#queer writer

I tell her to be my guest and give me a call when she gets her jaw broken, I always carry a first aid kit and a pepper spray.

She calls me a misogynistic asshole.

A cis man tells me that he'd sure love some T.

Gave him my prescription and best of luck with the constant shortages and getting denied.

He calls me a pussy.

I'm fighting for my life and reproductive rights. I get told to get off women's fights, that it's not about me, like I shed my womb after my first T shot.

I search for support groups for SA victims, and I'm stuck in the same “women/NBs only”. Still shooting my shot, send an application. I introduce myself. Never get a call back.

I go to a trans night. Say I go by he/him. Get told back “yeah, that's how we all start !” by a trans woman. I'm too exhausted, I get up and I leave.

I hang out with my friends, one of them drunkenly says masculinity is a prison we must learn to escape. She gets rows of applause. Back to drinking alone.

Yes I could explain it. But who'd you rather be ? A delusional girl or a man made threat ?Or it could be better, I could just not exist ! And we'd bleach my corpse and I'd become a casualty. Not an F, ot an M, a W for Wound and for Wrong.

"Reinaldo Arenas was a member of the Cuban Revolution. Born into poverty, he joined the movement at the age of sixteen with hopes of overthrowing Cuba’s ruler, Fulgencio Batista. He believed that he was aiding in transforming his country into a place of freedom and peace for all. While the revolution began to gain support and power, however, Arenas slowly became disillusioned. Reinaldo was a gay man, so learned the freedom the revolution promised was not meant for him."

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I often find myself daydreaming about the day I get to come home to the love of my life. In that quiet little world we build together I’d take care of the bills, and she’d handle the grocery shopping. Not because it’s her job but because I loathe it and secretly love carrying her bags, watching the way she lights up when she’s picked out our favorite things.

She’d have a job she loves. something that fills her soul not just her wallet. Something that gives her both freedom and passion, and a little extra to spend on herself. Because even though I want to provide for her, I also want her to feel empowered, independent, alive in her own right.

If life goes according to plan maybe we both get to retire early. Preferably sometime in my 40s, or 50s at the latest. And after long days where I have to wear a hardened exterior coming home and melting into her arms would feel like the greatest gift. A sacred softness in a world that demands so much toughness.

I dream of creating a sanctuary with her. a peaceful chaos all our own where nothing outside really matters. Where I get to care for her in ways only I can, learning her rhythms, her thoughts, her little tells. I want to study her in every way, not just her body, but her mind, her soul. To understand how she sees the world. It understand how she feels loved and how I can meet her there, every time.

I crave a kind of intimacy that feels insatiable. the kind that scares me with its depth. I crave her—not just the version she shows the world, but the one she hides. And I know that to earn that vulnerability from her id have to give her mine, completely. It’s terrifying how deeply I want to love and be loved like that.

I finished reading the entire first story and I can get why people really like it in a sexual way, it's kinky as hell, and was worth a few blushes. But honestly, it scared more than any horror I've ever read. Like, I took a nap a few days ago, and I had a dream while sleeping that I was a Floret (dear god save me I'm lost in sauce) and it was pleasant. I wasn't thinking, or caring, or really understanding my surroundings. It only became horrifying when I woke up and realized that I found the experience pleasant in some terrible order.

I realized, while writing today, why I find HDG so sickly fascinating (literally in my case, my tum tum hates me when I read it.) The idea that one not only can be made happy against their will is unsettling. The idea of forced happiness, especially in a situation where you are being, in no uncertain terms, treated like an animal and sex object at the same time, is horrifying.

None of this is to mention the fact this is everyone. Hell, not even just humans, but all sapients, or sophants (as the story prefers), that exist (aside the Affini themselves) are now florets, or going to become florets, and it's impossible to stop it. The only people who could stop the Affini are dead or now Florets themselves. It's scary.

It reminds me of the Dark Forest Hypothesis; in effect, space is full of alien life; yet it's hiding. We don't know what from, or why, or how, but it's hiding. Humans, in our ignorance, may have already brought the end upon ourselves by a random radio beam sent out in 1963. But also, maybe not. The forest is dark, and we're just living in a forced clearing.

edited version can be read on ao3 HERE

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“Need a hand with that?”

Derek didn't drop the tire he was carrying, but it was a close thing. He'd recognise that voice anywhere—would know it in a sea of a thousand others.

He slowly turned on his heel to find its owner sat in Derek's favourite tree.

Stiles.

“You're here,” he breathed, not bothering to hide the mix of shock and relief that coloured his own voice and features.

Stilesʼ lips twitched. “I'm here,” he confirmed, just in case Derek needed to hear it.

“Hey,” Derek said, eloquent as ever.

“Hey yourself,” Stiles grinned back.

