature as she called it, but never objected to it. Daisy knew she was being overprotective, and territorial, but as long as Basira was safe and happy, it didn’t matter.

No, Daisy Tonner had never known a religion but the Hunt, but she was beginning to think whatever she had with Basira could be one.

#tma #the magnus archives #fanfic #daisira #daisy tonner #basira hussain #alice tonner #femslash #fic #rebloggable

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docholligay · 4 years

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St Raph 4: With All Your Mind

Another release of The Intercession of St. Raphael, The Catholic Boarding School AU. ALl of the released chapters are here, or the full chapters are available on Patreon!

The dress was, all other things aside, well-constructed and tailed perfectly to Haruka’s body. Mako had given it the collar and simple short sleeve of an Oxford shirt, with sheer panels at the shoulders that kept it just this side of feminine. The skirt fell elegantly from her waist and slipped to the floor, making use of her height. The blush-pale pink complimented the soft gold of her hair, along with keeping Father Anthony off her case for another night.

On anyone else, it would have been beautiful. On her, it was a tragedy befitting a Shakespearean soliloquy.

Haruka looked at herself in the mirror and bit her lip. “I look stupid.” She looked over toward Mina, who did not respond, just continued to gaze at herself, turning to capture each angle. “Mina!”

“What?!” She looked up at Haruka, irritated, still fiddling with her hair.

“I said I look stupid.”

Mina shrugged. “I mean, it’s maybe not your greatest look, you look like a butch les--”

Haruka grabbed her and covered her mouth “SHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

Mina bit her palm, and Haruka removed her hand and shook it lightly, nodding her head toward Mako and and Usagi at the other end of the room.

Mina sighed. “Buddy, I’m telling you, this is no great secret.”

Usagi turned around and clasped her hands together with delight. “Haruka, I think you look BEAUTIFUL.” She practically skipped around the room, giving a dramatic twirl of her as she landed in front of Haruka. “I got you something! Both of you!”

“Oh man, am I excited to see this.” Mina leaned against Haruka.

Usagi meant well, nearly anyone who met her would be quick to say. Her skills were not in music, or in art, or in school, or the kitchen, or a mechanic’s shop, or in an athletic fields, or...well the list went on for some pages, despite every sister’s attempt to find her hidden talent. But what the sisters did not know, but was recognized by this room, was that Usagi’s talent was not hidden at all, simply an underappreciated capacity to love all those that fell into her life.

“These were my mom’s! But I wanted to share them with you, I have a whole box and you guys are my family, too.” Usagi radiated with joy as she dug through her trunk.

Only Usagi spoke of her family--she had merely had the misfortune of having them die, with no other family. She was, Mina observed maybe not the smartest of them, but surely the best adjusted. Haruka had given up on having a family. Her mother never spoke to her after she stepped through those doors, and no one else seemed to take an interest, though a family had taken her for a summer once. To try her out, she supposed, and Haruka had tried to be very good and very helpful, but after the summer was out, she was returned to the school, and their letters tapered off.

She had been eleven.

The thought whipped out of her mind as quickly as it had scuttled in, lost in the temporary beam of Usagi’s excitement. She presented them both with poorly but excitedly wrapped packages.

“I already gave Mako hers,” She leaned forward conspiratorially, “but I told her not to tell you.”

Mina grinned. “Why ruin the surprise?” She tore at the paper, revealing a cheap paste set of bangle bracelets. “Oh hey, these’ll go great with my dress! I love them!”

Usagi glowed under the light of her praise and threw her arms warmly around Mina. She nodded toward Haruka. “Now you!”

Haruka gave a weak smile as she accepted the package. “You didn’t have to, really.” She looked over at Mako, putting a sparkled rose clip in her hair. She looked over at Usagi. “You should really keep this for yourself, Usagi, I don’t want to take your Mom’s things.”

Usagi’s eyes grew wide, her voice soft but insistent. “I want you to have it.”

