#i cannot express how desperate I am for top surgery | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rocketonthemoon · 2 years ago

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Rocket! I must ask you an important question! (If you have already answered or it's too personal, please feel free to ignore)

How did you feel after top surgery? Was it weird? Did it feel right? Because I am considering it. That and other things.

Hey there! No worries - I don't know if I've talked about this really in depth so I'm definitely more than happy to because I think there's a lot of talk about the lead up but maybe not as much for the aftermath.

I'm putting it all under a cut because I ramble a little bit but also possible tw for frank talk of dysphoria/dysmorphia

SO I will start by saying that overall it was the best decision I ever made for myself aside from starting T. And I'm going to talk about my BEFORE surgery a bit more than maybe you were initially asking for because it really helped me get around to the after

I went through puberty around 12 years old and I cannot overstate how much I hated my chest. While I've always admitted and will stand by the fact that I didn't mind identifying/being a girl, I really, really did not like my chest. Didn't help I was 5'0" and a size 34D so they were unfortunately rather obvious. I wore sports bras every day for years and years and would do everything in my power to avoid low cut tops or even button ups despite the fact that I liked how I looked in them. I would've slept in my better sports bras if I could and definitely found older/loser ones to take with me on sleepovers.

But for a lot of my life I just assumed this was like, par the course, in terms of gender. I think I've said a little bit about how I flat out didn't know being trans was a thing until I was in college. I knew in an abstract sort of way about dysmorphia - a few girls I was in class with struggled with EDs and being early '10s there was what felt like a lot of talk about being "too skinny" - but being unhappy with your body was just kinda waved off as being part of a teenage girl. I was assured I'd grow into it, I'd settle in to it, I'd learn to love my body, especially since I wasn't unhappy with my size so much as my shape. I wanted to be stronger, more square and broad than the round-ness I thought my breasts made me.

When I did learn of the concept in college, I jumped on the idea even before I knew I was transmasc. The couple months I identified as NB I still was binding and desperately researching surgeons that would accept patients either on low doses or not doing T at all, because for me it wasn't a question of When so much as How once I knew it was an options I could do. It wasn't until after I started T that it really became a way for me to feel comfortable in my masculine body but even before it was just a matter of "I want them fucking gone".

Surgery itself was nerve wracking - I’ve got trauma surrounding surgery and I wanted my nipples not grafts, I wanted sensation still in my chest - and yeah there were a couple moments where I thought, maybe this wasn't the best timing. Maybe I hadn't done enough research, maybe I was moving too fast, maybe if I waited a little bit longer I would get a little more comfortable in my gender expression. But I was scared if I didn’t do it IMMEDIATELY I wouldn’t ever do it for some reason. And then there was the immediate aftermath of the slight emotional fall out.

Personally, I have always had a problem of things not living quite up to the Glamour and Gloss that either I build up in my head or that people say it will all be. That being said for me, I didn't have a glorious wonder moment immediately after surgery. I didn't have the touching, hand-to-chest, tears-in-eyes after seeing my chest flat for the first time. Honestly, I felt like I had possibly made a mistake. My bandages were messy (my fault, I'm squirmy), my stomach was bloated from the extra air in my torso, and I felt gross from not being able to shower as quickly as I wanted to. My arms looked too small next to the emptiness of my chest, my shoulders way too curved in, my head sitting like a bobble head on my neck. Everything was new and worse it looked wrong in the newness of it. I did not recognize myself in my own body and it was honestly, very terrifying.

(it is worth noting at this point in time, I was five months on T so my body was new ANYWAYS and it was just exaggerating the newness of it all)

But once I healed up enough to be able to move around on my own, and then enough to pull a shirt over my head instead of a button up I felt much more settled. And then even more so as I started working out again. It was a slow growth of remembering how much I had been miserable not even six months beforehand with my chest. And I mean like it took months to really feeling like looking at myself in the mirror wasn't strange any more. There had been a few nine months pre Gender Discovery of my version of hyper-femininity of low-cut tops and actual bras but it was nothing compared to finding the serenity of not feeling like I was purposefully making myself smaller because of something I disliked about myself.

All this to say, I don't know if it feels right now that they're gone. I don't know that I necessarily fit the story of "living in the wrong body" that some of my trans siblings have lived. Mine has always been a tinkering of what feels better. I feel like I look better with a beard than without and I feel better about my body without breasts than I ever did with. I like that I'm broader I like the more streamlined look for my torso. Every now and then I feel like my chest is too light, like I'm missing the weight, and often I get nerve tingles along my scars. I still don't like attention on my nipples when have sexy times with partners but I'm learning that's less an issue with my body image/feeling like I thought it was for so long and more just my own preferences of what I like when getting it on. I still don't like being in public without a shirt on but I'm also rounder in my tummy than I was before surgery thanks hormone fat distribution and COVID cutting down my gym time.

I don't know how helpful this all has been for you or if it resonates with you at all, but I hope more than anything it does reassure you it's ok to be not immediately thrilled. I think we place a lot pressure on the idea of immediate gratification with these sorts of things and it's ok to come around to the idea. This is a BIG THING that does permanently affect your outward presentation and it's ok to be nervous and hesitant. My advice would be to really think about the WHY you might want this in the long run - personally I don't think there's a bad answer so long as you are doing it for you. While top surgery helped me pass for more a masculine appearance ultimately it was more about fixing something I didn't like about my body for almost a decade. I feel loads better about myself partially because I feel more settled with my appearance as a whole but also being able to lay in my own bed shirtless and not feel uncomfortable is probably the biggest win for me overall.

#Anonymous #Ask a Rocket #listen I do a lot of rambling here and I hope that I did actually answer your question #you're of course always welcome to message me and chat a little more about it if you're comfortable or send me another ask #my inbox is always open for these sorts of questions especially if it's helping a decision making process #(and being respectful because i'm not here to be poked at but y'all are really good about being respectful)

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nct-oli · 4 years ago

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I understand Phupha. I really do. And I desperately want to ramble about his motivations through this story, so read on if you want to go through the journey of Phupha’s character depth with me!

(Note: I haven’t opened the tags or anything yet since watching the episode because I genuinely wanted to get all of my own thoughts written out before I bring in influences from other people, so if someone made a post like this already, I apologize and I promise I didn’t see it!!)

Let’s look at Phupha’s decisions and thought processes right now. He received an order from Tian’s dad to protect Tian in the village. When he received that order, he had never met Tian. Of course he wasn’t going to say no, and of course he was going to assume that Tian was a rich kid with poor intentions coming to the village. How many rich kids before Torfun had come to the village and abandoned ship when things got tough? Plus Phupha cares about the kids; he probably hated seeing these teachers enter and exit their lives so often. Not to mention, it probably would have made Phupha’s life easier to not have to take on this extra duty of caring for Tian.

But then Tian showed up, and things changed so quickly. Sure, maybe Phupha helped him extra at the very beginning out of duty, but in doing so, he got to know him even more quickly. And through that, feelings developed so fast. Let’s look at Tian bathing, for example. Phupha knew Tian had a bathhouse at his home, and yet, he took him to the waterfall. Why? Was that not wasting his own time? He so easily could have said, “You need a bath? Behind the house.” And yet, he took him to the waterfall anyways, for no real reason. Perhaps it was to test him, but more than anything, I think he was just trying to tease him and spend time with him. And when he slept at his house, sure, maybe it could have just been to protect him out of duty, but asking Tian what he had for dinner just because he wanted to talk to him was never in the order given by Tian’s dad. That was solely because he enjoyed Tian’s company.

We all know that Phupha’s care for Tian was never just out of duty. It may have started that way, but it so quickly progressed past that. Which is why Tian finding out his father was involved must have been so devastating. It completely contradicted what he was so certain was true. I mean, hell, drunk Phupha even confessed to Tian. He knew Phupha’s feelings were not out of duty, but he was still lied to (which is a whole rant on its own).

I’ve been thinking a lot too about Phupha’s love language. From what I can see, his top love language is acts of service, and more specifically, through his protection. Phupha loves the village. He loves the forest. And he loves Tian. When Tian started to understand Phupha’s love language, I think he recognized that as being Phupha’s expression of love toward him. And because Phupha protected him so strongly, Tian read that as Phupha’s love for him being so fierce (which it absolutely was, of course).

As their relationship blossomed, Tian continuously thanked Phupha for protecting him. And on surface level, yes, he was genuinely thanking him for keeping him alive and safe in the village. But digging deeper, he was thanking him for loving him, because he recognized Phupha’s expression of love is told through his dedication to keeping the people he loves and the forest safe. So when Tian was sitting by Phupha’s bedside begging him to wake up and continue protecting him, it wasn’t just him wanting Phupha to keep him safe. He was literally begging him to wake up and continue loving him.

Hence why, when the bandaid was ripped off and he found out his father had ordered Phupha to protect Tian, he started questioning where the line was between duty and love. And then Phupha wouldn’t admit to Tian that what Tian perceived as acts of love and not duty were exactly that, acts of love, that he hadn’t been imagining it. Not only that but when the emotions got high, Phupha lied to him, saying it was never personal and that it was all for just his job, breaking Tian’s heart.

Do I agree with the way he handled it? No. I think the saying harsh words to make Tian hate him rather than communicating properly was absolutely the wrong way to go. But do I understand it? Yes.

Before going any further into that though, let’s talk about Phupha’s reasoning for siding with Tian’s father over Tian. First of all, the obvious is that Tian’s father is a well-respected authority figure, who also easily has the connections to ruin Phupha’s career (not that he necessarily would but he could if he wanted to). As much as we all want Phupha to disregard Tian’s father’s orders, we all know he’s in a tough spot. He doesn’t just love Tian; he also loves the village and the forest, and he dedicated his life to protecting them. He has to weigh that into his decision too.

But beyond that, Phupha has so much respect for his late father. A lot of the lessons he did not understand when his father was alive were lessons he came to understand as he carried on his father’s missions. He said earlier in the show that he did not understand his father’s dedication to the forest until he dedicated his own life to it. He recognized the wisdom his father tried to pass on to him that he was hesitant to accept.

And so to have Tian’s father telling Phupha that Tian has a good life back in Bangkok, of course he’s going to project some of his respect for his own father onto Tian and Tian’s father, failing to recognize that the two situations aren’t the same. In addition to that, he probably does have a feeling of “if my father was still alive...” And knowing Tian’s father is there wanting to take care of Tian and see his life progress, of course he’s going to respect that. That’s why Phupha even told Tian he shouldn’t think less of his father.

Plus we’ve seen how watching Phupha’s mother grieve affected him personally. When Tian’s father mentioned how his mother hadn’t seen her son, and knowing how she almost lost Tian, I’m sure there was also some guilt for wanting to keep Tian to himself when he watched his own mother grieve. Of course, Tian hadn’t passed away like Phupha’s father, but the feeling of loss is similar enough.

I also assume there are some cultural differences regarding family dynamics and respect that I cannot speak to given I am not Thai.

So from that perspective, of course he started to believe that Tian’s father knew best. He didn’t know how miserable Tian was in Bangkok; he didn’t get to see the way Tian’s frown turned to a smile or how suddenly bright his world became when he came to the village. He never saw any of that.

And if we move on past Phupha’s family history, we all know Phupha is fearful of vulnerability. He’s closed himself off his entire life, it seems, from love. And by the time he hit 30, he probably accepted that would be his life: protecting the forest and returning to an empty bed. Opening himself up to Tian was not easy for him, and now when he finally allowed himself to dream of a less lonely life, it’s been threatened. And to avoid being hurt any further, he’s choosing to throw it away himself. It gives him the false perception that this was his own choice, not someone else’s. I’d even go as far as to say him losing his father is an example of a time when he had pain thrown at him that was not his own choice, and there’s probably some trauma from that that he still has to work through. Then he similarly lost Torfun and has had to work through that pain as well. Is it healthy to push his own happiness away at the first sign of trouble? Absolutely not. Plus it hurts Tian. But does it make sense given everything we know about him? Absolutely yes.

(Side note: Tian did the same thing before the surgery. He was wreckless because it gave him a sense of power regarding his own fate when it felt like his pain was being controlled by someone or something else.)

So now here we are, episode 9, Phupha is trying to do the right thing. Of course this story is showing us Tian’s perspective mostly, and so we empathize with Tian more. But I think it’s really important to acknowledge how Phupha is a character with so much depth, who will make mistakes just as Tian did and who deserves to receive the same forgiveness and consideration we give Tian.

When we look at Phupha, we know his intentions are good. He genuinely loves Tian, and especially throughout the events of this episode, he finally started to see how the guilt Tian felt about Torfun was eating him alive, how he was trying to live his life to make up for the life she had lost rather than for the life he had been given. And because he loves Tian so much, he wanted better for him.

That’s why he made him promise to value himself and to live his life for himself from now on. Of course, we all know there’s a disconnect between what he wants for Tian and the options he’s presenting Tian to pick from.

But just like Tian had a bandaid ripped off, Phupha did too. Tian thought Phupha’s intentions were purely out of love and started questioning why he made the decisions he did. Phupha thought Tian’s love for the village and even for him were straight from his own heart, and then when he found out Tian was purposely living his life as Torfun did, he didn’t know what to make of his intentions anymore. Of course, just as Tian was never wrong about Phupha acting out of love when he was protecting him, Phupha was never wrong about Tian acting out of love when interacting with the children and the rest of the villagers.

Yet he doesn’t know that. In his mind, Tian was always living someone else’s life. In his mind, Tian’s life must have been back in Bangkok because suddenly it didn’t seem like it was here. Suddenly the life he was living here in Pha Pun Dao was Torfun’s. And then when Tian starts insisting he’ll stay if Phupha tells him his feelings, of course he’s going to suddenly feel like it would be selfish to do so. Like I said, now he believes Tian’s life really is back in Bangkok. And he has Tian’s father telling him that too.

And we know he always believed that to some extent, given his response to the rangers when they wanted Tian to extend his stay. He told them he had college to finish and a bright future ahead of him. He hadn’t believed his future would be in the village and certainly not with him. It was when he allowed himself to be more vulnerable that he gave in and asked Tian to stay. But now with everything that happened since then, no wonder he felt selfish not wanting Tian to leave.

Acts of service. Phupha showing his love through protection. This right here is Phupha trying to protect Tian once again. This is Phupha trying one last time to show Tian his love language. Even if he’s hurting Tian in the process.

All of this is to say, is Phupha in the wrong right now? Yes. Of course. I’m going to write a separate post about Tian and how I believe this story will end, but we can clearly see how Phupha is contradicting himself right now. He wants Tian to choose himself and live his life for no one else, and yet he isn’t giving Tian the option to stay in the village for himself. He immediately threw away the idea that that was even a possibility, and it’s hurting both him and Tian.

