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samwisethewitch · 3 years

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Some Thoughts on the Norse Pagan Concept of Fate

Norse paganism/Heathenry has been a big part of my spirituality for a long time. However, one of the core aspects of the Old Norse worldview is the idea of fate with very limited free will, complete with a destined “death day” for every person — which I’m having a lot of trouble accepting right now with thousands dying of COVID-19, plus several recent deaths in my family that were either freak accidents or the direct result of human error.

As I’m figuring things out and beginning my grieving process, I’ve been trying to really dig into the concept of fate vs. free will and see not only what historical sources say but how modern Heathens interpret it.

If you aren’t familiar with the concept of fate in Norse culture, here’s a basic rundown: fate, or örlog, is the force that shapes men’s destinies, and many of the sagas seem to take the stance of fate being unyielding and inescapable. Even being told their fate in great detail doesn’t help men escape it, and even the gods can’t escape their fated deaths at Ragnarok.

The entities most closely associated with fate are the Norns. Both the Poetic Edda and the Prose Edda refer to three Norns, sisters named Urðr (whose name is often just translated as “fate”), Verðandi (“happening”) and Skuld (“debt,” “future,” or “should happen”). These three Norns are the keepers of the Well of Urðr, literally the Well of Fate, and also tend Yggdrasil. The Norns are said to record the fates of all gods and men.

However, to complicate things, some sources refer to individual norns, with each person having their own norn or group of norns who are responsible for their örlog. A person with a good fate is said to have good norns, while a person with a bad fate has bad norns.

(For a more detailed description of the Old Norse concept of fate, check out this excellent video by Jackson Crawford.)

This is where I run into one of my major issues with reconstruction and with Heathenry specifically. All of our sources are fictionalized accounts (as opposed to purely religious guides) so it’s not always clear what is genuine theology and what is a literary allusion. Were there three Norns, or did everyone have their own? Do the Norns create fate or just record it? Do they weave threads of fate or carve it into sticks? Was any of this actually relevant to Norse religion or is it just a metaphor? We don’t know!

Is örlog a core doctrine of this religion, or a product of Old Norse cultural values like drengskapr? Is it even still relevant to modern Heathens disconnected from that cultural context? How would the concept have changed over time if the religion had continued uninterrupted? We don’t know!

I decided to check out some books by modern Heathen authors to see how other people have adapted the concept of örlog to fit their modern experiences.

Both Diana Paxson and Patricia M. Lafayllve describe two “types” of fate, örlog and wyrd, with örlog being what is set in stone by the Norns and wyrd being the fate we create for ourselves. This doesn’t really make sense to me, because it mixes Old Norse and Anglo-Saxon concepts, and I think it twists those concepts to fit what the authors want to believe. Wyrd is an Old English word that roughly translates to “fate” or “luck” and is the Anglo-Saxon equivalent to örlog. We see wyrd discussed at length in Beowulf, where, like örlog, it seems to be set in stone with very little room for change. Beowulf can’t escape his wyrd any more than Odin can escape his örlog. Because of this, using “wyrd” as a way to describe limited free will doesn’t really make sense to me.

However, I found a much more interesting model for classifying fate vs. free will in Ryan Smith’s book, The Way of Fire and Ice. There’s no way I could phrase this better than Smith does in his book, so I’ll let his words speak for themselves:

I think this is really fascinating because it follows a general trend in modern religions of developing a greater concept of free will as we move into a postmodern society with fewer clearly defined social rules, which is a pattern we can see at work in Christianity, for example. Medieval Christians had a much stronger belief in unchanging fate, while modern Christians tend to believe in some form of free will.

I am also fascinated by the concept of hamingja as a function of free will. The hamingja is personified as a guardian spirit similar to the fylgia (fylgia are a type of animal guide) that embody a person’s luck and happiness/joy. Interestingly, hamingja can be loaned out to other people, literally sharing your good fortune. This makes sense — if you have a lot of resources at your disposal (which the Old Norse would say was because you had a powerful hamingja), you can use those resources to make things better for others.

If we stick with the idea of people having their own personal norns, this means each person has two sets of guardian spirits who may or may not control their fate. Your norn or norns determine things like the time and place of your birth, the family you are born into, and your social class. Your hamingja, on the other hand, is the personification of the choices you make within the framework laid out by the norns. Your hamingja is made up of your natural talents, the skills you choose to develop, the connections you forge with other people, and anything else that allows you to change your circumstances.

What I’m about to say is 100% guesswork on my part — I have yet to find any scholarly backing for this, so feel free to disregard it as me making connections where none exist. But for me, the concept of personal norns and hamingja seems very similar to the dísir. Dísir are feminine guardian spirits connected to family groups, rather than individuals, and like the norns and the hamingja, they are sometimes connected to fate. Some archaeologists believe that the dísir were deceased family members, and that their veneration is rooted in ancestor worship. This makes a lot of sense to me because our fate, the circumstances of our birth, are largely determined by the actions of our ancestors.

It seems entirely possible to me that the norns and the hamingja might be subsets of dísir, or even that the three may all be different names for the same beings. (Remember, Norse literature frequently uses kennings, alternative titles for a person or thing used to express different aspects of that person/thing and to fit the alliterative structure of Old Norse poetry.) Or, more likely, the dísir were originally associated with fate and luck, and the norns and hamingja represent later developments, splitting the role of the dísir into smaller groups of spirits with more specific purposes.

These are just my thoughts, but I would love to hear from other Norse pagans! How do you think of the norns? How do you see fate at work in your life?

#upg #unverifiable personal gnosis #norse paganism #norse pagan #norse polytheism #heathenry #heathen #inclusive heathenry #norse mythology #history #reconstruction #jackson crawford #ryan smith #pagan #paganism #witchblr #white supremacists fuck off #long post #mine

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princessmariaphiliper · 3 years

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THE SLEEPOVER FIC | Part 1 The Meeting

Notes: James Acaster, Ed Gamble (Platonic), and other characters to be added.

Pairing: James Acaster x Reader

Genre: Fluff with eventual smut, Slow Burn fic

Words: 1,951

Summary: You and James have put yourselves into trouble, but you think maybe it’s hotter that way.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9

It was a boring, cottage cheese Wednesday if anyone had bothered to ask you. The sky held a greyish tinge and the London air tasted like exhaust fumes as you made your way back home from the studio. It was 5:50 and you were more than ready to curl into bed, put on a podcast, and stare at your ceiling until you slept.

You’d been tied up in a project lately that stripped every brain cell out of you whenever you tried to think about it.

This wasn’t because you didn’t like it! Don’t get me wrong, you adored the concept you were trying to convey through your piece. It was just missing something. Hence, Wednesdays the past month had started to feel a little groundhog esque. You knew the fog would part soon.

Pulling your clattering keys from inside your coat pocket you unlocked the door to your flat. Upon entering you noted the new letters. A missed parcel, various pizza menus and an enclosed envelope from Ticketmaster. Grinning, you opened it up.

Ed Gamble, McDonalds Apple Pie, November 15th 2021. Sounded delicious, you pulled out your phone, texting Ed.

Hey! Just got your tickets through. Where are you rehearsing? Let me know when it starts and we can plan something :)

It had been a while since you and Ed had hung out. You lived on opposite ends of the city and for the most part you were usually busy when he was free ,or vise versa. That the trouble of being friends with theatre people, no matter how hard you try, the schedules don’t gel. However, Ed usually rehearsed his shows in the venue below your flat, luckily this time was no exception.

I start Friday, usual place. We can go for drinks after I finish at 7 if you like?

Yes :))))) would love that!! Can we say 7:15 though as I’ll have to get back from the studio and change

Yeah that’s fine, I’ll invite some people if that’s okay. We can meet you at the pub first?

Sounds perfect, see you then. Send Claire love!

Will do :)

You put the kettle on and made yourself a pot noodle. Getting ready to sleep before another day of making. Excited at least, with the knowledge that on Friday night, you were getting shitfaced with your mates.

And so Friday arrived. You started the day off right with a banana and a coffee to go on your way down to the youth centre. Fridays and Tuesdays were your favourite days of the week currently. On these days you worked with other women exploring the ideas of femininity within society. For many years it had been a passion project of yours, creating dialogues with women who’d gone through difficult times in their lives to convey their struggles through art.

Today you were hosting a dance workshop with a group you had been working with for a while. They had all been making tremendous progress over the past few months you wanted to hold a class in celebration.

“Good morning Y/N” a familiar face beamed from across the hallway.

“Good morning Olive!” Olivia was a petite lady, somewhere close to her mid forties. She had dyed fire colour hair that she always wore up in a headscarf. She was dance ready, wearing an outrageous and gaudy pair of printed leggings.

Olive had grown so much as a woman since the first time you had met her, in one of your first ever workshops. The two of you had become thick as honey ever since. She even occasionally helped you plan and run some workshops out of studio now. It gave you joy to know you helped her grow into her full potential in one way or another.

“How have you been?”

“Oh same old. Trying not to lose myself in projects. How about you?”

“Brilliant! Officially divorced on Monday. Sorry I couldn’t make it on Tuesday I was feeling the effect after a few too many champagnes” she laughed, her smile was contagious. Olive had been going through a complicated divorce for a good few years now, some of the reasons she started the project stemmed from such a relationship.

She was such a resilient woman, managing to smile through whatever life had put her through. You loved her distinct lack of care for what people thought of her being a single woman in her forties.

It made you really put your life into perspective when you had met her. Even encouraging you to drop ties with your ex partner four years ago, who simply, didn’t care for you as a person but rather as an stability object. You hadn’t been in anything serious since. Not that you didn’t want it, being single had it’s perks too. You simply hadn’t been searching. A “bold move” in your late 20’s.

“Congratulations, I’m so happy for you! I’ll have a few for you tonight darling”

“Out on the town are you?”

“Yeah I’m meeting an old friend and hopefully some new people too”

“Well don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she said with a wink.

“I’ll try my best”

It was 7:05 and you were definitely going to be late. You’d just set off from the studio, pushing your way through the crowds on the busy streets near your flat. It had been an intense day in the end, most of you and your class had gotten carried away with your choreography. Immersed in the music and memory you wanted to portray. In the end you had all learnt one another’s routines and combined them all to a jazz beat.

You were still in your sports bra, leggings and oversized shirt with the duffel bag over your shoulder when you reached the outside door to your apartment complex. You heard a voice boom at you from behind.

“Y/Nickname” you turned around, instantly knowing who it was by the stupid name.

“Ed!”

He was coming up from the basement venue staircase, there was another man loitering casually behind him. In an instant you recognised him from the telly. It was the one and only James Acaster, dressed in a deep green suit, white shirt and purple Oxfords. He had a peppering of stubble across his face that you hadn’t seen him sport on tv before. You noted it looked good on him. You made your way over to your friend and embraced him into the first hug you’d had in a long time.

“Sorry I just got back, I might be a little late. I need to have a shower. Very sweaty”

“Yes. Thanks for the hug” he said, making you chuckle. “We can wait around for you if you like. No one else is coming until later anyways. Oh! This is James by the way” James have a polite wave of a hello and smile at you then.

You didn’t quite know the etiquette of meeting people you’d seen on Dave for years. A simple, “Hi I’m Y/N” you decided was the most normal option. “You can come up if you like. I won’t be too long”

“Sure”

And so the trio of you braced the stairs and made it into your apartment. You moved rubbish around as you all entered. Slightly ashamed of how messy it was, moving open books into one corner of the living room to make space on the coffee table for some drinks. If they were waiting for you you’d at least fix them a little something as a thank you.

“What would you like? I’ve got vodka, gin or tequila. Lemonade orange juice and pineapple juice for mixer”

“Ooh vodka and pineapple sounds delicious Y/N” Ed said with some excitement, taking a comfortable seat on the sofa. James hung nervously by the door, as though he wasn’t sure of the etiquette this time.