Haruka turned her attention back to the package, turning it over in her hand. She delicately ripped at the paper, trying to moderate her face so she didn’t disappoint Usagi, revealing a small box. She opened the lid, and tucked inside was a small silvertone tie tack, with a barely perceptible diamond chip.

“It was my dad’s.” Usagi looked at Haruka hopefully. “I know you can’t wear it tonight, but with your uniform! Or, anytime! That you might want to wear a tie. In the future. If you want.”

In that moment it seemed like more than a cheap trinket. It seemed the promise and the possibility of all she’d dreamed, in a small silver disc. She ran her fingers across it, and felt the cool texture of her apartment and her cat and her nice suit in the closet and a girl who kissed her on the cheek when she left for work. It made her feel real.

Haruka unconsciously touched the box to her chest. “Thank you. I love it.”

Usagi barreled against her in a hug. “It’ll look great on you!”

“Told you they knew.” Mina quipped.

Haruka paced nervously outside of the St. Stephens gym, which had been festively decorated for the occasion, the music softly streaming into the hallway. It wasn’t like she set up a date. She said she’d see Michiru there. It was not precisely the way she had pictured asking her, extending her hand in an elegant suit, the Prince Charming to her effortless princess, waltzing around the floor, unable to keep their focus on anything but each other.

That she didn’t know how to waltz and had never had a suit were small details at best, as Joan thumped reassuringly against her chest. Be brave, she whispered, God is with you. That God was willing to do the assist on a lesbian love story didn’t seem covered by any apologetic she’d ever read, but, what was that verse? From Genesis? It is not good to be alone? That was true too, wasn’t it? She touched the medal on her chest through her dress. Joan died for France and for God and for Justice but the actual charge she died for was wearing men’s clothing and having short hair, though that detail got left out a lot by the sisters when they discussed her. Was Joan alone as she stood before the flame? Was she thinking of a girl when the smoke hit her lungs? Did she ever know what it felt like to press her lips to another woman’s, to know love? Did she--

“You look like you’re gonna throw up.” Mina pointed out helpfully, drawing Haruka’s attention from Joan’s martyrdom.

No, of course Joan didn’t think of that shit, she was a literal saint, Haruka, what’s wrong with you?

“Ruka, stop.” She grabbed Haruka’s arms and stopped her pacing. “You’re making me nervous, damn.”

“What if she stands me up?”

“Then we’ll get drunk.” She patted the flask at her thigh.

“You’re not very comforting.”

“Come here.” She walked to a classroom door and deftly picked it open with her school ID. “Sit. Breathe into a paper bag or something.”

Haruka went, more obediently than she expected to, and sat down on the bench at the back of the classroom, her plain black flats, borrowed from Mako and too wide for her narrow feet, peeking out from under her dres, legs spread indelicately as she leaned forward over them, elbows on her knees and staring at the floor.

Mina sat down next to her and patted her back. “Talk to me.”

Haruka looked up toward the blackboard, toward Jesus hanging on the cross at the front of the room. “What if she thinks I’m,” She scratched the back of her head, “You know? Creepy, gross,” she paused for a moment, “Wrong?”

“Trust me, I think Michiru is probably into some weird shit.”

“Mina!”

“No really! Look at how she slithers around, I’m sure if she’s not into weird shit now, she will be later. Catholic guilt makes girls a lot of fun,” she looked up at Haruka, “Or, you know, you.”

Haruka sighed and leaned against the wall, still staring at the cross. “I shouldn’t be this way. I know that.”

“Gay or pathetic? I’m confused here.”

Haruka gave an irritated growl and looked up at the ceiling.

“Okay, okay,” Mina held her hands up, “no more jokes.” She slipped her arm around Haruka’s waist and laid her head on her shoulder. “Question.”

“Answer.” Her voice was resigned.

“You pay a lot more attention to the bible than me, yeah?”

“Everyone pays more attention to the bible than you, Mina.”

“True, but,” She looked over at the cross. “I seem to remember something you don’t, for all your praying and studying and being up St. Joan’s as--” she sighed and continued more gently, “for all the faith you have. You know that guy at the end of the room?”