But Tian has been in the wrong many times before, despite having a heart of gold and good intentions. And that’s where Phupha is too. He wants to do the right thing, but his own guilt and fear are keeping him from even seeing the true right thing.

Like I said, I’m going to write an entirely separate post about how I believe this story will end and why I think the ending will be beautiful. But I’m not worried. I think this is a test of not only Tian and Phupha’s relationship but also the two of them as individuals. I genuinely really love Phupha as a character, and I respect the way he tries so hard. He’s allowed to be wrong too sometimes.

#phutian #phupha x tian #a tale of thousand stars #atots #1000 stars #this was a LOT oops #I just think Phupha has SO MUCH DEPTH that people overlook because he’s Tian’s love interest #I think being angry at him for his decisions right now is very justified #but I also think it doesn’t do him justice to act as though they are not in character #I think he’s a beautiful character and I am so grateful to see him grow too #I ADDED A 'KEEP READING' BECAUSE I'M ON DESKTOP NOW

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psalloacappella · 4 years ago

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tenerezza

Day 6 Prompt: Cuddling // “Come closer.”

@sasusakublankperiodweek

Ao3 | FFN | ↓

He keeps his comments to himself: That she has staff for a reason, that their ex-sensei-turned-Kage works her too hard and he’d made a curt mention of it when reporting back, that perhaps someone could take the task of laundering bloody work clothes off her hands. Their responsibilities even in this delicate period they call peacetime still weigh heavy, principle baked into their bones.

In the future, their children won’t know the world quite like this.

A routine peacekeeping mission turns, twists, becomes mayhem.

Surgery is an intensive thing, the delicate dance of suspending chakra and soul in the void to negotiate with Death. And though it is a grim and arduous opponent with which to skirmish, Sakura more often than not emerges victorious.

Drained, though. Frayed at the edges.

It startles her to know that she sometimes has an audience.

Bringing the back of hand across her forehead, she dabs at the shimmering sweat. An assistant hands her a small towel, bows, and retreats. Hitching a tired grin onto her face, she inclines her head. “Hokage-sama.”

Familiar, how he can show up jauntily in a chaotic atmosphere, a mess, and still manage to seem bemused. The political consequences of this recent skirmish unspoken between them. Hands in his pockets, he brings two fingers to his temples and flicks them toward her in an affectionate motion, channeling yesteryear. “Don’t bother with that, Miss Haruno.”

Sakura wrinkles her nose at his sarcastic drawl. “That does sound weird coming from you.”

“Ah, you see? So stick with ‘sensei.’”

Despite her exhaustion, she musters up the energy to stick out her tongue.

“Mature of you,” he sighs. “But of course, well done. Exceptional, in fact.”

“You didn’t watch my whole surgery just to praise me at the end?”

Kakashi smiles, the fabric forming folds that reflect expressions innate, the way she’s interpreted them for years and knows as well as the comforting wrinkles in a beloved shirt.

There’s something knowing in the set of his chin, the easy, languid way his weight settles onto one hip, almost irreverent.

“I’m here to tell you to go home,” he says gently. “It’s been hours. Days, really. Your capable staff will wrap up the rest.”

Perspiration, fluids; she wipes clammy hands on her coat. “Am I needed somewhere else?”

“No, I am simply invoking the powers of my grand office to send you home.”

Sakura narrows her eyes at him, swaying a bit on her feet. He’s not wrong about the rest, but she does resent his smugness in a situation where she’s unable to see the reason.

“Tell me why.” Raising her chin, she folds her arms, a stubborn root settling in for long, protracted and perhaps heated discourse.

Chuckling, his eyes twinkle in a manner just borderline risque enough to make her frown.

“He’s home.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Simmering rouge moving swift and fast through her cheeks, flooding out the pink from her exertion and becoming full-blown embarrassment. “Just say that first. Actually, no! No, don’t — how do you—?”

“He’s already checked in, report done. Doesn’t waste time chatting with me much anymore, I’m just his old, grey sensei.” Kakashi’s sigh is wistful, aiming at charming.

But his eyes are sharp, always watchful of everything and in particular, his loved ones. Can he see her shakes, or does he just see

tears gathering on her lashes, the nightmares ripping her from sleep the night before, and the night before that, and —

She’s sure she catches his self-satisfied wink as she hurries out on unsteady legs.

Weak knees, breathless, for all sorts of complicated reasons.

Plants watered. House slippers and shoes chivvied back into line, a neat row.

The scent of him: Of earth and salt, traces of forests and faraway lands and a bite — oh, that crisp bite of smoke and fire, heady and hot, from his essence rather than his clothes.

She finds it difficult to hold herself up, clinging to the threshold frame. Laid out across her couch he’s something of an enigma, an infamous man whose existence sparks ignorant prattle, the truth and falsehoods hoarded and passed as collective talismans. Half-informed tales of the team she adores and the man she loves.

Handsome, of course. That aspect has never changed, never will. Vulnerable, arm resting behind his head, the placid rise and sink of his chest. Managing to come back without summons but always, forever, at the precise and needed time.

Socked feet padding against the cold wood floor, (there was a rug, she needs a new one — knucklehead Hokage-in-the-wings spilled red wine all over it), she kneels next to the couch. Eyes following the cut edge of his jawline, the sovereign slope of his nose. And most of all, the unexpected serenity his face reflects, no furrows or creases in his expressions even in sleep.

There’s an object out of place, and its energy distracts her, draws her gaze. A basket of laundry that she assumes was gathered but unfinished, a medley of clothes he undoubtedly stripped off upon arriving tossed in with the several layers she’s been through in the last week, the sanguine fabric narrative of her journey to the void and back.

And yet.

On hands and knees she drags it across the floor until it's in front of her, snatches a shirt right off the top.

Bringing it to her face, she inhales the scent of devotion so potent that the tears come swift and sudden.

“Sakura?”

Sleepy, a little hoarse, but even on awakening the concern threads his voice through. Her, crying into a shirt he’s just washed for her; she sulks inwardly, feeling stupid.

When she tries to respond, struggling to force out some chirpy greeting and loving quip, it slips into impossibility. He reaches out to her, hand starting at the top of head to run through her clammy pink locks, then down to take her face in his fingers, a thumb gently swiping hot tears away.

“Sakura.”

A hitch in her breath; she struggles to swallow down the sobs clawing and turbid at the back of the throat. Pressing her face into his chest, she mumbles, “Welcome home, Sasuke-kun.”

Still with his hand on her head, fingers exploring her scalp in idle and soothing trails as tracing familiar ancient etchings, as memorizing braille.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, shifting onto his side. Taps his fingers against her head, gentle, a quiet ask.

Sakura’s face emerges pink, tearstained, with a wobbly smile that feels like a throwaway lie for a fool.

“I’m sorry! I don’t know what came over me. I’m so glad you’re—”

“Apologizing,” he interrupts. Like a quiet rumble, the purr of a prowling cat. “Ah, what did I say about that?”

“To stop it?”

Sasuke makes some noise of assent, from the throat rather than his lips.

And he looks at her and knows. He’s learned, but has always intuited this habit of hers since Genin days, the way she plasters on a smile and flashes those bright teeth to disarm fools. How deeply mortifying crying feels to her in certain moments, the way it becomes an acute weakness and liability, especially regarding work. Families don’t want to see your tears, only your triumph — the way you’ve bowed to Death and danced, and depart at the end of the number with their loved one’s soul as crown and winnings.

The problem being there’s rarely an expectation of anything less.

Now he’s sitting up, still cradling her face in his hand. Mismatched eyes searing, searching, flickering rapidly across her face.

“You’d better be off-duty now,” he says. “You look exhausted.”

“Oh, you sure know how to charm a girl,” Sakura sniffs. Leans into his hand and touch, raising no protests at the way his thumb continues to sweep away an endless estuary borne of things she can’t articulate. A gravity in her demeanor, at once present but faded into an unreachable inner sanctum and self.

Instinctual, the way his fingers remain in constant contact with her skin, cheek to hair to shoulder, trailing warm down her arm and finally to her cold, shaky hand.

Tugs her gently, indicating the space he’s made for her to sit.

“I have to—”

“There is nothing; I’ve done it all.”

There’s nothing for her to protest, no way for her to pretend she’s fine.

“Come closer.”

This act for her seems onerous, pulling her tired body into his lap appearing utterly spent, bereft. He keeps his comments to himself: That she has staff for a reason, that their ex-sensei-turned-Kage works her too hard and he’d made a curt mention of it when reporting back, that perhaps someone could take the task of laundering bloody work clothes off her hands. Their responsibilities even in this delicate period they call peacetime still weigh heavy, principle baked into their bones.

In the future, their children won’t know the world quite like this.

She melts into him with her heavy head against his heart, his fingers continuing their simple repetitions in the tangle of her hair.

Sasuke thinks of her shirt still soaking in the sink, one he labored on for a while before her return, desperately trying to lift the rubicund crimson from the white fabric.

Wondering if that one pulled through, for her sake.

Her grip catches his attention, as if her head is spinning and she needs rooting to the earth — fingers in his shirt, head tucked under his chin.

Sickle-cresents of leftover copper in the beds of her nails, the trials and triumph of a woman fighting back.

She says something he doesn’t catch, a flutter, possibly I love you.

What she does holds such importance, but he cannot imagine the cost. Pressing his mouth to her forehead, he speaks in a quiet chant in tender cadence with his fingers moving through her hair:

I’ve got you.

#SSBlankPeriod2021 #SSBPDay6 #sasusaku #psalloacappella:SSBP

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werevulvi · 4 years ago

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I'm starting to slowly understand that this de-transition I'm doing will probably always be pretty rough on me. I'm re-watching "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" for the millionth time. I guess, for being about a hyper-feminine, conventionally attractive girl, it's pretty empowering. And Giles is definitely my favourite, British dork. Buffy is empowering because she really doesn't need anyone to help her out, except when she wants help. She's the furthest thing from a helpless damsel in distress, but she's also vulnerable and in many ways, like any other teenage girl.

I guess I can relate to that, on the level of depths I rarely swim in. Except in reverse. Like I look really masculine, male, and very different from other women, but on the inside I'm still vulnerable, and understanding the world from having been socialised female, like I guess most women are, to various degrees. And I guess I'm holding onto that. Sometimes too much. Sometimes... even to my detriment.

But when your womanhood is almost literally hanging by a thread, and you treasure it... it's easy to clutch too damn hard at it, as if your life somehow depended on that grip. And I guess that's how Buffy got me thinking, really a lot. Thoughts that have been passing through my mind for a while now, finally stuck around long enough for me to grasp.

It feels like there's just no ideal solution for me. I'm still generally at a pretty good place with my gender and presentation now. There's nothing I really wanna change, except from going back on testosterone. But how satisfied am I really? That's the difficult question. I get these moments here and there, when I get... you know, sad. I guess I get jealous of women who still look like women. Like Buffy, and all those other female characters that I relate to (all three of them, lol.) Their ability to blend into society as one of the females. That which I once used to take for granted, and barely even was aware of, and did not even like.

As a teen and throughout most of my 20's, I didn't like the idea of "blending in" or looking "normal" as I saw that as equal to disappearing and becoming insignificant. I liked standing out, to look like a someone, instead of a no one. But for the past couple of years? Not so much. I don't have that same mindset anymore. Now I understand that when people don't pay attention to what I look like... they finally notice my personality. And I really like that. I feel no need to have an alternative style for the sake of expressing myself anymore, although I'm still drawn to tattoos and piercings. If anything, it rather hinders people from truly listening to me, because they're too busy judging my appearance!

Whether I stand out now or not, well... I do have kind of a choice over. Just not so much in my favour. Or well, it is, but at the same time not. I can blend in among men as a "normal" looking guy, which takes no effort and has become my go-to, but I can never do that as a woman. I mean, I'm not just recognised as a woman who is ugly or looks weird, or "too" masculine. I'm not recognised as a woman at all.

And yeah, sure, I'm fine with that. Not a big deal.

But sometimes I still mourn the loss of my ability to be seen as a woman, and not look like trash while doing it. Sometimes... I can't help but struggling to look at myself. It just gets so raw sometimes, and I feel ugly. Society's beauty standards still has a certain choke hold on me. I can't break free from that over night. Especially since I was a makeup addict for a really long time and only just recently stopped wearing makeup altogether. Especially since I struggled with an eating disorder, which I only just recovered from a few years ago. Especially since I previously used sex with men as a way to seek value and worth, but found the opposite, yet still crave that harmful lifestyle. I'm barely a stone's throw away from being the slave of femininity I once was. Perhaps transitioning was my unconscious way of attempting to break free from it. Yes, I think there could be some truth to that. I revel in my masculinity now, but the wounds femininity caused in me, still hurt. It took me about this long to even understand their existence.

My mind still makes these connections, that by "woman standards" I look... absolutely hideous. Bearded, balding, scars for tits, hair all over my body. Yeah, great. I feel disfigured. Like some kind of abomination. I'm just gonna have to live with that knowledge, and what it does to me.

Because sometimes I get lost in what I think other people must think I look like, as soon as I tell them I'm actually a woman. I've gotten looks of disgust from that, and I guess I just haven't quite figured out how to handle that sorta thing yet.

I know that every time I've tried to "present as female" again, I've regretted it and felt absolutely horrible. On one hand it's tragic, because societal beauty standards still make me break down over my appearance sometimes, in desperate attempts to make myself look beautiful again... and that's when I feel the claws of femininity scratching me up from within, all over again. That endless chase for unobtainable, so called "beauty" and the failure that's bound to follow. And I guess it's a little bit sad, that I think I look a lot hotter as a man, than I ever even could as a girl or woman, and that could be part of why I hold onto my male-like appearance as a comfort in my newfound masculinity.

But is that so bad?

This harsh weather of self-discovery demands a comfort blanket. But on the other hand, most days I actually feel great about the way I look, and I can even manage to still feel good about the way I look when I see myself as a woman. That is great progress!

I'm actually starting to be able to connect my womanhood with my masculinity, and when I do, I feel great. That's my "good days" and I have a lot more of them than those "bad days" when I feel disfigured. Because that feeling is relative, not objective. It's relative, not only to social gender norms for men and women respectively, but also to my own inner norms of my own gender, which are highly influenced by the norms of the society I live and grew up in. And I've noticed I actually have the power to adjust that broken compass within me that struggles to connect my appearance with my mind.

I think my dysphoria broke quite badly, when I started poking around in it. I mean, not only do I get envious of other women (who have not transitioned) but as soon as I present as female, I instead get jealous of men again, and feel even worse about the way I look! It's a catch 22!

