#I am in a very privileged spot when it comes to my gender

[divineyetinpain]

I would also like to add as a non-binary fem presenting person that I HATE how my fellow somethings get misgendered constantly because they don’t “look” androgynous enough. I’m lucky that I can easily hide under the radar when it comes to traditional gender norms(as in, I have small enough breasts that it’s easy to bind or hide under huge clothes, I have short hair, and my features can look androgynous.) but my fellow theys who have bigger assets often get purposefully misgendered solely because they don’t look like how someone thinks a non-binary person should.

Or on the other end of the spectrum, they “look too masculine” to come off as non-binary. What do you want??? We can’t be too feminine? But we can’t be to masculine? We can’t have a ton of muscles because that’s too masculine? Can’t have a bulge because that’s too masculine? Can’t have huge breasts because that’s too feminine? Oh right, we also shouldn’t be fat or dark skinned or else we’re just “woke”posers trying to fit in for some reason.

NOT ALL OF US ARE PALE WHITE SKINNY PEOPLE. I don’t give a FUCK if you are too distracted by someone’s rack or bulge. Have some fucking respect to peoples pronouns and their gender.

people who hate trans men seem to overwhelmingly be of the opinion we can control how big our breasts are/were. 'me when the he/they with the biggest fattest womanest boobiest tits you've ever seen-' shut the fuck up

[fablan]

TASK 001: INTRODUCTION

Leo, AEST, & HE/HIM I am a trans man who lives in Australia! I work 5 hour shifts every weekday and am an almost-fulltime student at uni. I study criminology, sociology & international relations and love to incorporate these things in my writing!

Fabian Arias Introducing Fabian, security at X Academy. He comes across serious, sometimes brash and sometimes subservient depending on who you are to him, but he's not one to crack a smile often. He's lost, and at 36 is still learning who he is and what he's living for.

pinterest . playlist . tags pin board and playlist are wip!

[ miguel gomez, cis-man, he/him ] Look who just landed! FABIAN ARIAS, I sure hope you packed all you need. Perhaps you’re not worried as SECURITY of X ACADEMY. The city has plenty of spots for a 36 year old CYBORG like you. You’ll be known in the city soon enough as THE FOLLOWER, being COMMITTED and INDIFFERENT. ( leo, 25, AEST, removed for discretion )

Full Name: Fabian Arias

Nickname: n/a

Date of Birth: 2370

Gender: cis man

Pronouns: he/him (does not mind they/them)

Sexual Orientation: unlabeled

Romantic Orientation: unlabeled

Current Age: 36

Modification: cyborg

Affiliation: x academy

Birthplace: mars, marineris point (destroyed city)

Current Neighbourhood: sora

Occupation: security for x academy

Known Languages:  english, spanish

Step 3: biography

tw: war and war crimes, violence, trauma

fabian is the younger son from a very rich currently unnamed family. he was raised in privilege, which he was utterly blind to, instead resentful and furious at the constant reminders that he was second to, lesser than his older brother, who was set to inherit all wealth.

born in a city which became war-torn when he was a young man, he was drafted into the military where he managed to make something of himself. allowing all cybernetic enhancements recommended to him by his family or his superiors, he immediately stands out with led eyes, a steel jaw and several enhanced (or utterly replaced) limbs. he suffered in the war, in ways he still has not fully come to terms with. but it ended with the destruction of the entire city, at which point he and his family became refugees.

luckily for him, it's very easy to be a rich refugee. they found their way to new jakarta all together, a city which had been uninvolved in the conflict, and his family settled in sora. but adapting to a world of peace, returning to his role as second-best, everything was suddenly wrong. his ptsd diagnosis was treated with bandaids and a glossy finish, and fabian had to fight to understand his own changing needs and identity.

he deviated from his family's control, slowly at first. they didn't need to know that he was getting involved with them; some gangs, some just criminals, some vagrants. it was a world where he felt more real, more like a person. eventually, he met someone (wanted connection) for whom he was willing to lose everything. he spent up all the power he had to his name to help them, and after doing so, his family won't look at him the same way.

he changed his name, not out of an attempt to disown them but out of a desire not to shame them. after everything, there's still that little boy within, craving his family's approval and acceptance. he moved out, took on a job at x academy, and months blended into years. this was the new normal.

he still talks to his family, but sparingly. his purpose is that person who he helped, though he sees himself as little more than a hanger-on in their life.

[0xo]

ughhhhh long rant incoming

gender feelings as a two spirit Indigenous person who's reconnecting are just.,, it's something. i am doing my best. i don't really have anyone nearby irl to talk to about this really bc like. my family situation is complicated. i know who i come from and i have ppl to talk to about it and yes it is very community based but i also feel very alone sometimes. bc most everyone immediately around me irl is white or not Indigenous and like, they're cool, love my friends, but... like... there's things you don't and shouldn't share with outsiders. and im so young that it's not my place to share at all really, im not an educator, im still learning every day. but it's kind of hard to not even really be able to explain this stuff to my wife/girlfriend/close friends. and i don't really like to be that open on the internet abt specifically being two spirit bc it opens up Assumptions and Questions from strangers about shit that really is not their business at all.

it's weird! i can say that i enjoy keeping my hair in the way i do, a style mostly associated with men in my tribe, it feels good. to rest in that masculinity. i really hate ppl trying to assign me as femme or butch when like... mmm... any masculinity or femininity i have is squarely outside of what most people around me can even conceptualize. my gender is so entangled with my spirituality that it's almost pointless to try explaining it to ppl who aren't already knowledgeable. and i find a lot of comfort in seeing two spirit people talk online openly, and then i feel like a coward for not being able to do that. but im not... like... a spokesperson or representative for my people, i am not qualified for it and i honestly just don't want to be. i just want to exist. but maybe exist in a space with other people Like Me. because as awesome as my trans friends are i still feel outside.

i don't even really know how to go abt finding two spirit ppl in my area to connect with and it's nerve-wracking to even approach bc so many ppl don't mask anymore and that's a whole other issue. i guess i just feel isolated on the whole and like. online connection has been great but. i want more people in my physical life who understand queerness through an Indigenous lens and are also considerate of physical disability and that just feels like asking toooooo much.

idk just in a weird spot. i don't talk about it a ton. everyone assumes i'm white bc like, i am, i am racialized that way and i know that and that's fine. highly aware of the privilege that comes with that and how i gotta be careful. but it also leaves me very little room to talk about my actual experiences and life and My Actual Gender Identity, without people getting way too invasive or just straight up racist / on some high horse about blood quantum / bullshit bullshit bullshit. so much bullshit.

i know it's not even a fraction as bad as what other ppl deal with, i know. and i will always stick up for other Indigenous people, especially Black Indigenous people who have their "validity" as Indigenous people questioned. bc it's all just a white supremacist way to disconnect us from our family and our heritage and our traditions. Indigenous is Indigenous is Indigenous and i know that.

just struggling a bit to find where i fit in with a local community. i hate feeling like i have to give up such an innate part of myself to participate in my local queer scene without being questioned/hounded 24/7 by (mostly white, 99.99% non-Indigenous) people. like please god quit treating me weirdly or like im some unerring fount of mystical knowledge, it's not For You, im really very tired of it. im so tired.

[neqeyam]

Dilucxreader and kaeyaxreader hc’s

Let me start off by saying: THIS IS NOT KAELUC,,, I DON’T SHIP THEM AND IF YOU DO STAY FAR AWAY FROM ME. 

with that out of the way, let’s get into some hc i have about everyones favorite siblings!

some of these may be a little NSFW, but for the most part they should be SFW.

Diluc is gentle with it where as Kaeya can go rough or be gentle. 

Diluc is a dom, and a very good one at that. 

Neither of them are straight, Diluc gives me closeted Bi vibes, Kaeya is definitely Pan & Proud(TM) (Kaeya’s reasoning is “if you catch my eye, you catch my eye”)

Diluc also gives me confused about his gender vibes, so I’m thinking that once when he was little he tried on a dress and loved it so much he wore it for like three days straight, his father was a little concerned but figured it wouldn’t hurt to let the boy have his freedom while he could. Kaeya got in on it and the maids ended up requesting tailored dresses for them. 

Kaeya often wears dresses, he loves them. 

This is also one of the reason they keep their hair long, that and for their s/o’s to braid n such. 

speaking of braids, Diluc is a MASTER braider, but kaeya can’t so much as do a fishtail, my guy couldn’t sit still long enough for that. 

Diluc’s idea of a date is taking a stroll (or carriage ride) through the hills and cliffs of mondstadt at night. 

Kaeya’s is kinda similar but he’ll take you via horse back, but he has a specific destination in mind. (probably dawn winery to steal wine from diluc) 

Diluc may hate the wine industry but my man learned all the secrets to the trade and make a KILLER cocktail (idk anything ab alcohol pls) 

Kaeya loves giving his s/o and friends piggyback rides, idk but I feel like that’s his form of PDA lol

Diluc HATEEESSSS PDA, at most he’ll hold your hand but anything else is a no go

diluc adopts diona. no i do not take criticism, he saw how Draff treats her and stole his child right out from under his nose. with the promise to Diona that he’d cut off her father from a supply of wine the best he could. He also beats the absolute FUCK out of those creeps at the Cat’s Tail that hit on her. 

same with Barbara, -you know what, fuck it, diluc adopts all the teens/kids of mondstadt- they all eat well, sleep comfortably, and are well dressed bc of Diluc. (razor doesn’t know he’s been adopted tho, diluc sorta let’s him roam. he has youngest sibling privileges) 

klee doesn’t rly spend much time w him but that’s okay bc diluc knows she has Albedo and diluc, for the most part, trust albedo not to fuck up a perfectly good kid. 

kaeya has to beat up that mf that stalks barbara daily, he takes great joy in it. 

no matter who kaeya is dating, he is always also dating Albedo, those two come as a pair (sorta- more like kaeya drags albedo into things with the promise of knowledge and experiments)

bennett has no shame in calling diluc dad and as many times as diluc has told him “i am not your dad” bennett never stops, and diluc never goes further then simply reminding him that he is not his dad. 

diluc listens to all of fischl’s stories without the need for Oz’s translations, fischl loves him and stops by Angels Share every time she comes back from her home world with more stories. 

diona and klee have a table at Angel’s Share that is reserved for them at all times, especially during school so they can do schoolwork where Diluc can keep an eye on them. 

Kaeya taught bennett how to wield a sword. end of discussion, he did i was there i saw it. 

diluc has taken to teaching razor how to use a claymore since Varka (is that his name?) is ‘away’ (probably dead lol) 

kaeya leaves little trinkets in the woods near wolvendom for razor, razor doesn’t actually know who kaeya is but he thinks he’s neat nonetheless. 

diluc and jean dated during their time as cadets, then realized they were better off as friends. then jean came out as lesbian and started dating Lisa. Kaeya will not let him live it down. 

KNIGHT IN TRAINING BESTIES!!!!! 

jean obviously had the most potential of the three of them, she was a quick learner and set herself to impossible standards. there were some younger (mostly male) knights who HATED that she was the Gold Star cadet, and often times tried to make fun of her. cue buff late teen Ragnvindr siblings who aren’t afraid to get mean. 

once diluc gets his claymore it’s all over for the people of mondstadt. my guy comes back JACKED and HOT and Donna is the only one brave enough to call it like it is. (fuck donna tho shes SO annoying lmaooo #donnakinnie) 

kaeya’s favorite pass time is poking fun at diluc. 

diluc still knows how to wield a sword, mainly bc kaeya forces him to spar with him once in awhile, it’s mainly for kaeya’s benefit but at least diluc stays sharp with two weapons. 

kaeya tried to teach diluc how to be flirty when they were teens but it,,, didn’t work LMAO 

kaeya is a fucking MASTER of hide and seek and tag. my guy is so competative for NO REASON. he refuses to lose those two games. once a lot of the people of mondstadt got together to play a game of freeze tag,, it took kaeya a little under 2 hours to tag everyone and win the game. 

kaeya tries to teach klee how to stay in jeans good graces so she doesn’t have to be in that mf room all the time. kaeya also breaks her out of that room often and just lets her go ham on some trees outside the city walls. 

recently, whenever klee feels the need to blow something up, she asks kaeya to walk with her to a special spot in dragonspine albedo showed her and kaeya acts as a chaperone and mediator for her ‘bomb tests’ 

wow theres alot more here than i though LOL,,, this is it for now ig

[soulvomit]

stuff with gender anguish about not fitting in with today’s current gender constructions

