#and asking on tumblr which haircut fits me most

[zialinart]

i'm considering doing the "tattoo myself everyday for a year" challenge and like film it and open a tik tok account for that but sooo much work and i'm too old for this shit

[for-a-longlongtime]

Important TF2 question (to me)...is the Standard Heating Oil hat still a thing for Frankie? Did he leave it in South America? Does he still wear hats? His hair is still long, right? RIGHT?!

These are the questions I'm fixated on should a sequel happen.

Jess! Do you know that you're the first person who submitted an Ask to me here on Tumblr? I'm so excited about it, makes me feel like I'm finally one of the cool kids 😅

His hair is definitely still long. He's probably tried some shorter cuts over time, but going to the barbershop is one of those things he often just doesn't get to - so the extra curls and length are often there because he's long overdue for a cut. That's also why the hat (or at least A hat) is still around a lot, because if he's headed out to work or to meet somebody it's just easier to throw on a hat than bother with hair products.

Every now and then he'll have a moment of hair envy though when watching Santiago. Their hairtypes are very different, but you know that Pope is a lot more vain - pretty boy will pop into a salon every 3 weeks to get his hair cut, facial hair trimmed, the works. Always looking very put together. It's not like Frankie couldn't afford that or doesn't have the time - he just forgets, or feels like it's a hassle to go that often.

Also, don't underestimate him. He knows what the sight of those curls do to people. He's not cocky about it, but he knows. Most of his bed partners through the years will have made at least a few remarks about it, always with praise. If you'd ask him about it, he probably wouldn't say it out loud but his hair at this length, just like in the photo? It's the perfect length to grab ahold of his curls when he goes down on you.

When he's eating you out, that's all he's focused on and he doesn't need any further encouragement. But he loves it how your grip on his hair will tighten when his tongue pushes right there right there, harder Frankie, please, fuckkk. Inevitably you'll be so far gone that your tugs on his hair won't be as gentle as they started out, but that's exactly where his sweet spot is. When your fingers have slid deep into his hair, clutching his curls, and you just pull at him so hard that it makes his head jerk back and eyes close for a moment... It's the only thing that'll interrupt his tongue on you, but that's okay - because the way his hot breath stutters against you in that moment is so good. So you do it again, feel how it makes shivers run down his spine. Having his hair pulled like that just shoots straight to his dick, and now he has to really work on not letting that distract him as you're whimpering under him. So who needs haircuts every three weeks when he can have all of this - the tugging and oh so good flashes of pain that turn him on -, just by keeping his hair long?

The Standard Heating Oil hat, though. That one is special because it fits him just right, even after all these years, like a perfectly worn in sweater, and somehow it will never accidentally fall off unlike other caps. Not even after that helicopter crash in the Andes, you know? Fucking magic. He stole it from Pope years ago when he'd crashed on his couch after a night out and just never gave it back. There's no long or even overly sentimental reason he would offer for why this one is his favorite - it just is. Plus it'll make Pope grin at him every so often as he'll call Frankie a pendejo and ask when the fuck he is getting his hat back, which will never happen, because they both know that that hat became Frankie's the moment he put it on.

What the fuck, how did I just word vomit 600 words on Frankie's hair and hat before it's even 10 am? I must've blacked out there for a bit. Thank you for the ask, @rhoorl! <3

Pssst @legendary-pink-dot, Bush Pilot Hair alert.

[asmallmoon333]

Silly question because I was scrolling through your Tumblr blog and really wanted to ask something but nothing came to mind except L and L looking different because Reasons TM.

We have L the rich family heir in the current Time Speaks arc. He's got a Family Approved TM makeover.

But what if Light was given a chance to give L a makeover? How would this new and visually improved L be?

Also how long do you think before L takes back makeover privileges and gets back to his usual? I bet an hour, max lmao.

So I thought about this for a minute lol

The thing about Light is, I actually don't think he spends as much time on his appearance or on appearance in general as some fanon implies. Yes, he's put together and looks good, but most of that is just a clean haircut and his natural face. Light is just good-looking on his own hahahahaha, and he uses that against people as part of his repertoire of tactics. Personally tho I think he relies on the "upstanding member of society" shtick much more than his looks, despite how I personally like to comment on his face in my story.

Why did I ramble about this here, you may ask? Because I actually don't see Light as giving L a makeover or even thinking about it much, based simply on what Light finds value in or has an interest in. At best I think he'd buy L a nice suit, or at the very least some fitting clothes, and give him a haircut, but nothing more than that. This would be a special occasion with other people involved, and so L would give in since he'd see it as important enough to submit until the end of whatever occasion it is. But in daily life or a makeover just for fun? I don't think Light would do it. Their weird sexual tension is 90% cerebral, and while Light uses society's proceptions against them, I don't think he takes them seriously himself. He's an actor on a stage wearing a costume, which is also why I think he's got so may clothes, and so many "fit the situation" clothing as we see. But beyond that, he doesn't care what others look like, and certainly doesn't care about L's looks beyond that one time he called him a weirdo when they met.

Also I don't think Light knows a thing about makeup (remaining purposefully ignorant, despite Misa's attempts), but also he's possessive and wouldn't want L to look too good to other people. So even less inclination to give him a makeover lol. But he does, personally, admire what L looked like with slicked-back hair when he has the chance to see it, as in that one fan art of them in the tub I've saved. >v>

Sorry if that's not the answer you were hoping for, it was still a fun one for me to think about!

(Now, if you'd asked about Misa giving L a makeover, that's a whole other story; she would sit him down and keep him there as her doll (hah) for as long as she possibly could, and he would actually just give in cause why not, he's bored, let's see what Misa can do. And she'd go in full, she'd dress him in all types of styles and genres, from historical to modern to goth, and even go into cosplay a bit, with full makeup and accessories. She would splurge on this cause his frame would make him perfect for some anime cosplay. There would be photoshoots, face artfully averted of course, and they'd be popular online. This would include male and female outfits btw. And L would have fun, even tho he didn't expect that he would, he finds it interesting. While Light would watch from the sidelines with an annoyed look on his face (he's not fooling anyone, he's there for every shoot). L, in contrast to Light, would actually listen to Misa and learn about a full makeup and hair care routine. He'd never employ that knowledge personally, but he'd remember it even if just to bring up to Light randomly like "Light-kun could do with some moisturizing sunscreen and leave-in conditioner, you're looking a bit sun damaged" "What?" lmao.)

So, yeah! ^v^

[biillys]

🔥ask game🔥 for Stranger Things

6. which ship fans are the most annoying?

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

11. number of fandom-related words you've filtered

18. it's absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on...

19. you're mad/ashamed/horrified you actually kind of like...

21. part of canon you think is overhyped

25. common fandom complaint that you're sick of hearing

hello ily thanku 🥺🥺

6. which ship fans are the most annoying?

well every time something's happening it's always the bylers or the steddies making noise. the harringrove gang can def be annoying too but something about the way the others think theyre like. morally correct for their ship etc is just like. give me a fucking break. ur litereally on tumblr dot com. wait actually not a ship technically but the people that are obsessed with the fruity four. literally shut uppppppp

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about?

feel like most of my opinons aren't common enough to weigh in here so idk? billy would never settle for steve fucking harrington? HEATHER would never settle for robin!!!!!! billy and max's relationship is COMPLICATED and the duffers did not get to/try to examine and show that in their limited screentime. so all the idiots that are obsessed with saying max hated billy/was happy he died, read the fucking room!!!!

11. number of fandom related words you have blocked?

lol

usually i don't blacklist things cos usually i'm chill but my dash had so much of them and i found myself like. getting actively annoyed everytime they were on my screen. so i started with blocking steve and was like wow. it's so nice here now that he's gone. lets see if i can make it even better.

unfortunate side effect of this is that i barely see any billy content now cos he's unfortunately linked hand in hand with the others. i miss him so much. it's okay tho cos i can cry into ur inbox about him and send my friend 25 minute audios about him and i made another billy sideblog thats locked that i can post headcanons and fic-ish things on so!!! it's fun still!!!! i may post on this blog like once in a blue moon but he's literally on my mind 24 hours a day. has been for almost five years now.

18. it's absolutely criminal that this fandom has been sleeping on...

six feet under crew. billy, heather, chrissy, and eddie all died. max i'm pretty sure technically died so she's an honourary member. yeah i know others died too but anyway. ANYWAY i think they deserve to have fun and start shit together yknow!!!! i think they'd all fuck each others lives up but also be there to help pick up the pieces!!!! stopping myself here becos otherwise i will not shut up. wait also just max, chrissy, and heather...... el too if we're feeling giving. i just think they'd have fun together!!!!!

WAIT ALSO tommy and carol. BRING 'EM BACK. the trio of billy, eddie, and tommy? but also ALSO the nightmare that would be max, heather, chrissy, and carol.

the idea of billy and max living at the trailer park and neil and susan fucking off? maybe susan stays? idk but just the idea of everyone coming to chill at their trailer or going between theirs and eddies, even though their trailers can absolutely not fit that many people??? friday nights getting fucked up and faded. making terrible life decisions. making permanent life decisions. no i need to shut up now....... fuck.... spending the hours between 11pm and 2am trying to nail down a tattoo design before struggling through work for the weekend, complaining about their bosses, making fucking disasters in the kitchen, carol and tommy surprisingly being the only decent cooks, max having a knack for baking. trying to plan concert trips, talking about how differnt their lives would be if they had went to go to college instead. bingewatching terrrible television. semi decent box-dye jobs. terrible at-home haircut jobs. high school spitting them out and them trying to find their feet in the real world, them all getting full time jobs and trying to like. fucking survive. find a reason to get through the fucking weeks. SHUTTING UP NOW i swear.

19. you're mad/ashamed/horrified you actually kind of like...

idk if i would say i'm ashamed or horrified or anything?? but idk i like dark fic/dead dove fic so like. that one w billy and the demodog? a fav. also i fucking love age gap so i would easily read billy/karen if it was out there. it is not. i've checked. wait forgot max/billy is usually frowned upon. read that easily too.

21. part of canon you think is overhyped?

i dont know a single person hyping up stranger things or it's plot lines/story arc's? fruity four i guess cos after season four that amount of ppl that made that a Thing? crazy.

25. common fandom complaint that you're sick of hearing?

'how does billy have fans he literally deserved to die becos [usual list of reasons here]' banging my head against a wall. move on with ur life. everyone else has.

'[insert harringrove hate here]' when ppl post rancid takes on them and then i have to defend it even when i don't care for it like. please. did u not see the shower scene? the basketball scene? the fight scene??? open ur eyes. i may be a hater but i'm not stupid. they fucked for real i'll admit that. the worse the take is the more i'm like damn maybe i do ship them maybe they ARE gay as shit for each other and married right now.

