#and another where I was only referred to as a man (knew I was agender but specifically referred to me as a man) and never used they/them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dontcallmecarrie · 4 years ago

Text

No Hero [And Not Made Of Stone]

...I’ve got nothing. Not even sure where the idea came from, but as per usual, the moment my brain had an idea it immediately took it by both hands and ran with it so here you go. Name for this AU might change, but for now here have another song lyric [from Five Finger Death Punch’s “Wrong Side of Heaven”]

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Warnings: mild profanity, dysfunctional families, a metric buttload of gender and identity issues, because the protagonist is a possibly agender character [their stance on gender can be summed up as “huh, those parts are new. Weird. Moving on”]. Not exactly Tony-friendly at times, but not for the reasons you’d think.

To sum up: haven’t done a SI-OC fic before, let’s see how it goes. Under the cut, because RIP mobile users otherwise.

Justin Hammer’s name wasn’t always Justin Hammer.

He doesn’t really remember what it was anymore, but he knows that much.

Honestly? This ‘memories of another world’ thing was more a pain in the ass than anything else, at least at first.

It might’ve been cool if they remembered something useful— concrete dates, specific innovations, hell, even any tips of what stocks to invest in— but no, they had to get short end of the stick with weird dreams, identity crises, and a longing for a family they’d never had.

Oh, and another round of puberty, because of why the hell not. Like last time hadn’t been enough of a pain in the ass.

Ugh. They wanted a refund.

...okay, so it probably could’ve been worse.

Justin has vague recollections of going to sleep hungry, of huddling with their younger sibling under blankets because their parents couldn’t pay the electrical bill— so really, in the great scheme of things, being born as part of the 1% this round was. Something.

Trippy as hell, is what it was, honestly.

This family was loaded, and under other circumstances, they might’ve even been able to enjoy it— if, y’know, they hadn’t had the incredibly shitty luck of being born two years before Tony Stark.

“Look at what he’s doing, that could be you” this, “study hard, he’s going to be your rival” that— geez, if any other kid had been in Justin’s shoes, he would not have envied them.

If he didn’t already have a firmly established sense of self, it would have been a mindfuck of a childhood because for some reason, his father kept comparing them? And yeah, Justin could kinda see some of the parallels— they were about the same age, both firstborn sons and heirs to their parents’ respective companies— but that’s about where the similarities ended.

Look, Justin wasn’t a genius, okay? He was fairly bright for his age, but...he wasn’t a one-in-a-million prodigy. And, up until he was 6, that had been acceptable.

But then the press went wild because oh, look, Howard’s son built a circuit board at age four, and it all went downhill from there because suddenly, being normal wasn’t good enough. Not for his parents, anyway.

Sometimes, he wondered what would’ve happened if it had been another kid in his shoes— how they would’ve handled the small army of private tutors and the extra classes they kept being signed up for in the hopes of finding something they excelled in.

The pressure of constantly being compared to a once-in-a-generation prodigy, and always being found wanting.

Justin wasn’t afraid of hard work— but it was grating, even for him.

Really, just about the only silver lining to this ‘second life’ thing was his adorable little sister, Stephanie.

She, at least, looked up to him: her gap-toothed smile didn’t hold any expectations for anything other than the piggyback rides he regularly offered, and this time he didn’t even have to worry about medical bills, or—

Anyway.

His family and the Starks run in the same social circles, because of course they do.

Now that he’s getting older, Justin’s being dragged along to all of the fancy shindigs with his parents, and it’s only due to two lifetimes’ worth of self-control that keeps his polite smile from wavering when he’s introduced to the bane of his existence.

“Hi, my name’s Tony Stark.” The little brat said, and Justin bit back a sigh as he shook his hand.

...so, the Stark heir his father wanted to be his rival was a kid. Actually a kid, which just made this mess that much more pathetic because part of Justin had almost been starting to want to buy into this rivalry thing, but.

In this life, and the last one, they’d been an older sibling.

This time, despite everything, he could tell he was softer— he had never gone to bed hungry, never had to worry about the roof over his head, or being solely responsible for his younger sibling’s health and safety— but.

Old habits die hard.

Of course Justin’s father hears “the Starks are sending their seven-year-old heir to boarding school” and thinks “good idea, why didn’t I think of that?”

Of course.

Of fucking course.

Steph had cried when they’d packed their things, and for that alone, Justin would never forgive their parents.

The other brats at boarding school are more invested in the Hammer-Stark rivalry than they are.

...this was going to be a long 9 years, wasn’t it.

One of the perks to going to one of the most elite boarding schools in the world was the options. Certainly, Justin doubted other places offered skiing and fencing and over eleven languages in their electives.

Not that he was complaining: it was definitely a way to keep busy, certainly much better than the constant attempts at one-upmanship that came part and parcel with cramming the richest heirs, heiresses, and honest-to-goodness royalty in one place.

At the end of the day, though, they were all kids. Bratty, entitled little shits who were still at the stage where they constantly went “my father will hear about this!” and Justin had way better things to do with his time than engage in those petty little playground attempts at power plays.

So he dove into everything the school had to offer, bouncing from elective to elective like a ping pong ball, and trying not to think too hard as to why Spanish had come so easily to him, though he’d never studied it before— or why he’d felt a pang when the instructor had congratulated him on his accent.

Somewhere down the line, Justin...kinda made a name for himself? Apparently?

Ugh, they’d never understand these people.

Okay, so apparently he’d kinda become an older brother figure of sorts to the brats around here? Somehow? Even though he hadn’t exactly been planning on doing anything of the sort when he saw an underclassman struggling during practice, or stopped fights before they could start in the common room because he’d just sat down and didn’t have the patience to move all his stuff somewhere else to study.

Didn’t make sense to him, but apparently it was enough for some of the professors to write ‘good leadership skills’ on his transcripts, so whatever.

As a bonus, it made his old man happy. Not that Justin gave a damn about what he thought about him personally, but the increase in his ‘allowance’ [it was in the triple digits, like hell he was calling it that] was nice.

Among the hobbies Justin bounced between, there were a few that raised more eyebrows than others.

Knitting, for instance, was something some of the more annoying brats liked to laugh about. They eased up when they found out he sent the scarves and hats he made to his little sister, but... eh, whatever.

Sewing, too— apparently it was okay if it was framed as a Boy Scout-esque ‘know the basics so you can always be prepared!’ way, but the moment he did any sort of embroidery there went his respectability.

Well, at least nobody gave him a hard time about cooking. But then, his chilaquiles had some of these guys’ eyes watering just from the smell of it, so.

It still didn’t sit well with him sometimes— kinda like how puberty had Not Been Fun on a number on levels, but hey, if all else failed, he could just ignore it harder.

It hadn’t failed him yet.

Stephanie insisted on going to boarding school with him when she got to the age he’d been shipped off at.

It was...nice, having his little sister around again.

It was a good thing Justin had been okay with being designated the heir of Hammer Industries, because Steph was... exactly like he remembered her.

Cheerful, upbeat, startlingly devious and manipulative when she wanted to be, and just a tad bit spoiled.

...okay, so Justin had probably contributed a bit to that last one. In his defense, he’d been doing his best to shield his sister from the staggeringly high expectations he himself had to deal with, but look, he wanted at least one of them to have some semblance of a happy childhood, okay?

Goodness knew he hadn’t [not this time, nor the last].

Stephanie wasn’t interested in the family business, was more interested in pursuing a career in the arts.

Justin, of course, encouraged her wholeheartedly.

Their parents weren’t entirely happy about it, but...wasn’t like they had much to complain about. Not when Justin was always in the top ten of his year, not when the professors practically gushed over his responsibility and work ethic.

He was no Tony Stark, but he’d made a name for himself nonetheless.

“So, we’re supposed to be rivals?” The bane of his existence said once, at yet another gala. “Howard says so, anyway.”

“Seems that way,” Justin shrugged as they pilfered a flute from a nearby table, carefully not commenting on how he’d referred to his father by his first name. Talk about a strained relationship, right there.

“You’re not really acting like one.”

“Well,” Justin sipped at his flute before making a face when he discovered it was champagne and not apple cider like he’d hoped, “it’s nothing personal, just business. Healthy competition, y’know? Someone’s got to.”

Stark eyed him for a moment, before giving him a brilliant smile. “You know, I think I’d like that.”

Justin would never, ever understand these people.

In the time Justin Hammer got his degree in business, Tony Stark got several Ph.Ds.

Not that he envied him: the idea of being shoved into the limelight after losing his entire family? Hard pass.

For some reason, Tony Stark seemed to think they were friends.

Why.

Sure, Justin tried to be as cordial with him as he did with anyone else, but... how on Earth did that translate into being friends?

“You look at him like he’s a kid,” Steph says once, laughing, “you look at all of us that way, haven’t you noticed?”

“Well, to be fair—”

“You’re only a few years older than us, but you keep acting like you’re dad. More like a dad than our actual dad, sometimes,” her smile dropped for a moment, “don’t think I forgot that time he didn’t even call for your birthday.”

Justin made a face. “But what’s that got to do with anything?”

She sighed, then gave him a smile and a look he couldn’t decipher. “You’ll figure it out eventually.”

By the time Justin Hammer became the CEO of Hammer Industries, Tony Stark had held the same post in his company for over half a decade.

Yet...well, something weird was going on.

Maybe it was because Justin’d had more time to prepare for the cutthroat world that was the defense industry, but—

For some reason, he couldn’t help but think Tony was softer than he’d thought.

No-brainer contracts that would have been a cinch to broker, passed over simply because their distributors didn’t pass their incredibly high standards; buyers who wanted in, but whose past associations— very, very far in the past— meant SI didn’t even consider them.

Justin couldn’t understand it.

For someone in the industry, Stark’s morals were...unusual. Respectable, from one perspective, but remarkably naive from any self-respecting businessman who wanted to turn a profit.

He was fairly certain the only reason Stark Industries was considered number one in the sector was because of the constant influx of new designs; they just were turning down too many contracts for him to consider otherwise.

Sure, sometimes Hammer weapons found themselves in the wrong hands— much more often than Stark weapons, regrettably— but it was one of the hazards that came with the business. They’d both known it from the get-go; Stark weapons were considered the best for a reason, even though somewhere down the line, his company’d gotten a reputation for no-frills dependability and ruggedness to the point where unscrupulous individuals would do anything to get their hands on either. Wasn’t like there was anything they could do about it, not when money talked in ways laws didn’t.

Why Stark was so hung up over it, he just. Couldn’t wrap his head around.

Stark was proclaimed dead, and there was strong evidence to indicate the attackers had been using his guns.

...well, fuck.

“This is fine,” Justin muttered as his personal headache proceeded to come back from the dead only to say his company was going to stop doing the thing it was known for and making an ungodly mess in the stock market while at it, “it’s not like it affects me, anyway.”

Overnight, Hammer Industries became number one in the defense sector.

Justin was not a happy camper about the spotlight.

Even more so, when he had to take additional measures so his sister could continue enjoy the privacy she’d had after pursuing her dreams as an artist because the press didn’t want to leave well enough alone.

“You know, you could’ve given me a warning.” Justin scowled when he saw Tony at the next gala.

“You handled it well enough, didn’t you?”

Ugh.

His headache was back, and worst part was, the smile he got more than made up for it.

...and then I kinda ran out of steam.

tl;dr: MCU canon had Justin Hammer as a foil to Tony Stark, here their dynamic is more along the lines of Beethoven and Mozart [one really respecting the other’s genius, and working their butt off to get to that level of respectability and general acclaim].

in this AU, Stark Industries is kind of like Apple— very futuristic high-tech stuff, all the bells and whistles going on, etc, whereas Hammer Industries is the Nokia in this analogy: not fancy in the slightest but as close to indestructible as it gets.

#No Hero [And Not Made Of Stone]#No Hero [Downward Descending]#My writing #character study of sorts #fic idea #fic ideas #3 am musings #kinda #also #does it count if said 'fic idea' is over 2k long?

64 notes · View notes

goldenkamuyhunting · 4 years ago

Note

I was reading your latest post. Does Ienaga not use gendered pronouns to refer to herself? Or are they ambiguous and you decided to use male pronouns?

Actually...

I stared at this ask blinking like an idiot for a while because, as far as I’m involved, I gender Ienaga as female and it was a while I didn’t write about her so I couldn’t understand what where you talking about and I feared I messed up pronouns again (in my mother tongue we tend to skip them... as a result my use of them in English is... messy to say the least and I have to go through the text twice to make sure I have put them in and put them correctly) until it clicked in.

The convicts list post.

Sorry, I didn’t think at it because the old part is copypasted by the first list I made.

That one... is a bit of a special case.

Anyway sorry for the digression and let’s deal with your ask.

One of the most terrible problems of dealing with Japanese text is that Japanese is gendered in ways that are different from English (or my own mother tongue)... and manga/anime not necessarily use the most common speech (you can find in manga/anime a large amount of character using ‘ore’, which is actually not so common if you go in Japan).

Back to the problem at hand...

PREMISE

If someone has further information I welcome them wholeheartedly. What follows is what I’ve been able to find and what I’ve asked other people with better Japanese knowledge to check for me (but I couldn’t really demand an in deep analysis of the story from them so something could have gone missing) but this was also some time ago so more material could have come up. Or something could have gone missing or understood wrong. Whatever. If you’ve new INFO just please share.

So now, let’s start.

From what I could find Ienaga uses ‘Watashi’ (わたし/私 “I”).

‘Watashi’ can be used by females (Asirpa, the first client Ienaga had, Umeko, Inkarmat, Sofia (when her Russian dialogues are translated in Japanese)), but also by males (Hijikata, Makanakkuru, Nagakura, Tsurumi [who alternates it with ‘ore’], Sugimoto’s dad).

Long story short... it tells us nothing as it can be used by both sexes as it’s a first person pronoun that merely remarks a certain formality and politeness, which is kind of mandatory in female speech but can also be used in male speech (hence the many males who use it).

I don’t really like to say Noda had Ienaga use ‘watashi’ to make Ienaga’s gender ambiguous.

Ienaga, from the little I could notice and from what I’ve been told, uses usually formal speech (Ienaga also tends to use ‘anata’ to say “you”, or name + ‘-san’ which again, is formal), which just fits with Ienaga, who’s a doctor (and who, to become one should have come from a family well off that could pay all the studies required to get a degree), therefore likely formal speech was the norm to Ienaga.

Are there other things we can use to know if Ienaga defines as male or female?

Well, when working as the ‘Sapporo Murder Hotel’ Ienaga says to her customers ‘Okami no Ienaga... tomōshimasu’ (女将の家永... と申します “My name is... Ienaga, the proprietress”).

‘Okami’ is gendered, it’s a female noun but in that setting Ienaga is disguising as a the hotel’s owners’ son’s widow, so it doesn’t tell us much.

I couldn’t find Ienaga using another gendered noun that we could use to gather if Ienaga identifies as female or as male.

Again this isn’t necessarily a deliberate attempt at keeping things ambiguous, the same would apply for many other characters, we just don’t realize it because we’re confident we know which is their gender because they all present themselves in a way that conforms with the expectations we’ve for them completely or, at least, enough we’re confident they are what’s written on the tin.

On an interesting note multiple characters, when not saying just ‘Ienaga’/‘Ienaga-san’, have referred to her as ‘Jijī’ (ジジイ “Old man”) which is a gendered male noun also in situations where they didn’t need to be rude, with no one correcting them, which seems to imply they weren’t told to address to Ienaga using female nouns.

This might mean Ienaga didn’t ask to be addressed as female.

There’s to say that although Ienaga is always listed as “Ienaga Kano” or, at best “Ienaga Kano (Chikanobu)”, Noda, in a Q&A, said that ‘Kano�� is Ienaga’s ‘gimei’ (偽名 “alias/false name”) and that her ‘honmyō’ (本名 “true name”) is ‘Chikanobu’.

Long story short it’s entirely possible Ienaga continued to present herself as Chikanobu, a male, wearing a female disguise, ‘Kano’, while among the Hijikata group.

This seems to be confirmed by the fanbook which says:

‘Ikken suru to zetsuyo no bijo daga, Hijikata ya Nagakura ni yowai chikai dansei de aru.’

一見すると絶世の美女だが、土方や永倉に齢近い男性である。

‘At first glance, (Ienaga) is a beautiful woman, but (in truth) is a man who is close in age to Hijikata and Nagakura.’

I might have of course missed something, there’s plenty of Japanese text in the fanbook but that’s what I could find.

Men who dressed as females but didn’t identify as such had existed and still exist, so it’s possible this is what Noda was aiming to get when he created Ienaga.

When talking with Ushiyama Ienaga says ‘Ushiyama... you’ve spent your life honing your body, so I’m sure you can understand... when I was young I was so strong and so beautiful. I was even willing to steal from others just to cling to that old, perfect me. What about you, Ushiyama? How long has it been since you were perfect?’

This seems to imply Ienaga’s goals were to have back youth, beauty and strength so as to be perfect again.

The body parts she eat come from both males and females so it doesn’t seem there’s a special tie to a specific gender, but they’re chosen for their purposes, like eating Ogata’s eyes because they can see well, or Asirpa’s eyes because they’re beautiful.

So, if anything, Noda defined Ienaga as a male.

Of course an argument could be made that Noda is talking only of the sex and not of the gender, which might lead people to decide ‘he’ isn’t the right pronoun to use and to go for ‘she’ or ‘they’ when talking about Ienaga.

It’s really up to everyone.

As far as my current interpretation goes I say that I believe Ienaga lived as Chikanobu, a male, and identified as such, up until there was the big convict escape. Then ‘Kano’ was created, at first as a disguise... but ultimately ‘Kano’ slowly became Ienaga’s true identity.

Ienaga’s goals are told twice, once in the Ienaga’s arc and those are just going back to being ‘strong and beautiful and perfect’ but the other time is during the ‘Inkarmat’s escape’ arc. Ienaga actually strived after her mother, she wanted to become her, perfection for her was ‘getting pregnant and able to give birth’, not just getting ‘strong and young’.

Inkarmat will become perfect because she’ll give birth, not because she’s young.

There’s no mention Ienaga used to dress as a woman before becoming a convict (we’re told Heita occasionally behaved like a woman while in prison but nothing about Ienaga acting as such), yet the ‘Kano’ disguise isn’t discharged when she’s captured by Tsurumi.

I think that’s because by then Kano wasn’t anymore a disguise, it was her and Chikanobu was no more. Maybe, if Ienaga had managed to help Inkarmat to give birth to her baby, this could have helped her further. Part of her denial of identifying as a female was probably due to society expectations but part was also self imposed.

The image of a woman as someone who gives birth was something that was even stronger back then than it is now. Ienaga knew she could never give birth and in her mind this took shape as her never being able to become a woman.

Of course though, this is just my interpretation of how things went for Ienaga, of how for her the story of GK was just a travel toward accepting who she really was and the fact she realized she was Kano happened late in her life didn’t make it less true.

The fanbook doesn’t cover the whole of GK, it more or less stop at chap 224, with Boutarou’s apparition. Characters like Tomoharu or Tanigaki’s daughter aren’t included, so Noda’s description of Ienaga could have been very well not updated to chap 229.

On the other side I can very well be wrong and Ienaga be meant to be just a man who likes to dress as a female... and others might even see Ienaga as someone who’s agender or just be more confortable with genderless pronouns.

Currently there’s enough ground for each of those possibilities... unless someone found info I’m missing.

I’ve no idea where the Japanese fandom stands in this situation and how they view Ienaga... but for them the problem might be simple because they don’t have to use gendered pronouns, so they can comfortably and respectfully discuss of Ienaga without having to discuss about which pronoun they should use.

Still, if someone has info on how they view Ienaga I would be glad if they were to share it. As they deal solely with the original text they surely have a better grasp on it than what I can ever hope to get.

Back to the convict post... that one was poorly worded, yes. Back in the far past that was meant to be a note just for myself saying something along the line of ‘Ienaga Chikanobu’s crime was...’ and so on for all the others and since even back then I believed as long as she had been Chikanobu Ienaga gendered herself as male the sentence was gendered as such. Then the notes were modified and rearranged so as to fit it in the convict post but my not English speaking brain didn’t realize with the changes I made that sentence would become confusing due to the pronoun which now seemed to refer to Ienaga Kano.