Shifting his weight on the tree branch, Stiles then pulled himself up to standing. He wiped his hands on the ass of his jeans before proffering one towards Derek.

“I'm Mieczysław Stilinski. It's really nice to meet you, dude.”

Stilesʼcheeks flushed an overwhelmingly pretty shade of pink, and Derek wanted to eat him.

Reaching out to take the hand in one of his own, the pads of his fingertips brushed the familiar Jack rabbit pulse at Stiles's wrist, for just a second, and it was both a calling card and like a huge sigh of relief.

He turned the name around in his mind.

Mieczysław. Mieczysław Stilinski.

It was unexpected, and very Polish, and Derek sort of adored it.

Looking a little antsy, Stiles said, “It, uh, means 'sword' in Polish. If you go in for that sort of thing.” He blushed some more and then snorted at himself. “But yeah, I know it's kinda... ʼSʼobviously why I go by Stiles—which was my Grandfather's nickname too, by the way.”

Derek's heart swelled in his chest.

This was what they could've had if things had gone differently for them.

He cleared his throat, took a deep intake of woodsmoke-laced air into his lungs, then said, “Broderick Seth Rodman Hale, third son of Talia and Seth Hale of the Hale Pack of Beacon Hills county, North California, and I'm very pleased to meet you're acquaintance. Oh, and do not call me dude, by the way.”

“Broderick? Are you shitting me right now?!” Stiles blurted, trying and failing to not laugh.

Derek rolled his eyes and it felt like breathing. “Seriously? I think you'll find you don't have even half a leg to stand on, Mieczysław.”

“Actually, I have two, Broderick Seth Rodman Hale, and I diligently used the both of them to come out here to Bumfuck nowhere to find you.”

He shot Derek with ridiculous finger guns then blew away imaginary gunpowder smoke, and if it wasn't for the kid's beard it could've easily been thirteen-years ago.

Not a kid anymore.

Stiles looked amazing. A little broader, and a little fuller in the face, and the beard really, really suited him. At once, Derek had the desperate urge to sink his claws into it and paw at the pale skin beneath. He wanted to back Stiles into the bark of the tree and bury his nose in that long, mole-peppered neck he still had dreams about, to breathe in pure unadulterated Stiles.

He swallowed thickly, licking at his dry lips and wishing they were Stilesʼ. Had to force himself to unclench the fist not currently grasping Stiles's hand.

Derek had to try his best to pretend that he wasn't very aware of the fact that they were still very much holding onto each other.

“Broderick means 'brother' in Old Norse, if you go in for that sort of thing,” he offered, borrowing Stiles's banter.

Stiles's smile was easy, albeit tainted with a hint of sadness for that piece of information. He was sort of—looser. More relaxed, and definitely less agitated than he used to be. Though he smelled exactly the same as he always had: Of strong coffee and Bath & Body Oak shower gel and wild cinnamon and lemon sherbet dip, and that particular warm smack of something that Derek had always struggled to place—the very essence of Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski.

The familiar tang zinged over his taste buds like popping candy, and his wolf took up its routinely impatient pacing at his core as if they had seen Stiles only yesterday.

“I'm—uh, I don't—you look good, Stiles. Really good.”

This human was the only creature on planet earth that had Derek Hale fumbling his words.

Stiles was smirking his signature smirk—only there was something new pulling at the curve of that life-ruining mouth of his.

Unerring confidence.

Derek sniffed at the air and licked at his lips again so he could taste that, too.

“You're look pretty fine yourself there, Sourwolf,” Stiles divulged, mirroring Derek again by licking his own lips. He shamelessly looked Derek up and down and said, “Your edges aren't quite so sharp, and you're little softer ʼround the eyes, like maybe you're—I dunno. Something closer to being happy?” His eyes shone like the full moon in the dark when he told Derek, “And, dare I say it, maybe not even all that sour anymore?”

Derek huffed a breath out through his nostrils that was in the proximity of a laugh.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Looks good on you, man. Really good.”

Stiles was borrowing Derek's words, and if he kept saying things like that to Derek while looking at Derek the way that he was, Derek would have to restrain himself from picking the guy up by the scruff of his very nice sweater and kissing the words right out of his mouth.

Then everything sort of stilled, somehow, including the wind, and the birds, and them, as if the whole world had just halted for something incredibly important.

They stood there, just gazing at each other. Like there wasn't anything else they could or would possibly be doing right now.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.

It was obvious to even the blades of grass on the ground that they both still felt it.

Slowly, slowly, they caught back up to reality.

Derek took a breath and found his voice again.

“Might've taken a few pointers from a kid I used to know,” he smiled, eyes never leaving Stilesʼ.

Then he thought in for a penny and admitted, “I hoped you'd come looking for me—and I want you to know that I'm really, really glad that you did.”