“Same here” he agreed

“Please have a seat, make yourself at home.” You said with a smile, watching as he looked around the room. You became slightly anxious that his glaze was clouded with judgement until he spoke as he went to take a seat next to Ed.

“Nice place, where’d you get the paintings?” He asked genuinely as you began pouring three glasses of juice.

“I made them myself”

“Oh you’re an artist?”

“Sort of, I work in lots of art forms, mostly theatre and community projects. Not painting though, it’s just hobby and plus, home décor is expensive”

He chuckled a little at that as you brought the two of them their drinks over. “I’ll put some music on while you shower is that okay?” Ed said, taking his phone out after taking a swig of his drink. “That’s strong”

“Sorry might have given you mine” you said jokingly “let me disconnect my Bluetooth then” you said getting out your own and switching to Spotify. You played the music for a second or two just until you had it disconnected. It was the song you’d been working with all day at the studio with the jazz beat and hypnotic drumming.

“Is that Jon Bap?”

“Yeah, I was using it today at work” His eyes gleamed, visibly excited by the idea of it.

“I love ‘What Now’,” he took a drink and shaking his head to himself “Such good drums on that album”

“Yeah, you like the drums?”

“Was a drummer for years in my 20’s”

You were slightly shocked by his comment on his age, always assuming he was younger than 30. Although it made sense for him and Ed to be in the same age bracket.

“Hey, that's cool, I never made it further than level two recorder. Guess I just don't have musical genes, anyways I’ll hop in the shower. Won’t be long”

You made your way to the bathroom. Listening as the two men struck up a conversation. Giddy from the knowledge of their being pleasant conversation and good company tonight. You’d always admired James, never really considering the fact you may possibly meet him. You hoped that wouldn't mess up the possibility of a future friendship, by making a reference to something that he’d said on the telly before. Shaking the idea you stripped off, turning on the faucet and climbing inside.

After you’d felt refreshed you did a little, awkward, jig to your bedroom in your towel. You hadn’t considered the fact that from where James sat on the couch you could see all the way down the corridor. Your bathroom being on the right, and your room right on the very end. Embarrassment aside you dried off your hair and did your makeup quickly yet efficiently. Slowing down only to put on a red lip with care. You then got dressed. Choosing to opt for something a little fancy tonight as the other two had clearly made an effort. Even if you did end up somewhere at 4am, it still felt good to dress up for the walk of ‘platonic’ shame.

You chose a silky skirt with a slip down the leg in a champagne iridescent colour. Paired with a tight long sleeved polo in white. You slipped on a pair of socks with ruffles over the top of your rhinestone tights. You emerged from your room feeling a little more confident and ready for a boogie.

James smiled brightly at you when he noticed you’d come out. Something else was flashing across his face that you couldn’t quite pinpoint however. You brushed it off, blaming the triple vodka pineapple you’d been sipping through your ready-ing routine.

“7:28, not bad” Ed said looking at his watch when you fully entered your living room. Pulling on your white leather converse. You told him to shut up in response and book an Uber.

#james acaster x reader #james acaster #james acaster imagines #james acaster fanfic

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cowboyjen68 · 3 years

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did you know any trans people back in the old scenes? any trans men or women? or those who were more androgynous presenting? I'm just curious :))

This is going to be long because this story has meaning to me and I think it is important that I share my friend’s story, even if our connection was temporary.

I did. And she had an impact on me, although I didn’t know it at the time. I used to go to a bar called the “Dead Wood” in Iowa City. It was sort of a townie and college student bar. I was newly out and while we had a well established gay bar it was specifically a night club so we did our day drinking at the Dead Wood. We could play pool, pinball and see familiar faces. My memory is a bit foggy, this would have been around 1994, so I would say we drank together a handful of times or so over the course of a year before I moved to another city and bought a house with my girlfriend.

Her name was Cindy. She was maybe in her late 40′s but it was hard for me to tell. Every one over 30 looked 40 She was thin and blonde and always dressed in mini skirts and lacy tops. Her face was pale, in retrospect it was maybe make up, maybe not, and gaunt and I was always worried she was not eating enough.

She and I talked a lot about her life. I was young and curious and we were often drunk. The kind of day drunk where you talk about personal details, high 5 stupid jokes and say things like “I love you man” over and over. I never saw her outside the bar.

The first time we met, I was ordering a beer and she invited me to sit at the bar with her. She was way ahead of me on drinks so she ordered me a couple of shots (that I paid for) and she told me that i should “buy the lady a drink”. So I did. A beer and a highball glass of whiskey I think. After I was drinking for a while, we had been talking about our names, where I worked etc, she leaned over and whispered “You know I’m a man, right?, a transexual man.” I was a bit taken aback. I knew Cindy was was not female, but I didn’t expect her to say that. I sort of recovered and said “I didn’t think I was supposed to notice or say anything”.

She put her hand on my knee. I remember it so clearly because she was so funny and different from other people I had met in my 24 years. She said “why wouldn’t you notice? “ I really don’t remember having a response. She told me that she was proud of who she was and it had been really hard because she liked men and some gay men didn’t like her being in skirts but she loved her skirts. And loved being seen as woman in public.

Through the next year or many months we ran into each other she told me about being transexual and explained her feelings. What she went through. Cindy told me about being drug addicted and the times she was homeless. I learned, through her words, the struggles she faced. She said she had no family and, although she never told me she was a prostitute, she hinted to it many times.

She told me that being a man was okay, but it was easier to look like a woman and love men than to look like a man and love men. Not to others she said but it felt better to her. She told told me she appreciated that I used “she”. I didn’t see why I would not, to me it was clear she wanted to be treated as if she was a woman.

I am paraphrasing a bit since it was many years ago, but the words in quotes are still clear in my head.

I had been around many drag queens and the 80′s was a prime decade of gender bending with fashion and dance and pop music. Androgyny was a norm for men and women, straight, bi and gay. For some of the gays and lesbians knew it was a way to get as close as they could to how they wanted to present without “outing” themselves as butch or a twink or gay in anyway. I knew many gay men who were feminine and flamboyant by nature. Cindy was different. I understood that she felt better about herself in “feminine” clothing (by American cultural standards). I had never met someone quite like her.

I can’t say how Cindy would feel about the modern language (transgender vs transsexual) or if she would have (or did) eventually take hormones or use any medical transition methods that would not have been available to her then. When i moved away my new job kept me from Iowa City and day drinking. I never saw her again, but I certainly never forgot the talks we had.

Part 2.. At women’s festivals I attended there were always women, who at the festivals were comfortable or at least okay being referred to as women, and used lesbian and female to talk about themselves. But in the “real world”, they passed as men. I can’t say if they used “trans man” to describe themselves. Many of them used more traditional male names but that is also not unusual in the lesbian/butch world either.

Frankly, I would only know they “passed” as men outside of the festival if they told me because the spectrum of women was so varied and diverse that there were certainly very masculine appearing women (whether they used butch or not) who were quite content in being perceived as female and quite unbothered if not.

The first time I heard the term “trans man” was in a 2001 article in the magazine “On Our Backs”. Or at least that was the first time I remember reading about it. I had no trans men in my broad circle of close friends of my generation, and that is still true. My trans man friends are all 30 or under. I remember the article because 1. I still have it and 2. it was pretty honest about the unique relationship and reality trans men have with and share with butches and being a lesbian. It was the first time i saw the complexities of the relationships between lesbians and trans men. Prior to that, it had never occurred to me.

All of the trans men I knew through the years, either friends of friends or in passing were same sex attracted and all were still very much apart of the lesbian circles I was in. There did not seem to be a disconnect or chasm between trans men and lesbians at all, which seems sometimes different than now, at least according to the internet. We unspokenly seemed to understand that we shared some history and a unique connection. My closest trans man friend is younger than me by 20 years and he and I definitely share a close bond, unique to our past.

I have been active in LGBT activism for 26 years and so my circle of friends widened as I grew older. Now I have friends on all parts of the LGBT plus spectrum. Meeting Cindy all those years ago taught me to listen and helped fuel my desire to befriend people who don’t look or act like me or share a similar past. Sharing each other’s stories is the most important power we hold as a community. Actively hearing each other is what strengthens us against a world that often is hostile to us and is uninterested in our struggles beyond pity for who we are.

#lgbt #stories

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monkberries · 3 years

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So here goes: Personally I find Paul to be hot with a beard. But it annoys me because there’s always some Paul stan who’s like “he was super depressed during that time you know” anytime someone says how hot he looks with a beard. Like first of all, I don’t think we should go around diagnosing people and assuming how he felt 24/7 just based on a couple of quotes when we don’t know him, and second of all I was just saying he looks good. Also idk why Paul stans want to pretend like Paul is STILL a victim when he’s definitely not. He’s a super successful billionaire musician. He’s fine.

I'm going to assume all four of these were from the same anon; I received another along these same lines that seems to be from someone else:

OKAY. There's a lot here.

As I've said before, I think the concept you are both talking about - that Paul is the favourite, that people will attack you if you criticize him, that people are vilifying John more now - is true, but is also a matter of perspective. I think sometimes we perceive the whole fandom as just the people we're surrounded by; that can be true in smaller fandoms, like for obscure shows or whatever, but for the Beatles, the fandom is so much bigger and more spread out across generations, social media platforms, and works of literature than almost any other fandom. There are literally thousands upon thousands of books either about or tangentially about the Beatles; there are pockets on every platform from tumblr to twitter to podcasts to instagram to facebook etc., and it branches off even more niche within those to like, facebook groups specifically for podcasts about the Beatles, or discord servers, or livejournal threads, or music forums, or fics on ao3. There are fansites with thoughtful speculative articles like heydullblog and blogs specifically reviewing Beatle books like beatlebioreview and sites cataloging every bit of minutiae like the Beatles Bible, all with their own flavor of comment sections. And not only that, the Beatles fandom spans generations and cultures in a way that almost nothing else ever has or ever will.

And this is not even going into the shifting narratives that have been in play over the years surrounding Paul specifically, and the huge, huge difference between the perceptions of him by the authors and the Counterculture People, the perceptions of him by regular ass Wings fans who have only idly flipped through Rolling Stone while waiting in line at the local bodega, and the perceptions of him by everyone in between, who may or may not have been unconsciously influenced by the wider narratives about him.

All that is to make the case that the fandom that you are experiencing on tumblr/twitter is an extremely small fraction of The Fandom at large. For every Paul stan on twitter that yells at people for not believing that Paul literally invented music, there is a John stan in a facebook group going on about John's supposedly tireless peace efforts. For every nuanced, well sourced post on amoralto's blog, there is someone in the Beatles Bible comment section saying that John and Paul hated each other. For every fan who's read the major Beatles bios with a critical eye towards bias, there are plenty more fans who just absorbed them as straight fact. This is not to say that your experiences are not real or valid! They absolutely are! What I am saying is that there are infinite permutations of infinite Beatles fandoms out there, and the people you see who insist that Paul is still treated worse than John, I would imagine, are occupying various permutations of the fandom where that is more true, alongside the one they share with you. It's not for me to say whether the Paul or John people have the upper hand on the whole - truly, I don't think anyone has enough perspective on the whole fandom to make any judgment on that, no matter what general Grand Pronouncements anyone may make about The Fandom.