I do not know what my tired, dysphoric heart craves, or if any physical change would really help me feel better. I still regret my top surgery, but no kinds of reconstructed boobs would be able to fill that empty void. Because it's not nearly as much physical as it is psychological. It's missing and grieving something very specific, which cannot ever return. And that too... I just have to live with.

However, I'm again trying out wearing fake boobs. Small sock tits in sports bras. As often as my deformed ribs can handle. It quickly gets very painful in the dents I caused by binding pre-op. I ordered some oversized sports bras and gel insertions, that I'm impatiently waiting for to arrive! In the mean time I try to make do with what I have, which is too small and too tight, but for an hour here and there, is alright. I feel good with the illusion of small boobs, something like barely a B-cup at most. It feels more like my body when it's not board flat, and it makes me feel better about being curvy as well. Otherwise I still wear the same men's clothes I'd usually wear. Flannels, jeans, hoodies, suits, etc. That's perfect. It feels a lot like me.

I really should have left my chest be. But I didn't. And that's okay. I'll manage.

I reach out to testosterone again for comfort. Familiar comfort that always made me feel better, and badass. I know it won't take my pain away. But honestly, that's okay. I actually want to keep my pain, anyway. Because it helps me heal and feel stronger again. I don't like being in pain, but I feel like it's rebuilding me, strengthening me from within, and forces me to re-think what's not working. Pain is my guide to comfort. That fire in my ass that keeps me moving.

So yeah, I'll live.

I'll keep breaking down sometimes, and feel like I made myself into the ugliest woman on Earth, but even that, I can draw some kinda power from. Being proudly ugly is definitely something I can do! And then I feel untouchable. When I remind myself that my "ugliness" is not only entirely subjective, but also... entirely deliberate. That I choose to not try to salvage my thinning head hair, because I do not need it. That I choose to let my beard grow out, because it brings me comfort. That I choose to keep my chest flat, despite all my difficult feelings I have about it, because it allows me to go topless and braless. And so on.

My deliberate ugliness, worn with pride and survival... I'd say is quite beautiful. That's what keeps me going. Dated: January 7th, 2021.

#detransition #femininity #gnc female #transition regrets #ugliness and beauty #female masculinity #gender dysphoria #deep thoughts #reflecting on my gender struggles #ok to rb #i try to add the date to all my posts now #because how else will anyone know in the future when it was posted

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crystaljins · 5 years ago

Text

Popcorn

Characters: Hoseok x Reader

Word count: 3.1k

Synopsis: You just want to watch a movie. Hoseok just wants you to rest. Secret agent!au.

Notes: Lovely @lilliaflurr requested Hoseok + Popcorn and I am SOFT for Hoseok cuddles. Like you know that video where Jungkook bangs his teeth on the mike and Hoseok gently cups his face? Or when Tae is sleeping and Hoseok gently kisses him? Yes, he would be good, good cuddler. But I also needed a bit of angst. Like salted caramel, it enhances the natural sweeetness.

Warnings: Mention of violence, surgery, being in hospital. OC is like blatantly checking Hoseok out THE ENTIRE TIME. It’s mostly just cuddling tho.

Hoseok is pretty even when he sleeps. He has long lashes that fan over sweet, rounded cheeks and lips that purse into a heart when he smiles. His hair is soft and falls into his face and his expression is so unguarded. You are surprised that he has fallen asleep beside you in the bed but the warmth and safety of his body against yours is not unwelcome. It is a rare sight to see Hoseok doing something as vulnerable as sleeping next to another human. Although, you suppose that after so many years as partner, you are not just another human to him. Especially after what he has just endured for you. You frown as you examine his face with more scrutiny- a bruise sits ugly on his jawline and the corner of his lip is cut and swollen.

Tentatively, you reach up to brush the errant strands of hair that fall into his face from his brow, exposing the smooth skin of his forehead. His lashes flutter at the ticklish sensation, and then soft but sleepy brown eyes peer at you curiously.

“You’re awake.” He says, and the words are so hushed they are almost whispered, like a secret that hovers between you. You don’t answer, instead choosing to trace your fingers wonderingly across the sharp edge of his jaw. How can he be so pretty? “You should be resting.”

He wraps long fingers around your wrist and gently tugs curious fingers from their journey across his face. You frown- you had wanted to memorise the planes of his face and the shape of his skin beneath your sensitive fingertips. You can’t chase away the feeling that it could all vanish at any moment if you don’t.

“I’ve rested plenty already. I’m ready to face the world, go partying, celebrate my discharge and all that jazz.” You say dismissively trying time tug your hand free, but your arms are weak and floppy. In such a short amount of time you’ve lost so much strength to your body. Tomorrow, you will start physio sessions to rebuild your strength, but tonight Hoseok had insisted you remain at home following your discharge from hospital. He had promised a movie night to keep you entertained but you had been so sleepy on pain meds after he helped you hobble into the apartment that he had insisted you go to bed right away. You vaguely remember being sleepy and delirious as you tugged on the fabric of his shirt to keep him beside you as you slowly nodded off. Now that you are more awake, you do not feel ashamed of your actions. The bed is far too wide and cold without him there beside you. He must have fallen asleep while keeping watch over you as he has taken to doing ever since you were hospitalised, but now you are both awake.

“Let’s watch a movie like you promised. We could go to the cinemas!” You cry excitedly. You shift and wince when you feel pain lance up your side. Hoseok’s eyes fly open and all traces of sleepiness leave his form. He shoots up into a sitting position and places a tender hand over where the bandages wrap firmly around your abdomen.

“Does it hurt?” He demands and he sounds like he’s the one who is hurt, rather than you. Alarmed by the reaction, you mutely shake your head.

“It was just uncomfortable when I moved.” You say. “I could feel the stitches pulling.”

Hoseok pulls an interesting face as he lowers himself back down so the he is once again lying beside you. He rolls himself onto his side so that he is staring at you. The expression vanishes as he smiles gently at you but the memory of it lingers. It is the same expression he had pulled when you collapsed after being stabbed. Like the world is crumbling around him and he’s only barely managing to hold it together. The thought that he is clearly agonised by what happened has you reaching out to wrap your fingers around his in what you hope is a comforting gesture. He stares at your interlaced hands for a long moment before raising his eyes back up to meet yours.

“What if, instead of a movie, you took more of your pain meds and rested just a little longer?” He suggests hopefully. You shoot him a look that you hope portrays your distaste for the idea. You literally cannot sleep a moment longer- you were in hospital for an entire week and spent most of it drowsy and knocked out on very strong pain meds.

“Hoseok.” You say sternly, and he offers you a sheepish smile.

“It was worth a shot. Fine, we’ll watch the movie. But we’ll watch it here- I’m not wheeling your crippled ass all the way to the actual cinemas.” He says, getting up and stretching with a yawn. The movement causes the loose fitted jumper he wears to rise up, exposing the bruises that are scattered across his abdomen. You stare at them forlornly- he had not escaped this incident unscathed either. You remember how desperately he had fought to get the two of you out of that warehouse but in the end it had not been enough. He was sorely outnumbered and hadn’t seen the man coming at him with knife in time. You had though, and your body had moved of it’s own accord. The last thing you recall is Hoseok cradling you as you lost consciousness. You don’t know how he got the two of you out alive after that and you’re not sure you want to know.

His hand catches yours before you can brush your fingers along the ugly bruise on his waist. You hadn’t even realised you were reaching for it.

“Now, now,” he says gently. “You aren’t worrying about me, are you?”

He raises your hand and presses a fond kiss into the palm of your hand. Your face flushes hot- the press of his lips is lovingly gentle.

“N-no.” You stammer quickly, flustered by the intimate gesture. He smiles against your palm and leans in close. “I just thought your skin looked really smooth.”

“Good. Cause I’d have to direct your attention to this general area if you were.” He says, gesturing to your heavily bandaged midsection. He reaches out to smooth errant hairs out of your face and you find yourself struggling to breathe for reasons other than the knife wound in your abdomen. “Come on. Let’s go to the living room.” He says. He steps in so close that the tail end of his breath rushes over the sensitive skin of your neck and then hooks an arm beneath your knees and one behind your back.

“Wait, Hoseok,” you protest when you realise his intention to lift you up, bridal style. “I’m too heavy-”

“Hush!” He sucks air between his teeth to shush you. He offers you a sharp, stern look before tucking you in close to your body so that your ear presses against his chest. The proximity is enough to shush you as he attempts to lift you. You can hear the steady and comforting thump of his heart against your cheek. Hoseok groans in exertion before realising that you are correct. He cannot carry your dead weight. He smiles awkwardly.

“I told you so.” You huff.

“I’ve been too busy looking after you to hit the gym.” He counters. “Wait here. I’ll get your wheelchair.” He stumbles off quickly and leaves you to huff after him in annoyance. It also gives you a moment to process. He has always been affectionate but there is something intimate and tender about the way he is handling you right now. Like you’re precious and breakable. It feels like he’s holding his breath every time he reaches out to touch you and it’s doing strange things to your insides. Which is saying a lot considering you are still recovering from major abdominal surgery where they literally did strange things to your insides.

You suppose you can’t blame him, after what the two of you had just endured. You’ve never been through an ordeal quite like this one, even though you are his partner. You’ve been his eyes and ears out on the field for a long time, helping him complete missions through his comms device while you remain safely at headquarters, watching him through a monitor.

Despite your partnership with Hoseok, one of the top agents in the company, you’re not a field agent by any means. But you are one of the top agents when it comes to breaking past cyber security walls. And that had been your job for a newly formed crime syndicate with big plans to hurt a lot of people. However, despite your skill, it had become clear that the only way you were breaking past your next target’s firewall was by physically hacking their main computer. Hoseok had been vehemently opposed to the idea. And with good reason too- although you are subject to the same fitness evaluations and health checks that field agents are, you are not trained to be out in the field. Still, people were in danger and access was needed to that computer and so the higher ups had decided that you would have to go in. Hoseok would accompany you and you had tried to reassure him that it was just like the missions where he had to escort foreign diplomats through highly hostile territories. He had rather angrily pointed out that this was in no way similar.

And, just as Hoseok predicted, the mission had gone south very quickly and the two of you had been separated. You’d woken up bound with zip ties in a warehouse- the plan by the people holding you had been to interrogate you and maybe forcefully recruit you to their side.

It had only taken Hoseok a few hours to find you and raise hell in that warehouse, but it still hadn’t been enough. You were hospitalised for a week and you still don’t know what happened for Hoseok to find you and rescue you or what happened in the time between when you were stabbed and when you woke up after the first surgery. You can’t imagine the things Hoseok must have seen and done, all by himself, without the support of his partner. Your heart aches. You didn’t mean to leave him alone to face all that, but the two of you had been backed into a corner. And now this is the pathetic state you are in.

Hoseok returns, carefully guiding the wheelchair into your bedroom. You could probably walk the short distance through your hallway to the living room where the TV is, but it had been no easy feat to get you into bed in the first place. You wait anxiously as Hoseok slowly approaches. He crouches by the bedside, with his front facing your profile. He slides a hand across your back as he supports your weight. It is frustratingly difficult to get yourself into a sitting position. But it is nothing compared to the explosion of pain when you attempt to stand, even with Hoseok’s assistance. You wince and bite bck a noise when you feel your sutures pull. Tears fill your eyes quickly and Hoseok is watching you so carefully there is no way he misses it. You’re so pathetic. The only reason you’re in this state is because you’re so incapable- if you were a field agent like Hoseok, you would have been able to support him, instead of getting stabbed and leaving him to fend for himself.

“Perhaps we should take a break. Or I can get you more painkillers-“ he says quickly.

“I don’t want more painkillers.” You say and no one is more surprised than you at the way your voice wobbles and tears spill down your cheeks. “They make me sleepy and I’m sick of sleeping.” You inhale slowly, trying to stave off a sob. “I’m sorry. I’m not even sure why I’m crying-“

Hoseok interrupts your sentence by reaching out to catch a tear that slides down your cheek with the pad of his thumb. His expression is careful, like he’s holding back something, and he tilts your face towards him with a hand on your jaw.

“It’s ok.” He reassures you. “You’re high on pain meds and you’ve just endured a highly stressful ordeal. Anyone would cry.”

“You went through it too, and you’re not crying.” You say and he offers you a tight smile.

“Trust me, (Y/N).” He says, and for the first time, you hear the brokenness he’s trying to hold off on your behalf leech into his voice. “I want to be crying. Now, do you want more pain meds, or do you want to watch the movie?”

His reassurance comforts you.

“I want to watch the movie.” You answer in a small voice. He smiles, pulling up the sleeves of his jumper to his hands to wipe away the last of your tears.

“Ok. How about we watch it in bed instead? I’ll go get my laptop and make some popcorn. We can watch 10 things I hate about you because I don’t know about you but I’m sick of action movies.” That makes you smile and his expression lights up with his success. “Atta girl.” He leans up and you freeze as he once more does something out of character- he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

It’s not that you don’t like it. You do like it- you like him. It’s just that it’s confusing because you don’t know where it leaves the two of you. Is he being affectionate because he wants a romantic relationship with you? Is this just his normal self and you just feel more conscious of him than usual? Or did he notice your crush on him and feel obligated to act this way because you took a knife for him?

A thumb pressing into your wrinkled brow startles you out of your thoughts. At his touch you release the tension you didn’t realise you had been holding in your face.

“We don’t have to watch a romcom if you don’t want.” Hoseok teases lightly. “There’s no need to look like the world is ending.”

“It’s not that…” You say. “It’s just… you seem different, is all.”

“A bad different?” He asks sheepishly. He drops his hand and lets it rest on the bed sheet beside you. You stare at it, missing the warmth of his fingers on your skin. His fingers are almost as pretty as his relaxed face as he sleeps.

“Not a bad different.” you admit quietly. “A confusing different. We weren’t like this before.”

Hoseok doesn’t look at you as he reaches for your hands. He fidgets with your fingers and the sensation is unusual but pleasant.

“Before I didn’t know what it was like to lose you.” He admits quietly. “I’ve held myself back for a long time. We had to maintain professionalism and all that stupid crap and I knew you liked me but I wasn’t brave enough to say anything. But then our bosses decided apparently your life means nothing to them and I lost you not once but three...” his voice cracks and he clears his throat. “Three times. When they first took you.” His hands tighten on your fingers. “When they stabbed you instead of me.” He inhales deeply and when he looks at you, you notice the way his eyes are red-rimmed and there are dark circles under his eyes but he’s still so pretty. “And when.... and when you had to go in again. After the first surgery. So now… screw bravery. I’m too scared not to do anything.”

