#i might have just stopped using that word to describe my self ever again

[neonbuck]

i've been seeing more and more transmascs openly talking about like. "hey our community kinda sucks why is no one ever there for each other. whats with all the transmisogyny and ableism". i feel so comforted by this i thought i was losing my mind all alone

[neverendingford]

.

[incognit0slut]

On camera

PART 4 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Roommate!Spencer x Camgirl!Reader Spencer requests to take on a more involved role in one of your live streams.

content: (18+) 4k, exhibitionism/voyeur, reader wears lingerie, unprotected penetrative sex, creampie, overstimulation (surprisingly it’s him for once), and a hint of cockwarming at the end a/n: this is the second part to a special show although you don't necessarily have to read it to understand what’s happening. this took a while because… there was a little pressure? i didn’t expect people to wait on this i hope it lives up to the expectations, let me know what you think my cuties<3

You nudged your foot against his. “We don’t have to do this, you know. I don’t mind.”

“I’m fine."

"Are you sure? You've been quiet ever since you sat down."

He felt the words knot up in his throat. The quiet wasn’t hesitation, it was disbelief. The kind that lingered in the gap between what he imagined and what was happening. The lack of conviction that defied logic, even when he was the one who initiated to exist beyond just a pair of hands at the edges of the frame.

"Spence?”

He glanced at you. Deep pools of brown drowning in lust swept over the piece of lingerie you decided to put on tonight. Even without much fashion sense, Spencer could appreciate the soft frills of purple lace clinging to your figure. The garter belt wrapped snugly around your waist, leading down to thin straps that framed your smooth thighs, and every logical thought he tried to root out slipped away the longer he looked at you.

Wait. Purple?

Purple.

Although Spencer was sure it probably had a fancier, specific name that bordered on… lilac? Lavender? Or something else elusive he couldn’t quite pin down. To him it was just purple. He might not have the vocabulary to describe the exact shade, but he knew the way it looked on you was nothing short of captivating.

“You’re wearing purple.”

The frown creased between your brows as you tried to make sense of his sudden observation.

“I am.” Your lips formed a slight pout. “And you still haven’t answered my question.“

And he still couldn’t bring himself to answer.

“I thought you were supposed to be Princess Pink?”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. It was true. Pink was your color. The soft, playful blush had always been part of your alter ego. You shifted on your feet, glancing down at the purple lace hugging your hips before meeting his eyes again. A small, hesitant smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and for a moment, you looked almost… shy.

“Well, yeah,” you admitted, your voice so soft it dipped into a tone he wasn’t used to hearing from you. Your fingers traced the edge of the fabric absently, and you glanced away again as if finding the floor more interesting.

“I thought maybe… it might help, you know? Calm your nerves or something.” The nervous laugh creeping out of you sounded strained. “I know you like purple… so I figured…”

The corner of his lips curled upwards. His smile reminded you of the times he caught you off guard with a look that was equally amused and deeply affectionate as if he couldn’t believe his luck.

“You wore it for me?”

You felt warmth rise to your neck but decided there was no point in hiding it. “I thought it might make this less scary for you.”

His smile faltered. “I’m not scared.”

“Spencer, you’re about to get naked.”

“You’ve seen me naked before.”

You couldn’t help but let out an amused laugh. He stated it so plainly with no hint of self-consciousness or hesitation. And technically, he was right. You had seen him completely, wholly bare more times than you could count by now ever since that first night you stripped away his innocence.

You still remembered how you had pulled him across the line from a curious roommate to someone who wanted to know every inch of your body. And that night turned into another, and then another, until what you were doing stopped being about one-off hookups and started blurring the boundaries you’d drawn between friendship and something more. Something you couldn't quite put your finger on that felt heavier than lust but not quite defined as love.

Spencer was a roommate, a friend, a lover, and eventually, an active participant in your live streams.

His hands were, at least.

You took a step forward, slipping between his legs where he sat comfortably at the edge of your bed. “I have seen you naked,” you agreed, “but they haven’t.”

His hands hovered at your waist, fingers twitching over your lace as if he wasn’t sure where to put them. He glanced up at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips before he finally admitted, “Okay… maybe I am a little nervous.”

“I know, but you don’t need to be. Think of it this way, the people who are going to see us will only be jealous of you.”

“Why would they be jealous of me?”

“Because you’re the one who gets to be with me.” You reached up to brush his hair back from his face, tucking those long, unruly strands behind his ear. “They’re in their rooms jerking off to a screen while you get to kiss me.”

A kiss fell on his lips.

“Touch me.”

Another peck.

“And fuck me.”

He chased your lips this time, his mouth puckering before he closed the gap. His words were muffled against you, “I am pretty lucky.”

“The luckiest,” you mumbled back. A soft smack of a kiss lingered in the air when you pulled away. “And you don’t have to worry, once we get started, you’ll be too distracted to remember what you were even nervous about.”

He hummed, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest as his grip on your waist tightened. “I think you might be right.”

“Good.” You moved to the side of the bed. “Now let me set up the camera.”

The tripod attached to the top of your computer screen wobbled slightly as you fiddled with it, adjusting the device until the lens angled down. You observed the setup, making sure it captured your body and the way Spencer’s hand rested on your waist without revealing either of your faces.

Perfect.

“You ready?”

Surprisingly, he was.

With a slight nod from him, you turned on the live stream.

Princess_Pink is online.

Spencer’s eyes widened as the chat erupted in a flurry of notifications, messages pouring in so rapidly they blurred into an endless stream of words.

“That’s a lot of people," he muttered under his breath.

“That’s the usual amount of people.”

“No, it’s not,” he countered. “I can’t even keep up with the chat.” Which was saying a lot. For someone who could read entire pages of text in mere seconds, this was overwhelming in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Don’t let them intimidate you.” You turned around and slipped between his legs again, feeling the way his knees instinctively parted to make space. “Just focus on me.”

Spencer barely managed to nod before your lips met his again, and with that, everything else seemed to dissolve. He could never quite get used to how effortlessly you could unravel him with just a kiss. His hands slid up the back of your thigh, the rough pads of his fingers brushing over your skin as they trembled slightly, grazing the delicate strap of your garter before settling firmly on your ass.

A surprised giggle bubbled out of you.

“Easy there,” you murmured, catching his bottom lip gently between your teeth before letting it go with a playful tug. “I have to greet them first.”

He reluctantly loosened his grip, letting his fingers linger on you for a final moment before slipping away to rest at his sides. His eyes remained fixed on you as you turned away, shifting your focus back to the screen and reaching over to the mic.

A faint hum filled the room as it came to life. Spencer could feel his breaths gradually falling into sync before your sweet voice cut through the silence like honey.

“Hi, boys,” you purred, letting the greeting roll off your tongue. “Did you miss me?"

Princess.no1.fan: Princess!!! JadenCums: we missed those tits Adam_4432: fucking hot as always Adam_4432: purple looks good on you Crazydick: who's the skinny loser at the back

You rolled your eyes as the comment popped up in the chat.

“This is getting old,” you said with a sigh, fingers hovering over the mouse. “You’re all obsessed with him.”

With a quick flick of your wrist, you blocked the troll and watched with satisfaction as his name disappeared from the list. Spencer tried to peek over your shoulder. “What did they say?”

“Nothing important,” you replied lightly, brushing it off as you turned back to the mic. "Didn’t I tell you guys to play nice?”

Princess.no1.fan: i always play nice with you JadenCums: they’re just jealous of your boy toy Adam_4432: ignore the haters, babe BigBoss88: let him stay in the background ThickNick: you're gorgeous princess

“Remember, if you can’t behave, you don’t get to stay. And I don’t think any of you want to miss out on what we've prepared."

That was his cue, right? He forced down the tightness in his throat, the sensation catching and shifting like a dry click as his pulse quickened. With a quiet exhale, he slipped off the edge of the bed and made his way behind you.

There was a moment of hesitation. But his doubt faded into the background as he focused on the curve of your waist beneath his fingers. He let his hands move slowly, tracing upward with a touch that lingered at the dip of your spine until his fingers brushed the delicate lace of your bra.

Wide hands covered the soft swell of your breasts.

Princess.no1.fan sent a $50 gift.

“See?” you breathed, pressing your back against him. “You play nice, you get to enjoy the show.”

He couldn’t help but squeeze your flesh, fingers sinking in and then pulling back, the skin dimpling under the pressure before slowly springing back. His veins looked prominent, winding up his forearm like delicate, raised lines that caught the light on camera every time he moved over the fabric of your bra.

And the lace offered the thinnest barrier. He could feel the way your nipple firmed underneath his touch, straining subtly as if it, too, was reaching out for more. He traced small, lazy circles around it, and when you arched into him, he had to bite back a smile. He pressed a kiss on your shoulder instead.

“You’re so good at this,” you muttered, letting your hand drift up to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair.

He let out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, his fingers hooking under the edge of your bra’s cup before pulling it down. Your breasts bounced slightly, settling naturally in his palm as the lace slipped away.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

A soft moan escaped you as he began to explore, and Spencer couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction that followed. He was rougher than he intended to be at times, testing the line between what made you shiver and what made you push back for more. It was the way he rolled both of your nipples between his fingers, alternating between gentle pinches and firmer twists, that finally drew the most telling reaction—a subtle, instinctive rub of your ass against him.

He took it as a sign to touch you further, one hand drifting lower while the other stayed firmly in place. Goosebumps prickled over your skin as he slid down your stomach until he reached the edge of your panties. His fingers skimmed along the waistband, and you could feel his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as he brushed his knuckles underneath the delicate material, hesitating.

Adam_4432 sent you a $100 gift.

That was enough to break through his hesitation. Without a word, he slipped his fingers beneath the lace.

The heat between your thighs greeted him, and there was no mistaking what that meant. You were wet, so wet that his fingers glided over your folds like silk. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of smugness as each subtle shift seemed to draw a new sound from your lips.

He let his fingers slide lower, searching, and when he finally found your clit, brushing his fingertips lightly over it, you jerked in his arms. The tiny, sensitive nub was swollen and begging for attention as it pulsed under his touch like a racing heartbeat. He gave gentle rubs. Slow circles. Steady pressure. The more he explored, the more your arousal smeared against his fingertips.

“Oh—you’re gonna make me cum so fast,” you gasped. You threw your head back against his shoulder, letting out a whine you knew would drive your viewers wild. “What do you think, boys? Should he make me cum now?”

The chat lit up instantly, flooded with messages begging you to let go, but between the rapid scroll of usernames and flashing emojis, one message caught your eye.

Looking4Sluts: no Looking4Sluts: cum on his cock Looking4Sluts sent you a $200 gift.

The notification flashed across the screen, and you felt a surge of adrenaline, a wicked smile playing on your lips. “Do you see that, baby?”

He nodded against your neck.

“They want more of you,” you purred, letting your hips roll back against him, pressing yourself closer to his obvious erection. “They want to see just how good you make me feel.”

Your words went straight to his cock. His touch suddenly changed as he began to move faster against your clit, and a choked gasp spilled from your lips. But just as the pressure started to build rapidly, you quickly grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand from your panties.