From another post I made: I need to talk about 20th century gender norms at some point as a living breathing 20th century fossil and how different it was. To most straight people, being gender non conforming meant gay, trans was on the far end of the gay spectrum, and gay was associated with being socially Not Normal at a time when you had to be Normal to get a white collar job. (The whole Normalhood thing im gonna talk about is VERY connected to mid-late 20th century construction of the white middle class.) Apropos of gender specifically... I’m not sure how 90s/00s genderfluid/genderqueer map to NB, or whether they do. It’s a big reason I am weird about IDing as NB - because it seems to mean something else than my particular understanding of my identity as it was formed in the 1990s. (Another thing is my social world being more people over 45 at this point and also I’m in a hetero relationship.) Part of 90s GQ stuff was that you could identify as a man part time, a woman part time, you could contain multitudes. “Woman-identified person with a male side” was a legit identity within that, so was “man-identified person with a female side.” You could be one person in the streets and another in the sheets. You could be several people in the sheets, especially if you were aligned with kinky culture. (And for a long time... I was.) There was a greater sense in the 90s and early 00s in genderqueerness culture that you could be GQ for no other reason than wanting to be and it wasn’t assumed to be bundled with physical dysphoria or even desire to change your public social identity. Some spaces - like West Coast geek culture and goth culture - had enough flexibility baked in that we didn’t really need to go to LGBTQ culture to explore our identities, and there was a whole geek queer sensibility that was evolving alongside of the broader LGBTQ culture that was definitely its own... thing.  And while people *say* that NB doesn’t mean any one particular thing or any of these things, that’s not always the message I get when visible NBs on TV/in film are almost always at present one very specific image or “type” of person, and that doesn’t resemble me. NB representation on TV amounts to presenting NB as a third gender with very specific codified behaviors (androgynous AFAB person who binds and has body dysphoria).   The message I get is that whatever my experience is, is better described some other way. Also the discourse around relationships with NBs is that a relationship with an NB is necessarily a queer relationship yet having been in relationships in and out of LGBTQ culture, I’m not really sure how to distinguish “a queer relationship.” My relationship is non-traditional in lots of ways and we’re both gender non-conforming in lots of ways though it doesn’t parse to most people because it’s along the lines of stuff that shouldn’t have ever been gendered in the first place. What my partner does not ever question however is his actual gender identity.  The thing is, actually publicly identifying as anything but a woman would create weird problems in my life in terms of social dynamics, and other stuff, and probably an unpredictable series of ripple effects downstream. But - that... just means I’m closeted, right? And closeted doesn’t mean your identity doesn’t exist or isn’t as unreal as someone who isn’t? And what if - as a “shapeshifter” - my relationship to myself within my relationship *is* part of that shapeshifting?  One of the things is that I’m in a heterosexual relationship. My relationship *is* one of my few spots where I’m happy in my skin, let alone happy in the world and I have no complaints with how I’m perceived in this relationship, and part of it is that practically every assumption about my gender is true, or has been true at some point, including the fact that I’m fine with being seen as a woman in the context of my relationship.  It’s in other spaces besides the intimate, that gender stuff makes my skin crawl. My deep interior gender identity is “pixels floating in the ether, which can assume any shape or form.” My gender identity among other people in non sexual friend spaces is “friend.” My partner identifies as a cis het man. I don’t feel like my relationship has any special quality that’s different from queer relationships I’ve been in, other than identities people have. If my partner doesn’t feel our relationship is queer then I don’t feel it is, either... though it’s not exactly *traditional.*  I don’t feel like our relationship is different from our hetero neighbors’ relationships regardless of whatever history I have. I have no way of knowing what my ostensibly-female ostensibly-heterosexual neighbors’ interior identities really are, or what their history is. And because we’re monogamous, it just never ever comes up. Our social world is about half queer and half not so nothing has changed. After decades of only dating people who had LGBTQ identities, and having a particular social world, now I’m with a cis het man from that same social world and nothing really has changed about the shape of my life.   I’ve moved between different spaces my entire life, sometimes I perceived myself as a boy in a girl’s body, but sometimes I didn’t, and don’t. And gender is one of the spaces in which I feel like a chameleon. There seem to be a ton of gender expression based communities that disappeared since the 90s that either disappeared or were erased from discourse and that makes this weirder/harder to talk about.  Another thing is that a lot of the discourse around pronouns (if pushed I’ll say I’m she/they but I am literally comfortable in anything, depending upon context) makes me really uncomfortable. Even in LGBTQ spaces it makes me uncomfortable. There’s the me that my friends know, and some of my family knows, and it’s a big enough world to contain that part of me at this point. I would rather not put my identity under a microscope in any space that matters. It’s weird but I wish I could just be “they” in the work, creative, etc, spaces, without the loading of what “they” means. I wish it meant nothing about the people who love me, or who I love, or how I love, or how I live my life, besides what pronoun I use. But it doesn’t mean nothing. That is why I hope more cis identified people will actually identify as they in the public sphere. There are plenty of spaces in the public sphere that I don’t think should be gendered at ALL. My wanting to be a “they” is in some ways more about wanting public anonymity and having formed my sense of self - at a tender time - online, than about my gender identity. Which means I’d be potentially appropriating “they” from people for whom it IS a deep identity, and yet... haven’t I spent half of my blog talking about how I’m not exactly the gender identity I advertise?? Haven’t I spent a long time up to now advocating for “they?” Isn’t feeling like a they, evidence that I’m a they?  And the thing is, this is such a YMMV issue and the problem is that EVERYONE has competing access needs with EVERYONE ELSE. Anything one queer person wants or needs seems to oppress some other queer person, and it sucks. But sometimes I wonder if I even need to just recognize how cis het passing my life is and acknowledge my privilege. The thing is though at that point... is it how much oppression we’ve experienced or are currently experiencing, that alone makes our identity? That’s as silly an idea as saying I’m less of a Jew because I haven’t personally experienced a hate crime. And yes there’s a lot to shared oppression experiences forming group identities, but I’m not talking about group identity. I’m talking about personal feelings of identity.

[ibelongtowrath]

I am so happy to meet another Satan lover such as I, if you dont mind i have an request where Satan and MC gets a kitten together and they raise it together, GN mc is appreciated, but ignore me if this is to weird :)))))) thanks love your work ❤❤❤💕💕💕

Thank you so much for the request! I hope you love it! I kind of focused a bit on their relationship, so I hope you don’t mind.

Adopting A Kitten With Satan - Satan x GN! Reader

Warnings: references to depression, so much fluff, do I even know how to write fluff?! Reader is gender neutral (no descriptors/pronouns), Satan refers to them as “kitten” a few times.

“You’re serious?!”

Satan laughs, loud and boisterous. He reaches a hand forward to cup your cheek before sliding a finger down the length of your face softly, a grin spreading across his handsome face as he watches your eyes widen in both surprise and disbelief.

“I’m serious,” he tells you. “We will visit the shelter tomorrow.”

You jump from where you’re perched on the bed, practically tackling the demon into a hug as you screech happily. He laughs once more, drinking in your elation, reveling in it. Strong arms wrap around you in a tight embrace, a tear falling from your eye to drip quietly on your cheek. Satan notices, softly stroking the expanse of your back with one hand, moving the other to caress a thumb across your face, catching the small drop on his skin. Lips press softly against the now slightly-wet spot, a reassuring touch, and your eyes close happily, eternally grateful.

“I didn’t think it would be possible to love another being as much as I love you,” Satan murmurs, “but this kitten is going to be a very close second.”

“Mm… what kind of kitten do you think will fall into our laps?” you ask, turning your head to look up at him, a shine in your eye. 

Satan chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before pulling you into his own lap and running his hands down the sides of your body. You press yourself against him, back to chest, the rhythmic serenity of his heartbeat kissing your skin. 

“Hopefully, one that’s equally adorable as the one that’s in my lap right now,” he teases, pressing featherlight kisses into the back of your neck. “Of that, I’m sure. Though, that might be difficult to achieve...for the actual kitten, that is. Not my otherworldly beauty.”

The laughter that sounds from your beautifully soft lips fills the still quiet of Satan’s bedroom. It rings out like a wind chime in the soft, cool breeze of a summer day, the lilting notes being carried swiftly, drifting to your ears. Satan closes his eyes, reveling in it, relishing every last second until it fades, quietly praying he’ll get to hear it again soon.

“Satan…,” you say suddenly, turning your head to face him. “Thank you. I-... thank you. I’m so excited.”

I need this.

The words didn’t form, didn’t fall from your lips, but Satan knows exactly what you were going to say. He knows why you felt the need to cut them short, though he wishes you didn’t feel the need to hide your emotions.

“For once, you’ll have to thank Lucifer, not me... he finally agreed to lift the kitten ban,” Satan answers, kissing the top of your head and running his fingers through your hair, lightly scratching your scalp. “It was relatively easy...with a hard promise to not have a repeat of the last time, of course.”

“I’m surprised you managed to convince him, even so.” You tilt your head up to press a soft kiss to the underside of his chin. “I’m going to have to check your coat and every single pocket before we leave, though; otherwise I imagine I’m going to hear several suspicious meows coming from questionable places.”

The beautiful sound of your laughter rings out again. Satan squeezes you just a bit harder, burying his head into your hair. It’s a sound he wants to revel in as long as possible, wishing he could manipulate time, expand those beautiful few seconds just a bit longer. With a sharp inhale and another kiss to the top of your head, he pulls back, placing a few fingers under your chin to tilt your shining eyes towards his.

“A very tempting idea, my love,” Satan murmurs against your skin. “But having the privilege of loving and doting on  two  beautifully adorable and cunning kittens is far more than enough for me.” 

A small smile plays on your lips as he gazes into you, lost in the beauty of love, of each other; the kind of look painters and photographers struggle to capture the sheer emotion of. It comes easy for him, for you. No, love is not always butterflies flitting nervously in your stomach, hearts pounding heavily behind chests. It is the comfort of a safe place in their embrace, the anchor holding you down when a storm surges the waters beneath your feet. A sense of overwhelming adoration and affection, knowing you are each other’s peace, serenity,  home .

A few more moments pass and, reluctantly moving his eyes from yours, Satan lifts you off of his lap, placing you into the bed before climbing in next to you and wrapping an arm around you, pulling your head into his chest.

“Come now, darling,” he says, pulling the sheet over you. “Get some rest. I need that pretty little mind and those beautiful, enchanting eyes sharp for our big day tomorrow.”

“Okay,” you giggle, settling against him. 

Satan’s heart beats gently through his chest and your eyelids flutter as you focus on the rhythmic lull, coaxing you to sleep. Soft kisses press into the top of your head, “I love you”-s murmured in a low, soothing voice against your skin. Your eyelids grow heavier, struggling to keep them open, barely managing to whisper a single “I love you, too” before succumbing to the sweet siren song of slumber.

He stays that way for a while, not quite willing yet to drift off. He’s content to simply hold you for a while, stroking your hair. Blue-green eyes study your peaceful features, the softest, most gentle snore sounding from your nose; he smiles softly, heart swelling with adoration, more and more with every beat. 

Was it possible for a heart to burst from too much love? For once, Satan didn’t know the answer, and he didn’t care. If that was his fate, then a happy fate it would be indeed. Every day, it grows with the way you roll over in his bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, yawning a good morning greeting. It swells each time you smile, hearing every musical laugh, the flutter of your lashes and the way you blush when he tells you that you’re beautiful. His heart grows each and every day, beating for you, more than he ever thought was possible.

It breaks a little when you cry, face streaked in tears running down your cheeks. It shatters when he sees how helpless you feel, so fragile, so broken. How he wishes he could take the pain from you, seeing the way it bears down on you, the look in your eyes when it all becomes too much. He holds you until the teardrops dry on your face, eyes and cheeks swollen from crying, kissing each one away, until you fall asleep in his embrace, your safe place. His arms are your home, your peace, your serenity.

Amidst another struggle in your battle with an invisible enemy who wreaked its havoc on your mind, Satan’s heart breaks into a million pieces as he watches you endeavor, feeling helpless himself. And so, he ran to Lucifer, despite his own pride, pleading with him to relent on his ban. He knows it won’t instantly heal you, but damn, if he wouldn’t do everything in his power to make it known you are never alone, no matter what evil your mind speaks to you.

Unsure of exactly how much time has passed since you fell asleep, Satan feels his own eyelids grow heavy. Face buried in your hair, so soft, the weight of his lids like stones dragging them down over his eyes, murmuring one last “I love you” against the top of your head before succumbing to the sweetly dark embrace of sleep.

---------

Hearing the kittens before you can even see them, your hands clap excitedly as the shelter guide leads you and Satan into the room. Some sleep, not even stirring when your shriek of excitement echoes throughout, others playing and mewling sweetly, running up towards you and the volunteer. Some pad slowly from across the room, silently observing, hesitant. 

Your eyes take them all in, an overwhelming excitement washing over you. Sinking slowly to your knees, you happily reach a hand out, scratching the nearest kitten to you gently behind the ears: orange and white stripes, sweetly meowing, purring so loudly his small body practically shakes with it. You pick him up and cradle him to your chest, looking up at Satan, eyes filled with adoration.

“I was worried about you leaving here with all the kittens hidden in your pockets,” you laugh, “but I think I should we should be more afraid of me doing that.”

There it is again, the musical chime of your laugh. Satan can’t help but to laugh with you, overcome with unbridled love as he reaches down and ruffles your hair gently. You beam a smile up at him before turning your attention back to the kittens, setting the one in your arms down next to you.

Suddenly, you feel the soft padding of a paw swat at your arm, and you laugh again, looking around to find the culprit. In your lap lays a beautiful black kitten, rich, fluffy coat shining in the light, eyes the color of peridot. Feeling your breath catch in your throat, the kitten presses himself to you, placing his paws on your face gently. The sound of his purrs fill your ears, his small body vibrating. Tears pool at the corners of your eyes as you pick him up, cradling him into your arms and pressing your face to his soft back, the soft rumble of his purring against your cheek. Turning your tear-filled eyes to shine up at Satan, you smile sheepishly up at the demon.

“Oh,  Satan … can we take him home?” you plead, standing slowly, stroking the kitten’s soft fur. “Please?”

“You already know the answer to that, my darling,” Satan chuckles, scratching the little kitten behind his ears. “I’ve already signed the papers.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, tears filled with happiness and gratitude fall, trailing slowly down your cheek and onto the kitten’s fur. He opens his eyes, blinking slowly before settling back into your arms, happily purring away, as though he knows. Satan gently brushes your tears with a thumb, a loving gesture, before pulling you into his arms, kissing the top of your head.  Like a little family . Smiling softly, you kiss the kitten’s head, offering him up to Satan. The demon takes the kitten into his arms, cooing at him, and your own heart swells with happiness and emotion and pure love.