Haruka looked over to the end of the room. “Jesus. Yes, I’m familiar with Jesus, Mina.”

“Reasonably important, you’d say?”

Haruka laughed. “What are you talking about, Mina? What’s the point?”

“My point is, I don’t remember him saying a whole hell of a lot about you kissing a girl. I think if it was important he’d bring it up. Don’t you?”

“Paul--”

“Oh Paul thinks braiding hair is a sin, Ruka, and that’s how we’re supposed to wear it here.”

Haruka looked down at her. ‘You do pay attention to the bible.”

“You have to know the letter of the law if you’re gonna exploit it.”

She drew her arm around Mina’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

“I mean it, you know. I don’t think there’s a damn thing about you that God or whoever didn’t mean to be there. Well,” she shrugged, “the moping, maybe.”

She chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” she sighed. “I guess I should go find her.”

Mina kissed Haruka on the cheek. “It’s okay, buddy, you just gotta get in there and try. What’s the worst that can happen? She turns you down and you continue being a useless lesbian feelings puddle.”

Outside, Michiru could not hear the sweet words that spilled between them, but blushed angrily as Mina kissed Haruka’s cheek, the hurt filling her and becoming purified into anger.

She moved to the gym, heels clacking like a warning call.

As a child, she had dreamed that she was a mermaid, that the crashing waves would embrace her, that her soul would be assumed by the sea and she would know what it was to be truly free. Those summers by the seaside were the purest she had ever known, when the sea roared so hard in her ears she could no longer hear the musical murmurings of expectation that had haunted her since birth.

For all that it seemed a fairytale, she smelled the sea in her own eyes, her sight growing blurry under the betrayal of it all.

She had known it was so, and it had been foolish to assume otherwise. Haruka was a polite and gentle and kind girl, and had only extended the invitation as friends. She had another love, and for whatever Mina’s sins might be, she was genuine and fun. She was nothing like the silent sea snake that lay in the deepest part of Michiru’s heart.

She smiled her delicate smile, moving sinuously around Seiya.

“Seiya.” She touched her arm in her soft and tempting way. “What a lovely dress.”

Seiya looked down at the dress she wore, a serviceable black number with a lapel she hoped looked nearly tuxedo style.”Thanks. Nothing on you though.” She grinned.

“Is that what you were thinking? Of nothing, on me?” She gave her practiced titter, and delighted at Seiya’s blush.

She cocked an eyebrow. “You’re gonna get me in trouble, Michiru.”

“Is trouble what we’re calling it? You think so little of me.”

Seiya was not a dumb girl. Michiru was up to something, and when was she not? She could recognize cunning, to be sure, but there was also the fact that Michiru’s shoulders were like cream against the navy of her dress, her red lipstick caressing the curve of her lips, her hair curled delicately like waves around her face.

It was a compelling argument.

As if in thrall, she followed close to the smell of Michiru’s perfume, knowing the danger, unable to stop.

Haruka slicked back the sides of her hair in the bathroom. It still looked all wrong. She’d stolen a little bit of cologne from a boy carelessly grooming outside, and it, at least, added one thing that made her feel a little bit handsome. A little bit like Michiru might actually want to be around her, if not with her.

No. Rei had said. Rei was her best friend. She was going to trust.

Haruka walked out of the bathroom, and there she was, breathtakingly beautiful in a way that both seemed absolutely perfect and completely unexpected. Her dress was demure but all the more enticing for it, as if she was a package to be unwrapped, and Haruka’s heart soared to speak with her.

Her lips had begun to part, as miraculously as the Red Sea, when she noticed Michiru’s hand, leading another. Seiya.

It couldn’t be Seiya, not out of all the people in the world that it might be, not her and Michiru. No, she was overthinking things, rei had said, and besides, there was no law saying you couldn’t hold hands with your friends, Haruka be calm, Haruka don’t get upset, Haruka control yourself.

