#alienated from womanhood even more and then also trying to pick it apart to figure out ig like

[ghostthatstartedbecomingphysical]

I love the the quotes of 'my womanhood is both repeatedly denied to me in a way that feels authentic and forced upon me in a way that feels generic and ill-fitting' and 'I was assigned female at birth but assigned queer at 5th grade' because they feel like something i havnt been able to articulate so basically if you dont mind me talking into the void about my experiences being othered from girl/womanhood starting from a young age and a little bit of how my gender works itll be under the cut

i started school and was essentially treated as a known queer femme and constantly had people pointing out the ways i was being a girl wrong or trying to coerce me into a more conventional womanhood because i needed to act more like a real girl, the comments said about me were often contradictory and ended in me always being Wrong about gender or closer to a painting or caricature of a girl instead if a real girl and was overall either a spectacle or something to pick apart under a microscope especially as i wouldn't change to participate in physical activity and would push uniforms/dress code to whatever length i could to avoid compromising my expression

when puberty happened and i finished my crisis of 'what do you mean im not getting the magic puberty i made up in my head where i grow a shaft stubble have a androgynous voice change curves no boobs no period and even border shoulders' and started trying to cope with dysphoria and figure out what it all meant i was reasinged to 'weird genderbender' throughout middleschool me also getting more and darker body and faical hair because of having dark coarse hair was also up for scrutiny (especially my arms id hear people say who even shaves their arms!? and then those same people would comment of how harry my arms where or be mildly grossed out by my arms) i was only ever 'girl enough' at this point if it was to be the butt of a joke most of the transphobia i got during this time was exrosexism, anti-gnc and having transmisogynistic tropes thrown at against me and a bit of transandrophobia mixed with racism from 'all mexican men are rapist and criminals' whenever i got 'to masculine' or 'to man-like' (i even got accused by the luchlady of trying to steal a innocent girls luch(i was on the free or reduced lunch program) and being to dumb to steal a school id # of someone who looked like me because i looked to much like a boy in a handmedown blue/green polo shirt and shorts)

then in hs i was just generally Trans what type of trans i was assumed to be largely depended on whoever was regarding me(majority assumed some flavored of transmasc but some where very convinced otherwise for people i told nothing other then my name to) though not really any of my schoolmates thought i was cis unless they also thought i was basicaly a transtrender

so overall for me if you want to talk about socialization that depends on what time period your talking about even in hs you could Try and say it was my agab because they were just playing along with the trans thing(tm) but the majority of the time they couldn't agree what the trans thing was and there were multiple people who heavily believed that i was amab or would assume i was transfem(and even argue with me over their assumptions on my gender and experiences being right or at least generally not believe me when i tried to say something that contradicted what they thought i was regardless what they thought i was assigned or was transitioning to)

And if youre talking about accessibility to womanhood a common thread through out all of this about is that to me it was always something that i was doing wrong or 'trying to hard' at and kept out of or something i needed to learn how to and change myself inorder to be 'properly' and accept that if didnt i was at fault and not woman enough in the real right and natural way if it was even attainable in the frist place

(this isnt even talking about the ways manhood was out of reach, withheld or alienating due to not being man enough or being a man wrong/weird but thats not whats being discussed)

For me now i feel like i cant claim my womanhood fully untill i medicaly transition in the way i want because to claim it i need to frist make my body something that can hold all of my genders and then i can throw in all of my gender, my gender being a gaint body of water connected to underground caves, rivers, and a waterfall thats so deep that it connects to outter space as it crashes a rock beach and cliff in a perpetual night time, moon stars neublea galaxies and planets reflecting off the surface of the waves with siren and merfolk singing, supernatural extraterrestrial floating through the universe in space, eldritch sea life lurking in the depth, and bio-luminescent plants and creatures in the water and in the flooded caves and have all of me and my multigenderness and fluidity all at once so to me my transition is feminine, masculine, androgynous, and xenic in a all roads lead here way as in the end i cant separate any of them from eatchother without changing everything witch is why i like transfemasc as to me it can capture that there are multiple directions happening i am transitioning into my womanhood but by doing so im also transitioning into my other genders at least in part because my genders are all tied together and i cant pick out one with out a couple coming along for the ride

i've seen you mention amab transmascs/afab transfems a few times, would you mind explaining that? i've been thinking about the label but it seems like it might be intersex exclusive and when i tried to look into it i mostly just found discourse.