“No, not yet,” you stopped him, turning your head to catch his ear, your lips brushing against the shell. “Wanna cum on your cock.”

He watched as you reached down and slowly hooked your fingers into the sides of your panties, sliding them down your legs. A thin string of your arousal followed as you lowered the fabric, clinging to the lace before it finally broke and left a glistening trail against your thigh.

His balls tightened painfully.

Princess.no1.fan: Holy shit, that’s so fucking hot JadenCums: fisting my cock so hard Fatcock_777: wreck that damn pussy PussyLover69: i bet she’s fucking tight Looking4Sluts: jesus christ, she’s dripping

Spencer’s mind emptied the moment you leaned forward, planting your palms firmly on the desk for balance. The way your body arched made his pulse stutter, a surge of heat rushing through him so quickly it almost left him lightheaded.

“Like… this? Standing?”

You glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Exactly like this.”

He could barely think straight. His hands moved on their own, one sliding over your hips, gripping you firmly, while the other fumbled with his waistband, desperately tugging his pants down. The fabric slid down over his thighs, and he bit back a groan as his cock sprang free, hard and aching, pressing against the bare skin of your ass.

He could feel the heat of you against him, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep himself from sinking into you all at once. He pressed in closer, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse echoing in the ache between you both as the tip of his cock settled right where your folds parted. He rocked his hips in shallow motions.

“Baby…” You tilted your hips just enough to align with him, “no teasing."

But hearing those words only made him want to draw it out even more. He let his bulging head nudge at your hole, barely dipping in before pulling back, feeling the way you instinctively pressed against him.

"Spe—" you faltered, then groaned. "Stop it."

He couldn’t help but smile as his fingers found the straps of your garter belt. He tugged on one gently, watching the elastic snap back against your skin. "But you look so pretty."

"I'll look prettier with your cock inside me."

That did it. With one last shaky exhale, Spencer gripped your hips firmly and began to sink himself into you, feeling the tight, warm stretch of your cunt.

“Oh my god,” you gasped. He felt a slight resistance as your body adjusted to him. He carefully gave a few gentle thrusts, easing in and out just enough for you to relax.

Looking4Sluts: fuck yes JadenCums: she's so fucking tight PeachyKeen420: look at him stretching her PussyFiend69: just watching this is gonna make me cum HotForTits: Fuck her harder dude she wants it

His eyes flickered to that last comment, and something inside him shifted, like a switch flipping. Without another thought, without any lingering trace of hesitation, he tightened his grip on your hips and pushed in all at once.

Your moan tore through the air. So. Fucking. Loud.

HotForTits sent you a $300 gift

The notification flashed across the screen, but Spencer barely registered it, his control was slipping further away as his hips moved on their own. He started to grind into you, eyes traveling to your connected bodies. You were practically swallowing his cock, clenching so tightly around him that he felt like you were pulling him deeper, refusing to let him go.

In a way, you did beg for it. Each time you met his thrusts with an eager roll of your hips, the sound of skin slapping together echoed around you. He would have thought he’d be shy doing this in front of so many watchful eyes, but the way you moved against him made it impossible to care.

It only made him bolder. He let his hand slide up your back, fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp of your bra before he unhooked it. The straps slipped down your shoulders, sliding down your arms, and then you were completely, utterly naked, except for the garter hugging your thighs.

You were so pretty like this, so incredibly beautiful it made his pulse stutter in his veins. You were so pretty that it was almost disorienting, as if looking at you too long might make him forget where he was. And in his mind, all the lofty notions of beauty and art seemed to fall flat compared to seeing you like this. He needed to see all of you.

A startled whimper left your lips when he suddenly pulled out.

“Can you angle the camera down?"

There was a knowing look in your eyes. Your fingers moved to adjust the tripod, and he wasted no time stripping himself. By the time you were done angling the camera, he was already sitting on the edge of your bed, his cock throbbing against his stomach.

He looked painfully hard. Hard enough that every heartbeat seemed to pulse visibly along his length. You crawled onto his lap.

“Hi.”

His palm found the curve of your hip. "Hi."

“Are you okay?”

He nodded, his fingers tightening around the base of his cock as he urged you to lift your hips. “I think I’m starting to understand why you do this.”

“Yeah?”

"Mhm.” He nudged his tip between your folds. “It’s kind of exciting.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, fingers curling into his shoulder for balance as you began to lower yourself. “See? Nothing to be nervous about.”

A deep groan escaped his lips the moment your walls tightened around him. “You make this seem easy.”

“Maybe you’re just a natural.”

He gave a low chuckle, but it caught in his throat when he felt the full length of his cock buried inside you. “I… ah… I think you’re the one making me look good.”

“Shut up,” you replied with a grin, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “You don’t need any help looking good right now, trust me.”

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure what to think about that. He’d never seen himself like this, not in the way you did. But when he glanced over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of the screen and the way your hips rolled over him, he started to believe it.

He looked like… well, like the porn he’d watched late at night in his room before you came along. But better. The kind that didn’t seem real, the kind that made him question if anyone actually had sex like that. He knew the vast majority of what’s portrayed in porn is exaggerated with only a small percentage even close to reality. Except this was real. It was really him, and you made it look like he knew what he was doing.

And sure, maybe he did in some way, albeit you being his only real experience. But that was the thing—he knew what made you tick. He could read the way your body reacted, knew the subtle cues that signaled when a whisper of his fingers could coax out a whimper or when the right shift of his hips would leave you trembling. And more than anything else, he knew how much you liked being watched.

He knew just how much it turned you on.

With that thought in mind, Spencer grabbed the firm swell of your ass and spread you open.

JadenCums: fuck yes FatCock69: she’s so wet BigdickXX: damn, I wish I could feel that pussy ILovePinkPrincess: spread her wider TommyGoode sent you a $200 giftDaddyDom92 sent you a $300 gift.

Your body squirmed beneath his hands.

“Babe… what are you doing?”

He ran his tongue over his lips. “Giving them what they want.”

Then he spread your flesh even further, fingers digging into your supple skin as he held you open. The sight was undeniably lewd, and yet he couldn’t deny the surge of pride swelling in his chest as he held you like this, putting you on full display. But more than that, it was what you wanted. The tension coiled in his muscles as he thrust his hips up, watching the movement play out in the reflection over his shoulder.

He could see everything. The slow drag of his cock, the way it stretched you open with each push, leaving no inch of you untouched. Every time he thrust up into you, his length came back slick and shining, catching the light for a split second before disappearing inside you again.

There was something hypnotic in the rhythm, in the way your body seemed to swallow him whole. And somewhere in that steady push and pull, you visibly clenched around him, a vice-like grip that sent a shudder through his body and pulled a deep, harsh groan from his throat.

His hands tightened their grip on you, and before he could think twice, his hips began moving faster. You squealed, an actual high-pitched sound that he hadn’t expected. It was almost cute in a way—if cute was even the right word for what was happening. But there was nothing cute about the way his body reacted to that sound.

His hips bucked upward, again and again by an instinct he couldn’t control. He was so lost in the sensation of your warm, slick pussy that he barely registered the rising tension in his own body. It wasn’t until his muscles locked up, his hips jerking with one final, forceful snap, that it all crashed over him.

Oh shit.

A sudden rush of heat coursed through him as he spilled inside you, the realization hitting him a second too late. His breath came in shallow gasps, a deep groan escaping his throat as pleasure overwhelmed him, leaving him stunned and gasping for air.

You paused, feeling the unmistakable warmth of his release slowly seep inside you. “Baby?”

His eyes widened. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, sliding his hands up your waist. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—that was—”

Fast didn’t even come close to describing what happened.

You cut him off with a soft laugh, shaking your head as your fingers gently cupped his jaw. “Oh, honey,” you cooed. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

His eyes flickered to the camera behind you. “I ruined everything, didn’t I?”

You followed his gaze, then turned back to him with a smile. “Of course not,” you said softly, threading your fingers through his hair. “You kind of made everything better, actually.”

His brows knitted together. “I did?”

You nodded and wrapped your arms around his shoulders.

“Do you know…”

You started to roll your hips again.

“How hot it is…”

A soft squelch filled the air.

“To fuck with your cum inside me?”

He could barely comprehend the words that had just left your mouth, let alone the feeling of you moving against him. His eyelids struggled to stay open, the question catching in his throat before it spilled out in a breathy whisper. “Hot?”

“Insanely hot.”

Spencer couldn’t describe what happened after that. Obscene didn’t even begin to cover it. Surreal, maybe? But even that word felt lacking. It was all too real. You were rocking your hips on his lap, and the wet, sticky sounds filling the room were undeniably his own doing.

He held your hips tighter, half in an effort to steady himself, half because he didn’t know what else to do. The words were gone. Logic was gone. The only thing that existed was you, grinding against him with the same intensity that had already undone him once.

And he knew he was going to lose it again.

You leaned forward, your forehead pressing gently against his. “Spence, baby,” you whispered, making sure your voice was soft, just loud enough that only he could hear. “Can you fuck me again?”

He couldn’t say no even if he tried. His hands slipped beneath your thighs, fingers curling with just enough force to lift you, tilting your hips for better leverage. The shift pulled a startled gasp from you and you clung to him for balance, but he didn’t give you a moment to catch your breath. His hips met yours in a swift, demanding snap.

The sound of your body meeting was unmistakable, a rhythmic slap that would’ve made him blush if he were in any state to think clearly. But right now, all he could focus on was the mess he’d made of you, the way his cum seeped out, sliding down his cock in slow drips. Whenever he thrust into you, there seemed to be more spilling out, leaving thick, creamy streaks painted across your inner thighs.

Spencer had messy sex before (all with you, of course) but this was on a whole different level. It was chaotic—unapologetically filthy. The wetness between you spread everywhere. He could feel it pooling against his thighs, trickling down your legs, and the damp sheets beneath you were clinging uncomfortably to his knees while the heady scent of sex hit his nostrils.

And your voice wasn’t helping his self-control. It was high-pitched with a tremor, somewhere between a moan and a desperate whine tumbling out in a jumble of words that barely made any sense. Your voice grew higher each minute, more frantic, until finally, he could make out a few clear words through the haze.

“Gonna c-cum,” you moaned, “I’m gonna cu—ah fuck yesyesyes—”

A final, helpless cry pushed him over the edge.

He came for the second time tonight. He tried to hold back, but the way you were clenching around him, your body pulsing through your sudden orgasm tore down what little control he had left. He groaned, burying his face in your neck as his release overtook him again, shocked that he still had anything left to give as he emptied inside you.

The intensity bordered on painful. He could feel his body pushing to its limits and every pulse of pleasure felt like it was wringing him dry. And it was no less intense for you. You jerked against him, body twitching, sweat beading on your skin. Your muscles tightened and relaxed with the rhythm of his racing heartbeat as the last spark of pleasure finally washed over you.

Neither of you moved for a while after that. The only sound in the room was your labored breathing, the heavy rise and fall of your chests pressed together.

You were the first to break the silence.