[shadow-dracat]

hmmmm

I clicked the none/multiple one, because...

I have a kind of complicated relationship with gender. I've went with my agab without thinking about it most of my life, and I can't say I feel strongly opposed to it. I know your gender identity doesn't have to be connected to any gender dysphoria (and 100% no judging from me, everyone's valid), but I apply harsher judgment to myself and feel like body image wise and identity wise I'm pretty cis...

BUT also after all the stuff I've learned about gender... gender is a scam. AND then I also really like getting they/themed (and after my last birthday he/him and others are cool too). AND I recently got a short haircut, and when I notice that sometimes in the mirror I look like a guy... I like it. And... cis people don't think about trying to present as another gender online... or trying out a binder (I don't have physical dysphoria, but still)... and... they don't question their gender for months, do they? do they???

so yeah, I guess that's why I'd usually choose non-binary/genderfluid/genderqueer/prefer not to say gender options

but wait, we were talking about names, so how's that relevant?

well, aside from the fact I wanted to ramble, idk if I can say I have chosen names, because I don't really use them. So yeah, idk if I qualify for the poll exactly, but here are my names:

1) Alya. Nickname from the full birth name I won't disclose because privacy. Use it irl, don't really use online.

2) shadow. It's my current username for all websites and social medias (shadow_dracat fully, you can see it here on tumblr too). Because I've made a bunch of friends online, a lot of people call me by "shadow" now, so it pretty much became a name. As for origin - originally chose it because I like the aesthetic of shadows and color black and all that stuff. I guess void from Hollow Knight put a grain of inspiration there too.

3) Vincent (/Vince). One day I thought: hey, I basically have a feminine name and a non-binary name. I should choose a masculine one too! Idk why Vincent, but I just had it come up to me randomly, and I really liked it (lying in bed thinking "oh, I can be Vincent!" brought me joy that day). I... haven't really told anyone at this point tho (beacuse I have anxiety about not being accepted :p), but I've used it for some small things, like naming my laptop and creating a side steam account. Even came up with a username derived from it - Tvinc (twink + Vincent. I am cringe, I know). You can even pronounce that as "tvints" and rhyme with "prince" if need be

4) Not one of my names really, but I've considered Aleph. Basically a masculine/neutral name similar to my birth name. I do like it, but I'm pretty sure it's Jewish, and I am not Jewish, so idk how insensitive it would be to use it, and idk where to even ask properly (not like there's a Jewish names use council, is there). So yeah, I like that it can be represented/associated with just a single letter, and it can combine nicely with Vincent, making AlephVince, a nice username. Also an upside-down "A" can stand for both Aleph and Vincent, which is cool.

so yeah, judging by all that, first two options fit

Would love to hear more details in tags <3

[nevertheless-moving]

Pop Star Wars AU: Waking

Drabble set in this au which I wrote way back a few weeks ago.

Back then, I had only recently decided to look up my tumblr password for a third attempt at being an appreciative fandom community member instead of just trying to think really hard at internet strangers, and maybe shout into the void a little. (But there’s like, several people here now??? How did you even find me on the internet? )

Anyway I have since learned how to spell Anakin’s name and insert links. Also that if you resize your window while typing directly into tumblr everything disappears.

Self Indulgent Crack Pop Star Wars Time Travel Fixit (star wars au no 3):

After several years of exile in the Jundland Wastes, Ben Kenobi had not quite finished mentally unpacking the decades of mistakes, grief, and failure that had led him to the desert. It was the work of a lifetime, and some days were harder than others. But after several forays in and out of alcoholism, spice addiction, and every other form of geographically-accessible self-destruction, he could at least say that some days were easier. 

The process was no doubt made more difficult by the abject solitude. Unlike the chaotic years that constituted the fall of the Republic, he had all too much time to think, and no one around to share his thoughts with. He closed his eyes in the dark of his hut, thoughts drifting between past and future. 

The past was as ugly and lovely as ever. The larger future didn’t look much better, but he could find some joy in the thought of tomorrow and fresh bantha milk when the herd roamed near. Owen was always much less begrudging of his presence when he came with an offering, and Beru would likely invite him to stay for noon meal where he would share in fresh cheese as Luke rambled about his plans to fix-up a junked speeder bike.

The thought of Luke’s happiness at the treat allowed him enough peace of mind to meditate more deeply.

He carefully broke off a piece of unfair-bitterness from his larger loving-grief. The bitterness he released into the force. The grief he turned over and soothed until its edges dissolved. He accepted it, now smoother if not smaller, laying it to rest alongside his hard-earned wisdom and unfinished poetry.

Tired, but fractionally lighter, Ben Kenobi drifted to sleep.

He opened his eyes to the first rays of daylight peeking in his temple chambers.

The room was intimately familiar. For a few years they were Ashoka’s, on the rare occasion she found herself temple-side and in want of privacy but not complete solitude. For a solid decade before her, the chambers were Anakin’s, though he was quick enough to accept the common room couch when Ashoka entered their life. And before that...they were his. That was his model rocket on the shelf, and his astronomical mobile hanging from the ceiling, and his robes scattered on the floor, though they hadn’t been arranged as such in this room since his apprenticeship with Qui-Gon. He sat up. 

Glad he had put energy into meditation last night, he used the lingering clarity of mind to try and work through possible explanations. 

Vivid Dream? No a quick pinch to his inner elbow debunked that, as well as the fact that the morning taste in his mouth was more the minty tang of denti-cleaner, rather than the saltiness of dried meat which he had grown accustomed to.

Hallucinogenic mushroom flashback? Possible, though it still wouldn’t explain the detail of physical sensations he felt, running his hand from the temple-spun linens on his bed to the warm-carved wood of his bedside table. He stood and did a perfect forward flip in place. Shockingly his knees didn’t ache at impact, but a drug induced hallucination of this intensity would have some sort of impact on his equilibrium, and he felt perfectly balanced, at least physically.

Force vision seemed most likely. Sinking into cross-legged meditation, he gradually lowered his mental shields. There was no whisper of Vader or Palpatine anywhere near Hutt space at this time, so the risk of reaching out was both manageable and necessary. Rather than the pure energy he personally associated with intense visions, he felt gradients of light, echoing ripples of emotions, and the unique solidity of force-imbued stone walls.

Heart beginning to race as reality set in, Ben concluded that he was, indeed, in the Jedi temple on Courascant. Even if he had suffered a complete psychotic break, his force sense couldn’t lie with such crystal clear detail. Confused unreality mixed with images of the past and future, sure. But this was the temple. It just was. 

He couldn’t make sense of it. Even if he had somehow been found, drugged, and transported to the heart of the empire, the rooms as he sensed them didn’t exist anymore. The contents were lost or burnt, the stone walls destroyed and rebuilt into a wing of the Imperial Palace.

Obi-Wan sank deeper into the force and reached out further, searching for he answers. In general, the force felt light, the shroud of the darkside was a hazy irritation in the distance, not a smothering blanket. The manifold wounds in the force formed by senseless war and destruction were absent. Also gone were the tang of grief and loss that he had begun to associate with the temple’s signature even before- even before the purge.

The temple was also full to the brim with tens of thousands of lights in the living force. He reached out to them incredulously, nudging many just to feel a living, sentient response. The last time he remembered feeling so many Jedi all in the temple at the same time was...well, when he still lived in this room. The nearest living force sensitive presence was achingly familiar, though notably and unquestioningly living. He could feel the presence moving nearer and retreated, pulling himself fully back into his body.

The only explanation that fit was that he had suddenly, miraculously, inexplicably traveled back in time. 

He half ran to his closet, opening the door with a yank to reveal a full length mirror. A once-familiar, 25-year old padawan stared back with visible shock. Of course his knees didn’t hurt, this body hadn’t yet been broken and abused by knighthood, war, and Tatooine. His hands examined the smooth chin, the unwrinkled forehead, and even the terrible, terrible haircut.

Obi-wan startled at a knock at his door, freezing in place. 

“Padawan?” Came Qui-Gon Jinn’s voice softly, “I don’t intend to pull you out of meditation prematurely, but is there a particular reason you were sprawling over the temple this morning? You startled me somewhat. To be perfectly honest, I think you might have alarmed a few people around the temple, I’ve already received messages from council telling me to reign in my padawan before he hurts himself.” 

Qui-Gon sounded more amused than reprimanding, and he paused, clearly waiting for an answer. 

Obi-Wan’s jaw locked up. What could he say? How could he even to begin to explain what had happened? He sank to floor, head pressed to the ground and tears silent streaming down his face. All he could do was offer to the force were words, the feelings could come later Thank you. Thank youThankyouthankyouTHANKYOU. 

For whatever reason, the force had granted him a second chance. Regardless if it was intended as punishment, gift, or inexplicable chance, he would build a better future than the one he left behind. 

“Padawan?” Qui-Gon knocked again, sounding concerned, “Are you alright? If you don’t answer I’m going to have to come in there.”

And all at once he had flipped back to not enough time to think and too many people needing his attention.

Obi-Wan managed to open his mouth to call out some meaningless assurance, intent on gaining more time to process the fantastical situation. Much to his surprise, what came out was a strangled, keening sob. Qui-Gon burst through the door. 

Obi-Wan realized, with a little embarrassment, that he was curled up practically into a ball on the floor, tears streaming in a shocking waste of water. It was probably not the most dignified, nor the most reassuring position for Qui-Gon to walk in on. 

Qui-Gon rushed to his side, pulling him up by the shoulders to frantically look him over. “What happened?” he demanded, “Are you hurt? Did something go wrong while you were meditating and you were trying to reach out for help?”

Obi-Wan smiled at the barrage of questions. He had almost forgotten that on the rare occasions when Qui-Gon’s perfect Jedi serenity broke, he became somewhat counterproductively intense. 

“I’m alright, Master,” he tried to say, but what came out was more of a croaking, “MNNrlerR.” 

This predictably, only increased Qui-Gon’s concern.

To Obi-Wan’s deep consternation, he was dragged by Qui-Gon to the healer’s wing. He remained quiet during the examination, not wanting to risk whatever was compromising his ability to speak. It could be readjusting to his younger body, or a manifestation of the admittedly great emotional shock he was still experiancing. Or simple lack of practice- it had been several weeks since he had last heard the sound of his own voice, from a certain point of view.

After finding no physical cause for concern, Master Vyr asked Qui-Gon to wait outside.