As I've said before, any overly defensive "stan" behavior, whether it's for John or Paul or George or anyone, is exhausting to me, so I definitely understand where you're coming from re: him being supposedly underrated. He is literally one of the most successful musicians of all time; as of the beginning of this year, he is worth 1.2 billion dollars; and, thanks to his own efforts and the efforts of quite a few fans and writers out there over the decades, he now enjoys an incredibly positive "granddude" reputation. There are ways in which it can be exasperating to read yet another indignant refutation of music reviews for RAM that came out fifty years ago, when his last three albums have hit the top 3 in the charts in both the US and the UK and have gotten great reviews. I have seen people wonder, honestly wonder, how much more money Paul could have made, how much more respected he could have been, if the rock press had been inclined to give RAM good reviews. When I see that, it does start to feel like fans of Paul, at least the defensive ones in the fandom permutations I occupy, are arguing with the author photo of Philip Norman in the book jacket for Shout!. It's not that I think those arguments and discussions are not worth having; I do think they're worth having because I believe that the only way we can continue to grow is if we grapple with the mistakes made in the past. But there is a strange kind of disconnect that happens when you read about someone indignantly defending Wild Life as though the members of Wings are currently, actively having eggs and rotten fruit thrown at them, and then you remember that Paul is currently, and has been for many years now, one of the richest men in the entire world.

As for the misogyny thing, I'll copy and paste a quote from Erin Weber which may explain a little better than I can:

"Where it starts entering into serious discussion for me is when you have professional grown men (Schaffner would be the most glaring example of this, but not the only one) repeatedly using the term “pretty” or “pretty-faced” to refer to another grown man. (Norman does the same). Schaffner doesn’t only do that once or twice, he uses one of those exact words at least fifteen times in his references to McCartney. “Pretty-boy” is also a term that at least one journalist has used to describe Paul, and that’s not a stealth insult: that’s an overt one. (My husband, who hates the Yankees, routinely used the term “pretty-boy” to insult Alex Rodriguez. And it wasn’t meant as a compliment).

My reaction to this is based both on studies that I’m aware of (I’d have to hunt them up, but I’ve seen them referenced before) which argue that the use of feminized language can be a method of stealth insult/diminishment when used by men to describe other men, and my own personal experience. It is difficult to see a situation where a grown man using the term “pretty” or any variation of the word “pretty” to describe another grown man means it as a compliment. Even if its purely meant as a descriptive term, it is a descriptive term that is weighted with significant meaning and is feminizing. And given the rock press’s obsession with masculinity and its insistence, as noted in other studies, of using masculine terms to portray a song as good and feminizing terms to describe them as weak or inferior, I don’t think its a coincidence that a rock press that knew well the power of masculine and feminine language commonly used feminized language, particularly in the 1970s and 80s, to describe McCartney."

I personally see this more as pseudo-homophobic than pseudo-misogynistic (like, when I see a man called "pretty" by another man in an insulting way, I immediately think "oh, that author wanted to say a gay slur but he's too Professional"), but the two things can get muddled together, I suppose.

Anyway, actionable items:

Diversify Your Fan Experience. More perspectives can really help gain a fuller understanding of not just the fandom but the Beatles themselves. Don't be afraid to be wrong, and don't be afraid to be right; always be open to learning new things and hearing new insights.

If All Else Fails, Block 'Em.

#macca #anonymous #i guess this is #hot take tuesday #?#even though its thursday night #about the blogger #for reference

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manikas-whims · 3 years

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Turmeric Milk

A sequel to my other Kanej fic Holi

[Read on AO3]

Ship: Kaz Brekker X Inej Ghafa

Summary:

Modern AU

Kaz had told his neighbour Inej that he'd call up his doctor friend to get his wounds treated but she stills decides to check up on him.

And with a weird drink at that..

Note:

I've decided to turn this Modern AU into a series.

Hope you enjoy this one as well ♥

Kaz rouses from his slumber due to the noise of the cellphone buzzing and sits up, accidentally hurting the wound on his chest. He represses a hiss and looks around, finding himself on his living room’s couch. The wall clock that his eyes land on, make him realize its past seven at night. Great, sleeping at odd hours. Pushing off the duvet, he scrambles to his feet, a jolt of ache shooting through his bad leg. Immediately, he seeks purchase in the arm of the couch, taking deep breaths to help himself endure the ache.

His phone buzzes again and he picks it up in annoyance. ‘W. Van Eck’, the screen reads and Kaz sighs, receiving the call.

“What happened?” He grunts out.

He can hear a loud huff from the other end. “You know Kaz, those shouldn't be your words to initiate a phone conversation.”

He rubs his eyes, trying to bite back the string of colorful words at the tip of his cursed tongue. “What do you want, Wylan?”

There’s a long pause. “Jes and I wanted to check up on you.”

“I’m doing quite alright.” He grits out as calmly as possible.

“Listen Kaz, if you need–”

“I’m not a child Wylan. I can take care of myself.” Kaz reminds him. He likes his crew because they do their jobs perfectly well but thats all he expects of them. His health and personal lifestyle is none of their concern.

“..kay, I understand. Rest well.” Wylan mumbles and disconnects the call.

With that, Kaz tosses his cellphone to the couch and limps towards his bedroom. Its about time he takes a much needed bath and orders his dinner.

By the time he’s done, he changes into another pair of trousers and lets his towel dangle around his neck. There's several drawers in the side rail of his bed. He crouches down to open the middle one and rummages out a first aid kit from within.

Grabbing his cane from the mattress, he walks out to the living room. Immediately his eyes take note of the duvet falling off his couch and the half-filled bottle of brandy but he chooses to ignore them. He’s not in the mood for tidying up. He simply picks up his cellphone and places an order for hutspot from the Kooperom, a diner nearby. It should take around twenty minutes to arrive and as such, he decides to address his injuries.

He sits heavily onto the couch, placing his cane in his lap and pulls out a roll of gauze and a flask of liquid disinfectant. Dousing a cotton pad in the disinfectant, he starts swiping the cut that trails diagonally from the right side of his chest down to his navel, just like he'd done earlier in the morning. That punch to his face had blinded him for a moment and another Razorgull took advantage of that. The teeth of that man’s knife tore so callously through his skin that Kaz winces several times during the whole cleansing. Finally as his hand reaches for the gauze roll, the dinging sound of the doorbell interrupts him.

The food delivery guy can’t make it this quick. A single father and his son run the whole diner by themselves. The thought makes Kaz gaze uncertainly at the door.

The bell rings again and this time Kaz stands up with his cane. He takes slow steps, snaking out a revolver from behind a painting next to the door and then turns the knob.

“Ohh God!” a feminine voice shrieks, making Kaz flinch.

His deep, coffee irises clash with a pair of dark brown ones and he scowls. Its none other than his next-door neighbour— Inej Ghafa. She’s forgone her shimmering traditional garbs and is sporting a set of faded blue silk pajamas. Her long, flowing hair has been pulled together in a single braid. And she has a small jar full of something yellow in her hands.

“The hell!?” He grits out.

She flushes at the sight of his bare torso as she speaks, “I just came by to check up on you.”

Really? Kaz lets out an exasperated sigh and glares at the jar of the unknown yellow. His lips curl in memory of that excessively-sugary Indian sweet that she had shoved in his mouth this morning. He’s not falling for her words again.

Her own eyes follow his and she smiles, lifting the jar higher. “Ah yes! I brought turmeric for you.”

He scrunches his nose in suspicion. “I don’t think I need it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Says the man with a gun.”

Exactly! And she must be scared of this sight. Not strike jokes about it. But he has to admit he’s quite pleased that she’s mentioning the gun instead of commenting on the cane in his other hand. She doesn't even flash a single pitiful glance like the others who come across him do.

“Anyways, may I come in?” She waits patiently.

“For what?” He asks.

“To make you a glass of turmeric milk.” She states, as if its the most normal thing to do for a neighbour.

“Again, I don't need that.” It feels like arguing with a saleswoman.

“But its good for health.” She informs wisely and her eyes stray towards his chest. “And it'll help you heal faster.”

He quirks a brow incredulously. “Fantastic! Just what I needed. Give me the jar and I'll make it myself.”

“Just like you said you'll call you doctor friend?” Her eyes rove pointedly over the injured state of his chest and she shakes her head. “I think I should do this myself.”

Kaz gulps. He knows he will regret this later. Yet something tells him that rejecting her hospitality will only make her more persistent. And its not like his significant belongings just lie around the house. She won’t be able to figure-out anything about him. Yeah but what kind of a sane guy greets a neighbor with a gun? He dismisses the thought instantly. Maybe she’ll just make her energy drink and leave. Maybe she won't consider him a sociopath at all.

“Come in.” He slides the gun in his pocket and opens the door wider.

Inej neatly puts her slippers in the shoe-rack before following Kaz into the living room. While he resumes his task of bandaging his wound, she watches quietly, making him feel self-conscious for the first time since he was fourteen. Now that he isn’t focused on interrogating her, he is unable to be as nonchalant as he had been minutes ago.

“Your job sure keeps you entertained.” She remarks. “I thought your line of work didn’t allow action to this..severity.”

Kaz regards her curiously. He isn’t sure he’s aware of what she’s talking about. Is she a spy from another rising gang? Is she vaguely suggesting she knows about his position in the Dregs? His hands twitch as they tie the gauze.

“You are a Private Investigator, afterall.” She adds.

Oh. Kaz nods in relief. Of course she's talking about his cover job. She probably learnt this as well from the building management.

“Ye-Yeah..things do get messy sometimes.” He confesses imprecisely and starts returning the disinfectant, cotton pads and the remaining gauze into the kit. He needs a shirt. He's never felt so nervous in a woman's presence.

Thankfully, she ends the awkward moment for the both of them. “I..I should start on that milk. If your apartment has the same layout as mine, the kitchen should be the next room from the gallery?”

He nods once and picks up his cane, heading ahead of her in the direction of his bedroom.

Upon his return, and with a shirt on, he notices the absence of his brandy from the table. A package with Kooperom's logo sits in its place. His duvet has been folded neatly, resting on one end of the couch. And his neighbor is standing in the center of the living room, a glass of yellowish, creamy liquid in her hand. He’s assuming its the “turmeric milk”.

“So uh..a delivery man came by just as you left.” She gestures to the package and continues, “I’ve put the turmeric jar on your kitchen counter. Just add a spoonful to your milk daily and you'll be back in shape in no time.”

She strides towards him and pushes the glass into his free hand. “Goodnight, Mr. Brekker.”

And just like that..she’s gone. What’s with her swinging by and departing so abruptly?

Kaz locks the door and sits by his folded duvet. Its interesting how she managed to clean this room within the few minutes he was gone.

He unpacks the food, picks up a fork and takes a bite of the meat from the hutspot. Fulfilling as ever. He takes another bite and looks at the glass in his hand. Reluctantly, he brings it to his lips and takes a sip, bracing himself for another weird experience. To his surprise, it tastes alright. And strangely enough, his muscles do ease a bit. Maybe having neighbors isn't all that bad.

Hutspot: a traditional Dutch dish of potatoes, carrots and onions. Sometimes meat is served as a side dish with it.

Turmeric: a spice regularly used by Indians in their cuisine. Its said to be a natural antiseptic.

Turmeric Milk: drinking milk with turmeric is good for health. even gargling with turmeric water (hot) is good for throat.

Anyways, hope you enjoyed reading this..:3

Read more Soc Fanfics, Headcanons & AUs here

(divider by @firefly-graphics)

#kanej #kanej fanfic #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #six of crows #shadow and bone #grishaverse #dirtyhands #the wraith #kaz x inej #kanej fanfiction

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redhawtriot · 4 years

Text

Caught in the Act (Bakugou x Reader)

Tip Jar ☕- Not expected but always appreciated💞

So… this is technically like half of the request but I had way too many ideas for this (and its already long as hell. oops). I’m only doing one Bakugou cheating scenario on this page so go big or go home, right?

I also saw that this blog that I made like two weeks ago has like 100 of you guys following it wtf?! So to celebrate, I’m making my first actual series an interactive one! The following chapters will be very short (besides this one, she thicc), but each will have a question at the end that will determine the events of the next chapter! I made an account on OpinionStage where you guys can vote on through Tumblr, so hopefully at least one of you is excited.

Part two (the other half of this request) is where this fun will begin, so stay whelmed.

Fuck this site for making me repost this :)

Love you guys

HnM💕

Warning: Don’t read this to your fucking kids

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Essentially, your girls night for the week had been, in lack of better words, a shit show.