And then, Michiru kissed Seiya.

Passionately. Deeply. Barely shaded by the darkness.

She pulled herself back into the bathroom, her vision clouded.

Seiya pulled away from Michiru. “Whoa whoa did you forget where we are?” She sniffed at Michiru. “Are you drunk.”

Michiru looked over Seiya’s shoulder. She was so certain she had seen Haruka, here in the hall, but she was nowhere to be seen. It was a silly idea anyhow, to expect Haruka to have been jealous. For her to be jealous, there would have had to be some true and deep affection for Michiru. And who could manage that? Even her parents seemed to struggle under the labor.

She sighed heavily. “I suppose you’re right.” She looked up at Seiya. “Would you like some punch?”

Haruka sat in the stall, trying not to cry. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Michiru was a beautiful, high class, talented girl, and Seiya was much closer to her social strata than Haruka could ever dream of being. Every action Michiru had taken to her had been a magnanimous show of pity for Haruka’s poverty, for her awkwardness, for the way that she was different. THe issue hadn’t been that Michiru was straight. It was that she simply wasn’t into Haruka. A chilling thought came over her.

Mina had been making fun of her. She had set the whole thing up as a joke at Haruka’s expense.

She wiped her face on the skirt of her gown. She was just a joke, a freak, someone--someTHING, to be mocked, and Mina had thought it would be funny, she always thought these sort of things were funny, and the rage began to grow in her, fanned into a flame, and any good heart and good intentions she had choked on the smoke of it.

She punched the side of the stall, and heard a girl cry out in surprise.

Fucking Mina. Fucking Michiru. Fucking Seiya.

She burst out of the bathroom, not sure of what she was going to do, not sure was what she was going to say, but knowing she had to say it now, while the fire still burned, while her sword was still drawn, before she could lose course.

Seiya happened to be the first person her eyes found, chatting with her friends by the side of the gym, next to the refreshments. Casually leaning. Casually chatting. As if she hadn’t had a part in Haruka’s humiliation, as if she hadn’t planned this whole thing.

Seiya Kou was having a bad evening, it would be fair to say.

Haruka stomped across the gym and as soon as Seiya looked up, she put all of her weight behind a right hook to the face, knocking her backwards into the punch bowl, the sleeve of Haruka’s dress tearing away from the bodice with a loud rip. As Seiya fell, she reached out desperately, just narrowly grabbing Haruka’s skirt, and Haruka stumbled, unable to right herself, down on top of Seiya, the dark red punch staining her dress as she continued to swing wildly.

It was at this juncture that Haruka had a moment of clarity, as a group of boys yanked her off the top of Seiya.

She needed to take a walk. She needed to cool down. She needed to talk to somebody. She needed to do literally anything other than what she’d just done, the faces of the priests and nuns shining down on her like stone church statues in harsh judgment.

Her gown was torn and stained, and the entire room stared at her as she bit her tongue, willing herself not to cry, not to show a moment’s weakness, and she tasted the metallic salt of blood in her mouth.

A priest grabbed her arm and shoved her toward the hallway, spitting hellfire at her, a peppering of words about respect and being ladylike and repentance, but she wouldn’t listen, couldn’t listen, the whole world moving in slow motion, just thought over and over again about the smile on Mina’s face when she told Haruka, the kiss between Michiru and Seiya, the stares in the quiet gym.

Sitting on a bench near the St. Sebastian’s office, she touched her chest softly.

Her St. Joan medal was missing.

Fucking Haruka.