Stiles squinted at him through the sun's afternoon rays breaking through the Colorado cloud cover like the heavens had suddenly appeared. In that moment, he reminded Derek of the beautiful golden Aztec Sanvitalia shrub that grew down by the little stream behind his cabin. He wondered briefly if that could be the missing base note in Stiles's scent, and then felt a little insane with it all.

“Well, I knew I'd find you,” Stiles shrugged, “because one: I'm like a dog with a bone and two: You left a trail of breadcrumbs so fucking vague only a genius like yours truly could follow.”

He then shielded those big brown doe eyes of his from a particularly bright sunbeam with a still-bony hand, and the squinty look on his face was so fond Derek had to sink his canines into his lip to hold in the pitiful whine threatening to climb up and out of his chest and escape him.

He stepped closer to the tree, closer to the boy who runs with wolves who was definitely not a boy any longer.

“You make it sound as if we're in some sort of fairytale,” Derek said as he attempted to blink Stiles's beauty from his eyes, knowing it would be an entirely fruitless endeavour.

Finally, Stiles reached out to pull Derek down and into his lap, and Derek went like a force of nature.

He dropped the tire this time.

Stiles smelled like love when he said, “Weren't we always, Der?” right into Derek's mouth.

And Derek knew.

As Stiles leaned in and kissed him, softly, and he kissed Stiles softly right back, he knew they both understood that although they had to travel far from Beacon Hills to find it, they had both—at long last—made it home.

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on ao3 HERE if you'd like to leave me a comment <3

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“So, I overheard this guy in the line at the coffee shop this morning talking about name meanings—”

“Of course you did,” Eddie interjects, not unkindly.

Buck turned up with beers about a half hour ago, and has had his head in his phone for the last, what, twenty minutes? Something like that.

This is the first thing he's said since Eddie let him in and he sat his ass down on the couch in silence, looking like he needed Eddie to just allow him to.

Eddie did.

“—and I thought I'd look up ours.” Buck's chewing on his bottom lip like it tastes good. Eddie surprises himself by wondering if it does. “I'm guessing you already know what Christopher means.”

Thinking back to when Shannon asked if he liked the name, Eddie smiles. “Means 'Bearer of Christ', or something like that, right? We chose it because was Shannon's grandfather's name. He was Greek, and she adored him.” Searching fingers instinctively find his pendant. It's positioned to the left, sitting right over his heart.

He misses his son like he'd miss a lung.

Buck looks up at him and smiles back, and Eddie feels glad that the release he'd found earlier dancing 'round his living room isn't going to suddenly disappear down the bathroom sinkhole, along with his moustache.

“So, tell me, what does Edmundo mean, oh scholarly one?”

Buck's eyebrows try to meet his hairline. “You don't know?”

Eddie tips his head back against the couch and scrunches his mouth up into nose. “I have sisters, man. 'Course I know what it means. But that doesn't mean I don't want you to tell me.”

Buck seems happy with that. “Well, it's a derivative of the Old English name Edmund, which is a combination of the words ēad and mund. The first part means prosperity, or riches, which is a bit of a bust, sorry man.” He tries for a grin. It almost hits. “But the the mund part means protector—which is pretty spot on, if you ask me.”

Buck's eyelashes are kind of blonde, and kind of pretty. Eddie's had the thought before, but there's just something about them this evening, in this light, in Eddie's house, on Eddie's couch.

“It's actually a real pretty name, Edmundo. Don't know if I ever told you that I think that.”

“Don't think I've ever told you your eyelashes are kind of pretty, so that makes us even, I guess.”

Eddie smiles at Buck, big and genuine, and it's somehow so easy. Buck smiles back at him. Looks a little confused, or pleased, or both. Eddie's not sure, but either is okay with him.

“Um, thanks?”

Eddie bites his tongue between his teeth in a poor effort to stop his grin turning positively goofy. Buck takes it for what it is and bats his eyelashes at Eddie, silly, and laughs.

His whole demeanor changes as he finally settles properly into the couch, the way he's supposed to, and he gifts his lungs with what might be the first proper breath he's taken since arriving at Eddie's doorstep.

“Anyway, Evan is totally the worst of the three. It means yew, like the tree? Which is—it symbolises, like, spirituality, and rebirth and shit like that. 'S not really, uh, me, you know?”

Eddie's brows furrow a touch as he thinks of all the Buck .0s, but he doesn't say anything. Buck'll figure it out on his own. Instead, he says, “You mean like Evan isn't really you?”

Buck bites at his red, red lip again. Eddie decides it'd taste like cherry Chupa Chups.

“Yeah. But it's—Evan's my actual name.”

“Except it isn't though, is it?” Eddie reminds him. “You're name is Buck, Buck. You decided that.”