The brisk, fall air pierced your skin, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to wrap your arms around yourself for warmth. You didn’t even want to touch your sticky filth.

You just wanted to run home to your Bakugou– he was all the warmth that you needed and more. More than anything, you wanted to forget about the foul man that had assaulted you at your now ex-favorite club.

A frown momentarily sneaked its way onto your face to corrupt the brave expression you had held in front of your girlfriends,

“Hey” you had raised your hands to halt your friend, “Don’t do something ridiculous! I promise I’m alright, Jirou!” You had begged her when she had prepared to fight the man as he grabbed your arms. You had already politely asked him to back away from you after he tried to grind himself against you. He called it dancing—you called it sexual harassment.

The nightclub security had already been watching this man and immediately closed in on him to escort him out of the club as soon as he moved in towards you. But it must not have been fast enough.

Everything happened so rapidly that you could barely blink in time before you were drenched in a sticky liquid. Still, you kept a calm expression on your face. Your friends’ careers as heroes depended on how calmly you acted,

“No, it’s okay! I needed to head home anyway!” you had argued with your girls after the man had thrown his drink at you. You tried to bring a smile onto your face as the slight sting of the alcohol penetrated your eyes, “Bakugou will pick me up,” you blinked heavily.

Of course he wouldn’t pick you up in front of the club.

No, that would just be a disaster waiting to happen.

He would more than likely blow the entire place up once he found out what had transpired.

However, after the fourth failed attempt at calling Bakugou, you had given up. It was honestly a stretch anyway. He barely made it past nine o’ clock most nights, and it was well on its way to midnight. You could see your breath as you gave off a heavy sigh, but you never faltered in your steps.

You just wanted to go home to your man, clean your pathetic ass in a hot shower, and forget other men existed in this world.

You groaned to yourself as you remembered how late your guys’ roommate, Kirishima, would stay up in the front living room playing video games—the same front living room you would have to sneak past to make your way to the sanctuary of your shower.

You opened the front door as quietly as you could and prodded your, matted, liquor-contaminated head into the threshold of your home. You probably looked like a wild animal as you scrunched your eyebrows and stared at the dark living room for a while before finally building up the courage to tiptoe towards your bathroom.

You didn’t even want to go to your room in fear of interrogation from a very sleepy, very pissed off Bakugou.

Better not poke the bear. Better just wash the stink and sins away and keep it moving like nothing had happened.

Kirishima not being awake on his Xbox for once was a blessing on a normal day, but today it was truly god sent. Hell, even Bakugou not being able to pick you up might have been a blessing in disguise—or so you thought.

As soon as you turned your shower off you heard it– a steady, creaking noise.

“What the fuck?” you whispered to yourself as your face crinkled upwards in disgust. Kirishima hardly ever brought girls home, and when he did, he was as quiet as a mouse with them. In fact, you hardly even knew the women were there until the next morning when they awkwardly wobbled out of the apartment with their heads tucked down.

The pace of the creaking sped up and the smack of the headboard joined in a repetitive thudding, causing you to freeze in place. Breathless feminine moans joined the little musical number in increasing volume for short while before they became more ‘shrieky’ in nature.

A grimace fell upon your expression, “What the fuck?” you once again mouthed. You quickly snatched your towel and wrapped it around you with haste as you tried to run from the unholy concerto that was being orchestrated in your room.

Wait.

Your room?

Your room was the room that was connected to the bathroom walls—not Kiri’s.

It was in that moment of realization that you heard the moans return, this time a gruff male voice joined the duet,

“Shit!” The moan was drawn out until it faded into a heavy, guttural groan.

You paused again as your heart dropped deeply into your chest. You stretched your hearing and waited for his voice to appear again over her constant whines, “Just like that, baby,” his voice reemerged as he groaned deeply. Your heart harshly reminded you of its existence as it lurched suddenly.

That sounded like Bakugou.

But it had to be a mistake. You rehearsed this thought repeatedly as you sped to your room as quietly as you could—your mind racing even faster than your legs. Your Bakugou was sound asleep in his bed like he was this time of night every night. He was sound asleep and stretched out on his side of the bed with the lights off and with a sock thrown over the flashing light of his work desk computer—he hated that light at night.

You faltered as your hand stuttered uncontrollably toward your door handle. Bakugou’s never even looked at another woman before. It took him years to throw even you, his current fiancé, a second glance. He would never in a million years be on the other side of this door with another woman making those ungodly sounds.

Sounds you hadn’t heard in months.

It had to be Kirishima you tried to convince yourself as you gently twisted the door handle, ‘Please god, he just went into the wrong room,’ you prayed as you threw the door open.

Every single muscle in your body froze as you ingested the sight in front of you—your heart included.

You caught the tail end of their act, and you could only watch in complete disgust as the muscles of your beloved’s back violently contracted in sweat glistened pulses.

The woman made horrified eye contact with you as she was being pinned against your grandmother’s dresser, yet she couldn’t fight the last moan that ripped itself from her, her legs spasming as Bakugou’s flesh smacked into hers for a final time.

He desperately pressed himself into her like he was trying to become her, “Fuck,” he groaned into her neck. You noticed his nails dig deeply into her raised wrists as his hips rashly stuttered to a stop, “Don’t clench around me like that, babe. Relax.” His shaky breath demanded.

The woman looked far from relaxed, “H-Hey!” she anxiously tapped his shoulder, trying to warn him of their impending doom. Her wide eyes were still fixated on your ever-growing livid ones.

“BAKUGOU!” You screeched. The relaxed emotion that you had so desperately tried to keep plastered onto your face that night completely shattered as you angrily marched up to him and snatched the back of his hair, “You bastard!!”

As you yanked downward, he surprisingly fell to the ground, disconnecting with the other slut on trial as they both flew to the ground.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” he yelled as his body heavily thudded into the ground.

“That’s my line, you fucking jackass!” you felt your voice crack. Everything hurt. There was pressure in the back of your eyes, the front of your chest, your legs, your throat, your toes, your everything. Everything in your body felt weak under your boiling blood as if you were about to explode.

“Y-Y/N…?” you saw his trademark pissed off expression drop to an unfamiliar one as his eyes finally adjust to you in the darkness of the room. It must have resided in an area between fear and sadness.

You fought the unruly emotions that threatened to take control over your body as you clenched your fist.

Fuck him. He doesn’t get to be sad.

“What?? Were you expecting someone else!?” you spat as you roughly kicked one of his nearby feet, “You probably were expecting more company, you whore,”

No response.

You dug your nails deep into the palm of your hands as if it would somehow release the excruciating pressure that you were feeling.

The woman’s meek voice suddenly broke the extreme silence you all shared, “I-I’m gonna g—”

“GO!” you angrily whipped yourself around to her before grabbing the nearest item that you could, “You dumb bitch! You’re lucky I don’t fuck you up too!” You threw the item as you cursed, not even bothering to know what it was.

It barely missed the naked girl and loudly shattered against one of your walls as she scurried towards the door. You went to reach for another object from your grandmothers’ dresser, promising that you wouldn’t miss this time, but you froze as you found yourself in the mirror connected to the dresser.

You hadn’t realized in your rage that you were crying until you saw your tear-soaked face in the dark reflection. You tried so hard to keep yourself together. You prided yourself on being level-headed in stressful situations, but you were far from level-headed. You were conceited to ever even try to take on that persona.

As you looked at yourself in the mirror, you could only lament about how pathetic you looked—how pathetic you were.

“I…I’m such an idiot!” you painfully gripped at your hair as you fell into your knees in front of the man you loved. Heavy sobs tore themselves free of your burning throat. You heaved yourself forward into your lap in a failed attempted to catch them, but it was too late.

“I don’t… know what to say.” Bakugou finally spoke up, his face completely flipped upside down from its usual tenseness.

Of course.

Out of all of the times you wanted this loud-mouthed jerk to shut up, now is when he is at a loss for words.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that fell from your lips.

“I don’t see what’s so fucking funny?” he angrily retorted, as he stumbled to make his way up. You were suddenly met with his member being swung at your eye level as you stayed crouched onto the ground. That’s when you noticed–

He didn’t even have a condom on.

He made you get tested for STDs and pregnancy before he even had sex with you with a condom.

“I don’t know where that thing has been,” He had said then. It wouldn’t be until months later when you had started birth control when he had finally decided to risk sex without latex protection. The memory jolted an unexpected emotion from you as your chest bobbed from an oncoming laugh.

“G-get out.” You laughed again, tears still steadily falling from your face. You probably looked absolutely psychotic right now, but it was like all of the emotions that you had been stifling all these years had resurfaced with a vengeance. You struggled to drag yourself to stand so that you wouldn’t have to look at his still wet dick.

You continued to laugh and cry as Bakugou stared at you, his expression becoming disgruntled from the disturbing sight,

“What the fuck is wrong wi—”

“Get. OUT!!” you angrily interrupted him as you roared into his face. He blinked spastically in response as the shock of the altercation finally began to sink into his decelerated mind.

‘F-fuck,’

His heart sank, ‘What did I just do?’ He racked his brain as he tried to remember all of the events that had taken place to lead him to this moment, but the world seemed to be spinning ferociously, shaking up and mixing the timeline of the night.

He was plucked from his thoughts as he caught a glimpse of your face in the darkness of the room.

Why were you looking at him like you hated his existence—like if you could disintegrate his body with your eyes, you would. For the first time in years, Bakugou felt hot tears tingle against the back of his eyes, “Y/N, I…” his voice became stuck in his chest as his heart gave sudden jolt, “I’m so s–”

His chest became tight as you whipped away from him and silently threw a pointed finger towards the door.

He stumbled back a few feet as if you had just thrown a physical attack his way.

After a few moments of watching you hold the same position, he noticed you had started to cry again as your rocking shoulders lurched forward.

His face fell even further into the expression of despair before he froze. He could fix this if you would just let him, dammit!

He growled in annoyance at your ignoring him before he finally thawed his body, “FINE!” he yelled at you before smacking your pointed hand out to the way so that he could stagger out of the room. He loudly slammed the door shut, leaving you alone with your deafening thoughts.

You immediately dropped back to the ground before you curled yourself up into a ball and released painful sobs.

You had absolutely no fear that he would catch you in this state. His pride would never allow him to come back after storming out like that.

However on the other side of the door, Bakugou had already turned back around. Instant guilt had created a cacophony of loud feelings in his mind. How could he have hurt you like that?

The thought caused his heart to thrum and his hands to flinch away from the door handle; however, he strengthened his resolve and firmly grasped the handle once more until suddenly–

“BAKU-BROOOOO!” Kirishima’s booming voice could be heard moments before the front door was slammed open and bounced against your living room wall, “Ya made it back alive, man! We were all worried about you after you disappeared…” he slurred as he fumbled over to his best friend like a toddler taking his first steps.

Bakugou couldn’t find it in himself to reply to the redhead as the latter threw himself at him with a hearty laugh. The laugh, however, came to an abrupt end as Kirishima stared blankly at Bakugous face, “Hey… wha’s wrong, best buddy? Holy hell, w-why are you crying?!” he loudly whispered. A loud rumble could be heard before Kirishima violently gagged, releasing the contents of his stomach.

#katsuki bakugou #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou imagine #bnha imagines #mha imagines #bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha fanfiction

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alirhi · 3 years

Text

just me stuff

Putting it behind one of those helpful little "keep reading" links to make it easier to scroll right past :)

The other day, a friend asked me if I had DID (dissociative identity disorder, formerly known as multiple personality disorder/MPD). When I came out to my sister and tried to explain to her what genderfluid means (or at least, what it means to me; ask three different people who use that term to identify themselves and you'll get three different, equally valid definitions), she joked that it was "gender split-personality". It was funny at the time, but it's starting to grate on me a little.