“Padawan Kenobi?” The Tortugan healer asked gently. “Your Master seems quite insistent that something is wrong. Would you like to discuss what the problem seems to be?”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and was relieved when his voice came out smooth and under his control, “I’m alight, Master. I apologize for disruption. I experienced a... particularly strong vision when I woke up this morning, and temporarily lost control over myself. I’m already feeling more stable. I believe I simply need to meditate on what I’ve seen. My master unfortunately came in while I was dealing with some of the emotional aftermath.

“I see,” Vyr responded. “Did you experience this vision before or after your expansive foray into the force? I understand a surprising swath of the temple felt your presence press against them this morning.”

“I reached out after,” Obi-Wan admitted. “My vision was...particularly dark. I felt the need to ground myself with the presence of other Jedi. I’ll make certain to apologize to anyone I may have startled.”

Eventually he was cleared with the strict instruction to stick with shallow meditation for the next few days as well as a strong recommendation to seek out Master Yoda, Sifo-Dryfas, or one of the other Master known to experience visions. 

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan walked back to their quarters together in a peaceful quiet. It wasn’t until the door clicked behind them that Qui-Gon rounded on his padawan.

“What vision could possibly have left you in such distress?”

Obi-Wan walked to the kitchenette to make tea, stalling before answering. “You have always told me to stay focused on the present, Master”

Qui-Gon frowned. “Yes, however this...vision seems to have altered you somehow. You are grieved by it.”

“Yes. But what I grieve may never come to pass.” 

It won’t come to pass. I might not know his every tool, but I do know Sideous’s biggest secret, and I WILL stop him.

“Will you not tell me what you saw?” Qui-Gon asked, sounding somewhat hurt.

Obi-Wan poured the hot water carefully, feeling torn. If he told Qui-Gon everything... would he believe him? Perhaps, eventually but...what would become of Anakin, still just a boy? And the moment he knew of Palpatine’s evil...he knew Qui-Gon. He would favor the direct approach, underestimating the sheer breadth of the trap the sith had laid (Obi-Wan himself lived through it and only began to understand long after it had closed).

“I saw...a great shadow fall over the republic.”

He sat at the table, relishing in the simple pleasure of pouring a cup for Qui-Gon and himself from a shared pot.

Qui-Gon cradled his mug in his hands. “I see. Nothing specific?”

“Your death. At the hands of a tool of darkness. You ran ahead...” Obi-Wan took a scorching sip to stop himself. “It was foolish. Unnecessary. And I was forced to fight alone without you.

Qui-Gon set the tea down to stroke his beard in thought. “Well. I have no great desire to die. While I make no promises, I will endeavor to avoid leaving you behind ‘unnecessarily.’”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan replied, over sincere. 

They drank in peaceful silence. It was interrupted by a shrill noise from Qui-Gon’s comm.

“I’ve just received a personal request from the Chancellor to immediately assist in negotiations with a Trade Federation blockade around Naboo. Are you feeling up to it?”

“You know, I think I am”

[aching-tummies]

FAQs and Info

Updated Sept 5, 2024

**blog owner juggling 2 jobs and academics for the foreseeable future and will pop in even less than usual for the next little while. Everything is still up and askbox will remain open unless things get out of hand. See you on the other side?**

1) I was 20+ when this blog was created. That being said, I'm also aro/ace so this blog will not dabble in anything too explicit. Pronouns aren't a huge trigger for me, in order of most-commonly used to least: she/her, they/them, he/him (not devaluing other pronouns, just have never had them used on me before). Though I inhabit a biologically female body, I've been treated like everything from a girly-girl, a tomboy, and even been referred to as "like a/my boyfriend" or something along those lines by people that tried to force a relationship dynamic that wasn't there. I have experience performing these gender-roles even with my biologically female body (clothes, stance, haircut--these things heavily impact how people see me and how I feel about myself in regards to what role I'm adopting for that particular moment in time). Pronouns and gender are not a huge trigger for me. When I write, there are some scenarios where I write from a female perspective, some from a male, and some that are totally ambivalent even to me--so feel free to have fun with what's on here. Nicknames for the blog owner that I'm toying with: Aitee, Eitee, AT, 80, etc. 

2) Asks (the "Inspire Me" tab on this blog) is currently the only way to chat with me. I currently only engage with "RP" in the form of scenarios and responses received via the Ask feature. "RP-Asks" (a scenario/prompt), "RP-Lite" (a line prompt), and general questions are welcome. Bear in mind that tumblr eats asks, I take a long time to respond with prose writing, and I screen asks heavily to make sure nothing I'm uncomfortable with gets posted to the blog. Rude-sounding asks or ones that delve too deeply into topics that don't fit into this blog won't be answered publicly. Feel free to respond to any of the scenarios--not necessarily just the latest one (ideally, give me enough to go on to know which post it is so that I can link it on the response). The same applies to general questions (within the scope of a tummy blog) and the kink-rating thing as well. As long as there's enough to let me know what the ask is about, I can work with it.  

3) Drama/Politics-free space. I have opinions on current events and social politics and such--but it's stuff I choose to engage with on other platforms. This is strictly a tummy blog and will remain such until I choose to add more things. Anyone that assumes my political leanings or tries to insist that I support one thing or another is engaging in a willful misunderstanding and that's their problem--I refuse to make it mine. A reblog on here means "I like this one specific thing", not "I'm bosom-buddies with this specific blog and anyone that has a problem with 'em can fight me"--nope. I reblog the one thing means I liked that one thing enough to archive it on my blog so that I might revisit it over and over again. This blog was created as an outlet/archive for my own enjoyment. If other people enjoy what I write, that's bonus, but the only person I'm here to specifically please is myself. 

4) I DO NOT create photos, audio, or video--publicly or privately. What you see on here is  all that I offer. I will not be pressured into creating content that I am not comfortable with. The Ask feature is called 'Inspire Me' for a reason--I want to be inspired to write for the blog, not pressured or nagged into catering to specific interests. 

*This pinned post will be continuously updated as I see fit (with a date-stamp at the top when it is). 

[dawnshadow]

Feeling emotional, here to vent. Being Ace is hard, here’s my journey.

My best friend who I trust the most right now keeps having discussions with me about the social construct of gender, which is fine. I don’t mind an open-minded discussion/debate. She is very republican, so we have decent discussions and usually agree to disagree.

But when she jumps into sexual orientation discussion, then it’s personal to me and I jumble my thoughts in trying to defend who I feel I am and I never get my point across. I end the convo frustrated and sad. So I’m planning some answers here.

She keeps asking, why do they keep adding acronyms?

Because Karen, (which was is literally her name), it feels good to be part of a community. To know that your experiences and feelings are valid. To know there are others like you, to feel like you belong somewhere. So that when you are doubting who you are, because society screams it’s not “normal” you can go on tumblr or tiktok or Google and find thousands of people who experience the lack of sexual attraction like you do and you remember you aren’t alone.

She tells me that asexually doesn’t count because I wasn’t born this way. She thinks if I didn’t have trauma and didn’t have hormone imbalances that maybe I would feel attraction to people. That it wasn’t something I was born with. Idk maybe she’s right, but why does that need to deter from what I am experiencing right now? Plus my traumas happened after age 10. I knew there was something different about me when I was 8. She says kids that young dont understand and don’t know what sexual and/or romantic attraction is. I try to explain that I didn’t mentally understand the concept of having crushes. My friends at 8 obsessed over Derek Jeter and a boy in our class, Ryan. they thought they were so handsome and so cute and said they wanted to kiss them. I didn’t understand what that meant. Why was Derek Jeter cute? He has muscles, he is tanned, he is successful, that’s as much as I got out of them when I asked for an explanation. And why was Ryan cute? He had freckles, they said. He was sweet, he had a cool haircut, he was popular, and they wanted to kiss him so I said I did too.

Then we discussed boy bands, still at age 8-9. NSYNC & Backstreet Boys. Each one of us in my friend group of 4 had to choose who we had a crush on. One girl liked the one with the blonde hair, because blonde hair is cuter. One chose the craziest acting one in each group because she liked their personalities and spunk. Another chose the lead singer because of their face and ripped body, because she wanted to hug and kiss a strong guy. I chose whoever was left, for the simple reason being that they hadn’t been chosen yet. I copied what they did. Drawing hearts on their notebooks with names in it. Talked about what it would be like to hang out with them alone. Wondered how solid their muscles were. But I didn’t get it. I nodded along and agreed with everything they said because it seemed right. But it didn’t feel right. I didn’t want to kiss them or anyone.

After puberty started and I had gone thru trauma that fucked my ability to have normal attachments, I clung hard to female friends and role models. I started to explore a little and Google and think that I must be a lesbian. But sure thinking about sex was fun and felt good, but I never wanted to touch a woman, I never had that moment of “ oh yes I want to kiss her or hump her” no, I just wanted to experience the physical sensations I saw them have, all on my own. I thought because I felt good watching and reading about lesbians I must be one. So I tried to fantasize about my peers and other women. But it just didn’t make sense to me. And that made me more confused. I felt like a “bad” lesbian because I didn’t feel attracted to them either. I decided pansexual was a label that maybe fit me. Maybe I could eventually find someone I wanted to have sex with, maybe they would be trans. I kept that label a secret but still couldn’t shake that it wasn’t the right one for me.

Sometime in college, I learned what asexuality is. Probably from here on tumblr. And it all made sense. I joined Ace groups, watched tons of interviews, read everything I could. And something clicked. I realized this was me to a T.

That’s my rant for now. Thanks tumblr for still being a safe place to vent when I need to.

[luminescentauthor]

random fun RatLD hcs

you came here for RatLD shitposts and that’s what you’re gonna get!

SPOILERS AND LOTS OF THEM BELOW THE CUT, IF U HAVEN’T SEEN IT YET PROCEED AT UR OWN RISK.

I refuse to post about this movie without acknowledging the cultural significance of the first SEA disney princess and I will continue to do so until people on this website start remembering that this movie is about amazing cultures and trust and overall a WHOLE lot more than just the sapphics (as great as they are.)

anyway, so, headcanon time, my dudes!

The Next Adventure

Talon is a total mess after everyone gets un-stoned. (Ok so just for posterity, my marvel fan brain just went “un-snapped” on instinct and I hate it here.) The two chiefs are fighting for control, and Noi, being a baby, is not really in a position to help (unlike Raya, Naamari, and Tong.)

As such, the crew has to go undercover in Talon to try and, you know, stop the chiefs from destroying their people with their infighting. Tong insists on coming. Naamari happened to be in Heart and gets dragged along by Sisu and Raya, complaining the whole time, but everyone knows she doesn’t mean it. Boun also shows up and exactly no one is surprised.