Sorry about that and thank you for the head up.

#Ienaga Kano #Ask #Other people's posts #Bloody fabre

31 notes · View notes

void-galaxy-shenanigans · 3 years ago

Text

IDK if anyone else relates but I just wanna share it somewhere & I've gotten the least hate on Tumblr so....

((gender questioning journey share, here we go! & as always, hate will be blocked & deleted - I respect you're a human person but I don't give you authority over my identity & journey to experiencing the happiest life I can.))

I'm at the point in my journey with gender where I can comfortably say “eh, I dunno what I am but I'm not a girl”.

I started off desperate for a label. I wanted to name it, understand it, see my experience in words. I wanted to say I was genderfluid, then nonbinary, then a transman, then....

I’m masculine and agender. That's all I know. ¿Demiboy? Maybe. ¿Bigender? Maybe. ¿Nonbinary? Definitely.

¿Do I feel masculine? Yea, sort of. I’m a man—my own perception of one, for sure.

¿Do I feel like a genderless void entity floating timelessly in existence, somehow existing inside this weird lil meatsuit powered by an electrified muscle that sort of holds my soul with shapes I don't like that can't capture the endless void that is me? Also yes.

¿Do I have a *set* label for it? No. But I'm okay with that.

I’m me. I’m nonbinary. My pronouns are he/him and they/them, & honestly some other pronouns (xey/xem, fae/faer) kinda make me feel good too.

The only thing I know for sure about my gender is that my feminine energy does not align with what I feel to be woman/girl identity (what I feel in my soul to be woman vs feminine - it's more of a, feminine is not woman, there are masc women & feminine men & androgynous people that mix both, I don't feel woman or girl in my soul but I do feel something feminine & nurturing and creative).

Feminine is a bendy loopy energy that just is, and everyone has a little of it. But woman doesn’t align with me. She/her does not align with me. Honestly I dissociate/depersonalize every single time someone calls me ma’am or refers to me as she/her.

And I’m okay with that.

¿Why is this a big deal?

....I questioned if I was truly cis when I was six years old, fifteen, seventeen, & went ‘nah I love the power swoosh & twirly of dresses & people tell me I'm feminine so I can't be anything but Girl™, Woman™, She/Her™’. I was one of the people who noticed it young & put it off as a problem for another day.

So when I allowed myself to genuinely question, to experiment, to feel gender euphoria....

I was nineteen, going on twenty.

I am now turning twenty-two in less than a month (Nov 19). And it has taken this long to know who I am & be ready for HRT.

I was 19 when I said ‘okay, maybe I need to actually work through this’. I got a therapist and talked about my feelings and presentation and...and she diagnosed gender dysphoria with confidence. And I knew I was right all along. But ¿what, then, was I?

((note - that's not to say everyone needs a diagnosis, or that dysphoria is the only way to know. I was insecure needing validation to really deeply question. A diagnosis set my questioning free. There are other ways to know too 💖.))

I wanted a set label. I wanted something I could throw out to the world, I am me, this is me, please send someone who will accept me.

It took three years to get here.

Three years. And now I feel comfortable saying ‘I don't know the right label, nonbinary is a fuzzy category and I know my perception of gender is affected by my ADHD & autism, but I am comfortable just being me.’

I’m finally here.

It’s self tolerance at the least, but it feels more like self acceptance and self love, or the beginning steps of it.

And I’m so proud.

So for anyone else who felt like I did...

You don't need a label. They probably won't get it anyway.

Be you. Take up space, make that space your own. Present how you want, transition the way you want, command respect, and learn to put your foot down when people don’t “respect” your pronouns & fuzzy identity.

You are already good enough. You are already strong enough, and soft enough. You may not be in a safe place to figure it all out yet, but you’ll get here too.

I am nonbinary. I want he/they.

& the people who love me & respect me won’t demand me to change. I can have grace & acceptance for the time it takes them to learn, & still not tolerate demands for change or simplicity.

I am allowed to have feminine energy without being a girl. I am allowed to have masculine energy without being completely a man. I am allowed to be nonbinary. And so are you.

I am allowed to unbecome what I was forced to be, and become who I wanted to be from the start. You can unbecome who they forced you to be and build a new you too.

So wherever you may be in your self love journey, healing journey, self acceptance journey, & nonbinary journey, know that I see you and you are already valid enough even if they don't see you yet.

And (as a multiplicity system) we’ve finally found a name for the body that we can all agree on too: Stardust.

Let us reintroduce ourselves to the world now that we've gotten this far: We are Stardust (the Void Galaxy is absolutely still acceptable, we love our system name), & our pronouns are he/they. We are transmasc nonbinary.

~Stardust (AKA the Void Galaxy), he/they

#nonbinary #enby #trans #transgender #f2x #f2m #questioning #gender #gender questioning #journey #healing journey #self love journey #self acceptance journey #demiboy #bigender #transmasc

4 notes · View notes

0ceanoflight · 4 years ago

Text

My thoughts on Gaya Sa Pelikula now that I've watched all 8 eps.

Cause I need to write down my thoughts and Twitter's character limit just isn't enough so thank you tumblr. This is gonna be a rant

Also, just wanna say this is from the point of view of a gay trans masc enby, aka me.

First impression

Gaya Sa Pelikula is just.... Wow. It's hard to describe. I originally watched it cause some moots on Twitter kept talking about it and they recommended it to me. It doesn't take much for me to watch a gay show, so of course I checked it out. At the time I think maybe 2-3 eps were out.

I knew nothing about the plot. I had no expectations for it. Just hoping it didn't have any problematic stuff in it, hopefully some cute stuff, same as any other gay show. It was just some show to watch to pass the time. I was wrong. It's so much more than just a good show. It's rare for me to get THIS emotionally invested into a show.

From the first ep I thought "Oh, this is pretty realistic lol. I've said stuff like this", referring to Vlad's lines. That continued as I watched the remaining available eps. Later my moots mentioned that it was written by a gay man and I understood right away. GSP is a gay show with the intention of being very realistic. It wasn't just gay for entertainment's sake. It was gay for the sake for real gay people.

Characters

The characters are so well written. They are flawed. They're not perfect. They all have their own struggles that you wouldn't know until you sat down and talked to them. Their lines and personalities are real. They feel real. I've met people like that. I have friends like that. I see myself in them. Also the acting is incredible. Really brought it to the next level.

The Music

A golden sound track. Every song just fit. It felt like the songs were made for that scene. The lyrics, the vibe. There were so many times when I thought that lyrics perfectly fit the scene in a way that would make me connect even more to what was happening. Really couldn't have been better. 10/10.

The visuals and plot devices

The way everything seems to have a purpose. Everything seems to be interconnected. There were so many things that were mentioned earlier in the episode, or I'm previous episodes that you originally didn't fully understand, then they would come back and suddenly *mindblown*.

The lines in the first prom dancing scene in the first ep. The ghost stories (still blows my mind). Vlad not liking his hair being touch which wasn't explained till later. The keychain. The theme song test. The movie they were watching about the imaginary beach (I forgot the name). The reason behind Judit's seemingly fake/weird ally speeches. The reason why Karl always seemed so stiff and awkward. The closet. The orca. The remote. Ect.

All of that came back later in the show and added so much depth. The metaphors used seemed to almost add extra explainations. Like... they didn't just give more layers of complexity, but it gave us a stronger understanding of what was going on. Or at least it made it more emotional. Idk. I was just one of he people who read posts of others dissecting the show cause I'm not as good. Lol.

Also there were beautiful scenes visually. Karl's dance scene. Beautiful. The film scenes outside, looked gorgeous. The use of mirrors and the TV. Great. Awesome

Connections

There were a lot of things I connected to.

Vlad's lines like I mentioned above were among the first. I've personally said or thought very similar things. Or even those exact things. I was actually shocked at first. By how real that felt for me.

Vlad being lonely, but faking it. Aha. I'm an introvert, and people know it. As much as I need space, I get lonely very easily as well. And friends online sometimes aren't enough. It's not the same as having someone there. With covid, and the fact that all of my friends live far away or are normally too busy to meet up, I very rarely am actually with friends. It almost hurts tbh. Especially since I'm a very affectionate person. Also the gay yearning hours are real and powerful.

Karl's dance scene, letting out the inner femininity. So I'm a bit different. I never came out as gay. I'm a gay trans guy. People already knew, or assumed, I liked men. However I did have the struggle of inner femininity. I hated fem things up until I was maybe 15-16, maybe almost 17. I didn't know why I hated it, I just did. Clearly now I know why. However my evolution to being a fem guy from hating fem things happened around the same time as discovering I'm not actually a girl. It was confusing 3 years (yes it took me about 3 years to piece everything together, a bit longer to settle). My point is, once I opened up to fem things, it was beautiful. It really really was. I felt more comfortable. I felt freer. I went from "ew makeup, skirts, leggings, pink. I hate it". To wearing makeup, wearing leggings, liking pink, often painting my nails. I've worn pretty short shorts with a loose t-shirt and a cardigan. Peak fem. Felt great. I want to wear a skirt, but I'm too afraid to do that. I may feel better with being fem, but society is still society and I might get looks cause "wtf, a man wearing a skirt?". Maybe one day. Uhhh anyways. The times I've grown to become more fem felt like how watching Karl dance felt like. Just like that.

Karl's struggle with his sexuality. Ok again I can't relate on the gay part, cause my coming out was coming out at trans. However yea. That was an adventure. I remember being so confused in 8th grade & 9th grade. God that was.... something. At first I thought I just wanted to be more tomboyish, more androgynous. So I found androgynous girls with short hair and said "I want this". Everyone was confused. My friends said "is there a reason you cut your hair so short?". I was afraid of that question. At the time I didn't know why I was so afraid. I don't remember exactly what I said, but tbh I was pretty defensive. Of course I later realized why I felt that way. I remember finally figuring things out after I settled into knowing I was trans, I didn't know how to come out. I couldn't say it directly. In fact, I never did. To my friends I just said "he/him, they/them pronouns" when asked at events, and of course they knew, but didn't ask more. In fact one friend found out cause I wrote "agender" on a form cause he looked over my shoulder. For my family... I just dropped a big hint, and they understood something was up. I wasn't able to explain it well then either. It took another 2-3 months till I couldn't take it anymore and did my best to explain it better so they would take it seriously. I was afraid. I couldn't say it directly. I actually didn't come out to my my high school. I was too afraid. I had friends who were out and I was jealous. I was jealous of their bravery. Same as Karl to Vlad. I was out to friends, but couldn't be open in the real world, much like Karl. I was only out within the space of the GSA, and of the local lgbt center. That was my "apartment". It was only until after i graduated where I promised myself I would live my real self.

The prom dance scene. I missed my high school's prom too. I wasn't brave enough to wear a suit. That would be like coming out and I wasn't ready. So I missed that. I wouldn't have been able to be open of course. I went to the senior dinner. I guess that was the start of me trying to be open. I went in a suit. Tailored men's dress pants too. I went with friends.

Wanting to write my own stories. That's a big one isn't it? I never really do see myself in films or tv. An autistic mentally ill gay trans masc enby? Yea, not a thing. Not a popular role in hollywood, will never be. I'm not a writer, I wanted to be as a kid, I was going to go to uni for writing, but I'm not really good enough for that. I really really do want to see more of myself in media. I wish I could be able to create such things for other people as well. Cause things like Gaya Sa Pelikula are truly magical. It literally made me cry whenever something I related to happened.

#gaya sa pelikula #like in the movies #yea its long #i am emotionally attached to this show

17 notes · View notes

ships-n-giggles · 5 years ago

Text

Futile Souls: Good Omens Platonic Crowley/Reader

Summary: He saves you. And you chase him through several lifetimes trying to thank him. Platonic, no romance, written because Crowley loves kids

____

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing (and publishing!) reader-insert fanfiction, and I got inspiration from a chapter of Little Pet Shop of Horrors, a Good Omen’s AU regarding Crowley sneaking kids onto the Ark (if the author would message me so I can credit, I would appreciate it!) and other reincarnation stories. These are all based on meetings he has with Aziraphale throughout history, and taking into context the problems that went on during this. This is not a condemnation of certain cultures, religions or peoples, but rather an observation of how it could have affected kids.

If anyone thinks the level of effort Crowley goes to in protecting kids is not accurate with the book or show, that that’s up to you. This is a personal view of what I think Crowley would do in situations where innocent kids will get hurt or killed. I also used the closest thing I could think of to the original names of Jesus and others, though I’m certain I may have inaccuracies. If there are any experts who can point them out for me, I’d appreciate knowing my mixups, though I don’t think I’ll be editing. (ie, no beta read, we die like men)

Also please note that I’m not doing romantic shipping because I personally view Crowley and Aziraphale as agender, asexual beings in reference to what Neil Gaiman has come out to say about them, being a demon and an angel and all. If you like romantic shipping, please write your own or support other readers!

I don’t own Good Omens, because if I did there would be real dinosaurs and I would be living in a castle by the sea, so don’t sue please.

The first time, it was raining very hard.

Your father remarked that such a mighty rain in the desert was surely a promise from above that there would be more fertile lands. More water for barely, wheat, to bake bread and brew beer. You wish you knew what your mother would have thought of it all. But she had been dead seven years, and your father had already married a third time. And your stepmother did not bother to tell you anything. More often than not, she pretended you were not there.

“It’s raining too much.” Your friends remarked, the third day in. “We should ask if we can get on that big boat out beyond the village.”

The local madman, your father called him.

A ship of great proportions, but with no sail or rudder. It seemed less a boat and more of a glorified tub to float in the ocean….except the sea was miles and miles away and would not hasten to him, surely. But there had been remarkable things. A week ago, he let out a great shout for all of the beasts and creatures of the world to come unto him. And they had. Two by two, pair by pair. You saw animals you had no name for. Great big cats with stripes that barely licked their chops in your direction, even as you ducked behind your father, but rather padded along patiently towards the ship. Animals bigger than a house, with a tail at both ends! Even mice were scampering to join the ferry.

The rain drowns the crops, and starts billowing over into your house. Your stepmother, irritated, pregnant, and tired of the soggy state of things, chases you out while your father snores in their bed.

“Hurry! Look!” The children shout at you to join them on top of a big rock. The water is flowing more heavily now, and covers your feet and make your sandals heavy. “It’s the ocean!”

Sure enough, it is the ocean. The adults scoff that it was just the nearby river, but strange fish splash out from it. It looks too big to be a river. And too muddy.

The stranger comes.

“Come.” He hushes you all, a group of twelve children, who are curious at his red hair and yellow eyes. You give a last glance at your house. Your stepmother will not mind if you are gone long. And father will not notice. And this stranger is not like the other adults who are impatient and sometimes lash out when a child is too noisy. He hangs back from view, and watches things as they happen. “Hurry up. There’s not much time left.”

The water around the ark is up to your waist, though it only comes to the stranger’s knees as you wade to the base of the boat. Shem has pulled up the gangplank. He shouts angrily at the people of the village, for shunning their God. For sin. For the corruption of their existence.

The stranger casts one frustrated look of desperation to the skies, grabs a plank and pops it open. You’re all in awe and surprise. The planks are made of tough oak, and the stranger didn’t even use a hammer.

“Get in, you lot. Quick, quick, before we’re noticed.”

But you are all very afraid now. The rain comes down harder, the wind whipping it as you all hold your clothes together tightly, cowering in the coming storm. You jump at the sound of crackling thunder, and look up as lightning bursts in the sky.

You know that much more than the ocean has come to greet you.

So you lead the way, and climb aboard.

The other children, hesitantly at first, follow. And finally the stranger climbs in, putting the plank back where it was and banging the nails back in the other way with his own fist.

All thirteen of you huddle together in the dark hull, and begin to hear things. First it was just heavy rushes of water, splashing the ship. Then it gives a great lurch, and you can feel it floating. There is noise and commotion outside, hearing men slosh around and yelling instructions to slow the flow. Then you hear them urging the others to climb the rooftops of their homes. Then the screaming.

The stranger lets the children cling to him as the storm rages outside. You are right under his arm, hugging his waist and trembling. You all were the children who were awake. But there were many other children in the village. And some had not even been born.

You think you hear your father crying out to the heavens before it is swallowed up by a wave of water and let out a gasp. Without hesitation, the stranger moves one of his hands to your head, soothing you. Your father rarely touched you save to express his frustration or to move you aside.

You wonder if this was a man sent by God.

Peeking up, the stranger’s gaze is intently on a shadow in the hull of the ship, what would lead to the animal pens above. It is tense, fearful, waiting. Hoping. Wishing that you all are not caught.

A long time ago, a black snake slipped into your house and scared your first stepmother to bits, and was chased out by your father. It occurs to you that his eyes are precisely that same kind.

The storm rages, and you are all lulled to sleep.

“Here. Look outside.”

All of you have been wafting in and out of sleep, anxious waiting in the dark, and eating whatever the stranger procures when he briefly departs into the darkness to find some food. It is very little, a couple of raw vegetables or a loaf of bread to share, washed down with fresh water. And you have no idea how long you all have been afloat. Sometimes the rocking of the ship makes you sick. Sometimes it just makes you tired.

When the stranger beckons you all to the plank you had crawled in from, you realize the ship is very, very still.

He pops it open, and there is an amazing sight outside.

A bridge in the sky, with every beautiful color you have ever known and some you have only heard about. A bright white bird with a laurel in its toes soars across the sky, and the sun is shining. There is a lot of water still. And a lot of mud. But it is receding.

“That’s a promise.” The stranger says. “That this won’t happen again.”

But clearly he does not trust this sign from God.

The stranger is careful. He waits until the animals disperse and waits even longer for Shem and his family to set forth with their wives, children and livestock, to claim what is left. When there is nothing but fresh new silence, he leads you all along. “The sun won’t set on you here.” He says as he takes you to the edge of a new sea. His long arm points to a mountain far, far away. “Keep walking. When you reach that mountain, you’ll find a new home. Don’t tell them where you came from. Don’t let them know how you got here.” He looks down and you gaze up at him. “And for hell’s sake don’t let this be the end of you.”

You want to ask him to come along, but the other children have begun to walk, and….after a long wait, you hurry to catch up.

The twelve of you never forget his face. But you had no name to recall him by. So the others begin to forget him for real.

Canaan is fertile, fine land. Shem and his family must have roamed elsewhere. But there are good people here, surprised to find so many lost children wandering around. The high priest of Canaan divines that this was the work of God that you came here, and one by one, you are interred into new homes. You do not form real familial relations with your foster family at first. But a shy cousin is taken with you, and in time, you make your own.

You used to remember the stranger with the other lost children. But soon they stop talking about it. And when you ask, they frown, and tell you they were born here.

Your last breath is drawn upon the birth of your second child. When you see the black cloak your heart leaps with joy…the stranger has come back.

But you feel very cold to realize this is another stranger.

“Yes.” He agrees. “Very much a stranger.”

Your mother in law is wailing alongside the baby, but your body is cold and lifeless. There is grief in the air, but the question has been hanging on for some time now. “Who is he?” You ask. “What is his name?”

“You are dead. You will never see him again.”

“I could.” You said in a small voice. “I might. The sun is reborn every day. The moon waxes and wanes. I could come back too.”

“Would you? Would you relive this life? To know his name?”

“…I didn’t even say thank you. I wouldn’t have lived this long if he hadn’t.”

There is a long silence, and you see the world shrouded in darkness…pinpricked with dying lights that flash brightly before fading away. “Exactly this way. Every time.” Death agrees. “You will be born in time to see him. You will marry and have two children. And you will live only thirty two years before you start all over again.” The promise sounds like a dark omen, as if you should be afraid of such an arrangement. “Until you can express your gratitude, that will be your cycle.”

“That is enough for me.” You whisper, and feel your face and name become less familiar. “Until I can say thank you.”

You do not close your eyes. You don’t have the form to do so anymore.

_______

The next time, it is in Palestine. Galilee.

Your father and stepmother are worrying again, over the state of Roman affairs. It should have mattered less to them, being Jews, but their king in Rome had a lot to say about Jews being Jewish. Even as she soothes your future sibling, resting in her tummy, your stepmother says a lot of prayers, urging God to avert the Roman gaze away from you when you go out to play.