I've got plenty wrong with me, both physically and mentally, but no. I don't have DID. The Josh/Ali thing is not "split personalities". It's still always me. And I've always been this way. As a kid, I climbed trees, played in mud, played with babydolls and Barbies and Tonka trucks and Hotwheels... Everything that was "typically girly" and "typically boyish", I did it all, and I loved it all equally. But I've never felt like I was "defying gender norms" or that gender didn't apply to me. Frilly dresses and dolls and happily sewing new clothes for my Barbies Ali was a girl. Muddy, scraped up, rough-and-tumble Josh was a boy. I never thought enough about it at the time to try to categorize it in my head, that came later, in retrospect, but that's how it always felt. Same kid, same body (and oh fuck, the dysphoria that nearly fucking killed me at times...), same mind, just... Different outlooks.

I think there might be a neurological component to it all, because when I switch, I can feel it. It's a weird little twinge in my head. Sometimes I don't notice lol but a lot of the time, I do, and the world looks different. Apparently, even the way I speak and carry myself changes a little; my friends have started to notice, and sometimes mid-conversation one of them will just kind of smile and go "hi, Josh" or "hey, Ali." It's nice to have both sides acknowledged. I used to hide. In my late teens, through my 20s, and even a little into my 30s, I would work so hard to pass. To hide Josh from the world and not stand out. An ex-friend (when we still were friends lol) looked at me funny and called me a crossdresser; asked if I was gay. For one thing, those two things are not related. For another, no. I would much rather wear jeans, cut my hair off, walk around shirtless when it's hot out, be a guy... but I can't. My body is female. Worse, it's feminine. I've got doll-like, almost kittenish features, and as Ali that's great, but as Josh it's soul-crushing.

So for a while, I hid. I caked on makeup, styled my hair, wore the girliest clothes I owned, pitched my voice an entire octave higher, and was Miss Manners. Everything that screamed "girly" to me, to hide how very not girly I felt. The catch there, of course, is Ali outgrew the super femme stage by the age of like 12 and playing it up only made me more obvious to people who really knew me 😂 but I wasn't really thinking it through.

I looked in the mirror, and I saw someone else staring back at me. The disconnect was so complete, it was horrifying. But that someone else, that lost and lonely, broken girl? Well, I couldn't help me, but maybe I could help her. So it wasn't just to hide who I am, it was to give that girl something nice to come back to. All women are beautiful. All of them. It's just a matter of knowing how to carry oneself, which features to play up. When the disconnect goes away, I can't see as clearly. I just see all the flaws. Just the gross, fat loser who will never amount to anything. But when I feel disembodied, like I'm looking at someone else, I can see the pretty eyes, the perfectly shaped lips, the high cheekbones... I see a pretty girl who doesn't know she's pretty, and I want to make it better. I realize at this point it sounds like I'm contradicting the "no, I don't have DID" thing from earlier XD I don't know how else to describe the shit going on in my head, but it's not two identities. There's no loss of time, or blacking out. The only things that change now are the way I see my body, and apparently the way I speak, a little.

The same friend who asked if I have DID keeps half-joking that she gets gayer the older she gets. It finally hit me last time she said it that...yeah, me too. 😂 Only half the time, though. I went from always on the straighter end of pan to just... more and more into the D lmao. That used to be one of the signs that I'd switched. It's even how I explained it to my sister - "sometimes it's 'oooo Tom Hiddleston' and sometimes it's 'oooo Anne Hathaway.'" (this was like 4 years ago lol. I hadn't yet discovered just how unbelievably perfect Sebastian Stan is). I was always attracted to people regardless of gender, but with a strong leaning toward the opposite sex, if that makes any sense at all. Like, always into Tom and Anne, just Ali's more into Tom, and Josh is more into Anne. But for some reason, guys, I am getting gayer by the day lately lmao. I dunno if my tastes are shifting and I'm just more into dudes in general, or if I just keep discovering guys so undeniably, ridiculously hot that it just doesn't matter or what but... yeah. Fem or transmasc, doesn't matter. I'm always into Seb 😂

#life shit #rambling #hi i'm josh #still don't expect anyone to keep up #feel free to ignore

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kirah69 · 3 years

Note

Or Stiles and/or Peter have a really bad bout of dysphoria. If not triggering for you ❤🧡💛💚💙💜🤎🖤🤍

Yes! Thank you!

So here it is. For the Full Moon Ficlet Prompt DISCONNECTED & for the @transbingo: Vampires.

Dysphoria: It's a term for the anguish and distress a person experiences as a result of a disconnect between their gender identity — who they feel they are — and the gender a doctor assigned them at birth.

Laura Beltrán Villamizar

Title: Fucking Vampires

Pairing: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Summary: A fucking vampire turns Stiles and sends to hell all the effort he had made with his transition.

Warnings: Trans male Stiles, Vampires, Forced detransition, Angst, Strong body disphoria

Chapters: 1/?

[AO3 link]

Chapter 1

Stiles woke up in a fucking abandoned warehouse, again. Why couldn't he wake up for once in the bed of an attractive stranger? Oh yeah, for that he would have to socialize. He hadn't even been caught drunk on the way home from a party, at least then he'd have an excuse. Someone (or something) had caught him back from the library late at night. He didn't even remember how it happened, just he was on the street and now he was- oh wait, it wasn't a warehouse.

That in the background was the noise of the subway and behind him was an old subway car. Everything looked gray under the few remaining lights on the ceiling (which were brighter than he'd expect), maybe it was just covered in dust. The air seemed stagnant, and he could smell decomposing bodies. It must have been an abandoned station and by the boxes, the makeshift tents with old fabrics, the gasoline drums turned into bonfires and so on, homeless people lived there. He was probably sitting on the bed of one of them. Where were they? There was not a soul around him, not even rats.

Stiles felt his head for any injuries (the bad guys had a habit of hitting him on the head to knock him unconscious) and there was some dried blood, but no wound, it didn't even hurt. He looked down to see if there were any other injuries and-.

His heart stopped. He lost his breath. His mind went blank for an instant, and then he was filled with sheer panic and terror.

It can't be, it can't be, no no no nononononono, not again, how, no, why, it can't be, not again, please, please, why, how, this can't-, nono nonononono...

He couldn't know how long he was like this until his mind settled down, just long enough to form rational thoughts. Everything had returned. Someone... something had kidnapped him and had... had... Oh god, fuck, something, somehow, had made his body return to... its original form. He had tried so hard to get rid of all that and now... now they were back. His breasts. And inside of him... he was pretty sure his ovaries and uterus had returned as well. He brought a shaking hand to his groin and... shit, his clit had returned to its original size as well. He was terrified of looking in a mirror or talking; he didn't want to hear himself, he didn't want to see his face again with feminine features.

Eight fucking years of hormone therapy and operations gone to waste! Who the hell had done that and how? And how come he still hadn't passed out from the panic attack? His chest... didn't ache. It should, and he should be out of breath and blacked out, but it was as if he didn't need to breathe even though his lungs continued to inflate and deflate.

He stopped thinking about it when he felt another presence nearby. “Feel” was the right word because he didn't hear it or see it until it was in front of him. It was a tall man with long blond hair in a ponytail, intense green eyes and extremely pale skin. He was dressed in black from top to bottom with a knee-length leather coat. Was it a requirement for sinister villains?

“How are you feeling?” asked Stranger with a French accent. Oh wait, he had read this.

“Are you a fucking vampire?”

There was a shocked expression on his face followed by a smile that showed too many teeth.

“I knew I had caught a smart one. My nam-.”

“What have you done to my body? Why did you do this to me?”

“Um... Well... I admit I didn't expect it.” He seemed to be trying to smile, but he grimaced instead. “It's the first time I've turned... well, someone like you. I didn't even know you were a woman.”

“I'm not a woman!” he hissed through his teeth.

“I mean, I knew that the transformation regenerates mutilated limbs, missing organs...” he explained with wide gestures of his hands, “but I didn't even know you were an operated girl.”

“Man! I. Am. A. Man!” he screamed and flinched at the sound of his high-pitched voice.

“Um... Look... I'm very sorry about this, but I have to say that you look very pretty like that.”

Stiles saw red. Something reacted within him, like the snap of a whip, and just as quickly he launched himself at the creature. He didn't think about it, he didn't consciously do it. It was as if the beast mode switch had been flipped and his humanity had stepped aside. He felt everything, he acted with all the precision that his new abilities allowed him, but he did not control it.

When his prey stopped moving in his hands, he came back to his senses. He first noticed the blood in his mouth, a taste that should have been disgusting, but he just swallowed. His hands were covered in the same blood and his clothes too. He had practically bled that pig out, appropriate. He had a broken arm, but he could already feel it regenerating. The vampire's body was at his feet. Or part of it. A pair of limbs were scattered around him, and his head had ended up on top of the subway car.

He let out a shaky breath and staggered backward until he tripped over some box and fell to the ground. His mind returned to his situation and he stopped breathing. Not that he needed it anymore. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone, but it slipped between his blood-soaked hands. He tried to catch it a couple more times, but ended up giving up. He left it on the ground and dialed the number. It was a miracle that there was signal there, and he attributed the first tears to the relief it made him feel. He lay down next to him with his knees and arms curled, making himself as small as he could, and waited as the tones sounded.

“Hello, Stiles.”

He heard Peter's cheerful voice, and a sob escaped him.

“Stiles, what's wrong?” His voice quickly turned concerned.

“Peter.” Shit, why did his voice have to sound like this?

“Stiles?” He sounded confused, perhaps because he didn't recognize his voice.

What could he say? How could he explain all that? He didn't want to say it out loud, he didn't want to hear himself in that voice talking about his worst nightmare. He sobbed again, his chest contracting in a strange way because he didn't need to breathe, but he was trying and surely it was necessary to speak.

“Stiles, listen to me, I need you to take a deep breath and tell me where you are.”

That made him give a nervous laugh, and he seemed to be able to control his diaphragm again.

“An abandoned subway station.”

“Can you go to a public place? Can you get help?” he asked calmly, though his voice was full of concern.

“Um... I can... Wait, what time...” He turned his head to see the screen. 3:29 pm. “No, I can't go out. Peter...”

“Don't worry, I'm on my way.” It was true, he could hear the car's engine. “If you can, don't turn off your phone, I have located you. Are you safe? Do you have danger nearby?”

“No, I'm alone.” He felt a great relief knowing that Peter was on his way. He was going to take hours, he had to get there from Beacon Hills, but Stiles knew he would speed up as much as he could to get there as soon as possible.

“Okay. Are you hurt?”

Stiles began to cry louder. No, technically he wasn't hurt, it was even worse.

“Stiles, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me. Are you hurt?”

“N-no, no. Peter...” he said with a whine.

“I'm on my way, hold on. Hide if you can. You'd have to hang up or the battery-.”

“No! Peter, please...” The idea of staying there alone without even Peter's voice terrified him.

“It's okay, I'm here. Can you tell me what happened?”

He knew Peter just wanted to distract him so that time would pass faster, although for him it was enough to hear his heartbeat on the other end of the phone (it was strange and at the same time comforting that he could hear it).

“I was coming back from the library last night. God, I don't know how I could have been unconscious for so long. I woke up here a few minutes ago and this...” he gave a humorless laugh at how ridiculous it was,” this vampire appeared. A fucking vampire, Peter! Why did it have to be a vampire? If it had been... anything else.”

Anything, even if its only intention had been to kill him. That would have been better than what had happened.

“Well, now we can be a cliché.”

Stiles wanted to laugh, but the sound that came out of his mouth sounded more like a groan. Then his cell phone started beeping.

“No, no, no, no, no.”

He leaned over the phone, there was only five percent battery.

“Stiles, you have to hang up. I promise I'll be there soon, but you have to hang up and keep your phone nearby in case you move. I have your GPS signal located, I don't want to lose it.”