“Baby,” you hummed, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips, “I think that might’ve been the hottest stream we’ve ever done.”

It took a second for your words to sink in, and when they did, his eyes widened slightly. The camera was still on. The audience was still there. His nose pressed harder against your neck as he tried to hide in embarrassment.

“Really? You’re getting shy now?��

His soft groan vibrated against your skin. “I wasn’t exactly thinking about the camera,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your neck. “It left my mind the moment I… you know.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Oh, I know. I could tell.”

You started to peel yourself off of him, only for his arms to tighten around your waist. You gave a playful tap on his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Holding you.”

“Why?”

“My brain needs a moment to process this.”

Your hand danced aimlessly across his back. “Still embarrassed?”

“Mortified,” he confirmed.

A giggle slipped out of you, and you wiggled your hips. “We still need to clean up. I don’t think you want to stay like this forever.”

He let out a sound of protest but didn’t loosen his grip. “Just a few more minutes.”

Smiling at his stubbornness, you slid your fingers into his hair, letting your nails scrape lightly against his scalp. "Spencer," you said gently, making sure the mic didn't pick up your voice. “I need to turn off the cam.”

"They wouldn't mind watching us a little longer."

You sighed, feeling the undeniable stickiness between your thighs. It wasn’t the most comfortable feeling, and the warmth was quickly turning into a mess that would need attention sooner rather than later. But there was something so sweet about the way he wanted to hold you that it made it impossible to resist.

"Fine," you relented with a quiet laugh, "five more minutes."

[gyuwoncheol]

Cheol’s been prepping you to take his cock for weeks but you’re about to body slam him into the mattress if he doesn’t fuck you right now (which might have been what he wanted all along, corruption kink go brrrr) 😈 “you want it so bad? Then sit on it. Aww don’t be scared I know you’re ready” -⚡️

TW: afab! reader, dirty talk, use of pet names, piv sex, unprotected sex, mentions of creampie and oral sex, bratty & whiny reader, reader is described to be much smaller than Cheol. Not proofread. 18+ only (MDNI).

Note: changed it up a little bit, ⚡️ anon. Hope you enjoy!

Because this is blonde cheol with a bratty reader, I am compelled to tag Zeta my love @multi-kpop-fanfics . It’s simply how the world works 💞

“Nooo. Stop!” You whined and yanked on Seungcheol’s blonde locks, pulling him back up to face you.

Seungcheol was confused to say the least. His eyebrows quirking as he studies your facial expressions. “You okay?”

“Just fuck me, Cheol,” you blurt out, frustration clear in your voice and Seungcheol swears he heard the angels sing.

“What–“

“I said, fuck me. No more teasing, no more prepping. I’m done!” You glare at him. Not that you were ungrateful for your boyfriend’s expert oral skills, but when all you’ve gotten the past few days ever since his return from a 3-month tour is everything but his cock, you think it’s okay to sound ungrateful.

“Aw, impatient baby,” he mocks as he grinds his crotch on yours.

“Excuse me?! I’ve been patient! Way too patient! Three months and 18 days patient!!!!” Cheol laughs at your attention to detail, clearly amused at how needy you’ve been. Not that he wasn’t— he was, he’s been dreaming to have his way with you the moment he got home four days ago. But apparently, he could take a few more days of waiting, making sure you were well prepped and ready to take his huge cock again after so long. And maybe he just loved to tease you a little bit more, waiting to awaken the brat in you. “Cmon, Cheollie..” you switch up to a sweet tone, blinking with doe eyes and drawing his face to yours for a kiss, “it’s been too long, don’t you wanna feel my tight pussy around you?”

Seungcheol’s dick twitches in the confines of his briefs at your words but he tries to play it cool with a roll of his eyes.

“Better yet baby, don’t you miss cumming inside—“

Your sentence is cut off with a yelp as the large man who was once above you rolls you both around on the bed, effectively having him pinned between your legs, straddling him right where he wants you. Seungcheol grabs you harshly to connect your mouths in a hungry kiss, the clashing of your tongues and teeth rendering you to a moaning mess while you hurriedly remove his shorts and undergarments.

When Cheol’s hard member springs free and rests on his stomach, the blonde man leans back to examine your next move. He’s not disappointed when the first thing you do is run your wet folds along his shaft. The guttural groan he lets out makes you even more wet than you already are. But that’s a good thing because now you’re looking at Cheol’s thick and long cock, and perhaps he did make the right decision to prep you for it for days.

“Nervous, baby?” He asks with that stupid brow raise of his.

“No,” you answer without hesitation but even then, you didn’t sound so confident.

“Well be my guest, princess. What’re you waiting for? You wanted it so bad didn’t you? Ride me.”

You nodded at Seungcheol, swallowing thickly before wrapping your small hand around his heavy shaft. You aligned him at your entrance, carefully letting his bulbuous head breach your sopping hole. Cheol takes notice when you suck in a sharp breath and close your eyes. It happens the same time he feels the constricting push of your walls which has his hands flying to eitherside of your hips.

“Doing s’good for me, princess,” he encourages, mustering all self control not to just thrust up into you.

“S-so biiig,” you stammer, sinking down to ease another inch of him.

“Not so mad about my prep anymore, eh?”

You roll your eyes at the smug remark, “fuck you.”

“You already are, prin— shit!” Seungcheol curses when you suddenly seat yourself fully to shut him up.

Moans reverberate around the room from both of you after your little stunt. The stretch is painful at first but it slowly morphs into fiery pleasure with every soothing rub of Cheol’s thumb on your hip. You take a deep breath and plant your palms on his chest, circling your hips once.

“Fuuuuck,” you both drawl out, lust fully flowing through your veins.

“Missed this,” you pick up your pace, repeating the motions of lifting your hips then grinding down to stimulate your clit.

“Missed you,” your boyfriend replies. He reaches out one hand to squeeze on your breast before his fingers roll your nipple expertly, causing you to clench harshly on his cock.

“Fuck, princess. If you do that again, I might just cum now.”

You scoff at his remark, ready to tease him back, “aw, who’s the impatient one now?”

[mitsua]

Ineffable infatuation

Summary: Barbatos past self, saw his future self with an amazing being by his side while using his power on accident, what is this feeling he's had ever since for them?

This is my apology for the last Barbatos fic that I did not finish (do you want me to though?) and I'm extremely proud of how it came out, I love this man so much

I highly recommend reading it while listening to "After Dark" by Mr. Kitty

Warnings: mentions of dizziness, wars between Demons and Angels, screams of agony, repressing feelings, a Demon being seen as a God (very brief, don't come at me, it's for the story's sake), some spoilers (? I don't really consider them spoilers 'cause it's all on OM's SWD? original and early story...)

Genre: angst to romance (bittersweet) Pairing: Barbatos x MC

Series: Obey me! SWD? & NB! Words' count: 1.52k

Barbatos found himself in what could be described as the beginning of a new era in the land he's just arrived to, barely recalling anything from whatever could have brought him here.

Who was he to begin with?

He looked up and down, feeling his body for the first time, adapting to its strange movements and finally, he started walking successfully.

It was all unknown to him, even more when he heard his own voice for the first time as he looked up and admired the endless starry sky above him. It was so beautiful—What was everything he was feeling just now?

He glanced down once again, noticing the fauna surrounding him. There were a couple of strange creatures to him, they were looking at him... he didn't know what to do.

Even less when a certain group of black little cloud-looking things came flying to him, his arms and hands moved by their own and without knowing he created something in front of him.

The little D's gang stopped on their tracks when they saw a peculiar oval-shaped thing glowing, more voices could be heard from it.

Barbatos could see everything. He saw it.

Atleast, until he saw you.

After several minutes of complete silence excepting some really rushed sounds from creatures they didn't know about, the glowing, flashy thing dissapeared.

Barbatos stood still, processing everything he's witnessed. He just used magic—as all his events have made him learn. He was catalogued as a Demon, he just landed on what will be the Devildom one day, he'll meet countless people.

Countless until he finally meets you.

That was the moment he pictured the most now that the only light there was in that bare world was the moon's.

He could remember feeling a certain way once you spoke to him for the first time, asking who he was at that classroom from the Royal Academia of Diavolo—whom he'll someday come to serve with all his might.

Still, he could not adress what the feeling was though.

He could not wait to come face to face with you, he had to do something, anything—no, he was only beginning to understand everything but if one thing he got clear from this experience was just how powerful he was.

To put it plainly, he could easily change anything from the timeline he wasn't pleased with. Anything.

So, he knew that even if he was craving to encounter you as soon as possible, he shouldn't, he would regret it even.

His last vision was you, you made him lose his concentration for a second so the portal he created vanished into thin air. He knew how to make it appear once again now, however, chose against.

If he got to see you once more, he knew he wouldn't think twice and get with you. What was wrong with it? A little voice asked on his mind.

Thus, instantly provoking a downpour of timelines he's just witnessed fall apart from his mistakes pop up everywhere, making him feel dizzy for a second and crouch down to take a hold of his head and heart which pulsed painfully.

The little D's did not comprehend a single thing that just happened, but after taking a glance to one another, they agreed that the creature infront of them seemed unharmful and flew to its side to aid in any way they could.

A couple grabbed one of his arms, a couple more the other and the last three gathered around his head, were they could see his face contorting in any way that made them all think he was not doing great.

One last look to a blue-horned one from the other six made them start chanting some noises they've learnt help to cure aches from experiences they've gone through on their few days alive in that wild environment.

Which then again, they didn't really know could be counted and only thought the night had no end nor beginning, so didn't mind it that much.

The following minutes were filled with unharmonied babbles coming from the seven little D's and slowly but surely, a light rainbow-colored glow and breeze enveloped Barbatos upper body, its appearance making his agony subside.

Barbatos stood up, feeling what he could express as painless with his lack of vocabulary for the moment, when in reality he felt even fresher than when he first blinked to his new life.

He bowed his head to the black creatures around him, trying to make them understand he felt... "grateful? yes, that's the right word."

The little D's assembled in a line infront of the man, excitedly screaming and making a face mirrored to Barbatos'.

He was smiling, for the first time in this new life, in his new life—his life—he smiled.

Right then and there he understood that he must take every step seriously if he wanted to achieve all the good and great things he saw moments ago.

More specifically, if he wanted to meet up with everyone he now knew the faces of, those who have made such feelings stir inside him that he could still not name, but he cared deeply from now on.

Barbatos began with a journey that he knew had an ending, one he didn't know about, but preferred it stayed that way for as long as possible. He only had on mind the day he'd make contact for the first time with you.

He saw the first Devildom's ruler arrive to the desert land, he was witness of the first encounter with other race they had, they proclaimed themselves as 'Angels'.

He heard the first cry for help of a demoness being shoot by a spear when the first conflict between those two races began.

He was known for millennia as the first magic user and the most powerful being who had ever stepped that cursed land that 'only Demons could reside.'

He was known as a God for sometime, a Deity who had to be praised in order to receive blessings in your life while he had gone on his first trip to the human world for a couple of centuries to get to know more about them, leaving the little D's in charge of everything oblivious to the fame he had made of himself.