His vice grip on your hands is borderline painful. You twist your hands in his grip and his fingers go slack against yours. You take the opportunity to lace your fingers with his. You’ve always wondered what it would be like, to want to hold his hand and just grab it on a whim. It’s nice. To just have the urge and just follow it. To not have to stress about how he’ll interpret it or whether he’s annoyed by it. You wonder if he’ll let you kiss him.

“But Hoseok.” You call. He had dropped his gaze to your joined hands, but he meets your gaze once more. “I lived, bitch.”

You expect him to smile. The universe had literally aligned to allow you to make that joke but he just frowns at you with a deadpan stare. You grimace. He sighs and shake his head.

“I almost don’t want to say it now, but what I was going to finish by saying that I realised I can’t live without you.” He admits. But then he frowns. “Actually, you know what? I don’t mean it anymore. I take it back.”

“You can’t!” You complain. “No takesies backsies.”

Hoseok shakes his head and this time he can’t resist the smile that slides onto his face.

“Well then I guess you’ll have to learn to live with this ‘confusing different’, if I can’t take it back.” He says, smoothing his thumbs over the back of your hands and leaning forward to press a warm kiss to the curve of your cheek. “Now if you excuse me, I have some popcorn to make and a laptop to go find.”

He stands and grabs your wheelchair, preparing to move it out of the room. You stop him before he goes.

“Before you go,” You say nonchalantly, fidgeting with your bedspread idly. “You might as well kiss me properly, since you can’t live without me and all.”

He shakes his head as he turns around and plants a hand on either side of you. He leans in so close that all you have to do is purse your lips to meet his. Your lashes flutter as your eyelids close and you feel your breath catch in your throat in anticipation. And then Hoseok smiles and kisses the tip of your nose instead.

“Maybe when you’re not high on pain meds.” He tells you. “And you’re well enough to go to dinner with me without a wheelchair.”

“You could always hit the gym again and try carrying me. Then we could go out to dinner right now.” You point out, and he laughs.

“Not a chance.” He says, turning to leave you. You pause to admire the firm lines of his back as he leaves.

He’s pretty even when he leaves.

#btsboulangerie #hoseok x reader #jhope x reader #hobi x reader #jung hoseok x reader #bts fluff #writing #1000followersdrabble

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bearly-writing · 5 years ago

Note

Your bingo fills are amazing and I love all of them! I think the one with Shiro and self surgery is my favourite. Or maybe the one with Pidge and water torture. Could I request Shiro and denied food as punishment? Perhaps with Pidge and/or Keith trying to help or being supportive or something like that?

Thank you very much! I’m not sure if any of the people who request these actually get around to reading them by the time I post them, but if you do - I’m so sorry for how long this took! Also I’m not sure if this is really what you were looking for but I hope you enjoy it anyway! :)

All of my prompts have now been requested! Thank you everyone who’s requested something - I know I’m getting through these painfully slowly, but I promise I am getting through them! :)

Eat Your Heart Out

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Prompt: Denied Food As Punishment

Characters: Shiro, Keith, Pidge, Hunk, Allura

Warnings: Starvation, Dehydration, Torture, Flashbacks, PTSD

Summary: It wouldn’t be so bad, Shiro thinks, if he could drink a little more water.

Read it on AO3 here!

“Please,” Shiro begs, a little desperately, because this has spiralled so completely out of his control. “They were acting on my orders. I will serve any punishment you deem necessary, but let the other paladins go.”

The aliens stare back at him impassively. It’s difficult to read the expressions on their faces when their anatomy is so different from a human’s, but Shiro can’t discern any pity there. His stomach tightens.

This was supposed to be an easy mission, a few weeks of scientific exchange, some diplomacy – something Pidge and Shiro could have handled in their sleep. Keith had only come with them as a precaution. It had all gone downhill so quickly that Shiro hadn’t even realised anything was wrong until it was too late, and Allura wouldn’t know anything for at least a few days, either. Their chances of rescue were slim. Even once Allura figures out what happens, their alliance will hinder her efforts to get them free. If Shiro doesn’t get the other paladins out of this now, they could all be trapped here for the foreseeable future.

“The other paladins must serve their sentence just as you must, Black Paladin. Following orders is no excuse.”

Shiro grits his teeth against the angry retort straining to escape. It’s hard to tamp down on the frustration though. The coalition is the important thing here, he tries to remind himself, and they’re well within their rights to demand punishment for a breach in their laws. Shiro has done worse things than jail time to keep an alliance member happy. It wouldn’t even be that bad, except Keith and Pidge are being punished right alongside him – and they can afford to be down Shiro, but all three of them will leave them without Voltron indefinitely.

“Please reconsider. Without the other paladins Voltron will be unable to form. You’ll be leaving countless alliance members vulnerable to the Galra. You must understand that Princess Allura cannot allow this to happen. I will take the punishment if you let my teammates go.”

Another imperious look. “We are unconcerned with Voltron. You have broken our laws, so you will face our punishment.”

That has Shiro’s heart sinking all the way down to his toes. No Voltron. And Keith and Pidge forced to suffer the punishment for a call Shiro had made.

“In light of the fact that the Red and Green Paladins were following your orders, we will allow you to take the worst of the punishment, Black Paladin.”

A little trickle of relief slides through Shiro’s chest. In truth, the sentencing had been a little vague - Shiro isn’t entirely sure what to expect. But if it means that Keith and Pidge will escape the worst of the punishment, he’ll happily take anything.

***

It wouldn’t be so bad, Shiro thinks, if he could drink a little more water. Humans are pretty resilient – Shiro knows that first hand, as well as from his survival training at the Garrison. A healthy person can last as long as forty days without food, if they have adequate hydration, sometimes longer.

Shiro doesn’t know how long he had lasted during his year with the Galra, although he knows it wasn’t as long as that. The Galra hadn’t been kind enough to postpone his arena battles whilst they slowly starved him. This is better, Shiro tells himself, in so many ways, because at least he doesn’t have to fight this time, doesn’t have to drag energy out of the dark void of his stomach, doesn’t have to worry about the fog in his head clouding his concentration whilst an enemy bears down relentlessly upon him. All he has to do is lie on the cold metal floor of the cell and try not to worry the other paladins too much.

Still, the Galra had given him water each time he had won – and he had won often, even if he wouldn’t kill for them. The memory sends a strange, cold shiver over his skin. His hands feel damp, as if they’re remembering the cool liquid against his palms. His throat works, spasming dryly around the memory. It’s the same desperate thirst he had felt in the arena, when he had thrown himself against the sand and sunk his hands, his face, whatever he could reach into the trough lined along the high metal wall. The water was always filthy, rank with blood and sweat and sand, but Shiro hadn’t cared then. He wouldn’t care now, he thinks, although the gritty, copper taste of it lingers uncomfortably on his tongue.

They allow him a few mouthfuls each day – enough to keep him alive for now, although there’s a small, dark part of him that acknowledges that it won’t be for long. Sometimes he considers not drinking it. Maybe it would be easier if he just let himself fade away.

But he can’t do that – not with Keith and Pidge in the cell right beside him, pale and concerned and angry on his behalf. He’s still the Black Paladin, even small and starved in some alien prison cell. He’s still their leader. If Shiro hadn’t given up through that long, awful year with the Galra, he’s not about to give up now.

Still, it’s difficult to hold onto that resolve when the door slides open and one of the aliens glides in, pushing a wheeled, metal food cart in front of them. There are three bowls balanced on top of it, along with three bottles of water. Shiro clamps down hard on the spark of hope that flickers to life in his chest. He isn’t stupid. He’s seen this tactic used too many times to actually believe that the third bowl is for him. The alien stops at the door to Keith and Pidge’s cell, eyeing them with obvious dislike.

“Move to the back of the cell,” he orders, voice cool and uninterested. There’s no movement – both Keith and Pidge stay standing where they are, as if frozen. Shiro feels his heart sink.

“Give Shiro his first.” It’s not a request – not that Keith can really order anyone around. He crosses his arms, eyes narrowed, and Shiro feels a strange mix of fondness and irritation creep through his chest.

“Keith,” he starts. “Just do what he says.”

“No. I’m not moving until he gives it to you.” There’s a stubborn set to Keith’s jaw. Pidge nods, as if Keith is being perfectly reasonable, tilting her own chin up defiantly. The alien doesn’t seem concerned. If anything, he looks bored.

“Then none of you will eat.”

The fondness in Shiro’s chest fades, and he knows that it’s the hunger clawing irritation behind his ribs, but he can’t stop it rising up his throat like bile. It’s the same every time, the pointless defiance, the self-sacrificing anger. There’s no point in it – whenever Keith and Pidge hold their ground, the aliens keep their word, and all of them go hungry. When they do give in, Keith is always furious at himself, even though it’s pointless. The first few times, Pidge had looked desperately for a way to pass some of her food to Shiro, but the wall of energy is an impenetrable barrier between them. It’s just another cruelty – the fact that the barrier is clear enough to seem as though they could just reach right through.

“Keith, this is pointless. You need to eat.” And Shiro doesn’t particularly like the desperation in his voice, but it’s better than the irritation he can feel pressing behind his teeth, and Keith acquiesces at the sound, shooting Shiro a wounded look, but dropping his arms to his side.

“Against the wall, then,” the alien says, still sounding bored, as if this is all some annoying inconvenience.

Keith’s eyes narrow further, but he moves dutifully to the back of the cell, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Pidge follows. The alien presses something beside their cell and the barrier at the front warps, allowing him to push the cart into the narrow space. Steam rises enticingly from each bowl as he places them on the floor, setting a bottle of water beside each of them, before stepping back out into the hall and letting the barrier slide back into place behind him. When he turns towards Shiro, the Black Paladin’s stomach clenches, tight and flat, too empty to even rumble.

“Move to the back of your cell.”

As if Shiro hasn’t just watched the same song and dance happen in the cell right next to his. Shiro moves without argument. But as he gets to his feet, his head spins. A strange dizziness rushes over him like a wave, as if all of the blood in his body has just sunk to his feet. Black spots burst across his vision, darkness descending over him like a shroud being pulled across his face, and Shiro stumbles, lightheaded. Catches himself awkwardly against the barrier between the two cells. Distantly, he can hear Pidge crying out as he crashes into the wall. Feels, rather than sees Keith jerk towards him. There’s a sharp burst of electricity as Shiro makes contact and he falls back with his own cry, landing heavily on the metal floor. For a long moment, he just lies there, panting, listening to his pulse rushing in his ears and the worried babbling of the other paladins. When his vision clears, he pulls himself carefully into a sitting position, blinking quickly to keep the darkness at bay. The alien regards him with cool indifference.

“Against the wall,” it says, again, as if Shiro is being purposefully obtuse.

“He’s sick,” Pidge snaps from her own cell as Shiro shuffles backwards on his ass. “He needs food. You’re killing him.”

The alien doesn’t pay her any attention and Shiro doesn’t have the energy to warn her against antagonising him. His head is still spinning lightly, as if he can feel the rotation of the planet underneath him, and it’s rolling an uncomfortable nausea through his stomach, even though there’s nothing in there for him to throw up. He clenches his teeth against the sensation, slides all the way to the back of the cell, carefully not touching the wall behind him even though all he wants to do is lean back against it.

The alien touches the same spot outside the cell and the barrier warps, allowing him access. The smell hits Shiro immediately, rich and meaty, and Shiro’s stomach turns. Saliva floods his dry mouth and Shiro has to swallow thickly. It’s difficult to tell whether he actually wants to eat. His stomach is so empty that it rebels against the idea of being filled. Not that there’s actually any chance of that happening.

The alien picks up the remaining water bottle with one tentacle-like arm, rattling it enticingly before unscrewing the lid. A small paper cup sits next to the food bowl on the cart, and Shiro watches with a creeping feeling of despair as the alien pours a mouthful of water into the cup, then places that on the floor. Shiro shuts his eyes and lets his head drop against his chest. There’s no reason to watch the alien retreat. Shiro had known he wouldn’t be offered any food even before the alien had arrived. He never is.

“This is bull,” Keith snarls as soon as the alien has retreated to wherever they take the leftover food once they’ve finished taunting Shiro with it. Probably, they just dump it in the garbage. Shiro has to clench his teeth against the anger bubbling up his throat at that thought. “They can’t do this.”

“Yes, they can,” Shiro sighs, and the words come out strangely thick. “Just eat, Keith. Please.”

There’s a beat of strained silence. Shiro imagines he can hear Keith’s teeth grinding together.

“Keith…” Pidge murmurs, gently touching his arm, and Shiro’s chest throbs. He wants so suddenly that it takes his breath away. Not just for the steaming bowls of food sitting innocuously on the floor before them, but for the casual intimacy of that touch. It feels like forever since anyone has touched him, and Shiro isn’t a stranger to isolation, but it still sends a flash of hurt spiking through his chest. Keith huffs but some of the tension drains out of his body and he drops to the floor, crossing his legs underneath him, and pulls the bowl into his lap.

“This is still bull,” he growls, but he scoops a handful of what looks like stew into his mouth and chews carefully.

Shiro picks up his own meagre cup and takes a miniscule sip. The liquid is heaven in his dry mouth. His throat works around the little trickle of water. He can’t help taking another sip, even though he should ration it as much as he can. It’s not enough to satisfy him, but it unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Washes a little of the awful gritty dryness away. His stomach cramps unhappily, and Shiro sets the cup down before he can spill any of it. Then he drops his hand to his belly, pressing it flat against the taut skin, trying to quell the painful clench. It works about as well as it always does.

“Are you OK?’ Pidge asks, sharp, and Shiro has to work hard to keep his face carefully blank. It’s not as if there’s anything they can do for him anyway.

“I’m fine,” he manages and his voice is surprisingly steady. He presses his fingers hard against his stomach. They’re bright points of pain, sharp against the dull, aching cramp of his gut. With his other hand, he takes another trembling sip of water. There’s less than a mouthful left, just sad little trickles running down the side of the cup, wet against his lips, soaking into his dry skin. Shiro has to tighten his aching throat against the groan that tries to slip out.

“Just eat.”

Pidge’s jaw flexes, but she acquiesces, taking a tentative bite of her own stew and Shiro shuts his eyes to block out the sight and tries very hard not to think about exactly how hungry he is.

***

The crowd roars, a raucous swell of sound, crashing over Shiro like a wave. Shiro barely hears them over the rush of blood in his ears, his ragged pants. There’s always shouting. Shiro learned to tune it out a long time ago.