Stiles wasn't going to ask how he had located his phone, Peter was up to date with technology. At that moment he was only grateful for it because the truth was that he had no idea where that station was.

“Okay. Don't let the police arrest you.”

“They couldn't reach my car even if they tried. Although maybe you should be listening for police sirens.”

He hung up the phone reluctantly and brought it close to his body, it was his only connection with Peter. Maybe he should feel bad about not calling his father. He could have arrived quickly with the siren without risking a chase, but the truth was that Stiles didn't know if he would come, he didn't know if he would pick up the phone or if he would believe him when he explained the situation or even if he would consider it important enough to travel from Beacon Hills. In short, he couldn't trust his father to help him. He had been aware of it for a long time, but at times like this it was particularly painful.

He could have called Derek, he also lived in Los Angeles, but most likely he wouldn't even pick up the phone and besides, Derek had no idea of his situation and it would be very awkward to explain. Lydia lived in New York, they barely kept in touch in recent years; and it would be futile to try to contact Scott now that he was on the run in Canada with his latest romance, a hunter whose family weren't too happy about her dating a werewolf. (Stiles was not at all surprised that history repeated itself.)

However, he had no doubt that Peter would come, even if he had to cross the country to do so. He was the last werewolf in Beacon Hills and the one in charge of protecting the town since Scott had abandoned his duties as alpha of the territory. After Scott's departure, Peter had sent the few werewolves of his abandoned pack out to other packs to take care of them while he stayed there alone. Peter was an omega, but he was far more capable of keeping the people of Beacon Hills safe than Scott and his entire pack had been. Stiles had kept in touch with him while he was studying in Los Angeles. At first it had been to keep up with the threats against Beacon Hills, but everything had settled down in a few months and they had still kept in touch.

Peter didn't know about his situation either, but Stiles felt that he would understand it much better than Derek. Although if Peter told him like that asshole that he was fine like this, Stiles was not responsible for his actions.

Maybe he fell asleep at some point or got too distracted because suddenly a noise made him react and he jumped up. His body took on a fighting pose not unlike a cat instinctively. It was a distant metallic noise, but more sounds followed like footsteps, gates opening and closing, and a heartbeat. He then smelled a person before he even saw it. He heard a kind of hiss and realized it was coming from him. He was a snake now? Then he saw Peter appear from one of the tunnels and the hiss stopped. His legs shook, and he was about to collapse, but then Peter was there to hold him. He tried to call his name, but he had forgotten to breathe and there was no air in his lungs to make his vocal chords vibrate.

“I've got you, I've got you,” Peter whispered, sitting him down on the closest mattress without leaving him.

Stiles shrugged and buried his face in Peter's neck, clutching his shirt with both hands. He had forgotten about the blood that now also stained the wolf's clothing. He sobbed in great relief now that at last he was not alone. One hand stroked his back comforting while the other held him tightly.

“You did a great job,” Peter commented. Stiles frowned and then realized he was talking about the vampire's corpse. “We'll have to burn it to make sure it doesn't resurrect, but decapitation is definitely the best method.”

“Good to know, you can use it with me.”

“Hey, no, don't say that.” Peter hugged him tighter and kissed his hair. “You're going to be fine, you're going to get over this.”

“Peter, I... this... m-my body...” Fuck, he couldn't say it.

“I know. I know, sweetheart. We'll fix it, I'll find a way,” he told him confidently, and his heart didn't give any lies away.

“How are we doing...? Wait, you know?” Stiles lifted his head and looked at him confused.

Peter looked at him almost tenderly, a slight curve on his lips.

“From the beginning, well, from the formal. At first the smell of Adderall prevented me from recognizing the other medications, but then it was clear.”

“So, all werewolves...” The idea that any werewolf, any creature with enhanced senses could...

“No, don't worry, if you don't know how to recognize them, it's difficult to distinguish between medications. I had a friend in college who was also under hormonal treatment, that's why I was able to recognize them.”

“My smell isn't... is...” He had always worried about so many things so that people would not notice his situation and now he had to worry about another one.

“It's slightly different from most boys your age, although mainly because of its lack of smell of semen and most would attribute it to a lack of sexual activity. Anyway, you don't have to worry about it, you will soon be practically scentless.”

Stiles frowned and ducked his head to smell himself. He smelled of blood and other foreign smells, but he could barely smell his personal scent.

“It's a peculiarity of vampires,” Peter explained. “It's the way to recognize them, although the most skilled strive to simulate a human smell.”

“Huh. Well, it's not my main concern right now. What...? Fuck, how am I going to-?”

“We. We're going to fix this, both of us.”

“But how?! I can't even have surgery again! It'd just... again...”

“I know, but I'm sure there's some magic that allows us to recover your body. In ancient times surgeries wasn't an option, but magic is older than science. We'll find the spell we need or create it if necessary,” he said it with such conviction that it made him think it was true, that it was possible.

“Werewolves can't use magic,” he whispered.

“But vampires can. You already had a slight affinity for magic as a human, but now, with a little training, you'll be able to use it without restriction.” That proud smile on his face made him blush (or would have if he could still blush).

“You don't have to-.”

“Shh, none of that. We're going to do this together, don't doubt it.” His expression was determined. Stiles was sure that, even if he refused, Peter would keep trying to help him behind his back.

It was comforting that someone cared so much about him. Stiles sighed in relief and relaxed next to Peter, waiting until it got dark.

Peter took him out of the subway station through its abandoned entrance. It was in the suburbs, a pretty abandoned area in every sense, which was good since he was still covered in blood. Peter's Shelby Cobra was right at the entrance (it was a miracle it hadn't been stolen while they were waiting). It was a shame to stain the extremely expensive upholstery with blood, but he didn't have a choice either, and Peter didn't seem to care.

It took them almost an hour to get to Peter's apartment in one of the highest-class buildings in Los Angeles. It had been his property for years, but he didn't use it often, a few times a year when he went to visit Derek or when Stiles needed help with a research. It was an open, modern space with wooden floors, large windows, and metal, glass, and leather furniture. It was quite impressive, especially the views of the city, but Stiles preferred his house in Beacon Hills, much more homey and full of antiques and books.

“Did you bring your laptop?” Stiles asked.

“I'm afraid not, I was in a bit of a hurry. Why don't you take a shower, and I'll go find yours at your place?”

“I had it with me in my backpack, but I haven't seen it at the station. Maybe he got rid of everything when he kidnapped me.”

“Then I'll go to buy a new one, there'll still be a store open. Make yourself comfortable, there are clothes in the room, take what you want.”

Peter left before Stiles could tell him that he didn't have to buy him a new laptop. It would have been useless anyway, he was that stubborn. Stiles walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror without thinking, which was a big, big mistake. There was the body that he had worked so hard to change. As if he had done nothing in those years, as if all the suffering had been for nothing. He got into the shower and slammed the glass door. The crystal exploded, falling into small fragments around him. Stiles started crying cowering in the corner of the shower. He was a monster and not just because he was a vampire.

When Peter returned, he didn't say a word. He stepped over the glass and scooped him up, carrying him into the bathroom attached to his bedroom. He sat him on the shower bench and turned on the shower head, not caring about getting wet himself.

“Stiles, tell me if I can take your clothes off or if you want to do it yourself. You have to take a shower, you have to clean this blood.”

At any other time the idea of being naked with that body in front of someone else (in front of himself) would have been terrifying, but he saw the blue eyes that were watching him so worriedly, and he knew that Peter could handle it better than himself. He nodded and raised his arms almost like a zombie. Peter didn't bother to pull the shirt over his head, he just ripped the front with a sharp claw.

“Hey!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“It's beyond saving.”

Peter removed his T-shirt along with the shirt he was wearing on top of it, then lifted him with one arm around his waist and pulled down his pants and boxers. Peter let him sit down again, his body was shaking. He reached for the shower head, and the water washed away the surface blood before Peter scrubbed it all off with the sponge. He was meticulous, cleaning even behind his ears and between his fingers. At some point, Stiles stopped shaking and relaxed under his attentions. Not a single improper touch or look. Stiles wanted to hug him and thank him.

When he finished, Peter turned off the tap and wrapped him in the fluffiest bath robe he had ever seen. They went out into the bedroom, and Peter started looking for clothes in the closets. Even though he didn't live there, there were more clothes than in Stiles' closet.

“Are you tired or hungry?” Peter asked him as he held up a pair of pants in the air to see if they would fit him.

“No, I'm fine, I don't have... Oh, god! I'll have to feed on blood! I'll have to kill!”

Before he could panic, Peter was already there, kneeling in front of him.

“Hey, hey, no killing. First of all, you can feed on the blood of animals. It won't be as satisfying and it won't help you get stronger, but it's possible. Besides, if you wanted to feed on human blood it wouldn't be a problem either. Nowadays it's not hard to have access to a blood bank.”

Stiles snorted a laugh and shook his head.

“Of course.” He couldn't help but smile. After all, Peter was a man of resources like few others. “Sorry about the shower.”

“It's okay, you have to learn to control your new abilities. Put this on,” he said, handing him the clothes. “I know you'll want to star researching right away, but I have to tell you that you should get some rest. Your body has yet to adjust to your new abilities.”

“I can rest with the computer on the bed,” he replied with a shrug.

Peter smiled and brought his new laptop.

“Think about whether you want to stay here or go back to Beacon Hills. Whatever you decide, I'll stay with you, but I think at first it'd be easier in our territory.”

“I'll have to drop out of college,” he realized suddenly. One more thing to add to the long list of misfortunes. “I was so close to finishing the master's degree.”

“You can always follow the classes online.”

Stiles shook his head and took the laptop out of the box. He needed to focus on something, he had to stop thinking about all the things that fell apart in his life.

“The problem is not the classes. In a couple of months, I'd have to start with the internship, and where am I going to do an internship at night? Anyway, what for? What night shift jobs I need my degree for? I'll end up at a gas station or a 24-hour store. I don't need a university degree for that, much less a master's degree.”

He had tried so hard, working to pay for his classes and studying every spare minute to be one of the best in the class. No parties, no friends, no social life, no coming home except in the summer. All that for nothing. Again.

Peter sat next to him and put an arm around his shoulders, letting Stiles lean against him.

“We'll find something. You could be a night class teacher. And if there isn't a school for that, I'll open one.”

Stiles snorted and buried his face in his neck. He knew that Peter wanted to tell him that he didn't have to work, that he had money to spare to support him, and Stiles was grateful that he didn't. Peter knew perfectly well how important it was for him to be self-sufficient.

“Thank you. For everything, Peter, thank you.”

“I'm here for whatever you need, sweetheart.” Peter tightened his arm around him and kissed his head.

He didn't remember Peter being so tactile, or so affectionate, or so close the last time they'd met, but it was probably the only thing keeping him from falling apart right now.

While Stiles was searching the internet and the bestiaries he had uploaded to the cloud for information on vampires, Peter went to collect some things from his apartment. Even if he did not return to Beacon Hills, he would no longer be able to live with his current roommates. Even if they didn't find it strange that he only left his room at night (something that was not entirely unusual among students), they would find the sudden change in his appearance strange.

He texted his father to call him as soon as he could and considered informing the others, but he wasn't ready for that yet. If it had only been the part of turning into a vampire, it would have been easier.

“You should find less naive roommates,” Peter commented when he returned with ALL of his things.

“Then I couldn't have done some of the things I've had to do,” he replied.

He opened the first bag looking for his hard drive. He made regular copies of his computer there just in case.

“When you put it that way.”

Peter took the hard drive out of the inside pocket of his jacket and offered it to him with a smile. Stiles rolled his eyes and returned with the hard drive to the bed. He hadn't moved from there even though there was a perfectly comfortable sofa in the living room.

“Did you tell Derek?” Stiles asked, trying to sound casual.

“No, I won't unless you ask me to. It's your decision to whom and when to tell.”