“What should we name him?” you ask, wrapping your arms around Satan.

“Hmm…”

Satan debates a few moments, before smiling cheekily down at you.

"How about Luci?” he chuckles softly. “The perfect way to show our gratitude to my dear older brother, and annoy him at the same time.”

Your laugh rings out again, scooping the kitten into your arms from Satan’s embrace. The demon wraps his arms around you once more, kissing you deeply. His kiss feels like love, excitement, peace, tranquility,  home .

“Come,  kittens ,” Satan beckons with a wink. “Let’s get you to your forever home. There are plenty of kisses and cuddles to be had for the both of you.”

[scraregenrecs]

SC Tropefest Fest Rareships/Gen Roundup!

There were so many rare and gen fics in @sctropefest – 26 to be exact, or 31.91% of the total works! We've compiled them here for your reading pleasure, and also spotlighted some honorable mentions at the very end that were primarily David/Patrick, but featured rare sideplots. Happy reading!

A Whole Lot To Gain by yourbuttervoicedbeau, Ted/Alexis, Alexis & David, Patrick & Alexis (background David/Patrick), G, 1,721 words

A story about identity, gender, and coming out.

and my task’s but begun by treepyful, Twyla & her mother, T, 16,109 words

Twyla was seven years old and missing a front tooth when her father left.

A look into Twyla's stories.

Budd is a dud! Vote Sands. by samwhambam, Stevie/Twyla, T, 7,718 words

Her and Twyla are friends. Not great friends. But friends who get high together at parties and have known each other for a long time. And up until right now, she thought they were better friends than a shitty, mean campaign slogan.

The enemies to lovers fic where Stevie and Twyla are both running for the same seat on town council.

(but if baby, i'm the bottom) you're the top by doingthemost, Alexis/Twyla, E, 3,681 words

Alexis knows what people assume about them.

They see Twyla's bright café smile at work, and listen to how readily she agrees to whatever her customers want. They watch how Twyla hangs back during get-togethers, freeing up room for Alexis to take the spotlight and captivate the crowd. They notice how Alexis towers over Twyla in her heels, and how she's always one step ahead of her steady, cautious girlfriend.

But they don't know what it's like when they're together.

OR: Five times Twyla tops Alexis, and one time she lets Alexis top her.

Captive on the carousel of time by designatedgrape, Stevie/Twyla, Gwen & Twyla (background David/Patrick), T, 11,156 words

The predictability of Schitt’s Creek and the routines of the people who live here have always been a comfort to Twyla. In a life that has been full of uncertainty, she appreciates that there are things she can always count on. So when Jocelyn walks in at 3:07, it isn’t a surprise. At least, not at first.

“What can I get for you, Jocelyn?”

“Oh, I think I’m going to need an extra-large coffee to get through the rest of the day, Twyla. I’m headed right back over to the school to set up for tonight.”

Twyla nods and turns to start making Jocelyn’s coffee. “What’s tonight?”

“Graduation.”

Twyla pauses and looks back at Jocelyn. “Um, I think you might be a little confused. Graduation was last night.”

come home to my heart by davidbrewer, Ted/Alexis, G, 1,822 words

“Oh, my god — Ted?”

Her own voice echoes in her ears and she’s suddenly standing, dumbfounded, outside Cafe Tropical almost seven years ago. Watching Ted step into the bistro felt eerily similar to watching him step off that motorcycle for the first time. It’s the kind of shock that makes the sparkling restaurant tile quake under her Louboutins.

Except, this time, the feelings bubbling to her chest are now far more nuanced than she knows how to process — no amount of personal growth or number of self-care retreats with Oprah could’ve prepared her to suddenly come face-to-face with the first person she ever loved more than herself.

OR: Alexis has a blind date. It's not what she EX-pected.

Deadpool Strikes Back! How One Merc For Hire Sticks It to an Army of Goons, One Annoying Narrator, and The Worst Villain of All: Self-Doubt by doingthemost, Stevie/Ruth, T, 1,340 words

WAZZUP!?@ 🤯 If you're reading this, you're probably thinking, "What the hell? Stevie's Deadpool?!"

The answer's YES! 🤗 And she's pissed, and not just 'cause a bunch of goons hijacked her girlfriend. 🤬 No: the worst thing of all is the narrator she has to deal with all along the way. 🤡 Buckle up, buckos, it's a bumpy ride!

AND DON'T FORGET TO LISTEN TO THE PODFIC!! AND OOH, DID I MENTION THERE'S ART?!

didn’t ask for this--you freely gave it (so now i watch your mouth for both of us) by Yellow_Bird_On_Richland, Alexis/Twyla, T, 6,371 words

Alexis chops her name down to three letters like it's nothing.

Twyla thinks about it a lot.

everyday the hold is getting tighter (and it troubles me so) by budd, Stevie/Ruth, M, 1,228 words

Stevie and Ruth end up sharing the last bed at the newest addition to Rosebud Motel Group.

Gonna Watch You Shine by yourbuttervoicedbeau, Johnny & Stevie, G, 1,127 words

Found Family Feelings: The Johnny & Stevie edition.

heaven is a place not too far away by doingthemost, Alexis/Twyla, Ted/Alexis (Previous), Alexis/Mutt (Previous), Alexis & David, Alexis & Moira (background David/Patrick), T, 8,267 words

"Oh, but soulmate marks are real." Her mother's expression softens. "Always one-sided, unfortunately. So difficult to know when you've truly met your soulmate without a matching indicator on the part of the other person, or other persons, if you're following." Her mother winks, and Alexis makes a face. "Your father was the exact same way. The poor little lamb couldn't carry a tune until he met me!"

"So you and Dad..." Alexis' head is spinning. "You guys are, like, actual soulmates."

"Very much so." Her mother appraises her carefully. "And you must have met yours, too."

"Yeah." Alexis blinks, stunned to find that she's short of breath. "I guess so."

OR: Alexis' soulmate mark – the ability to sing – triggers when she moves to Schitt's Creek.

i always felt i must look better in the rear view by davidbrewer, Alexis & David, Alexis/Twyla, David/Patrick, Alexis & David & Johnny & Moira, T, 13,152 words

“I have everything I need right here,” Twyla says, and something very fond stirs in Alexis’s chest. “I don’t need to wish for anything else. But you… You have big dreams, Alexis, and… If anyone deserves to have their wishes come true, it’s you. I want you to have it.”

OR: When her family's past stands in the way of a career opportunity, Alexis makes a wish that completely upends their lives all over again... but is it really what she wants?

If Hell Had a Creek by High-Seas-Swan, sonlali, sunlightsymphony, Gen, T, 9,139 words

After losing everything, the Roses are forced to move to their only remaining asset, the town of Schitt's Creek. Also, the town is on the Hellmouth, and Alexis is the Slayer.

If You Could See The Other Side Of Me by yourbuttervoicedbeau, Stevie/Alexis, Stevie & David (background David/Patrick) T, 3,473 words

Stevie has a teeny, tiny little celebrity crush.

It doesn't mean anything.

In The Running by floosilver8, Stevie/Twyla, M, 3,587 words

Stevie and Twyla run against each other for Town Council.

No Dress Rehearsals by kindofspecificstore, Patrick & Ted, Patrick/Rachel, Miguel/Ted, Patrick/David, G, 3,770 words

Life Happens to Ted and Patrick, and music is one of the things that helps them through it. Discovering a mutual love for the Tragically Hip forges a kind of friendship neither of them had before.

Or, just two boys talking about their feelings in a Tim Horton's parking lot.

putting roots in my dreamland by lilythesilly, Alexis/Twyla, G, 4,078 words

“Are roses your favorite flower?” Twyla asks, setting it down.

“Mm, no, but they’re kind of my brand?” she says, picking it up to snap a picture on her phone. “And as cute as it would be to have a peony in my logo, my company isn’t named ‘Alexis Peony Communications.”

“So, Alexis...Rose?” Twyla puts together, the name sounding vaguely familiar. Alexis nods, taking a photo at a different angle. “Well, I’m Twyla. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Twyla,” Alexis says slowly. Twyla loves the sound of her name in Alexis’s voice. “Nice to meet you.”

--

a twylexis flowershop au

Rollin’ With the Homies by doingthemost, Alexis/Twyla, Stevie/Ruth, Ted/Miguel (background David/Patrick), T, 9,917 words

So I know it seems like I live in this, like, super privileged world. Or maybe, like, a rip-off of The O.C. – or even worse, Laguna Beach, ugh! But I swear, I have a totally normal life!

Alexis Rose is just your totally average 16 year old with two annoying older siblings, David and Stevie, and a totally normal crush on her best friend, Twyla Sands. It's completely chill. She isn't, like, totally buggin'.

AKA: the Clueless AU.

Taste of a Poison Paradise by lilythesilly, Alexis/Twyla, M, 15,107 words

“Where have you been?” Stevie yells, kicking someone in the face and sending them over the railing.

“Stealing fireworks,” Rachel grunts, grabbing a stray piece of pipe off of the floor and bringing another one of them to their knees before delivering a swift roundhouse kick to their face.

“Oooh, these are fireworks?” Alexis grins with a small shimmy. “Love that for us.”

Green vines encircle the railings and Twyla jumps over it a second later. “I got the cane plus some other stuff,” she says, tossing it and another bag to Alexis and wrapping one of the ones around a guy trying to climb the railing to get up to them, dropping him onto the floor. “Let’s go.”

--

Be gay, do crimes but make it a Harley Quinn AU

The Blouse Barn Divorce Ranch by Amanita_Fierce, dairaliz, danieljradcliffe, DelilahMcMuffin, doingthemost, fairmanor, fishyspots, foxtails, GodOfLaundryBaskets, hagface, High-Seas-Swan (FangLang), hullomoon, Januarium, KiwianaPods (kiwiana), middyblue (daisyblaine), nontoxic, RhetoricalQuestions, roguebaby, schittposting, ships_to_sail, singsongsung, SparklesMagicLightLove, sunlightsymphony, thetomkatwholived, yourbuttervoicedbeau (kiwiana), Alexis/Twyla, Jake/Rachel, Ted/Miguel, Stevie/Ruth, David/Patrick, M, 26,226 words

Hello, I am Wendy Kurtz, proprietor of the Blouse Barn Divorce Ranch, the world’s premier spot for couples looking to get a speedy divorce and connect with other soon-to-be divorcees.

I’d like to highlight the stories of five couples, who rearranged into five other couples, from some past summer. These ten people came to the Blouse Barn Divorce Ranch with the intention of ending a marriage, and got that and so much more.

I could recount their journeys with 100% accuracy, but where’s the fun in that? Let’s let them tell us themselves.

OR: One crazy summer in Las Vegas brings the heat and then some.

The Devil’s Work is Never Done by doingthemost and schittposting, Alexis or Stevie or Twyla/Reader, Gen, 68 words

If you were faced with temptation, what would you do?

The Guestbook of David and Patrick Rose-Brewer, by sonlali, Gen, T, 900 words

“A home isn't always the house we live in. It's also the people we choose to surround ourselves with.” — The House in the Cerulean Sea

A look through the entries in David and Patrick's wedding guestbook

Through Someone Else’s Eyes by yourbuttervoicedbeau, Alexis & David, T, 1,351 words

It's all Mr Hockley's fault.

The tea was supposed to get him high, not make him wake up in his sister's body.

To the end of the reckoning by dinnfameron, Patrick & Ronnie, T, 1,308 words

He should get David a coffee. He could deliver it to the motel, see how he’s doing. His arm is raised halfway to flag Twyla down when he catches himself. David doesn’t want to see him right now. He may never want to see Patrick ever again. The thought makes him sick.

“Brewer.” Patrick turns at the sound of his name. There aren’t many people in this town who call him that, and sure enough, there’s Ronnie Lee at a table near the front. He’d missed her, somehow.

“You look like shit,” she says.

[art] you know what they say: better late than never by budd, Alexis/Twyla, G, 274 words

While unpacking her boxes to move into Alexis' apartment in New York City, Twyla finds a stash of her old business cards from when she wrote a column for young members of the LGBTQIA+ community in The Advocate.

You’d be the love of my life by doingthemost and sonlali, Alexis/Twyla, M, 6,650 words

Alexis needs a date to a last-minute Interflix party on Valentine's Day so she can make Zac Efron jealous. Naturally, she asks her best friend and crush, Twyla, to pretend to be her girlfriend for the event. What could possibly go wrong?

BONUS CONTENT:

We wanted to also highlight some fics that are David/Patrick centric, but also include a rarepair side plot! These could be a great place to start for those who haven’t dipped their toe into rarepairs yet, but are intrigued by the idea.

I Waited My Whole Life by agoodperson, David/Patrick and Stevie/Twyla, T, 23,402 words

David is just going to have to come up with something, because there is just no way that he can let Patrick Brewer catch him going to another of the town's many weddings on his own.

Wheel of Fortune: New York Edition! by middyblue, David/Patrick and Alexis/Twyla, T, 10,521 words

Patrick spends his evenings with his new roommate Stevie watching NY1's Wheel of Fortune spin-off hosted by Johnny and David Rose, until one day he accidentally bumps into David Rose himself on the train and starts to fill in some of the blank spaces in his life.

