I felt the urge to write a short story about a fat, trans, neurodivergent wizard. Enjoy.
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Ira was working in a flow state, feeling the cold marble pestle in his sweaty palm as he ground beetle wings down into a fine powder. He began adding other ingredients from memory, flicking open dozens of drawers with his left hand and dropping minerals, leaves, and animal byproducts in the crystal bowl in his right. Ira had memorized most of the hundreds drawers in the apothecary cabinet that made up his workrooms back wall, give or take a few that contained expensive ingredients he rarely used. He hummed along to the softly playing music, his mousy-gray hair tied half up to keep it out of his eyes as he worked. Ira found that music could be a powerful conductor of his mental energy, but if it was too loud he became overly sensitive to his surroundings.
Once his basket was brimming with potion components, he used his smartwatch to start his default work playlist, aptly titled “witchy shit”. He gravitated back to the mortar and pestle, dropping in tree roots, owl bones, dried mushrooms, and limestone one at a time until the mixture was a fine, light brown powder. Ira raised the jewelers loupe on his necklace to his eye, inspecting the powder for any clumps and pulverizing it a few more times before calling it good, with a decisive nod to Stella, the box turtle crawling across his massive desk.
He pulled out his pocket grimoire and his bifocals, hanging on the jeweled chain around his neck. Ira double checked the next steps to turn the powder into an oil, absently scratching the hair along his jawline as he muttered to himself. Recently he had gotten a little lax with his ratios, and the herbalist wasn’t pleased with his recent blood draw, but told him that as long as he doesn’t notice any concerning symptoms he could continue homebrewing for the foreseeable future. He left the bifocals on and hefted a cauldron, no bigger than a crockpot, onto his desk along with a large bottle of cottonseed oil. He emptied about half the bottle into the cauldron before tossing it back into the cabinet and put a trivet under the cauldron. When Ira traced the rim of the cauldron with his fingertip, it became surrounded by an orange and blue flame. While complex spells required ritual, technique, energy, and time, elemental magic was as snapping his fingers.
Ira threw in the rest of the ingredients with a flourish, stirring the cauldron a few times with a metal spoon. He set a timer on his phone, and stepped into the kitchen to scavenge for some much needed carbs. Ira had been so focused on his potion that he forgot to eat. He returned to the workroom with a plate teetering high with a leftover sandwich, cubed cheese, grapes, and a ripe juicy strawberry for Stella. Ira somehow managed to sit sideways in the oversized swing-back armchair in the corner of the room, framed with his dozens of plants. Some of these plants boasted bright colors and pretty flowers, while other seemed to ooze sap and other unidentifiable goo that the young wizard used for his potions.
Ira down his food quickly, swiping through a Timbr while he took the last few bites of his sandwich. He no longer put much stock in the app, but it was a source of validation he was drawn to when he needed a pick me up. Sometimes he matched with the odd guy who was perfect, but only in town for a week. Or an older man who was suspiciously unavailable except for a few late evenings a month. There were plenty of guys his age in the college town Ira found home, but it was so hard to actually meet someone in person these days.
Even Ira preferred to do his work anonymously. He filled orders online, taking payment via his banking app, packing his potions meticulously, and shipping them off to a distant, unknown client. Most of his orders were simple chemical compounds used in lab work, while he had a separate line of communication for other, more occult audiences. Nothing sinister, but potions could help bolster or manipulate elemental magic in more complex ways. Sometimes he also assisted the herbalist with poultices if their apprentice was sick for discounted medical care.
*PING!*
Ira’s phone chimed, letting him know that some lucky bastard had swiped right on his profile. A message quickly followed from a faceless profile:
“Best of both worlds… ;)”
That’s enough of that. With a frustrated huff, Ira locked his phone and tossed it across the room onto a thick pillow. Ira’s watch chimed as the timer he set earlier went off, and he wiped his hands on his belly, dirtying the faded band tee as he got up to cool the potion.
He stepped up to the cauldron, nearly tripping on Stella as she went to town on her prized berry, and rubbed his hands together. Quickly, he tapped his fingertips to the cauldron and pulled back, extinguishing the fire immediately and sucking the heat out of the pitch black metal. Ira was left with a cool, slightly yellow oil.
He picked a thimble sized bottle out of the bin at his hip, heating it up for a few seconds to sterilize. He did the same with a fresh spoon as well, and ladled the oil into the bottle, corking it with a rubber cap that could be pierced without letting all of the potion drip out. With a fine tip pen he marked “boy juice” and “September 23”. He would get a month’s worth of doses out of this bottle.
While Ira could do things the magic-neutral way and just pick up his testosterone from a pharmacy, the herbalists weren’t quite sure how their everyday testosterone cypionate would mix with magic-positive blood. This is the way trans wizards, sorcerers, and witches have been making their HRT for millenniums. Ira also liked the independence; he didn’t have to worry about any laws coming between him and his healthcare. While the herbalists did have a grand council, they gave guidance, not mandates.
Ira got ready for his weekly ritual. He placed his potion on his altar next to a lit candle, undressed, and hopped in the shower. He took all the time he needed, exfoliating every limb, washing his face, and letting his long wavy hair down to detangle and deep condition. With every motion, he thought about how much he loved his body. His square jaw, his muscles, his round and furry belly and tree trunk thighs. After rinsing off and towel drying he oiled his beard and hair, securing it with a claw clip. He pulled on a fresh pair of boxer briefs with a comfortable packer, looking at himself in the mirror with pride. Ira deserved to feel good about himself.
He pulled out his syringes, needles, and rubbing alcohol, resting them on his sterilized work desk. As his work room was better suited to magic than his bedroom, he did all of his shots under the skylight. He washed his hands thoroughly and held the small bottle in both.
“I deserve to take care of my body. I am the only one who can control my body. I mold my clay as I see fit,” Ira said, feeling the bottle hum underneath his fingertips before settling back down.
Ira sterilized the rubber cap using an alcohol wipe, used a syringe and a large needle to draw the correct dosage of the potion, and replaced the large needle with a smaller one. Using the drawing needle’s cap, he made a small round indent on a bare spot on his belly, pinching it slightly to pull the fat away from muscle.
As Ira removed the cap and positioned it over the sterilized circle, he closed his eyes and focused more on the music playing from the speakers. This part fucked with his mind the most. The longer he waited the worst it would be. “In” he thought to himself, and he opened his eyes to see the needle buried in his injection site with no pain. He pushed down on the plunger, waited a few seconds, and removed the syringe. He wouldn’t need a bandage, such a small wound would heal instantly.
Ira felt a warm wave of pride course through his veins as the potion absorbed into his body.