That's when humans caught a glimpse of him and started the rumours of 'ungracefully-looking being', 'monstruously-looking being' and more so that he learnt the magic to make his demonic appearance look more human-alike and be able to blend in.

Nevertheless, he was both impressed and bothered by the fact that those rumours did nothing but spread further until the whole world got to now about the 'cursed beings being able to disguise themselves and come curse them to death or even trick them to eat their souls.'

Barbatos came back when he got to know that the latest Devildom's King had an offspring, only then did he remember once again those filled with pure curiousity amber eyes staring right at him when he first used his powers millennia ago.

He had to be there, be there when Diavolo first took charge of the Devildom himself once his father fell in a seemingly-endless sleep, he's sworn loyalty to him centuries ago, he couldn't and wouldn't want to back down.

As years went by his side, Barbatos got to experience tons of instants that he felt his heart swell with pride, greed, envy, wrath, lust, gluttony and sloth—just as the avatars that he knew and slightly feared were extremely close to meet him and his master for the first time ever.

The Celestial War came. A bloodshed was spent, an eternity seemed to pass while he could hear and recall all those pained screams from his companions being butchered by those who called themselves 'merciful' that made his blood boil and almost lose control. He knew better than to lose it, he knew this would happen sooner or later—he had to accept it—he had to accept he could not save everyone he cared for.

Following the 'most traumatizing events' as he'd decided to aknowledge it all as, Diavolo kept his word and continued with the Royal Academy of Diavolo foundation, which the latter promised one day would hold creatures from all three worlds.

Barbatos got to know each and every emotion he thought he would feel in his whole life, yet once he saw you, physically present infront of him, he discovered there were many more he's kept hidden in his heart just from this moment on.

You, who had held his sanity for as long as he's seen you that first time from a magically-created screen that—even if he felt something deep inside him then—once he got to talk to you made it bloom and he could finally name it.

He was in love.

All the time, all his time was about you, and now, he planned on not letting any more of this precious moments go to waste and make you his. Because Barbatos, as much loyalty he'd pledged to Diavolo, has—since the beginning of time—been yours always.

All writings' rights reserved © 2024 Mitsua. (Credit to the respective owners of the pictures and tagged anime character.) ⌇ my navigation!

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for distancing myself from my partner?

I, (17NB) and my partner (17NB) had a rough year. Thier family is super religious, and so is the place we live in, and we've had many fears about being outed. My family is less religious and I mostly raise myself so admittedly he's a lot more paranoid, and rightfully so I'd say. But ever since we've started dating I've had to ask them multiple times to improve thier communication.

To start off, I wish they were upfront, or atleast more firm about us breaking up, atleast in the first year. That wouldve solved a lot of heartbreak if they didn't want to be with me.

They dodged the question of physical intimacy of literally anything more than holding hands or cuddling multiple times, and yet mentioned they were ace offhandedly to a friend instead of giving me a straight answer (which I wouldve been fine with, I just wish they told me.) They tend to get angry quite easily and resort to snappish/ short answers, and, especially since them having a conversation with thier mom questioning thier sexuality, tend to abhor the smallest inkling of physical contact or sign that we're together, even if we're around friends who know, or alone.

After the conversation with thier mom, they asked to break up, but i basically pleaded for another chance and they agreed. I know it's my own fault at some point for beating a dead horse, but I recently had a conversation that kind of snapped the rose-tinted glasses right off.

We were discussing our futures, and there's a somber agreement neither of us will see each other again after school. Thats not what I'm upset about. They described having kids in a hetero marriage and joking to thier kids about the "wild" stuff they got up to in highschool like experimenting in a queer relationship, basically saying our entire 3 years of dating was a fluke or joke or experiment.

I realised this was the straw that broke the camel's back, they didn't really initiate or seem as eager as me about the sparse times we could go out alone together, they gave me a half finished craft I had to sew myself while I gave a painting for valentine's day, and various examples of bad communication. They're a good friend, I'm not so sure about partner.

So, I'm kinda trying to stop this year. I stopped frantically calling in school and rearranging lessons to be with them, I didnt spam text or think about making any gifts so far, I asked to have a..spicy experience with a friend or two (that my partner agreed with me doing). In my head I guess I told myself that we might call ourselves partners but the word just lost its meaning for us both.

So far, it's okay. It hurts, because it seems more like we're just friends instead of dating, but I want to focus on myself and my studies to get out of our really conservative area. Still, I feel guilty and a little resentful. I know I should've just accepted breaking up, but we're kinda codependant. They and I both know we can't be without each other.

They love me so much, I know that. They've done so so much for me and dragged me out of a horrible place pretty much single-handedly, they're just not great at communicating or emotional maturity. Also, they seem to think queer people go to hell in some self-imposed notion of religious guilt, and when I express resentment towards religions that push homophobia on thier followers they seem weirdly defensive of it.

For context, I have BPD (my partner has, for a long time being my 'favourite person') and what I'm reluctant to call "severe" trauma but it's been described as that. I'm genuinly curious to know if this is a result of some upbringing-induced overreaction or if its okay to just kinda give up on my own relationship. Yes, I'm aware that the best thing would be to break up but I dont think I could ever leave them, for some stupid reason.

What are these acronyms?

[orange-orchard-system]

Got a hate ask on my other blog (funnier-as-a-system) today. I'm not gonna respond to it directly, but I'm gonna go over it fully just as an example of why I don't take anti-endos or sysmeds seriously and find them to be just bullying assholes who don't know what they're talking about. Apologies for the rare discourse post, but I felt it would be useful to have a personal example I can point to if I ever get any more asks than I already have about why I block anti-endos and sysmeds and don't want them on my blogs.

[ID: A screenshot of an anonymous ask, which reads: ""Systems" aren't real. Please stop being ableist against people with DID and our struggles. Pretending to be one of us while simultaneously mocking us makes you look like a piece of shit. Also, DID isn't fucking funny, you're just cruel and ableist. Go see a psychiatrist, get your personality disorders and Munchausens taken care of, and stop pretending to have DID when you don't. We don't need you, our community is better off without teenagers faking DID as a meme. To be honest, I wish you and literally everyone like you were more likely to kill yourself as someone with a real mental illness, because you don't deserve to be alive if this is what you're doing with your life. You're just a delusional bully and neo-nazi" ./ end ID]

Starting from the top, apparently anyone with DID who's ever described themselves as a system is faking now. Nevermind that it's been a term in psychology and the community for decades now! All systems are fake!

I have DID. I've said as much many times. Not that I think this person would consider this a counterargument, but I feel it deserves restating considering a fair amount of my posts are specifically about my DID and managing the symptoms of it.

If I want to find humor in my own disorder, I'm going to. I'm not going to resign myself to misery and self-hate just to please some randos on the Internet. I crawled my way out of the pit of self-hate and am not just gonna jump in there again just to avoid a couple asks and assholes. And I'd make a point here about systems that don't come from trauma or aren't disordered, but what's the point of that when they think literally all systems are fake?

Ohoho! Disableism towards other mental disorders! Isn't the irony sweet?

Not to toot my own horn, but I just love the lack of awareness when it comes to "we don't need you." No, I guess you don't need me... but you'll be going without the work I've done both online and offline to teach people about dissociation and plurality. Not to mention the terms I've coined that make people feel seen, the experiences I've talked about that make people feel less alone, the building of spaces to let others talk about their own problems and experiences, and the general promotion I've done of plural representation in media. No, you don't need me, but I've been doing work to assist the DID and wider plural communities for years now. And what have you been doing? Sending hate asks to people with DID for being too happy?

I'm an adult. I've mentioned before that I go to university and have a job. Seems like even online, I can't escape the assumption that I'm a teenager, smh. Also, I'm much more worried about the teenagers you might be sending this to than any kind of unquantifiable harm a couple teenagers faking DID could do, considering how clearly you wish to do harm with your words. Especially considering the next few sentences...

Oh, so we're just moving onto blatant suicide baiting and admitting you want systems to die. Got it. Totally not a bigot, right.

Wait... "Real mental illnesses"? Didn't you just accuse me of having several earlier? Or do personality disorders and Munchausen Syndrome not count? (Also, do they think being suicidal is a requirement to be mentally ill? They know not all disorders or presentations of disorders involve suicidality, right?)

Well, you got the delusional part right (which, side note, do you think it's impossible for people to have both DID and psychosis? Big yikes even if no, but that's what these asks always seem to imply), but I think this post might be the closest anyone can call "bullying", considering I'm not giving you an opportunity to respond as I tear down your argument. But maybe the definition of peer abuse changed to *checks notes* running a blog talking about plurality in a positive manner since I last checked.

These people do know what a Neo-Nazi is, right? They know what a Nazi is? Because it feels like people just use it as a stand-in for "general asshole" when it means a specific sort of ideology and bigotry. Ironic that they'd be so pissed about "mockery" and treating serious topics "as a meme", but then they go and misuse a term for a very dangerous kind of ideology and person.

Alright, I think I got that out of my system. Please be careful out there, guys! It feels like the number of hate asks I've seen people get has been going up. I'm in a stable enough place to make a demonstration out of this, but don't push yourself to have a snappy comeback or write essays responding to these assholes if you don't think you're up for it. Hell, I rarely write things like this myself, I just chose this ask to respond to because it was such a clear example of how hypocritical and foolish this particular brand of assholes is that I couldn't pass up the opportunity to break it down.

[presiding]

Another question regarding the fic. I wanted to make it short but couldn't word it this way

I liked how you choose lethal elimination of Breanna in your monster in the hull fic. Was it done from Emily's character perspective or do you think that Ashworth is a lost cause herself?

Personally,i always felt conflicted on that matter. She's too dependant on Delilah.

Her whole freedom is about running away from an unwanted marriage with an old man to relationship with a woman.

And yet,was she truly free in a witch coven or Delilah made her a caged bird? I think that Breanna's feelings are genuine but they became twisted with time.

DH2 (to some degree) makes me feel as she could've had a normal life. She became a curator of conservatory on her own before Delilah started communication with the coup through the void.

And still...she returned to her again once she got an opportunity.

Such an interesting character and there surely something is up with Delilah's arcane bond.

BREANNA!!! BREANNA ASK WOO

tysm you're so kind 😭♥♥ you sent me another ask with a fantastic analysis and i'll publish that as soon as i can work out how to add spoiler warnings but! YES! YOU GET IT!

talking about breanna in canon - yeah i totally agree! yes yes yessss

i think breanna's feelings for delilah are 100% genuine. to put it entirely in metaphor, i can't see her as being a caged bird, i'd describe her as trap-happy instead! though --- she viciously defends her cage from anyone who gets too close. i like that she's dependent on delilah and i would argue she likes it too.

the main thing that bothers me is that in low chaos/canon, breanna, after losing her powers, seems to immediately give up. from memory she says deliiah will have no use for her now.

i know that's meant to reflect more on delilah, and breanna's deep understanding of what drives delilah as well as her acceptance of it (😭), but i can't help but headcanon that she wouldn't give up on delilah so easily. whether its, as you say, a return to some semblance of normal life (aka biding her time), or an obsessive hunt for delilah, i also don't think she'd ever get over it really.

the lengths breanna might have gone to find delilah again, are really interesting to think about!