You Happened by lilythesilly, David/Patrick and Stevie/Twyla, T, 54,271 words

David Rose is many things: talented, creative, fashion-forward, well read—the list can go on, but at the very top of that list is Extremely Rich. So he doesn’t understand why his father is making him work at Rose Video—or why Patrick Brewer, a boy he's had virtually no interaction with since they were twelve, is suddenly always around.

An enemies-to-coworkers-to-friends-to-lovers high school au.

You Look Like a Movie, You Sound Like a Song by fishyspots, E, David/Patrick and Stevie/Twyla, 18,683 words

David has often wished, at first seriously and then more cynically as he grew older, that his life was a rom com. It takes longer than he'd like, frankly, but the universe calls his bluff.

You’re the star at the top of my tree by schittposting, T, David/Patrick and Alexis/Twyla, 10,392 words

Patrick Brewer comes to Schitt's Creek with a goal: drive Rose Apothecary out of business so Christmas World can take over its space. He's not counting on falling for its owner.

Happy reading friends! x

[bellafarallones2]

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

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

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

“Anyone sitting here?” said Duck.

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

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

“Indrid. I also use he/him.”

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

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

“Excuse me?” Indrid looked amused.

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

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

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

“Yeah, I’m going that way.”

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

“You an art major?” Duck asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

“Mind if I join you?” said Duck.

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

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

Indrid nodded.

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

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

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

Indrid shrugged. “You’re good company.”

--

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

Duck probably should spend less time thinking about his mouth.

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I kiss you?” Duck said.

“Yes please.”

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

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

Indrid shook his head.

“Want to watch a movie and make out?”

“That sounds perfect.”

[jcmorrigan]

001 - Tales of Zestiria?

Favorite character: It's a tough call between Maltran and Symonne, and Lunarre is trailing right behind both. I tend to call them the "Heldalf Squad," but make no mistake, Heldalf himself isn't part of it. I just like his swagalicious minions. The dry and sarcastic political manipulator, the sadistic and wordy theater nerd, and the flamboyant cannibal who hates everything. Yes. LOVE. But I have to give a shout to my boy Dezel on the hero side! Angsty/stoic characters are very hit-or-miss with me, but Dezel is the flavor I love - obvious soft spots and quirks, and slowly he builds from being antisocial to showing how big his heart is. When he stops the woman from leaping off the Guinevere tower...that's one of my favorite scenes in the entire game, because you can see when the switch flips, when he realizes that he CANNOT stay aloof any longer when there's a stranger's life on the line. He's still a grump about it but a compassionate grump.

Least Favorite character: Heldalf. His backstory is really clever, and I like the curse on him. But he himself just feels like Ganondorf but more boring. I kinda hate that he's so vanilla when his three lieutenants are in my arsenal of pet villains from the vastness of fiction. Also shout-out to Chancellor BART in the opening Ladylake act, because I distinctly remember liveblogging this to a friend, and I played Zestiria *after* Berseria (I'd loved Berseria and that's why I eventually sought out Zestiria) so here I am just comparing up the corrupt church in Ladylake to the Abbey's suave rogues gallery like "Yeah no BART has nothing on Lady Teresa Linares." Thankfully BART was never seen again.

5 Favorite ships (canon or non-canon): DezeRose, SorMik, Symonne x Coco Atarashi (The World Ends With You), Alisha Diphda x Sergei Strelka, and...I swear you have to bear with me here...Zaveid x Anna (Frozen). I also kinda wanna note a couple ships I'm on the fence about for my other favies - those being Maltran x Ebony Maw (Marvel Cinematic Universe or Marvel Ultimate Alliance) and Lunarre x Arkham (Devil May Cry).

Character I find most attractive: Dezel. It is a scientific fact that guys with pointy teeth are just hotter.

Character I would marry: Maybe Dezel, maybe Sergei. I wouldn't want to take them from those I see as their wifeys, but at the same time, they are husband goals, both of them.

Character I would be best friends with: Catch me clinging to Maltran's train and she drags me along annoyedly as I yell "PLEEEEAAASE LET ME HANG OUT WITH YOU GUYS" and Lunarre is losing it laughing while Symonne rolls her eyes

a random thought: So I toyed around with basically every accessory I picked up, and I decided to put the sideburns on Rose because fuck gender roles. Well then I just got used to seeing her with facial hair in every cutscene where her 3D model was used, and now I headcanon that she does get it. Maybe nonclassical CAH intersex? Like, I don't necessarily see her as trans (but I support everyone who hc's her as such) but moreso "a cis woman, but I grow this stupid damn facial hair like a dude and I don't get why." And this is why you shouldn't let me play with customizable accessories on RPG characters because I can and will abuse my privilege to headcanon.

An unpopular opinion: That this is actually a very good game. Listen, I think I get it - the initial marketing promised something far different. And that's disappointing. But coming back to it several years after its release, after the release of its PREQUEL, when I never had that hype building up...it actually exceeded my expectations. I held off from it for a while because I thought Eizen's fate would make me too sad, but that didn't end up the case at all. I actually had just come off playing a more recently-released triple-A game that was hyped up for years, and I completed it to my satisfaction in 20 hours. $80 for 20 hours. Zestiria gave me my money's worth in comparison; it took me about 60, and I loved just how MUCH story it had to offer me. I honestly like Rose better than Alisha anyway (Rose was one of the biggest aspects that interested me about playing it in the first place). I've also seen complaints that the characters weren't well-developed enough? Which I just kinda take to mean "They didn't angst enough." Listen. There are PLENTY of games out there if you want angst and sad stories. I don't really like sad stories in my games. I like adventures where the party is a goofy foundfam that jokes around with each other and helps each other work through shitty situations, and that's EXACTLY what I got. (And Berseria really worked on me too because it kinda started at the bottom of the angst barrel, then worked its way up through "The edgy and tortured protag has gained a party of idiots and oh noooooo she's learning friendship and happiness.") Dezel's death is one of the few game deaths that just made me SATISFIED to watch instead of depressed because of the closure he got and the themes tied into his final moments and sacrifice. I loved going on this adventure, I loved the idiots who I went on it with, and I loved seeing what Glenwood had to offer me in world design the further I explored.

my canon OTP: There's not much for canon romance in this game, come to think of it. Just subtext and some flirting. So I'm blanking on if there actually were any canon couples at all.

Non-canon OTP: DezeRose! Which maybe can be considered almost-canon based on the amount of subtext, but still. It's adorable. (And it's the exact same dynamic as EiRoku except M/F and a thousand years later. I need these four to double date...the dual-wielding goofs with their edgy, grumpy Reapers...)

most badass character: Rose! Not only able to wield the Shepherd's Armatization powers, but also to be a dang good assassin on her own, able to hold her own against Heldalf before she even had her eyes opened to seraphim! Though a shout-out goes to Edna because her armatization was my favorite to play with. There's something just satisfying about bashing the enemy in front of you with a pair of GIANT FISTS

pairing I am not a fan of: RoseAli. To be honest, it was at one point something I kinda enjoyed as a third-tier ship for Rose (Dezel first, then Lailah in second). But then...Alisha's Story. I didn't actually purchase it, thank goodness, just watched it on YouTube, and it was the most grating addition that anyone could've made to this game. First of all, I can sum up the issues with Alisha's Story by reminding everyone that it canonized a secret entrance to Camlann that was much easier to get to and wasn't protected by Muse's sacrifice. But the real thing that hurt to watch was how far down they had to knock Rose and Alisha's friendship to get them to rebuild from scratch. Rose claiming she was never Alisha's friend because she's grieving Sorey? The two of them getting into a PHYSICAL FISTFIGHT over it? Nope nope nope. That's not my Rose. Even less my Rose is that whole scene where she...you know...pounces on Alisha to dress her in the silly noblewoman's dress, and it's framed like...let's just say it's really uncomfortable to watch if you don't know the punchline is just a silly outfit. Even though Alisha's Story isn't canon in my head, it still really killed any buzz I had for RoseAli. I will also say I'm not a big fan of Eizavie - first of all, EiRoku or bust in this house, and second, I have a little bit of a hard time seeing Zaveid as mlm due to how much he goes on and on about The Ladies(TM). (Though I could see Eizen as having a tiny crush on him, though. Just like "Oh no he's hot but he's connected to Aifread's disappearance help")

character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another): Mostly just in Alisha's Story. I was mad about the aforementioned Rose stuff, but also...like...they undid Lunarre's original cathartic death, they did so to team him back up with Symonne and then do a whole fakeout that they had Maltran with them too, but Maltran is just an illusion and immediately after this, Lunarre and Symonne just decide "Yeah, we're not gonna work together anymore, have a nice life." Why does Maltran need to stay dead if LUNARRE somehow survived EXPLODING? And just...look to next question for more clarification:

favourite friendship: I just want to imagine that Maltran, Lunarre, and Symonne were weird evil friends. The kind who'd take artistic selfies and caption them "Murder and mayhem with my besties!". Maybe they even had a sibling dynamic. They were all pretty dang jaded, so I like to think they sat around sometimes talking about the things in this world that did them wrong. The reasons they were drawn to Heldalf. Heldalf himself wouldn't have cared, he would've kicked them around like disposable tools, but the three of them were too entrenched in his dogma to see it. Maybe if they met up again after he was off the board...then they'd sing a different tune. Realize they're all three better than this, and now they're gonna do things THEIR way, because remember when they made a three-point attack on Glenwood and Sorey was barely able to keep up with them wrecking Lastonbell AND Pendrago AND Glaivend? Remember when Lunarre and Symonne had each other's backs the night Dezel died? Now they can do what they want on their terms! And I just - I have many MANY feelings about these three.

character I want to adopt or be adopted by: Okay silly self-insert time but the thing is, Archibald Snatcher (The Boxtrolls) and Roman Torchwick (RWBY) are my two favorite parental f/o's (and also my OTP to end all OTPs), and I have this thing about how they'd be PERFECT crime dads to Symonne in particular because she's like a little, more theatrical Neopolitan. So there's a universe in my head where Symonne is basically already my little sister, and I look out for her - well, okay, she's a seraph with powerful Artes and I am a powerless mortal so really she looks out for me because "I suppose SOMEONE has to make sure you don't die" and I am grateful to her for it.

[romancingromanoff]

Pride and Joy (Natasha x f!reader)

Author’s note: Pride is first and foremost a celebration we are privileged to have because of the bravery and sacrifices of so many. It was black trans women that lead the Stonewall Riots back in 1969 and yet black trans women remain some of the most vulnerable in our community. We need to step up. I’ve linked some petitions and places where you can donate at the end of this post so please, please, please, don’t ignore them.

Plot: Two gay girls head to Pride and you end up gaining some attention. Also this one is super cheesy but I’ve just got to accept that cheesy is my go-to style ugh. I also used she/her/hers pronouns for this one but if you’d like for me to do gender-neutral or use any other sort of pronouns just let me know and I’d be glad to do so :)

The cafe door swung open again and two new voices came under her radar.

“I’m telling you, every year this is THE spot to pick up cute femme girls.”

“I’m sorry, but did you miss the group of straight white frat boys obnoxiously ingesting natty light across the street?! They’re completely killing the vibe. Honestly, it should be a crime for the straights to show up here.”

“No, that’s the point,” the first person began to explain before lowering their voice to only a few notches above a whisper. “Brad and Chad over there hit on the stray femme girls with the whole ‘Oh, you just haven’t been with the right guy yet’ spiel and then try to convince them that they can change their mind. That’s when we step in, put them in their place, bruise their masculinity a bit, and ba-da-bing ba-da-boom, you’re the hero and you get to sweep her off her feet.”

“Jen, you’re a genius.”

“I know that’s what I’ve been telling you! Now buy me some iced coffee cause I’m broke.”

It was an solid plan that the pair of friends obviously didn’t want anyone else to overhear. Fortunately for them, Natasha couldn’t care less. As she continued to sit there sipping on her tea, no one would suspect that she was a former assassin casually eavesdropping into every individual conversation going on. It was technically her day off, but hey, she had time to kill while she was waiting and not much to entertain herself with. So Natasha silently applauded the two and continued on with her crossword puzzle. 

The parade wasn’t normally her scene, but the redheaded avenger knew she just couldn’t say no to her girlfriend who was ecstatic about her first Pride. 

“Nat, pleeeeeeeassee???” You had begged her all the way up till the night before to go with you. “I was kidding with the matching shirts. You don’t have to wear it, just please come.”

“Fine,” she gave in with a playful roll of her eyes. “But just so you know, it’s going to be crowded, loud, and you’re going to get pretty sweaty. I know you want to wear those rainbow slip-ons Bucky got you for Christmas but please don’t. They offer zero support for your arches.”

Natasha then continued to lecture you on safety 101. Don’t put your phone in your back pocket, blah blah, don’t wear a backpack, blah blah blah. It was a lot to follow just to make sure your paranoid girlfriend didn’t have to worry about you, but you knew it was all out of love. Unfortunately, the one thing you’d forgotten about before leaving the house was going to the bathroom, which is why the two of you had made a pitstop at a small corner cafe.

“The girl who just came out of the bathroom,” the voice that belonged to Jen almost caused Natasha to jolt. “See what I mean?”

“Yeah, she’s cute,” the other one woefully confirmed that they were, indeed, talking about her girlfriend.