Most Roman legionaries don’t care about the multitude of children that run amok in the streets, and you and your friends play with hoops, ball games, and sometimes draw in the dirt or with charcoal on the walls. Sometimes they chuckle and remark on their own children in Rome, being minded by their mothers, sisters, and wives. You wonder why they don’t stay in Rome with their families like they should, but when you think on it, staring at them, they bark in Latin and make you run.

Your friend is a neighbor, who sings brightly. She is singing a hymn about Abraham in the yard, weaving alone, when you hear her stop and her mother screams. Your father tries to keep you from looking, but you climb to your bed in the loft and peer out.

A legionnaire is wiping the blood off his gladius, and your friend is dead, stabbed in the throat and bleeding heavily into the street. Her mother is wailing and screaming in horror, bent over her body and her tears flowing into the street. The legionnaire scolds her for letting her daughter be so crass in public and gives her a hard kick.

Your father grabs a cudgel from the wall. Your stepmother sees and grows pale, shutting the door behind him and fastening it shut.

Many other fathers do the same, and the riot that breaks out is so loud that you have to cover your ears and hide in the pantry with the door locked. You scream when the walls crumble in the kitchen, and your stepmother praying for mercy when a someone cuts her off. The door is forced open and you’re dragged out.

You choke at the sight of a street, wrecked from the fighting, with more Jews lying in pieces and Romans gathering up the inhabitants and shoving them along. They’re taking you to the coliseum.

Some Jews who worship openly, or even privately, get dragged in there and never come out. Your father used to say it was because the Romans wanted to look strong, and thus they put charges on people who had no power and punished them for their innocence. It occurs to you that among the beat up rioters, weeping mothers, and confused elderly, you are the only child in the group. You’re all forced into a dark, dry holding cell, packed together like jars of dried fish. An old woman sees you and hurries to sit you on her lap to prevent you from being crushed by the crowd.

And you’re all forced to wait.

You’re asleep when you’re forced awake by the sound of snarling. Something big. Something hungry.

The cell is half empty when you awaken. The old woman is shivering with fright. You are too. Then, a whisper passes through, and the woman urges you to move to a shadowed corner of the cell. “Come, come quickly.” The urge you, and as you are pushed forth, you see a small opening where a few bricks are removed. It’s too big for the rest, but you squeeze through with a few helpful pushes from the others, and land in the hot sand outside.

A man shaded under black linen with vibrant red hair and yellow eyes is waiting on the other side.

“Go. Run.” He urges, grabbing you by the wrist. Pulled along, the two of you race out of sight, even as cheers erupt from the coliseum. He pushes you up a ladder and over rooftops, and finally through a small door in the walls of the city. He squints into the distance, and sees a group moving forward. “C’mon, it’s not too late.” He points. “That there is a group following a man named Yeshua. That man will keep you safe from harm.” He squares you by the shoulders, bending over to look at you deep in the eye. “Do not let this place be your end. Now run.”

Something inside you tells you that you ought to wait, to say something else. But he gives you a good shove and you start running. By the time you catch up enough to look back, there is no more sight of your rescuer. He has vanished into a dot on the horizon, with the walls of Galilee behind him.

You push forward to find this man the others reverently call the son of God.

At first you hide behind the crowds when he stops by an oasis to drink. He speaks very gently to everyone, yet loud enough for the others in the back to hear as he speaks. You find yourself listening very intently, until he sees you hiding in the crowd and smiles softly.

He looks after you until a husband and wife come forward, admitting they had lost their baby and wished to take you in as their own. They have heard Yeshua’s message. They live by it. You cannot remember a family that loved you more, except perhaps the parents you have lost. You are married in another city to a friend of theirs. He is solemn and quiet, but he has soft hands and a sweet smile he keeps just for you.

After you are married, you grieve to find Yeshua has been murdered.

But when you and your husband make the pilgrimage to his tomb to pay your respects, your eyes are awash in tears to see him standing before you at the inn, smiling softly, with puncture wounds on his wrists. “My child.” He says gently, and you embrace. He has not forgotten you after all this time.

When you return home to give birth to your firstborn, they tell you he has returned to Heaven. He was here long enough to at least say goodbye. When you become pregnant a second time, you feel as though you are watching your life trickle away like grains of sand in an hourglass.

Yellow eyes. Red hair.

You don’t know his name but you want to find him.

You ask all over the town, hobbling even as the weight of your child bears down on you. But the last that was ever seen, even in Galilee, was of that man watching when they put Yeshua to the cross. Still you search, until your husband bodily carries you to an inn in the next town over. You heave and choke on your breath in a spare room at the hostel.

Regret tinges your last moments.

_____

Again you are born. This time as a slave in Rome.

Your mother cooks for Domitus Britannicus Hesperodus. A wealthy Senator with the ear of the Emperor, married twice. Your mother could not say no to him when he forced her to lay with him, and in time you were born. He didn’t seem to care that you were his flesh and blood, and neither did his children who ordered you around, mimicking their patriarch.

You think it extraordinary how slaves can get in trouble so often. As a child you often hung close to your mother, helping her bake bread and grill fish by the hot stove. But you hear stories of slaves who break furniture and pottery, dawdle on their errands, or speak impertinently to the master. You hear this from the children, who warn you that if you act out of line they will run right to your master and tell him to whip you soundly. Maybe you would even lose a hand. There is already one servant missing a hand when he deigned to steal your master’s bread, who clumsily hauls wood for the fireplaces and stokes the hearth.

When you are asked to serve the table, you realize it is the masters who decide if a slave is impertinent, clumsy, spiteful or lazy.

You don’t remember doing anything wrong. You serve the dishes, pour the wine, and remember what your mother says about keeping your eyes to the ground and staying quiet. The master has several friends over, senators dining lazily and debating philosophy. When your gaze is drawn up to a dove cooing in the window, you miss the first call for wine. The second call is a shattering cup that nearly hits you.

“Lazy!” Your master rears up like a lion about to pounce. You’re terrified as he grabs you by the arm. “Are you deaf? Now the cup is broken!” He piles on the blame and pulls back his hand. And in your panic you bite down on his arm.

You hear him yowl as you run away, dropping the wine jar and spilling it all over the floor as you make haste for the garden. You near trample his youngest son, who bawls when he drops his toy into the pond. You squash the flowers in the yard before leaping up to grab the edge of the wall, scrambling to get over and feeling the breeze of a whip at your heel as you climb up and over…making a run into the night. Late night revelers whoop as you run, and a few prostitutes cheer and make inappropriate gestures as you dart through them, running as your pursuers pour from the house and start to make chase.

Domitus has gotten astride his chariot, yelling at the street-goers to get out of his way as he rumbles down the street, catching up.

“Oi! You!”

You scream as you are grabbed and pulled into a narrow alley, vanishing from sight. A hand claps over your mouth and shushes you. “Hush, shshshsh,” The stranger quiets you like a hissing snake, putting a finger to his mouth. “Keep your mouth shut and you might get away.”

His hair is short, curled, and as bright red as burnished copper. You cannot see his eyes for the dark spectacles on his face, but he has dark, dyed toga, and a golden laurel around his head. He looks around and gestures you to follow. “This way, be quick about it.” The idea of your master in his chariot with a cracking whip demolishes any idea of mistrust and you cling to his toga as you follow him along.

You hasten to a different district, where there are more Germans, Greeks, and Britons mulling about than Romans. He speaks in an unfamiliar language to a group of men in wool cloaks, who eye you very curiously. You hide behind the stranger, but he eventually pulls you aside.

“Right. Stay calm now.” He says quietly. “My friends over here are going to a different place called Gaul. You ever been there?” You shake your head. “Speak any Gaulish at all?” Again, you shake your head, and he tuts. “Pity. But you’ll get the hang of it. Ol’ Tiberius here speaks Latin, he’ll teach you.” He jerks his head at a very big fellow with a strange pewter knot that looks like a snake on his cloak. “Now, I want you to go with them and get as far away from here as you can. Your old master’s gotten himself all worked up, and it’s not worth your life if he catches you, believe me.”

You must have looked afraid because he strokes your head and pulls something from his pocket. A gold coin so old it has since lost all of its features. “Here. If you’re worried about them, you can hop off anytime you like and buy yourself a trade. Keep that close and don’t lose it.” He drops it in your hand and closes it shut.

“But you’ve got a lot more life to live than anyone else here, so keep going.”

It’s enough encouragement to nod your head and to climb into a wagon with the Gauls. But as it begins to rattle off, you realize something and stand up, shouting over the edge.

“Wait!” You yell. “What’s your name?!”

But the stranger only waves and turns back into the crowd, swallowed up by a sea of strangers.

You find your new husband in Gaul by the time you arrive. He’s big and burly and laughs out loud, but cradles you like a little bird and awes over your smaller feet and hands. You learn Gaulish, and learn to enjoy the quiet of the moors and the flowers of the new land. You like the village you come to make your home, and cry when your firstborn child enters this world.

Your second child dies, and you sob to see its corpse exit you as you leave this world.

_______

You had an idyllic childhood the next time. Right until you turned thirteen.

With every pound on the door, you wince, unable to eat the meal your nurse has put before you. The household knights look impressive with their armor, tunics and swords, but they shiver as the Red Knight demands your submission outside the castle.

The Red Knight had learned of you after the death of his fifth bride…another fine young lady of another castle. He rode up to your home, demanded your father show himself, and when he did he challenged him to a duel for your hand and killed him before he could accept or object. With his many squires, fellow renegades and cutthroats making camp around the castle, bullying the locals, you had sensibly shut the gates and barred all entry. There was enough food to last a short siege, what you hoped would be a short one anyway as you wrote a letter to the Kingdom of Essex and the Knights of the Table Round. The letter was put on a hawk to be delivered, and shot down before it could reach the castle.

With no more hawks, and food growing short, the Red Knight laughed that he would starve you out sooner or later.

You pick at your pottage and fish and feel very cold at the idea of marrying him. He had eyes for every young maiden in the area, and no sooner did he wed them did he condemn them to sad, lonely deaths in their bedrooms….chained to the wall some said.

“No one can stand against the Red Knight and live.” One of your knights shuddered at the thought. “He will have us, one way or another.” And with no way of requesting a champion it seemed that would be the end of you.

The Black Knight strolled into the village by surprise, and outdid several of the Red Knight’s squires when they tried to beat him out of his armor. You feared he was just another thug until he made a request at the gate, the Red Knight begrudgingly with him.

“Hello!” He shouts, until you appear at the parapet. “Are you the lady of Willshire Castle?”

“I am.” You call back.

“Right.” He gives a short bow. “I am the Black Knight of Wessex, come to represent you in a duel of arms against the Red Knight of Barborough.”

“This time my lady-“ The Red Knight interrupts. “-you will give your solemn vow. To whomever achieves victory over the other, you will dedicate your hand in marriage. Do you swear before God to do this?”

The Black Knight’s expression is impossible to see, but he looks at the Red Knight with what you can guess is a look of exasperation as he throws up his hands in annoyance at the suggestion. “Er. Yeah. Marriage.” He agrees half-heartedly.

You have nothing to lose. Your household knights and servants will be slaughtered wholesale if you do not accept. And no one else has stood up the Red Knight before. “I vow before God and this community.” You swear. “That to the victor of this duel I will dedicate my hand in holy matrimony.”

The Black Knight wriggles in place uncomfortably. And you’re confused. Wasn’t that what he was here for?

The Red Knight draws his sword and bows dramatically. “I shall dedicate his death to you my love!” He swears viciously, making your blood run cold. “And when I win we will be wed at once! You! Squire!” He barks at one of his cronies. “Go and fetch a priest if we’ve still got one, this won’t take long!”

And to the shock and awe of all…it really doesn’t.

The mystery knight struggles to remove his sword from the Red Knight’s back, his opponent’s face still frozen in shock at the rapid end to the duel. By some form of magic, or curse, it was as if the Red Knight’s sword had turned to butter, slipping from his hands, and leaving the Black Knight free to give him a quick thrust to the chest. Finally the Black Knight wrenches the sword from the armor, groaning at the mess. “Urgh.” He fishes out a black handkerchief and wipes it off, sheathing it.

You suppose a promise is a promise, and order the gates to be opened.

Escorted by the household knights, who eye him with suspicion, you are suddenly very self conscious. Your father had plans for you to marry at a better age. Thirteen he said, was far too young to wed. You were still too delicate for marriage, to immature. Was this knight no better than the last?

The squire rushes back with a priest, who yells in shock at the sight of the infamous knight now dead, the prize delivering itself to his enemy. “Y-you! You’re some kind of demon!”

“You’ve got that right.” The Black Knight declared, hopping astride his horse and bringing it around. “I am the Black Knight of Wessex. Lord of the Darklands that will never be claimed!” His horse swung its mane, and he moved to dodge it. “And to meet with me is to meet…your Death!”

You’re scared as he offers you his hand. A promise is a promise. Your word before God and all others.

But you feel safe as you are pulled onto the horse, the knight nearly missing the priest as he speeds away from the castle, racing down the road. You hold on as the horse jounces the both of you until it slows, and you stop for the night.

“Here.” He helps you down, and starts a fire, sitting on a log to take a drink from a wineskin. “Take a rest, we’ll camp for the night before we ride to Wessex.” He passes you the wine, and moreover, shares a hunk of ham, cheese and bread from his saddlebag. You expect him to take what he has won as the Red Knight would, but instead he grumbles over the tent and the fire and struggles out of his armor to rest.

His hair is the devil’s own red, and his eyes are like a viper, yellow and serpentine. But he does not do anything to you without asking, and even then it is only to offer you something to eat, something to drink, and a warm blanket to rest in.

“Don��t you want to marry me?” You asked on the ride to Wessex. It’s very foggy, and the sun is barely making headway through the clouds.

“What am I going to do married?” He asks, a little irritable. He does not seem to like riding by horse, especially in plate armor. “Besides, you’re just a little girl. Don’t have time to babysit little girls, I’ve got fear to ferment and trouble to start elsewhere.”

When you ask why he bothered to help, he claimed there was a fly buzzing in his armor and he couldn’t hear you. He gives you no reason as to why he would bother until a castle comes into view farther away and he helps you off. “See that castle?” He points. “That’s the eastern hold of King Arthur. Rules these parts.” He lifts up his visor to squint. “There’s a knight of the Table Round that lives there, friend of mine. Ask for Sir Aziraphale and he’ll give you a hand.”

“Why?”

“He’s a knight of King Arthur, that’s what he does.” He says, as if it were obvious.

“Who should I say sent me?” You ask.

It looks like he doesn’t want to answer. “You already know. The Black Knight.”

“But what is your name?”

He turns his horse around, and you think you are going to be parting with an answer.

“Crowley.”

And that is how you learn his name, muttered under his breath and with a visor muffling his words before he takes off into the fog, disappearing quickly.

You end up having to wait for Sir Aziraphale, and accept the hospitality of another knight. That knight watches over you from the time you are thirteen to the time you are thirty two….only later he does so as your husband. He leaves to fight the war against King Arthur’s bastard son and never returns.

Your firstborn sobs at your bedside as your second child, both now fatherless, is brought into this world. You want to comfort him but can’t find the strength or the words. And when your breath fails you, you grieve to have left your children orphans in this world.

___

Time marches on. When the plague claims your home, you are forced to leave it after the doctors set it ablaze to prevent the spread of disease. You were supposed to be a part of the conflagration, but you are slippery and snuck out the back window when they thought they had locked you in.

London is an enormous cesspool of rich and poor, with more rats than citizens, and enough hidey-holes and spaces to make do in if you were crafty enough. You’re one of an army of pickpockets, and often you flatter passersby asking for directions sweetly while your hands craftily nick them of their belongings. You privately dream of an apprenticeship somewhere, with a sound roof and a master who was even tempered and would overlook an urchin such as yourself. But you don’t have that kind of wealth. None of the working class really do.

So you fill your pockets with coppers and stolen bread and the occasional raisin pie if you employ the aid of a few friends to badger the baker.

You attempted to pick the wrong pocket one afternoon and got caught.

“Let go!” You cried, wrist snatched by a tall gentlemen with dark hose, a velvet doublet and long red curls. He gives a frown down his long nose and dark spectacles and pulls you along. “Well don’t go pretending you didn’t earn it. You’re a pickpocket, own up to it.” He chides, leading you along. You protest noisily, but his grip does not threaten to snap your arm, but is rather firm and insistent, like when your father caught you sneaking apples from the orchard and urged you to come with him to apologize to the neighbor.

He takes you to a huge theater which stops your shouting if only to look up in amazement. It’s the Globe Theater, of all places. A place you would never be allowed and which you only dreamed of entering to see the plays and maybe even catch the good Queen Bess when she came to pay respects to the great playwright-

“Oi William!”

The gentlemen looses his grip and moves it quickly to your shoulder. The theater is empty, but there is a clear rehearsal on stage, people in flowy robes bickering over the lines while a painted backdrop of a misty forest is being lowered into place. “Sir Crowley-“ He looks a bit harried, and shockingly normal for a man people claimed had God’s inspiration for his great work. “-come to see the rehearsal? We’re still not near ready yet-“

“Oh I understand that.” Sir Crowley responds. “But I just remembered you were looking for a proper person to play the role of Pan, and I think I found them.”

Your jaw drops.

Shakespeare looks you over with insightful gaze and checks your look. “Hmm…whimsically impish even. Do you speak very well?”

“That’s just practice is all.” Sir Crowley insists. “Besides you really don’t have much time before the play is due do you?”

“No I suppose not. Giles!” He shouts, summoning a tired looking assistant. “Get this child washed up and into costume. We’ll go over the lines at once!”

“B-b-but I’ve never b-been on stage before!” You stammer, and Sir Crowley laughs. “Don’t fret. Just say the lines and play your bit. The more you act the more the audience likes it. This is one of the funny ones.”

It occurs to you that you should say thank you. But instead you are whisked off, and Sir Crowley is only ever mentioned in conversation thereafter.

You love the stage. When you dance on as the goat footed Pan and gleefully cause mischief, the audience laughs out loud and cheers when you give your final bow. You love the stage later when you’re old enough to play the dramas. And you love the actor you shared the stage with many, many times, before he carries you off to his family home to make you his wife.

The two of you still watch the plays that come, even after William’s star fades. Your child enjoys it. But when you find out you’re pregnant again, you have a terrible dream.

“I didn’t say thank you.” You sob into your beloved’s arms, feeling full of regret and sorrows. “I should have thanked him.”

In nine months, it will be his turn to cry into your arms. But you will not be alive to hold him.

_________

You were engaged for four months before your betrothed met the guillotine.

You were young, but you were an aristocrat. Engagements at eleven were very normal, and it had been the case for your mother. They assumed that a choice marriage to a duke would fix the issue of safety as their lives were threatened, angry letters from the townsfolk threatening their lives if they did not surrender their wealth and grain to the Republic of France.

Your husband-to-be was thirty and swaggered out to fight them. He instead was betrayed by his men, arrested and executed.

Your parents avoided the spectacle of the guillotine. The duke had been an embodiment of the hated aristocracy and was a symbol to be crushed, over and over with many other dukes and even the king.

But sitting in the Bastille, dressed in white and trying to pray in silence, your prayers were constantly interrupted by the swing of the blade. You would not die today, nor tomorrow. But soon. Your guard promised you that whenever he brought food and water.

In the fortress you heard the sobs and cries of others, older, and younger than you. They said the Dauphin of France was caged here with his siblings, his own mother separated from him. Perhaps a baby boy was too little to execute via guillotine, but you were tall enough and had a pretty, snowy neck, as the executioner told you.

A new guard arrived without food. And strange glasses.

“Put this on. Quick.” He tossed you a parcel. Pulling it apart, it was a peasant dress and bonnet, and he turned from you to permit you some privacy and to peer out through the bars of the door. From under his hat, you see a flash of red hair. “Hurry it up, we haven’t got long.”

You’re nervous, but you change clothes, and fumble with the bonnet. When he notices, he fixes it, tying it securely under your chin and tucking the sparse hairs in. “Alright. This way.”

He slinks through the halls of the fortress like a snake, holding you back when the soldiers march past. Finally, he arrives at a dead end. You fear this is all a trap when he pulls a lever hidden in the candelabra on the wall and reveals a secret door. The passage is full of children in peasant clothes, but with soft hands that suggest they were just like you.