Stiles nodded tightly and remained focused on the computer. If it had been Scott, half Los Angeles and all of Beacon Hills would already know.

“Did you find anything useful?” Peter asked, sitting down next to him.

“I thought there was a lot of fake shit on the internet about werewolves, but vampires take the cake.” I was researching on the topic of sunlight, you know, to know if I'll turn to ash or glow like a gloworm. But there are so many possibilities, so many variations that not even something so basic is clear.”

Thanks to his studies, he had a better training to know how to distinguish between reliable sources and junk sources, but it didn't help in something like that. One might think that hunters with their vast knowledge could be a reliable source, but experience told him to doubt every word that appeared in their bestiaries and forums.

“I can assure you that you won't glow like a gloworm and, please, don't read that garbage full of toxic relationships again, it leaves us all in a very bad place.”

“I haven't read it! I've only seen memes on the internet,” he replied. Peter looked at him with an arched eyebrow, and Stiles lowered his head. “Okay, maybe I read the first one out of curiosity. Anyway, do you know anything about that? The sunlight thing, I mean.”

“I can't say for sure, but as far as I know, right now your skin would burn and then your muscles down to the bone. Over time, when you get stronger, you'll be more resistant. You may not be able to expose yourself to the midday light, but you may hold out longer during dawn and dusk.”

“Mm... That matches Anne Rice's type of vampires,” he mused, opening the folder named in precisely that way.

“I have good books at home on vampires, and I can get more, don't worry. I can also speak with some contacts. Vampires are quite closed about their nature, which is understandable, but if I explain your situation to them, some of them may decide to help us.”

Stiles squeezed his knee with one hand and smiled at him. It was a miracle that he could still smile.

TBC...

(The Trans Bingo Card btw)

#teen wolf #peter hale #stiles stilinski #steter #trans character #trans stiles #dysphoria #fanfic #fanfiction #detransition #trans bingo #full moon ficlet #vampire #english fanfic #trans #slash

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dazes-on-dazes · 3 years

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1.25.2021 - Gender

Gender is a funny thing to me, as in, I don't exactly know what it is like. Maybe it’s my mental problems like ADHD or Depersonalization, maybe it’s just that I was raised as a girl in an abnormal situation, it might even simply just be my perception on the matter. I think the most likely complete answer is a mix of all of the possible explanations, like everything is just one of the roots supporting the tree.

I don't see myself as a girl or even female in any real sense. It's all really superficial in my eyes, like how planes and ships are often called 'she'. I’m only a ‘girl’ because thats what you do, it’s customary or something.

It’s like, I don’t feel very connected to the idea of being a girl. I understand some experiences women and girls have and I experience the same things. What I don’t understand is being a girl, If that makes sense. I don’t understand gender roles or femininity or really anything.

Something isn’t firing or I simply cannot connect with the concepts in any meaningful way, I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s left me feeling rather disconnected from the other girls my age, and I think they can tell.

I’ve never had many female friends my age, especially when I was younger. I was always either by myself or with the boys around me. I could have been described as a “tomboy” or a “horsegirl”, I despised the color pink and I refused to wear any kind of skirt or dress at all. I’ve since grown out of it, but at the time I defined myself by my rejection of traditional femininity.

It wasn’t too authentic, after all, It was a young kid trying to comprehend their feelings towards how they were percieved and how they percieved themselves. And that just so happened to manifest as a violent rejection of anything remotely feminine and a “not like other girls” phase, what I’ve come to see as actually pretty common in people raised as girls at this point in time.

My view of it also stems from what I mentioned earlier and in my socializing post, I’m a Military Brat and we moved wherever the detailers told us to, forcing me to start over making friends from scratch once again. I was always an outsider, I had no roots, I knew no one and had next to nothing in common with the other kids.

Seeing myself as “not exactly female, but not male either” might have come from internalizing my consistent designation as “the wanderer” or “the outsider”, I am just outside feminineness, drifting between masculine, feminine and androgynous with no clear goal. However, to the untrained or uninformed eye, I would be glanced at and immediately labeled as “female”, like a child calling all rhinestones diamonds simply because they are sparkly.

The few times that I’ve been mistaken for a boy or manage to nail down what I see as the perfect aesthetic middle ground for me fill me with all sorts of lightheartedness, it almost feels right. I talked to my friends about my middle school SRO mistaking me for a “young man” as I stood in line for my ACE math class, or how I finally felt confident in an outfit of a hot topic skirt, knee-high krampus socks and my dads over-sized Boston Bruins Jersey.

The dreaded Junior Year Picture day was immidiately made leagues better by the simple act of the camera operator calling me over and asking if the name I had down (my very feminine birth name) was the one I wanted in the yearbook because, and I quote, “I know my people”. I talked to my friends at length about how good it felt to be recognized as LGBTQ and to be offered an alternative.

After picture day I began to think at length about what I wanted to be called, I had a little joke with friends about how I was “tentatively nonbinary”, probably nonbinary, but being viewed as a girl and being called she is easy and I don’t really care enough to do anything about it.

I came up with a few names I liked, some are stereotypically nonbinary noun names like Cider or Gimmick. Most are just words I think sound cool and could possibly allow myself to be called, because regular names don’t seem to resonate with me. Including the two prior ones, they are: Whim, Ricochet, Whistle, Taxidermy (Taxi for short), Cheshire and Link. I’ll probably find some more, but these are the ones I like the most at the moment. (side note: I like hearing others opinions on my ideas but I don’t like begging for feedback, it makes me feel sort of pathetic. But if you have any feedback or counter-ideas, I would love to hear them :3)

I’m sure my ideas on who I am and how I feel about that will eventually change a bit as I mature or think about it further, but as of now, I feel somewhat confident on the matter. Well, as confident a complicated relationship with how I want to be percieved can be.

- Morrigan

- Post Script -

This post took forever to write, I wasn’t sure how I wanted to word it. School is also kicking my ass at the moment, I am very tired and not too motivated to do anything besides play Persona. Other than school, I am doing pretty ok. I have the chance to drop down out of my AP Lang class at the end of this quarter, dropping down should relive quite a lot of stress put on me right now. I can’t do much if the administration decides to be incompetent again though, but I guess I’ll see in time. My mom has pretty much left me alone, which is fantastic for me, I have at least a little time to rest.

I finished my first playthrough of Persona 5 The Royal the other day, I found it very good, I may or may not review it if I can muster up the motivation to do it. I praise Atlus for being able to make me cry five times in a row, I hope to get into the rest of the SMT franchise soon enough, if I can get my hands on the games.

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calypsoff · 3 years

Text

Eighty Two. Part 3

Now that Robyn has mentioned it, this was all a joke that Drake and I do say back and forth, but he had to say it on the live “why is he taking shots at you? Because he can’t do it at me so he’s doing it at you?” Now I am pissed off “then deal with it Chris, I keep telling you that your mouth runs. Your jokes are monitored now, you’re married to me Chris. Anything you do and say will affect me, it will look bad on me, you didn’t need to say he is feminine did you? You didn’t even need to react either but here we are, I am being dragged into it. Chris you have to understand that this ain’t no joke anymore, this is my life, my future. Now I am looking like some pawn in y’all argument, you had to drag him into it. And Drake is all besties with you, but he also tried to date me, he also chased me around and asked me for dinner and kept telling me he wanted me, I didn’t want him. Now he’s friends with you, yes I probably picked the wrong idiot but now Rakim is going to be on your ass with his stupid mob” I shrugged in annoyance “why you tell me this about Drake? You’re here telling me drake wanted you, but you declined him, you dislike that I am friends with him anyways and you told me this to piss me off, I’ll take Rakim ass out, I don’t give a fuck. I’ll do it again but don’t ever come to me and stand in front of me and tell me what man wanted you, got it!?” I lost my temper “crying to me saying people assumed you was this and that but you here in my face telling me this, you know we get on and you dislike that but now you telling me he wanted your pussy, you’re telling your husband this? Me!?” Who does she think she is speaking too; I allow her to speak shit but she is doing too much “speak then!? How many people have you actually slept with in Hollywood? Who next, who liked you now. I mean what I fucking said Robyn, watch your mouth when you telling me that shit, now you quiet. Don’t worry I will deal with Rakim but don’t come to me and say that shit to me about Drake liking you when you had all the fucking time in the world to tell me that Robyn! Remember who you’re speaking too!” She walked off, of course she would walk off because that is Robyn all over, she needs to understand she is speaking to her husband and telling me who want her pussy, I am already pissed that Rakim is bringing her into this, I will kill a nigga for her.

Walking back into the living room “where is she?” I asked, “she went upstairs” Rylee is crying and she went upstairs “Chris, why you both arguing?” My mom asked “because she forgets who she is speaking too, she needs to know her place sometimes. I let her get away with everything she says to me, I allow it because I am just that guy, but she is pushing and pushing. I am that nigga and I won’t be pushed over no matter what you both say, fuck that. Why she left Rylee crying for” is she actually being real right now, walking around the couch and my phone started to ring also in my hand it’s of course Drake, now I am not mad at him, I am mad my wife. Stood at the bottom of the steps “Robyn!?” I shouted, answering his call “Ayo” I answered, “I say we roll up on his crew, I mean he didn’t have to mention Rih” now I feel annoyed him speaking on her “one second” muting my speaker “Robyn!” I shouted again, she finally appeared at the top “Rylee is crying, pick her up. Be a mother, you’re constantly running because now I stated something, come down and deal with her” I pointed, unmuting the call “yeah what you saying? I got something for his ass, I beat his ass once I can do it again. The nigga is five foot nothing, fuck him. I need go though, speak soon” disconnecting the call, walking off as Robyn came down, I am just pissed off about everything because she does constantly nag me and demand I can’t do this and that and I take it, but she is pushing me.

I’ve messaged Rocky and I’ll even give him my address because I ain’t taking that shit from him, Robyn doesn’t want it to be public and she wants it to be all low-key so here I am just trying resolve this with him, tapping on his message this nigga sent me his mobile number. I ain’t scared of him so there is that, copying his number and pasting it to call him. The call rang out “I should have known your bitch ass would call ASAP, without an ounce of time wasted nigga” he thinks he’s fucking funny “why wouldn’t I call you? I ain’t scared of a midget, I already beat you my nigga. Come on now, you want another beat down. You are talking about my wife nigga! You are talking about my wife! You fucking want a death wish! You are speaking on my wife” I am so angry “the fucking truth, it happened! You started this shit, I had your wife or whatever she is, call me begging me to not press charges on your ass, please don’t start with me. How you feel that I had your wife begging, ain’t the first and it ain’t the last, I’m just that pretty. She loves me then you came out of nowhere and think you can clown me. I don’t even need to get my hands dirty, I got Harlem on you” I’m gonna hurt him “don’t speak on my wife; I am telling you now. I don’t care what army you got, you pussy that is why you need that shit bro. I don’t need anyone, I just need you to come to me, you scared bro” Rocky laughed down the phone “I ain’t scared, you all mad at facts my nigga, you and that Jew motherfucker thinking y’all funny and now you upset at facts? You looking stupid, I am the same nigga telling your wife I am happy for her, I text her those words and her stupid dumb husband want to talk shit!? No disrespect to my ex but you a clown nigga, I dare you to beat me, I get your ass back in jail and I’ll take your family nigga” throwing my phone across the room, it hit the wall, but I am pissed. He is right I can’t do shit, now I am pissed.

He practically said Robyn still texts him, that is what I heard, and he said that, she never said he told her anything like that or that she has his number, but god forbid that I have a single female in my phone, I am pissed off and I should maybe stay away from Robyn because I am very angry, she got me looking stupid “son, come here. Let’s talk” I am so lost right now, I want to snap on Robyn but then I don’t want too because I know that I have already upset her so I don’t want to say anything to her but I am angry “come on” my dad put his arm around me “let’s talk son” she has his number still “Chris, why are you harassing Rakim. Seriously?” I didn’t need Robyn to be coming down, this is the worst thing to do, pushing my dad’ hand away “why the fuck are you coming to me! About him! Are you fucking real right now, you have been messaging him behind my back and have his number, honestly. Get out of my face until I have calm down” I really don’t need to be in her space and for her to be in mine “come on now!” my dad yanked me “both of you just need to stay away at this moment, no more” my dad is not having it now.