I know both terms get used a lot by intersex people to describe their experiences, but its used by perisex people (like myself) for a variety of reasons too. I think exclusionary-minded people tend to be more "well you CAN do transness wrong if you're intersex i GUESS but only then!" but I know of a few other amab transmascs/afab transfems who use the terms for other reasons. They're pretty generic terms to describe anyone whos transmasc/fem but not the "opposite" agab.

I call myself transfem for a few reasons, namely:

Coming out as queer (and soon after, trans) at a pretty young age and having my experience with gender being heavily shaped by that & the distance it created between me and all my cis peers (especially as one of few out trans kids at my school/s) (seriously being The GNC Queer Kid surrounded by mostly cishet gc kids for virtually all of my life was a trip and I hate that thats never considered in gender socialization discourse. I was assigned female at birth but assigned queer at 5th grade)

Being autistic and being alienated from girl/womanhood for similar reasons

Being multigender & having a really complicated relationship with womanhood that cannot be divorced from my other genders and is inherently trans + being transsexual and feeling that I am unable to be myself as a woman if I do not have a testosterone-dominant body and a penis- thats not to say that having those things is what makes someone a trans woman/transfem, which I think is harmful & something afab transfems/amab transmascs should avoid saying when we talk about our genders. Rather that being my experience transes my womanhood on a core level to me. I could never consider or call my womanhood "cis" for these reasons.

As a result of these things, I feel that I am actively choosing womanhood and taken steps to transition into an inherently trans woman.

[cruelsister-moved]

feel like im not allowed to have gender issues or whatever bc im like. gender conforming in that I'm not clearly gender non conforming and im a woman in that I'm clearly not a man but like that's. all there is to it and idk i tend to just mind my own business and respect that i don't really experience gender related distress (i do as in like. being distressed that my experiences are dominated by misogny and its like an inherently for want of a better word dysphoric experience but like the fact that im as much a woman as I am anything else)

and like i think autism impacts my experience of gender SO much and it is both bc i don't seem to really "get" gender the way it seems to mean things for allistic ppl but also like. growing up as an autistic girl is such a gendered experience. my entire childhood was looking over my shoulder wondering why I wasnt like the other girls - even from a young age my feelings of not being quite right were always measured against the other girls as a yardstick, and i built my mask based on trying to copy them.

i didn't feel this intense gender isolation around boys, I was largely indifferent to them and if anything more comfortable around them because I didn't feel the intense expectation that i was supposed to be like them, and the discomfort from feeling like i so obviously wasn't - i wasn't like them either, but it didn't cut the same because I wasn't expected to be.

being an autistic girl felt like being a person in a fursuit in a pack of actual wolves (LOL sorry for the awkward metaphor). like it was obvious what I was supposed to be but it was always artificial and deliberate and obviously performed. my girlhood was a uniform i wore to try and blend in and ultimately it was something i put on and took off while masking, and not something i ever internalised or thought about as part of my own perception of myself.

I'm never going to be able to detach my perspective of my own gender from those experiences, I'm never going to not feel it as an uniform i put on in the dark and get to school and try and figure out if everyone is looking at me funny. i know the whole "im not a man or a woman, I'm me :)" thing is so whatever but i really don't feel gender to be a discernable part of myself.

i love girly stuff and i love being a femme in a butch femme relationship but all of it feels like something very personal to me that doesnt relate to social gendering in any way at all. like being into sports is just a standalone part of you rather than a one half of a binary you sort into. like...im a girl on my own, but i feel completely out of place being a girl in relation to other girls.