“Hurry. In you go.”

There are thirteen of you when he closes the wall. A small boy whimpers and you pull him to you to comfort him, removing his hat to pet his golden curls. His blue eyes remind you of a portrait in Versailles….the Dauphin?

You all gasp when the guard arrives with another, but the voice that comes from his companion is as British as his own. Unlike the first, this one is decidedly more nervous and softer, adjusting his hat constantly to cover his silvery hair. “The dummies will fool them I’m sure of it.” The second one says quickly, shushing and ushering you all down the dark stairs. “As realistic as I could make them.”

“Sure you won’t get in trouble?” Your hero replies wryly, and there must be a private joke.

“Shush. Not in front of the children.”

The secret stairway exits to the canal, and you wobble as you exit onto a boat. The foppish guard smiles at his charges and sails off in one. But your guard is very solemn as he instructs you all to sit down and be quiet. The sound of the execution above is distant, but you can tell when it happens because a roar erupts every time the blade falls down.

“Don’t listen to it.” He tells you, catching your gaze. “Understand? Don’t try to remember it.” He paddles the oars, keeping an eye out for guards. “You will be shocked how easy it is not to remember.”

You know his name. But it escapes you nonetheless, as if it were someone else’s memory. It occurs to you that you should say something when a loud shout comes from above and the sound of gunfire rains down.

It either a miracle that none of you are shot, or the fact that the boat was forcefully overturned to catch the bullets and dump you all into the Seine. By the time you flop to shore with the others, shivering and wet, the guards are befuddled and without weapons, and your two rescuers are gone.

You have to lie to the husband you meet when you flee to the Pyrenees, even though he begs to know your heritage…and you teach him how to bake cake and watch as he grows more jolly and plump every year. But you have bad dreams more often than not. The joyous welcome of your first child and your own bakery does not stop them. Your husband wakes you with a gentle hand and cradles you to calm you down.

But when you die on the birthing bed, you know deep inside you have failed again.

______

When your life starts again, you are sure you are going to die at only seven years old.

Influenza was hell for the poor. Your father worked for fourteen hours a day at the linen factory, and your mother washed laundry and kept mind of you and the skinny apartment you all shared in the smoggy district of London. Most times you ate sausages that never really tasted like pork or beef, and the sooty boys that sweep chimneys say that sometimes they have to mix in rats or cats when there isn’t enough to fill a sausage. You aren’t sure if that’s what makes you sick.

But you cough weakly as your mother carries you on her back, going from doctor to doctor, asking for help. With not enough to even cover the medicine, all of them close the door in her face. She is brought to tears as she hurries, carrying you along. You wish your father was here. But he was chained to that factory, stuck doing terrible labors all day and likely did not know you were sick yet.

It is very dark when your mother gives up at last, sobbing and holding onto you as she sits on a stoop in front of an empty house. The three of you barely had enough pence to pay rent and buy food. The paltry few coins your mother had for a doctor would not cover the costs. It wouldn’t even cover a funeral.

“Up. Come on.”

You think the person in front of you is death itself, all dark, mysterious and impatiently beckoning you. When you realize he is talking to your mother, and that she is answering, you have a hazy wondering if it wasn’t your time yet. She’s speaking too fast for you to understand, with your head all awhirl with the fever, and he answer simply enough and opens a door to a carriage.

Its very dark inside and you fall asleep.

You feel better by the time you wake up, in a softer bed, with a warm stove lit and the smell of brewed tea leaves. A gentle looking nurse is reading at the foot of your bed and brightens to see you wake up. “There you are dearie. Come now, let’s take your medicine and have a bite to eat, there’s a pet.”

You go through the motions, swallowing down the bitter syrup, but eating a soup far better than your mother can afford, with fresh, soft bread and washing it down with warm milk. Your memory catches up and your hurry to ask what happened.

“Master Crowley instructed us to keep an eye on you.” The nurse simpers. “He’s been talking with some friends and fixed up a nice living arrangement for you, isn’t that lovely?”

When you feel better, you are allowed to ask for him. But when they ask for Crowley to come, he delivers some excuse and apologizes through a letter instead.

“But…” You whimper to the nurse who delivers the message. “I have to. I have to say thank you.”

“Oh there, there-“ She hushes, gathering you in her arms. She is so soft and pillowy, you sink right into the embrace. “-don’t fret. You’ll see him again one day, you just wait and see.”

You do just that. You wait. You ask as often as you can. You study at the hospital and become a nurse and you wait. When the nurse tries for the last time to find him, she learns he has disappeared quite entirely, and you break down into tears.

The years are softened with a change in the environment. You fall in love. And better yet, your husband can love you back. You save him when he is stricken with a putrefied leg wound, and he saves you when your regrets haunt you in your sleep. There is a full bottle of valerian in your dresser to smother your dreams, but they are so intense that it only muffles them like a pillow trying to drown them out.

This was the briefest yet. Your dreams cry out, and your little boy toddles from his room to comfort you when you cry. Why? Why can’t you just tell him?

The depression hits later in life, though your husband bravely tries to keep your spirits up. “I hope you live happy.” You tell him on the birthing bed for your second son. “No regrets.”

“No regrets.” He promises. Of course he doesn’t know.

You do.

_______

When your turn comes again, you think yourself as far less child and more of an adult. At fifteen you were a lot more educated than your younger siblings, though your stepmother protested that you were too young to get involved in the war effort. But you are determinedly single-minded, and in time you are recruited as a spy for the British Government. You supposed that with the state of the war, they were willing to take all sorts of risks.

You looked innocent enough. A young lady, going to classes and attending school was a pretense to go to libraries and smuggle out valuable books. You worked in tandem with the fellow spies, decoding what you can of German wanted lists. Many of them were listed to be destroyed, per the Fuhrer’s intent to eradicate all literature that spat in the face of his dictatorship, but many more were to be stolen for their value. Your proudest moment was when you swapped the Book of Saint Columba from the British Archive…switching it for a well-made fake.

That moment nearly killed you.

The bible was mingled in your book bag, and you made a beeline for your designated safehouse. A group of spies pretending to be your family were waiting, and the book would be hidden until the war ended for its own safety.

When you saw a pair of men stalking you from a corner, you sought to lose then in the broken rubble of the streets. You did not see the second pair, who cornered you with a gun. “Hands up.” One said sharply, his German accent thick and cold. You swallow hard and obey. “Walk.”

You are marched through dark streets, sometimes encouraged along when you realize you are returning to the safehouse. You try to disguise your terror as everyone there is lined up against the wall of the backyard, hands on their heads. “These people, they are familiar to you?”

You shake your head a little too quickly, and a bullet is put through your fake brother. He crumples to the ground, and the gun is moved onto the next. “No? Are you sure?” They shoot your fake mother, and she gasps, clinging to life and bleeding against the wall. But another round of shots and she too falls dead. “Come, come my dear, all you have to do is tell us where the books are.”

One by one you shake your head. Soon there are no more spies against the wall and the gun is up against your chin. You can feel it’s still hot, burning a mark right above your throat. “Last chance kilenes madchen-“ The gunman asks patiently. “-I don’t have to shoot you. I can do far worse things.”

Close your eyes and think of England. It was a joke that had been passed along by your friends when you were little and had to do things you didn’t want to. Taking cod liver oil to prevent the measles, eating your carrots even though you hated carrots, or enduring the dull lectures of history from your dreary teacher. Your mother used to say it when you complained of some unappealing task.

Close your eyes and think of England.

You do just that, and await a gunshot to the brain or being dragged off and defiled as all the nightmare stories from Germany say they do. You close your eyes and think of your real family, your real home.

You are very patient until you realize nothing has happened.

When you open your eyes, a dapper man in black sunglasses is standing around a bunch of unconscious Nazis, wiping off his hands. “You really, really, really ought to be less conspicuous next time.” He scolded. “If word got out that silly bible got into Nazi hands, I can think of someone who might smite you for losing it.”

You panic briefly, scrambling for your bag. But you sigh in relief. The Book of Columba is still there.

“Alright. Bomb’s gonna drop in about five minutes, it’ll take care of this mess.” He gestures you to follow. “Come along, I’ve got another place you can drop that off.”

The shelter he takes her to is full of English children, much younger than you. You’re a little offended when he calls you “little girl” and laughs when you defend you were fifteen, as if that changed anything. But when the bombs started falling, making the ground shake, he gives a reassuring half-hug to a few of the kids before leading you all outside after it subsides.

The safehouse is a bookstore. Hide a tree in a forest indeed.

“Oh! Oh you’ve saved it!” The book clerk is clearly thrilled when you uncover the sacred bible, running his hands over the protective cover. “Bless you dear, you’ve done a real miracle tonight.”

“She’s done? I suppose taking out half a dozen Nazi spies is just a doddle!” The dapper stranger snaps.

“Crowley I didn’t mean that kind of miracle-“ The bookkeeper hushes him. “-come inside quick. I’ll alert the authorities.”

You all sit inside the shop while he accesses a machine hidden behind a shelf, tapping out a message in Morse code. Crowley sits in a chair, lounging and drinking heavily from a bottle of wine and scowls when you look at him too long. It’s time to say it.

But when you try to, he stands up and hushes you. “None of that. It’s been a long night.” He polishes off the bottle and saunters out. “Take care of this one for me, will you angel?”

The door closes and you start crying. There is no time for the clerk to ask what’s wrong before you run out to try and catch him. Circling the block, shouting his name. Knowing you still might have a chance.

There is no answer.

The war eventually ends, and your service to British Intelligence turns into a simple desk job. Sometimes you pass by that old bookshop, remembering that night, remembering how close you were to saying thank you. You have a medal of commendation, congratulating you, and they even let you keep the identical copy of Columba’s book. You meet a man much like you, except his regrets were made on the battlefield, with friends he’d failed to bring back home with him, and people he thought hadn’t needed to die at all. And in a grief that can be explained, it helps you along with the grief that has no name, buried deep within you.

When you are pregnant a second time, you take the copy of the bible to the bookshop. You scribble a note on the cover, but leave no name. The person it is left for after all, may have another name the next time. But urgency tells you that next time might be the last. You’re seven months pregnant, and the clock is ticking down.

You don’t let the bookkeeper see you as you leave it in the mailbox, wrapped in brown paper. Tell him to wait next time. You leave within the book. Tell him I haven’t said thank you yet.

When you feel your water break, you say goodbye to your confused husband and son. You don’t fight it as your second child forces his way into this world. You accept the void and close your eyes…impatient for what you already know is to come.

One more time.

____

At the eve of New Years for 1970, you try to get in trouble.

You’re only thirteen. Your mother dismisses it as rebelliousness and grounds you to your room. But when you find yourself wandering around town after dark, she gets concerned when you can’t give a reason why you’re looking for trouble. You describe it as a deep urge, a built in response. You know something will happen if you’re in danger. You just don’t know what it is.

She puts you through therapy, and the psychiatrist is very understanding.

“More supernatural than cognitive.” She says, writing it down after you’ve talked of your recent lapse. You had run away from home and were doing runs around Soho, scarcely avoiding traffic. “Something that can’t be explained.” She puts her hand on yours and smiles. “But we need to try and slow it down. Make it safe. Your mother loves you and doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

She doesn’t mention your father since you’re not sure he has an opinion about you at all. He’s been gone since before you were born, but you can’t help but view him as a mere facilitation of your existence. He has no real importance. He’s only there to make sure you go through the motions by existing.

Your psychiatrist offers some sleep aids to try and urge an early bedtime rather than running off into the night. Most times it works. But when you turn sixteen, you spit it into the toilet instead and sneak out.

And you can feel something different in the air. It’s almost electric. The lights in Soho are somehow brighter, the cars are faster, and the streets are more empty than usual. Something is trying to happen.

So you encourage it, and try stepping out into the busy street.

Every part of you sings with relief when someone pulls you back.

“Idiot.”

The arm is secure on your shoulders, making sure you’re secure as the car that almost hit you honks angrily and speeds off. But the rest of the world seems to be waiting on its heels for what is to happen next. You have to make sure it’s still what you’re waiting for.

Red hair. Dark glasses.

“Thank you.”

___________

Crowley didn’t freeze time. But it stopped anyway.

At his feet, the girl. She wasn’t run over, but as soon as she said those two words, it was as if she had her strings cut from an invisible puppeteer, and now laid as cold and dead as she would have been if he had not reached out.

“Our arrangement has been concluded.”

It is far more frightening than the Archangels or Satan. It is Death, in his black, withered cloak, a wizened skull staring back at the demon while the world ceased to move.

“What arrangement?” Crowley is barely able to say through a dry mouth. This is worse than the worse omen, and moreover it was completely unexpected. Aziraphale had shown him that peculiar book today…he had seen the message. He didn’t understand.

“Not you. The child.” Death’s back shudders and eight shadows stand behind them. Crowley has to squint to see them, but they all look very familiar. A teen spy. A pickpocket from London, a Jew from Galilee. All of them.

Leading up to the scared, wide eyed child from the Flood.

“They said they would return to this life until they could express their gratitude. Their cycle would not end until they had done so.” Death’s voice sounds very pleased, as if having seen a good crop come to fruition. “They would have thirty-two years to live, and a chance to say it when you inevitably stepped in to aid them. If they failed, they would die upon the birth of their second child and start over.”

“Why? Why would you agree to this?” Crowley sweats heavily. For over 5000 years, a single soul was put through the wringer of existence, forced to relive the same dangers. “Since when do you play games with little girl’s souls like this?”

“I am patient.” Death replies. “I come for all souls eventually. And she knew she would see you again. Deep down.”

One of the shadows looks up and seems to recognize him. A tiny wave from a small hand, before Death stretches his wings and the shades evaporate.

“This is wrong.” Crowley states. “She’s a child. She shouldn’t die this way.”

“This is her choice. And now it is over.”

Your shade stands before Death and whispers something.

“Make it quick.” Death replies. “I am patient. But not for long.”

You are little more than vapor, with no real form. Sometimes it shifts into what you once were, but it’s hazy and only retains the shapes most familiar to you. Crowley before you looks grief-stricken. You can sympathize why. He has just met Death, but found himself beset with regret that it was not himself that was being taken away.

“No tears.” You whisper. “I knew I would meet you again someday.”

“Not like this.” Crowley croaks back. “Not when you’re just a girl.”

“I’m old too you know.” You remind him. “I lived a lot.”

“Those don’t count. You don’t even remember.”

“I remember you helped me.” You tell him. “And if I only got to thank you once for all the times you helped me, then I can let go of this world for the next one.”

“Where will you go?”

There’s a pause, and Death’s wings shift with impatience.

“Where we can meet again.”

______

The accident almost gets Crowley in trouble, time restarting with a dead girl at his feet. He escapes, barely, and Aziraphale holds a private memorial in his bookshop with the fake bible and candles. Crowley doesn’t want to drink or do much of anything. So he relies on the angel for the silent assurance. This was the last time.

Her mother would mourn and grieve terribly. But she would not have to put another mother through that kind of grief again.

“It does say something about humanity.” Aziraphale notes, rereading the passage you had written in another life. “They have longer memories than we give them credit for. Even Death can’t stop that.”

It’s not much of a comfort.

Crowley takes the Bentley and drives. And drives. He stops when the road does, at the end of the country where it meets the sea. “It could’ve ended right then and there.” He remembers when the sea came for the children, when Noah closed the Ark. Tearing open the hull just to save a handful of innocent kids. “But I got involved.”

Tiny hands holding onto him like a lifeline, and nothing he could do but pat their head.

He looks up at the stars he has made. Some had passed on, faded away. Their light would shine on Earth for thousands of years, but they had long since gone.

A different light glimmered, a bright yellow. Still so small, but defiantly glimmering in the sky.

Crowley holds his hand up.

“Alpha Centauri.” He removes his glasses. His eyes peer beyond the ozone, beyond the vacuum of space where a star has forgone Heaven and Hell and begun turning serenely. Unbelievable. She even got the color of his eyes right. “Fine.” He smiles, a half chuckle. “One of these days. See you there.”

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #crowley/reader #crowley x reader #good omens crowley #good omens aziraphale #good omens reader insert #good omens imagine #fanfiction

64 notes · View notes

christlansfm · 5 years ago

Text

𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 here and do i have the tea for you . xiaojun ‘ christian ’ is back on campus , which is surprising considering the threatening note i left them . yes , i know all about him working to get emancipated from his parents to finally get away from his father’s strict ruling because of their wrath . imagine the tabloids and how the lei family would feel for such information to come out , not to mention the reputation of sigma because of their actions . at this rate , he is better off staying put in singapore , singapore and living off that $430m family net worth . what’s the point in studying chemistry with plans to assist in international humanitarian aid around the world , is it worth it with what i know ? anyways , they may want to continue to be blasé & taciturn because the uncouth & volatile attributes make me want to spill . ( wong yukhei , remy , eastern ) .

hi , good morning ! today is a wonderful day ! i never thought i’d be quoting a tik tok song , but i’d be lying if i said i didn’t find them to be entertaining . anywhomst , my name’s remy , formerly known as ares , and i’m super excited to be back ! i decided to bring along a new baby for this wild ride , and this is where i introduce you guys to my son lei xiaojun , also known as christian lei ! don’t let this beaming gif of lucas fool you , christian is the brood and angst master™ ( especially since i’m a complete sucker for some angst ) . i won’t keep you here for too long , so i look forward to plotting and chatting with everyone ! if it’s easier or simply a preference , my discord is 𝕥𝕒𝕕𝕒𝕤𝕙𝕚 𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐚#6936 if you’d like to plot there !

trigger warning(s) : abusive parental figures and non - explicit mentions of abuse .

legal name : lei xiao - jun . english name : christian lei ( preferred ) . nickname(s) : chris and ian . birthday / age : july 10th , 1998 / 21 . zodiac : cancer . pronouns : he / him or they / them . gender : agender . sexual orientation : bisexual . romantic orientation : biromantic . height : 6′0″ ( six foot , zero inches ) . hometown : singapore , singapore . current location : beverly hills , california . nationality : singaporean . ethnicity : chinese and thai . languages spoken : cantonese , english , thai , and elementary spanish ( college course - level ) .

mali chaiyasan had humble beginnings in her hometown of bangkok , thailand . her parents owned a small restaurant in their neighborhood , and while it was a pretty popular place amongst the other families and college students , the restaurant gave them enough money to live comfortably , but not lavishly . mali held no malice towards her parents because they made her life as comfortable as they could , and always encouraged their daughter to go to college . she studied hard while working at her family’s restaurant , often times doing homework while sitting behind the counter , and was eventually accepted to attend bangkok university . she became a law student , and worked her way through college as one of her class’s top students .

during her time at bangkok university , despite her focus on her education , mali meets her future husband , international business english student lei kong - sang . kong - sang had come from a family different from mali’s , as his family was quite wealthy . kong - sang always knew that at some point he and his older brother would inherit their family’s company , but during his younger years , kong - sang had interest in starting his own . kong - sang was a year older than mali , but that didn’t stop the couple from marrying after her graduation with her master’s degree . the couple settled in a beautiful neighborhood in bangkok as mali began working for a law firm in the city , and kong - sang continued working towards his own business .

as the years pass , mali and kong - sang begin to establish themselves in their respective fields . due to kong - sang’s business in real estate and construction taking off , the couple decided to remain in asia , but made singapore their new home . specifically , they moved to the luxurious neighborhood of bukit timah . focused on their respective careers , it wasn’t until they were in their mid - 30s when they finally decided to have a child of their own . knowing that they didn’t want a big family , the couple only had one child , their son xiao - jun .

xiao - jun , or more commonly known as christian , was an adorable baby who had an infectious personality while growing up , although it was his nanny and tutors who got to see his personality the most . his parents had companies to run and glass ceilings to break , thus having no time in their busy schedules to spend with their child . christian often spent nights wondering when his parents would be coming home as he continuously had dinner with his nannies or sat by the door waiting to hear their cars pull up in the driveway . eventually , as he grew older , christian waiting by the door and wondering where his parents were ceased to a halt . he grew accustomed to having closer relationships with those who worked for his family than his parents , and even if his parents were home in the morning before he went to school , they barely shared two words with one another .

