#for sure a amab

[lazy-ahh]

Hi, Lazy-ahh! Can I ask for main Mark x AMAB reader? In another universe, reader lost his Mark. He somehow travels to main Mark’s universe. Out of desperation, reader murders the other version of himself to take his place and have a second chance with his boyfriend. But it’s only a matter of time before Mark finds out.

REPLACEABLE

pairing mark grayson x (alternate dimension) AMAB reader

in another dimension, you lost mark. now, you'll destroy anything—even yourself—to get him back. but when mark starts noticing the blood under your nails, you realize: some ghosts can't be buried. and some loves aren't yours to keep.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

you miss him.

it’s a hollow, gnawing thing, chewing through your ribs like a starving animal, leaving behind nothing but an ache so deep you swear it’s carved into your bones. you miss the way he laughed, loud and unguarded, the way his nose scrunched when he teased you, the way his fingers tangled in yours like he never wanted to let go—like you were something precious, something worth holding onto.

but your mark is gone.

you don’t remember much about how it happened, the memory too traumatic to remember yet too painful to forget—just screaming, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the way his body hit the ground too hard, too still, the sickening crack of impact that still echoes in your nightmares. you remember clutching his face, your fingers smearing red across his cheeks, begging him to wake up, to breathe, but his eyes stayed empty, staring past you into nothing.

you weren’t fast enough. you weren’t strong enough.

and then, somehow, you weren’t in your world anymore.

you weren’t even given the chance to grieve yet, to mourn, to scream into the void until your voice gave out. one second, you were kneeling in the wreckage of your life, and the next, you were standing on a sidewalk under a sun that felt too bright, too cruel.

this universe is almost the same. the same streets, the same sky, the same stupid posters of omni-man and the guardians of the globe plastered on bus stops, their smug faces grinning down at you like some sick joke. but then you see him—mark, your mark, alive and whole and laughing, his voice ringing through the air like a punch to the chest. your breath stutters, your chest cracks open, and suddenly you’re drowning all over again.

he’s right there.

you watch him for days, a ghost haunting the edges of his life. he goes to class, he texts his friends, he flies off to fight bad guys like nothing’s wrong, like the world hasn’t ended. it seems like he had just recently gotten his superpowers, his movements still a little unsteady mid-air, nothing like the effortless grace of your mark. your mark had gained his while he was trying to save you during a villain attack, his body slamming into yours as he shielded you from debris, his eyes wide with panic and determination as his powers finally sparked to life. you’d been walking toward a comic store to buy the latest issue of seance dog, his hand warm in yours, his voice teasing as he argued about which volume was better—as cliché and romantic as the scenario was, it was yours. but this mark wasn’t your mark. he didn’t have the memories you two shared, the inside jokes, the quiet nights pressed together under the glow of his laptop screen. he just lived his life happily and heroically, like he didn’t die in your arms. like you didn’t lose everything.

and then you see him. no—not him. you.

the other version of you in this dimension. it seemed like you didn’t get superpowers, didn’t go through the intense training that carved your body into something sharper, something meant to survive. you were... normal. soft in a way you hadn’t been in years. this version of you didn’t get to go on dates where you and mark just flew through the vast, endless night sky, the air cold and biting as you clung to him, the world below reduced to scattered lights while above you, the cosmos sprawled out in all its glory—endless stars, streaks of auroras painting the dark in rippling greens and purples, depending on where the two of you decided to go that night. you didn’t get to fight side by side, didn’t get to know the rush of battle, the way mark’s laughter would cut through the chaos as the two of you pulled off some stupid, reckless stunt, the way he’d press his forehead to yours after, breathless and bleeding, whispering, we make a good team.

but this you—this soft, powerless, ordinary you—was the one who still got to hold mark’s hand. who still got to kiss him goodnight. who still got to exist in a world where he was alive.

it’s not fair.

you don’t plan it. at least, you don’t think you do. but when you see them together—mark’s arm slung around his shoulders, his smile so bright it hurts, like looking directly into the sun—something inside you snaps. something dark and cruel and selfish, something that’s been festering deep inside you, rotting you from the core, finally consumes you whole.