“I don't know why he always insisted on calling me Evan. Or why I just—let him. It was kind of weird.”

Tommy.

"Called? Past tense?” Eddie flips his tongue over in his mouth. Breathes a little more deliberately.

Buck looks at his phone again before very slowly placing it down on the couch between them. His fingers are now touching the outside of Eddie's thigh and Eddie's suddenly acutely aware that he still isn't wearing any pants.

Buck leaves his hand where it is.

“He, uh, h-he dumped me, Eds. Because I—” Buck sucks in oxygen, a lot of it, and holds it in his lungs before puffing out his cheeks as he makes a show of blowing it back out again. “I asked him to move in with me.”

Eddie was not expecting either of those statements.

"Ouch.”

Buck's fingers twitch against Eddie's skin, and Eddie feels it travel right down his leg and into his toes, which curl involuntarily into the carpet.

“You wanna talk about it?” he offers, kind of knowing Buck doesn't. He will when he's ready.

“Not really.”

Eddie licks at his lips. They taste like beer, and a little like confidence.

“How about Buck?”

Buck looks at him, perplexed.

Eddie's leg is starting to cramp a bit. He doesn't move it.

“A Buck is another name for a stag, right?” he continues. “And the stag symbolises, um, strength and purity—

“Don't forget fertility” Buck is looking at Eddie, and it feels like something.

Eddie snorts. “'Course, don't wanna forget fertility.”

Buck smiles the first proper Buck smile of the evening, and Eddie's feels it beneath his ribs.

“Hey, hang on, how come you know so much about stags, Edmundo?”

“You did that project with Chris about the forest.”

Buck blinks at him.

“Dude that was, like, years ago. And as you said, I was the one learning all about the woodland creatures and different types berries and toadstools, so how do you—”

“Because you told me,” Eddie shrugs a shoulder.

Buck blinks some more.

“And you—remembered that?” he asks Eddie.

Here, in this moment, Eddie couldn't blink or look away from Buck, even if somebody were to pay him.

“I remember everything you tell me, Buck.”

It's weird but it's like the air itself is crackling as they sit here, just staring at each other.

They look at each other for what feels like a long time. Or maybe it's just a single heartbeat, Eddie can't really be sure.

He watches as Buck swallows, his Adam's apple a calling card. Eddie isn't entirely sure of why he thinks that.

Until he is.

When Buck moves his hand, it's to slide it fully onto Eddie's thigh to just sit there, right at home.

Eddie's suddenly blinking so much he's a little worried he might be stroking. He doesn't mean to say, “Can you smell toast?” but finds himself saying it anyway.

Buck smile is both crooked and adorable. “You worried you're having a stroke, old man?”

“We'd have been at high school at the same time, Buck. I'm not that much older than you.”

“You are old and I am young and everyone and the universe knows this,” Buck claims, cocky and sure of himself once more.

Eddie licks at his lips again. “I, uh, I think I finally believe you.”

Buck now mirrors him, licking his own lips.

Cherry Chupa Chups.

“You mean about the universe?” Buck asks, like he doesn't almost always know what Eddie means.

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes.

Buck waits.

Just as Eddie is thinking he really should go put some on some sweats or something, Buck must get impatient because he replies, “I think the universe always wanted you to believe, Eddie.”

Eddie doesn't have a clue what time it is, or whether he had dinner or not, nor how he got so damn lucky.

“I'm gonna choose to believe, because you believe—and I believe in you, Buck” he answers, somehow both so sure and entirely unsure of absolutely everything that is to come. But at long last, he finds he is totally okay with that. “Anyways, I can hear it now,” he tells Buck, “and I'm listening.”

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unedited; pls be kind!

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Stealing kisses before its too late. Well, is it really stealing if shes enjoying it? Maybe its stealing because its about to be all over. They have to take what they can get.

(Cross-posted on AO3 :3!)

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Kris had to stand on their tippy toes in order to plant a smooch on the tip of Susie's chin. She knew it was coming—they asked from across the room, and once she silently came over without rejection…there it was. They seemed a bit lazier than usual…confident, but she was certain that a shove could knock them over for a good minute. She knew this contrasted whatever expression she displayed, because Kris was looking up at her with a smirk of some sort. Not a mischievous one, but one with a certain softness that suggested this satisfaction, this admiration. 

They gently pulled her down by the collar of her jacket, planting only about three more smaller kisses before she started to uncharacteristically squeak. “Whats the matter?”

“N-Nothing! Nothing at all.”

This was exactly what Kris wanted to get out of her. It was nice…so very nice. It was a shame that they had to put away the soul whenever they wanted to indulge for at least a moment, but it was worth it every time. Her bashfulness was the world to them. “You’re really pretty…did you know that?”