absolutely no one outside of his parents calls him xiao - jun and it’s mostly because his father doesn’t accept his choices , even when it comes to something as simple as his name .

despite their lack of an attempt to know their son , mali and kong - sang felt as though they had a say in what he would do in the future . kong - sang was rather hard on his son , only sharing words with him when he wanted his son to be first in his class or when one of his grades slipped by a point or two . mali and kong - sang were never nurturing parents , and christian would always rebel against them whenever they attempted to discipline him . there were many arguments between the lei family especially as christian went through his teenage years . upon his fourteenth birthday came a true turning point for the lei family , as kong - sang became more brutal with his punishments . his mother always seemed to turn a blind eye whenever dinner arguments between father and son went from passive aggressive statements to the sound of broken porcelain .

sporting a black eye the next day or some scarring from the broken porcelain , christian became more withdrawn and kept to himself whenever out in public . he became close to one of his family’s housekeepers , and she was often the one to care for him the most whenever his father became irate and his mother closed herself off in her office . the closer it came to going off to college , one would assume that christian would have stayed in singapore ( or at least in asia ) because he’d be away from his parents , but he wanted to put as much distance between them as he could muster . he looked at elite schools in the uk , switzerland , germany , sweden , and even the states -- he wanted to be as far away from them as possible . after month after month of applying for colleges , christian was eventually accepted into hollingsworth university and he couldn’t have been more excited to finally get away from the people who managed to make his life hell .

although his parents wanted him to go to college for business or law ( as expected ) , christian has always been a bit more on the side of helping those who are less fortunate than him . his parents have multiple foundations that they support , but there were plenty of nights where they’d come home from galas complaining about the rigorous work that went into charities as well as ensuring that their money went where it was supposed to . thus , that explains why christian is majoring in chemistry with the intent of becoming a registered nurse . he knows that his parents wouldn’t be happy with him pursuing such a career choice , especially when he wants to travel around the world for humanitarian aid -- his parents are extremely selfish despite their outward appearances ( and his mom constantly telling the story of when she was younger and living in poverty in bangkok ) .

as for his personality , christian is mostly described as the brooding type , but not for shits and giggles . even though he’s far away from his parents , he knows that they still want to have control despite being thousands of miles away . his father is especially strict about the things that christian does , and he doesn’t even refer to his son as his preferred name . for his positive ( albeit more neutral traits ) , christian is described as blasé and taciturn . he’s ridiculously laidback and doesn’t really like to have drama surrounding him because it can seriously kill his mood . sometimes , because he is so nonchalant , it can lead to people thinking that he doesn’t care about them when in reality it’s the situation that he doesn’t really care for . he also doesn’t talk much so don’t expect him to start conversations or even engage in one for a period of time . he keeps to himself and can be pretty reclusive , so if he doesn’t really give a response , don’t take it to heart .

as for his more negative traits , christian is uncouth and volatile . he’s more so disrespectful towards his father more than anyone else , unless someone is really pushing his buttons . his housekeeper , barbara ( a sweet little lady ) , is the only person who really sees how disrespectful christian really is towards his father . his mother doesn’t get as much of his disrespect , but she can get the short end of the stick if she tries to butt in ( or if she dares to side with his father when she knows the man is wrong ) . his second trait really ties in with the first since he can sometimes really fly off the handle if someone repeatedly pushes his buttons . he doesn’t like to be asked if something is wrong with him when he’s not talking much or if he tells someone to fuck off and they don’t listen . it really grinds his gears like nothing else .

secret .

so christian’s secret is that he’s currently going through the process of getting emancipated from his parents . he is going the route of implied emancipation , where he has left home and been self - sufficient for a number of months ( i . e . going off to college ) . the reason why he’s been self - sufficient is because of a sizable inheritance he obtained at eighteen years old ( rounding to about $20m ) and he has another one that he’s supposed to get upon turning twenty - five ( at the amount of $80m ) .

short headcanons .

chris lives in an off - campus apartment , not too far from campus . it’s about ten minutes away in west hollywood .

he has two great loves in his life : his bentley bentayga and kawasaki zx - 6r . most of the time he drives his car , but he likes to pull out the motorcycle every now and then .

canon to yukhei , christian’s english is accented since it’s not his first language . the best video for an example is this one . there’s another one where he’s talking to ten , but i can’t find it :/ .

he is blind as hell ! don’t ever let him say he forgot his glasses -- don’t let him drive ! almost 95% of the time , he wears contacts but he does have days where he wears his glasses and looks like a tiny baby when he does .

as far as other clubs / organizations that christian is a part of outside of school , he’s currently in : an honor society for stem students , and he’s been on the soccer team since he was a sophomore .

he has an apricot colored australian labradoodle named vivi !

wanted plots .

i should mention here that it’d be almost impossible for christian to have like , high school sweetheart plots and things of the sort since he didn’t go to high school in america , but a lot of plots could come from summer vacations and even college in general so a few i’d like to have are :

former friends with benefits ! maybe christian pushed them away at some point or someone caught feelings , but either way i think it’d be a really fun and potentially angsty plot to have !

i’d love for him to have a best friend ? gender doesn’t matter , but i’d prefer for it to be strictly platonic and simply them able to be themselves with one another . their friendship doesn’t have to be a long one , but it could be so much fun !

give me a failed relationship or give me death ! i’ve been wanting a plot like this for so long omg like maybe they had a mutual attraction and were super into each other before the relationship but then as soon as they started dating , they realized how incompatible they truly were ? we don’t have to go that specific route , but there’s an idea !

#abuse cw #holling:intro

11 notes · View notes

vampirexrightsxactivist · 5 years ago

Text

Borderline

tw for abusive remus endgame lamp

Roman stared at his empty room. The room that had been his for almost nineteen years, since he was one really; when his family had decided that they needed more space for their twin boys. Checking his phone he sighed and put it back in his pocket, making sure that everything else he needed was also in there. He had three hours before his parents got back with his brother… He needed to get out of there before they got home. He knew Remus hadn’t gotten better, not with the words he’d whispered in Roman’s ear about how he would be sorry for sending Remus away again. But when had he ever gotten better? This was the sixth mental health facility he’d been to in less than five years. He didn’t want to get better, unfortunately, their parents couldn’t seem to see that. Roman shook his head and made sure his bags were secure and wouldn’t bust open. They had a long car ride ahead of them, his boxes already in the U-Haul his new roommate had helped him get. He smiled, Thomas Sanders was a blessing to mankind truly. Ro didn’t know where he would be without him…

“Hey, Roman buddy we really got to get going if we want to get into Chicago with no rush traffic.” The brunet popped his head into the room, a lopsided smile on his face. It softened into a more serious one when he took in Roman’s expression. “Hey buddy, look at me. We’re going to be okay. Trust me.” The Latino took a deep breath and gave Thomas a beam full of false bravado. “Of course we are Thomas! You have the one and only Roman Reyes at your side…” He quieted down. “I just hope my parents and Virgil can forgive me for not telling them where I’ve vanished off to.” Virgil Morales, Roman’s unlikely best friend from diapers to graduation robes, the two had been inseparable, especially when Virgil had come out as first agender and then bisexual. Roman had defended xir from everyone who tried to harm xem. Roman grimaced. He couldn’t tell xir where he was going in fear that Remus would somehow get it out of xem. “I know buddy, you can tell xem when it’s safe.” Thomas grabbed a bag and gently lead him out of the house.

“Hey Thomas I’ll be home late, I’m covering Valarie’s shift.” Roman shifted his phone so it was more comfortable while he wiped down a table. “It’s all good don’t worry Ro,” Thomas promised, his tone betraying his amused smile on the other side of the line. They’d been in Chicago for almost three years now. It was weird to think about how time had passed so quickly. They’d found jobs to keep them alive and happy.

With their jobs came Valarie, Joan, Talyn, Patton, Logan, Emile, and Remy. As much as Roman missed Virgil he was happy and safe here with these people. When he found himself missing his emo nightmare of a friend he found himself seeking out Logan or Patton. Their arms wrapped around him while they watched a movie together. And if his lips found theirs after some time he ignored the guilt of how he’d wanted that with Virgil. Roman’s shift went by faster than usual after he got a text from Logan telling him to meet him at Patton’s other job- the cafe down on North Michigan Avenue. They had a surprise for him, one of the few things he loved more than Patton’s laughter and Logan’s long-winded rants was a good surprise. Clocking out he ran to catch the El train, his leg bouncing nervously while he sat. As the train made its way down Roman thought about his partners…

The first time Logan and Roman had met it had been at an after-party for a jazz concert that Remy had been involved in. The sunglasses-wearing fiend played the saxophone of all things and was surprisingly good. Roman had been dragged over to where Emile, Remy’s queerplatonic partner, had been discussing somethings with the bespectacled black-haired man learned to be Logan Young. Their friendship had started with Roman insulting Logan by calling him ‘Nerdy Wolverine’. Logan had snarked right back with Logan referring to Roman as ‘Shakespeare’s bastard child three times removed’. Patton would later tease the two about how the romantic tension just flew off them in waves.

Patton had been introduced to Roman twice, once while they were having a feminine day and another while they were having a very confusing day. So Roman had assumed that he had met two different people, oh how wrong he’d been. Patton had explained their gender identity with a great deal of patience to the entire friend group, Roman having understood almost immediately despite the initial confusion took great pleasure with helping them with their makeup.

And so their friendship grew and blossomed into a loving relationship. It was almost perfect… even on nights where Roman just wanted to curl up in an old hoodie that somehow smelled like lilacs all the time. If only he could have the best of both of his lives. The past and the present… but only the good parts. Stepping off the El train Roman pushed his way through the crowds and smiled when he saw the signage for the Mind Cafe. Pushing the doors open he beamed at Remy who was with a customer before stopping and giving Logan a kiss on the forehead. “Hey, love. Where’s Pat?” He asked softly so as not to disturb the customers. Pushing up his glasses Logan smiled fondly. “They’re helping the new employee with a mess xe made.” Logan gestured over to where Patton was calming a young adult down with kind words and a smile. The person was taking deep, albeit shaky breaths and clinging to xir patchwork hoodie… one that looked very familiar. Roman let out a noise that sounded like he’d been punched in the gut. He made his way over to the two just in time to hear the new person speak. “Sorry I panicked, this hoodie was the last thing my best friend gave to me before he disappeared.” It was Virgil. Xe looked good, xir’s hair was shaved on the sides and from what Roman could tell it was probably spiked into a very tall mohawk most of the time, a very vibrant purple mohawk at that. “Virge…” Roman choked out, tears stinging his eyes.

Patton looked up sharply and made a soft cooing noise, they stepped away from the two, allowing their boyfriend time with someone from his past. “P-princey?” Virgil stuttered through the nickname as xe shot up, the hoodie was forgotten as xe stared at Roman with haunted eyes. “I thought you were dead?” Xe asked quietly, circling him. “Your parents wouldn’t say anything. Just that you were gone without a trace.” Xir’s hand reached out before xe snatched it back as though xe was afraid they’d get stung. Roman chuckled and shook his head. “No, not dead. I just had to get away from Remus…” He trailed off and picked up the hoodie, handing it back to xem. Virgil took it before hugging Roman as tightly as xe could. Roman hugged back with just as much intensity. Xe couldn’t find the words to describe how xe felt at the moment. So xe settled for a long hug that caught Logan’s attention. He raised a brow and gestured his head to Patton who was also watching them with a soft, happy smile on their face. “Hey Ro? As much as I love you and I’ve missed hugging you, your partners are giving me a look.” Roman pulled back and blew a kiss to Patton and Logan respectively. “Xe’s aro so you lovely babes have nothing to worry about.” He assured, kissing xir’s forehead, leading Virgil to Logan’s table where they sat and talked until the cafe closed when the four of them took it to Roman and Thomas’ apartment.

Now our story does continue, one could assume that eventually, the four end up in a polyamorous arrangement, Virgil slowly becoming an inseparable part of the group. Xe was the person Logan went to when he needed to talk about things that Roman and Pat didn’t necessarily understand. Virgil and Patton spent hours baking and doing each other’s nails bonding over various nostalgic shows and songs. The two were also a force of nature at getting their boys to take self-care days. Roman and Virgil rebuilt their relationship, growing stronger through the years. Yes, there were bad days, but the good outnumbered them heavily.

And all was well.

#sanders sides #creativity sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #gender nonconforming characters #patton sanders #logan sanders #remus sanders #unsympathetic remus #remy sanders #emilie picani #sanders side fic #logic sanders #anxiety sanders #morality sanders #intrusive thoughts #ts intrusive thoughts #crunchy writes

11 notes · View notes

hollowedrpg · 6 years ago

Photo

CONGRATULATIONS, ROMAN! — You’ve been accepted for the role of Xenophilius Lovegood, with a face claim change to Cody Fern. I was a little worried people would struggle with the vagueness of Xeno’s affliction and how he’s been affected since he was attacked during school, but you wrote it beautifully. I also really enjoyed reading your head canons about his relationship with Pandora, and everything else about Xeno. You really brought his character to life outside of the bio, which is exactly what I’m looking for in an application.

Thank you so much for applying. Please create your account and send in the link, track the right tags, and follow everyone on the follow list. Welcome to Hollowed Souls!

ooc.

name: Roman

age: 26

preferred pronouns: they/them

timezone: EST

activity: medium to high; I’m around to answer messages and plot every day, and am usually able to do at least some replies every other day or so depending on how work is going!

are you applying for more than one character?: not at this time!

how do you feel about your character dying?: I would be comfortable with it as long as it’s discussed and I’d have a chance to pick up another character! The possibility of the death is cool to think about; having a grand ending would be satisfying, especially if it was something that was a long time coming, and contributed to the plot in a big way, which I feel it actually could with Xeno. I’m a sucker for a good slow burn with some angst!

anything else?: (questions, concerns, etc.) I did some assuming on some bits about Pandora and Xeno’s relationship that I’m definitely open to changing or revising if accepted! Also, this has nothing to do with the app, but if missing characters make an appearance later on, I would love to express my enthusiastic interest in seeing Ted Tonks!! I wrote Ted in Port Montrose and I’d LOVE to see what he’s like in this other beautiful AU!!!

ic details.

(cw throughout for ableism, vague mental illness discussion)

full name: Xenophilius Prometheus Lovegood

Xenophilius: from the Greek xenos and philia, respectively meaning strange and love; together, the love of the strange. Klaus and Else Lovegood were never going to choose an average sort of name for their child. Believing in many old practices of the wixen world, upon learning they were pregnant, they sought out a Naming Seer to learn the future of their child, and, therefore, what sort of moniker they would fit. They used what little of their savings they had left from the move for the appointment, as it was an important tradition in Else’s family. The Naming Seer projected a strange life for the child, full of wonder and mysticism, a longing for knowledge and a mind open to the belief of the other that most would reject easily. The Naming Seer suggested Edmund, for the prosperity they saw the child could achieve if encouraged, through academic success. The two laughed, thanked them, and left to do their own research. They came across the word xenophile in one of their very old muggle books about cultures of the world and knew immediately that was the name for their child. If they were going to have an open mind, their name was going to let all who heard it know so.

Prometheus: Greek mythological figure, a titan known for creating man from clay, as well as stealing fire from the gods and gifting it to humanity, starting civilization. Xeno’s parents made this choice very soon after landing on his first name. Klaus had a certain fascination with mythology, and what better than to give her child a name to encourage intelligence and creation at any cost?

Lovegood: As it sounds, a combination of the two English words love and good. This was a surname of the Lovegoods’ own creation upon their immigration to the United Kingdom during the muggle’s World War II. They had no shame in their former surnames, but wanted a blank slate to start over with good fortune. They settled on something to show the simple and true quality of their affections, that their intentions, while some might find them strange, were always good.

date of birth: January 20, 1952

Capricorn-Aquarius cusp

The definition of this contrasting cusp, Xeno is a combination of both signs, hardworking and idealistic, with the ability to view the world in strange ways that few others can, and the intention of opening the minds of those around them. The mind is constantly working, creating brilliant, exciting thoughts and ideas, but the constant flow at times makes him come off as distant or uninterested in the ordinary people and things around him. Speaking with someone born on this cusp can be jarring and intimidating, although intriguing, always prepared to discuss the most outlandish of concepts, but rarely able to stop and process the more mundane, often times forgetting about thinking of what others are feeling.

former hogwarts house: Ravenclaw

There was a brief debate, as Xenophilius approached his eleventh birthday, of whether it would be best to send him to Durmstrang, as that was where both Else and Klaus went, and consequently met each other, but that thought was quickly silenced with a visit from Dumbledore himself, offering a place at Hogwarts for the young prodigy. Xeno researched the schools obsessively during the months this debate was going on, and insisted that he had to be at Hogwarts, because he was clearly a Ravenclaw student. Upon his entrance, the hat barely touched his little blonde head before shouting just that, a self-satisfied grin on the child’s face as he joined his new classmates.

sexuality: demisexual panromantic

For all of his youth, he was much too preoccupied with researching anything that was able to hold his attention for longer than a few minutes to worry about things such as dating and sex. People are not what he truly cares about, as harsh as that sounds, and it takes a great deal for him to feel that sort of attraction to someone. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he is fairly certain part of it has to do with what he saw his parents go through as a child. He can’t remember them ever truly seeming to love each other, despite the stories of their own youths they told him. All he remembers is the shouting and the pain they caused each other, all because of the most mundane problems, as if they had forgotten who they truly were once they had a family. That made him wary of that sort of very human connection, not wanting to lose himself more than he already had. Until things changed, of course…

gender/pronouns: agender + any pronouns (primarily he/him & they/them)

He has no great attachment to any gender at large, and therefore feels the label of something closer to nothing, defying any sort of binary or spectrum, fits him better than anything else could. His being feels unexplainable and it’s something he accepted from an early age. As such, though, he doesn’t truly care what anyone calls him. In fact, a lot of the time he’d rather people just wouldn’t refer to him at all, but that has very little to do with gender.

face claim change: Cody Fern, Jason Ralph, Boyd Holbrook (If for some reason, Cody Fern isn’t approved anymore and I get accepted, I’d love to brainstorm other alternatives with you before settling on one, as Cody is very much how I envision Xeno!)

more.

1. how do you interpret this character’s personality? how will you play them? include two weaknesses & two strengths.

+ determined, idealistic, brilliant

- aloof, selfish, erratic

Perhaps if life had treated him differently, Xenophilius would be considered one of the greatest minds of his time already. If life had not beaten him into the furthest recess of his mind from the moment he was old enough to understand and question what was going on around him, perhaps that person could have existed, already fully formed, by the ripe age of thirty. But life was not so kind, and even now he can say with certainty that it comes as no real surprise, having studied so much of the world obsessively, researching what he can get his hands on of every possibility that the human mind can dream up to understand the world at large.

At an early age, he retreated into his mind as a form of coping with the outside world, even as the thunderous voices, first of his parents, then of the bullies and naysayers at school, then of everyone, tried to infiltrate his thoughts. Single-minded to the core, focused and determined to solve any question proposed, any long lost mystery left unsolved, it is still so easy for him to fall into weeks at a time of researching furiously, even disappearing for days at a time on his quests for knowledge, once an idea comes to him. Because of this, he was never quite as adept as interpersonal relationships as he might’ve been otherwise, and this only worsened after his accident, when the sounds of the voices became nearly deafening in his mind.

He would much rather spend his time researching whatever concept has caught his interest than interact with his peers, causing him to come off as distant and aloof to many. When he does deign to talk to others for an extended period of time, though, his brilliance does become clear, although so does his erraticism. Enchanted with long lost mysteries, and ideas thought only to be legend and rumor, his speech rambles and raves through dozens of topics by the you’ve caught up with the first. If landing on something he truly does care about, he could speak for hours with supreme eloquence on the matter, although what he cares about and believes in rarely lines up with those around him, and thus is often dismissed as nonsense. He believes wholeheartedly, after all, that consciousness creates and therefore nothing the human mind is able to dream up should be ruled as wholly impossible.