he was walking home alone. it’s easy. he was normal. you were not.

you remember not even letting him scream. every time the memory comes crashing back, it’s like watching a scene play out from somewhere outside your body—like you’re floating in the back of your own mind, numb and detached, as the darkness in your veins pulls your strings, as your hands move without your permission. you let it happen. you let yourself drown.

you had gracefully landed behind them, silent as a shadow. your reflection in the dim streetlights would’ve been horrifying if they’d turned around fast enough to see it—your eyes sunken, bruised with exhaustion, your lips chapped from biting back screams, your hair a mess from nights spent clawing at your own scalp just to feel something. you looked like a ghost. like something already dead.

you remember the way they turned around, playful and fond, expecting it to be mark, only for their expression to twist into surprise. then—wonder? awe? you remember feeling perplexed, watching as this other version of you lit up, rambling in passionate excitement about how cool it was to see another version of himself. you had explained, briefly, that you were a superhero in your dimension, that you fought alongside mark, and their face had glowed with admiration, with playful jealousy, with this aching, innocent want—god, i wish i could do that. i wish i could be out there with him.

then, you remember telling them, voice hollow, that your mark died. because you were too weak. too slow. too human to save him.

and their expression—it falls. their smile shatters like glass, their eyes widening in something like grief, like understanding, because they love mark too, and the thought of losing him—

you watch the exact moment realization creeps in. their breath hitches. their fingers twitch, like they want to reach for you, or maybe run. their lips part—wait—

but you’re already moving.

"but... don’t worry," you whisper, and your voice doesn’t even sound like yours anymore. "you’ll be able to fight alongside him too. it’s just... it wouldn’t be you." your hand brushes their cheek, almost tender. "but then again, we are the same person anyway, right...?"

their face twists in horror.

you don’t let them scream.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark notices something's off.

not at first. at first, you're perfect—maybe too perfect. you know all his favorite foods (the way he likes his burgers slightly pink in the middle, how he picks the mushrooms out of his pasta but will eat them if they're chopped small enough). you remember every stupid inside joke, every embarrassing childhood story his mom told you that one thanksgiving. your hands find all the right places—the spot behind his ear that makes him shiver, the way his shoulders tense after patrol that requires just the right amount of pressure to melt away. you curl into him on the couch like a dying star collapsing inward, pressing your face into the warm hollow of his neck, breathing him in like he's oxygen and you've been drowning for months.

maybe he is. maybe he's the only thing keeping you from dissolving completely.

"you've been clingy lately," he murmurs one night, fingers tracing idle circles along the knobs of your spine. you've lost weight. his voice is fond but there's something else there now—a question. "not that i'm complaining."

you tighten your arms around him like he might vanish if you loosen your grip. "just missed you."

he laughs, soft and warm, but it doesn't reach his eyes the way it used to. "i was gone for, like, two hours."

you press closer instead of answering, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

silence stretches. then his hand stills on your back. "...y/n?"

"mhm?"

"look at me."

you don't want to. but you do.

his brows are furrowed, thumb brushing under your eye where the shadows have grown darker, more permanent. "you look like shit." it's supposed to be a joke but his voice cracks. "when was the last time you slept? actually slept?"

you try to smile. it feels like tearing open a wound. "'m fine."

"bullshit." his hands frame your face, calloused and warm and so painfully familiar it makes your chest ache. "you're shaking. you've been—i don't know, jumpy? like you're expecting something to—" he cuts himself off, swallows hard. "talk to me. please."

the concern in his voice is worse than anger would've been. you want to laugh. you want to scream. you want to tell him everything—how you wake up choking on his name, how every time he leaves the room you're half-convinced he won't come back, how sometimes you still smell blood when there's none there.

instead, you press your forehead to his and whisper, "bad dreams."

it's not entirely a lie.

mark exhales, long and slow, his breath warm against your lips. "okay," he murmurs, like he doesn't believe you but won't push. not yet. "okay. but you gotta eat something, alright? and sleep. actual sleep. i'll be right here." his arms tighten around you. "not going anywhere."

you close your eyes.