bc I don't really perceive gender innately, my experience of gender is all comparative. i see the signs and the marks it leaves , rather than the thing itself as a discrete object. im aware of gender when Im comparing myself to another girl, but I feel nothing alike to her - what I'm really comparing is how we are seen by a 3rd party. do i exude the same signs as she does that mark me as "like her"?. my access to gender is indirect, interpreted through observing its secondary output from others.

ive always been aware of the autisic different understanding of gender thing but I didn't ever properly follow through on all my feelings of discomfort and realise how deeply tied gender & masking was and still is for me and I think like the experience specifically of being an autistic woman creates this very specific gender experience... this is a lot of fumbling to try and put my finger on things but autistic ppl w gender diseases I would love to hear ur thoughts 💜

i think in a lot of this i am just awkwardly trying to explain what masking is like so the tldr of this if u already know is like. for me gender is basically a part of masking which means I do have a concept of my gender but its inseparable from like. observing and mimicking to avoid the consequences of being different and not like smth i understand or internalise or feel is me or whatever?

[donnerpartyofone]

#3

I don’t ever remember feeling good. I don’t mean to say that I’ve never had moments of happiness, that I don’t love my friends, that I regret getting married; I’m not denying that I’ve had the opportunity to pursue passions in life, or that I feel incredibly lucky to have led my privileged life. I mean that I wanted to kill myself when I was a really little kid. I suffer from an incredibly detailed long term memory that goes back before I reached the age of two, and what I remember about childhood is the scathing heat of embarrassment, itching under a layer of cold sweat, revulsion at the hideousness and impracticality of my own body, horror at a world that was ugly, dirty, cheap, boring and airless, a world that was all these things and that required mandatory participation, a factory that makes nothing. I vacillated between mindless rage, and violent sobbing, which I indulged on purpose in pursuit of catharsis. There wasn’t much that I wanted, because everything seemed so repulsive. The main thing was that I wanted to be left alone, and unseen. Each morning I would wake up gripped by panic, because I knew that once I left my bedroom to come to breakfast, everyone was going to look at me. It would take me what felt like hours to work up the nerve to open the door, and when I did I would begin to scream “DON’T LOOK AT ME! DON’T LOOK AT ME!” like a toddler version of Frank Booth. It’s pretty hilarious to think about, but the truth is that I still feel like doing that every time I show up somewhere.

My earliest memory is of my mother trying to take my picture. It took place in an apartment I couldn’t exactly place, so at first I thought it must have been a dream. I was very little, but I understood enough about what the camera meant--that I was being stared at. I turned away, and was repositioned; then I tried to run away. My mother chased me, increasingly infuriated, until I was cornered behind the hilariously prison-like bars of my crib, where she could photograph me whether I liked it or not. I eventually found the resulting picture of myself agonizing behind the crib, confirming that I remembered being about one-and-a-half, living in an apartment before the house I grew up in. The memory serves as something like a metaphor for everything I have been afraid of--helplessness, captivity, surveillance, and of course, my mother.

There is no doubt that I had a serious chemical problem that caused my catastrophic rages and suicidal ideation, even so early in life. (I would find out about that...well, just a few years ago) But, lest I fall into the trap that therapy so often creates--the belief that everything that is wrong with you is within your own power to change, that sadness and anger are only the result of your own bad attitude, which just needs an adjustment--I have to admit that there is something within all this about my mother. I have traditionally categorized this particular woe as a void of maternal relationship. My mother and I “didn’t get along” or “didn’t really relate”, and then before I was old enough for us to have our first adult conversation, she was dead. As I teased out some anecdotal details of our absence from each other’s lives with my first therapist, that doctor once started one of our sessions by blithely declaring, “So you say your mother hated you!” Actually I never said that, but thanks for illuminating things so brightly, you...fucking asshole. Ironically, one of the things I didn’t like about this young, attractive, waspy therapist was that her Kelly Bundy-ish work attire made it impossible for me to bring up any anxieties I had around my own attractiveness, or my alienation from the rest of my gender. The alienation from the rest of my gender that had certainly begun with my alienation from my mother.