During this misadventure, Noi’s mother names Tong as Noi’s godfather/honorary uncle/whatever, undercover Naamari and Raya go “noooooo, we’re not the princesses of Fang and Heart, what on earth are you talking about???” on at least five separate occasions, and the crew discovers that Noi inherited her sticky fingers from her very clever mother. She’s basically a grade-A spy and thief but she’s also just like, genuinely a very nice woman.

Rayaari!

Raya and Naamari take a long time literally just figuring things out and reconstructing their friendship, because really, as much as I love sapphics, there’s also a whole lot of messy there, and because these are my headcanons, they work out their problems and have a healthy friendship for a couple years before any romance happens, because that’s how Real Life works and I don’t believe in ignoring those Pretty Important Things in fiction.

They do eventually start a relationship, but they take their time. A bit into it, Benja accidentally mentions that Raya told him she liked Naamari when they met. Naamari’s like “ha you did?” and Raya goes “BA NO.” Then Virana immediately says “oh yes, Naamari also liked her, she didn’t stop crying because she thought Raya turned to stone for like three days” and Raya goes “you did, hmm???” while Naamari turns bright red.

Before they start dating, as their feelings grow, they start calling each other “dep la” more and more and everyone is just kinda of like “oh my GOD just date already???”

Eventually Raya and Naamari get married and become the leaders of Kumandra. No I Won’t Change My Mind.

Unification of Kumandra

The unification of Kumandra felt a bit shoehorned, and I suspect the nations aren't united under one leader(s): it's more that they're now becoming close-knit again. Perhaps they have a meeting council of all their leaders that makes decisions that affect the whole land, otherwise that probably becomes a thing at some point.

When Kumandra eventually becomes totally unified, the capital of Heart (which I believe is on the island we see on the map of Kumandra) eventually becomes the capital. It still has five provinces/states, though.

Fang and Heart

Heart and Fang help each other out a lot with recovering from the “most of our people got turned into the statues” stuff. Heart has more resources, but most of its people have been stone for 6 years. So the two states/countries are both capable of different things.

Of all the kingdoms, Heart and Fang have the most to rebuild: Fang’s only standing city was destroyed in the finale of the movie, while Heart has been growing over for six years. Sure, Spine’s been stone for a while, and some of Talon’s docks and water ships and whatnot collapsed when the water vanished, but it’s still significantly easier to repair than “six years of overgrowth and rot and rust” or “literally the ground collapsed underneath us and wow um I don’t think that’s reparable.” So they really team up to fix it, and the others help them a lot.

The actual leaders stay in their capitals to lead until things have calmed down a WHOLE lot, so Raya and Naamari travel around Kumandra on their parents’ behalf a lot, and wind up going between Fang and Heart a lot to establish diplomatic relations and also to help with rebuilding.

Over this period, and while doing diplomatic meetings later on, Virana and Benja come to realize that the other person is actual quite decent. There’s some mess and distrust because of Virana’s thing with the Dragon Gem, but it eventually gets worked out. (Virana’s reaction is “yes that’s fair. In my defense, I was trying to do what I thought was right for my people, who were starving, but Yes, That’s Fair.” Benja’s reaction is “honestly if your people were starving from famine and you thought the Gem would help, that makes more sense.”) After a while, they become pretty good friends.

And suddenly Raya and Naamari regret everything. See, Naamari mentioned that both parents make terrible jokes. The girls are Suffering. Help them.

Sisu loves the bad jokes. Sisu also makes bad jokes. Raya and Naamari are silently dying.

It’s silly, but I like the idea that 3-4 years down the line, Virana and Benja consider getting married just for political reasons (alliance and all that) (they’re not actually interested in each other, it’s just practicality) and Naamari and Raya, who are not dating but are definitely in deep for each other at this point, are immediately like “NO. NO. DO NOT MAKE MY CRUSH MY STEPSISTER. DO NOT.”

Virana and Benja (mostly Benja) tease them by “considering” it for a bit longer, but they don’t, since they talked about it and both kids are uncomfortable with it. (”They like each other, don’t they?” Virana asks dryly. “Ohhh yeah,” Benja replies.)

Music? Music!

I was listening to a youtube mix this morning and “Too Far Gone” by Hidden Citizens popped up and it just reminded me of Raya’s attitude towards Kumandra at the start of the movie. Also it’s just a beautiful song.

“Knife in my Back” by Alec Benjamin is Raya @ Naamari before they figured things out, change my mind.

Other Stuff!

We can guess based off how long it took the crew to get from Tail to Fang even with side adventures (I think it was 3-4 days max, I wasn't totally paying attention) that one can navigate from one end of the river to the other within a couple days even in a boat like Boun's, and the royal families probably have even faster modes of transportation. (I.e. Naamari got from Tail to Fang in a couple days, then to Spine, then beat the crew back to Fang. On land.) Therefore, unlike I was originally thinking, it's actually totally realistic for the crew to be visiting each other once or twice a month.

It's even more realistic for Naamari to crash Raya's place on a weekly basis, since that's probably like six hours on cat at max.

I don't know what the cats are, so I will be calling them saber-cats until someone corrects me.

TUMBLR JUST MYSTERIOUSLY STOPPED ACCPTING MY "E" KY HLP I HAV TO US COPY PAST

Wait I think I fixed it. Crisis averted! Sorry about that.

Because Naamari is in Heart half the time, Virana visits quite frequently too. It’s not a long trip, anyway.

Virana is not straight (haircut) but I can’t decide if she’s a lesbian or what. She doesn’t have a spouse and never did. Only those Virana closely trusts know who Naamari’s dad is. Naamari does know and she’s met him, because Virana figured she had a right to. He and Virana never had a relationship, Virana just sort of needed an heir and a trusted personal friend offered to father the kid.

Tong’s wife is a total badass and instantly fits in with the crew. She and Noi’s mother quickly become very close friends.

Noi and Tong’s kid also immediately get along. As in, they constantly throw things at each other while giggling madly and both love the Ongis, and -- are they whispering to each other in that corner?? They might be conspiring to take over the world. Who knows.

Noi learns how to talk and becomes about 5 times more chaotic. Everyone is Regret (except Tong.)

[ivyveil]

Mary Me

the one where he proposes aka the 1940s installment of The Soulmates Verse, Sign of the Times

A/N: Bringing this back from AO3, hope you guys enjoy! I wanted to create a series of ‘soulmate’ Harry/Y/N where they try to make it work each decade, and fate hasn’t seemed to get the memo. Here’s my Tumblr masterlist, and my AO3 hub! Thank you for reading, hope everyone is staying safe.

The room was swathed in a deep maroon. Curtains draped against the windows, curves forming around the sills and down the gold columns on either side.

It was a nice restaurant, with expensive-looking candles and fresh-cut flowers on each table. The bar wasn’t fully stocked enough for the crowds milling about, having yet to find its balance of supply since Prohibition ended a few months ago. It was a rough adjustment for everyone, with the prices taking a jolt and the people having to remember what a drink tasted like without poison.

While the idea of a fancy restaurant would allude towards privacy, this dinner was anything but. Granted, it was a personal room but the numerous crowds of friends and family around the table led the mood towards something more lively than dim lights and slow jazz. Tables were pushed against the walls, only a handful actually sitting down, and the band had taken its land near one of the corners, setting up an orchestra to dance for.

It was a gathering, a party.

Nerves were knotted against the floor of your stomach, and despite having a glass of champagne in one hand and hooch in the other, nothing was easing the clench. Perhaps it was residue from hardships that had only ended a few years ago, or it could be the more instinctive nerves - holding alcohol without needing to look over one’s shoulder was still new for everyone. Even now, you saw Nick stealing a glance at the waitstaff, as if sussing out which was the cop.

“‘lright, love?” Harry spoke low, his hand briefly resting against your back as he came around from behind. It wasn’t far into the party, enough time having passed for his entrance to be marked by everyone already feeling tipsy, but not raising an eyebrow at his late arrival.

His suit was understated, a black with minimal design. His mother would tailor all of his suits, resulting in most of them being the absolute extravagant pieces for all the parties he threw - the magnificent ones where the moon grew twice to try and be an inch closer, where the ocean glittered around his villa and you could strain to taste the rose-colored smoke in the air. They were alive with people and spirits and spirited people, and the types who would disappear in the morning and you’d question their existence, but never their stories.

His suit was fine, but his hair was a proper mess. Harry had insisted to you a few days ago, a dopey smile on his face as he leaned against your shoulder, that it was a rebel of the highest degree.  You knew the words were bullshit, but the way he spoke sounded like a home you’d never known, so you listened.

“You need a haircut.” The words came out before you could properly hold them back, the liquor having moistened your throat and disconnected your mind from your choices.

Harry broke into a smile, this time shaking his head slightly so the curls danced, delighted, in the dim glow.

“You like it?” he asked, and you made a sour face in response. He took one of the drinks from your hands, making the low noise in the back of his throat to signal disapproval. Where Harry managed to gather his rebellious streak of societal indignity, but still manage to believe that women should be held up on pedestals and protected, eluded you.

But you were still dizzy with him. Drunk in the way he said your name, caught up in his eyelashes, a fatal swoop in your chest that felt like laying in bed after a long day’s work. You were simply infatuated, but insistent on the fact that the feelings drifted no farther. Infatuation could be controlled, but love.

Love would be an entire beast that you couldn’t battle. It would include leaving him, leaving him because Mary was cemented down in his roots. Not that you’d agree with it, but she was, and it was a reality you lived with.

They’d been sweet on each other for the first couple months. You hadn’t kept up on the details too much. But time had worn their feelings thin, wafering holes poking through in the way they loved. Which was a wrong, horrendous source of comfort to you - but it terrified you, as well. Harry was the embodiment of love, with how he danced and moved and swayed into the moonlight, and yet there was something off in the way he loved Mary. It felt like a commitment for the sake of, rather than motivated each day, and the failures of love haunted you.

“Where’s Mary?”

Harry shrugged, taking a swig of the drink and looking against the crowd. The two of you were propped against the wall, as if only existing in the plane of the party by the physical constraints. If you had your way, your souls would fall through the wallpaper and into something more exquisite.

Harry had a way of making the dullest parties exciting, and you wondered what he had up his sleeve. But his face showed no signs of telling, a crease along his forehead denting in his sudden gloom and moodiness.

“Dunno. Was gonna find her, thought she’d be with yeh.”

That was his mistake, his constant mistake, of seeking his love around you. It was there but not where he expected - it was manifestation he sought, the woman he called ‘darling’ on late nights out, not the friend he called ‘love’ because it meant nothing.

Words didn’t quite fit your mood, so you merely shrugged and shifted your weight between legs. The music had picked up but your feet had been worn to the bone by running all over town the previous night, so you prayed Harry’s stance next to you would dissuade any men from approaching.