(you don't tell him that's what your mark said too.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it's the little things that give you away.

the way you flinch when a car backfires two blocks away—too loud, too sudden, too much like that day. how you forget cecil's name during dinner when mark mentions him, even though the other you had known him since freshman year. the way you sometimes stare at mark across the room like he's a miracle, like he's already gone, your fingers twitching with the need to touch him just to prove he's real.

and then there are the nightmares.

you wake up screaming more often than not, sheets tangled around your thrashing limbs, your throat raw like you've been swallowing glass. the images never fade—blood on your hands, mark's vacant eyes, the way his body had felt so heavy when you cradled him. you scrub your skin raw in the shower until it's pink and stinging, but the phantom stains remain. you see them in the dark, in the flicker of streetlights through the blinds, in the rust-colored water swirling down the drain.

mark always wakes when you do.

his arms are around you before you can choke out another sob, pulling you against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat—steady, alive, here. "hey," he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with sleep but achingly tender, "it's okay. i've got you." his lips press against your damp temple, your forehead, the corner of your eye where tears still cling. "breathe, baby. just breathe."

you want to sob harder at the pet name. the other you had loved it too.

your fingers clutch at his shirt like a lifeline, nails digging into the fabric as you try to anchor yourself in the present. mark doesn't complain, just holds you tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. "was it the same dream?" he asks softly.

you nod against his collarbone, unable to speak past the guilt lodged in your throat.

"wanna talk about it?"

you shake your head.

he doesn't push. just shifts until he can tuck you under his chin, your ear pressed over his pulse point. "listen to that," he whispers. "i'm right here. not going anywhere." his fingers card through your sweat-damp hair, gentle and sure. "you're stuck with me, y'know?"

a wet laugh escapes you, half-hysterical. if only he knew.

when you finally drift off again, it's to the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his hand still tangled in yours—like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

(you wish you could tell him he's holding a ghost.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he finds out on a thursday.

you don't know how. maybe he followed you when you slipped out before dawn to scrub blood from under your nails in a gas station bathroom. maybe he found the shallow grave you dug behind the abandoned church, the dirt still loose after three weeks of rain. maybe the other you's friends noticed their texts going unanswered, their calls ignored, the way you'd flinch whenever someone said their name.

but when you push open the bedroom door—still smiling, still pretending, still holding the takeout bag from mark's favorite burger place—he's standing in the middle of the room. the blinds are closed. the lights are too bright. his face is pale as milkglass.

"where's y/n?" he asks. his voice is too quiet, too careful, like he's holding back a hurricane.

your stomach drops through the floor. the bag slips from your fingers, greasy fries scattering across the hardwood. "i'm right here."

"no." his hands are shaking now, clenched at his sides like he wants to hit something. or you. "the real y/n. where are they?"

you open your mouth. nothing comes out but a thin, wounded sound.

mark's eyes drag over you—the too-sharp angles of your face that don't quite match the photos on the fridge, the way your fingers twitch toward your pockets where bloodstained gloves are hidden, the defensive hunch of your shoulders like you're waiting for the world to end. again. his breath hitches. "oh my god." his voice cracks down the middle. "you—you're not them. what did you do?"

the grief in his voice is a knife between your ribs. you can feel yourself splitting open at the seams.

"i had to," you whisper. your voice sounds shattered, like you've been screaming for years. "i couldn't—i couldn't lose you again."

"again?" his face twists like he's tasting something rotten. "what the fuck are you talking about?"

"you died." the words pour out of you like pus from an infected wound, thick and putrid with guilt. "in my world, you died in my arms—your blood soaking through my clothes, your eyes going blank while i begged you to stay—and i—" your voice fractures, "i wasn't fast enough, i wasn't strong enough, and then i was here and you were alive but you weren't mine and i just—" your knees hit the floor with a sickening crack, but you don't feel the pain. "i just wanted you back."

mark stumbles back like you've physically struck him, his shoulders hitting the wall with a dull thud. his hands fly up to clutch at his hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands until his knuckles bleach white. "so you killed him?" his voice is barely recognizable—raw and shattered. "you killed yourself just to—to what? replace him? wear his face like some fucked-up mask?!"