I don’t remember a single nurturing, initiatory experience with my mother. I had my first period young, and when I naturally went to her for help--well, to be fair, I probably told her that I more or less understood how things went, but I still think we probably should have had a longer conversation than just her telling me not to flush maxi pads down the toilet, and coolly dismissing me. I remember the first time I tried on makeup, her makeup of course; as soon as she spotted me, she asked “Are you wearing makeup?” in this razor sharp tone, and scowled at me until I followed her unspoken instruction to go to the bathroom, wash my face, and send myself to my room. Again, no further discussion of makeup, clothing, or general womanhood issues ensued. Similarly, I remember a day when I had become just old enough to pick out some of my own clothes. We went shopping for underwear, and every model she suggested, I just wanted in black. I didn’t realize what kind of rage this was stoking in her until she suddenly snapped, “DON’T YOU WANT ANYTHING OTHER THAN BLACK?” and spun away from me. I had no idea what rule I was breaking to deserve this, although the truth is that probably some primitive part of me understood that it was kind of a sexual problem. In the following years I developed into a huge comic book nerd, spending almost all my time copying what I didn’t really know were pretty sleazy pinup images of female characters out of X-Men comics. I had an inkling that these were sort of horny-looking, but I was really attracted to the drawings, which were heavily cross-hatched and compulsively detailed, according to the predominant style of the '90s. That kind of intense, microscopic linework has always attracted me, and one day I stupidly asked my mother, an artist herself, what she thought of a certain drawing I was studying. Most unfortunately, it was of the White Queen, a really idiotic character whose costume is essentially lingerie. What really interested me about it was the linework, but my hopes of discussing art were dashed when my mother spat “I THINK IT’S BORDERLINE PORNOGRAPHY!” and promptly stormed off. That probably would have been a pretty good time for her to talk with her insecure, confused eleven year old girlchild about feminism, body positivity, or any of the other facts of being a woman that I desperately needed to hear. I didn’t get any of that either when, around the same time, I started trying to talk to her about feeling fat and ugly, and she just threw a diet book at me. When I remember my mother, I most immediately remember the back of her head.

This all makes my mother sound like some sort of tyrannical throwback housewife, but none one would have told you that about her. Mom was “cool”. A playfully subversive hippie painter from Brown who loved kitsch and camp, she filled our house with old pulp novels, 3D horror comics, bootlegs of Mystery Science Theater 3000, tapes of Warhol’s Frankenstein and Dracula. She was a striking dresser, imperiously intelligent, and brutally funny. She was outrageously popular among everyone who knew her. The strange truth, though, was that while she had the outward appearance of a mischievous hipster on the cutting edge of culture, on the inside she had a rigid resistance to anything she considered psychologically or emotionally abnormal. Sadness and frustration were unacceptable, antisocial qualities, inconveniences that were grounds for rejection. So, as if she’d been cursed by a spiteful witch, instead of having a fun, affectionate, curious, creative mini-me, her first born turned out to be a taciturn suicide case, constantly quivering with fear and rage--the ultimate in uncoolness. I have a recollection of being around 12 and complaining to her about a friend of mine who was (also) sort of a drip and a drama queen. My mother’s advice to me was to say to my difficult friend, “I’m sorry you feel that way,” which is a clever way of expressing sympathy while giving no credit at all to the sources of the person’s pain. Even at that young age, I kind of thought...hey wait a minute, that’s exactly what she’s been saying to me!

Lest anyone think of her as some sort of roundly superior specimen, I can also say that she was sort of a nerd. She had a huge number of allergies, and also asthma, which she passed on to my brother and me. (And ironically, my lifelong snorting and snuffling and sneezing became one of the many things about me that visibly disgusted her) This, combined with my father’s amorphous environmental illnesses (see: the brilliant Todd Haynes movie SAFE), compelled my parents to try to move house. When I was about 11, we moved across our grimy, depressed city to a much bigger house in a nicer neighborhood. Shortly after we got settled, my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. Her doctor’s advice was to go home and make her peace, immediately, but she shocked everyone by surviving for at least another three years. When people hear that, they always respond as if it must have been some sort of beautiful miracle. No one who has lived with the dying could think this. Our lives turned into NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, quickly and consistently, every day a frank, unromantic confrontation with mortality, until it was over.