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notquiteaghost · 5 years

Text

there isn't enough nonbinary jon sims content, here is... well i started writing this as headcanons but this is really a not!fic about nonbinary jon sims. it’s 3′300 words

it contains: nonbinary trans masc autistic jon, jongeorgie, lesbian georgie, trans guy martin & tim, trans woman sasha, team archives trans solidarity, and not-insignificant amount of internalised transphobia and references to misgendering & general cis people bullshit

(also ftr i am heavily basing jon's experiences here as a nonbinary autistic person on my own experiences as a nonbinary autistic person) (this is like 80% projection) (what else is fandom for!)

also on AO3 if you prefer your 3k of bullet points to have better spacing

tiny baby [jon] who knows she isn't very good at being a girl but doesn't have the words to articulate why

her grandmother thinks kids clothes should be durable and practical so even tho jon is not a kid who climbs trees or plays football, her wardrobe is exclusively straight jeans & 'boys' t-shirts & large jumpers

she keeps her hair roughly shoulder length because that's the length it's always been but strangers still 'mistake' her for a boy a lot. this makes her feel a way she again hasn't got the words for

when she starts secondary school she continues to dress 'masc', never starts wearing makeup, never gets any interest in dating, generally fills out the checklist for everyone else assuming she's a lesbian

she knows she's definitely not a straight girl, so she shrugs and decides sure, she's a lesbian. it's a moot point, mostly, seeing as even if she did have any interest in dating she's the only gay person her age she knows

but she does get involved in some community support stuff – she spends a lot of time in the library as a teenager, and one of the librarians is a lesbian who takes jon under her wing a bit

coffee mornings and book clubs and things like that. sixteen year old jon and a dozen queer women all in their late twenties at the youngest. they joke a lot how often they forget jon isn't also a thirty-something

(this is that autism feel of having no interest in your peers but getting on great with adults)

and then she goes to uni, and then she meets georgie

georgie is a Very Out lesbian. she goes to clubs, she's heavily involved in the lgbt society, she has a rainbow flag hanging in her bedroom window. yknow.

jon likes her a lot, and still isn't really sure if it's romantic or not, but assumes that's more due to being gay than anything else

(no one has told jon about asexuality yet)

so when, one night when they're meant to be studying in georgie's room but instead are mostly drinking shit cheap wine and complaining about their professors, georgie looks at jon with this soft look on her face and asks to kiss her, jon says yes

and then they date

they're both living in one of those massive student houses with a thousand bedrooms crammed everywhere and only a kitchen for a communal space. georgie has lived there since coming back to finish first year, and jon moved in halfway through second year after a somewhat disastrous flatmate situation

so after they graduate, moving in together seems like the natural progression of things even tho they’ve only been dating for two months

jon is still, when asked, identifying as a lesbian and using she/her, but is also still dressing what other people now call butch. she always feels kind of weird about that term, but again, just chalks it up to the mess of complicated feelings being a gnc lesbian does genuinely involve

and then, finally, jon meets some actual trans people

jon has, circumstantially, known trans people. thanks to georgie, jon goes to a lot of lgbt soc things, and is passingly familiar with most of the lgbt people on their campus

but there’s a big difference between nodding at someone when you see them in the library and having an actual, proper conversation about gender

so, jon goes to a lot of social events because georgie does. without georgie, jon would probably not leave the house except to go to work and to the library (jon is not doing postgrad. jon’s library habits do not particularly reflect this)

mostly at these events, jon sits in the corner and reads, and only talks to other quiet antisocial people, while georgie circles back periodically to report on her social butterfly escapades

and at one, one of the other quiet antisocial people is a trans guy

he’s called harry, and he asks about the book jon is reading, and after they’ve been talking a while he says, “sorry, you probably get this a lot, but what pronouns do you use?”

jon just blinks at him and says “what”

“well, i’m trans, so i’m always really cautious about assuming,” harry says, easily, and this does not answer the question jon was asking

jon.exe has crashed

she(?) eventually says, “uh. she? i’ve never– she”

and harry, who has spent the last forty minutes discussing dante with jon and is already sure they’re going to be friends, says “want the trans 101? you’re making a face like you need it”

three hours later georgie finally reappears with the intent to actually interrupt (she’s drifted past periodically, but jon was always deep in conversation with harry, so she left them alone) and get going, and jon gets harry’s email address and is then very quiet as they walk arm-in-arm back to their house

just as they turn onto their street, jon says, “i, ah. i think i might be trans?”

georgie, who has for the past couple months been having something of a crisis after realising she definitely loves jon but she isn’t in love and she can’t figure out why, says “oh thank god”

jon, very bemused, “that wasn’t the reaction i was expecting”

“i think we should break up,” georgie replies, and jon stops walking. they’re four feet from their front door, but it’s late, no one’s about, so georgie decides sure, they can have this conversation in the street

“you– because i’m trans?”