"i didn't want to be alone!" you scream so hard your throat tears, the taste of copper flooding your mouth. "you don't understand—you're alive here, breathing and whole and—" your voice breaks into a whimper, "and i couldn't—i couldn't keep waking up to a world where you don't exist—"

mark's crying. really crying—the kind of sobs that wrack his entire body, tears streaming down his face in hot, silent rivers. you've never seen him cry before, not even when he broke his arm during a fight, not even when his dad disappointed him for the hundredth time. his breath comes in ragged, wet gasps as he slides down the wall, his legs giving out beneath him.

"you're a monster," he chokes out, the words barely audible but cutting deeper than any blade. his red-rimmed eyes meet yours, and the look in them—horror, grief, betrayal—makes your stomach twist violently.

you collapse forward, your forehead pressing against the cold floor as your body convulses with silent sobs. the weight of what you've done crushes you into nothingness, until you're not sure you even exist anymore. the last thing you hear before darkness swallows you whole is mark's broken whisper:

"i loved him."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he doesn't turn you in.

you don't know why. maybe he pities you—sees the hollows under your eyes, the way your hands never stop shaking, and thinks you've suffered enough. maybe he's too horrified to think straight, his mind still reeling from the blood under the floorboards, the missing person posters plastered across town. or maybe, in some terrible, twisted way, he understands. because he's lost people too—nearly lost himself a dozen times over—and that kind of grief does things to a person. makes them desperate. makes them dangerous. especially if that person was the love of your life. your soulmate. your heart. your everything.

but he doesn't look at you the same.

he doesn't touch you—no more casual brushes of fingers, no more sleepy cuddles on the couch, no more pressing kisses to your scars like they're something precious. doesn't smile at your stupid jokes, doesn't light up when you walk into the room. doesn't say your name like it means something, just avoids it entirely, like the syllables burn his tongue.

you broke him.

(and you wonder, with a sick sort of clarity, if this is how your mark felt when you died in your world. if he'd screamed himself raw, if he'd begged some higher power for a second chance, if he'd have done something just as monstrous to get you back. the thought makes you nauseous. you understand now. you wish you didn't.)

you leave before he can.

you don't belong here. you never did.

the last thing you see is mark's face—angry, grieving, alive—his mouth forming words you'll never hear, his hands reaching out like some part of him still wants to catch you. then the portal swallows you whole, and there's nothing but static and the phantom feeling of his fingers slipping through yours.

(you hope, wherever you end up, that there's a version of him who still loves you. but you know, deep down, you don't deserve it.)

3.1k words and I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMOREEEE WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS TO MYSELFFFFFF AHHHHHHH thank you so much to the lovely anon who requested this! <33 hopefully you didn't cry as hard as i did when you read this...

[featheredcrowbones]

I thought your drawing of the Obey me Characters where if they were all girls.

I got to Thirteen before I realized this was not in fact, a genderswap.

[barabaraoranges]

"this non-binary character is obviously afab/amab rep"

i'm giving every non-binary character gender nullification surgery and taking away those terms from fandom spaces

[iceman-soup]

amab top!reader x bot!gaz x top!soap

putting Gaz in a crop top because you thought it would be funny but turns out he looks amazing in it and now you're hard :(

then looking over at Soap and he's just staring, boner all too visible through his jeans :(

So of course you take them both into your room, telling them to undress and get on the bed as you do the same. Crop top stays on.

Fucking Gaz with two fingers, the other hand slipped under the top to feel his pecs, whilst MacTavish praises him every time he makes even an uttered sound, sucking hickeys into his neck and pumping both their dicks.

Kyle's cock twitches and cum paints his stomach, earning soft groans from all three of you. Feeling that he's stretched a good amount, you line yourself up with his entrance, making sure there's enough lube to be comfortable.

"You ready, princess?" you press a small kiss to his clothed chest. Gaz nods. "Good boy."

He spreads his legs wider as you push into him, not sure what to do with his hands. Soap takes his wrists and pins them above his head, breathing heavy as he cums over the crop top. "Fuckin' stained now," he grunts, glancing over at you.

"Could try washing it?" you suggest, maintaining the eye contact as you rock your hips rhythmically into the man under you.