What could I possibly feel? This person who was a virtual stranger to me, who didn’t like me, who turned into a rotting corpse in front of me, had died in agony. Instead of trying to raise a happy, healthy person, she had sat back expecting me to seduce her, and I had failed. So, I didn’t know what the loss of her really meant. I would never understand anything about maternity, and I would never figure out anything about being a woman that I didn’t ultimately make up for myself. The only thing I really knew about first hand was death. I didn’t understand much of anything about my mother’s actual biological reality, because no one really communicated with me about it, but I knew for sure that the human body is a bunch of bullshit and there is just no reason to be precious about it, ever. Unfortunately, one is never left in dignified solitude with their own interpretation of death. Death is a curse that befalls the living, who are then suddenly and disproportionately responsible for each other’s feelings. This is never more true than when you physically resemble the dead. You become everybody’s confessor, the person with whom they try to relive their experience with the living, and you better be nice about it--even if you are technically more entitled to grief and resentment and anguish than anybody in the room. And of course, this was never more true than with someone who had always frightened me more than my mother: my mother’s mother.

[cannibalisticshadows]

Loving The Alien (Part 8)

“Blood and Bone”

(Ao3)

For electronicpencil, and the anons who want Megamind to be reptilian.

Megamind stayed for ten more minutes that night, after showing her his flaky neck. He says it only gets worse, since it just begun, and unless she wanted his flakes flying everywhere he should leave. So, despite his original resentment of her lips on any part of him, she gives him a peck on his nose and tells him to drive home safely.

She doesn’t hear from him for the next six days.

And it’s—concerning. She's so used to seeing his face now, in her own home, that when she returns to work after her short leave all she can think about is if he’s okay (honestly, she shouldn’t worry, he said molting was perfectly normal and it will continue to happen until he dies).

Still, though, she’s a little worried. She had no way of getting in contact with him.

“Hey, Roxa-roo,” her red-haired cameraman says, once her report from outside of the Metro Man museum is over (talking about Megamind’s absence—she knows the truth but this is basically a report on nothing). “I was thinkin’, since old Megs is like, probably dead, you wanna come over for some pizza to celebrate? My treat!”

Roxanne resists the strong urge to tell him off. Megamind’s death would in no way be a celebration. “No thanks, Hal, I’ve got dinner plans.”

“Oh,” he said, shoulders slumping. “Maybe next time?”

“Maybe.” For all that he was, Hal was a good cameraman, but his boyfriend material was far, far from what she found desirable.

“Okay. See you later, Roxie!”

She hated that name.

-------------------

She lied when she said she had dinner plans. If anything, she may eat a cup of noodles, but she ends up taking a walk in the park. It’s so late that everyone has gone home, leaving the trails void of any soul. The summer night felt lovely against her skin, prompting her to remove her jacket, leaving her in her ruffled blue dress. Eventually, she sits on a bench, enjoying the sound of the wind in the trees, and the absence of any person around.

Or so she thought.

“Nice night?”

She jolts and spins around in her seat, her blue eyes landing on the one sight she wanted most to see.

“Megamind!” She exclaims, her face lighting up in delight as he approached her.

He’s wearing jeans, of all things. Jeans and combat boots, with a dark blue top and a leather jacket with the collar turned up. His tail swishes around as she runs up to him, so overjoyed to see him she literally jumps him, sending them both to the ground.

He grips her lower back as they land in the grass, laughing as she squeals his name again. “You’re back!”

“I never left,” he chuckles, arching his neck as she places sloppy, desperate kisses along his jaw. “I was just being gross and taking a lot of showers.”

“You couldn’t be gross to me if you bathed in the garbage. Wait. Actually, I take that back. I do enjoy nice smells. I have standards.”