“Think I’ve got to end things with Mary, yeah?”

It was a loaded question, especially with Harry’s eyes staring into yours. It was a rush, how the lights cascaded down the side of his face and his hair was a horrible mess, an unsightly vision for anyone in town, but he was utterly angelic nonetheless. It was a weird sensation against your throat, seeing him tragic and sad, and not knowing how to respond that wouldn’t be an attempt to benefit your own tragic and sad.

“Why’d you say that?” you asked.

“It was never right, was it?” He spoke thoughtfully, scanning your face for agreement, and apparently finding some, for he continued. “It’s reached an end.”

Silence befell the two of you, yet it was heavy with the implication of further words against his tongue. They weren’t spoken yet, but you felt with one more moment-

“I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh. After it’s done.” His eyes had swept to his feet, the dirty tips of his shoes from the soil around the town.

You both were misplaced, you felt it in your soul and the way you two would wrap in each other’s auras, clasped at the hands and promising you’d escape this hellhole of a town one day. And it only was proven in how Harry’s eyebrows sloped together, a defiance in the order of things prominent in his pursed lips.

“Okay,” you drawled it out, but Harry didn’t seem to find anything humorous. With a tilted neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing and drawing your eyes in like flies to honey, he downed the rest of your champagne.

“See her over there,” he mumbled, slipping back into the throngs of the party. He was still incredibly visible, a mess of hair and clunky shoes passing through the sea towards his girl. She was sat, pretty and prim, but you could tell she felt only half. Mary had an odd sense about her, a jealousy towards you for sure, but a feeling around her sphere of influence that she wasn’t full unless Harry was there. Half-dazed without, only focused on him with, there was seemingly no win.

The pair of them slipped out into the night together, with your eyes trailing behind. Mary was oblivious as to how the conversation would go, and for that, you were conflicted.

It must have made you an awful person, how the nerves crashed against giddiness. The drinks may have kicked into effect, because before you knew it - you were swaying and dancing against the moonlight, around the tables with the rest of the folk, pained heels clipping against the floor as they did every night, dancing out the mundanity of a town life crippled with the distrust of life. It would be a conversation for the rest of the night, how Harry would retell the dramatic discussion with fire in his eyes and a sadness plunging into his heart, because he always felt guilty and you’d never understand why.

You glided out of the mass, panting with how the dance took your breath away, feeling the redness built up in your cheeks and the sweat on your brow. You passed Nick with his wide eyes and bursts of laughter, and noticed how he winked at you when you left the room. The restroom was calling.

The main hall of the restaurant was bustling with normal activity, waiters dashing around with massively weighed trays balanced against their shoulders. There was a coat rack near the entrance, huddled with pounds of jackets, hats, and scarves, and a lone Harry Styles squatted next to it.

He looked up when you passed by, the hollows of his cheeks straining purple in the grotesque lights.

You paused next to him, almost dashing around to head and pee, but his expression caught you off guard..

He looked in another world. His eyes, blue with morose, opened to look at nothing. Eyelids heavy with almost boredom, but his posture offered enough to let you know his demons were free once more.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, and once he shifted to the side, you took the cue to sit beside him, crossing your legs and ignoring your body’s protests.

His mouth open and closed, his fingers spread wide in front of him to grasp onto his senses, but they were nowhere to be found. His lips were glistening, perhaps from him licking them continuously, but a small streak against his cheek made you think otherwise.

“Was she upset?” It was all you had to offer, but it seemed like you hadn’t struck gold. He continued to mime whatever words that were escaping him, but your attention had been caught elsewhere.

In one of his hands, you had thought he was holding onto his pack of cigarettes. At second glance, however, it wasn’t. It was terrible.

The fact it wasn’t, and the fact his mouth was gaping, and the fact his eyes were glassed and that his shoulders were quivering – it all accumulated into a story you never expected.

A blue velvet box, iconic in its time, holding only one thing inside.

“Harry, is that-”

“She’s pregnant,” he managed to choke out, not glancing at the box, his voice cracking in its sudden revival, “Mary’s pregnant.”

“She’s what.”

“Couldn’t break it off, would she gonna do? Can’t go back to live with her parents, the town’s too far off-” he continued to speak, words that made sense when combined but gibberish with how he stringed them. It was a rant that had been built into his lungs and found a small stream to blow off, with only your collection of stammers breaking through the dam.

“Did you–’re you–is that–”

“Proposed. Bit rushed, didn’t get on a knee, but it did its duty. I did mine, anyhow,” he said, a desperate gloominess clutched your dress as he presented the box. His fingers fumbled against the velvet, nubbed fingertips and signs of bitten skin surrounding the nails.

Opened, the box was empty. The contents were stuck on Mary’s finger, presumably back at the party showing off the latest development in her life.

“Congratulations.” It didn’t feel as if it were you who said anything, the voice too breathless and at ease to have come out of your body, with its thundering heartbeat and screaming mind.

“Gotta get a job, gotta call up Howard ‘n see what’s not ‘n the papers. There’s gotta be something, yeah? Need a crib, now, too.” It was clear his mind was far off, into what he needed to do, in the adult-life that neither of you had never quite fit into, but was now thrust upon him.

All your mind was on, was the trip you two had been planning for the past year. Harry had promised train tickets across the country, down towards where the sun always shone and the waters were constantly warm around your ankles, even in the dead of night. Maps and notebooks had cluttered your office for months, with strings attaching your future endeavors in a maze of findings. It had started out as an escape from the Depression, the one that had seemingly ended but never quite had, the one where your throats were aching for more than speakeasies could offer.

It wasn’t going to happen. It simply couldn’t. You’d never see how he would look, dozed off across from you on your hundredth train, his backpack used as a makeshift pillow. You’d never feel the brutal mountain winds with him. You’d never be able to wander around the greatest cities of America, you’d never explore all the lives you could’ve lived, in towns you never knew existed.

The realization brought you to another moment, another question, one out of place with Harry’s rant but in tune with how your blood ran cold.

“Where’d you get the ring?”

That snapped Harry’s attention, and his bloodshot eyes managed to find you in their blur. Perhaps it was an expectation, for you to ask, but the surprise against his lips, how they parted with a slacked jaw and a sharp inhale, said otherwise.

“Wha’?”

You repeated yourself, and he staggered into a motionless statue of himself, a final shake of his shoulders until he ceased to move. Just stared at you, haunted.

I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh.

“Harry.” To your surprise, it almost sounded admonished.

His eyes were pleading for you not to speak. For speaking would bring it into existence, and he could never juggle it all. Neither of you could, it was a mortal flaw that ran deep into your flesh, and now against your heart, where it felt it would stay forever.

You felt compelled to speak anyway, motivated slightly by the intoxication and the exhaustion and the bitterness in which life was taking from you continuously, without ceasing, and this was the one chance to take something back for yourself. To give a bit of yourself back towards him, to offer a glimpse of the life that could’ve been.

“I would’ve said yes.”

It was quiet.

You thought Harry was being quiet, as well, but his hands reached up to wrack against his scalp, collecting at his hair and his head went between his knees.

He gave a nod, a gentle movement from your perspective, and a choked cry. It was stifled by the sudden uproar within the restaurant – perhaps another fight, perhaps another birthday, you didn’t care – and your arm went around his shoulder, bringing him into your chest.

You cried. Tucked away, hidden behind swaths of clothing that had belonged to the rich and now hung off the poor, surrounded by lights and glamour that suddenly became cheap and instrumental, compared to what you two had deserved. He felt warm against your skin, his forehead now pressed against your shoulder as his body pushed forward in distress. Time stretched to allow for you both to have one moment, a solace against the blazing sun of normalcy. It was one minute until Anne would burst through the party doors, searching for her son, perhaps having caught a glimpse of the truth and knowing where his heart truly was.

But for that minute, his heart was in your chest, the beats matching up, the pair united for a last breath.

The box slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor, half-open and completely empty.

It was a reality you’d have to live with.

[sokkagatekeeper]

also azula for the ask game!

first impression: who is this girlboss. you are annoying. get out of my screen

impression now: girls who do crime <3 girls who organize coups <3 girls who manipulate murder monarch <3 girls who like girls <3 a very complex character misunderstood by literally the entire fandom with a very deep emotional wound. the perfect example to what being the golden child in an abusive environment does to a person. a babey who needs a big brother hug and a nap and a dismantling of the patriarchy

favorite moment: i’m going to cheat with this one and say the entire episode of “the beach” because it tells so much about azula’s motivations & reveals her core wound, while also diving into her psychology and respective dynamics with zuko mai and ty lee which i found are the most interesting part of her character to me. perfect set-up to her downfall. i also like it when she uses her fucking hairpiece to cling onto a wall and avoid falling to her death. that was some girlbossing

idea for a story: apart from the fact that i would like to read a story of azula’s recovering and all that it entails that doesn’t demonize other characters (other than ozai bc ozai is an actual demon in fact) and treats them all with the respect they deserve, i enjoy the idea of zuko maybe taking her to visit the dragons. idk if it makes for a story but it is something i would like to write at some point.*

unpopular opinion: sigh i’m just gonna drop all of them in one go. azula is not a feminist icon and she perpetuates the fire nation’s patriarchal values with every step she takes. she did not abuse zuko but maintained an unbalanced power dynamic with mai and ty lee. she did things to hurt people on purpose and demonizing and/or dismissing the narrative importance of other characters (cough zuko cough aang cough mai cough ty lee cou-) to uplift azula does an extreme disservice to her character. saying azula “deserved” a redemption is massively missing the point of her character. what azula deserved, like a character of her caliber, was a solid arc, and she got it. azula as a fourteen-year-old deserves a recovery process that doesn’t involve straightjackets, stable relationships with her non-abusive family, and maybe a haircut.

favorite relationship: canonically speaking, while i find the back-and-forth manipulation situation between her and ty lee very interesting & worth analyzing, the dynamic azula has with zuko is very personal to me and i maintain to this day that azula loves zuko with her entire heart and at one point in her life zuko was the only person who truly loved azula as she was. siblingerie <333

favorite headcanon: azula cutting her hair during her years in recovery is a very dear headcanon of mine because i think it fits the symbolism of her relationship with her hair and her self-sabotaging perfectionism being always connected somehow. letting go of a weight you don’t need anymore, and all the healing it brings you and all that.

ask game here.