Soap hums, studying the clothing quickly soaking up the cum. "Probably won't get it all out, though."

"Make him wear it around anyway. Show it off," you grin; Kyle whines at the lack of direct attention. "Shut up, Garrick. We're talking."

[flagellant]

worlds first amab forcemasc enjoyer

[queso-blanco]

After many different people casually assuming/implying I have autism--

I take this test because apparently it's a legit one or whatever

I get my results

Okay. what does this mean

What the fuck. Okay, what's the range?

Are you fucking serious. I scored 43/50 on the autism test???

[invinciblerodent]

for the rook/partner game: 14. for marcus and bellara, 4. for verbena and davrin (I think you talked about it before but I cannot remember for the life of me) 1nnd 16. for emmrich and tristan?

Ahh, I love these, thank you for asking! ❤️

Question list here!

14. Does your Rook get their partner any other gifts (besides the one already in-game)? Does the partner get Rook any? Any gifts that are particularly special?

Ooh, tough one! I think since neither of them have a lot (hey, neither crypt orphan turned glorified undertaker NOR underfunded Dalish historian who lives in a forest is a particularly well-paid profession), I want to say that... it's probably things like, experiences. Loaned books is for sure one, but I want to say that what they exchange most is just... time. Experiences. Small things that only prove that they're thinking of one another.

Like him taking her to skate the Minater and (unused to having money) buying them a bag of roasted chestnuts to share, or leaving a small bag of sweets on her desk. (Candied nuts, perhaps? Dry fruit? I get both the vibe that she likes those, and the feeling that if she were to mention at any point something like "oh, I LOVE honey-roasted almonds!", she'll get some honey-roasted almonds every time he sees some.) Or if she mentions once that it was nice the first time he made it, he'll be making her a cup of spiced tea when he makes one for himself in the evenings, and even if they had no plans, dropping it off for her on his way back to his room. A paper with one of her serials that he'll likely end up keeping, embarrassed, when he realizes that Neve had already bought it for her.

She in turn might blush her way through giving him the first chapter of her story to read. Eventually one of her many janglies (that's totally not a protection charm!) or a strip of fabric in her favorite color will perhaps find its way to the grip of his staff. Little things, sentimental things, ephemeral things that disappear like a shower of sparks in the air.

4. Do your Rook and their partner share the same faction? If so, does that affect their relationship at all? If not, what is your Rook's opinion of their partner's faction? What is the partner's opinion of Rook's faction?

Ooh, I have spoken in passing about something of the like, yes!! Due to her backstory, I gave her an overall... shall we say, healthy wariness of the Warden order in general.

Since there are no (known?) Warden strongholds in Tevinter, I like to think that Ver's experience with them is restricted to the odd wandering recruiter, picking through the prisons and such in search of able bodies to bolster their ranks.

And, due to her work as both a Shadow Dragon and a guard/errand girl in a poor district of the city, Ver unfortunately also meets and gets to know a comparatively large number of people who are down on their luck, or don't have a lot of options- who, when the Wardens come knocking and ask for brave souls, are prime candidates for joining up with them. (It certainly sounds like it beats starting their lives over from scratch either as runaway slaves who will be hunted for the rest of their days, or, if they're lucky, as Liberati always glancing back over their shoulder and one bad month away from slipping back.)

Naturally, of those who leave with the recruiters, not many are ever seen again- whether they perish in the Joining or after, or if they just never get to return to the city, is unclear.

Her best friend (and sort of lover/QPR partner/previous fuckbuddy) Adris was also one of those escaped slaves who got arrested (taking the fall for her entirely), and in order to escape the gallows, left with a Warden instead. He never did end up coming back, and for years, Ver didn't know if he had even survived. (to her excuse, he was a skinny, pale elf boy. like she's pretty sure she could have snapped his femurs like a pair of toothpicks by sitting on his lap, if she was so inclined. even if she had known what the Joining entailed, she thought it was as much a death sentence for him as the gallows.)

(originally I liked leaving it kind of ambiguous whether he lived, but now I'm more of the mind that against all odds, he'd survive the Joining AND Weisshaupt, just to be there in Hossberg to Cause Emotional Turmoil, lol.)