People have always been cruel to him, and he has long ago accepted this as a fact of his life, even if he does do his best to spread good in the form of knowledge. When faced with the negativity, the cruelty, he used to do anything he could to defend himself, including the less refined solutions. He still possesses very little respect for traditional authority, but some of his light, some of the mischief has left him in the years since the fight that left him as he is. Now, it is often times easier to accept that others’ minds aren’t nearly as expanded as his, and they do not wish to be, than to try to argue his correctness. An unwilling audience will not learn, no matter how brilliant of a teacher he might be.

Do not mistake that for him thinking the worst of the world, though. Despite it all, he truly does believe in good, and hopes that one day he can bring the hope that he does feel to others as well by expanding their minds beyond the limitations of the mundane. But he’s convinced himself that he won’t be able to do so as he is now, broken and bent, a shadow of what he could be if not plagued with such a curse.

2. how has the war affected this character, emotionally and otherwise?

Upon waking up in the hospital wing all of those years ago, his mind had become a much darker place. The war was never his, never will be, at least fully, thanks in part to his own blood status, but mostly because of how he feels. It took a long, long time until he realized, truly, what was going on, and then it was only thanks to Pandora that he began to grasp the reality, the gravity of the situation surrounding them.

In the beginning, with only whispers and quiet fights taking place as two sides divided over beliefs, he was unaware, too completely wrapped up in his own quests to set them aside and worry about another battle to fight. After all, in the beginning, he was utterly devoted to finding his own cure, whatever it might take. In a way, Xeno’s selfishness kept him blinded to what was happening, or how he might’ve helped for far longer than it should have.

But then he truly met Pandora, and he fell in love as quickly as he had fallen in love with the pursuit of knowledge to calm his mind. Even without a cure, being with her cleared some of the noise, and he could begin to understand the gravity of what was going on around him. He saw how much the carnage of the war hurt her, saw how deeply and thoroughly she cared for all of these people she didn’t even know, and that is what made him begin thinking more deeply on things.

That is when it began to hurt.

The voices seemed only to grow in volume, overlapping each other, begging for his attention at every turn as he watched his wife become more and more entrenched in a fight that should not have been happening in the first place, in his mind. As the war ragged on, and things grew worse, so did his affliction, as if whatever it was that had caused this was somehow tied to the war itself. That explanation made it feel easier, for him, anyway, even if it made everyone believe he was that much further gone, tying himself to something of such importance.

He retreated further and further into himself, his research falling by the wayside, only Pandora allowed into the true depths of his madness, witnesses the oftentimes nonsensical spurts of morbid inspiration burst from the voices of war in his mind. Among it all, there was, and still is, the underlying desire to do what his wife does, to be able to care so deeply about so many others, but his mind makes it so difficult. He cares about Pandora’s safety above all others’, and those she loves, too, now, but widely is still more concerned about the personal matters first. Still, he tries to help her when he can, would do anything in the world for her if it meant she was happy and at peace, just as she tries to do for him. And perhaps, once he finds his cure, he can do the same for others.

But how could he help now, after all, when he’s so far from whole himself?

3. Where does this character currently stand? with those who wish to hide in godric’s hollow until the war ends, with those who wish to rebuild the order and continue fighting the war, or on neither side? why?

This, all of this, it was not a choice of his own.

He could feel Pandora’s desire to fight, even before the question of what came next was out in the world. And just as it came, so did offer of retreat, of refuge. It was never an offer they could have passed up, no matter how it was spun. Pandora wished to help, to do what she could for those suffering, and prevent any more death from blooming in their midst, and he has always wanted what she wants. His own involvement with the Order had been selfish from the start, anyway, and it was clear that retreating with the Order held the most potential for the expansion of knowledge, the potential of finding a cure, even after all of these years, or even just finding a moment of peace. Just as it was clear that the longer they spent out in the world, amongst the hatred and violence, the worse his condition became, descending further and further from reason.

And so it was not a choice in the first place, and now, here they are, without much choice again.

Stuck in a village full of the memory of death, without a say.

With no personal attachment to the war, and as only an affiliate of the Order, it is hard for him to form a true feeling on what is right for all of them. He has very little desire to stay here for an extended period of time, feels trapped and static without access to the world at large for his research, but the thought of rebuilding to fight is one he’s not certain of either, when the war was never his to start and he feels in no way ready to truly help yet.

When it comes down to it, he would do whatever it is that Pandora believes is for the best for both of them, trusting her more than anyone else in the world, especially as the voices become clearer and he feels himself slipping from sense, even if that meant staying until the war ends.

But he doesn’t feel good here.

It stinks of death, of vile hatred, of curses perhaps even worse than his own. And for the first time, he’s afraid.

It’s strange, in a way, that he hasn’t felt fear like this before, after the countless fights, after waking up and learning he was missing weeks of his life, after being changed beyond his own will because of some sinister magic. Not once before has he felt this fear, but it’s settled square between his shoulders now, twisting a terrible knot of tension, keeping him from finding any true peace here. He’s convinced there’s something here that he’s been searching for. But now that he’s closer, he’s terrified of what he might find, that the answer might be there will never be a cure. That maybe he is mad after all.

4. The voices in Xenophilius’ head have only gotten louder since the war began. How are they now that he’s in Godric’s Hollow? Has anything he heard made sense, or is it just a bunch of gibberish?

There were always voices in his mind, although he had never truly considered them anything to worry about until after the that fateful night when they changed. There were always whispers of unknown sources helping him along with his research, encouraging him to expand his thinking, search out new creatures and potions. Those voices helped create new spells, craft potions no one had dreamt up before, study beasts only thought of in fairy tales.

They’re different now, though, darker, jumbled. It’s rarer that there’s anything clear, so many different voices speaking at once, constantly, but when there is, it’s not as it was, inspiring thoughts and breakthroughs. And they’re all familiar; sometimes he’ll hear his parents, sometimes he’ll hear old schoolmates, Order members.

When he became truly aware of the war, something changed. The voices seemed louder, more persistent, as if determined to hold his attention because of what was going on in the world.

Coming to here, Xeno believed that perhaps being in a place of peace would change that, that it may quiet some of the voices, take the constant dull roar down to a whisper once again, allow him to feel more like himself, allow him to focus on searching for a cure. He was wrong, though.

The voices changed upon his entrance into Godric’s Hollow.

There’s something new there, in the corner of his mind, hidden amongst all of the confusion, the hundreds of voices mixed floating around his mind. It used to be so rare to have a moment of clarity, the voices only working to a crescendo so often. It happens often now, one thought or another winning out, coming to the forefront of his mind in complete clarity and bursting forth into a shock of inspiration.

These bursts of inspiration feel almost close to violent since coming to Godric’s Hollow, taking him over completely, frenzied. He finds himself scribbling in notebook upon notebook madly, frantically flipping through pages of the books they’d brought to their tent from home, muttering to himself as if he may lose the thread of inspiration if he cannot get it out into the world fast enough. It’s exhausting, feeling so much, feeling so out of his own control at times, and he’s certain it has to do with this place.

When they calm again, when he stops from exhaustion, quill drooping in hand, and glances at the pages and pages, it scares him even more. Rarely, now, does what he writes seem to be related to his own research. It seems to be what these voices want, the thoughts made concrete.

He hears them saying names, names of those lost, those gone forever. Hears them telling him to go, then another telling him he must stay, that he is oh, so close to what he needs. He tries his hardest to keep going, but it gets so hard when in the din of voices something so clear rings out, something that seems to mean more.

The most terrifying thing was the first moment he heard Pandora’s voice in his mind, clear as day, the familiar wavering whisper as beautiful as a bird’s song to his ears, one of the first days they had come to Godric’s Hollow. She told him to stay. It shook him to his core, but he hasn’t heard her since, hopes he doesn’t. He hates the thought of his curse touching the most pure thing in his life.

So Xenophilius searches for what they’re trying to lead him to, hoping it is what he needs, that the cure might be at his fingertips, if only he opens his eyes.

extra.

pinterest board!

character tag!

if i were…

if i were a season, i’d be autumn.

if i were a time of day, i’d be dusk.

if i were a place, i’d be a hidden library of forgotten knowledge.

if i were a type of weather, i’d be a thunderstorm.

if i were a scent, i’d be patchouli.

if i were a plant, i’d be a Dirigible plum.

if i were an element, i’d be water.

if i were a color, i’d be bright, warm yellow.

if i were a song, i’d be River by Joni Mitchell

if i were an item of clothing, it’d be a worn, grey duster.

if i were an object, i’d be a moleskin notebook.

if i were one of the seven deadly sins, i’d be pride.

if i were one of the seven heavenly virtues, i’d be diligence.

if i were a god/goddess, i’d be Athena.

on pandora:

He knew. The moment she first treated him in Mungo’s, he knew that he would follow her to the ends of the earth, if she would allow him. It was a strange feeling, not entirely a pleasant one when considering that all his life he had expected never to feel that way about another human being. He wonders how he had missed her at Hogwarts, but then, he had been so entangled in himself, so focused on collecting all the knowledge that he could, that he had hardly made any friends in his own house and year, yet alone others. What mattered is that he had found her now, just in time to keep him from giving up.

After truly meeting Pandora, his single-minded obsession became learning to sign as quickly and proficiently as he could. He wasn’t as fast as he wished he would’ve been, but he learned as best he could, and kept going back to Mungo’s as he learned, an excuse to see her again and talk to her more, especially as he realized that the other healers believed him mad.

She was the first person who truly believed him when he insisted it was the boys’ attack with the dark objects that had caused this, and not a dormant mental illness whose symptoms only appeared after the event. As such, his trust and belief in her was enormous from the beginning, and has not once faltered in the years since.

One of the initial reasons he was so attracted to her was for her pure dedication to a singular cause and the pursuit of knowledge, something he believes in himself. He could see how passionate she was about healing, and how willing she was to do anything to help her patients, not limited to the confines of average healing. He admires her determination and creativity greatly.

The way she cares for people stands in stark contrast to his own ability to do so, which is another reason he loves her so much. He can hardly imagine being so open in caring about others, but he likes to think that she has helped him grow in that regard even slightly. He hopes that she’ll help him grow in that even more, once they’ve found a cure.

If it were not for Pandora, Xeno wholeheartedly believes he would have given up hope of finding a cure, or even peace, years ago. She was able to show him the light in the darkness, and she continues to be that beam of sunlight coming through the clouds of a storm with each passing moment, reminding him that there’s always reason for hope left.

The only times he finds even brief moments of something close to silence is with her. Lying in bed together as they both try to drift into troubled sleep, listening to the steady sound of her breathing, feeling her heat pressed against his, it’s nearly enough to calm the war constantly raging in his mind.

His proposal to her was neither truly romantic or at all dramatic, instead a sort of passing question in the midst of the ever rambling road of his words, his fingers moving just as fast as his lips could, by that time. A question phrased in a way that made it seem more for practicality than it truly was, because he does love her, more greatly than he thought he could ever love one person. A simple it would be easier if we were married, and then the nonchalant production of a ring from his pocket, set on the table in front of her. An amethyst and celestite woven together within a bronze band, charmed to emit a sense of pease and focus, as well as ward off Wrackspurts.

details:

His parents met at Durmstang, and then moved to Berlin, Germany after graduating, working as researchers, of sorts, for a company of like-minded wizards interested in what many would call nontraditional magic. When things began to fall apart in the non-magical world, they made the decision to move to start a family of their own in safety. They settled in London, using up most of their savings to make it there and rent a small flat in Camden.

Despite being a pureblood, Xeno holds none of the beliefs of British pureblood society, in part thanks to be raised by non-British purebloods, but mostly because he can hardly fathom how it is possible to see other humans so darkly. He appreciates what muggles have accomplished without magic, and has even studied much of muggle science and technology out of interest, as well as being interested in proving for them the existence of several of their so-called cryptids.

He has never been able to hold a full time job for long, and stopped trying to do so after years spent in his early twenties trying unsuccessfully in various fields that didn’t truly keep his interest anyway. He would miss days of work without mentioning it, was perpetually late, and rarely actually helped customers with what they actually wanted when in customer service fields. Instead, he earned his money by penning essays and articles sold to various magazines and newspapers on his strange beliefs, as well as selling his research to those who would benefit from it. He dreams of starting his own magazine, if things ever return to normal, if heever finds a cure for his affliction, but right now that task feels impossible given how full his mind is.

He’s started a small garden of strange flora for his and Pandora’s use in Godric’s Hollow. Not much of it is useful to the more ordinary needs of the residents, unless they believe in the oftentimes wild properties Xeno attributes to many of the plants, but he and his wife use many of them for potions and infusions of their own needs, and gladly share if anyone has a desire.

Xenophilius is unable to produce a corporeal Patronus at this time, and has not been able to since waking up in the hospital wing those years ago. Before that, though, his Patronus was an eagle owl.

He didn’t actually seek any healing for what the other students had done to him outside of his own attempts at healing until he was well out of school. As confident as ever, he believed that he could find a cure and do so by himself. When it started interfering not only with his life, but his work, though, he sought out help at Mungo’s. Although most of the healers believed he had gone insane, and most people still do, it was the best decision he made, as it lead him to Pandora.

He hasn’t had any contact with his parents since he graduated from Hogwarts and isn’t certain where they are now, or even if they’re still living. It isn’t that he doesn’t love them, but the childhood that they gave him took too much from him even as they fought to offer him opportunity. He still hears their voices amongst all the others, hears them arguing, only now the anger feels directed at him, not each other.

As well as now being fluent in sign language, Xeno also speaks fluent German, although most of what comes to mind easily now has to do with the cursing that his parents used to do at each other during his childhood.

Not concerned with outward appearances, Xeno very often looks like he rolled directly out of bed and walked into public. While that isn’t usually the case, he could not care less if anyone thinks it is. If he owns a brush for his hair, it has long ago been lost, and many of his clothes are either entirely inappropriate for the occasion at hand, or completely mismatched. There is a method to some of what he wears, of course; the necklaces he always wears, one with a butterbeer cork dangling from it, the other with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.

#hp rp #rp #marauders rp #lsrpg #roleplay #accepted

4 notes · View notes

karak9 · 6 years ago

Text

Another stupid long post about how I don't know my own fucking gender

This is honestly just copied and pasted from a yt comment I made on an older vid and I figured I'd share it here bc tumblr loves this shit I guess lol. God damn I've been questioning my gender for so long and ik rn im prob not still in the best position to be thinking about deep life shit like where I am mentally and im dealing with a lot in my life and also very insecure about potentially being trans bc a lot of my friends don't seem like they would be very accepting and my bf is only really into girls. I asked him how he would feel if I was nonbinary or looked like a boy and he just said he wasn't totally sure but he's only attracted to girls :c he's the sweetest bf in existence and im honestly so afraid of losing him, so aside from obviously not wanting to deal with all the other trans shit, I definitely hope im not trans bc I don't wanna lose him. Anyways, ill start with my childhood I guess. I was always super tomboyish. My older sisters (im the youngest sibling btw) were always p tomboyish so maybe I kinda got it from them but I kinda felt like I was more tomboyish than them? I felt like I was the most boyish girl I knew, like even meeting other tomboy girls in elementary school I felt like I couldn't really relate to them or like they couldnt relate to me enough idk. I also remember once making up a song about being like so tomboyish that I was basically a boy or something along those lines and sang it to my best friend at the time who I copied like all the fkin time (it honestly wasnt healthy lmao I didn't have good parents, also I think I started making up songs bc she did that and I wanted to like impress her), but she thought it was stupid and weird so I just forgot about it and moved on. I was embarrassed to even enjoy playing with dolls or play dress up games online and was determined to play masculine games like runescape (even tho I ended up doing girly shit in runescape anyways lmao) and considered myself one of the guys. In 5th grade when I started needing to wear a bra I absolutely didn't want to, tho some girls in my class thought it was weird I didn't wear a bra when they found out and that made me more insecure about it, but since then I've p much only worn sports bras. I have bought some more normal bras bc I wanted to look attractive in them for my SO or whatever but I still highly prefer my sports bras and can't stand wearing the other ones unless I have to bc my sports bras aren't clean lmfao. I always hated talking about genitalia and breasts n shit but that could just be bc of how I was raised and how my family was always so strict and such radical Christians and anything sex related was a sin, idk if its dysphoria or not. I've never rlly liked my chest and hated showing cleavage like so god damn much and still do but maybe that's the same thing or maybe I just want smaller boobs and that's it idk??? Like I'd want to appear to have a completely flat chest at least, idk if I'd want to actually like have a guy chest or not? Also huge issue with ppl seeing me naked or touching my boobs but again idk if that's gender related or just a normal issue I have. Tho I had a friend in high school (a girl, a very weird lewd girl) who would occasionally grope my chest randomly and it wasn't a huge issue but kinda made me uncomfortable and more aware of my chest. I really like when I wear big hoodies or when I lean over so my shirt kinda poofs out and it looks like I have a flat chest underneath. Though im not super uncomfortable with my boobs, like normally ill want nothing to do with them but I don't mind my SO touching them especially if they're really into it. I wouldn't say im rlly dysphoric about between my legs either, like yeah I think its weird and I hate monthlies and stuff but I think that's normal. I think if i woke up one day and had a dick I would be fine with it, I'd prob even enjoy it tbh lmao. I once had a dream that i was, well, a male dog like,,, ya know, with a female dog, and not to sound weird af (hey we were both dogs ok) but I think i kinda enjoyed it? I don't really remember any other dreams where I remember actually having a dick or feeling it but I've had several dreams as a male person, but p much all of them were like, I was seeing through a character's eyes or smth, not really that I was a guy, so idk if that's normal. I have the same dreams about being other girl characters, I'd say its split about 50/50. Because of this game community im in, a lot of ppl assume im a guy, and a lot of people still think im a guy and I haven't really bothered to correct them but idk if I find it more enjoyable bc its funny or if I enjoy not being referred to as female for once. I'll admit I feel most comfortable referred to as they/them, like without a doubt, if I could go by only 1 set of pronouns for the rest of my life it would be they/them. But ik that's not enough to call myself trans. I definitely wouldn't want to be 100% male. Like if I imagine myself as a grown man vs a grown woman id prob choose to be a woman. I don't like my voice but I think that's mostly just bc I sound 10 years younger than I actually am, and wouldn't really want a deep/masculine voice. Like a "tomboy" voice would be fine if that makes sense? I don't want facial hair or want to have a masculine body, I like that I have curves and soft skin and small hands. Personally I like my hair long bc its soft and people love it, but sometimes I kinda wish I had short hair and could pass as a boy. Like I'd wanna be a typical cute kpop boy ngl lmfao. I like the whole cute androgynous/feminine boy look and wish I could pull it off. Tho I also like really girly things sometimes and am okay being seen as a girl, i just want to be cute and attractive. Ik whether im trans or not I like being a mix of feminine and masculine, tho I admit in the past I've been kinda insecure bc I used to be super sure I was nb and thought me liking girly things and wanting to still havd long hair and wear girly clothes made me seem like "not trans enough" or whatever. But i guess here I am questioning myself again anyways. If I am nb, it sucks that ill never really be able to be openly myself and all but I've accepted by now that I kinda have to pick a binary and choose what I want to be seen as for the rest of my life, and im ok with being female. There are some things I dont like about my body whether they're really gender related or not but I can't afford to transition and wouldn't like most of the effects of T and am afraid of surgery and not sure I want top surgery enough to ever get it anyways, but I think if we lived in a perfect world and I could magically change my body at will and I wasnt afraid of judgment or being unattractive or whatever, I'd probably want to look androgynous and itd be cool to be able to change my genitalia at will lmao. If I had to choose 1 genitalia over the over I honestly have no idea what I'd choose but I have no desire to ever get bottom surgery, at the same time tho I honestly wanna someday get surgery or w/e to never be able to get pregnant. I just could not handle pregnancy or giving birth and I don't even like babies and breast feeding sounds awful so if I ever have kids they will be adopted 100% and most likely be older and like not newborn babies lmfao, babies are honestly so weird to me and they stink and cry and they're so fragile and im so afraid of like dropping them when I hold them lmao. But I like my nieces and nephews and I like being the cool aunt (is there a gender neutral version of aunt/uncle?) who lets them use my art supplies and helps them do fun stuff even if I get tired of them sometimes lol. Idk if that's gender related either but yeah I guess. This if kind of a more recent thing but I often say I'd make a great bf kinda as a joke bc of how I am in relationships like being the stereotypical sweet bf type who makes things for their partner a lot and wants to be their knight in shining armor and their protector and all that, but again prob not rlly trans related lmao just thought I'd throw that out there I guess. So when I was 17 was when I really started getting into trans stuff, prior to that I mostly just learned from my parents that trans ppl were "against god" and all that bs, and eventually started realizing lgbt+ isn't as bad as my family said and later realized I was bi. But anyways I met an agender person online when i was 17ish and I'd never heard it before and thought it was really interesting and asked them how you know you're agender bc after hearing their explanation of it i thought it described how I felt, but ofc they weren't transmed and just described it as being like a deep feeling or whatever and since then i started calling myself agender (and switched between a few labels but basically nonbinary) until my transmed friend told me I was ridiculous and that I wasn't trans, and honestly he was a huge dick but im a huge pushover lmao and I thought well he's trans so he must know what he's talking about, and though I felt discouraged about it I stopped calling myself nonbinary. Then I began questioning it again after not too long and basically since then I've been questioning my gender off and on. I'm now 22 and god I fucking hope im cis but also I feel like a part of me doesn't want to be cis if that makes sense?? Idk if that's because I don't like being a girl for some weird deep reason I don't know about despite being pretty sure I've gotten a lot of my feelings and their reasons behind them figured out, or if it's because I am trans and dont want to force myself to pretend im a girl 100% forever. At the very least, whatever the fuck my gender is, I want to continue going by they\them wherever I can and pretending to be a boy to strangers online and I'd love to cosplay male characters and bind and occasionally just dress masculine for the hell of it and probably wear sports bras for the rest of my life. I feel like in a way I cang possibly be trans because I can live with all of those things and be fairly comfortable still being seen as female for the rest of my life. But idk, I have bpd and other mental shit so sometimes im not great with my feelings (tho I do try really hard to identify all of my feelings/emotions and stuff) but at the same time bpd can cause weird identity shit so maybe its just a weird mix of a bunch of crap and im not actually trans but just weird and tomboyish enough to question my gender for 5 years and still be unsure. Also I know a lot of ppl suggest talking to a therapist/psychologist/whatever professional and trust me I would love to but I can't currently and am unsure when ill be able to bc they're expensive and I live in the middle of fucking nowhere so finding a decent therapist around where I live rn is going to be very difficult. Also, I have fucking crippling social anxiety lmao like I'd be so afraid to open up about this stuff even to a professional. So if anyone could suggest anything online that could help that would be amazing