That isn’t difficult today, Shiro feels as though a thick blanket has been pulled over his head. He can hear his own panted breaths, his thrumming pulse, the shift of sand beneath his feet, but the rest of the world seems strangely muted, as if he’s straining to hear it through cotton wool. Black spots flash across his eyes, mottled shadows flickering in his peripheral vision. He blinks rapidly to clear them. It doesn’t work as well as he had hoped.

Champion, champion, champion.

Shiro sways. Tightens his grip on the weapon in his hands. It slides against his palms, slick with sweat. It’s hot out on the sand, but Shiro feels chilled to the bone, a constant tremor shivering over his skin.

Champion, champion, champion.

His stomach is pressed flat. His throat aches, so dry it feels cracked open. He’s desperate for a little water. Just a mouthful. He would kill for it. He would…No…

The door on the other side of the arena opens and a figure stumbles out onto the sand. They’re small: it’s hard to judge from so far away, but Shiro guesses they only reach his waist. The thin sword grasped in one hand is trailing across the floor, as if they don’t have the strength to lift even that thin weapon.

It’s a sacrifice. It’s a test.

Sharp claws press into the meat of Shiro’s shoulder, prick holes in the thin material of his prison suit, draw blood.

“Kill them and you can eat, Champion.”

And Shiro aches.

“Shiro?”

Shiro startles into consciousness. Blinks. Struggles to orient himself. There’s no roaring crowd. No sacrificial opponent. The tight ache of his stomach is the same. So is the dry agony in his throat. But there’s hard metal at his back rather than sand and the skin of his shoulder is smooth and whole – no sharp claws buried in his flesh. Shiro drags himself upright, holding himself steady with his prosthetic arm when the world spins dizzyingly around him.

“Shiro?” Keith asks again, and Shiro swallows hard. He’s not entirely sure what that was and it’s a sharp, unsettled sensation in his chest. Was it a memory? A nightmare? A flashback? It’s difficult to untangle his thoughts, to see past the hazy fog of hunger in his head. It hurts.

Shiro can deal with the low, cramping pain in his gut. Can deal with the headache pounding behind his eyes, the weakness, the constant, aching cold. What he is struggling with are the flashbacks, the nightmares, the strange half-formed thoughts and sensations. It’s hard to avoid them. The starvation has drawn a cold, fuzzy blanket over his head, as if he’s draped in thin cotton. It’s difficult to think. Difficult to distinguish what he’s experiencing now, with what he experienced then.

“Are you OK?” Pidge asks, and Shiro has to fight against the memory of Matt’s voice, of that same concern and fear and anger. He nods and his head feels strangely loose on his neck, as if he isn’t totally in control of it.

“I’m fine.” His mouth is so dry that his tongue sticks to the roof and the words come out slurred and almost unintelligible. Shiro blinks and Pidge’s face wavers in front of him, pale and concerned. “Did you guys get to eat?”

“Not yet.” Keith appears at her shoulder and Shiro starts. He had almost forgotten the red paladin was here. A little trickle of unease burns through the fog in his head. How could he forget about Matt? His friend could be injured. He could be hurt. He could be starving to death just as Shiro is in some awful Galra prison camp.

No. That’s not – it’s not Matt Shiro had forgotten, it’s Keith. Matt is right in front of him, frowning, glasses shining in the harsh light. Except that’s not right either.

“You should eat,” he tries, because that seems safe. Because he was worried about that – his own stomach is too tight to eat anything but Matt should – no, not Matt.

“We will,” Pidge says, softly. And, oh – Matt isn’t here, it’s Pidge and Keith trapped here with him. It’s Pidge and Keith who are suffering with him. He runs a shaky hand over his face and is surprised by the dry catch of his own palm.

“Are you sure you’re OK?” Keith asks, and his voice is sharper, harsher, than Pidge’s.

Shiro frowns, irritation swelling in his throat. “I told you I am. Please, just eat.”

“They haven’t brought any food yet, we’ll eat when they get here. Shiro, I’m worried about you – you can’t keep going like this. They’re killing you.”

That’s probably true. Shiro isn’t sure how much longer he can last with less than a mouthful of water a day. His head throbs and his whole body throbs along with it, as if the pain is in his blood. Soon he won’t even have the energy to sit up.

“Shiro? Answer me.”

Shiro blinks. Was there a question? Has he missed something? He struggles to focus on the other paladins, fighting against the blurry haze of his vision. Both Keith and Pidge are clustered as close to the barrier as they can get without touching it, fear slashed across their faces. Full bowls of food have somehow materialised on the floor beside them. When Shiro turns his head, confused, one of the aliens is standing at the barrier to Shiro’s own cell. Did Shiro pass out? A cold shiver of fear slides over his skin. How much time did he lose?

“Move to the back of your cell,” the alien orders, with the tone of someone who’s had to ask more than once.

“How?” Keith snaps, and Shiro wants to tell him not antagonise them, but he can’t work the words out of his dry mouth. “He’s sick. He can’t move.”

“Then he will go hungry.”

As if Shiro isn’t already hungry. As if they’ve given him anything to eat since they imprisoned him. But the water – Shiro is desperate for even a few drops. His throat aches with it. His lips are so dry that Shiro thinks they would be bleeding if he had any liquid left in his body. If he can just summon the energy to move, he can wet his mouth a little, he can last a little longer. A groan slides out of his throat before he can stop it.

Keith crowds even closer to the barrier, frantic. “Shiro?”

Shiro tries to lift his head, but he doesn’t even have the strength to do that. His heart punches against his jaw, against thin, dry skin, too quick, too frantic. Black spots bloom across his vision, even though he’s still lying on the floor. Even though there’s no reason to feel faint, to -

***

A hand touches his arm. Shiro starts. It can’t be time for another fight – not yet. Hadn’t he just got back from the last one? His body hurts, his head throbs. He must have taken a beating. It isn’t time. But his mouth is as dry as the arena sand so maybe it has been a while – or maybe he just hadn’t won.

“No,” Shiro tries to say, but the words stick in his mouth, thick and tacky like tar, like blood. It doesn’t matter anyway, Shiro’s pleas have always fallen on deaf ears. The Galra don’t care whether he wants to fight or not.

“It’s OK,” someone says, close by his ear. And Shiro recognises that voice, distantly. He tries to force the memory of its owner through the fog in his head, but it’s buried too deep.

The hand shifts. There are no claws, no fur. The arm that wraps around his back and heaves him off of the ground is definitely human.

“I’ve got you, hold on, we’re getting out of here.”

Hunk. That’s Hunk. Shiro blinks and the Yellow Paladin wavers into view, his face tight and angry. From somewhere behind him, Allura’s voice snaps out like a whip, sharp with fury.

“This is utterly unacceptable! If I had known, I can assure you -”

Shiro misses the rest of her words because Keith and Pidge are suddenly crowding into the cell with him, Keith ducking under the arm that isn’t already supported by Hunk’s broad shoulder. The world spins dizzyingly around Shiro as they right him. If there was anything left in his stomach, Shiro might be afraid of throwing up. Instead, his stomach just clenches angrily, splashing acid up his throat, burning sharp and harsh against dry flesh. His head lolls loosely against his shoulders.

Hunk’s arm tightens around his back. Then cool hands touch his face, brushing his bangs away from his eyes, and Shiro would flinch but his muscles won’t obey his commands.

“How long have they denied him food and water?” Allura asks, and her face is very close to his, her brows furrowed in concern. Her palms are dry against his skin.

“The whole time.” Keith’s voice is tight, practically vibrating and Allura’s face contracts at the words. If that anger were directed at Shiro, he would be quaking under her glare, but her touch stays gentle and when she speaks again her voice is very soft. “I’m sorry we took so long to get to you, Shiro. We were not aware…” Her voice cracks. “You do not need to suffer here a moment longer.”

It’s OK, Shiro wants to say. The words die before they even reach his throat.

It was worse with the Galra, he wants to say, although that probably won’t make them feel much better. At least this time he had known they would come for him. At least this time he wasn’t alone.

“Come on, Shiro,” Allura says, gently. “Lets get you home.”

#badthingshappenbingo #prompt: denied food as punishment #Voltron legendary defender #shiro #keith #pidge #hunk #allura #fanfiction #my writing #starvation tw #dehydration tw #torture tw #flashbacks tw #ptsd tw

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raendown · 5 years ago

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Pairing: none (unless I ever get around to writing the rest) Word count: 1770 Summary: This is the moment. He can feel it. This is the moment he will change the course of their future. (And he does but doesn't. It is the past the changes the future, erases itself, and builds anew.)

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Amends to the Dead

Dust rises in clouds and is tamped down by streams of water and flame. Dirt sprays and gives under twisting heels. Blood spills and drips, oozing from wounds and soaking in to the thirsty earth beneath them. They clash and spring apart, come together and twist aside, again and again and again in the same dance they have engaged in since they were children. This is just another battle in an endless war and Tobirama is tired. But he is not too tired to go as he knows he must. If Hashirama will not put down the dreams of his youth then Tobirama must be the one to bear the weight of the present; it is not a duty he enjoys but it is one he knows well and he will not falter.

The moment is right. He can feel it in his bones and hear it in the screaming wind that rebounds from a jutsu on the far side of the forest clearing, shifting the clouds of steam that he has concealed himself within after his jutsu crashed against Izuna’s in a spectacular show of chemical reaction. Kunai spring to his hands and as he rushes forward he throws them ahead of himself, aiming not actually towards his target but beyond him. Injury is not the purpose of these blades. They are not for the bite but to mark the kill.

His sword is drawn as he bursts from cover, stepping in to position. Izuna meets his eye and for a split second it’s like the younger man knows what is about to happen. Surely he can see his impending death shining in Tobirama’s bloody red eyes. Tobirama hopes he doesn’t. Izuna may be his enemy by circumstance of birth, he might be cursed the way all Uchiha are, but Tobirama holds no true ill will for the other man. He doesn’t know him enough to hate him. Such is the way of life in their generation and though the Uchiha clan pose the greatest threat to his own out of the rest it does not make them different from any other faceless foe seeking to strike down what is his.

Chakra gathers under his skin until his entire body hums with power and he steps – through space and time he steps and every fiber of his being sings with the current that carries him forward. His blade is drawn and aimed, his strike will be true. Izuna will die with a blade through his chest between the third and fourth rib bones and Tobirama-

Light flashes. Tobirama jerks to a stop, unable to cry out in pain for the sheer shock of the blade that sinks in to his chest. Or quite possibly it is the shock of the face that stares back at him, expression grim and grip steady on the familiar sword in his hand.

It is himself. It is his own face yet deeply lined with age. He can hear the cries of shock as more and more people spot the strange distortion: Senju Tobirama stabbing himself through the only weak point in his thick blue armor. He can feel blood bubbling up until it trickles slowly from between his lips and still he does not move. The sword in him shifts, pulls back, and it tugs his flesh in to the motion until he falls forward against his elder self’s chest. Izuna meets his eyes over the shoulder of familiar plates of armor, as stunned and immobile as he is.

His breath ruffles white fur at the same time as hot air washes over his ear and his own voice speaks in a low, terrible whisper.

“Better my own death than Izuna.”

He wants to gasp but his lungs won’t let him. His fingers claw at the figure holding him in a strangely gentle way – and he listens to himself speak in that awful dead tone.

“I broke it all; the entire world. This moment is when it all fell apart. I ruined my brother’s dream of peace when I put that blade through Izuna’s chest. Let him live. Let Brother offer Madara his hand once more and let the world be rid of the plague that is myself.” Tobirama feels his older self bow his head, lips parting but releasing no sound.

He almost thinks that this must be the limit of human pain until suddenly it doubles, triples, as the sword inside of him is pulled out. A fatal move, he knows. His mind cannot help but remind him calmly that one should never remove an object from a wound until there is a healer ready to begin surgery. His knees collapse and his mind is focusing on the strangest things, skittering away from the gaping hole in his chest. The mud from his jutsu is uncomfortable underneath his knees. A single patch of grass in front of him has somehow avoided being churned with the rest of the dirt, shimmering a rich wet green like a beacon of growth in the midst of so much death just as Hashirama stands amidst the waves of dismissal from his own people and dreams his dreams of peace. His skin feels warm and it strikes him as odd; doesn’t every cliché say that he should feel cold?

Distraction only works for so long, just the few seconds it takes for his form to slump forward. His core is damaged, weak, and he finds he does not have the strength to hold himself upright. The same moment that his shoulder impacts the ground, bearing the brunt of his weight and dragging a piteous groan from his lips, the air is rent by a terrible screeching. Touka, he thinks distantly. She’s seen him fall.

From the corner of his vision he can see the older version of himself standing straight, holding out his own hands and looking down at them with the strangest expression of relief. Incredibly, his fingers are rapidly becoming translucent, fading in to the air around him as the rest of him begins to do the same.

“Ah, yes,” he murmurs in his broken voice. “I am disappearing, erased by an earlier death. As it should be.”

Just barely a dozen feet away Hashirama and Madara stand in perfect stillness, their weapons still resting against each other yet neither paying attention to their opponent any longer. Hashirama gapes openly when this strange vision of his brother begins to stagger towards him with one arm stretching to reach out to him in supplication.

“Brother,” the fading man calls. “Brother…how I’ve missed you…”

Mere inches before their skin can touch the fading completes itself, turning a solid man in to shards of light that scatter on the fading breeze. Another moment passes. Touka screams again and it’s as though her voice shatters the stillness. Hashirama dashes forward towards his fallen brother with a cry of his own, sinking to his knees in the mud and pulling the younger man in to his lap.

The entire battlefield holds its breath, both Senju and Uchiha, as Hashirama presses two fingers to his sibling’s neck. When he sobs with relief and lights his hands with the glow of healing green a collective shudder passes through them all, even some of the Uchiha who fear for their life each time they leave the compound without the safety of their second heir’s presence. Izuna himself backs away from the scene they make slowly, crawling to his brother’s side and watching as Touka hurls herself down in his place, a fierce light in her eyes where there would be tears on a weaker woman.

“How can I help?” she demands.

“Chakra,” Hashirama grunts. “I’ll need chakra. He’s already too far from me.”

“Take mine. Take all of it.”

“He wouldn’t want your life in exchange for his.” By contrast, Hashirama’s face streams openly with tears and he shakes his head, expression solemn and regretful as he shatters inside. “That isn’t his way.”

Madara slips an arm around Izuna’s shoulder and gestures to the rest of his forces without looking at them. Not a single one of them protest when he signals the retreat. There is no honor to be found in senseless slaughter, in striking while the enemy mourns, and so the Uchiha begin to slip away in silence. Madara and Izuna are the last to go, watching in amazement as one by one the Senju fighters approach their leader and kneel, offering their chakra to heal the man who fell.