Her mistrust of the Warden order was like, on a very average level for a Tevinter citizen, but the bulk of it comes from how the recruiter, when she demanded that they take her too, rejected her, and that old resentment kind of just fermented into prejudice over time. She's more or less convinced early on that all Wardens are pompous assholes riding high on the old glory of a few, with hero complexes the size of the Anderfels, and their heads so far up their asses that they could tie their small intestine into a bow with their tongue as a party trick.

Initially, the First Warden only reinforces that (even though she knows very well that she sounded a few elephants short of a proper circus when they met)(she had far more than enough clowns tho), but it will take Evka, and Antoine, and most importantly Davrin to dismantle that.

On the flipside, I don't really think Davrin has many Shadow Dragon specific comments or issues, I think he's just... quite aware that she's of Tevinter, and of the city, so he isn't, like, immediately eager to defer to her. He doesn't know her, so he has his doubts, and right away, puts a little mental asterisk beside the statement that she outranks him. But the leadership she shows right after his recruitment and at Weisshaupt will dispel pretty much any doubts about her.

The way it affects their relationship is, I think, not super obvious either, because, well, they are professionals. Davrin gives the barbed comments as good as he gets, plus they are immediately pretty impressed with each other, right from the Minrathous dragonfight on.

also they're both hot, and they both have eyes. that might also skew things slightly.

16. How did your Rook react to getting trapped in the Fade and separated from their partner?

Oh, I'm looking very much forward to that on that playthrough, because I think Tristan is going to be losing his absolute shit in there. (But in like his own stoic, determined way.)

I mean, he's no mage, furthest thing from it in fact, but he's been in the Fade in his dreams before. He's been there physically this whole time. He's got a bloody spirit hitching a ride in his mind, it shouldn't be that different from what he's used to.

But that particular space in the Fade, that place... it's just wrong in there. It's a purgatory. It's a void, it's oppressive, the stench of Solas' rage, and pride, and despair, and just sheer, immense power is all over it, and while he's trying to stay calm, it feels like Purpose within him is in an absolute blind panic. And, with the two of them being so seamlessly fused together, so integrated over the past.... jfc, 22 years, Purpose trying all it can to escape, pulling at his soul... it feels fucking horrible.

It's like his very concept of self is trying to tear itself apart, like his soul is separating into two at a seam that doesn't exist, like his legs want to cleave themselves from his body and he has only his hands to hold them there.

Pile all that happens in there, all the revelations and worries, on top of that, and Tristan is having an awful fucking time.

And he can't even punch/kick/stab the source of his agony! It really is his personal torture chamber in there.

Honestly, though I like to think that Tristan, due to his unique and inexorable connection to the Fade, feels that it's been less than a day in that pocket, and can think somewhat clearly still (unlike Ver, who I think falls victim to the time distortion effect, and loses track immediately- could have been hours or months as far as she's concerned), but still distantly, at the back of his mind, feels how those weeks that pass outside of it are dragging along, day after day.

I think Emmrich, while there was no way of knowing in advance how something as peculiar as Tristan and Purpose's union would react to something like that, had what he thought was a pretty good guess as to what would happen- and I don't think there's any way for him to not have been worried out of his mind.

I think in the regard of their separation, Tristan is probably less worried than Emmrich, considering that he at least has the luxury of knowing that whatever is happening outside, Emmrich has the chance of fighting back, while Emmrich doesn't even know if Tristan is physically capable of staying alive in there.

If being in a place like that had torn Tristan and Purpose apart, it would have killed him instantly, and Emmrich needing to place his utmost trust in the courage of a spirit that can barely communicate (certainly not in words, and certainly not with him), it's... kind of horrifying. Especially with a spirit as malleable and kind of vulnerable as Purpose.

I guess it's very lucky that they are so enmeshed, Tristan and Purpose, because them being one means that their drive for self-preservation is also shared. Without that, they wouldn't have made it out of there alive, I think.

[our-honeybee-transfem-experience]

Look, I get that people are venting. And reacting to being considered “worse transfems” than AMAB transfems.

But can people please not say that AFAB transfems are “better transfems” than AMAB transfems? It comes across as incredibly transmisogynistic.