You were dressed down in a white “Love is Love” t-shirt that sported two rainbow stick-women holding hands under a rainbow. It was supposed to go with Natasha’s matching black one but she was very against supporting capitalist corporations that sought to make money off of Pride Month merchandise. The rest of your outfit’s ensemble consisted of your favorite pair of shorts and some comfy white sneakers but the real show-stopper was your hair. It had taken hours of braiding to weave your hair so intricately into the flower crown that had taken even longer to craft. You were excited to show off your DIY project you’d had pinned on Pinterest for the last few years even if Nat hadn’t understood the hype.

“Sweetheart, you’re putting hours of work into this thing. I know you like doing it but we can just buy you one and save you the trouble.”

“That’s not the point, Nat,” you sighed never looking up from the hot glue gun you were trying to wield. “I get that I might not be super gifted when it comes to creative things like this but I’ll just feel proud of myself knowing I did it when it’s all put together.”

And right now, Natasha was really wishing she had pushed back harder and gone with the store-bought crown because you were standing there looking like a woodland fairy princess with your bubblegum lipgloss and GODDAMNIT why did her girlfriend have to be so freakin adorable all the time!?? 

You were still searching the crowd as Natasha’s blood began to boil. Jealousy urged her to march straight up to you and begin making out, claiming you as hers in front of everybody. Then the two of you would storm out of there, confront the gross heteros that would undoubtedly hit on Y/N, she’d beat them up and it’d be a solid victory for the badass super spy. A possible bonus could be that you get too frazzled and end up going home early.

But then she hesitated thinking that maybe you wouldn’t appreciate that. “No,” she thought to herself and calculated a better plan. “That’s possessive, gross, and directly from the straight male playbook. I love Y/N. I respect her. And holy fuck I guess I really am just gonna do this.”

Nat’s eyes ironically enough lit up at that same moment when you finally spotted her and waved eagerly with a giant smile on your face. She wasn’t too ecstatic about what she knew she had to do, but she knew it would make you happy.”

“Hey babe!” you greeted her with your full attention. It was clear from your demeanor that you were oblivious to the fact Jen and quite possibly many others were checking you out. “I’m ready to go now.”

“Actually, I think I might have to go too, but wait here,” Nat casually mentioned before slipping into the bathroom. That caught you off guard and you figured something was going on. Natasha never had to go to the bathroom. I mean, she did have to go, obviously, but it was never random and certainly never in public restrooms. Your anxiety began climbing as you went through all the scenarios in your head. Could it be that something was about to go down? You were sure that she had it handled but it bothered you slightly that she hadn’t told you ahead of time. Unless it was something more serious and urgent? There was that one time you two had gone on a day cruise but ended up getting airlifted out of the ocean when Nat ran into some Serbian gun traders. Your stomach was doing flips out of fear that you all might be in danger as you hesitantly knocked on the door.

“Nat, is everything okay?” you shook. “I don’t want to stress you out if you have some important stuff to do, but I am a little worried that-”

Door swung open and there she stood: Your gorgeous girlfriend, NOT suited up, but in fact wearing the matching black t-shirt.

“Seriously?! You know that you almost gave me a heart attack over here!” you half cry half beam with joy at the sight of your girlfriend laughing hysterically at you.

“I know and I’m sorry babe,” she kissed you sweetly on your forehead. “But these girls over there were checking you out and I had to make a quick change into this.”

“But you actually brought it? Sam didn’t have to do like a fly-by and drop it off to you in super stealth mode?”

Her reaction to your question was too good. “No, of course I brought it. We used the same bathroom right? You know there’s no window in there. How would Sam even be able to-”

You interrupt her with a quick peck on the lips. “Shut up and stop making me feel dumb, I’m just touched that you brought it and have it on now. We’re gonna get such great couple photos!”

“Oh shit, they’re definitely together,” Natasha could overhear Jen’s friend comment from across the cafe.

“I mean that sucks but also they make such a cute couple!” Jen unknowingly complimented the two which made Natasha laugh quietly to herself. She really had no reason to feel threatened or insecure about her relationship. Y/N was an amazing girlfriend and if there were any areas of improvement then they’d probably be on Natasha’s side. The spy then made a mental note to show appreciation for her more before remembering another detail.

“Actually, do you mind going out the back door? There’s just a sleazy group of straight guys out there hitting on women that I don’t care to run into.”

“Ew, let’s definitely do that,” you agreed wholeheartedly. “You know guys like that deserve to be put in their place.”

“Don’t encourage me,” Nat bit her bottom lip, ever-so tempted. “Because I was considering that at first.”

“No,” you grabbed her arm twisting her back around to you. “We should go over there and see if they actually have the nerve. And if they do, you beating them up honestly sounds super hot right now.”

“Wait, I thought you didn’t condone violence,” Nat raised an eyebrow at your proposition.

“Normally I don’t. But you’d look so cute doing it in our matching t-shirts!”

Nat rolled her eyes, smiling, thinking of how proud she was of her girlfriend.

LINKS

Petition for Justice for Tony McDade: https://www.change.org/p/justice-for-tony-mcdade

GoFundMe for Tony McDade's Funeral and Family: https://www.gofundme.com/f/in-memory-of-tony-mcdade

Petition for Justice for Dominique Fells: https://www.change.org/p/philadelphia-police-department-justice-for-dominique-fells

GoFundMe for Dominique Fells' Funeral Costs: https://www.gofundme.com/f/dominiquefells

Petition for Justice for Riah Milton: https://www.change.org/p/liberty-townships-board-of-trustees-justice-for-riah-milton-womanmurdered-in-liberty-township-ohio

[flying-elliska]

i’m seeing a lot of people angry at her so I want to come back to what Alexia said, because she’s introducting a very important point that I think will be a key aspect of the season. It was just worded very poorly. 

Attraction is socially constructed. That doesn’t mean that who we are attracted to is entirely determined by society but it still plays a huge role. Society in general teaches us that people who are attractive in general are those who are : thin, white/pale skinned, have symmetrical features, look like they are middle class, and are yes, non-disabled (and also the right gender, etc) These are the people who play the love interests, who are given the main spots in any stories, are presented as morally worthy and desirable, play the heroes, chosen as representatives, etc etc...of course this trickles down in collective mentality. Meanwhile people who are not these things are generally presented as weird, non-attractive, are often the villains, that being attracted to them is a joke/unfortunate, at best they are comedic value/the sidekick. You cannot tell me that Alexia, as a chubby bisexual girl (whose OG counterpart was exactly reduced to a comedic/sidekick role!!) is unaware of that. 

But yes, she worded it wrong, which I think most people are staying at. When she says ‘you have to learn to be attracted to them’ it sounds as ‘you have to make an effort/push yourself to be attracted to them’. While to me the point is : you have to unlearn keeping yourself from being attracted to them. 

(A personal example : in my early twenties I went to a bicon and I met a fat, nonbinary masculine-presenting person who I felt incredibly attracted by ; and then i freaked out. Because I hadn’t met a lot of trans/nb people by then, I was dipping my feet in the activism pool, and also generally fat people are presented as gross in most media, it really caused me to freeze up. Because this person was funny, incredibly charming, and yes, cute - and we got on well - but I didn’t pursue that contact because my brain just got stuck on ‘yeah but people like this person...aren’t they supposed to be freaks/not attractive’ etc etc. Which is really a shame. And I think on some level we are all affected by that. People who are attracted to people who are outside of that very rigid and strict norm often end up feeling bad/shameful about their attraction ; a lot of people just block themselves from considering people outside of the norm as potential partners in the first place.)

What happened to me is that Alexia heard her friends being openly and jokingly prejudiced and she tried to educate them, but because it was a chill setting and she probably didn’t consider it very important and didn’t want to be seen as the bore, she said it in a way that came out as ‘yeah there is this prejudice...but it’s no big deal’ instead of ‘this is bad and we need to learn to do better.’ 

Which I think is emblematic of conversations about privilege that happen when there isn’t an underprivileged person in the group (or at least you think so) and it comes over as ‘fun debate subject’.

I think one of the most consistent aspects of Alexia’s personality is her willingness to educate herself, but also kind of pass on the message in a flawed way and be sort of callous about it. 

 Like her moment in s3 talking about the Kinsey scale, which was on point, except the whole ‘we’re all sexually fluid’ thing, which...nope, that’s a very irritating stereotype (some people’s sexualities are actually fixed. and also bisexuality is not always fluid. although some people are fluid.) Or her talking about Cosmo ‘alpha/beta’ male stereotypes. I feel like this is the case here and I am really looking forward to see her gain a deepening understanding of things because she really means well. She’s often the one challenging other people’s prejudice (like Chloé’s ‘oh gay people are fun!!’) so it felt like this again. She just needs to mature in that aspect. 

But I understand why some people are hurt, the whole conversation was very messy and we know that Arthur, with his shit ton of (now internalized) prejudices is going to interpret it in the worst way possible. 

Anyway I think that all of them meeting Noée and Camille, who are very much at the opposite of all these stereotypes, is going to do them all a lot of good (and the viewers too tbh...) because people who don’t fit the limited cardboard cliché of the Attractive Person can still be super cool and attractive and active and happy etc etc 

 but i think it’s very important to acknowledge these stereotypes exist in the first place. 

[marta-bee]

On Fanworks as Commodities

I've been thinking lately about commodification and how it applies to fandom.

 At the risk of giving an unhelpful circular explanation, commodification just means treating something like a commodity when it really isn't. And by commodity, I mean the kind of good or service that it's the kind of thing we can "reduce" to market terms. A loaf of bread is a commodity. So is a house or the services of an accountant- you're not losing anything or "debasing" anyone when you suggest these things can be bought and sold.

 But what about surrogacy pregnancy? This is the question Elizabeth Anderson asked in her philosophy paper, "Is Women's Labor a Commodity?" (This is where I first encountered the concept.) She asks what exactly is being sold when we pay a woman to go through a pregnancy and then give up the resulting child to someone else. Anderson said if it's the child that's being sold that seems obviously inappropriate- we rightly consider a human person as the kind of thing you can't just buy and sell- but she also argued even if the woman is just selling the use of her body for a period of time (say, implantation and surrogacy pregnancy of a fetus conceived through in vitro fertilization of the adults who will become the legal parents), there's still something lost. The argument is, pregnancy naturally (at least usually) forms a loving bond between mother and child, which a surrogate woman would wisely try to avoid; otherwise giving up the baby would be that much harder. In effect, it encourages her to alienate herself from the products of her pregnancy. It degrades the commercial surrogate, turns her into an emotionless, contextless factory. And it degrades women who might lovingly serve as surrogates (say, for a sister or friend) because it turns their gift into something indistinguishable from a market transaction.

 That's the argument, anyway. Once I found it convincing but these days, I have my doubts. For instance, I don't see any problem saying commercial surrogacy is a different kind of process than surrogacy offered as a gift to someone you know. Even if the result is the same, they seem like very different beasts. I'm also uncomfortable with this idea that certain kinds of work just can't be ethically paid for. Because this usually comes up with "caring" work, which is most often done by women even these days, it becomes too easy to not help bear the costs of that work. We can expect, say, a nurse to care about her patient even though she's paid a salary; is it so wrong if a child who quits her job to care for a sick parent to also be paid for her sacrifice?

 That's more a criticism of how the concept is applied, though. I think it's applied too quickly, and in ways that turn it into an either/or, where this doesn't need to be the case. I still think the basic idea has a lot going for it. We do give the market too much power to answer questions it really isn't well suited for. Healthcare, for instance; it needs to be paid for, but not in a way that keeps people from accessing it who need it, or even lets those who can pay get to it more quickly. And maybe market pressures can make it more efficient, to a point, but we really shouldn't reduce it to something that can be bought and sold and understand entirely on those terms.

So, what does all this have to do with fandom? Well, I'm of a different fannish generation than a lot of you young whippersnappers- I first got involved in fannish circles with the Lord of the Rings movies back in the original 2000s. This was pre-AO3 and pre-Tumblr, and only a few years after Anne Rice got ff.net to disallow all fanfic based on her novels. We posted our disclaimers about not owning the characters for a reason and professed our poverty because we believed (or feared at least) we could be sued by the canon's authors. I was mostly in the Tolkien fandom, and it was well known that the estate was never going to authorize fanfic, commercial or otherwise. They state as much on their website, though I can't remember how long that Q&A has existed in its current format.

 That gave us a lovely little commercial-free zone. If you couldn't sell your own work commercially, then you could give up all pretenses of success along the normal capitalistic lines and delve into areas that just would never have been very marketable in traditional publishing. Tolkien fandom itself was pretty conservative but I know other fandoms went much further in this regard, exploring genres that just would never be marketable especially before the niche and self-financed publishing the internet opened up for a lot of authors. If the law wouldn't let you do what you wanted to do anyway, why not become utterly ungovernable? So, fanfic became (for me at least) art about art rather than filthy lucre. We were doing what we did because we loved it, and as gifts for our friends, and as a way to be something that wasn't quite allowed in the "normal" culture for whatever reason- even just because we were women daring to make time for our weird little hobbies. It was glorious. And we worked hard enough in other areas of our life that we had the $$$ to indulge in this. We didn't need to be paid, and even if you offered to pay us for our works, we'd likely get a bit insulted and insist that wasn't what this was about at all.

I was told more than once by family that I was good enough to be a "real writer" and didn't I want to do my own thing. So yes, I did get a bit miffed and lean in to my identity of fanfic-writing as hobby not intended as a career.