#Trans #nonbinary #nb #genderqueer #gender questioning #transmed #pls help me lmao I hate my brain sm #also im so sorry if this post is scuffed af #im on mobile #its 4 am I cba

4 notes · View notes

merrylittlehogwartsrp · 6 years ago

Photo

Happy Holidays, Emily! We are thrilled to “invite” Dean Thomas (fc Keiynan Lonsdale ) back to Hogsmeade for a little forced Winter Cheer. We particularly liked how Dean was set up for growth in this application--not necessarily launching a career post-Battle of Hogwarts and still learning about himself. Dean’s roommate is: Harry Potter!

OOC DETAILS:

NICKNAME: Emily

AGE (must be 18+): A grandma in the rp world

PRONOUNS: She/her

ACTIVITY ESTIMATE: I work on political campaigns and there is a race I am starting in January which kills my time immensely, but right now I have ample free time and can lurk/plot the whole time!

CHARACTER DETAILS:

FULL NAME & NICKNAMES: Dean Allen Thomas

BIRTHDATE: October 1st 1979 Dean is a FIRM Libra. “"The balanced beautifier of the horoscope family, Libra energy inspires us to seek peace, harmony and cooperation. The essence of Libra energy is charming, lovable, fair, sincere, sharing, beautiful and hopelessly romantic.“

BLOOD-STATUS: Half-Blood, although he grew up believing he was Muggle-born

* GENDER IDENTITY: Cisgender male (although I would like to eventually explore a world where Dean could be more open to referring to himself as agender or gender fluid)

* GENDER PRESENTATION/PRONOUNS: Fairly masculine, he/him

* SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Dean is bisexual, although he very only recently fully came to terms with this.

* NOTE: this does not have to correspond to canon, or to the temporary pronouns in the bios!

CHARACTER SITUATION:

OCCUPATION: Dean works at a sporting goods store near his house and while it is not his ideal job, it does leave him with plenty of time to focus on his art. This is the main way he copes with the last three years.

HOUSING: He lives in a tiny, tiny flat in Clapton. It’s about a thirty minute train ride to his home, and while he would like to stay at home, there simply isn’t enough room now that the girls are growing. Not to mention, he quite enjoys his alone time away from the chaos of his family occasionally.

SOCIAL STANDING: Dean still can’t believe that he is in The Order of Merlin, First Class, thank you very much. It’s a bit of a wild title, especially for someone that people consider Muggle-born. Dean is known as a friendly face, and will always be a friend to those who need it, but his name usually doesn’t garner recognition. And frankly, he prefers to keep it that way.

CHARACTER CONFIGURATION:

TALENTS/WEAKNESSES +Artistically inclined + Athletic, which made him a great addition as a Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team -Potions. He could never get the portions right, not to mention he thought it a dull subject -Not a strong leader

STRENGTHS/FLAWS + Bright; always knows just what to do or say to cheer someone up + Huge empath; keen ability to improve others moods + Loyal like no other person, whether that be to people or sports teams. He is your #1 Fan - Terrible at making decisions, which causes him to go with the flow a lot of the time -Self-less, which can lead to putting himself second and the needs of others first. Also causes a bit of a self-confidence issue

CHARACTER HISTORY:

FAMILY BACKGROUND Being raised by a single Muggle mother, Dean learned early on to dislike his father, Alexander, with every fiber of his being. His parents had married young, and he always blamed their split on that. Alexander was too young, he got cold feet. Couldn’t handle a baby anymore, let alone being a father. While Martha never gave him an outright reason to dislike his father, Dean was the one acting out about it. Looking back, it was probably because he was compensating for his mother’s own nonchalance on the subject. Why wasn’t she upset? Why wasn’t she screaming? He later realized that her spending hours in front of the television set alone was her own version of screaming.

They had been fine. Martha and Dean had built a life together, just the two of them. They lived in a tiny flat and ate tiny meals and wrapped each other in tiny blankets and only each other could feel the warmth. The introduction of Graham Richards into Dean’s life was not a welcomed one. They met at his produce shop, sharing casual flirtations down the turnip aisle. Nothing made her laugh as much as those cabbages.

As Graham started spending more time in their flat, Dean started coming to terms with the idea that maybe he wasn’t all that bad. He had shit taste in sports, sure, but he was a great cook. And he made Martha happy. Damn, did he make her smile.

It took him eight years to propose to Martha, and by that point it came as no shock to anyone. They were already basically married, having moved in together years ago. Graham was basically already Dean’s father, having helped him through a break up and always supporting him in his art projects. Veronica and Bridget were already welcomed additions into the family, and shortly after baby Sam was no different.

Soon his tiny flat became a spacious three-bedroom. His tiny meals became three-course dinners. The blankets became shelters for movie nights and a home for Dean’s stories from school.

Since his father’s death, Dean harbors serious regret for his treatment of the man he barely remembers, mainly because of memories he lost and resentment he held. He wants to tell his father he is proud of him. That he understands all that he did in order to protect his family. That he would have done the exact same thing. While he can’t look back on many memories, he will always wonder what if.

LIFE DURING THE WAR: Not being able to return to Hogwarts for his final year was devastating to Dean. He loved his friends and he loved Quidditch and he loved the charmed sugar spoon that he used each morning in the Great Hall for breakfast. The fact that he was Muggle-born should not have affected his ability to attend school, but he quickly learned it was for his own good. He would stay up late and write letters his father would never be able to read. In those letters, Dean promised he would get through all this. He promised that, eventually, there would be happiness for at least one of them.

Dean wasn’t keen on having to fight in a war in his home away from home, but like a true Gryffindor, he pummeled himself headfirst into the throws of Battle. Finally, he felt welcomed again in this world. Perhaps it was the rush of finally seeing his friends after all this time (physically there, if mentally in pieces) and seeing Harry—his old friend, his sole source of hope when no one would believe that there was a reason to hope anymore—do what’s right that continued to propel him forward after all this time.

LAST THREE YEARS

Dean chose to fully immerse himself in the Muggle world. In the Muggle word, they can’t force him to run away from his friends and family. He loves being a wizard of course, but his last year on the run really took its toll on him. He still wakes up with nightmares when a neighbor makes too much noise. He is constantly afraid of being alone, as he was alone for most of his Final Year. Dean doesn’t want to think about life in terms of goals because, to be quite honest, he really has no idea what he wants to do after Hogwarts. A small part of him didnt even think he’d make it this far. Instead, he has a lot of different interests and ideas, but nothing that is jumping out at him right now. The Ministry of Magic is urging those in The Order of Merlin First Class to follow the career path of an Auror. And there is a part of him that feels he could make a great Healer or Auror, and another part of him that longs to be a Quidditch star, and somewhere inbetween there is his desire to paint and draw for a living. The more he thinks about it the more overwhelmed he gets, so he conveniently chooses not to think about it. His goal right now is a lot simpler than that–if he is forced to come back to Hogsmeade, enjoy this festive Holiday celebration before he can’t anymore.

HOLIDAY DETAILS:

The Thomases were never big Christmas-celebrators in the whole Navity-set-and-going-to-church kind of way, but they do spend copious amounts of time watching Holiday specials that come on the telly and they have a tree with an unhealthy amount of tinsel. Dean’s step-father is a fantastic baker and Dean has a competition with him and his younger sister that involves cooking competitions and ginger snaps. His mother always ends up declaring it a tie because she can’t decide. He always valued coming home for the holidays simply because he recognized the traditions he was making with his half-sisters and knew that he wanted to be as involved as he possibly could. Being away from these traditions is enough reason for him not to want to go back to Hogsmeade, but he felt like he couldn’t say no. They crammed in as many of these traditions as they could before sending Dean off on his own.

OOC SUPPLEMENT:

SHIPS: I will not lie and say that Deamus makes me weep because clueless best friends to lovers hits a little too close to home for me, but I am also open to alternatives! Especially when Chemistry and Drama are thrown into the mix! Also super interested to flesh out Ginny and Dean’s past relationship, as I feel like that was not explored enough.

CHANGES: This is a very tiny tiny change, but I do think Dean will be excited to go to Hogsmeade. I always kind of thought of him as that guy who would actually want to go to a high school reunion of sorts, and I think it’s because he just loves his friends so gosh darn much!! He was robbed of a proper “Senior Year” and spent most of that year on the run. As a result, I think that he is spending a good portion of his life making up for lost time. Also because the kid loves a party, and a distraction.

FACECLAIM: Truly having a tough time debating between Keiynan Lonsdale and Alfie Enoch. I would not be mad with either!

#merrylittleapp

3 notes · View notes

kote-the-inn-keeper · 7 years ago

Text

I just finished The Slow Regard of Silent Things. It took me a long time to read because at first I waned to read if for everyone here. Not for myself. But that changed rather quickly and I wanted to read it at my own pace, take in all I could, and pick at the book myself.

So, that’s what I did and why it took so long for me to finally finish it.

I have so much, yet so little, to say about the book I don’t know where to start. I suppose the so much is emotions, and the so little is the ability to put it all into words. What I can say with easy and in one breath: This book was beautifully done and I loved every minute of it to the bottom of my heart.

There wasn’t a moment that I didn’t I love and cherish and relate too. Everything was natural and soft, really hard to describe other than that. I’m not the best at words, but I can say I loved this book and it is easily a favorite of mine; and will keep a favorite forever.

Below the cut are some points and things I caught along the way. I didn’t do page numbers because I was reading. But, perhaps I’ll do that another time.

Auri is very small. Not just in the way she conducts herself, but height and size wise. It’s referenced a ton throughout the book. Notably comparing her height to tables and shelves. Tables are too tall for her, which leads me to think he’s 5′1″ - 5′4″ ! Very petite and small -- though her slenderness very clearly comes from the lack of steady meals she has.

She is brilliant. Not a protege, but she is very intelligent and knows what she’s talking about. She talks and rambles about mathematics, chemistry, balances of chemicals, and more through the book -- more notably at the end. Which feeds into her being someone who ACTUALLY attended the university. If naming masters on several occasions wasn’t enough for you to believe that one, look at all the chemical names she knew. Look at the way she knew how to make soap and candles and the names of tools.

Leading from that point, she was clearly at the university as a chemistry student. Naming might have been an accident, or something she later perused. Naming probably wasn’t the first thing she went for.

Auri is a namer -- that’s just fact. You can see it through her finding and giving names to items, naming the places all through the Underthings, and the more notable portion of her being “cracked”. She is a namer and knows the names of things, but which things we still don’t know. I have a few guesses on what names she tried to take hold of, but, I can talk about that later.

There is a small suspicion I have of her having something close to, if not, OCD. And she definitely has some sort of panic/anxiety disorder. I don’t have OCD, so I can’t say this is a definite yes, but from the way she has to have things in a neat and specific order, things have to be arranged specifically, and how she not only double checks, but will triple check her belongings and things around her, it leads me to the possibility she has OCD. If something isn’t right, she will mess with it and move it around until it’s int he right place. This is through ALL the book. Along with her cleaning everything until it fits her needs -- herself a well. She also washes herself in a specific order: face, hands, feet. Every time. As for the anxiety/panic disorder, I can speak on that. Very notably in the section when she’s making soap for herself, she “freaks out”. Has an anxiety attack. Somethings wrong and she can’t figure out what, and starts to feel like everything is crumbling around her and she can’t fix anything. Which throws her into more of a panic and making it hard for her to move and breath. It isn’t until she finds something stable around her she can calm down; and from my experiences that’s generally how it goes. She’s stressed about being dirty and things not cooperating, she’s trying to find gifts for Kvothe, and the day started off sour and was getting worse. It caved in on her and she broke down. There have been other moments int he book where she had started to panic, but found something to calm herself down with and get herself back together.

She doesn’t see herself as worthy of owning items and pampering herself. She says this a lot; calling herself selfish quite often. She never has more than what she thinks she needs, or allows herself too. There are times when she denies herself to use something because it’s “too good” or “to special” for her to use.

Auri is an adult woman. A lot of people LOVE to forget this and make her a child and stupid. Which annoys the living hell out of me!! She is referred to as a lady, a woman, a healthy adult, several times in the book. She has passion and lewd thoughts [at least twice in the book, a third with the underthings joke in the KKC books to Kvothe]. This doesn’t mean Auri isn’t/can’t be trans, non binary, agender, ace, aro, demi, or anything else-- SO DON’T TAKE THIS THAT WAY. My point here is that she is feminine aligned in some manner and does have adult thoughts. She does think like an adult, talk like an adult, and has the body of an adult. She is not a child -- and if you need more evidence of that there has only been two people to attend the university as teenagers. Elodin and Kvothe. That’s it. Auri is easily in her early twenties. Stop making her a child. * For you shit heads out there that are prolly gonna run on in and say ace people “can’t have” sexual thoughts or the like, you’re an idiot. Anyone can make lewd jokes and have thoughts about things. Asexuality is a sliding scale and it doesn’t mean people feel nothing ever. Grow up.

She ventures outside above the underthings. She isn’t reclusive to the underthings, since there is a whole chapter about her running around on someones farm in the middle of no where and tricking a kid into thinking she’s fae. She knows the outside world -- since she used to be in it more often -- and Auri goes out into it during the night. It’s not like she doesn’t understand what the above world is, she’s not Ariel from the little mermaid.

TW SE/XUAL ASSA/ULT AND VAUGE R*PE MENTIONS: There is a specific line in the book that actually made me have to put it down for a minute and take a breath. It shook me and placed me in thoughts I’m personally yet to cope with. “Like a wrist pinned hard beneath a hand with the hot breath smell of want and wine. . . .” [133]. Direct quote. If you notice that section, that’s the last thought on that subject she has, and instead of just 3 periods, there are 4. A longer, drawn out thought that was stopped and left in that moment, no longer to be discussed. As she was thinking about bad and angry things, this thought came to her. A bad and angry, terrible and horrendous thing. Before you say it’s a stretch, look through the book for a minute. There are plenty of examples where she will be thinking a string of things and towards the end or middle there will be things about her specifically that come in. Her name, how she sees herself, being in a class or stumbling across something, and even about Kvothe. All things outside what she was comparing and thinking of to describe an object or feeling something was emitting to her. And that’s what happened on that page. She quickly and clearly shoves that thought and memory aside. And, not to mention, such a situation is more than damn well possible. The University is largely male/male aligned, 100 to 10 [if I recall right]. All the women/ women aligned individuals are said to know one another by one of the main women in the KKC books. With so many men, Imre not far off where people go to drink and stumble back, and so few women, the possibility of someone happening to be so disgusting and subhuman spells itself out. You could try and say “oh but not all men--” or “but this is fantasy!”, but listen. Such an act as canonly occurred in the KKC universe that Kvothe has experienced -- TWICE. Se/xual assa/ult on him is very loudly laid out in NOTW when the kids “cut the clothes” from his body, and in WMF when he rescues the two girls from the fake Edem who stole them and were very clearly going to sell them as sex sla/ves. If not keep for themselves. This shit happens in real life all the time; universities and college are NO EXCEPTION. And I have no damn doubt in my mind that that man got away with it too, which probably and more likely than not furthered Auri’s process to “cracking”. It also explains why she is VERY CLEARLY WARY OF MEN. It took kvothe moths for her to warm up to him. Mola shows up? Bam. Instantly chill and fine. It’s not that he was a stranger [though it could have played into it], it’s that he was presenting as a male. Mola was a stranger, and she was fine. A little caution was taken, but it melted away quickly.

#ooc #mun humming #the slow regard of silent things #TSRoST #feel free to talk to me about it #im just kind of rambling #i literally finished reading #maybe a half hour ago

36 notes · View notes

sanderssides-fics · 8 years ago

Text

A special haven chapter 2

Chapter 1: https://sanderssides-fics.tumblr.com/post/161948293942/a-special-haven-chapter-1

Tw: hospital, ADHD interpretation, multiple issues.

Tags: @analogically-prinxiety @the-prince-and-the-emo @princeyandanxiety @softlogic @polysandershell _____2______

Anxiety spent a little while in his room still, just looking around. Posters coated the walls and there was another of Logan’s ties on a hook near the door, the magenta one Anxiety had once complimented Logan on.

The tie he had with him last night was wrapped around his wrist like it was a bracelet. Anxiety finally decided to leave his room when the door opened, it closed behind a tall man with dirty blonde quiffed hair and a suit on. “Ah hello Anxiety, I am Mr.Donnovan the caretaker of this home. I have to go to the hospital to retrieve everyone’s daily medicine, do you need anything?” Mr donnovan had a strong southern U.S. accent. Anxiety shook his head No, not ready to open up to him, what he wanted was pain medicine and Logan. “Not even your nurse?” Mr. Donnovan questioned, Anxiety looked at the tie and then held up his wrist, pointed at the tie and nodded. “Okay hun, I’ll be back in half am hour. Maybe you should socialize”.

Anxiety didn’t leave the room for 5 minutes after that. When he did, he wish he hadn’t. The walls were a bright yellow, the carpet an unnatural grey, the lighting was flickering in one spot, and the noise… God, the noise. It wasn’t that it was annoying… it was that it was loud and a lot of layering. Children laughter, Taylor Swift, Bruno Mars, a TV somewhere, the hospital ambulances, teen grumbles, a single scream of ‘shut up!’.

Anxiety went downstairs where instantly he had that 10 year old kid again near him. “Come on! You need food! Why are you here? Did you do something bad? Are you bisexual? Are you agender?” He then gasps in his little question spree as he sits Anxiety down at the breakfast bar and gets him orange juice “O M G are you gender fluid?” They asked.

“I’m not any of those” Anxiety spoke slower and quieter than the kid.