“i love you, i really do,” georgie steps closer, takes jon’s hands in hers, “but i’m not in love with you. and it was driving me crazy trying to figure out why, but if you’re not a girl–”

“i can’t tell if i should be offended by this or not,” jon says, somewhat dazed, “i’ve been trans for an hour, georgie, i don’t know if this is transphobic yet”

georgie laughs, and presses a kiss to jon’s cheek, and says “it’s nearly midnight, we both have work tomorrow, let’s table this for later. we can look up names and what word i should use when i complain to other people how you always leave your shoes in the middle of the floor when we aren’t both on the verge of passing out”

and that sounds reasonable, so jon nods, and kisses georgie on the mouth, and then they go inside

the next day jon stops by the library on the way home from work and checks out almost every baby names book they have. georgie comes home and he’s sat at the kitchen table making a spreadsheet

“you don’t have to make it this complicated, you know,” she says, hooking her chin over his shoulder to read what he’s already got. the spreadsheet has a lot of columns.

“it’s my name,” he retorts, and she hums agreeably, then points to ‘jonathan’, which has relatively few ticks in any pro columns (god, this nerd), and says, “isn’t that your grandfather’s name?”

it is. he doesn’t talk about his grandfather a lot – doesn’t talk about his family a lot full stop, but she knows, even though he died when jon was still a toddler, the stories his grandmother told had a significant impact

“my parents didn’t name me after anyone,” jon says, quietly

georgie nods. she doesn’t say they’re not here now to offer an opinion, because that’s far harsher than jon deserves to hear, and it’s not like she ever needs to remind him of it either. he’s definitely already beating himself up for taking so long to come to this realisation there’s no one left around to tell him how they’d have reacted

“i think it suits you,” she says instead, and jon nods, and then she moves away to make a pot of tea and some pasta (it’s technically jon’s night to cook, but she was anticipating coming home to find him already hyperfocused beyond the point of no return)

a week later, jon looks up from the spreadsheet to where georgie is curled up on the sofa reading and says “ugh, fine, you win, you were right”

(georgie hadn’t pressed her point any further, jon is just like that)

“jon?” she asks, and he makes an exasperated noise and nods, then closes his laptop dramatically and stands. most of his spine pops when he stretches

“this calls for celebration” georgie says, also standing, “franco’s or monsoon?”

“franco’s. i’m going to eat a pizza the size of a car”

so then jon is actually going by jon, and using he/him, and isn’t dating georgie anymore but is still living with her and spending most of his time with her and factoring her into all his major decisions

he talks to harry, and other (binary) trans people, and reads a lot of blogs, and after a few months gets a referral to charing cross gic

by the time he starts at the magnus institute, he’s had top surgery and has been on T for years, and passes as cis completely, and he doesn’t know how to articulate it but this is. bothering him.

he’s not exactly… he likes being stealth, he doesn’t need to flaunt his personal life. he can understand the impulse, but he doesn’t share it. his feelings about gender and romance are no one’s business but his own

but. everyone assuming he was a girl itched – being miss simms, georgie’s girlfriend, she, it felt like wearing a coarse knitted jumper. it was exhausting

and, for a while, everyone assuming he was a man was a relief. it didn’t make his skin crawl, it didn’t make him want to scream, it was nice. it felt good.

