I'm Beabae. I might eventually use my real name. I'm dyslexic, I write and draw sometimes. I want to make lots of different stories about lots of different sorts of people.
The pronouns I'm used to are she/her but I don't mind him/his. I am asexual, pan-romantic, though I think I lean towards females. I'll try to not screw up too badly.
I like an awful lot of things, especially fanfiction, novels, hetalia and homestuck. Some things may be NSFW; I have as little idea as you do.
In the winter of 1969, a man in a rumpled suit and a wrinkled tie appears in John’s office.
John offers him a cigarette but the man shakes his head, smiling a little. His eyes are blue and far-away as he looks out the window. Security doesn’t know about him and John’s secretary won’t remember him when he leaves. He’s a harmless light fixture, a bland portrait on the wall that everyone knows but can never recall the details of.
John stares at him.
The man stares back.
It feels—John’s a man of secrets and files and intelligence. He’s cold and he’s good at what he does and he leaves morals behind in favor of results. He feels nine under the man’s gaze, he feels small and insignificant and like all of his sins have been brought to light. There’s no judgment in the man’s eyes—all John sees when he looks is himself, hard-lined face and deep-set eyes, fingers dirty from being dipped into too many pots. He coughs.