He laughs heartily at that, rolling her over until she’s pinned beneath him. She can see his tail behind him, raised up as his weight presses her into the ground. “Then tell me now, Miss Ritchi. Do I smell?”

She pressed her nose to his neck. He shivers at her touch. “You smell amazing.” And he did. Like something she’d find at a pricey perfume store for a million bucks, but it was so light she found herself chasing the scent because it filled her with such pleasure. There was also something she knew was just plain him, like autumn wind and dark chocolate and fresh leather. Overall he smelled really good, and not to mention his skin felt fucking greeeeeat. She hadn’t realized it until now that the days leading up to his “shedding”, his skin had felt dryer than usual.

“I missed you,” she found herself saying. He tilted his head, smiling softly. “Hey, Megamind?”

“Hmm?” He let out a little purr, moving off of her so they could both sit up.

“Are you… still a villain?”

He sat for a quiet minute, staring at the shaking leaves of the tree they found themselves under.

“I don’t really know anymore.”

“How come?”

“I… Roxanne, I’ve been bad my whole life,” he flopped down on his back, staring at the sky. “The only thing I’m good at is trying to beat Mr. Perfect Hair.”

“You and I both know that’s basically impossible, but that’s beside the point. Megamind, you’re brilliant. You have so much to offer the world besides trying to blow stuff up.”

“Or kidnap you?”

She rolled her eyes, but playfully. “Or kidnap me. Seriously, sweetheart, from the start I knew you weren’t all that bad.”

“Because I suck that much?”

“No,” she said sharply. “You never really tried to hurt me. In all these years it became obvious you were never evil.”

“Tell that to the rest of the world.”

“You’d be surprised.” Roxanne lays down beside him, placing a hand on his chest. “My parents live out in the boonies. Country land.”

“I know. They own a farm.”

Of course he’d know. “The point is, is that they were so proud of me when I went to college and started my path to being a news reporter. Not the place I imagined myself being as a kid, but I was happy and they were happy with my decision.” She put her head on his chest. To her mild surprise, his heart is much louder than a human’s, and at least twice as fast. “My mom barely passed high school. My dad dropped out before senior year. He inherited the farm from my granddad because his mom wanted nothing to do with it. They’re simple people. Quiet, even. And they were so overjoyed that I’d finished my education. But you wanna know something?”

She can see he doesn’t understand where she’s going with this, but he’s paying close attention.

“When you kidnapped me the first time both of them came up here in the old pick up truck and nearly demanded me to come back home. They did this for the first five times. After that, they started to realize something.”

“What?” He asks it like his life depends on it.

“Do you remember our fifth kidnapping?”

He purses his blue lips. “I remember each and everyone.”

“You could have let me fall off the cliff you had dangled me off of,” she said, leaning up again to meet his vibrant green eyes. “But you nearly risked your own life to save mine when the rope snapped unexpectedly.”

He doesn’t respond.

“They saw that. There are a lot of other people who saw that, too. You’ve done a lot of insane and illegal things, Megamind, but being evil isn’t one of them.”

He swallows.

“Now,” she leans in closer. “Are you going to lay here all night or kiss me, lover?”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

She’s suddenly on her back again, this time with her wrists pinned above her head as he assaults her mouth with the most intense kiss they’ve shared yet. He tried to mold his mouth onto hers, their noses bumping against each other. She moans and arches her back, feeling him wriggle against her until she parts her legs to allow him perches between her thighs.

With his heavier-than-expected weight, she can feel his slim figure move atop hers, grinding into her in the most pleasant way. She opens her mouth in another moan of encouragement, happy to feel his slick tongue touch her bottom lip.

“Megamind,” she exclaims, feeling him grind against her womanhood. He murmurs her name against her neck, making it sound like a plea to God Himself as he laved her skin, dragging his long tongue down to her collarbone.