*SWLF PROMO!!! for a taste of my own take on azula-centric stuff you can check this thingy i wrote on ao3 or tumblr bc the posting of this piece was a poorly calculated move on my part. it’s pretty short and i wrote it on discord but it’s made with love <3

[snarwor]

moon and old stars - chapter 1

I blame @badwolfbadwolf for every single word of this. Din Djarin/Boba Fett Daddy Kink with a side of Emotional Hurt/Comfort? I’m fuckin AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA damn it I’m writing Star Wars fic again. What’s this ship name? Link to AO3 at the bottom. No warnings so far. Also: this is my first time posting a fic on Tumblr so if there’s formatting issues yolo

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

He wasn’t going to do it. He wasn’t. He was practically forty cycles old and he knew better. Here he was, without a damn starship, without the kid, bereft of enough credits to make a difference, and he was spiraling out of control due to the residual guilt and shame which had come with taking his helmet off at the refinery on Morak. He’d compromised himself, his Creed, his people.

And the damn Fett wasn’t talking to him, to top it off. That’s just great.

It wasn’t much of a Way if you kept meandering vaguely off course, listing on just this side of heresy.

Cara and Fennec had gone off in search of food on some outpost near the Outer Rim, a few days’ travel behind Gideon, and therefore Grogu. Din was left alone in Slave I with Boba Fett, and he was practically crawling out of his skin.

He’d rehearsed the bad idea so many times in his head, but somewhere between his mind and his mouth the words changed from “Wanna go shoot something?” to “I need a distraction.”

The old bounty hunter was sitting at the console near the hyperdrive, sans helmet, as he was used to. Din’s hands were shaking in their gloves, but the gloves and his armor were sturdy enough to hide it from the common man’s eye.

Boba Fett was not a common man. He was a Mandalorian, if not by Creed then by race, and he knew exactly the deadly mix of poisons which had led Din to this point better than... kriff, better than anyone else in this blasted galaxy.

His eyes, so level and sure, so calculating and sharp it felt like there wasn’t any beskar between them, regarded him and his request. Din hadn’t asked, he was past the point of asking. He was desperate to get his mind off of the vicious circle of imagining what the kid was going through. Fett stood and straightened his back.

Din wasn’t a slight man, by anyone’s definition. He was strong enough to wield and wear the armor, to make it this long as a guild bounty hunter, to survive the training and the trauma that came from just living in the wild galaxy. But Boba Fett was a clone, he was created to be the most powerful kriffing bastard this side of the stars, and he was engineered smarter, faster, and stronger. He had a hand’s length on him in height, and Din was eager to know what that would feel like, without the armor, without the boots, without—

But Fett hadn’t spoken yet, he hadn’t even given anything away that Din could overthink about. He was sweating all over the inside of his helmet, worse than when he first put one on as a teenager. He swallowed roughly, and the vocoder picked it up, a soft crackle putting his nervousness on display.

“Come with me.”

It was three words, which were more than enough of an order for Din’s head to swim, and he followed like Fett had said to. He was led to a berthing at the far edge of the ship. The matter of fact way Fett had interpreted his request for a distraction as “I’m taking you to bed” made him swoon a little on his feet. “I don’t lay with armor. You’ll have to take it off.”

“But—”

“If I wanted to lay with a droid, I’d lay with a droid. It comes off.”

Again, Din was brought to heel by three short words. And really, what was there left of himself that he could hold tight to and pretend was honorable? How much of himself had he given up in just the last few months? What part of him actually still fit, hidden behind buckles and clasps and plates and signets?

He forced himself not to think about it. His need was great. Back on Morak, he’d felt the same need take control, blurring the line in his head that was at one point, uncrossable. Now, his whole mind was blurred, and he felt the air in his helmet was hot and stifling. Piece by piece, the armor around him came off, and with it, his cares and self-respect. He was willing to debase himself for one petty distraction.

In for a credit, and all.

The chest plate acted as sort of a holding dish for the rest, keeping it nice and tidy and out of Fett’s way as he bared every part of himself. Fett watched with an unreadable expression as pale skin was uncovered, as cloth-covered elbows and socked feet revealed itself to the room. The door was shut, there was some semblance of safety here, but the recklessness with which Din stripped himself gave the old man something to worry about.

Finally, in just his soft skin-layer clothes, all that was left was the damned helmet. Din felt his lips wobbling beneath it, and set his jaw. It’s just a distraction. It’s just enough to get me by. Then I can bottle the shame and find a way to repent for my actions. This is the Way.

The light in the room was dim, like Fett had known Din’s eyes needed to adjust. The helmet sat atop the rest of the armor with a soft thud, finality in its tone. Din let out a shuddering breath, and his eyes went to the floor, his head with it. He’s worn the helmet so long that he was unused to peripheral vision when he had it.

“Look at me.” Three-word sentences were a favorite of Fett’s, so it seemed. “You are not of a Creed you can disappoint while in here. The only truth is that you are mine.”

Din’s eyes flashed up, and his jaw dropped. That strange cadence to his voice, the accent, it was unfamiliar enough to his ears that it set the stage for what came next. “Yours?” he croaked, almost flinching at the new acoustic quality his voice had.

“Mine.” Fett sat on the edge of his bed, and made no motion for Din to follow, so he remained standing. “You are unfamiliar with this kind of activity. Good. There’s nothing you can do, or have done, that will change how I treat you here. We will start small. You will follow my orders. If you are confused about something, you will ask. If something is wrong, you will say ‘beskar’ and we will stop. No one else is allowed to know about this. I will not speak of it, and neither will you. This will not follow outside of here unless we speak of it. Do you have any questions?”

Millions.

“No.”

“Kneel here.” Fett pointed with a single, gnarled finger to a point on the ground by his feet. Din made a soft noise of resistance, but a firm look reminded him that he was to follow Fett’s orders. He slowly went to his knees, and walked forward on them, closer, to Fett’s side. He thought they were going to do this on the bed. “Get comfortable.”

He spoke like he’d rather be talking in a different language, but for Din he’d keep speaking in Common. Din adjusted his kneeling stance so his back wasn’t slouched. They often meditated in the cloister and learned to stay very still despite discomfort, but Fett had told him to get comfortable, so he did, though once he’d found it, he began to fidget.

“Put your head here.” Fett patted his lap. Surely there was an easier way for him to do this…? Din wasn’t sure he’d be able to reach Fett’s cock in this position. “Your mind is jumping several steps ahead. We are not moving past this now. Relax your mind.”

“I asked for a distraction, not a guided meditation,” Din grumbled, resisting and testing the waters a little. Fett seemed quick to temper despite his glacial expressions, but in here, he took the little barb like Din hadn’t even said anything.

“You will get what you need, and nothing more unless you follow what it is I’m saying. Put your head here. I won’t repeat myself again.”

Din gently rested his head against Fett’s thigh. It was a strange sensation, to feel warmth there not brought by engine heat or the flash-burn of a sonic shower, or his own body heat trapped in the helmet. The fabric over his thigh was a rough canvas, but not too thick that it hid the warmth from the man wearing them.

“Good. That’s good.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Fett put a hand on his head, not grabbing, just resting. He took deep breaths and calmed his heart down.

He’d spent so many months taking a sharp blade to his hair, thinning it down as soon as it was long enough to curl. He didn’t like to meet his own eyes in the mirror as he worked, only looked at his face enough to do a cursory, impersonal shave and haircut, and only when absolutely necessary. He felt he owed it to the Creed that he didn’t indulge in time spent out of the helmet, in things like vanity and pride.

But now, with Fett’s hand on his head, and his head on his thigh, kneeling at his feet because he’d been told to, he wished he’d spent a bit more time making sure it was at least even. Insecurity and shame bubbled inside of him, and it made damn sure Din knew how unworthy he was of a signet, of the helmet, of the gifts given by his people. Through many years and lonely nights, even after he met the kid, he’d found himself in moments of physical pain, but never enough to make him cry like a child.

This simple act, it seemed, was enough.

It started slow, a prickling spark behind his eyes, a flash of radiant embarrassment on his cheeks. He swallowed past a lump in his throat. His vision blurred with tears, and they fell, uninhibited, from his eyes. If Fett noticed, he didn’t speak about it, and didn’t move his hand back. His thigh and his hand were the only two points in the galaxy that could tether Din back to himself, and he was holding on tightly to that sensation.

Those fingers curled into unevenly-cut hair, a gentle scritch against a sensitive scalp, and Din cried harder. Under the sounds of his gasps and silent, shuddering sobs, he heard humming. It wasn’t a song he recognized, but the tune became familiar the more Fett repeated it, in a deep register that matched his entire demeanor.

Din’s hands came to wrap around Fett’s calf, holding on hesitantly, but tighter once the song interrupted with a “Hm,” of assent. Now he had four points of tethering, and it was easier for Din to let the tears carry away his shame and injuries to his pride.

He didn’t know how long he was down there, knelt by Fett’s feet, but when he felt fine enough to look up, he was surprised to meet Fett’s eyes. He somehow knew Fett hadn’t looked away even once in the whole time Din had knelt. “You were very good for me,” Fett said, a soft quality to his voice that made Din’s breath catch. The hand on his head shifted and cupped the back of his neck, and Din’s eyes fluttered shut. How long had it been…? Never, his mind said. You’ve never felt like this.

“What was that song?” Din asked, his voice terribly hoarse and small.

“It’s an old one, so old time forgot the words but not the sound and story. It told a tale about an old star shooting across the galaxy, and when it sailed past a moon made of crystals so clear it looked like starlight, it stopped, pulled into orbit by a thing so beautiful it was helpless against the laws of the universe. My father used to sing it to me, and now I sing it to you.”

Din didn’t know what to make of that, but said, “That sounds like a nice story. Will you teach me the song?”

“I will. But not now. The others will be back soon. You may want to clean up.”

Din noticed the uncomfortable feeling of tears dried on his face, and felt the wave of self-consciousness return, though it was greatly subdued.

“There’s a shower on board.”

“Thank you.” Din kept his eyes down, gathering up his things again, his pieces.

“You’re welcome, any time you need it.”

“What if I don’t need it?” Din said, trying to cover his vulnerability with...something else.

“Then you don’t need it,” Fett said, calm as anything. He stood.

Sure enough, those five inches Fett had on him were made starkly apparent when Din stood in none of his armor. Certain men carried a metaphorical weight with them when they walked, and others carried an imagined height that let them look down on others. Boba Fett was bigger in both senses, but did not use his power to belittle or condescend at Din. He exuded a presence of comfort and safety, a peace that Din had thought inaccessible for himself for so very long.

He felt held, though they stood apart.

“I’ll just. Shower.” Din said, awkwardness filling his lungs.

As soon as he was in the small ‘fresher, he closed the hatch and wondered what in the kriff just happened.

Read on AO3.

Chapter two.