How is he so precious, they wonder, the man who feels nothing?

It’s a question they have no need to ask out loud, one they already know the answer to. All kin are precious. More than bodies to fall and soldiers to expend, their family are their anchors in this blood-soaked ocean of death, more precious than jewels no matter that very few of them live to see their third decade. All shinobi are born to die but they are born loved. Learning to fight does not mean they forget how to feel.

Madara turns his brother away but looks back one more time for himself. He watches the friend he once considered a brother, the tears streaming down his face as he begs the body under his hands to hold on for just a little longer. He watches the man he thought the most bloodthirsty of them all bleed out from a wound none of them understand. If he survives there will be answers. Only he will ever be able to explain how there came to be two Tobiramas, how one of them looked old and worn, the desperation on his face as he reached for Hashirama, why he chose to kill himself instead of his greatest enemies.

As a man who hates unsolved mysteries Madara wants those answers. And as a brother who recognizes that Izuna could have been the one bleeding out in his arms instead, well, it leaves him hoping for something he never thought he would ever hope for.

He hopes Tobirama survives. Not just for his own sake but for Hashirama as well. For the first time in his life he understands that the only way for either of them to come out on top in this senseless war is for one to lose their precious brother, their last surviving sibling. If he cannot even contemplate the idea of surviving so much pain himself how can he possibly ask Hashirama to do the same? How can he ask anyone to suffer losses he won’t?

Perhaps it is time to revisit old dreams at last.

#rae writes #tobirama #hashirama #madara #izuna #fanfiction

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thewanderingdelusion · 5 years ago

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Fictober Day 3

Prompt #1: “Now? Now you listen to me?”

Title: By The Blood

Rating: T

Warnings: Blood

—

The scent of sickness filled Jonathan’s nostrils. The heavy wooden door fell closed behind him, rendering the room in near total darkness. It didn’t matter, he could see just fine. He cast his eyes about, taking in the horrendous state of the house. Beds lined the ground floor, each filled with sick patients. Some were moaning piteously, still desperately clinging to life. Most were mercifully dead. Blood and sick stained the sheets and spilled onto the floorboards in a potent miasma of misery.

Jonathan took a moment to close his eyes in sympathy to those few still unfortunate enough to be alive. Their final hours would be anything but pleasant. To the dead, he paid no mind at all. With his peace made, he set off towards the stairs, uncaring of the muck that he walked through.

Boots clopping heavily on the worn wooden staircase, Jonathan made no effort to hide his presence. He wanted her to know he was here. The top floor was in far better shape than the one below it. A well-lit table, surrounded by carts of surgical equipment and cabinets of medicine. An impressive surgery room, all hidden away in a small house in back-end London.

A body was laid out on the table, with a nurse furiously performing CPR. She did not look up as Jonathan approached. “Doctor, his blood is clotting rapidly. I need 20cc of anticoagulant. You can find it and a syringe in the cabinet behind me.” Her directions were crisp and precise, her compressions never once faltering.

“Nurse…” Jonathan said softly.

She pressed on. “Then I’ll need an IV tube and a bed pan. I’m going to drain this out of him!”

Jonathan spoke more firmly. “Nurse Fontaine.”

“This man’s life is at stake, doctor! If you refuse to help then I ask that you please not distract me!” She was panting heavily, sweat dripping down her face.

He grabbed her arm and forcibly pulled her away. “Nurse Fontaine, that is quite enough! This man is already dead. You know this!”

She finally met his gaze, eyes brimming with tears she wouldn’t allow herself to shed. Not of sadness, she was too used to death for that, but of frustration, of being unable to help, despite her expertise. She ripped her arm away from Jonathan, her breathing slowly returning to normal. She made herself busy by washing away the blood and fluids on her hands in the nearby sink.

While allowing her time to compose herself, Jonathan examined the corpse. Skin ashen and expression twisted, every vein in his body bulged out against his sunken skin. Jonathan didn’t have to touch him to know his blood had hardened into something as strong as stone.

“He has been dead for nearly an hour.” Jonathan said. “Just how long were you planning to keep trying?”

Fontaine didn’t respond, continuing to scrub away at her hands. He allowed her to keep her silence, and instead took in the homemade surgical room. “It’s truly impressive what you’ve made here, nurse. You’ve managed to make a hidden away little hospital. A place where those who cannot afford a proper hospital can come and seek healing. While I doubt the police would appreciate your unregistered practice, you should feel proud of what you’ve managed to build here.”

She slowly turned off the tap, but she still did not face him. Her eyes were glued to color of red blood swirling down into the drain. Finally, she spoke. “You were right, doctor.” Jonathan raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, letting her continue. “This disease…it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It completely coagulates the blood, halting all body function. And the infection rate…this could grow into a pandemic that could encompass all of London.”

“Now? Now you listen to me? Why not back at the hospital, where I showed you my findings?” He asked.

Here, she turned to face him, her composure restoring her to the fierce woman he knew. “I needed to see it for myself. There’s only so much you can learn from ink and paper, doctor, but Cragshaw refuses to allow me to treat patients on my own.”

Jonathan gave an acquiescing nod. “While an excellent chief physician, Cragshaw sometimes allows his own prejudices to get the better of him. Indeed, it is because of him that I am here.”

She eyed him warily, one hand dropping down to a tray of scalpels. “And what exactly do you mean by that? Has he sent you to teach me a lesson for, how does he like to put it, reaching above my station? I won’t apologize for helping people who have no where else to turn, doctor.”

“I assure you, nurse Fontaine, that Cragshaw has no idea I am even here. I came here because I need your help.” Jonathan gestured to the corpse on the table. “As you said, we are facing down a major epidemic of an unknown disease, but Cragshaw refuses to acknowledge that. He is convinced that classical treatment will defeat the disease through attrition. He is putting hurdles in the place of investigating new methods of treatment.”

Fontaine bit her lip. “That…that is distressing to hear. From what I’ve been able to gather, the disease is highly contagious. Without a way to combat it, it will spread across the city like wildfire.”

“Exactly, nurse Fontaine. And I need your help in order to stop that from happening.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And just what do you care about a plague that affects blood? Worried you’ll run out of food?”

Jonathan snarled, his fangs glinting in the light. “What ever your opinion on my affliction may be, nurse, I will assure you that I am a doctor first and everything else second. This disease could wipe out all life in this city before spreading across the country and I will do everything in my power to prevent that. If Cragshaw refuses to help, then I will pursue my own cure outside of his domain.”

She stared at him for several moments, before a smile spread across her face. She dropped the scalpel she held back onto the tray with a clatter. “An altruistic vampire? Truly, these are bizarre times. Very well then, doctor. If you’re asking for my help, then you have it.”

Jonathan composed himself. “So, you believe that I truly want what’s best for London?”

Fontaine rolled her head back and forth. “Not sure I believe that, but I do believe that trying to practice medicine outside of a hospital without permission makes you a criminal, just like me. I respect someone willing to cut through the bollocks of bureaucracy to get results.” She held out a hand. “I suppose this makes us partners, then?”

Jonathan clasped her hand with great relief. “Indeed, it does, nurse Fontaine. I’m quite pleased to have you on my side in this endeavor.”

“So, where do we begin?”

“From what I’ve been able to gather, a majority of those infected have been living in or living near the slums. I’m going to head there first and try to find an origin point.” He said.

Fontaine looked concerned. “Is it a good idea to head into a center point of an epidemic?”

Jonathan simply shrugged. “As I can’t contract the disease, I’m in a unique position to perform hands-on research without fear of infection.”

She blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Fontaine hesitated for a moment, then, “Do you really think we’ll be able to beat this, doctor?

Jonathan didn’t allow any of the hesitation or doubt he felt show. “I think that we’re going to try.”

#Fictober19 #Fictober #writing #my writing

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apricotbuncakes · 6 months ago

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sigh

I've finally caved and have gotten one of those 'play games and earn cash' apps. Like yeah, I know that working at my actual job would wield more cash per hour than this but I cannot express how desperate I am for money on demand. Cuz I can immediately put whatever I cash out with into my top surgery savings instead of waiting for donations to my Gofundme or Paypal.

And yeah, it's going to take hours away from me to get even just five bucks, but that's time that I wasn't able to work anyway.

Think of late nights when work is closed but I'm not sleeping. Think of the early mornings that I can't reasonably expect someone else to wake up to take me to work. Think of when all the shifts are taken up and I can't schedule myself anymore. And when I'm on my way to Dr Appointments or other meetings. When I can't physically work but I still need to buy things.

It's not ideal and it's annoying but like, it's better than nothing.

#i really am desperate at this point #like what the hell am i supposed to do?#im going back to school so i dont have to work on a job that i dont even really have a passion for anymore #i love being a lifeguard but god i dread coming in to work #anyway #please donate if you can #please donate #transgender #lgbtq #trans #lgbt #trans masc #nonbinary #ftm

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artthetransguy · 6 years ago

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‼️ You do NOT need dysphoria to be trans‼️

Starting off I should say I'm a binary trans person, I have dysphoria, I've been out for 6-7 years I think, I am medically transitioning (been on T over 3 years and almost 7 months post op top surgery), and I used to identify as a truscum and transmed. I'm going to rebut the common arguments that truscum, transmeds, terfs, and transphobes make. I will also attempt to answer questions others have (I originally posted this on Facebook and some of my friends had questions). I will mostly be arguing by citing information, but I will also tell my thoughts and opinions, as well as personal experience. 😡Arguments truscum/transmeds, terfs, & transphobes make😡 ⭕️"You need dysphoria to be trans". Not true. So first off, what is dysphoria? The medical definition of dysphoria defined by Merriam-Webster is "a state of feeling unwell or unhappy"(https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/dysphoria). Anyone can have dysphoria, even cisgender people, so this argument makes no sense. Does this mean that cis people who have dysphoria (which they can and do experience) are trans? no of course not. Why? because that's not what being trans means. I do realize that trans people will shorten 'gender dysphoria' to just 'dysphoria' like when they say "my dysphoria is really bad today" you know they are (usually) talking about gender dysphoria. What else is wrong with this argument? When I rebut this argument (which I do a lot) I usually say: 💬"how do you know?", I get responses such as "It's common sense", "you're so stupid/a dumbass", "it's science", but they can never, and have never provided a (reputable) source that says this. (I say reputable because I have gotten, and I'm paraphrasing, "my 20 year old friend who is about to get top surgery and has been on T for years says you need it" to which I replied "I'm also 20 and just had top surgery a few months ago and have been on T for over 3 years. Does that make me credible?" He didn't think so). 💬"What kind of dysphoria?" They then may say "you need some kind of dysphoria" or "you can't like *insert body parts here* and be trans". Well, what about the people who have finished their transition and no longer have dysphoria? are they still trans? Not all people will have dysphoria about the same parts. Some trans people have hair dysphoria, voice dysphoria, chest dysphoria, bottom dysphoria, social dysphoria, and the list goes on. ⭕️"Trans is short for transitioning so if you don't (medically/physically) transition, you aren't trans". No, it is not. Trans is short for transgender, not every trans person can or wants to transition. They may not transition for medical reasons, safety reasons, or they just don't want to. ⭕️"Having dysphoria doesn't mean you hate yourself/you have to suffer" This argument before made sense to me because I was misinformed about what gender dysphoria was, as are many others. What is gender dysphoria? The medical definition of gender dysphoria defined by Merriam-Webster is "a distressed state arising from conflict between a person's gender identity and the sex the person has or was identified as having at birth 'A significant incongruence between gender identity and physical phenotype is known as gender identity disorder; the experience of this state, termed gender dysphoria, is a source of chronic suffering'. — Louis J. Gooren, The New England Journal of Medicine, 31 Mar. 2011"(https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictiona…/gender%20dysphoria). Another important point in this is the "a distressed state" in that definition. Distress is defined by Merriam Webster as "pain or suffering affecting the body, a bodily part, or the mind...a painful situation...state of danger or desperate need"(https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/distress#synonyms). Seeing this definition and knowing what these words mean, we know that gender dysphoria is quite literally defined as pain and suffering. ⭕️"Being trans literally is the definition of dysphoria" Well, we already got the definition of dysphoria out of the way. No, it is not the definition of dysphoria. The APA (American Psychological Association) says "Transgender is an umbrella term for persons whose gender identity, gender expression or behavior does not conform to that typically associated with the sex to which they were assigned at birth". (https://www.apa.org/topics/lgbt/transgender.aspx). ⭕️"You need gender dysphoria to be trans" So now knowing that being transgender just means that your gender and sex aren't the same, and knowing what gender dysphoria is, we could say that we know this isn't true. But don't take my word for it, let's hear it from the experts: ☑️"Not all transgender people suffer from gender dysphoria and that distinction is important to keep in mind. Gender dysphoria and/or coming out as transgender can occur at any age"(https://www.psychiatry.org/…/gender-dysphoria/expert-q-and-a). ☑️"It is important to note that not all gender diverse people experience gender dysphoria"(https://gic.nhs.uk/info-support/gender-dysphoria/). ☑️"For some transgender people, the difference between the gender they are thought to be at birth and the gender they know themselves to be can lead to serious emotional distress that affects their health and everyday lives if not addressed. Gender dysphoria is the medical diagnosis for someone who experiences this distress. Not all transgender people have gender dysphoria. On its own, being transgender is not considered a medical condition. Many transgender people do not experience serious anxiety or stress associated with the difference between their gender identity and their gender of birth, and so may not have gender dysphoria"(https://transequality.org/…/frequently-asked-questions-abou…). ☑️" Many, but not all transgender people experience gender dysphoria at some point in their lives"(https://www.lgbthealtheducation.org/…/Understanding-and-Add…). ☑️" Do all transgender people have gender dysphoria? No they do not, because not every transgender person experiences the distress associated with gender dysphoria"(https://www.lambdalegal.org/…/article/trans-related-care-faq). ☑️"Gender dysphoria refers to distress that 'some' TGNC [transgender and gender nonconforming] individuals may experience at some point in their lives as a result of incongruence between their gender identity and birth sex, which may include discomfort with gender role and primary and secondary sex characteristics. Gender dysphoria is a diagnosis in the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th Edition. However, transgender is an identity, not a disorder, and the diagnosis is only applicable when TGNC people experience distress or impaired social / occupational functioning as a result of the incongruence"(https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4809047/#R15). ⭕️"Being transgender is a mental illness" This argument is used both by people who try to say that a trans person is delusional and therefore their identity isn't valid, and by trans people who don't want to de-medicalize transgender identity. We know this argument is not true from some of the other points I've made. Being transgender isn't a mental illness, not even gender dysphoria is considered one. "Gender dysphoria is a recognized medical condition, for which treatment is sometimes appropriate. It's not a mental illness"(https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/gender-dysphoria/). Also "The World Health Organization will no longer classify being transgender as a mental health disorder, the public health agency announced Monday.