(from a gameplay perspective i see why they wrote it so that she just gives up - it's a convenient low chaos ending for her to stop being a threat to the protagonist.)

talking about the monster in the hull - generally when i choose the fate of a character in a fic, my primary concern is, what am i trying to say with the piece of writing overall? as opposed to how i feel about the character specifically. i have been accused of being ruthless before when it comes to character deaths, but i don't like making anyone miserable unless there's a reason for it. i'm a softie who, unfortunately, loves themes ™ so sometimes i have to pick whose story i'm exploring, and how am i doing that, and then pare back from there.

though the monster in the hull is a Dishonored 2 rewrite, i wanted this to be primarily about meagan foster, and secondarily, emily's relationship with meagan (with a few other running commentaries/themes as well - namely monsterhood, power, guilt/regret, family).

i wrote it a year ago so my memory's hazy but the main things that made me decide on a lethal approach for breanna, was:

emily at the halfway point in the fic is a loose canon, and even if she has taken a genuine shine to meagan foster she still needs to be a threat

loose canon as distinct from high chaos - her heart is in the right spot but she's still lashing out. and she's still behaving fairly self-centredly - she wants to do the right thing but hasn't gotten her new powers under control.

all emily's attempts to crack meagan's facade... have come to nothing. meagan is keeping her mouth shut. so finding out the hard way that meagan DID have a relationship with emily's greatest enemy - delilah painted her! - and all this time she's said nothing - she's so pissed off she fumbles a mission that technically she could have ghosted through.

and by the time she gets back to the boat, she's eerily calm about it - which is why i went with the canon dialogue.

billie's prior relationship with the witches means she has a high investment in the outcome of this mission. but! she knows she was a coward by choosing to not say anything to emily beforehand!

so to find out that emily has been ruthless, and yet is acting like she's fine, is really to twist the knife of fear. meagan's been wondering this whole time what she's gotten herself into, and she just found out - not even breanna, who was both powerful and meticulous, was able to save herself from emily

but of course... there's still the assassin beneath her meagan mask, so they are both concerningly detached in a way.

not to mention! the implied jealousy <3 as a treat!

oh and from memory! i think later on sokolov was absolutely roasting emily for having killed breanna. you know you've fucked up when sokolov is the voice of reason.

there was a delilah plotline i was considering, but i ended up cutting, in which breanna would have played more of a role, but i realised it was going to blow my word count estimate out of the water. funnily enough every time i draft up something with delilah in it, she takes over really quickly. very on brand!

thank you SO much for the kind words again and thanks for letting me ramble in response here, its really really really nice to see that people are still reading the fics that held me hostage so it's super lovely of you 💓💓💓thank you for making my day!

[grishaverse-chaos]

The Darkling

why I like them: could have been SO GOOD in theory okay? I will never shut up about this because "character who everyone thinks is evil is actually just the victim of a smear campaign and some really bigoted propaganda" is SUCH a good character concept and I wish darkling fans were right about him because it would be so fucking cool and aesthetic

why I don't: he uh. he isn't that. he could have been so fucking iconic and instead he was just a vicious murderer. who grooms teenage girls.

favourite episode/scene: LOVE the bit where alina stabs his hand in s1e8. tbf that's more of a fav alina moment than anything else lmao, let me think... okay fr I love the "fine. make me your villain" scene bc it just really showcases who he is as a character and how he sees himself (hint: those two things are not the same)

favourite season/movie: imo he's better written in s1 of the show than in s2, idk though. and I do love his story in the kos duology lmao

favourite line: that one bit in rule of wolves where he says "everything I have done has been for ravka" because it's so clearly Not True and yet.... he clearly thinks it is.... so where does intent stop and impact begin...... it's deep okay

favourite outfit: purely for shits and giggles I'm going to say his black kefta in s2 where there's bits of gold bc I loveeee people being haunted by those they've wronged and I think alina haunting him really fits into that theme

otp: no thank you! in all honesty he prob could have been Fixed™ if he'd had a genuine relationship at an earlier age but he didn't so I refuse to inflict him on any other character. darkolai is interesting to consider though bc I feel like the ways they see themselves clash so heavily.... it's about self image and it's about villainy and law and justice and power and and and. they would Not be a good relationship but I think they should interact more for the Narrative

brotp: his sister ulla! they'd have such a fun sibling dynamic lmao I think it'd be sweet

headcanon: tbh I don't tend to think about him much beyond the big narrative stuff so I'm struggling to think of something that fits the genre of "headcanon".... but let's humanise him a little! I bet he reads really literary fiction and gets ever-so-slightly pretentious about it lmao

unpopular opinion: is it unpopular to say that despite his original good intentions he's a bit of a dickhead and not as smart as he thinks he is? in some corners of the fandom it totally is but idk

a wish: at this point there's not much more that could be done with his character beyond what's already been set up (him being mercy killed so he's not suffering in the thorn wood for all eternity) so I'm going to say that I hope his stans get better reading comprehension bc dear GOD some of the takes I see (posted in the alina tag btw I'm not deliberately seeking them out) are absolutely horrendous. is that too salty? perhaps. idc though it's my blog and darkling stans are free to block me if they don't like my takes

an oh-god-please-don't-ever-happen: I swear if he goes NEAR alina genya or zoya again I will reach through the fourth wall to kill him myself. only half joking btw I'd be so pissed. imo they've all had the closure they need narratively and for him to seek them out again would be a dick move of the highest degree

5 words to best describe them: used to have good intentions. that might be cheating but idk if I can pick 5 random adjectives lmao

my nickname for them: I call him darkles sometimes (bc it's funny and also I think it'd piss him off if people called him that in-universe) also a lot of less positive nicknames ("that prick", "shithead" etc) but idk if that counts

[vortainz]

How it ends

the ending of IZ is ,, a really odd topic

technically it has 4 endings, well, 4.5

1 : invader dib

no, it in no way was a planned ending ever, but i feel it deserves mentioning considering how prevalent it was

it originally started on TAIZS when the producer was interviewed, he went on to confirm there was a intention to steer the show towards IRK and talking about its “”existence””

(also istg there was a ask where he vaguely explains the plot as a joke but i can’t find it for the life of me)

there were multiple versions of it but there’s two that circulated the most

A: “this special would have allegedly followed Tenn’s kidnapping by the Meekrob, and an all-out war happening between the Meekrob and the Irkens, which would have ended with Zim (aided by Gaz) being victorious over Dib, The Resistys, and the Meekrob, and finally conquering Earth.” (fan wiki)

B: the focus of the show would slowly shift towards irk, dib would get more crazed trying to stop the empire, zim and gaz would team up (or date, depends on who you asked) and stop both dib and the empire. everyone else dies and zagf/r saves the rest of earth

2 : space smoothies

In a nicktoons magazine, IZ made its “””final””” return. in which it had its first comic iteration where zim successfully took over the earth, but just kinda gives up when he sees the merch of himself. dib complains and zim offers to just have a jolly ol’ time in space, them both leaving earth in disarray while just being buds

3 : dookie loop

The “”canon”” ending, basically zim traps dib and the rest of the universe in a timeloop due to not being able to finish a puzzle. blah blah blah i’ll rant about his reasoning for that in another post ANYWAYS,, he eventually finishes it and resigns to fixing the timeline, but the “fix timeline button” doesn’t work and the universe implodes, everyone dies.

4 : nothing is real

i haven’t fully pieced together the lore but this is what ive gathered

rk is god. kinda.

in their orginal universe, zim and dib are real people, dib has gone missing and zim conquered earth. the conditions are really bad till he finally gets the idea to just indoctrinate them all

rk uses the comics as a “coping mechanism” of sorts, avoiding what’s really going on by just reading the comics, it’s really the only think they can do anyways

here’s where my idea sort of splits

A : they continue reading the comics and recapping them all, imagining this fantastical world where life is just zim and dib fighting in middle school, each winning and losing occasionally. rk starts making their own comics and aus, getting more and more absorbed by the characters of zim and dib that anything other than them is incredibly distressing

they get so sucked into their own mind that at this point they feel as though they ARE the creator of these characters and comics. when the story in their mind gets too off track, when it’s getting to the point where it might end, they insert themselves into it and fix whatever issue there was

B : bk (brain kid) is god essentially, rk was originally from the universe as described before but was scooped up by bk at some point and put into the recap section of the comic universe, something similar to in issue 40. in the comic universe, IZ isn’t real, it’s just a comic. yet rk is still able to manipulate the story and interact with the characters, when the comic is finally coming to and end they step in and just start everything over again

oh yeah in both A n B what i mean by ‘the comic ending’ is that earth is burning and no one wins, both zim and dib are about to die

⬆️ sorry if none of this made sense 😭 i’m struggling to word it correctly + still theorizing

4.5 : timetravel

Probably the most simple one, zim conquers earth, dib dies by being stupid, zim gets killed by his younger self, the end. the only reason it’s “4.5” is due to it being specific to the timeline of that issue, as none of the other entries acknowledge it

[autumnalwalker]

A Dream About A Doll And A Dog

I am a doll, wandering empty dirt roads.  Long, long ago, I think I may have been a weapon.  Long enough ago that I can barely imagine, I might have been human.  Or at least something that looked the part.

Remembering is hard these days.

I am looking for my witch, that much I am certain of.  

There was a war, I think.  Or maybe some other disaster.  Something bad that had gone on for longer than anyone could remember and all believed would go on forever.

Until one day it didn’t.

Everything is broken and empty now, except for the bits of green that have started to grow.  None of the scattered and hungry people I’ve met on the roads have known what to do about it.  No one knows how to put things back together after so long breaking things apart.

My witch would know.

I was shattered, discarded, and bereft of self.  Useless and forgotten until my witch found what was left of me.  She made me new.  She made me durable enough that nothing could ever hurt me again.  She made me weak enough that I could never hurt anyone else again.  She made me whole.  She allowed me to just be without needing to be useful.

If she could put me back together, then surely she must be able to put everything else back together.

It took time for me to appreciate what she did to me.  Now that I am thinking about it again, those memories come back in flashes.  I would flail, and scratch, and bite, but my hands could not tear cloth and my teeth could not break skin.  Once I rent apart steel and ceramic and flesh and bone and circuitry and cables and graphene and glass and helmets and skulls and armor and weapons and ships and cannons and pipelines and spines and clouds and earth and cities and hearts and -

And now I stop and take deep breaths I don’t need until those memories I need even less fade again.

Maybe that’s what those people over there are doing as they harass the tall one in the red and black helmet shaped like a dog’s head.  Maybe they are just flailing about in misplaced aggression because they haven’t learned to do anything else yet.  I approach them.  I tell them I am looking for my witch.  I ask them if they’ve seen her.  All of them flee except for the tall one with a dog’s head who growls from beneath his unmoving metal features.

Why does that always happen when I ask?