[carcinized]

Hey hey hey I don’t have Tumblr BUT I saw your post about C!Tubbo dissociation headcanons and here I am, asking for them. And possibly more C!Tubbo headcanons. Preferably angsty. Just. Any of them. Please. Thank you.

oh, a fellow starved c!tubbo enthusiast. hello there, i do have some headcannons to spare luckily, hope you enjoy!! mostly this is the dissociation ones but i have some miscellaneous ones & songs at the end for you :]

so obviously uhhh tw for dissociation/depersonalisation/derealisation in this post!!! also going to put them under the cut bc this is long lmao

oh and disclaimer: this is very much based off my own experiences with (near constant) chronic dissociation so it might be different from other experiences!! yeah.

oh ALSO this is disorganized and probably missing stuff because i am going through a bad bout of spaciness as of right now, so apologies if anything is confusing, feel free to ask for clarification!

idk background timeline stuff so it fits into the story

at first he didn’t even realize he felt disconnected from things. it started off as a coping mechanism during combat and felt so similar to the feeling of being “in the zone” he’d known before that he didn’t question it

after a bit, it spread from only being there during battle to during conflict in general. still, he didn’t mind it—it actually made arguments more bearable because they felt almost secondhand.

eventually he came to use it as a crutch so much that it became constant.

that was when he started wanting it to go away.

and then because i can’t bear to give my precious c!tubbo constant dissociation he probably gets breaks from it sometimes idk lmao

his experiences:

gaps in memory

auditory processing issues

lots of depersonalisation and not recognizing himself in the mirror (which is even more fun/terrifying if you add in shapeshifter headcannons)

a lot of the time he feels like his actions aren’t his, which helped him to feel less bad doing morally ambiguous things (spying, exiling tommy, hunting technoblade, etc)

after it all he was left with near constant dissociation almost all the time.

it nearly always feels like the world is secondhand to him and he has no control/impact (ironic considering the power he has, and he knows that, but)

often wonders if he is dreaming and just waiting to wake up from a coma he’d gotten from one of his many battles.

when things get really bad he wishes he could just wake up from it.

often doesn’t recognize his hands looking down at them, especially with the burns he has now. they’re not his hands, right? but they are. they’re his hands. huh.

uhhh examples of where it could have been shown in plot if you squint lol

for example, that famous clip of him dancing while wilbur and tommy argue in the background would be a physical representation of him zoning out (dissociating) to get out of/away from an argument.

the whole yes man thing could have either been an auditory processing issue where he replied yes to wilbur without hearing what wilbur had asked OR a gap in memory where he didn’t remember telling tommy the opposite

he pulled away for like 5 months into snowchester and talked to hardly anyone but his husband and son. dissociation is hard to interact with people during because you feel so isolated for so many reasons—sometimes you feel you’re the only real thing there, sometimes it feels there’s a glass wall between you and everything else that IS real. and even ignoring that, most people can’t relate to feeling that way, leaving you even more alone. he could have pulled away because it was too much too keep going through that (i did that don’t recommend it tubbo JSJD)

miscellaneous headcannons that i don’t see very often:

after winning a battle, his instinct is to play a disc and look out at the sunset because that’s what he and tommy always did (see his lore yesterday (june 18th)—he did it with ranboo despite tommy not being there)

i’m rather fond of my original-l’manberg-citizens-consider-haircuts-and-fixing-up-appearances-affectionate-because-wilbur-did-it headcannon so i’ll add that here—basically wilbur gave everyone military cuts and new suits and everything. and while that was just for war, it was also because he cared about all of them. ever since, they all considered fixing up someone’s appearance an act of love.

tubbo refused to let anyone cut his hair after the red festival, not trusting anyone. he would probably let ranboo do it now, only he’s rather attached to the way it hides his burns and some of his horns and keeps him warm in the freezing snow.

he builds walls like how tommy builds cobblestone towers—a reflex, a coping mechanism, a habit. he built the l’manberg walls and ever since the defense has been second nature, whether for the best or the worst.

ive been waiting forever to share these i have way too many. i pass the hours staring out the window listening to misterwives and imagining c!tubbo animatics to it and now i have a chance to share them oh my god

so without further ado,

c!tubbo animatics i have in my head:

whywhywhy by misterwives: ok this one isn’t chalked out but it has him vibes

alone by misterwives: just him and ranboo. figuring things out. helping each other heal. i legitimately have an entire animatic in my head to this lyric by lyric and could make a fucking storyboard for it if only i could draw. if anyone wants me to write out lyric by lyric what it WOULD be though feel free to send an ask aHAHHAHAHA

over the rainbow by misterwives: a montage of c!tubbo just. finally going apeshit. that would be so cathartic alright and it’s such a badass song he deserves it

it’s my turn by misterwives: pretty much any times that tubbo finally got to do something back at someone who wronged him—the butcher army going after technoblade, him yelling at quackity about borders saying “well don’t i get to put my foot down too?” the lyrics “i know you’ve got your version of the story, i’m sick of saying sorry, i’m sick of always having to explain” during his spy arc PLEASE he had to justify everything he did and the “are you happier?” comment and schlatt breathing down his neck aAAAA give my boy a break (also the instrumental uses a lemon demon-type sound which makes me think of ranboo so i love imagining a cool bee dup building the outpost montage there snhshagahffn)

find my way home by misterwives: idk the vibes just fit man

oxygen by misterwives: hhhrnggg clingy duo angst oW

i did say i spend a lot of my time listening to misterwives and daydreaming c!tubbo animatics didn’t i?

anyways yeah. here’s some c!tubbo content to help us poor starved c!tubbo enthusiasts :’D also misterwives propaganda go listen to them female led band with a fucking badass lead singer with banger songs and incredible vocals and lyrics ANYWAY

[missroserose]

Strength, the tower, and/or the sun for the tarot asks! Please and thank you! (I'm super curious to see what your tarot cards look like)

All right!  I *may* have gotten a little carried away with this project, but let’s see if Tumblr lets me do everything I want to here...

Strength:  What is your dream occupation?

Deck:  The Starman Tarot, by Davide De Angelis, inspired by his art for David Bowie

UPRIGHT: Strength, courage, persuasion, influence, compassion

REVERSED: Inner strength, self-doubt, low energy, raw emotion

You know, I’ll be honest with you—I’ve never really known how to answer this question.  Which isn’t to say that I haven’t had ideas—even as a kid, I was overflowing with things I wanted to do.  But, in the perverse way of kids who display natural aptitude for a number of fields (and a burning interest in many more), I rarely stuck with any one thing long enough to get truly good at it—I’d hit the point where my natural abilities ran out and I had to actually start working hard, and something else that seemed easier would come along and steal my attention away.  As an adult, I’ve gotten better about discipline, but these days it’s more a question of time—there are so many things I want to do, and likely most of them won’t come to fruition.  I’ve genuinely enjoyed being a massage therapist, that’s catered to a lot of my strengths, though thanks to life’s twists and turns my future in the field is somewhat in question.  I love performing (as an actor and as a musician), but I don’t love the financial instability or rampant exploitation in the field.  I love writing, but dislike how solitary a profession it is (plus the financial instability thing).  And so on and so forth.

After a lot of thought and a lot of experiences ranging from affirming to terrible, I’ve discovered that what really makes me happiest is connecting with and inspiring people—I guess I’m just a bard at heart.  If I could find some way to do that that also came with a regular salary and paid vacation days and a flexible schedule?  That’d be a hell of a thing.

The Tower:  Favorite colors to wear?

Deck:  Welcome to Night Vale Tarot Card Deck, by @bonesnail (Jay H. Holloway)

UPRIGHT: Sudden change, upheaval, chaos, revelation, awakening

REVERSED: Personal transformation, fear of change, averting disaster

Largely this depends on what color my hair is at the moment—different palettes fit with different hair colors.  But usually I stay in the red-pink-purple-blue spectrum; yellow and green tend to make me look washed out or sickly, respectively.

If I can nerd out about the card choice for a moment—the scene pictured is from relatively early in the series, when Telly the Barber (who has committed the unforgivable sin of cutting Carlos the Scientist’s perfect hair) is banished to the Sand Wastes, at one point spotted attempting to give a cactus a haircut.  Holloway says in their post about this card that this is a fairly loose association, since they see the Tower card as being about pride going before a fall.  I actually particularly like this choice, because to me, The Tower has always spoken to the concept of our mental paradigms—the logical constructs that we literally build, brick by brick, conclusion by conclusion, in order to make sense of the world.  Obviously these are helpful and necessary, but without regular examination and maintenance they can become confining, even harmful if we get trapped in them (”stuck in our ivory towers, as it were); Telly’s curse feels very much to me like someone who’s grown so trapped in seeing the world a particular way that they’ve become disconnected from reality.

The Sun:  Do you believe in magic?

Deck:  The Weird Cat Tarot, by Gabrielle Kash

UPRIGHT: Positivity, fun, warmth, success, vitality

REVERSED: Inner child, feeling down, overly optimistic

Well, in classic me-fashion, I’m going to take both answers: yes and no.  Do I believe that there are forces that humanity can’t yet explain and are beyond our current understanding?  Absolutely.  Do I believe that some people can learn, on an intuitive level, to tap into these forces and utilize them to affect the world around them?  I do, although I’m wary of anybody who claims to be able to do so regularly, because I’m also extremely aware that humans are very good at recognizing patterns and cause-and-effect, to the point where we will often see it when it’s not there.  Do I believe that these forces are unknowable?  Absolutely not, at least not permanently—just because we haven’t gotten there yet doesn’t mean we won’t figure it out eventually.  Which is why I’m also extremely wary of anybody who claims to have secret knowledge that they can’t share—the whole point of knowledge is to share it, and test it, and use it to continue building our collective understanding.

send me a tarot ask!

[sumisuchan]

First Name Basis Ch.1

Hey y’all just thought I should post this to Tumblr as well, but here’s the link to the ao3 for people who are more interested in that: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25889923/chapters/62913253 

I don’t know what to say for myself other than I love Kaiba and Jounouchi, and I hope you enjoy this fic <3 Also feel free to leave me a comment. I cherish all of them forever.  

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

It was a quiet winter morning, the second Monday of January, when Mokuba pushed open the double doors to Seto’s room. However silent he tried to be, they still scraped across the hardwood floor. He had cast a light that shot from the hallway to envelop Seto’s figure in bed, buried beneath a plush comforter.

“Seto — ” Mokuba tried to keep his voice low, leaning culpably against one of the doors. “I'm going to head out.”

Without throwing off the comforter, Seto rose as if accused. The pale morning light made him squint. “I thought I was taking you.”

“I know, but I was going to meet a friend a little bit early. I'll meet you there, I promise.”