For a brief moment, she feels—she feels something hard press against her through his jeans—

And then he’s gone—

Someone is shouting her name, and Megamind’s—

“Megamind!” She shouts, sitting up at the speed of light because he had been literally yanked off of her. He’s—dangling, in the air, by his tail.

Out of costume, Metro Man was just plain old Wayne Scott. Poster boy for perfection and all that was righteous. Right now, the buff man was in jeans as well but wore a plain white dress shirt and a gray jacket. His face, though, wore absolute fury.

“This is what you’ve been doing!?” He demands, voice booming. “Molesting Roxie!?”

“Put me down!” Megamind roars, flailing all his limbs, face turning a light shade of purple as seemingly all the blood in his body rushed to his head.

“Stop it!” She shouts, wanting to grab Wayne by the ears and tell him off because Megamind was doing nothing wrong what so ever. She can barely watch it because never has he tried to carry Megamind by the tail and never has she seen him strong enough to hold himself upside down by it. Carry things, sometimes, but he wasn’t a monkey.

“Jesus, and to think I was actually worried about you,” Wayne seethes, and actually—he yanks Megamind by swinging him—and—

Good God what the fuck is he doing to him—

She can’t hear herself shouting Megamind’s name, but she feels her voice rip through her throat because suddenly she’s throwing herself to the ground beside him as he falls to the floor in a loud thump, and something wet and warm splattering a part of her face.

Wayne lands beside them with all the grace in the world, dropping—dropping—it to the ground—

She has zero idea of what to do. This was never done before. Wayne always roughed his nemesis up a bit before bringing him to jail. Never—never really hurting him—

“Megamind,” she sobs, helping his shaking form to lean upon his hands and knees, clutching him to her chest. “Oh, Megamind—“

His beautiful, perfect tail is lying on the ground just a foot away, blood pooling at the base of it. Never before had she seen it so limp. Now—now it wasn’t even apart of—

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?” She shouts at the superhero as loud as possible.

“Um—“ Now, Wayne looks confused. Megamind says nothing, but clutches onto her with his face in her chest, still quaking with tremors of clear agony. His feet kick at the ground.

“HE WAS DOING NOTHING WRONG!”

Now the hero goes pale, and his eyes dart from Megamind to her, to the tail, to—

“W-what?”

“You idiot!” She cries, holding onto Megamind tighter. In her horror and wrath, she has enough brain cells in her to tell her to put pressure on the wound. “He wasn’t molesting me! I wanted it!”

“You—what?!”

Megamind, still shaking, turns his head to face his life-long enemy. “Still can’t resist pulling it off, can you?”

Not really understanding what he meant by this, she just holds onto him and shouts, “Take us home, right now, or I will scream so loud even your ears will burst!”

Wayne, still confused and stuttering manages to pull himself together and pick both of them up. She grabs onto Megamind’s tail and holds it close, knowing it should be put into ice or something until they can reattach it. They can reattach it, right? It’s possible to do that will plenty of detached limbs—

They get to her apartment through the balcony, and she rushes inside and puts Megamind on the sofa. He’s—he’s unconscious, and his blood has seeped into her outfit and it’s on her hands and—

“What did you mean, you wanted it to happen?” Wayne’s asking her, standing in the middle of the room looking dumbfounded. “He was—asulting you!”  

“It’s called making out, you ass!” She shouts, grabbing the vase Megamind replaced the previous one with and throws it at him. He’s unaffected. “And he’s good! He’s fine! He’s not hurting anybody anymore!” She throws a book at his head. “You tore his fucking tail off what the fucking fuck is wrong with you!?”

“Roxanne—“ he pauses as she throws a chair at him. “Roxanne, he’s gonna be okay. This has happened before.”

“W—“ She lowers the dictionary in her hands. “What do you mean?”

“It grows back,” he said, looking mildly weirded out. “Like a lizard.”

I’m not a lizard, Megamind’s voice echoes in her head.

She throws the dictionary at him anyway.

“Get out of my apartment, Wayne.”

He leaves.

And now she’s alone with a tailless, unconscious Megamind, and she’s got no earthly idea what to do.