The tall one with a dog’s head asks me to describe my witch.  I do so as much as my failing memory will allow.  The dog remembers her.  It was my witch who made this one in front of me now into her dog.  The dog had been searching for her for a long time as well, and while the dog was very good at tracking, the dog had eventually given up, believing her to be dead.  

Did we have a dog?  I must have forgotten about that.

I tell the dog that she is not dead.  She can’t be dead.  I am her doll and she is my witch.  I would know.  I would feel it.

Why aren’t we together anymore?  I don’t remember her leaving, only that one day she was gone, I wasn’t home anymore, and everything outside was different.

The dog says that we should travel together.  With the dog’s ability to track in conjunction my ability to feel my witch we might finally find her.  The hunt can begin again and when it finishes everything will be made right.

Why does the word "hunt" make me feel uneasy?

The dog has contacts that can supposedly help us get started.  I am led to a mostly-forgotten ruin of hangars and bunkers.  I don’t remember if I’ve been to this one before but I know that I have been to many just like it.  The last time I was in a place like it though, my witch lied to everyone there and said that I hadn’t.  I remember being grateful for that lie.  It made me less scared of going back.

My witch isn’t here to lie for me this time.

The dog takes me far below ground to untouched vaults.  In that dim place, gaunt mechanics scurry about, eyeing me with fear and hunger.  Favors are called in and the dog barks orders.  I am left standing alone in the middle of a wide open floor as crates are retrieved, dusted off, and opened.  I have never worn the armor whose pieces are being unpacked, but I’ve intimately known its like.  The sight of it thrills me.

I want to run away.

The dog tells me this is the best way to find my witch.

The last piece of armor is fastened into place.  Long-dormant systems activate and sync.  Long-drowned connections sputter to life and I remember how to fly, how to rend, and how to hunt.

[porridgefeast]

ITSAY/IPYTM thoughts

In three parts because that's how I wrote it.

Oh-aew in a shirt which seems like the most meta English t-shirt text ever in Thai BL(ish) world (and there have been many others) but also seems like something Oh-aew would somehow own.

Part 1

I wasn’t assuming I’d have a ton to say about I Told Sunset About You. I wasn’t even planning on starting it at the particular moment I did, I just had it in mind I’d do so soonish. But wow, this drama hit me like a ton of bricks.

I tend to enjoy it when there’s a small gesture or moment onscreen that brings me back to uncertain romantic moments of young adulthood. Oddly enough, it’s often how someone leans (not kabedon-ish looming fwiw)—make of that what you will. (There’s this one moment in Between Us that hit me with something I can only describe as the world’s hardest pang.) But yikes, having so many... I guess first love feelings come up so hard and fast is really unusual and compelling, but almost too powerful for a sensitive creature such as myself. It’s certainly beautiful in an important way I think art is meant to be beautiful. But it’s less uncomplicatedly enjoyable than some things.

I don’t always have to identify with one character over another, even if one character is positioned as the protagonist of a story. I don’t always identify with anybody, though certain stories will pull me in in that way. But man, ITSAY gives me vertigo. Teh’s paradoxical mixture of obvious feeling and self-conscious reserve might normally make it so I’d be seeing things firmly from his perspective, but instead I whip back and forth between Teh and Oh in a borderline-painful way. I guess I just want so badly for them not to hurt each other.

Billkin’s left eyebrow jiggles like even Teh’s face is fidgeting nervously. At the point I’m currently at in the series, it feels like this kid is going to explode leaving only a fine mist. PP Krit is so still as Oh that it’s at least momentarily tempting to perceive him as solid, confident. But his steadiness is one of watching and waiting SO intently.

I feel like I could write an essay about the blinking alone, much less the overall category of looking. I don’t especially want to write it, but it’s there.

About midway through episode 2 I found myself kind of relieved to confirm there are only five episodes. I wanted to hurry through those most acute push & pull moments. But here I am at the beginning of episode 4 and it feels like it’s been a dang eternity.

Part 2

Back again after ending ITSAY and getting 4 1/2 episodes into IPYTM. I’m not writing about this show because I decided to do so, but because I don’t seem to have a choice. Not that I wouldn’t choose to do so, it’s just moot.

I think I’ve finally put into possibly inadequate words a thing Billkin does a lot as Teh. Sometimes his face just kind of goes... offline. He’s telegraphing despair while his face settles into a stiff mask. I find it a lot more true to life than what many actors do in similar scenes, but also very relatable in a way that’s painful! Again, in an art way. In a way that puts into practice the fact that we don’t only watch and read stories to pass time but because they help us understand ourselves. But part of me is annoyed, like a kid who’s been told to get in the car only to find they’re being taken someplace totally unforeseen and unappealing.

I find myself not wanting to explain what PP Krit is doing as much, but not because what he’s doing is less carefully crafted, certainly not because it’s less affecting. I said earlier that I was bouncing back and forth between identifying with each of them but not long after that first note of mine I stopped being able to identify with Teh very much. It might be a stretch to relate the events of this show too much to an experience of my own, but I was probably the Oh-aew in my first serious relationship, which was a very long one that was completely tied up with my entire college experience and a long first stage of adulthood.

I don’t judge Teh too harshly, but he just seems SO young. Like, younger than I may ever have been. Part of what makes this show good at what it does is that I don’t quite know what’s going on with him a lot of the time. There’s certainly a part of me that wants someone to explain what goes on in his head, but the ambiguity works for this show’s narrative style.

Maybe this will become more apparent, but am I supposed to have a strong conviction as to what Jai’s deal has been? Because that guy seems determined to give some of the most intense mixed signals I’ve ever witnessed. I feel like the director was going okay in this shot you’re in love with Teh. Okay now in this scene you feel like Teh’s kinda gross.

Honestly Teh is super gross! Billkin is a cute kid and Teh has many endearing qualities but he is a MESS. About half the time (well, half the time we see him onscreen, who knows what he does during time-jumps) the kid is barfing feelings like No-face from Spirited Away after he’s eaten nearly everybody who works at the spirit bathhouse.

I strongly suspect these characters and performances would bring up different things for people other than myself. This show is taking my personal buttons and stomping on them; presumably for others it stomps on slightly different or even opposite buttons, and for others it might trigger very little whatsoever of their own personal baggage.

Well, back to it I suppose.

Part 3

I feel less urgency now that I’ve reached the end point of the two series. Which is good for me but it means I have less to say at this point.

I’m very curious as to how a rewatch of these two series would feel to me. At first I thought a rewatch might be great—often that way I can relax and appreciate things more, since I’m not distracted by suspense as much. But I could just as easily wind up dreading certain moments. So many public scenes, yall. So much shame being experienced!

I would like to take a short moment to appreciate Hoon. His mom-pleasing powers may have complicated things for Teh, but it was such a relief to me that he was a sweetheart and a good brother.

I’m glad there’s a happy ending but I’m relieved Oh-aew got several chances to be resentful. (Not that I would have been unhappy with some less-than-happy endings. Too happy an ending would have been odd tonally anyway for this show.) I’m pretty sure I laughed out loud when Oh-aew was like but this time if you have a problem can you tell me and we can talk about it?

I was so glad Tarn got a little cameo at the end. It felt like giving her her due. Recognizing how that moment made me feel makes me realize how much I appreciate Tarn having interiority and agency as a character.

In other news, maybe I’m now one step closer to being able to see Na Naphat onscreen without immediately thinking of him as Tawan from Kinnporsche. And usually saying “f*cking Tawan!” in my head. It hasn’t happened yet, but I hope to get there. I’m sorry Na Naphat, I guess that performance was almost too good.

[woman-for-women]

Excerpts from Elliot Page's Memoir, "Pageboy"

(Content warning: homophobia/lesbophobia, slurs, misogyny, violence, eating disorders, and self harm)

Homophobia/Lesbophobia

"The success of Juno coincided with people in the industry telling me no one could know I was queer. That it wouldn’t be good for me, that I should have options, to trust that this was for the best. So I put on the dresses and the makeup. I did the photo shoots. I kept Paula hidden. I was struggling with depression and having panic attacks so bad I would collapse. I could barely function. Numb and quiet, nails in my stomach, I was incapable of articulating the depth of pain I was in, especially because “my dreams were coming true,” or at least that is what I was being told. I dismissed my feelings as dramatic, berated myself for being ungrateful. I felt too guilty to say I was hurting, incapacitated, that I didn’t see a future."

"I’d decided I could go it alone after a previous experience where an innocent teenage question—“Did you ever watch Xena?”—was met with “No, because I’m not a lesbian.” I was glad to not be working with that publicist anymore—these comments emblematic of the Hollywood they warn you about. Plastic, empty, homophobic."

"It was 2014, and I had come out as gay only two months before at a Human Rights Campaign conference in Vegas called Time to Thrive, the inaugural event focusing on LGBTQ+ youth…“I see what you are doing. I’m not stupid. I see what you are doing.” He stood too close. Staring down at me where I sat. “What am I doing?” I answered flatly. More confused than anything. At his aggression, his malevolent smile. “Oh please. It’s obvious what you’re doing. The attention.” I was familiar with this tone, this body language—threatening but casual. Flaunting his power. But it took me a moment to process what he might be alluding to. “Is this about me being gay?” Spurred, somehow provoked, he sat on the bench next to me and started to lay in. “That doesn’t exist. You aren’t gay. You are just afraid of men.” He said it ruthlessly, loud but with a smile. Gloating. Responding was useless. It was making it worse. He just kept going. People were telling him to stop, but he didn’t, and they gave up. I stood up and crossed to the other side of the terrace, trying to remove myself from the situation. He followed, sitting next to me again, his body close. “You’re just afraid of men. Men are predators and you’re just afraid of them.” He spoke to me as if no opinion mattered but his own. A stroke of wisdom to bestow upon me. Wasted slurs of words vomited out of his body as my body compacted, elbows on alert. I told him to stop harassing me, to fuck off, that he was being extremely offensive. I got up again and went inside. He pursued behind. I sat down on a small sofa, and he did, too. People danced to the Spring Breakers soundtrack, breaking it down to “Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites.” Look at this I’m a coward, too You don’t need to hide, my friend For I’m just like you “I’m going to fuck you to make you realize you aren’t gay. I’m going to lick your asshole. It is going to taste like lime. You’re not gay,” he slurred. He kept describing how he was going to fuck me, touch me, lick me. How he liked to pity fuck women. I don’t know why I didn’t demand he leave, ask for people to do more than “Yo, leave her alone.” Some of my closest friends were there, witnessing it. Power works in funny ways. He was, and still is, one of the most famous actors in the world."

"We were two boys, and we looked like two boys. “What are you, fucking faggots?” A group of teenagers were coming at us. Faggots. Faggots. Faggots. They were bigger, menacing, cruel. “Faggots. We are going to beat you up.” “I’m a girl,” I told them."

"I sensed spite from some people in the industry, a hostility even. That flash of aggression, hidden in “jokes,” blamed on alcohol, the sexual harassment dismissed. I remember sitting in a former agent’s office, thrilled that VICE wanted to make Gaycation. We’d be in Japan in just a couple months to film the first episode. When one of the major players of the agency walked in, I shared the news. “We get it, you’re gay!” he responded instantly."