Transgender and genderqueer identities, which WHO refers to as “gender incongruence,” are in a section about sexual health conditions in a newly updated version of the International Statistical Classification of Diseases and Related Health Problems (ICD)"(https://www.huffingtonpost.com/…/being-transgender-no-longe…). ⭕️"There are only 2 genders" When people say this they usually mean sex, but even then it is untrue. Both sex and gender are on a spectrum and aren't binary. "Sex is a determination made through the application of socially agreed upon biological criteria for classifying persons as females and males. The criteria for classification can be genitalia at birth or chromosomal typing before birth, and they do not necessarily agree with one another"(https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/0891243287001002002). The binary classifications of male and female leaves out everyone who does not fit into these categories because of genital makeup, secondary sex characteristics, chromosomes, or hormone levels. When people say that there is only male and female, they forget that intersex people exist. A good read that I'd recommend that I read for school is "The Five Sexes: Why Male and Female Are Not Enough" by Anne Fausto-Sterling. In it, Anne says "Western culture is deeply committed to the idea that there are only two sexes. Even language refuses other possibilities; thus to write about Levi Suydam I have had to invent conventions-- s/he and his/her-- to denote someone who is clearly neither male nor female or who is perhaps both sexes at once. Legally, too, every adult is either man or woman, and the difference, of course, is not trivial. For Suydam it meant the franchise; today it means being available for, or exempt from, draft registration, as well as being subject, in various ways, to a number of laws governing marriage, the family and human intimacy. In many parts of the United States, for instance, two people legally registered as men cannot have sexual relations without violating anti-sodomy statutes. But if the state and the legal system have an interest in maintaining a two-party sexual system, they are in defiance of nature. For biologically speaking, there are many gradations running from female to male; and depending on how one calls the shots, one can argue that along that spectrum lie at least five sexes-- and perhaps even more"(http://capone.mtsu.edu/phollowa/5sexes.html). Another thing is that gender is a social construct, which I know is said a lot and is misunderstood. Pretty much everything has been socially constructed, so what is a social construct? "Social constructs or social constructions define meanings, notions, or connotations that are assigned to objects and events in the environment and to people’s notions of their relationships to and interactions with these objects. In the domain of social constructionist thought, a social construct is an idea or notion that appears to be natural and obvious to people who accept it but may or may not represent reality, so it remains largely an invention or artifice of a given society". So how is gender a social construct? The page goes on to say "Gender, which represents ways of talking, describing, or perceiving men and women, is also a socially constructed entity. Generally distinguished from sex (which is biological), notions of gender represent attempts by society, through the socialization process, to construct masculine or feminine identities and corresponding masculine or feminine gender roles for a child based on physical appearance and genitalia".(https://www.encyclopedia.com/…/socio…/social-constructionism). ⭕️"Non-binary doesn't exist because there is only male and female" Well for one, tell that to all the non-binary people. But no this is not correct. As we know, sex and gender are not binary so this identity makes sense. And also, whether or not you believe in them, they will continue to exist. ⭕️"You're a transtrender" People say a transtrender is someone who isn't "actually" trans, and just uses the label or pretends to be trans because its cool, or because they want attention. This is an argument made by transphobic people, including truscum and transmeds. People usually call others this for many reasons like: disagreeing with them, not fitting into their gendered stereotypes, not passing, not having dysphoria, not being the ideal trans person, they are experimenting with gender and gender expression, and/or being non-binary. Non-binary people are a big target of this argument. Heres the thing about this argument, no one thinks its cool or fun to be seen as trans in the sense that we are marginalized, are attacked, are killed, and so on. Also, Not every trans person is the same and wants to conform to gender norms. I'd also like to add that I get this comment a lot, despite being a binary trans person with dysphoria. They use it as a way to immediately discredit you and don't even know who you are. ⭕️"You're/you were just pretending to be trans" This is very similar to the last point but I wanted to go into more detail about this one. Some people may transition and then detransition for whatever reason (I'll go into this later). I know a few people had identified as trans and used a few different names and wanted to go by different pronouns then found out it wasn't who they were. Does this mean that they were faking it or pretending for fun? No, of course not. They thought they were trans and experimented and found out that they weren't. People should be able to experiment with their gender without getting accused of pretending to be trans. Most, if not all trans people go through an experimentation stage where they cut or grow out their hair, wear different clothes, go by a different name and pronouns, and so on. If we never went through an experimentation stage, how would we have known that we were trans? ⭕️"Most trans people detransition afterwords so you are going to regret this" This is usually said by cisgender transphobic people when trans people go on hormones or get surgeries. But what is the reality? "Surgical regret is actually very uncommon. Virtually every modern study puts it below 4 percent, and most estimate it to be between 1 and 2 percent (Cohen-Kettenis & Pfafflin 2003, Kuiper & Cohen-Kettenis 1998, Pfafflin & Junge 1998, Smith 2005, Dhejne 2014). In some other recent longitudinal studies, none of the subjects expressed regret over medically transitioning (Krege et al. 2001, De Cuypere et al. 2006). These findings make sense given the consistent findings that access to medical care improves quality of life along many axes, including sexual functioning, self-esteem, body image, socioeconomic adjustment, family life, relationships, psychological status and general life satisfaction. This is supported by the numerous studies (Murad 2010, De Cuypere 2006, Kuiper 1988, Gorton 2011, Clements-Nolle 2006) that also consistently show that access to GCS reduces suicidality by a factor of three to six (between 67 percent and 84 percent)... When asked about regrets, only 2 percent of respondents in a survey of transgender people in the UK had major regrets regarding the physical changes they had made, compared with 65 percent of non-transgender people in the UK who have had plastic surgery"(https://www.huffingtonpost.com/…/myths-about-transition-reg…). ⭕️"If you don't have dysphoria, how would you even know you're trans?" You can know that you are trans because you have a disconnect with your body which is called gender incongruence. "Gender incongruence is characterized by a marked and persistent incongruence between an individual’s experienced gender and the assigned sex"(https://icd.who.int/browse11/l-m/en…). So it could be argued that gender incongruence is like gender dysphoria with presentations similar to the DSM-V definition, but does not require significant distress or impairment. There is also something called gender euphoria, which is the opposite of gender dysphoria. "That is, euphoria or happiness upon being correctly gendered, upon naming their identity, and being validated and recognized as their authentic self"(https://everydayfeminism.com/…/these-5-myths-about-body-dy…/). ⭕️"If you don't have dysphoria that means you are comfortable in your body, ok with being your agab (assigned gender at birth) and those pronouns, and ok with dressing as your agab so you aren't trans" This is not true either. Just because someone doesn't have dysphoria, that doesn't mean they are comfortable with their agab. Like I said before, trans people have a disconnect with their body, the same goes for non-dysphoric trans people. They have a disconnect but do not have distress, or pain and suffering, because of the disconnect. ⭕️"What if you don't REALIZE it's dysphoria? What if you thought EVERYBODY felt like you?" I see people making this argument like, "they just don't know what they are feeling is dysphoria". People know themselves better than anyone else. Also, if you are not a therapist or anything like that, you do not get diagnose someone else. This could also just be a genuine question. Some people (like myself) didn't know what transgender or dysphoria was and some still may not. I didn't know what being trans meant and I didn't know that what I was struggling with was dysphoria. For me personally, I thought I was struggling alone for the longest time. ⭕️"Non-dysphorics, non-binary, people who don't use he/him or she/her pronouns make the community look bad and make everyone hate the trans community more." The people who hate trans people will hate us regardless of if we have dysphoria, are non-binary, use different pronouns that aren't common, and so on. Why not learn about those in your community (or learn about those in the community if you are not in it) instead of bullying and attacking those you don't understand and siding with transphopic people. ⭕️Fake trans people are taking resources away from 'real' trans people (like hormones, dr. appointments, surgeries, therapy, etc.)" If this is true, why be mad at the "fake trans" people and instead be mad at the gatekeepers, be mad because there is a shortage of doctors that treat trans patients (very few doctors that would take me around here but I have had one for a while now so its good), and be mad at the lack of education doctors, nurses, therapists, and so on, have on trans people. It isn't other trans peoples fault we have to fight to get our resources, it's the world we live in where we are marginalized and oppressed. (Important to note that I am not talking about myself here. The transphobia, marginalization, and oppression I have endured cannot be compared to that of trans women, black and other poc trans people, non-binary people, and places where it is illegal or punished by death to be trans/queer in. I have a lot of privilige here and I know this). 🙂Other questions or comments🙂 🔶"Are there degrees of dysphoria? Like, "you have to have dysphoria about 35% of your body to make it into 'Transgender Circle'?" Yes, not all trans people have the same or the same amount of dysphoria. Some say its like waves where one day they feel really good and other days dysphoria is really bad. Some peoples dysphoria is much worse than others, but as long as it is distressing, it is still dysphoria. Every exclusionist is different. Some say "you just need some type of dysphoria" and others say "you need to have chest, bottom, social, etc. dysphoria to be trans". But the truth is, neither is true. 🔶"What is the difference between BDD (Body dysmorphic disorder) and (GD) gender dysphoria?" BDD is "a pathological preoccupation with an imagined or slight physical defect of one’s body to the point of causing significant stress or behavioral impairment in several areas (as work and personal relationships)"(https://www.apa.org/…/und…/ptacc/body-dysmorphic-traynor.pdf). GD is "a distressed state arising from conflict between a person's gender identity and the sex the person has or was identified as having at birth 'A significant incongruence between gender identity and physical phenotype is known as gender identity disorder; the experience of this state, termed gender dysphoria, is a source of chronic suffering'. — Louis J. Gooren, The New England Journal of Medicine, 31 Mar. 2011"(https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictiona…/gender%20dysphoria). (I am not a medical professional but I will try to explain this) BDD and GD are very similar because they are both distressing and about the body, but there are differences. BDD is where your perception of your body is not the reality, where in GD you know what your body looks like and it doesn't match your gender identity. BDD is also compared to OCD. "The intrusive thoughts and repetitive behaviors exhibited in BDD are similar to the obsessions and compulsions of OCD. BDD is distinguished from OCD when the preoccupations or repetitive behaviors focus specifically on appearance"(https://adaa.org/…/other-relat…/body-dysmorphic-disorder-bdd). 🔶"Why doesn’t it harm the community to include people who experience euphoria instead of/not only dysphoria?" People say "having non-dysphorics and non-binary people makes the trans community look like a joke" but these people aren't going away and they are supported by the science. As I've said before, the people who hate trans people will hate us whether we have dysphoria or not. Bullying the trans people you don't understand won't change anything in regards to trans rights. What do you do when you encounter bullying? If someone is bullied for how they look, their skin, their hair, or their religion, should they change themselves? The easiest way would be to say yes but that isn't how things change. We need people to know that some people are different and that is ok and they deserve to be respected just like everyone else. If you are going to argue the "fake trans take away resources" I rebutted that argument earlier. 🔶"Why do people insist that you need dysphoria to be trans?" This is an interesting one because I used to be a truscum/transmed. But before I dive into this I first want to preface this by asking Well why do people believe things are true when we know they are demonstrably false? Look at flat-earthers for example (hang in here with me). They can't comprehend how the earth can be round, despite the demonstrable evidence that shows us the earth is round. They believe it because it makes more sense to them. They make arguments where they say the evidence is for a globular earth is fake and also argue things that they experience like "I don't feel the earth spinning" or "the horizon looks flat to me" or "we can't see gravity so it doesn't exist". They can't conceptualize the things they don't experience in their life. People are afraid that the de-medicalization of trans people will result in medical professionals taking away hormones and surgeries. It may also be the case that they know this is true but ignore the evidence because they think the de-medicalization of trans people will make it so we can no longer get hormone treatment or surgeries. I can tell you right now that the people of the ICD, APA, DSM, and WHO are not gonna let that happen. Gender dysphoria is a medical condition that is treated with hormone therapy and gcs (gender confirmation surgery). Gender dysphoria is distressing and that is certain, medical and psychological experts know this and aren't going to take it away. People may become afraid or offended because hearing "you don't need dysphoria to be trans" goes against what they have known to be true for so long. For me personally when I was a truscum/transmed I was young, I just found out what trans was, and "you need dysphoria" made the most sense to me because gender dysphoria was how I knew I was trans. I followed truscum/transmed blogs and youtube channels and I never questioned it really. I really only changed after I started taking science classes at college and learned what scientific papers were, and also, the biggest reason I changed was because things started coming out saying "trans isn't a mental disorder" which I thought it was. After I got out of the truscum/transmed community, only then did I realize how toxic it was. I hurt so many with my words and I was spreading false information solely based on my beliefs. The truscum/transmed community The truscum/transmed community is filled with people saying things like "I just don't understand *blank*" or "How could you be trans when *blank*" and these are as a way to say "your identity is confusing to me so I'm making fun of it". A lot of the scum/med arguments are questions where people "don't understand" which is the first step to learning. If you don't understand something, look it up or ask a trans person (with their approval of course). Asking non-dysphoric trans people is how I was able to comprehend how non-dysphoric people felt. I was able to ask and I always treated them with respect and got respect in return. If you sincerely ask people instead of making fun of them, you might get the answers you need to understand. Important note, many trans people are tired of having to explain to others why they exist so if you ask and you are confronted with hostility that is probably why, and it is completely understandable. I'd be angry too if everyone constantly invalidated me, attacked me, told me I'm a faker, and said my gender doesn't exist. I know I went on a tangent here but I feel this is important also. ❤️I am willing to answer questions if you have any. Share this if you would like. Also, feel free to use this post for your own arguments❤️

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nomanwalksalone · 7 years ago

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LESSONS LEARNED: THE CASUAL CONUNDRUM

by Joshua M

I am not a particularly creative person. My right-brain functions are sorely underdeveloped (nb.: alas, the same could be said of my left-brain functions, but one thing at a time). I take comfort in structure, routine, pattern, and certainty. When the creative impulse does occasionally strike, my chosen profession, the practice of law, allows me to exorcise it within a set of parameters defined by the Civil Code, statute, and jurisprudence (or, for the common law attorneys, precedent).

My natural inclinations extend to my taste in clothing. In general, I focus on traditional, conservative menswear. I take comfort in the enduring success of the business suit, little changed over a century’s use. I enjoy the nuances of fabric, fit, silhouette, and proportion, and how subtle tweaks to each alter the impact of a particular garment. In short, with traditional, conservative menswear, I am able to express a smidge of personality within a defined set of parameters. While some men view the business suit as a straightjacket (or worse, as the frequent analogies between the necktie and the noose suggest), I enjoy the simplicity of the suit.