I don’t like to smoke weed in front of my dad so we both just sat outside saying nothing, it’s cold out here too but I am angry “you’re shivering, can we just go in?” shaking my head, I am that angry that I am warm “the thing is right, with Robyn. I let her do what she pleases, I am very easy going with her because I love her dad, she is very headstrong and she tells me off and again, I allow her to be that way. Not like in a way she belittles me but I let her, you get it? I allow her too dad, what pissed me off here is that she started speaking on Drake. Now me and Drake get on, I know Robyn dislikes him, but she mentioned that he used to chase her, that he wanted to be with her. He liked her, how she come out with that shit now dad!? Because I know her, she said it to piss me off and to get me away from him, I am angry and then speaking to her fucking ex, he is telling he has her number. He is happy for her, now her ass comes downstairs and says about Rocky, how does she know? She knows because she is speaking to him, how does that make me feel. I want to kill him dad, I am too angry to be even near Robyn. What gets me is that I let her talk to me as she does, I let her disallow me to go places and do things, but she is here messaging random men” my dad is letting me rant on but I am very pissed off, maybe it’s something that has annoyed me because I do like being my own man and I allowed her to take over that.

Shit is wack but my dad and I went inside because of course it’s cold outside “let’s just speak here, I have listened to you and heard you out Chris, but you do need to realise what you say and your reaction to it really doesn’t look good, what I am saying is that in anger you are shouting, she isn’t shouting so easily the woman becomes the innocent party. You lost control when you shout, you are angry and I understand that son, but you cannot speak to a woman the way you do, you are full of rage. You want to fight; you threw your phone. Your mother and I are not going to come between you both, but you need to speak to her, you need to work together. I am different, I can be quiet for so long and accept your mother and listen to her rants, but we didn’t have things like social media to fuel things. I have had arguments with her, but my tone is never chaotic, that is when I know I have lost control. I think maybe tonight you stay in a different room, have some space and tomorrow you gather yourselves and first you need to apologise, hear me out what I am saying to you. You need to apologise for your tone but not how you feel, you hear what I said? You feel that way and you need to express that, you say how you feel without being rude or mean ok? Get some sleep, get some rest and not get yourself in more trouble. Do not tell a mother how to raise her child either, I made that mistake once” nodding my head.

My dad is a good man, I am not him either. I am a dickhead, and I am pissed off, I want to go to Harlem and beat his ass, I got fucking Robyn speaking to this dude. I didn’t even know she spoke to her ex, she dislikes Seiko and would get at me but she has him there, I get why she wasn’t angered, she was more angry that her pictures of her sucking my dick was aired out, I get it now, I do. My phone is bust, totally too so I have no phone “I came to get some water” looking behind me, it’s Austin “cool” I mumbled “you know what cuz, you can marry the most beautiful woman in the world. They all the same” I snorted laughing at him saying that “women are women, nothing changes that at all. They will be the same and always be on the same shit, it’s ok for them to do something but not the man, and when you raise your tone it’s my bad? Get that shit out of my face, don’t love. Don’t show love, don’t do love, don’t love. Be a player Austin, live your life, don’t get nobody pregnant either, don’t get married but do not love. Major one, especially one that be having more money then you so it’s a power trip” my plot to kill Rocky isn’t going to happen and I hate that for me, I am just fucking annoyed.

#chrianna fanfiction #chriannaff #chrianna #chrianna ff #fanfic #fanfiction

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electricbluebutterflies · 3 years

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November prompts 37 + kabby, PLEASE

This ended up being about body issues and power dynamics and... it’s THEM, what can I say. Post-s2-grayspace (canon-friendly for once), PG13ish, and also on ao3.

The way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire not to disturb the air around him.

It has been years since he’s let anyone look.

Avoiding being seen is near impossible – the Guard offered little privacy, and years past finding his ways around it, Marcus has made his peace. But he knows how to make sure it doesn’t matter. Change clothes as quickly as possible, keep his back to others, don’t give anyone reason to pay attention. What matters is his body is capable, not how he feels about it.

Even here on the ground those old habits have held. Communal showers are a layer of hell, but also generally deserted in the middle of the night, and his habits veer nocturnal anyways. The only other people likely to use this space at this hour are those whose sleeping arrangements and sexual inclinations are in disconnect, and desperate lovers tend not to pay attention to anything outside each other. He’s not worried anyone will notice him.

It’s become a ritual these last few weeks, since the situation stabilized enough for routines to develop. Every third night, around when the moon is highest, he cleans himself quickly but thoroughly. Eyes closed as much as possible, avoiding everything he can. Safer this way. Always safer.

First the ritual of undressing. Boots kicked off, everything else carefully removed and neatly folded. This part is done slowly, always, checking himself for any bruises or scrapes he might not have noticed. Tracing the scar on his forearm after he sheds his jacket, tracing the invisible pain lines on his thigh when that too is visible. He should’ve died by now. His continued survival on the ground feels like some kind of cosmic mistake, a life intended for someone else, some other man who’d actually earned it. He hasn’t. But nothing’s managed to get him yet, not for lack of trying, and-

He hears the door click open and a single set of footsteps follow. Dammit. He has memorized the insomnia patterns of roughly two hundred people and he still cannot pin who this might be and-

“Whatever you’re doing, don’t let me stop you.”

Great, the last person he wants anywhere near him when he’s in a spiral. Cosmic mistake, he is convinced.

Marcus turns his head and somehow, in the time it’s taken him to convince himself this is not the cause of the inevitable heart attack and/or brain aneurism that will probably kill him someday because why wouldn’t his death be tragically boring and mundane, Abby has managed to completely strip down. Not that he ever needed to know this, but it turns out her I-am-so-done-with-you expressions look almost the same in that state, her arms still crossed under her full breasts and her eyes still trying to glare right through him.

If he had any sense left, he’d give up and run. He has never been able to make the right choices.

“What?” she says, like this is all perfectly normal and maybe for her it is. “You’ve seen me naked before.”

Yes, and that was in an emergency-medical sort of context and that focuses one’s mind in appropriate directions. This current situation has no such pressure, and he is looking. She has a softness to her despite everything, subtle curves and a certain stubborn femininity to her and-

It’s just as well the rest of his body isn’t facing her. This could get awkward.

He knows not to blame her for his physical reactions. The fact that his prick is suddenly very awake is his own failure as a man, not because she’s meant to provoke him, and somehow that realization is progress but still unhelpful. His normal strategy of just ignoring that part of his body until it behaves is not going to work fast enough here and-

“While you’re here and being weird, could you help me do my hair?”

On second thought, she just might be trying to provoke him. One can never know with that woman.

Abby has maneuvered herself under a showerhead now, turned it on and apparently decided to take advantage of the middle-of-the-night hot water tank. She moves her body like she knows he can’t look away, as if this is the most normal thing in the world for her, and he suddenly wonders how much of this is planned. He wouldn’t put it past her, if she were trying to seduce him, to do any of this. He wouldn’t-

“Could you close your eyes?” he asks, trying to gauge how cooperative she is tonight.

“Why? I’ve seen you before, you don’t have any weird scars or-“

“Other reason.”

Her eyes light up, practically glowing in the badly lit space. Frightful woman. “I trust you not to do anything I don’t initiate,” she laughs. “And I won’t make any comments.”

Marcus isn’t sure how much he believes her, but he is not going to undo the past few months of trying over this and he turns his body towards her all too aware she will look. All too aware she will see every detail he would hide, every minor flaw. He wouldn’t have voluntarily done this before… he’s not sure when they changed, really. Somewhere between falling to the ground and him overreacting to things he knew she’d do and both of them nearly dying a couple times, they got comfortable with each other, or at least he got comfortable with her. She’s never had the issues he does, he’s sure of it, nothing in her current posture suggests an attempt to hide or-

At least she isn’t subtle.

As strange as this all is for him, it’s made easier by the fact that Abby has always been an easy person for him to read. She wants what she wants and likes what she likes, and he doesn’t have to ask what’s running through her mind as she slowly looks him over. Some part of her, some dominant force in that impulse-driven black hole of her mind, wants him all over her right now. And he’d almost let her, if she asked, and-

“You wanted me to do your hair?” he asks, trying to distract her. It’s not an issue of want so much as this doesn’t feel like the right time or place for their inevitability. When they happen, and he’s known for weeks now that they would build to this, it needs to be better than testing the stability of partition walls.

“I want you to do a lot of things right now,” Abby counters, and he’s never seen her this playful for this long and it’s almost terrifying. “But yeah, if that’s what you’re comfortable with…”

He moves behind her, takes soap in hand and does what he can. Her hair is thick and surprisingly tangled given it was in her usual braid just minutes ago, and she makes pretty noises as he touches her. Frustrating woman, he’s not doing anything that should provoke her and yet-

He kisses the top of her head, their size difference just enough to make that easy, and she makes a high sound and no he cannot let this go further. Not like this, not tonight.

“Are you scared of me?” she asks as he works a knot out of the lower part of her hair, brushing his fingers against her back more than necessary.

“Why would I… you think that’s what it is?!”

“Ruled out everything else, so… yeah, I think you’re scared of me specifically because I see right through you and you think I’m going to say something and-“

“I am like that with everyone.” And yet he is having this conversation with her, because she’s right, she does see through him, no one else has ever openly noticed how he is and-

“That’s not comforting.” Abby turns her head, looking up at him through her curtain of wet hair. “If you… if something’s wrong…”

“It’s not like that. I can want to keep people from looking and still go on with my life.”

She rolls her eyes. “No wonder those rumors had legs.”

“Rumors?”

“Why you never did anything more than casual sex. And I’m not judging, personal preferences happen, but…”

She is definitely judging, he knows her too well to believe otherwise, but that’s clearly not the point here.

“I would prefer not to let myself be vulnerable,” he says after a few moments’ silence. “That’s all it is.”

“But you’re here with me.”

“You already know too much,” he murmurs. “If you wanted to go after me, this isn’t where you’d start.”

“Wouldn’t be any fun to take you down. You’ve gotten boring.” She leans up and presses her lips to his jaw, and it’s somehow heartbreaking and all he can do to pretend otherwise. Thank goodness for his beard and bad lighting. “Not that I mind, turns out I have so much free time now that I’m not focusing my entire life on outsmarting you, but…”

“Is there a compliment in there somewhere?”

“I would not have let you touch me three months ago. I would not have voluntarily been this vulnerable around you three months ago. Right now I am not at all worried what you might do and you’re less than a foot away from me and half-hard. This is my trust fall.”

“I am… you can ignore…”

“See that exactly is my point. You’re not trying to get pity sex out of me or… I doubt you would’ve done anything forceful even at your worst but I can’t rule that out. You are not a threat to me anymore and you’re barely even a pest most days and that’s weird as hell and-“

“I’m trying,” he murmurs. “You make me want to try.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” she says, reaching around him to shut the water off. “I’m not your salvation, Marcus. You need to find that in yourself. Not in me.”

She walks away, swinging her hips as she walks over to where she’s piled her things, and he feels like lightning just struck him. Like this is the kind of thing that could only ever happen between them, because no one else will ever see him as thoroughly as she does. There’s a safety in it too, a certainty that everything that happened tonight will stay between them because for a person of her position she has very few friends and who would she even tell about this and-

“I’m not sure what you did, but thank you.”

She glances over her shoulder at him, hands paused as she tries to put her bra back on. “I’m not sure I did anything at all, but you’re welcome.”

#pixievixen #kabby #ebf writes fic

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