"I was persuaded to reject a character not long before I came out as gay because it “wouldn’t be helpful.” Subtext: people think you’re a homo and this will make them think you are definitely a homo and you can’t exist as who you are if you want to have a career."

"“Don’t you fucking talk about me, faggot. I know you’re talking about me. I’m going to beat you up, fag!” He charged toward me from behind, yelling at me, Madisyn hearing all this through the phone. “I’m going to fucking gay bash you, faggot.”...That jolt of panic, a flashback to being with Justin on the hill or when another man in West Hollywood, years before, screamed, “I’m going to beat you into the ground, you ugly fucking dyke. I’ll kill you before the police get here.” My friend Angela and I sped away in her car. Or when I ran from a group of teenage girls who surrounded me at eighteen. “It isn’t Halloween. Why are you dressed up as a lesbian?” one of them asked as they approached, threatening me. Or when Paula and I dodged a friend of a friend who came at us around a bonfire, wasted and enraged by our snuggling. “You don’t have to shove it in our faces!” he barked. Others had to intervene, fighting him off until he stumbled away. “This is why I need a gun!” the man yelled right behind me as I frantically swung open the door to Pink Dot. “Please help! This guy is screaming at me, calling me a faggot and saying he is going to bash me.” The words flew out of my mouth. As I swung my head over my shoulder and back."

"“Faggots! Faggots!” he said as he walked away. The s slithered, ssss, like poison down the throat. That time, I pivoted, a reflex, boiling rage from all the times I hadn’t turned around. “Did you just call me a fucking faggot? Fuck you!” I yelled, repeatedly, as a few people standing on the sidewalk watched."

"The first time I tried to speak to my mom about sexuality, it didn’t go very well. I was fifteen and coming to terms with how attracted I was to women, only letting myself think of them when I was alone. Searching online:  Am I gay? How do I know if I am gay? There was no need to avert my eyes from my male peers. They did not titillate me. My nerves hummed around certain girls, I’d have to avoid them. It must be so obvious, I’d worry. I was in the passenger seat, head down, mustering up my strength. I turned to my mother. Her eyes were on the road. Her silver earrings dangled, not quite reaching her jawline, swaying with the car’s movement. “Mom, I think I may be gay—” “That doesn’t exist!” she yelled before I’d completed the word. My body sank in the passenger seat, the air sucked from me. I hung my head. She looked forward again and neither of us said another word about it. As I aged, it became clearer that I wasn’t going to be a pretty straight girl. The pressure from my mother to alter my appearance began to increase, alongside the bullying at school. I tried. My mom’s joy and relief faded to disappointment as I began to return to my original state. She did not want me hanging out exclusively with boys anymore. “You like Tina, why don’t you do something with her this weekend?” she’d say offhandedly, as if I didn’t know it wasn’t simply a casual, friendly question. When high school began, she encouraged me to spend more time with the girls on my soccer team rather than my closest pals. She didn’t want me hanging with the kids who were dressed in all black with various colors of hair, purple, green-blue, poking out from under hoods and beanies. The freaks, the artists … let’s be real, the queers...I didn’t talk to her about my sexuality again until I fell in love with Paula at twenty years old. Actually, I didn’t talk about my sexuality even then, I just said, “I’m in love with a woman and her name is Paula.” At twenty-four I tried again. “I’m gay, Mom, you know that, right? I’m gay and I’m not going to end up with a man,” I finally said when a woman moved in with me."

"My partner [at the time] was more closeted than me for a change, but everything is in degrees, people meet at different points of their journey, unable to sync up the tracks. We were together for almost two years, and even some of my closest friends were not aware I was in a relationship. Her parents did not know. I was the friend that came for Christmas. Only her sister and two of her friends knew. We never touched outside, we barely went to dinner. She was in my phone under the name “Ryan.”...It was not a sustainable relationship, just like when I had kept people hidden. The lying, the anxiety, the disgust. People didn’t “think she was queer,” but they definitely assumed I was, and I don’t think she could handle the shame. Ultimately, she had to do what was best for her, and unfortunately it resulted in my heart being shattered."

"Similar to thoughts I had when the idea of being queer felt impossible, believing as an actor that I would never be able to come out, praying to God knows what, please make me like men."

"A couple hours into the flight I felt a tap on my left shoulder. It was the priest and the curate, they passed me a piece of folded loose-leaf paper. A note. I smiled pleasantly and turned around to read it. I unfolded it, expecting a kind message from an LGBTQ+ supporting, progressive religious leader. No dice. It began with him acknowledging that his companion knew who I was, but he did not. I took the liberty of googling you. (Uh-oh) He went on to say that what I am wasn’t real. A belief and just that. Your soul is struggling. You need the arms of the Heavenly Father around you. (Ew) And I kid you not. Signed, Your Heavenly Daddy. There were a couple hours left on the flight. I was not sure what to do. Do I say something? Do I write a note back? I figured, what was the point? Truly. A quick convo is not going to change that priest’s mind, and giving any of it the time of day would let the toxins sink in. So, I refolded the note, stuck it in my pocket, and went back to my business. The plane landed. Welcome home."

Gender Non-Conformity, Dysphoria & Same-Sex Attraction

"I was planning on wearing jeans and a western(ish) shirt to Juno’s world premiere. I thought it was a cool look, and it had a collar. That’s fancy, right? I thought. When the Fox Searchlight publicity team learned about my outfit, they urgently took me to Holt Renfrew on Bloor Street, with a dramatic rushing that is characteristic of the Hollywood circulatory system. I suggested a suit. They said I should wear a dress and heels. After they discussed this with the director, he called me. He said he agreed with them, insisting that I play the part. Michael Cera rocked sneakers, slacks, and a collared shirt. He looked fancy to me. I wonder why they didn’t take him to Holt Renfrew. I guess he had nothing to hide, he was approved. He fit the part."

"“When did you know?” she asked as we stood outside, leaning against a wall. She loomed over me. For a brief moment, I wondered what she meant. This is something I’m asked frequently and not something I wish for during a casual night out. I’d experienced this inquiry as a queer woman, but as a trans guy it’s perpetual. Code for—I don’t believe you. I knew when I was four years old. I went to the YMCA preschool in downtown Halifax, on South Park Street across from the Public Gardens. The building had a dark brick facade and has since been demolished and replaced. Primarily, I understood that I wasn’t a girl. Not in a conscious sense but in a pure sense, uncontaminated. That sensation is one of my earliest and clearest memories. The bathroom was down the hall from my preschool class. I would try to pee standing up, assuming this to be the better fit for me. I would press on my vagina, holding it, pinching and squeezing it, hoping I could aim. I befouled the stall, but the bathroom often smelled of urine anyway. I was perplexed by my experience, severed from the other girls, twists in my stomach when I gazed at them. I remember one in particular, Jane. Her long brown hair, the way she could draw, her eyes focused and still with concentration. I was jealous of her artistic abilities. When I drew a person, limbs would protrude out of the head, arms like branches, thin lines for fingers. Little chicken legs with oversize sneakers. Jane, however, would draw a body, a stomach, a belly button. I was transfixed. My first crush, but I knew I was not like her. “Can I be a boy?” I asked my mother at six years old. We lived on Second Street at the time, having moved only a few minutes’ walk from our previous attic apartment on Churchill Drive. A ground-level flat on a tree-lined street, it had two bedrooms, hardwood floors, and a lovely small living area with big windows. I’d sit in front of the TV for hours playing Sega Genesis—Aladdin, NHL ’94, Sonic the Hedgehog—praying to God when my back was against the ropes, requiring the all-magnificent force to help me beat the game. There are no atheists in foxholes. “No, hon, you can’t, you’re a girl,” my mother responded. She paused, not moving her eyes from the dish towels she was methodically folding, before saying, “But you can do anything a boy can do.” One by one, stacking them neatly in their place. It reminded me of how she looked when ordering a Happy Meal for me at McDonald’s. I insisted on the “boys’ toy” every time—a delightful, congenial bribe. My mother’s discomfort requesting the toy was palpable, releasing a sort of shy giggle, slivers of shame peering through. Often they gave the girls’ one anyway. At ten, people started addressing me as a boy. Having won a yearlong battle to cut my hair short, I started to get a “thanks, bud” when holding the door for someone at the Halifax Shopping Centre. It was unfathomable to me that I wasn’t a boy. I writhed in clothes that were even in the slightest bit feminine. Everyone around me saw a different person than I saw, so for much of my childhood I preferred to be alone. I played by myself extensively. “Private play,” I called it. “Mom, I’m going to have private play now,” I’d say as I marched up the stairs to my room, closing the door behind me. I loved action figures—Batman and Robin, Hook and Peter Pan, Luke Skywalker, two Barbies from Happy Meals whose hair I cut off. The “girl toy” making it into the bag, despite the “boy toy” request. I was a walking stereotype, just not in the way my mom wanted."

"I would write love letters to my fake girlfriend from across the lava floor, always signing, Love, Jason. I would tell her about my adventures abroad, how I longed for her, cared for her, that I needed her in my arms. Those were some of the best times of my life, traveling to another dimension where I was … me. And not just a boy but a man, a man who could fall in love and be loved back. Why do we lose that ability? To create a whole world? A bunk bed was a kingdom, I was a boy. My imagination was a lifeline. It was where I felt the most unrestrained, unselfconscious, real. Not a visualization, far more natural. Not a wishing, but an understanding. When I was present with myself, I knew, without exception. I saw with startling clarity then. I miss that."

"I often dreamed of being Aladdin. But it wasn’t for the rug, or the wishes, or the teeny monkey, but to know what it feels like to delicately touch a girl."

"A barrette in my hair with a baby-blue butterfly. I wanted to tear it out, taking my hair with it. I’d throw a fit, a feeling of betrayal spreading through me, as my mom tried to dress me. The sensation of tights squeezing my legs exacerbated all the discomforts that I couldn’t yet put words to. I didn’t grow out of this “phase” when I was supposed to, and my mom’s distaste for what I wore and whom I befriended grew. Masculine clothes and boys as friends should have been over, that whole tomboy thing—a label that never felt quite right to me, but it was what everyone called me so eventually it was what I called myself—a hazy memory. I should be turning into a young lady, my mother’s idea of one at least. “I just want what’s best for you … I want to protect you … I don’t want you to have a hard life.” These sentiments would slide over me. What was best meant fitting neatly into our society’s expectations. Staying inside the lines. The perfect heroine’s journey preemptively and unknowingly written for me. How would her family, friends, soccer parents, fellow teachers, and neighbors feel? Had she done something wrong? What if it was a sin? And whether it was conscious or not—If I had to conform, why shouldn’t you have to?"

"This was around when I was arriving at the age where being a tomboy was no longer a cute look. The lurking pressure to change was omnipresent, a consistent state of disapproval. I imagine [my mom] may have prayed for me to not be gay."

"As puberty transmuted me into a character I had no interest in playing, my isolation, insecurity, and unknowing grew."