it didn’t feel right. but it didn’t feel bad, either, and jon has never been gendered in a way that felt right. he thought that was just part of being trans

except. he moves to london, and he starts at the magnus institute, and he wears shirts and slacks, and the long skirts and patterned dresses some of his colleagues wear keep catching his eye the way men in three-piece suits used to, and that terrifies him

he was lucky, in a way, having no family left to care when he transitioned – if anyone reacted negatively, he could just cut them out of his life, and his social circle was already queer enough that was hardly necessary

but that doesn’t mean he escaped internalising a whole swathe of shit about what being trans should mean and how he should act and what he should want and if he wants to wear skirts then is he even a man? was he making it up all along after all?

naturally, he deals with this by ignoring it. he’s a man, men don’t wear skirts, he doesn’t wear skirts, that’s that.

he manages to keep that up until he’s made head archivist, and he’s given three assistants who are all also trans

(he doesn’t know if elias did it on purpose. elias knows he’s trans, of course, because he’s never bothered to get the name on his diploma changed, but the way elias reacted lead jon to assume elias may also be trans. and if that’s true, then selecting only trans people for the archives staff feels like a kindness more than anything)

and, the thing about them all being trans, is even if jon and martin are both rather fond of being stealth, and sasha and tim aren’t used to being out at work, and none of them are exactly friends, they’re the only people who ever come in the archives, so the archives very quickly becomes the Safe Trans Zone

they all vent a lot about cis people. sasha will walk in and the first words out her mouth will be “the next person to ask me if i’d had the surgery is getting their own surgery when i cut their tongues out”, and tim will make a commiserating noise and offer her the pack of donuts martin brought in

so when, on one of the rare afternoons when jon leaves his office to lean against tim’s desk and brainstorm organisational system ideas, martin walks back from the break room upstairs with a scowl and says, bitterly, as he sits back down, “oh so when cis guys wear nail polish it’s inspiring and breaking down gender roles but when i wear nail polish, jenny from HR gets to side eye me and ask if that means i changed my mind, because surely i’m the one who’ll do that and not all the men who didn’t have to do hours of therapy to establish they are definitely, one hundred percent for sure a guy!”

tim and sasha both make the standard commiseration noises, and sasha says something about the supervisor at her last job trying to say it wasn’t appropriate for her to wear trousers, and jon stops listening and runs away moves back to his office

he hadn’t noticed martin is wearing nail polish, is the thing. or, he had noticed it, but he hadn’t thought about it, and now he’s thinking about it. he’s thinking about it a lot

martin had– martin is a guy. martin is definitely a guy, if something of a feminine-leaning gay guy, the kind of feminine-leaning no one ever questions in cis guys, and it hadn’t occurred to jon to question martin, either, even though he’s trans, and. and.

he’s still circling round a revelation he can’t quite make himself have an hour or so later, when martin sticks his head round the door

“you, uh. you alright?” martin asks, incredibly tentatively. it says a lot, jon thinks, about how nice martin is, that he’s asking even though there’s a 90% chance jon will tell him to fuck off “you kind of disappeared abruptly, earlier. i didn’t upset you, did i?”

jon stares at him for a long moment, then says, “can i see your nail polish?”

“oh!” martin’s cheeks flush, just slightly, as he steps inside the office and lets the door shut behind him “uh, yeah, of course. it’s a little chipped, now, but, yeah”

martin’s nail polish is a light, pastel blue. it’s neat, and even, though his nails aren’t that long, and jon thinks he remembers martin saying something about mostly painting his nails to try and get himself to stop biting them. jon’s never really gone for nail polish, but it’s. nice.

“it’s, uh. it’s a good colour, on you,” he says awkwardly. martin flushes even more

“oh, um, thanks? did– are you alright?”

if jon was a different kind of person, this is where he’d open up to martin, and this would be the beginning of them becoming actual friends

jon is jon, though, so he just shoves all his emotions back in the box they escaped from, nods, and says “i didn’t sleep that well, is all. not really up to socialising”

(an aside about s1 jonmartin dynamic: jon is very good at shittalking martin when martin isn’t around, but in the face of martin’s genuine care and concern, he defaults back to a far more friendlier tone than he’s aiming for. he knows, on a level, that he and martin could be good friends if he ever got his shit together, but that is something else he’s currently repressing. he doesn’t need friends! he isn’t desperate for social contact at all! what’s loneliness!)