 And I'll be honest: when I see people advertising for commissions or celebrating fan-authors going "professional" as if this is necessarily a step up from unpaid fannish work, I often have this old framework in the back of my head. And it's not really fair. For one thing, I was in college in the early 2000's and so even when we didn't have a lot of cash, we expected to soon get day jobs where we could afford to live comfortably and still afford our hobbies. The housing market crash and the Great Recession changed all of that, as did work opportunities like Instacart and Uber. For a lot of people even a few years younger than me, everything became a side-hustle and there just wasn't this expectation a hobby could be a hobby. I get that there's a lot of privilege entering into that.

 On top of which, there's all kinds of gender issues: professional artists, predominantly men, have been painting and selling drawings of comic book characters for years. Star Trek and Star Wars affiliated novels, and Sherlock Holmes pastiches (as opposed to fanfic), again written primarily by men, are also very much a thing. Hell, so are Renaissance artists and the patron system that was built off of. And of course, just because you sometimes produce fanworks just to sell and still do the less commercial work just for yourself if you ever want to. There's no real conflict in that. And it's not like producing art to sell is at all wrong. But to me it does feel like that kind of art is different than what I fancy I do, back when I occasionally wrote. :-) And I probably am more aware of this than I should be, because my backdrop is different from a lot of fans younger than myself, and really do try not to let my situation turn into a blind spot.

 Even so, I worry and struggle to find the balance between letting art turn a profit and be reduced to a strictly commercial venture. It's never been anything I've been even remotely drawn to do, and human nature being what it is, I probably do think more highly of the kind of thing I'd choose to do. But I don't want to be unfair, and I don't want to think just because art is paid for and written/drawn to order, it's some sort of assembly-line output with no heart put into it by the writer and artist. Just like an artisan shoemaker might take great pride in his art and work his hardest on each shoe he crafts, even if he must sell it to make ends meet. Somehow, I suspect thinking about this in terms of commodification, the dangers of evaluating artistry using market standards and the ways in which it can still have a value beyond commodity even if it’s bought and sold, might help. But I've not quit worked out what insight that kind of thought would provide, if any.

Do you think there's a special value in fandom or art generally that's not made to be bought and sold? Or am I perhaps making too big a deal over nothing and revealing myself to be an old fuddy-duddy in the process. (It's always a possibility!) I'd be very interested to hear your thoughts if you have any to share.

[greatfay]

controversial opinions?

Cold pizza actually not good. Tastes like angry bacteria.

There’s a completely separate class of gay men who are in a different, rainbow-tinted plane of reality from the rest of us and I don’t like them. They push for “acceptance” via commercialization of the Pride movement, assimilation through over-exposure, and focus on sexualizing the movement to be “provocative” and writing annoying articles that reek of class privilege instead of something actually important like lgbtqa youth homelessness, job discrimination, and mental health awareness.

Coleslaw is good. You guys just suck in the kitchen.

Generational divides ARE real: a 16-year-old and a 60-year-old right now in 2021 could agree on every hot button sociopolitical topic and yet not even realize it because they communicate in entirely different ways.

Sam Wilson is a power bottom. No I will not elaborate.

Allison’s makeover in The Breakfast Club good, not bad. She kept literally and metaphorically dumping her trash out onto the table and it’s clearly a cry for help. Having the attention and affection of a smart, pretty girl doing her makeup for her was sweet and helped her open up to new experiences. Not every loner wants to BE a loner (see: Bender, who is fine being a lone wolf).

Movie/show recommendations that start with a detailed “representation” list read like status-effecting gear in an RPG and it’s actually a turn-off for me. I have to force myself to give something a try in spite of it.

Yelling at people to just “learn a new language” because clearly everyone who isn’t you and your immediate vicinity of friends must be a lazy ignorant white American is so fucking stupid, like I get it, you’re mad someone doesn’t immediately know how to pronounce your name or what something means. But I know 2 languages and am struggling with a 3rd when I can between 2 jobs and quite frankly, I don’t have the time to just absorb the entire kanji system into my brain to learn Japanese by tomorrow night, or suddenly learn Arabic or Welsh. There are 6500 recorded languages in the world, what’s the chance that one of 3 I’ve learn(ed?) is the one you’re yelling at me about. Yes this is referring to that post yelling at people for not knowing how to pronounce obscure Irish names and words. Sometimes just explaining something instead of admonishing people for not knowing something inherently in the belief that everyone must be lazy entitled privileged people is uh... better?

Stop fucking yelling at people. I despise feeling like someone is yelling at me or scolding me, it triggers my Violence Mode, you don’t run me, you are not God, fuck off. Worst fucking way to "educate” people, it just feels good in the moment to say or write and doesn’t help. Yes I’ve done it before.

Violence is good actually.

Characters doing bad things ≠ an endorsement of bad things. Characters doing bad things that are unquestioned by the entire rest of the cast = endorsement of bad things, or at the least, a power fantasy by the creator. See: Glee, in which Sue’s awfulness is constantly called out, while Mr. Shue’s awfulness rarely is because he’s��“the hero.” See also: the Lightbringer series, in which the protagonist is a violent manipulator who is praised as clever, charming, diplomatic, and genius by every supporting character (enemies included), despite the text never demonstrating such.

Euphoria is good, actually. It falls into this niche of the past decade of “dark gritty teen shows” but actually has substance behind it, but the general vibe I get from passive-aggressive tumblr posts from casual viewers is that this show is The Devil, and the criticism of its racier content screams pearl-clutching “what about the children??” to me.

Describing all diagnosed psychopaths as violent criminals is a damaging slippery slope, sure. But I won’t be mad at anyone for inherently distrusting another human who does not have the ability to feel guilt and remorse, empathy, is a pathological liar, or proves to be cunning and manipulative.

It’s actually not easy to unconditionally support and love everyone everywhere when you’ve actually experienced the World. Your perspective and values will be challenged as you encounter difficult people, experience hardship, are torn between conflicting ideas and commitments, and fail. My vow to never ever call the cops on another black person was challenged when an employee’s boyfriend marched into the kitchen OF AN ESTABLISHMENT to scream at her, in a BUSINESS I MANAGED, and threaten to BEAT the SHIT out of her. Turns out I can hate cops and hate that motherfucker equally, I am more than capable of both.

Defending makeup culture bad, actually. Enjoy it, experiment, master it, but don’t paint it as something other than upholding exactly what they want from you. Even using makeup to “defy the heteropatriarchal oppressors!” is still putting cash in their pockets, no matter how camp...

Not every villain needs to be redeemed, some of you just never outgrew projecting yourself onto monsters and killers.

Writing teams and networks queerbaiting is not the same as individuals queerbaiting. Nick Jonas performing exclusively at gay clubs to generate an audience really isn’t criminal; if they paid to go see him, that’s on them, he didn’t promise anyone anything other than music and a show. Do not paint this as similar to wealthy, bigoted executives and writing teams trying to snatch up the LGBTQA demographic with vague ass marketing and manipulative screenplays, only to cop out so as not to alienate their conservative audiences. And ESPECIALLY when the artists/actors/creators accused of queerbaiting or lezploitation then come out as queer in some form later on.

Queer is not a bad word, and I’ve no clue how that remains one of few words hurled at LGBTQA people that can’t be reclaimed. It’s so archaic and underused at this point that I don’t get the reaction to it compared to others.

People who defend grown-woman Lorelai Gilmore’s childish actions and in the same breath heavily criticize teenage religious abuse victim Lane Kim’s actions are not to be trusted. Also Lane deserved better.

Keep your realism out of my media, or at least make it tonally consistent. Tired of shows and movies and books where some gritty, dark shit comes out of nowhere when the narrative was relatively Romantic beforehand.

Actually people should be writing characters different from themselves, this new wave in the past year of “If you aren’t [X] you shouldn’t be writing [X]” is a complete leap backward from the 2010s media diversity movement. And if [X] has to do with an invisible minority status (not immediately visible disabilities, or diverse sexual orientations and gender identities, persecuted religious affiliations, mental illness) it’s actually quite fucked up to assume the creator can’t be whatever [X] is or to demand receipts or details of someone’s personal life to then grant them “permission” to create something. I know, we’re upset an actual gay actor wasn’t casted to play this gay character, so let’s give them shit about it: and not lose a wink of sleep when 2 years later, this very actor comes out and gives a detailed account of the pressure to stay closeted if they wanted success in Hollywood.

Projecting an actor’s personal romantic life and gender identity onto the characters they play is actually many levels of fucked up, and not cute or funny. See: reinterpreting every character Elliot Page has played through a sapphic lens, and insulting his ability to play straight characters while straight actors play actual caricatures of us (See also: Jared Leto. Fuck him).

I’m fucking sick of DaBaby, he sucks. “I shot somebody, she suck my peepee” that’s 90% of whatever he raps about.

“Political Correctness” is not new. It was, at one point, unacceptable to walk into a fine establishment and inform the proprietor that you love a nice firm pair of tits in your face. 60 years ago, such a statement would get you throw out and possibly arrested under suspicion of public intoxication. But then something happened and I blame Woodstock and Nixon. And now I have to explain to a man 40 years my senior that no, you can’t casually mention to the staff here, many of whom are children, how you haven’t had a good fuck in a while. And then rant about the “Chinese who gave us the virus.” Can’t be that upset with them if you then refused to wear your mask for 20 minutes.

Triggering content should not have a blanket ban; trigger warnings are enough, and those who campaign otherwise need to understand the difference between helping people and taking away their agency. 13 Reasons Why inspired this one. Absolutely shitty show, sure, but it’s a choice to watch it knowing exactly what it contains.

Sasuke’s not a fucking INTJ, he’s an ISFP whose every decision is based off in-the-moment feelings and proves incapable of detailed and logical planning to accomplish his larger goals.

MCU critique manages to be both spot-on and pointless. Amazing stories have been told with these characters over the course of decades; but most of it is toilet paper. Expecting a Marvel movie to be a deeply detailed examination of American nationalism and imperialism painted with a colorful gauze of avant-garde film technique is like expecting filet mignon from McDonalds. Scarf down your quarter pounder or gtfo.

Disparagingly comparing the popularity and (marginal) success of BLM to another movement is anti-black. It is not only possible but also easy to ask for people’s support without throwing in “you all supported BLM for black people but won’t show support for [insert group]” how about you keep our name out your mouth? Black people owe the rest of the world nothing tbh until yall root out the anti-blackness in your own communities.

It is the personal demon/tragic flaw of every cis gay/bi/pan man to externalize and exorcize Shame: I’m talking about the innate compulsion to Shame, especially in the name of Pride and Progress. Shame for socioeconomic “success,” shame for status of outness, shame for fitness and health, shame for looks, shame for style and dress, shame for how one fits into the gender binary, shame for sexual positions and intimacy preferences, shame for fucking music tastes. Put down the weapon that They used to beat you. Becoming the Beater is not growth, it’s the worst-case scenario.

Works by minorities do not have to be focused on their marginalized identities. Some ladies want to ride dragons AND other ladies. The pressure on minorities to create the Next Great Minority Character Study that will inevitably get snuffed at the Oscars/Peabody Awards is some bullshit when straight white dudes walk around shitting out mediocre screenplays and books.

Canadians can stfu about how the US is handling COVID-19 actually. Love most of yall, but the number of Canadian snowbirds on vacation (VACATION??? VA.CAT.ION.) in the supposed “hotbed” of my region that I’ve had to inform our mask policies and social distancing to is ASTOUNDING. Incroyable! I guess your country has a sizable population of entitled, privileged, inconsiderate, wealthy, and ignorant people making things difficult for everyone, just like mine :)

No trick to eliminate glasses fog while wearing my mask has worked, not a single one, it actually has affected my job and work speed and is incredibly frustrating, and I have to deal with it and pretend it’s not a problem while still encouraging others to follow the rules for everyone’s safety and the cognitive dissonance is driving me insane.

It’s really really really not anti-Japanese... to be uncomfortable with the rampant pedophilia in manga and anime, and voice this. I really can’t compare western animation’s sneakier bullshit with pantyshots of a 12-year-old girl.

Most of the people in the cottagecore aesthetic/tag have zero interest in all the hard work that comes with maintaining an isolated property in the countryside, milking cows and tending crops before sunrise, etc. And that’s okay? They just like flowers and pretty pottery and homemade pastries. Idk where discourse about this came from.

You think mint chip ice-cream tastes like toothpaste because you’re missing a receptor that can distinguish the flavors, and that sucks for you. It’s a sort of “taste-blindness” that can make gum spicy to some while others can eat a ghost pepper without crying.

Being a spectacle for the oppressive class doesn’t make them respect us, it makes them unafraid of us. This means they continue to devour us, but without fear of our retaliation.

Only like 4 people on tumblr dot com are actually prepared for the full ramifications of an actual revolution. The rest of you just really imprinted onto Katniss, or grew up in the suburbs.

Straight crushes are normal. They’re people first, sexual orientation second. Can’t always know.

The road to body positivity is not easy, especially if what you desire is what you aren’t.

You’re actually personally responsible for not voluntarily bringing yourself into an environment that you know is not fit for you unless you have the resolve to manage it. Can’t break a glass ceiling without getting a few cuts. This one’s a shoutout to my homophobic temp coworkers who decided working a venue with a drag show would be a good idea. This is also is a shoutout to people who want to make waves but are surprised when the boat tips. And also a shoutout to people who—wait that’s it’s own controversial opinion hold up.

Straight people can and should stay the fuck out of gay bars and queer spaces. “yoUrE bEInG diVisiVe” go fuck yourself.

[luninosity]

Working on the last (?) Character Bleed bonus story, today...

#

James Parr, clutching six bottles of wine, stared at the door. He hadn’t knocked or rung the bell yet, partly because of the armful of wine and partly because he was busy telling himself to remember to breathe.