“But it's snowing,” Seto laid his head back down. Even with centralized heating, the air was cold. His alarm clock read 6:46 a.m., which made the comforter seem warmer and the mattress more generous.

The door clicked softly shut again. Seto had lost. He closed his eyes and let Mokuba go, the bed’s hold too strong to break. Maybe he would wake at 8:00, or 8:05, or 8:10...

***

It was 8:15 when Seto had hit snooze for the third time, and had finally managed to sit up. He opened the curtains behind him to a chalky sky and a Domino City winterscape, draped in snow. It even obscured the faraway mountains whose dark grey bodies wore pure white caps. Seto sighed visibly into the glass. Another harsh one.

Seto ate, washed, and dressed, finding himself in a partially cloudy bathroom mirror. He had put a sharp white suit over a blue shirt speckled with gold, and fixated upon the second gray hair he had found that month. He leaned in, making the mirror fog up more. Though his hair was still a little damp, there it was — front and center, mocking him.

Seto straightened himself out, turned the bathroom light off, and went downstairs. He could see from the top of the staircase that Mokuba had taken the kimono from its resting place upon the front room sofa—garment bag and all, his geta disappearing from the entrance evidence that it hadn't been just a dream.

***

The traffic to the ceremony was hell. Every damn car in Domino City had congested the roads leading to town hall, each of them progressing only about a meter before stopping again. Snow fell as a light powder, dusting the shoulders of young men and women dressed in expensive suits and long-sleeve kimono. Seto estimated that at least 3/4 of them were rentals. Their parents walked alongside them, shielding them from the snow with clear convenience-store umbrellas, and Seto realized that he had forgotten one himself.

Finally, his driver reached town hall and held open the car door. Parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, who had come to support their own twenty-year-olds, all seemed to turn around at once, then double take. “Isn't that Kaiba Seto?” They whispered too loudly as he passed them. Seto was certain he could feel someone's phone camera pointed at his back as he entered. His watch read 10:37. The ceremony would start soon.

***

The mayor, a slightly overweight man in a gray, cheap-looking suit took the stage, adjusting the microphone and clearing his throat. Several rows of newly-minted adults straightened their backs and lifted their heads. The entire auditorium stopped talking, and the mayor preemptively set his short-fingered hands on the podium. For the final time, he adjusted his legs, shoulder-width apart. Seto noticed a bald spot at the very back of his head, bordered by thinning white hair.

“Everyone, thank you for attending today's ceremony — ” He spoke in a coarse voice.

Seto began searching the first three rows for Mokuba. The young men and women had formed clusters, some still chatting quietly to one another. They made a patchwork quilt of solid black suits and explosions of flowers in red, white, and gold.

Mokuba would be in white. He had insisted. “I'm going to wear a suit for the rest of my life, but I'll probably have far fewer opportunities to wear a kimono.” So Seto took him shopping at one of the most expensive boutiques in Domino City, their winter line of handmade kimono on display. Most of them were furisode — sleeves to the floor and soaked in snow flowers, chrysanthemums, tsubaki .

Mokuba looked uncomfortable. He tensed at the extremely attentive sales assistant, who asked them in exquisite keigo what they needed. He tensed even more when Seto replied bluntly, “he needs an outfit for coming of age day.” He tensed while they brought out the entire cavalry of men's kimono — admittedly plainer than the women's, but just as elegant. Almost all of them bore complex patterns that fit seamlessly into their solid black or white fabrics, allegedly handmade. The shopkeeper ran her hand over each of them as if playing an instrument. It was genuinely surprising when they didn't respond with a musical phrase.

“You’re more than welcome to try on any one that you like, and one of our male employees can help you dress if you require assistance.” She had nearly reached the end of her, “please take your time,” when Mokuba pointed to the one on the very end.

“Uh — that white one looks nice.”

“Oh,” the shopkeeper had to walk to the far end of the table to reach it. “Do you mean this one, sir? Would you like to try it on?”

“Sure. Yes, I can try it on.”

Without prompting, yet another attentive male employee rushed over to lead him to the dressing room. “Please follow me this way, sir.” Seto got a glimpse of the kimono. No discernible pattern. Nothing extra. Just white silk adorned with the shop’s brand insignia embroidered in gold at the end of the sleeves.

Mokuba left the dressing room without the kimono on, yet claimed that he wanted that one. When Seto asked him if he was certain, he only nodded and tensed even more once Seto paid one million yen in cash straight from his wallet.

From his place in the third row of guest seating, Seto searched for that kimono, the stark white against both plain black and noisy flower patches, and found him sitting amongst a group of young women. One of them whispered something to him and Mokuba turned around, missing his shoulder-length hair. Sometime that morning he had gotten it cut. The woman at his side adjusted his bangs, giggling. She said something. “You look like your brother,” Seto imagined. Mokuba pulled away, brushed it off. That must have been it.

***

The ceremony ended and its attendants came gasping into the freezing winter air. The families occupied the bottom of the staircase as their children emerged at the top, posing in formation for pictures.

Mokuba had found a place in the second row, his hands at his side for the first serious photo and then with his tongue out and fingers forming a heart for the silly one. The same girl from earlier in a red kimono and thick-rimmed glasses made bunny ears above his head — something he would find later when they received the photos. They posed for one more before the crowd dispersed and Mokuba turned to her before coming downstairs. He must have promised to rejoin her, but then met eyes with Seto and began his descent.

Finally, Seto witnessed the full body of his kimono, its white sleeves and gray pants making him resemble the snow-covered mountains in the distance. He treaded so carefully down the steps, responsible with his new-seeming long legs, but he had been chipping away toward Seto’s height for a while. That fact hit especially hard when Mokuba ran to embrace him. His long strides had brought him so smoothly.

Someone snapped a picture.

“How did you manage to get a haircut?” Seto asked, maintaining his balance. “Every salon in the city must have been booked.”

“They were.” Mokuba set his hands on top of  Seto’s shoulders, negotiating himself against the icy sidewalk, “but I had reserved my appointment months ago. I wanted to surprise you. I guess…” He paused, touching the back of his head. “I didn't realize how much I would resemble you.”

“It suits you,” Seto said. “You look grown up.”

Mokuba smiled but furrowed his brows. Someone shouted, “Kaiba- san ! May I please take a picture of you and Mokuba?” and someone else added, “to commemorate the occasion!”

Seto, who would normally have walked away, turned toward the crowd. He put his hand upon Mokuba’s back and found it to be rigid. Yet, Mokuba smiled for them. There would be articles written whether he did or didn't, so he chose to be pleasant. He grinned into the flashing lights, into a future of magazines that would compare their heights, their faces, weigh their fortune, pondering if Mokuba had found a girlfriend yet and commenting on the fact that Seto never had. It would be a thing for months until it wasn't at all, until something else happened, and the cycle would start over.

Seto felt Mokuba inflate with a sigh that no one would notice. He had become so good at letting it deflate slowly from his nose that only someone standing as close as Seto would hear it.

He called off the pictures and they loaded into the car, leaving barely enough time for Mokuba to wave to the young woman he had left up on the staircase.

[authenticallyamethyst]

Day One

I told myself I would never come out again. Coming out once was hard enough.

But yet, today is the day.

For two years now I've questioned my gender. I don't remember how it started, but since my freshman year of college I've had a constant, fleeting feeling that I might not be a "girl" or "woman" after all. This has been hard to accept. Most days I would push the thought out of my head. When I really stopped to consider what my feelings meant, I got frustrated because I couldn't make sense of it.

Here's how I experience gender, and what my dysphoria looks like:

1. The label "girl" is more comfortable than the label "woman," but only as a default. I've been called and categorized a girl my entire life, so I never questioned it. When I think about it now, it doesn't feel completely right. It also doesn't feel adamantly wrong. Imagine shooting an arrow at a target. If the bullseye is my gender identity, then calling myself a "girl" lands on the outer rings.

2. I've never wanted to be or had the feeling that I was a "boy" or "man." In the target example, the arrow falls on the ground.

3. I experience social dysphoria more than mind or body dysphoria. I feel a nagging sense of discomfort when people refer to me as a girl, lady, or other similar words. I wish people would ask my pronouns without defaulting to she/her/hers.

4. I enjoy feeling feminine. After today (more on that in a bit), I want to experiment more with androgynous clothing and see if that sparks any gender euphoria or not. Up until today, I've found comfort in clothing that aligns with my AGAB, and I'm not sure if that will change.

5. About a week ago when I first started journaling about my gender, I tried out a few labels. I believe genderflux works for me because the intensity in which I experience my gender varies. Some days I feel adamant that I am not a girl, other days it's closer to an apathetic feeling. For now, the spectrum label "non-binary" fits me best. I don't fit neatly into the binary boxes of "man" or "woman," and that's the easiest word that applies right now.

What today is.

Today is the day I unofficially/officially come out. Again. In 2018, I came out as bisexual, and that didn't go well. I might go into that more later, but that's the reason I told myself I wouldn't come out again. I had also convinced myself that telling others my gender was outside of the normative experience wasn't important. But I think it is. Maybe I do want to try they/them pronouns with my friends. I want my gender expression to match my gender identity, so today, I am getting a haircut.

For me, it's a momentous occasion, even though I don't think it needs to be. I've had short hair on and off my entire life, starting around 9 years old. Every few years I would grow it out because I held dissatisfaction with having it short. When I was in middle school, I felt isolated. I was the only "girl" (was I a girl then, or did I only assume I was a girl?) in my school with short hair. I felt "othered" and felt deeply upset when people called me a boy. I began to internalize those feelings and think I looked like a boy too. So I grew it out until high school, when in sophomore year I cut it again. I don't remember why exactly, but I kept it for about a year or more and then grew it out until I was 19, and cut it again. And here I am at 20, almost 21, and doing it again. People sometimes make fun of me in a passing way: "You can't decide if you like your hair long or short." I guess they have a point. I've always struggled with the question of whether I should grow it more or chop it off. But hell, maybe I like the process of cutting and growing. I don't know, but it's always something I've come back to. I wonder now if my haircut has always been tied to my gender expression, I just didn't realize and wasn't ready for it before.

Today I'm also going shopping. I'm going to pay equal attention to all of the clothes in the store, not just the ones gendered for "women." I'm hitting up my piercer to see if there's any facial jewelry I want, just because it feels like such a transformative day.

Well, here goes. Class starts in half an hour, and after that, my day really begins. I also haven't actively used Tumblr in years, so it'll be weird being on this website again. But I do feel lonely and want more LGBT+ friends, especially people with similar gender experiences as mine, so maybe this can be an avenue for friendship in addition to documentation, too.

Wish me luck.