martin says “ah, okay, i’ll just– i’ll leave you alone, then”, and then jon makes himself focus on work, and then when he gets home he opens the group chat he’s still, thankfully, in with the trans people who got him through his first gender crisis and sends ‘help i don’t know if i’m a guy after all’

three people immediately send back a link to nonbinary.org

and that’s the rest of jon’s evening

he reads through every article. he reads several articles multiple times. he opens several new tabs, and gets a notepad to make a list of books, and eventually remembers to reply in the group chat

a week later, he bites the bullet and writes an email to georgie

nothing long, just, they still tell each other about big life events

and then, another couple weeks after that, when martin brings him tea, he says, “ah, martin, could i– do you have a moment?”

“of course,” martin says, and lets the door swing closed again, “what do you need?”

“i, ah. this isn’t very professional, so, you don’t– you are perfectly welcome to say no, of course, but i. um. would you– come clothes shopping with me?”

(ideally, jon would have asked georgie, but as much as he loves her (still), they haven’t talked properly in years, and she is cis. the best cis person he knows, but still a cis person. and he’d just, rather have a trans person, for emotional support, and no one in the group chat lives particularly nearby anymore) (or, well, some of them are, but when he asked they all told him to get over himself and ask one of his ‘lovely’ coworkers)

(why does he ask martin and not sasha?) (well, dear reader, he is nursing the beginnings of a crush) (not that he knows it. but that’s absolutely what’s happening here. martin is sweet and lovely and jon definitely finds him annoying and overbearing. yes. nothing else. no other emotions.) (his chest feels all weird when martin smiles because he doesn’t like him. that always happens around people he dislikes.)

“oh!” martin says, surprised. “uh, yes, of course, is– is there an event or something…?”

jon takes a moment to stare at the wall above martin’s head before he makes himself say, “i. am non-binary, and i need– different clothes.”

“oh, god, have we been–”

“no, no, this is a, a very recent development. he is still fine,” jon says, quickly, then pauses, then adds, more haltingly, “i think. i might, if – they, as well, maybe? just, to see”

“of course. d’you want me to tell tim and sasha?”

martin, jon thinks, is maybe not all that bad “yes, please”

“cool,” martin smiles, “i’m free this weekend? for shopping?”

“this saturday would be good, yes”

and then jon and martin go shopping! it’s probably not that successful of a shopping trip, because it takes jon like four shops before they admit what exactly it is they’re looking for, but they go to several charity shops and have fun trying to one-up each other with the most ridiculous/inexplicable item of clothing, and at the end of the day jon has three skirts (a knee-length black a-line skirt, a full-length black skirt, and a full-length black skirt patterned with red flowers), two necklaces, and a skater dress they probably can’t get away with wearing to work, but they really liked the way the skirt moved when they spun

other things that happen include lunch at a cafe where the staff definitely think they’re on a date and only martin notices and also martin is dying, both of them only managing to walk past a secondhand bookshop twice before they cave and go inside, and then emerge half an hour later both holding three books (two poetry anthologies and a sci fi novel; a psychology book and two history books), and martin somehow talking jon into trying on skinny jeans and then, again, leaving this mortal coil

jon doesn’t buy the skinny jeans, which is for the best really

the first time jon wears one of the skirts to work, sasha does a victory lap around the archives because “hell yes skirts are so much more comfortable, and now you swish! tim you should get a skirt. skirts for archives uniform”

and jon is still a prickly antisocial bastard but now he’s an outly nonbinary prickly antisocial bastard, and sometimes they walk into the archives at 2PM smelling of tobacco and holding a bottle of vodka, and then the archives staff all do shots and dramatic readings of the most ridiculous fake statements, because sometimes that’s how you cope with cis people, and that’s! valid!

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #georgie barker #martin blackwood #jongeorgie #yelling at clouds #fic tag #draw jon sims in skirts. thank you.

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