I have never, however, found much joy in my casual wardrobe.

In the winter, I am a paint-by-numbers dresser. I live in my trusty Barbour jacket, well-worn raw denim jeans, flannel shirts, Shetland sweaters, and field boots. I feel like I have an established, if rote, command of the situation.

Not so in spring and summer. Until recently, I was befuddled by warm-weather clothing: elasticated pants, tunics, shirts with funky collars, etc., fell well outside of my comfort zone. So, I did what every blue-blooded male does when he is outside of his comfort zone—I avoided the problem.

I don’t mean that I avoided clothes entirely. Rather that I approached my warm-weather wardrobe as though it were a “diet cool-weather” wardrobe. I dropped my Barbour jacket and Shetland sweaters, kept the well-worn raw denim jeans, exchanged my flannel shirts for lightweight chambray shirts and my field boots for Tyrolean shoes and leather sneakers, and hoped no one would mind. For some time, I was content. However, a vacation to Europe last year exposed the flaws in my approach.

My trip started in Munich, where it was often cool and drizzly. In the evenings, I was glad that I had packed my trusty Barbour jacket. Further, as we hiked our way up to Neuschweinstein, that jacket fought the nip of the mountain air with ease.

We then wended our way south, and the weather became significantly warmer. The first casualty was Trusty, which was stowed away after passing through the Dolomites.

The second casualty was my long-sleeved chambray shirt, which was drenched in sweat by the time I carried our luggage to our hotel in Florence (perhaps I should have splurged on a hotel with an entrance that was not located at the top of two flights of stairs).

The third casualty was my well-worn raw denim jeans, too heavy for even the minor hike to the Civita di Bagnoregio (fallen among the Etruscan ruins along with the jeans were my Tyrolean shoes).

Worn down, desperate, and out of options, I succumbed to the uniform of my fellow countrymen traveling abroad—a t-shirt, Ralph Lauren shorts, and running shoes (nb.: please, do not revoke my authorship privileges at the No Man blog for my sins). I even succumbed to wearing the Columbia PFG fishing shirts that I had packed as loungewear, never imagining I would have to appear in them before actual Italians.

In the months since, I have been haunted by certain pictures of the vacation—which are displayed with a degree of permanence in various picture frames in my living room. In each, I look sweaty, awful, or sweaty and awful. I compare the pictures of that vacation with the pictures from my wedding—again, displayed in my living room—where I am wearing a bespoke tuxedo and look about as good as I can without major elective surgery.

I learned a valuable lesson from this experience. In my traditional, conservative menswear wardrobe, I have garments that I wear in the fall and winter, and garments that I wear in the spring and summer. I do not wear a cold-weather suit in July by dropping the jacket. Likewise, I cannot expect that my casual wardrobe, intended for the cooler months, will stay photogenic when I am hoofing it from Monterosso to Vernazza.

So I am forced to abandon the usual set parameters. I have embraced, among other items, easy pants (which, nomenclature notwithstanding, are notoriously “hard,” as Styleforum member Mr. Six noted [Ed. note: to clarify, the âhardâ here is not, in fact, a boner joke. I know because, wanting to keep the No Man blog a family publication, I asked. Being assured by the author that no prurient jokes are in any way implied here, I have let the Mr. Six comment stand, though accompanied by this note to insure that no readers are confused.]), which are the first elasticated trousers that I have worn since childhood, camp collar shirts, and a light-weight fishing jacket. And most importantly, I am enjoying these experimentations, my trepidations overmatched by the satisfaction of retiring the fishing shirts from public consumption.

Later this summer, I will be embarking on another transatlantic journey. This time, I will be prepared.

#nomanwalksalone #menswear #joshuam #features

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werevulvi · 6 years ago

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Face my fragmentation

“The distinction between performance and reality, always caught up entangled Not knowing if what I know is truth, or beliefs carefully mangled Did my past deception ring true at the end or am I just reconciling with what I cannot bend? In the sanctuary of my own home, do I wear my true face? As it changed with time and testosterone, its nuances shifted out of place With my senses hightened outside, I'm unaware of what I hide Yet I call for no reduction of what I became; I remain yet the same I thrifted pieces of my shame, to once again be restored into pride I'm perpetually misjudged by my appearance, but I let it slide for the sake of my privacy, when the need to know basis is none but it still twists my gut, telling me that my womanhood is gone Have I sought to become what I already am, or am I trying to be what is beyond my reach; a pipedream of tricks and tragedy Wearing stage makeup for casual pursuits, the tedium I'm trying to exhale but I cannot differentiate freedom from what's cheaply on sale And I begin to wonder, if what's chasing me is my destination if I should turn around to further face my fragmentation My bits of male and female; chafing together, comforting apart each belonging to different pieces of my shattered heart” Ah, the perpetual confusion continues! I still feel as though I've some amount of conflict between what I consider my male traits and female parts. That I like them all but can't quite put them together. And I'm thinking that has something to do with my traumatised mind still being very fragmented, despite having integrated with my alter. Like that integration didnt exactly make all of my dissociative symptoms go away. And being in a constant dissociative fog surely makes it hard to figure out what is me being true to myself or accidentally creating yet another persona. Especially considering much of my dysphoria was caused by the traumas that also caused my dissociative issues. So how I perceive my body both genderly and in general are very linked together. There's no clear distinction yet every aspect of me is so far apart. Like two similar things placed in two different rooms, and the time it takes to walk from one thing to the other makes you forget how different or similar they actually are. I dont think my body or my mind being androgynous makes me any less female or not a woman, its not that. But I'm not blind to how the rest of the world sees me and I'm also not immune to its effects on how I perceive myself as a consequence. I have thought, although only in sheer desperation, about if it would be easier to "just" live as a feminine trans man. But I dont want to cause it goes against everything I feel about myself as a woman. It would be like admitting defeat. Like saying it actually was "too late" into transition for me to detrans. And I'm not the kind of person who gives up about what matters to me really a lot. Not that I dont give up easily, but that I simply DON'T give up. Like no matter how hard it is. I keep trying until I manage, and only sometimes temporarily retreat. And I know that my fight/right to be a woman is something that I cannot and wont give up on. No matter how much I'll stumble and fall. But how do I conquer these obsticles? And how do I learn to live as an ambiguous woman who's constantly perceived as male? How do I handle this consatant feeling of having been robbed of my womanhood? How difficult it is to feel welcome in any lesbian community or women only space in general, when looking like a man (i.e a threat). Worrying about being tossed out of bathrooms cause I'm too scared of walking into the mens room to put on makeup, while wearing a dress and fake boobs. Worrying about locker rooms for when I'll start practicing karate again, as I highly doubt there will be a gender neutral option for that. Cause im terrified of showering naked with a bunch of naked men, cause open showers is standard in my country, and I'm sure that other women in their locker room would freak out if I walked in there, cause that's happened before. I know I'll have to have a conversation with the instructors at that karate club about my locker room issue, but still.

That is why I still hold off on starting practicing at my island's only karate club, but it's a dream that I cannot hold off on forever. I'm thinking it might be easier to "prove my case" when I'm legally female again, and for other practical reasons it would be more convenient to wait until after my breast reconstruction surgery has been done and healed properly as well. But how I'm perceived by others based solely on my looks (and voice) will continue to be ambiguous at best, as I'm keeping and cherishing my traits from testosterone. It's not that I care about random people's opinions of me, cause I don't. It's that it makes those kinds of social situations difficult to deal with and solve. And I feel like I'm stuck in a tight web about it. The ways in which my dysphoria slithers around in me is confusing and exhausting to try to figure out and get a grasp of. But I've come to understand now that basically: as a trans man I was happy with what testosterone did for me and I for the first started finally liking parts of my body. It was an over all positive experience for me. But I hated living as a man and forcing myself to be masculine. It felt like a burden that alienated me, as I couldn't connect to either men or other women anymore, and I felt that more and more over the years, like some abstract force that became mysteriously heavier over time. Until I understood that I was going against my nature. It felt good at first, but then felt increasingly heavier and like a burden, that social role and the lie that I tried to become. Top surgery (about 5 years into my social transition) made it worse cause it was such a jarring experience. Sadly, I hated my breasts until the day they were gone... then I missed them. It only traded one kind of suffering for another, and I had no idea that would happen. That made me even more confused, but I was afraid of my feelings so I bottled them and shoved them away. For 4 years.

Then when I started healing from my traumas and I began to fall in love with my body and my personality, detransition was just around the corner and it happened so fast. It was literally like I woke up that morning feeling like I was a man like always, and when I went to bed that night I knew I was a woman and regretted it all. As well as instantly ditching the masculinity I had forced myself into, for my long lost femininity. That strong contrast was a tad overwhelming!

However, now reflecting back on it, I don't think most of that instant regret I felt was really that, but rather that it was an expression of my inner conflict between the liberation of finally connecting with my womanhood for the first time ever, and my love for my male physical traits that clashed with the idea of womanhood that had been imprinted into my brain by society. Or to put it more simply: my love for my androgynous body clashed with my false view of myself as a traditionally feminine woman. I felt stuck with my androgyny when in fact there was never anything wrong with either me or my androgyny, but I couldn't put it together with being a woman. Cause I felt suddenly threatened by it. I felt like I was somehow newly a woman, and my old-fashioned, conservative view of what I thought women "should" look like made me attack the one thing I had finally come to love, which was what had brought me to see myself as a woman to begin with: my body. Eventually, as I became more stable over time in my detransition, I started to find my way back to that love I always had for my male traits, and tried to basically integrate them into my newfound womanhood, but that was and still is a struggle. Even just getting myself to walk outside with a beard visible on my face and with any amount of confidence to do so, since detransing, has taken me around 6 months so far, and it's still a work in progress. I keep fighting it, viewing my facial hair as a threat to my womanhood while still loving it. Is it right, is it wrong, that I still love my beard? I know that does not matter, but my emotions don't give a fuck about that. They won't listen to reason. But I see that I am beautiful with strikingly intense looks, self-love and pride showing through behind a hesitant smile, when I allow myself to wear my beard like the part of my body that it now is. I do not want to get rid of it, but I definitely want to get rid of the social stigma around bearded women with deep voices. But that ain't gonna happen anytime soon. So I'm gonna have to live with that stigma, reluctantly.

And even during that time, I sometimes, or even most of the time, directed my frustration with being misgendered towards my beloved male traits, as if they were the enemy and not society. Cause I'm just as much forced to live in this society as I am forced to live with my own body... it takes much work to not let either of those two drive me crazy. Having and keeping my male features literally does me no harm at all. Especially not considering I'm no longer taking the testosterone, only keeping its permanent effects. Actually I think trying to reverse those effects would be more harmful than keeping them. I know I'd always rather listen to my heart than society when it comes to making any kinds of permanent changes to my body. But I'll still hear society, regardless of how much I don't listen to it. And sometimes what it says just fucks me up and makes me sad. I know I would be dysphoric again if I got rid of my male traits. I know because for everytime I've considered it and used any sort of words like "removing" or "lasering off" or "getting rid of" those traits, it has made my stomach turn in a mentally painful twist. And I know because I'd regret it if I got rid of them. That I would grieve their loss, just like I grieved the loss of my breasts. And I don't wanna go through that with any more parts of my body. Even just thinking about it makes me wanna protect myself.

Truth is I don't wanna look either completely female or completely male, as for my physical appearance. But I'm fine with simply being biologically female regardless of how I want to appear. It's a fact I've no issue with anymore, and I'm no longer dysphoric about any of my remaining female parts, like I used to be. But I do not want to again look like I never transitioned to begin with. I do not miss my voice being higher pitched at all, or having a smooth face, a less hairy body or a smaller clit. My style is mostly feminine, but my body is a mix of male and female traits.

(Just to clarify, I use the word "male" instead of "masculine" when it comes to my transitioned physical traits because masculinity is a social construct, but such physical traits (like beards, deep voices, etc) are much more closely associated with male biology than any social construct. And vice versa for my female traits.) Am I less female for having some additional male traits? No, I'm still 100% female, but now with some additional male traits. I'm a woman who went through both female and male puberty, hormonally. And I like it that way, but I never liked to regularly dress masculine, and I've also never liked having a totally female-appearing body and face either. I've wanted a deep voice and facial hair ever since I was 12 years old. Whatever it means, it's not a new or sudden wish. I've had it for most of my life, which is probably why I'm so happy to have those traits now. But I also don't and can't think of myself as a feminine man, no matter how much I look like one on the surface. It's just an illusion, a consequence of my transition+style. It was a choice, and I really don't know if I regret that choice or not. Transitioning, as a whole, didn't quite turn out as I had intended. I guess that's all I really know for sure. My chest is now my only source of dysphoria. Cause I guess I can regret top surgery without also regretting testosterone. Or maybe I just want new boobs regardless of if I have chest dysphoria or not, and consider the risks of getting new boobs worth it to connect better with my body as a beautiful (not necessarily in a sexual way) and comforting meatsuit to carry around my soul (or brain, if you don't believe in souls) in. I kinda intend for my detransition to take me "halfway back" in a sense. Like two steps forward and one step back. I see myself as a woman now only cause I made peace with my body being female, but I don't really think I have an actual gender per se. I don't identify AS a woman, although in a sense I do identify WITH womanhood; as in female biology, actually natural femininity and being a lesbian.

My androgynous looks are intentional now, and I intend to rock it as well as I can. My body is solely for myself, but of course I can't and shouldn't hide completely from others just because they're not my target audience. My body is my only true home and I don't like it too plain and undecorated. I'm not a minimalist by far, I feel comforted and up-lifted by some colours, tinsel and patterns in my near presense to brighten up the gloom in my tortured mind. Looking fancy for no particular occasion, for my mental health, is a good and quite harmless type of self-care. Although perhaps not ideal, it's still far better than self-harm. Ultimately, how I perceive myself is just as a woman, and neither my transition to male nor my detransition to physically nonbinary quite reflect that, but they don't need to. But what my detransition does need is work the fuck together with my self-perception. I'm scavenging for a strategy to achieve that kind of inner team work. I know this text became really long, but I wanted to still include all that reflecting on my transition and detransition so far. Cause I wouldn't have ended up here without all those experiences. (And no I won’t make this post a “read more” thing cause I know you guys are too lazy to click on such things.)

#detransition #what i regret and what i dont #poem #my writing #my poem #reflecting #inner conflict #me vs society #androgyny #womanhood #dissociation #self perception #long post

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