“Oh okay! That’s cool! Do you like the juice? Vander made it at 3 this morning!” The kid beamed “I’m Elliot! I have ADHD, I get tired a lot and distracted. It’s a really weird case because I’m not like other kids but I’m not exactly different yknow? My parents are in huggy shirts, they laugh a lot. I think the huggy shirts and pillow rooms make then happier than I do” Elliot got sad for a moment “Oh well!” He beamed right back up “if live with my uncle who owns this place! They thought it would be easier if I lived here, better eyes on me to make sure I don’t fix things all the time.”

Anxiety helped Elliot take a breath to calm down just as a girl entered the room. “Fresh meat” she mumbled, her ginger hair up in two pigtails held up by ribbons and curled at the ends. She smacked gum and fixed her overall jorts. The white shirt she wore read 'Basic’ in big black cursive letters and it couldn’t have been more right.

“That’s Ash, you won’t see her around much. She’s released tonight, she finally got rid of her illness and gets to go home. Her mom is a buisness woman by the name of Anne, her dad is a congressman named Steve, she has a baby brother who would 3 years old in a week his name is Allen.” Elliot explained to Anxiety, whom just nodded.

“You don’t need to reveal everyone’s life story dweeb” Ash growled flicking Elliot in the temple. Elliot whimpered after Ash left with a bowl of dry cereal. Anxiety patted Elliot’s head gently, a little Unnatural since he hadn’t done that before. Elliot smiled and noticed Anxiety had finished his orange juice.

“My uncle says your name is secret, you get called Anxiety though because you have bad Anxiety. He said for me not to jumpscare you so you don’t get scared ” Elliot laughed gently. Anxiety smiled a little, Elliot showed Anxiety the rest of the house. The bathrooms and the bedrooms they were allowed in.

“The twins are very cuddly, I warn you” Elliot said as he opened the door slightly and instantly there was two kid on Anxiety’s legs. They rubbed their pudgy 3 year old cheeks on Anxiety’s legs and acted like cats. “Dr.Alice found them on the street with a posse of cats. They’ve acted like this ever since. ” Elliot said. Anxiety knew exactly who these girls were. Dr.Alice told Anxiety about Kit & Kat.

The kids let go of Anxiety when an older teen came out of his room, they hooked on to him as well and the guy laughed and went back in his room without a notice to Anxiety or Elliot.

“That’s Kyle, he only associates with the care takers and the twins. He’s here because he has nowhere else.” That was almost the last time Anxiety saw Kyle.

The door downstairs opened and Mr.Donnovan entered. “Uncle Donny!” Elliot exclaimed and slid down the railing and right into his uncles arms. Anxiety retreated into his room, weird, he felt no way about calling this room his own. He didn’t think he’d mind it here after all. Though he had no idea who this 'Vander’ person was.

There was a knock on the door before Anxiety looked up from his spot in the middle of the floor. Logan closed the door behind him and Anxiety smiled gently at the Nurse. Logan was glad that the only thing disturbed in the room was the sheets. “Hey” Anxiety spoke gently.

“Salutations” Logan said and Anxiety giggled making Logan smile and sit across from him “How do you find the place? How do you feel”

“Its okay, Elliot showed me around… I’m in some pain and Anxiety levels” Anxiety mumbled the last part, Logan moved closer to Anxiety and noticed the tie around Anxiety’s wrist.

“So you have left the room, that’s good. You went with a hyper boy as well. I see you found the tie, I thought it might help you calm down… you know, about being forced into this place even though you said no.” Logan looked down a little ashamed but still he knew this was best for his anxious patient. He gave Anxiety some pain medicine he had in his white coat pocket.

“Its okay, I can see where you came from on the whole safe view this place is definitely better than with my brother” Anxiety said and Logan nodded in agreement. Anxiety hugged Logan gently to seal his opinion on Logan so that Logan wouldn’t worry as much.

Five minutes of talking about Anxiety’s opinions of the other tenants later and they both were leant against a wall, Anxiety more leaned on Logan’s shoulder though. Logan was Anxiety’s comfort.

“Dr.Alice told me about Ivory, that other nurse, I’m really sorry about her. I don’t know why she did that” Logan said casually.

“Dr.Alice said it’s because you and her dated and you broke up with her because of a… complication” Anxiety said, his head half in Logan’s neck and half on Logan’s shoulder but he still saw the deep blush on Logan’s cheeks.

“Yeah, I realized I didn’t really like her. She wasn’t nice anyways” Logan admitted

“I figured” Anxiety smiled gently, Logan’s watch beeped “Do you have to leave?”

“Yeah, it’s lunch time for you. I’ll come back tonight before my shift is over to check up on you okay?” Logan said as he got up and helped Anxiety up. Anxiety nodded and lead Logan to the door before saying goodbye. Anxiety didn’t like Logan leaving, he didn’t really feel safe anymore.

“Anxiety!” Elliot smiled and took Anxiety’s hand dragging him to a dining room. “Its lunch time! Uncle Donny let me help with it. We are having macaroni, grilled cheese, and salad!” Elliot was very hyper and kept talking; some how Elliot managed to switch the topic from lunch to roller coasters to the Vander person again.

Elliot made Anxiety sit next to him as Ash and Mr.Donnovan served the food. Most of the kids dove into their food savagely but still neatly. Kyle had came down with Kit & Kat and he was helping feed them their food so they didn’t make a huge mess. Anxiety just nibbled on his food. A peace of lettuce or a corner of bread found their way to his mouth every so often. He was used to Roman taking his food, it would be half way to his mouth and Roman would steal it and eat it then laugh. He was used to one small meal a week from the breakfast club at school.

Elliot kept everyone entertained with stories he heard from 'Isaac’ but most people referred to him as Imaj. Imaj was sitting in the living room, he ate his food there while next to the small terrarium for a gecko or something. Anxiety got up when everyone was distracted and entered the living room. Imaj looked up instantly, he smiled gently.

“You’re the new one, you came in last night. I like your scars” Imaj referenced Anxiety’s wrist, Anxiety hid his wrist against his chest.

“How did you know about those?” Anxiety asked nervously.

Imaj just smiled “I’m Imaj, I am 8 years old and my parents are dead” He said without hesitation, without the smile leaving his face either.

“I’m Anxiety, I’m 16, and my dad is dead. I never knew my mom.” Anxiety said quietly as he sat next to Imaj.

“This is Quiche, he’s 5 months” Imaj held up a small gecko, it was no bigger than the brunettes middle finger. Anxiety smiled at the reptilian creature.

“He’s adorable” Anxiety smiled, he pets the gecko gently.

“Donny says he’s like me. Adorable and all knowing.” Imaj made a mystical face making Anxiety laugh gently. They talked about Quiche and about their time here until lunch was over for everyone else. Then the living room flooded with TV hogs, it got too loud for Anxiety so he covered his ears and speed walked to his room, when he spun around to close his door he noticed Imaj had followed him.

“Can I come in, please?” The day-dreamy eight year old asked.

“Sure” Anxiety found it weird he felt more comfortable with the 8 and 10 year Olds than with people his own age. Then again, people his own age liked to hurt him outside of here.

#roman sanders #logan sanders #anxiety sanders #sanderssides #thomas sanders

54 notes · View notes

theclaravoyant · 8 years ago

Note

Yay! So happy you're doing the Pride prompts again! I've been saving this one for it. I know you've written trans* Fitz, so I would like to prompt non-binary Fitz who uses they/them pronouns and goes by Fitz because it's gender-neutral.

AN ~ So, turns out my favourite Fitz cardigan style (in my head anyway, I think he’s worn it like maaaybe once in canon) is a potential Nonbinary Icon :P This was fun! It got a little angstier than I had originally planned, because I was Feeling Some Things, but it all sorts out in the end.

Rated T for some vague but angsty references to his past/his father and for some brief internalised transphobia.

Academy era, FitzSimmons, brotp or otp I don’t mind :)

Read on AO3 (~2500wd)

Less Travelled By

“Jemma?” Fitz asked. “What’s being a girl like?”

He was lying on her bed, playing with some kind of beanie toy – a hacky sack, perhaps. He tossed it into the air and caught it, completely unfazed by the fact that she’d only just arrived in her own dorm room.

“Well, I don’t know,” Jemma offered, thoughtful and just as unfazed as she divested herself of her bags and coat. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Except for- well you know, all the bleeding, and the catcalling, and the side-eyes a sixteen-year-old doctoral candidate inevitably gets. But that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?”

“No,” Fitz agreed. “I mean really. In your heart. In your soul. What’s it like?”

“That, I don’t know. If it helps, I don’t think anyone really does. There’s a lot we don’t know, about genes, about gender, about the bottom of the ocean… we scientists aren’t going to run out of work any time soon.”

“We’ll just run out of funds first.” Fitz snorted, but his mind was elsewhere. He’d stopped tossing the hacky sack now, and was instead kneading it in his hands. Curious, Jemma put the kettle on, and pulled the leftovers of her lunch from her bag to finish off at the little multipurpose table halfway between the bench (that ambitiously called itself a kitchenette) and the bed. She watched Fitz silently ruminate for a while as she ate, but when the kettle had finished boiling, he sat up.

“Why d’you ask?” Jemma wondered. “They haven’t still got you doing core units in public health or something have they?”

“Nah.” Fitz shrugged, but Jemma got the sense that he was avoiding her eyes on purpose. “This is more for, um. Personal research.”

“Okay.” She poured the tea as unassumingly as possible. “What’s being a boy like then?”

Fitz shifted in his seat as if she’d just said something uncomfortable. Jemma frowned. Fitz sighed, and the frustrations that had been hovering below the surface became suddenly more evident in his voice and body language. Muscles tense, Fitz clenched the hacky sack, and tried to explain – to it, rather than to her.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think about it much either, usually, but recently I have been and I think maybe – I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t even really feel… I mean, I know I’m different from a lot of guys around. But not all guys are aggressive, testosterone-fuelled, overcompetitive dingbats are they? There must be some normal guys out there.”

“There are,” Jemma assured him. “Though unfortunately for the both of us, they tend to be older. Hormones are powerful things.”

Fitz grimaced. Jemma grimaced back, in sympathy. Then,

“You said you feel different?” she asked. “How so?”

“Well, you know, I’m… softer, I guess, than most guys.”

“That’s not a bad thing, Fitz.”

Fitz shifted again, and waved her off, his whole body wringing. That was another conversation, another time, another life he didn’t like to think about.

“It’s not that. It’s not gender roles or anything, that’s not what I mean. I mean – what I mean is,” he struggled to stay on track; to separate the one from the other, the past from the present, the questions from the expectations. “I just don’t relate to any of the guys. I’ve tried talking to engineering, to the AV guys, even the sport guys – I’m actually not half bad at football. Most of the time we get along alright but I just… don’t really relate.”

“Maybe it’s just because they hate talking about their feelings,” Jemma suggested. Fitz scowled, but when he spoke, his voice was raw.

“Don’t make fun. I’m serious. I feel really – really alone, and I’m trying, and the harder I try the more it feels like there’s something… wrong. With me. Like I don’t fit, somehow. It’s like homesickness all over again. It’s been weeks and weeks and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Jemma hummed in sympathy.

“Why don’t you come have lunch with me and Pen and Clarissa on Monday? They do physics, I’m sure they’d love to talk rockets or something with you. Maybe this particular cohort of guy friends just aren’t for you.”

“That’s another thing though, isn’t it?” Fitz objected. “If all my closest friends are girls, what does that say about me?”

“Ugh, Fitz.” Jemma snorted, offended, and not entirely faking it.

Fitz hung his head. Of course, he hadn’t meant to devalue her by it, but it was a difficult and confusing reality to face. Men did not like him. He was not one of them. It wasn’t just this cohort; it was, apparently, every man he’d ever known with any degree of intimacy. All of them seemed to rub him the wrong way, or else he did them. Was it still his father on his mind? Fitz had spent hours wondering over it. After all these years, did he still have alarm bells set up in every cell of his being, to warn him that every man would judge him the same way? Was he doomed to forever be alone and distrustful and stuck in his past? It certainly felt like it, at times like these.

Lost in his thoughts, Fitz stared absently down at the hackey sack, still clenched in his fist. After a while, Jemma came to sit by him on the bed. She replaced his fierce grip on the hacky sack with a warmer, lighter touch on a mug of tea. He took a deep breath, pulling himself back into the room.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking about Dad.”

“That’s okay,” Jemma assured him, “just don’t let him get to you. This whole thing, this self exploration? It’s perfectly natural, Fitz. Even if nothing comes of it in the end. We’re young adults; we’re becoming ourselves. Questioning what that means is very normal. Stressing about it, unfortunately, is quite normal too.”

“I know,” Fitz muttered.

“And if do you want to – to look into some things about unconventional gender experiences, I’d be happy to help you,” Jemma added.

Fitz recoiled instantly.

“No, there’s nothing wrong with me,” he insisted, shoving the thought away. He sprung to his feet, pacing away from her, waving Jemma’s gaze off his back with more desperation than anything else. “I’m not like that, I’m not going to let – him leaving mess me up like that. I’m fine. I’m not less of a man because of my Mum. She’s only ever done good for me. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Still sitting on the bed where he had left her, but a little more forlorn, Jemma whispered,

“I never said there was.”

Fitz stopped in his tracks, a few feet away. He took note of his body; shoulders tense, breath short, arms crossed defensively. He took note of the words that had just passed his lips, and of the blinding fear and rage that had taken a hold of him and made him speak them.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his voice gravelled. “I know that.”

He wanted to say I didn’t mean that, but he knew he did. In some round about way, some part of him hated it. Hated the thought that he could be different. Hated himself. His arms uncrossed, and wrapped around himself instead. Heat flushed his face and tears of frustration, fear and vulnerability tried to force their way out. Jemma got up at last, and crossed over to him, and rested her own hand gently on his protective arms.

“I want you to know that you’re safe with me, Fitz,” she assured him. “I’ll keep your secrets and I’ll support you and I’ll be here for you, no matter what. I’m not going to hurt you or abandon you. I’m with you. Okay?”

Fitz, stuck for words, nodded. Jemma smiled gently.

“Would you like a hug?”

He nodded again, and she embraced him, cradling him gently in her arms. Eventually, he took a deep breath and let it go, and they both felt some of the weight of the room lift.

“Do you want to keep talking about it?” Jemma offered.

“D’you think it’ll help?” Fitz responded meekly.

“Yes I do,” Jemma said. “I think that finding an answer, even if it’s not the right one yet, will help you clear some of that confusion.”

Will get his hold off of you, was what she wanted to say, her blood boiling at the thought of how pervasive his father’s control truly was, but in the greater mission of turning Fitz’s thoughts away from his past wherever possible, she decided not to add that on.

“Okay,” Fitz agreed. “What do you think is the answer, then?”

Jemma smiled.

“That, I think I do know. Obviously, I can’t read your mind, but here, have a look at this. Hang on.” She pulled her laptop out of its bag, and searched, and flicked through a few pages before she found what she’d been looking for. By the time she handed it over to Fitz, there were several tabs open, labelled things like, Beyond the Binary, Non-Western Genders, Agender, and Which Non-Binary Are You? Scanning through them, Fitz’s jaw dropped.

“What? How did you find all these?”

“I did a Queer Studies class in university. The terminology is changing all the time, and the possibilities are expanding rapidly since I did it, but the principles are largely the same. Thousands of people – hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions around the world - don’t relate to the typical binary experience, Fitz. You’re not alone.”

“But… surely,” Fitz wondered, “it must be something to do with how I was raised, right? It’s not - you know, a real thing. Surely.”

Jemma shrugged.

“Isn’t everything to do with how we were raised? Our accents, the way we dress, what we’ve studied? In fact, it’s plausible that being raised in such a…” violent, aggressive, she pushed past them “- strictly enforced binary world like you were could have actually had the opposite effect. It wouldn’t be unheard of. For example, the majority of people raised in a strictly religious household change religions or become atheistic once no longer bound by that household. It may be that your sense of ‘maleness’ and ‘femaleness’ is so strongly associated with gender roles that you may not relate to a less categorical gender experience. It’s quite logical really. As, by your own understanding, you fall outside of those categories, your brain is telling you that you’re not either one of them. The only option then is to find a third, or opt out of the system altogether.”

Fitz nodded, slowly.

“That… makes sense,” he acknowledged. “I didn’t expect so much of a Nurture argument out of you, though, Miss Biologist.”

“Bio-chemist,” she corrected, “but I can give you a few nature arguments if you like. The most likely of which, of course, is that you were born this way – whatever way that is - and just haven’t had a chance to start properly exploring it until now. Maybe your unconventional upbringing feeds into it, or maybe it is simply a confusing coincidence on top of an unconventional, internal, and independent gender situation. Either way, in my opinion, it’s something worth looking into.”

“Worth looking into?” Fitz repeated, his eyes drawn back to the treasure trove of answers she’d laid out before him. Curiosity and an insatiable sense of rightness were drowning out his fears, and his father’s control. “This is incredible.”

Entranced, he returned to Jemma’s bed and set himself up, scrolling and reading and occasionally commenting as he stumbled across phrases he liked or puzzled over. Jemma struggled to keep her smile restrained in its radiance. She hadn’t been expecting this much of a turnaround in Fitz’s mood, but she supposed it was the insecurity that got to him most of all. Learning that his experiences were not isolated, not faked, not hollow, had him riding a high of self-validation that memories of his father could not, in this moment, touch. Jemma set about some busywork – eating, cleaning, and reading – while Fitz explored, until finally he closed the lid of her laptop with a satisfied, somewhat declaratory sigh.

“Amazing,” he said, before Jemma’s words made it out:

“What did you think?”

“It’s a lot to think about, but it feels right.” The sweetness of victory could be heard in his voice; seen in his eyes. “Thank you so much for showing me all this, Jemma.”

“I just opened a door,” Jemma objected. “You were the one who walked through it.”

“But I wouldn’t have done,” Fitz insisted, “without you.”

He blushed a little, and so did she. As close as they were, they didn’t often share explicit personal feelings.

“So,” Jemma said, pushing on. “Have you decided anything yet?”

“That Leopold is a terrible name?” Fitz replied. “I like Fitz. It’s just better, but it’s also gender neutral, which I like. Although, I think this whole ‘FitzSimmons’ business could get confusing.”

“Well, I hardly think ‘Jemmapold’ was going to take off anyway, now was it,” Jemma remarked. Fitz grinned.

“The rest, I guess,” he continued. “I’ll take it as it comes. Although, I wouldn’t mind investing in some of those loose-knit cardigans.”

“I have a giftcard,” Jemma offered. “I’ll set you up. And – what about pronouns? Do you have a preference?”

His/their hands looked for something to fiddle with, and his/their face twisted around the words a little. It still felt a little radical. But radically himself. Themself? They took a deep breath.

“Yeah, you know, actually,” they stammered, their voice squeaking a little. “I think I prefer neutral pronouns. They/their. It sort of – it reduces that pressure I feel? To conform?”

To Fitz’s relief, Jemma nodded.

“Sure. I’ll do my best to use them instead, then. Around other people, too?”

“I mean, if it’s not too hard?” they requested. “Use your discretion, I guess.”

“Of course,” Jemma agreed. “Now, is there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

Fitz cleared their throat, steadying their voice against the strain of puberty and nerves.

“No,” they said, once they were sure they’d pulled themself together. “No, I think that’s it for now. Thanks, Jemma.”

“Existential crises are all in a day’s work,” she assured them, beaming gently. “If anything else comes up, you just let me know, okay?”

Fitz groaned – a long, melodramatic groan. Jemma hesitated.

“What?” she asked.

“I forgot to hand in that bloody grant application!” they lamented. “Ah well, I’ll just have to go in early tomorrow.”

“Or we could go right now,” Jemma suggested. “We could use the walk, it would be good to get some fresh air.”

Fitz looked unconvinced, until she added:

“… and I think that new donut place has opened up on the corner.”

Fitz sprung to their feet, and Jemma almost laughed. Whether it was their age or innate Fitz-ness or both, they had the lanky awkwardness of movement of a baby giraffe. Same old Fitz. She kept this to herself, in case Fitz took it as implying they’d ever been anything but the same old Fitz, and followed them out the door, purse and keys in hand.

#fsfic #fitzsimmons #thefitzsimmonsnetwork #aospositivitynet #happy pride!#prompt me stuff #clara's fic tag #unlessimwrongwhichyouknowimnot

15 notes · View notes