 The door gazed back, pale blue and noncommittal. Maybe it didn’t approve of his choice of shirt, or his hair, or his sudden complete panic. What if Colby Kent’s door didn’t approve of him?

 He shifted weight, did not turn and flee, and murmured, “Knew I should’ve worn the blue shirt…”

 He didn’t know why he was here. More accurately, he knew why he’d come: Colby and Jason Mirelli had extended an invitation for dinner. And no one in any sort of right mind would turn down that invitation. Between Colby’s sweetness and Hollywood power, as movie star and writer and producer, and Jason’s muscles and family legacy, interwoven with the whole history of the industry, anyone would say yes; they might also say yes out of sheer curiosity, as Colby tended to be adorable and precious but private, and any glimpse inside was an honor.

 Also, industry legend said that Colby was a genius cook, and Jason wasn’t half bad either. James’s stomach suggested pointedly that he go ahead and knock.

 He couldn’t. He just…couldn’t. Could he?

 He knew they’d asked him. He didn’t know why him, why they’d taken an interest, what’d prompted the invitation. He’d never even met Jason, though they’d been at the same events on occasion; he had met Colby, briefly, during the auditions for Steadfast. James winced, remembering.

 He’d wanted the role of Stephen, as quite a few people had, and he’d been lucky enough to get a call to come in. Colby Kent was non-negotiable as Will, obviously, as producer and—though the world hadn’t known it yet—scriptwriter. James had done the scene with Colby, and it’d been a gorgeous scene, lush and clever and full of first meeting anticipation on a balcony. He thought he’d done all right, but he also knew he hadn’t been quite right; he’d wondered even then. Colby was so very good—the awards attested to that—and had balanced Will’s privilege and sarcasm with delicate unexpected vulnerability, and James had possibly been just a little too flirtatious, treating Stephen’s lines about choices with not quite enough weight. He’d hoped he’d get a chance to do it again for real; he could take director’s notes readily, with humor and without argument.

 He hadn’t had the chance, of course, because Jason Mirelli had walked out of formulaic action-hero thrillers and right into Stephen’s Royal Navy boots and also into Colby’s heart. Jason had shown the world that he was brilliant, and James knew he’d been the right choice; everyone knew. No resentment possible, not with that performance. Only admiration.

 He’d be seeing Colby again tonight. If he managed to knock on the door. He did some more silent communing with it. That wasn’t the only reason for his nerves.

 Jason, on the phone, had said casually, “Oh, there might be four of us, you know my friend Evan, he’s been the stunt choreographer on all your superhero movies, yeah? He’s in town too, so he might drop by, if that’s cool with you.” And James had squeaked out some sort of embarrassing high-pitched affirmative, and collapsed back against his front door, because he’d just walked in from the gym when Jason had called.

 Evan. Evan Richards. Who had, yes, been orchestrating and choreographing and training everyone for all those stunts, for all four films so far. Who was devastatingly competent and patient and gorgeous in every conceivable way, as far as James could tell. Who was, in fact, the man James’s pathetic heart had fallen head over heels for, literally, because he’d walked in to meet their choreographer and learn the first-ever set of moves for his super-soldier character, and then he’d tripped right over a mat, because holy shit the muscles and the motion, fluid and flexible and fast and smooth as silk, on display and glorious…

 Evan, who’d been practicing some more complicated moves that he himself would be doing as James’s double, had spun around and run over and been at his side in a flash. Had held out a hand, while James sat on the floor and stared up at strength and power and big brown eyes and, oh god, dimples.

 Evan Richards was kind to everyone, even actors who forgot their own names while ogling him. Evan when not working on a film taught Krav Maga and self-defense classes at a local LA place, and offered classes for all levels and ages. Evan never seemed to be upset about anything, not even when someone hadn’t practiced enough or wasn’t getting a move; he’d just calmly explain it all again, with demonstrations, without making anyone feel guilty or inadequate. Evan tended to look at life that way, with calm good humor and excitement about challenges; he possessed a level of self-discipline that James’s impulses could only dream about, from morning workouts to the literal three alcoholic drinks James had seen him consume in nearly six years to consummate professionalism on set, but he managed all that in a laid-back sort of way, never judging anyone else for different decisions, which was good, because James himself had very definitely made some terrible ones regarding vodka and fluffy pink feather dusters, on occasion.

 Evan made all their movies better; he made James’s life better, and James’s heart had never recovered from that first tumble into pink billowing clouds. He’d thought it might; he’d thought it would get better, with time and Evan’s apparent lack of need to stare at him in turn.

 Nearly six years in, it hadn’t.

 He’d tried flirting with Evan. James knew he personally wasn’t some sort of heaven-sent sculpture of male athleticism, definitely not compared to Evan in a clinging super-suit. But he thought he was reasonably attractive—thick dark hair, blue eyes, good chin, what an ex had called “that wholesome young Superman look”—and he was pretty good at sex, and he was—he hoped—a decent guy to have around. That might be something Evan liked, right?

 He’d always loved falling into bed with friends, making people happy, any and all genders welcome, sometimes all at once. He could be, and had been, up for just about anything, and he liked people who were enthusiastic and kind and confident about what they wanted and liked. He’d thought, well, if he’s interested—I’m interested, and maybe—

 He really had tried. Complimenting Evan’s skill. Complimenting Evan. Asking Evan out for dinner—not drinks; James had noticed that—which had gotten a yes, but a complete and baffling immunity to flirtation over excellent sushi, as if Evan thought he really just wanted to be friends. Learning some good massage techniques and offering to give Evan a backrub had led to, well, him giving Evan a backrub, on set, both of them fully clothed, and Evan had thanked him after. Pretending to not understand a tricky bit of choreography had worked to the extent of getting Evan’s hands on him, but they’d been profoundly professional hands, and James had finally given up and pretended to get it at last.

 After that one he’d gone back to his co-star’s trailer, flung himself dramatically across her couch, and despaired, “What am I doing wrong? Is it me? Am I unlovable? Elizabeth, help me.”

 Elizabeth, who’d known him for years, had moved his legs, sat down, and patted his hip. “To be fair, darling, you’re kind of a slut. Perhaps he’s not into that.” In that amused years-faded English accent, the affection shone.

 “I am,” James had said, “but I just like making people happy. I want to make him happy. How do I make him happy?”

 She’d patted him some more. “Perhaps don’t throw yourself at him quite so hard? He might be shy.”

 James, who’d seen Evan welcome a new pair of stunt guys to set by running over and immediately diving into a recreation of the famous fight scene from the third John Kill movie, which both guys had jumped right into while grinning, had said doubtfully, “I don’t think so…”

 “Perhaps he’s not in fact into men?”

 James had sighed. And had drunk far too much of his hotel’s mini-bar, later that night; had winced at sunlight, on set, and had opened eyes to discover Evan holding out Gatorade and painkillers and a protein bar.

 He really had given up, or mostly. Stopped trying to flirt. Dated a couple other people, not seriously. Started trying to get used to being a friend, resigning himself to making Evan happy that way.

 He’d noticed that Evan liked travel and exploring new locations; James had made sure to do some research and to mention historic sites or local marketplaces or neat old castle walls they were allowed to ride bikes on. Evan had an astonishing sweet tooth for someone with those abs, and James found a tiny ice cream shop in Prague that deserved every bit of its reputation and brought him there, and loved the way Evan’s eyes lit up and the way Evan wanted to try every flavor and the way Evan licked a sample spoon.

 He’d wanted to hold Evan’s hand, walking back to their hotel along medieval cobbled streets under a low-hanging moon. He’d wanted, and he knew he was still and maybe always would be in love; he knew that like a stab to the heart. It felt like the moonlight and tasted like cookies-and-cream, sharp and sweet.

 He’d called Evan after they’d wrapped, after they’d all come back home to LA. He’d tried not to. Not being pushy or needy. He’d made it three days. He’d just wanted to hear that voice, calm and happy, talking about an upcoming martial arts class or ideas for changing up some heroic choreography. Evan had answered promptly, and they’d talked for two hours before Evan had headed to bed, having an early morning. After, James had started looking up the address of a secret jazz-themed speakeasy he remembered—they had a good non-alcoholic cocktail menu, too, and to-die-for chocolate cake, and spot-on historic recreation—because he thought Evan might like it, and then he remembered that they weren’t actually dating and they weren’t on location and Evan had no reason to put up with his company day after day.

 He sighed again, in the present. Clung to wine. Tried not to drop any. Evan might be here and see it.

 He hadn’t managed to knock, but the door opened anyway. James almost took an inadvertent step back, because muscles, but caught the reaction in time.

 “Oh, good,” Jason Mirelli said, grinning at him, “you’re right on time. And you brought, like, all the wine. Here, I can take those.” Boulders shifted and mountains bulged; the sleeves of Jason’s shirt stretched outward in forest-green despair as big arms collected all of James’s offerings. “Come on in.”

 James shook himself out of fascinated speculation about how Jason ever hugged Colby without crushing adorable blue-eyed slender height. “Um. I didn’t know what you, um, liked? So I just…brought a lot of things?” Good god. He was an actor, a successful veteran of press and publicity tours, and a grown man of thirty-two years. Surely he could talk. “Thanks for, um, inviting me? I mean…yeah. Thanks.”

  “Hey, we’re fans. We’ve loved all the Star Captain movies.” Jason sounded sincere, too. Honesty in craggy features, deep velvet-brown eyes. Casually upending the world: in what universe were Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli fans of James Parr? “By the way, Evan’s already here.”

[pinehutch]

(Thoughts about living in a body, some things are tagged but also, content warning for like, extreme self-indulgence and a whole lot of words.)

Pull up a chair (god knows I have), and let me tell you about living in my body. 

Something always hurts. You are 38 years old;  of course something always hurts, but sometimes what hurts is the reassuring prick and hot-cold lance of the Sunday evening injection site. Prick of the upper thigh, show some leg, know that your fingers will unfurl in the morning in a way that’s pulled along by your intent. 

You look younger than you are, if you are not too tired, if you have dyed your hair to hide the silver that started coming in at 22, if you’re performing the right kind of agelessness. The skin on your face has faint freckles and very rarely any blemishes, faint lines on your forehead since your mid-teens. One slightly dark spot that you’re keeping an eye on, that you remember to keep an eye on only for 2 minutes every day, while you’re brushing your teeth. You resolve to keep an eye on it. You forget by morning. 

It is a good face. It has nice eyes, and a rosy mouth, and a pleasant structure. You’re not exactly proud of it, or your hair, but you’re on decent, civil terms with the above-the-bust zones. You know that not wearing makeup is a privilege you have, that other people spend money and time and energy on makeup to appear to have it as good as you do. People will say kind things, and strangers may smile when they see you. 

You still wish you knew what to do with makeup. You still wish you could signal, here I am, look at me, I am trying to tell you something with this face. You are not in control of what your face is saying to people. The consequences of this lack of control are presenting an appearance unrelenting openness. Strangers may talk to you when they see you. 

Strangers! They have so many opinions! They will see you walking to and fro, and they will say to themselves, I believe that is a woman, and they will say to themselves, I have an opinion about this womanish person, this body, and they will say to you you gorgeous and you fat slut and you stuckup and you freak and you tits, you red hair, you hips. They will offer you a ride in their van (oh my god, their van), and will follow you for three blocks to ask if you have a husband, and they will shyly approach you in the produce section, and they tell you about their friend who is A Big Girl, Too, and they will throw pornographic comments at you on your second meeting, they will insist you do not need that size jean, and they will spit in front of you as you try to keep your head down, to keep moving. 

They have watched you at the gym, and they have laughed at you. (They don’t matter, and they are few and far between.)

(Every now and then they will give you thoughtful compliments sometimes, on the things that you’ve chosen. You should always give thoughtful and appropriate compliments to people, when you can.) 

Your body does not feel like it is yours alone. It is you, but it is not yours alone. It is a public and a private, personal nuisance. A man on the subway bumps against your ass four times in two stops. A woman on an airplane looks grim when that ass means you wrap an extender around your hips, pushed up up out of the seat. (Ha, seat.) Your shoulders are broad and you go to a show in a lovely old theatre and the whole time, you are curling, curling, curling inwards. You are muscle and bone, and you are trying to be a flower, folding petal-soft and unobtrusive. 

You cannot be unobtrusive. You simply do not fit. You have clothing in a range of 8 different sizes and you could wear all of it on the same day. Every dress is too short. 

Your body can be useful. Yes, it hurts, and it’s tired, and sometimes even the gentle push of your hands through the water for thirty minutes means your fingers will ache for a day and a half. You can’t always open a jar without a knife, but you can lift a heavy object onto a high shelf. Can anybody reach that? You can. You can walk for miles in the city dragging fifty pounds of luggage and you will even recover.  You can, on a good day, manage a seven-k trail, or ramble in the woods for some hours. You can carry the potting soil up to the third floor deck and fill the planters. You cannot climb out of the pool without a ladder, or you will limp for the rest of the week, and wear wrist braces. 

You can manage. You can live in your too-tall, too-broad, too-strong, too-fragile body, and you can live well in it, when it is only one part of you. 

You live in the world. You live in the world and so much of it is spurred by hatred and money and the money you spend to stop hating yourself. When you are 20-something, you start looking for alternatives. (You think you are looking for cute clothes; you find new ways of thinking, about your body, about all bodies, about bodies which are people. You find some cute clothes, too. Seeing the forest doesn’t take you out of it.) You learn that there are people who have functionally stopped hating themselves. You stop, functionally, hating yourself for being the body that you are. 