The point is equality. Not to flip the switch.

The end goal is abolition of AGAB as an oppressive system. And for there to be one community of “transfems”. Not to fucking reinvent bioessentialism within the transfem community.

Claiming that anyone with a certain birth assignment/certain sex traits/that was raised a certain way is “better” at something than someone else is bioessentialism. Any way you slice it.

And bioessentialism is the weapon of the enemy. We have no need for it and will not use it.

.

[aibidil]

been thinking about the socialization into gendered bodily comportment and autism

so we know that little girls have a lot of "gender appropriate" bodily comportment to learn—keep your knees together, don't let your underwear show when you're playing, don't speak too loud/bossy, what to do with your hair. When you're a bit older, the socialization into gendered and sexualized bodily comportment—how you hold yourself wrt your breasts, cocking a hip or swaying hips, putting your hand on your hip™️ during photos, makeup norms. All of these things are explicitly taught/enforced by both adults and peers, but they're also, and to an enormous extent, absorbed through observation and exposure irl and through media.

and we know that autistics often find it difficult/painful to socialize/normalize our bodies. Autistics are less aware of our bodily cues (interoception), often have increased bodily sensory needs (stimming, avoiding certain feelings/textures/fabrics), and have overactive nervous systems. We also are really bad at intuiting the social expectations AND we're unlikely to do things because someone just said to do it ("why? says who? does that make sense?") AND we're often allergic to demands that we perceive to threaten our authenticity or autonomy.

If you put these together... oh. There are so many reasons why autistic people are more likely to be queer (we reject the binaries bc when we interrogate them, they don't pass the bs test, etc), but this suggests to me that we're often also just BAD at performing gender. (Not always! Some autistics study gender and then don it like armor.)

But if you're bad at performing gender, that's inherently going to affect the way you relate to gender both personally and theoretically.

I can't tell you how often little aib was told to put her legs together. It never, ever stuck. Not because I wanted to buck gender norms (at the time), but because there's no way to ever get that rule through my head and into my body. I would never in a million years remember that. And even if I did try in a given moment (bc someone was policing me or because I was wearing a short skirt or something), it would be absolutely EXCRUCIATING to sit "properly"! I could never continue to sit properly if not actively trying to maintain it.

If you've had this experience, how could you not reject gender? It's almost like the entire gendered system is hostile to autistic bodies/minds.

[existingtm]

Genuinely about to start asking people if they're circumcised/on their period whenever they ask me what genitals I have...

[everysongineverykey]

i fucking remember when i was like 13 and thought i was fat because my thighs got bigger when i sat down. which is something that happens to 99% of afab people including thin ones. weight culture is fucked actually

[wifepoltergeist]

also the whole Dating a chaser thing is. Something else entirely. he was veeeery specific on who he wanted

[furryprovocateur]

why say this. do you think the testicles are critical for misogyny

[forgotten-daydreamer]

oh funny story, last week i reached new levels of "i think i'm a bother 24/7" because i waited too long to tell the nurse at the blood drive that i was feeling unwell. i waited like a whole minute (which is too long. too long when donating blood.) before looking at her and going "i'm not sure, but i think i don't feel good?" and i passed tf out with a bp of 90/60

[shepcdr]

head empty when it comes to putting ic words on the dash... but at the same time, agender/nonbinary yishai shepard is living in my mind rent-free i fear. thinking about this and its relation to yishai's intensely strong empathy for the geth and for edi: beings crafted as tools of labour and war (in terms of the geth) and intelligence, as tools of service to a master. things to whom autonomy was denied, their freedoms shackled, their enquiries towards their own identities — and their rights to simply be — seen as threats to be crushed underfoot.

there is a reason he rarely, rarely ever chooses the destroy ending, and a reason that he is so utterly crushed and devastated when he does. (and he is contrite until the geth and edi are brought fully back to functionality — however i plan to make that happen in my happy ending — and even after.)

[beardedlink]

I may be non-binary but I'm still fine with being referred to as my wife's husband because to me the term partner just make me feel like a cowboy. And there's no gender neutral term for cowboy, what options do I have for that? Cowperson?