It gets easier, for a while. It never goes away, but it does get easier, and you learn so much about how you can be a person, a person who is and who has and who lives in a body, and never only any one thing. You practice telling yourself that every body is a good body, even while you read deeper and wider and realize that not everyone can feel that their body is a good body. Even if all of those systems and people and rules that say this body is good but this body is not good were not in place, not everyone can feel that their body is a good body. Some bodies aren’t even very successful at their primary function (i.e. being alive). Some bodies hurt all of the time. 

Ten years later, and your body becomes one of the kinds of bodies with above-average premature mortality rates. It becomes one of the kinds of bodies where something hurts, all of the time. For a time, you cannot manage very well at all. You cry a lot, because you are in pain, and you are frightened, and nothing works, and you lose a year of your life to hands locked in fists and panic attacks and vomiting up different combinations of meds. The (terrible) social worker will tell you that heels are not a part of anyone’s identity, and ask if you’ve tried eating kale. Your mother will say that you should lose weight; you do not walk on your hands, though. Your father will tell you that the same disease is in his wife’s lungs. Your boss will tell you, with kind eyes, about the long-term disability accommodations available to you (it’s only a forty per cent salary cut). The pamphlet will tell you that statistically, you will not be able to work for more than 10 years from this point. People who love you will kindly remind you that you had been working too much, volunteering too much, and that stress is probably a triggering cause. 

You will leave that year behind. You will leave it, walking and swimming and carrying on. You will dance in the shower again. You will learn to speak up when you are in crisis. You will never wholly stop feeling betrayed, and it is impossible to tell where the betrayal came from: did your body betray the you-of-your-mind, by detonating the sleeping danger in your genetics? Or did your mind betray that you-of-your-body, by pressing too hard on the seal holding back that self-immolating flame? It’s a never-ending, tedious dialogue. (Is it my fault? It is my fault. Is it my fault it is my fault is it my fault it is.) 

You will learn to smile at your reflection again. People will say, you are beautiful, and you will know it is true for them, and that if you are beautiful like a whale, like an iceberg, like a thornbush, like a moonroad, like a forest, like anything lovely and grand and untouchable and inhuman - at least you can take comfort in good company. You try to turn that misty gaze upon yourself. 

You would like to look at yourself in the mirror and see only a person. You would like to look in the mirror and see only a you-who-is-whole. You will, you resolve. One day you will. 

*** 

So, I’ve been tired beyond tired this week. I’m sleep-deprived and not clear-headed, and this was terrifying to write, but it comes from a place that is as honest as I can make it. In frank terms, I’m 178 cm tall, and right now my every piece of clothing I’m wearing is a ‘straight size’ XXL and made of super soft jersey, because I’m in my pyjamas. My wardrobe ranges from a regular XL to “I got this wool coat made-to-measure because nothing else would cover my hips without falling off my shoulders.” 

The thing is: I started consciously and deliberately seeking out information on body positivity and on fat acceptance in, I dunno, 2002? 2003? I learned so much from intersectional feminists on the internet who were having complicated and often very personal conversations about bodies in general, and about ‘fat’ bodies in particular (what’s a fat body, anyway? what’s a tall one?), and then about the ways fatness intersects with race, gender, class, and ability besides. By the time I got to thirty, I was genuinely relieved to not be wasting energy hating myself on a daily basis. 

And I mostly don’t, still, most of the time. I’ve never quite ‘gotten over’ the sense of bruised identity that comes with a chronic illness, and the way that having a body that is physically more vulnerable has made me feel more mentally and emotionally vulnerable to the kind of social weapons that we/they use against our/each other’s bodies. I continue to do the work of trying to be neutral-to-positive about my body (it’s just me! it has no more or less moral weight than any other body! neat!), but when I feel generally worn-down and otherwise a bit hyper-aware of bodies, it’s really, really hard. 

At least once a day for the last several weeks I have had to stop whatever I’ve been doing when, unprompted, a thought like “it is impossible for someone to want you” or “you are, objectively, disgusting” crosses my mind. (I don’t know why my inner critic is so formal! Just a super-big jerk, really.) I think in words, so it comes just like that, in clear and precise words, and I have to stop and interrupt myself. Usually this is just a pause, and a shake of my head, and a breath, and I throw myself back into whatever has been otherwise occupying me. 

It’s fine - it’s mostly fine. Maybe this is normal, maybe this is how everyone experiences their physicality and their subjectivity. And it will be better in the morning, so now I’ll stretch my hands and fingers, and rest. 

[flickityfics]

Don’t Play With Fire, Chap 7 First Day of Work

Um..to answer your concerns Sokka there's no need to worry. This may embarrass you to read but its all perfectly normal in women's body. The throbbing and slick you've mentioned is from arousal and the ones you mention that come randomly isn't always arousal but the way the body is trying to self clean or protect your genitals from tearing and dangerous bacteria's. Sometimes your vagina can even..well for lack of a better word let's just call it sweating, so for example say you're moving around a lot and you feel you're self dripping but its a different feeling from arousal just hot and a wetter feeling which again all normal, if you're feeling uncomfortable just wipe yourself and go through the day. I'm Glad you're taking my advice seriously and it's good to hear you're doing well with your situation. So far I haven't found anything about body swapping? gender swapping or transference of any kind I'm so sorry. Just keep staying low and being careful, we'll figure this out soon.

                                                                                                                                                              -Suki

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Sokka, It's great to hear from you! We're still putting up fliers of Appa around Ba Sing Se and looking all around places. Toph and Katara are always fighting though, Katara won't let us play our tricks on anyone or even explore or relax, its all work work wor-  

                                               Anyways Sokka you better be pulling your weight and not having Suki cleaning up after you and do try to stay out of trouble okay, I do worry you know, we miss you a lot.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  -The Gaang

Sokka laughed hard seeing Toph's lone foot print right underneath his sister's and Aang's writing, seeing that told him more about her than words ever could. He really missed his family/friend group. Before he could get any sadder he folded the letter and stuffed it in his pack heading to work, he'll write a responding note later tonight.  

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Sokka was full of energy heading towards his new job. He's curious to know how different it'll be from the other ehem manlier jobs he's done. 'Honestly how hard could a girl's job be? Katara complains all the time but I bet she was just being dramatic'  he figured. With everything double checked and his breakfast packed he went out for the semi-long walk to work.  Upon arriving to the building, Sokka went straight through the door finding the elder lady waiting for him.

"Hi, so what will I be doing today?" He asked with all the enthusiasm he could muster.

"We start by checking our list of customers who dropped off their laundry, with the other workers we'll go wash together then hang all the laundry to dry and fold, lastly we pack and send out the clothes." she explained.

"Alright sounds easy enough." Sokka followed along as she gave him a tour of the place and areas he'll be needing to know.

After a few tiring hours did he have breakfast, the work ended up more tiring and tougher than expected but he got the hang of it pretty fast and turned out he was the fastest and strongest there which turned out some of the girls didn't like. On his first day an older girl by few years was sabotaging all his work trying to get him trouble and after explaining that to the elder boss lady was he able to stay working. 'women are crazy, guys just nod at each other, find their spots to work, get paid then leave without any word to one another'  He couldn't believe how cut throat it was working as a girl alongside other girls. Just a few more hours and he'll be able to relax and enjoy Zuko's company at the Jasmine Dragon, 'oh my god I didn't just think of stupid fire bending Zuko as nice company?! I've got to get a hold of myself, I'll just blame this dumb girl body and girly brain, ick .'  He mentally shook himself from the strange feeling that came over him towards another guy.

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Sokka came through the door of the tea shop dramatically falling in the doorway trying to catch Zuko's eye. He spotted Zuko in the kitchen and waved to him obnoxiously, he could honestly say he liked the perplexed and fearful look in the other boys face from the scene he was causing. Walking towards the kitchen, he sat himself down waiting to tell Zuko about his day.

Since Zuko looked like he was trying to ignore him, he caught the uncle's attention instead, "Hey old man when's the jerk's break?" To other's he may seem like an uncouth girl but he really didn't care for appropriateness right after work.

"You can't talk to him lik-" Zuko was just about to rant when he heard his uncle guffawed loudly.

"Oh nephew don't worry about my feelings, I love this young lady and her wily ways, its quite refreshing from your gloomy moods." he expressed. Zuko could only scoff at his uncle's slight rub towards him.

Sokka stuck his tongue at Zuko watching as he just rolled his eyes in return.

"I'll let my dear nephew  off for the rest of the day. Please take him away and show him how to have fun for once in his life." His uncle practically begged.

The two conspired against Zuko and all he could do was hang up his apron and get dragged by Miyuki's whims, he'll never admit to either of them that he likes getting pushed around, he'll keep that to the grave.

"Great! Let's get a table, I've got tons of stuff to share about my day." He grabbed Zuko by the arm and lead him to a free spot.

Sokka waited to be settled at the table, ordering before turning around to unleash his rant. He was weirdly giddy wanting to tell Zuko about his day.

"You won't believe my day." Sokka shook his head tiredly, "So I get there, the boss lady is nice but oh man some of those girls are mean. I had one try to sabotage my work by telling me to place stuff in the wrong place and they're very particular about where things go so that messed me up some. The washing part was tougher than I thought, I had to wring and scrub the clothes til my fingers cramped and wrinkled, ugh it was tiring. Drying was easier and folding strangely calming, the whole clean-up routine was just easy and besides the rude girls, I liked the job overall and think I can stick with it." He ended with a flourish, elbows on the table smiling at the fire prince, laughing internally with Zuko's stoned-face reaction to his long-winded story.

"Sounds like a frustrating day to me, welcome to the job world I guess." Sokka could't believe Zuko's flippant reply, he honestly thought he would be more caring to his woes and again what's with himself wanting Zuko's sympathy?

"Excuse me, that's funny coming from someone whose probably never had a hard labor job before. I'm guessing you had it easy since your uncle was able to provide you one. You don't know the struggles of running around and being told flat out no or when you finally get lucky it only lasts for so long before you're replaced or treated like crap and running yourself exhausted for people who don't care but keep abusing you til you can't go on anymore." Sokka had no idea why he was throwing everything at Zuko. His emotions just started bursting maybe its the way he knows Zuko's privileged, entitled fire prince jerk that he is has everything handed to him and  just pretending to be undercover as some regular civilian to get to Aang. He could only huff in annoyance at himself and Zuko for letting his emotions get the better of him, he decided it was just best to stay quiet and not look at Zuko lest his hostility for the guy becomes more prominent.

"Well, I do find serving customers and cleaning after everyone frustrating and tiring most days. I've been assaulted by older women pinching my bottom cheeks, jealous boyfriends harassing me when their girlfriends try to be flirty at me, even got some few girls who stalked me for quite some time or the rude customers I hate who are disrespectful to me but mostly my uncle, I just want to burn them to a crisp, nobody disrespects my uncle and his beloved tea shop in front of me. I actually do know how hard laborious work can be especially with not much help and little pay." Zuko looked at the girl in front of him with all the openness he could muster. He knew she had it rougher than him but it wasn't like he didn't have his own hardships, they were just different from hers.

Sokka huffed in annoyance even more hating being so temper mental while Zuko explained himself calmly and free of judgment for his part. 'why am I such a child?'  he thought lamely.

"Ugh, sorry for being rude, I guess I'm more annoyed at the fact that I got turned down for most jobs just because I'm a girl. I know I can do the tough jobs, I've done them before and I like working hard and with my hands so it makes it more frustrating not even giving me a chance just by one look at me." He drummed his fingers nervously on the table still embarrassed about earlier.

Zuko couldn't help finding Miyuki's mannerisms and  temper cute, just seeing her emotions displayed out in the open and being ridiculous was refreshing and exciting to witness. Most of his life was closed off of emotions and barely a few months now he's been trying to open up to his feelings, they were scary but freeing and seeing Miyuki so unafraid of her emotions filled him with more confidence each day.

"I get it and if you'd like something more.. uh manlier to do, I can train you in dual wielding after whenever you'd like." He offered.

"Oh? Is that a date dear Lee?" Sokka jumped on the chance to embarrass him, something about seeing Zuko so flustered had him feeling awesome. He liked being back in control and harassing the poor teen.

"Ugh no, if you don't want the training then I won't bother." The tips of Zuko's ears went red as he looked glaringly at Sokka.

"Nooooo, I want the training really." To soften the blow of annoying Zuko did he mentally shrug and go for a kiss to the bender's cheek. He gasped in total surprise as he felt heat around his lips and a waft of what could only be the fire bender's particular scent, it was in his nose so thickly and strangely addictive he wanted to keep his nose to the other's cheek and soak it up forever even be mixed in it. 'What 's wrong with you?! Why are you smelling another dudes scent, stop! Stop it nooooow!'  he couldn't believe how soft a cheek could feel and was that a bit of scruff he felt, it felt so rough on his lips he actually didn't like that. Finally did he pull away and hope to agni the shudder he felt coursing through his body didn't show outwardly.

Zuko was surprised from the peck, it happened so fast but had him feel deeply warm from such a sweet kiss. "Um, how uh- or I mean.. What else did you like about the new job?" Yeah, his brain was done for.

Sokka rolled his eyes playfully, "How bout we talk more about it on the way to walking me to my place?" He held out his hand nervously.

"Okay." Zuko agreed grabbing her hand walking out the shop and down the familiar path to Miyuki's place.

The two caught up with each other's day, some more teasing, awkward flirting and plans for the next time they meet unaware of the mischievous moonlight's gaze upon them.