"Hair, wardrobe, and makeup at work was typically a nightmare for me. Ironically, playing a pregnant teenager was one of the first times I felt a modicum of autonomy on set. I was wearing a fake belly but not being hyperfeminized. For me, Juno was emblematic of what could be possible, a space beyond the binary."

"My chest began to grow, leading to awkward conversations about training bras, forcing me to try to find those perfectly oversize concealing T-shirts; my posture began to fold, shoulders caving in. My confidence dwindled in conjunction with my self-disgust rising. And then my period came...That smell of metallic blood, a robot leaking. My dad went to the store and got pads. I fussed and fiddled until it was secure in my underwear. I’m going to have to wear this diaper every month? I thought. I wished I could wear a tampon due to the chafing, but no fucking way was I attempting that. My weight redistributed in a way that I did not understand, my clothes from the Gap’s boys section began to betray me. I could not detect myself. I didn’t transform into me—the me I knew I was—like the other boys did. I was desperate to wake up from this bad dream, my reflection making me increasingly ill."

"In retrospect, I should have known the shoot was going to be a shitshow...I knew from the initial wardrobe fitting. Instantly I discerned what they were aiming for. More like a girl. Heels and skirts were laid out, which I didn’t understand, they were medical students in residency at an intensive care unit. The film takes place over a matter of days, and my character hardly even changes her clothes. I understood the assignment and I was going to comply, but there was categorically no rationale for the character to wear heels or a skirt. I said yes to fancy blouses, tight jeans, and boots with a heel. I figured the issue was settled. We solved the problem, the problem being me."

"[O]ne of the heads of production asked me, “Ellen, can you stay for a bit so we can chat?” “Sure,” I responded, thrown off by his tone, saying goodbye to everyone. I sat across from him, a desk between us, the sterile room enclosed by unadorned walls. “You know, Ellen, I grew up in a very progressive area,” he began. “It is very open there and I grew up knowing gay people…” Oh no, I thought. Never a good start. The words came out as if rehearsed. I imagined him workshopping the moment, blocking it out in his mind, matching the words with the smiles. The cloak of “nice.” “Ellen, are you mad that this character isn’t gay?” he asked me. I stared at him. I paused, less shock, more astonishment. He’d been friendly, grounded, and passionate, someone I was looking forward to working with. His exuberance clear at the table read, I had admired his energy. My astonishment morphed into a quiet boil. “Are you asking me this because I did not want to wear a skirt?” His face remained the same, an annoying grin with a glinting youthfulness in the eyes, but I pressed on. “Are you really asking me if I am angry about this character not being gay because I am not wearing a fucking skirt?” He looked on inscrutably, as if being pleasant means you are not queerphobic. “Your view of women is egregiously narrow,” I said to the man, reminding him lesbians wear skirts, too. He tried to voice a response, fumbling again and again, tripping over his words. He attempted to recover but failed. I left him in the room and headed back to the studio. When I arrived, I beelined to an executive’s office, a man I would later watch give a woman an unwanted massage on set. His subsequent texts to Kiersey asking her to go to dinner glared with gross. I entered the room with his name on the door and crossed to the chair in front of his desk. I lifted my hands, and curling my fingers I brought them together, creating a nanoscopic tunnel to peer through. “Your view of women is this small.” I spied through the hole at him, apoplectic. “It is this fucking small.” He looked back vacuously. I persisted, speaking of the limitations, the misogyny, the queerphobia. All that I had swallowed for years, I hauled out my insides for him to gorge on. In spite of all that, I continued to prioritize the needs of everyone else over mine. I allowed the erasure, endorsing their disillusionment, trying not to be “difficult” anymore. I knew those in charge were dancing around the subtext. I knew they wanted me to look “less queer.” I asked them to leave me to it, again reiterating that if I were to wear the clothes they wished for, I would look ridiculous, incongruous with the script, and that I understood the mission. That I would execute it. I’m sorry who I am is repulsive. I’m trying. Can’t you see? I try to rid myself of my “queer walk,” the way my arms dangle and bend, how my hands move, that way I sit, “not ladylike,” as my father used to say. Soften the voice, be quiet. The screen can’t be full of my repugnant features. Those “boyish” ones, those “lesbian” ones. I know that. I’ve known that."

"I’d always been told I was gay, made fun of for being a dyke. I felt more comfortable in environments with queer women, but inherently something in me knew that I was transgender. Something I had always known but didn’t have the words for, wouldn’t permit myself to embrace. “I was never a girl, I’ll never be a woman. What am I going to do?” I used to say. Have always said. The first time I acknowledged I was trans, in the properly conscious sense, beyond speculation, was around my thirtieth birthday. Almost four years before I came out as trans publicly. “Do you think I’m trans?” I’d asked a close friend. They answered hesitantly, knowing no one can come to that conclusion for someone else, but they looked at me with a quiet recognition and said, “I could see that…” A sturdiness shining through, a light from under the door."

"The world tells us that we aren’t trans but mentally ill. That I’m too ashamed to be a lesbian, that I mutilated my body, that I will always be a woman, comparing my body to Nazi experiments. It is not trans people who suffer from a sickness, but the society that fosters such hate. As actress and writer Jen Richards once put it: It’s exceedingly surreal to have transitioned ten years ago, find myself happier & healthier than ever, have better relationships with friends & family, be a better and more engaged citizen, and yes, even more productive … and to then see strangers pathologize that choice. My being trans almost never comes up. It’s a fact about my past that has relatively little bearing on my present, except that it made me more empathetic, more engaged in social justice. How does it hurt anyone else? What about my peace demands vitriol, violence, protections? Sitting with Star by the pool, I couldn’t quite touch the truth, but I could talk about my gender without bawling. That was a step. It had taken a long time to allow any words to come out. When the subject came up in therapy, my reaction felt inordinate, lost in sobs. “Why do I feel this way?” I’d plead. “What is this feeling that never goes away? How can I be desperately uncomfortable all the time? How can I have this life and be in such pain?”"

"My chest, the staring down, wanting more pressure but despising the reminder. There was always a reminder. Unable to shower, remove my hoodie, eat without anxiety, or eat at all. Sadness came over me, a grief and anger, livid that I could not just be. Exhausted by the distress, a brain that was about to crack, unsure if I was able to cope. And then something happened. You don’t have to feel this way. That voice. I don’t have to feel this way? That fucking voice. You don’t have to feel this way. I don’t have to feel this way. This was not miracle water that sprang out of nowhere. This was a long-ass journey. However, this moment was indeed that simple, as it should be—deciding to love yourself. There had been multiple forks in the road, and more than once I had taken the wrong path, or not, depends on how you look at it I guess. It is painful the unraveling, but it leads you to you. There it finally was, a portal. It was time to step through."

Disordered Eating

"The waiter placed our food on the table, snapping me out of a stupor. I stared down at my margherita pizza. Wiebke sat opposite me, lifting the knife provided to cut hers, it had pears and ham. I zoomed out, departing from my body. Nope. The voice spoke with a sinister tone. That can’t go inside of you...It isn’t as if I had no food thoughts before. They had started to pop up when puberty launched. I was filling out, growing breasts, all my discomfort heightened as boys and girls disentangled. Watching myself on-screen had not been a problem for me really, but as my body morphed, that changed. The more visible I became, the more I waned. My pizza still untouched, we headed home."

"It seemed to be the solution, food restriction my new norm. This all coincided with puberty, my body continuing to develop, but not like Mark’s. Reality settled in, I would never see myself in the mirror, I’d forever feel this disgust, and I punished my body for it. Research has shown that transgender and gender-nonconforming youth are four times more likely to struggle with an eating disorder. My brain became consumed by counting calories, time passing, how to make myself full without making myself full. When to make the clear herbal tea that satiated my gut just enough. Endless gum chewing. Avoiding. I’d measure my All-Bran in the morning, the soy milk, too. Dismissing Wiebke’s concerns, I’d bring a protein bar to school for lunch and allow myself to eat only half of it."

"Playing a character that was partially starved to death allowed me to lean in to my desire to disappear, to punish myself. “It’s for a film,” I’d say in response to a mention of my small bites, the annoying, concerned tone, almost a challenge. I’ll prove to you all that I need nothing. The little voice would brag with the creak of a side smile. In agony, Sylvia would scratch the concrete floor until the tips of her fingers wore off, she chewed her lip compulsively, biting through the pain. When they found her body it looked as though she had two mouths. I’m hungry. Two more hours, then you can eat. What am I going to eat? Steamed vegetables and brown rice … half of it. How much more time? One hour and forty-five minutes. I’d shower at night, washing off the burns, the bruises, a reminder that I had nothing to complain about. How dare I acknowledge my silly pain as anywhere near hers....By the end of the shoot, I had lost a significant amount of weight. And it continued to plummet when I returned to Halifax, where I was still living on and off. I dropped to eighty-four pounds. My arms were so skinny I could take the outer sleeve of a to-go coffee cup, stick my hand through and slide it up my arm, beyond my elbow and to my shoulder. Wasting away. Later that year, I dressed up as a coffee cup sleeve for Halloween—WARNING HOT BEVERAGE INSIDE—spelled out with a thick black marker. No matter the words or looks of concern or how many rich pastries people tried to get me to eat, I could not see it. I refused to. Hurting my body to that extreme must have been a cry for help, but when the help would come, it made me angry and resentful. Where have you been? An unfair question really. I had never communicated what I’d been grappling with to anyone."

Self Harm

"Getting ready for school, solo in the bathroom, I’d smash my head with my hairbrush. Who is that in the mirror? Squinting my eyes shut, bracing for it, slam slam slam. My mother’s queen bed had a frame that included tall wooden posts on the corners, the tops of them resembling upside-down ice-cream cones. When I was alone, able to keep my secret, I would climb up onto the bed. I’d stare at the post, aligning my torso so the spike would drill directly into my stomach. I’d hoist my body up, conspiring with gravity to impale myself. It hurt but also didn’t hurt. I loved having an outlet for my self-disdain, the nausea, I wanted it scooped out."

"I looked down to my hand and clenched it. The words were always the same, I just needed to shut up. Hard and sharp, I struck myself with my knuckles. Surprised at my temerity, I glanced back down at my fist. Inspecting it, I looked at both sides and then, WHAM! Again. And again. Harder. Sharper. I pummeled my face, pounding next to my right eye. Some other force working to knock it out. Bruises materialized. I’d be seeing people in a couple days, friends who were coming up to stay briefly at another cabin nearby. I had to surmise a way of explaining it, or a way of hiding it. Did I trip and fall? Hit the side of the table? That seemed made up. I iced it on and off, obsessively checking the mirror. Maybe I dropped my phone on my face while lying on my back? The bruise was way too big for that. Maybe you need to just tell someone? Nope, I wasn’t going to do that. I attempted to cover the shiner with foundation. Dabbing it with my finger, trying different strategies. It worked somewhat. My face hurt, but the pain came mostly from shame and guilt. I felt awful about what I had done to my body, about covering up for my self-abusive self. Sleeping in my shoes was one thing, battering my face was different, a breaking point. And there it was, that edge again. A body smarter than me."

[burnwater13]

Grogu looked around his room and sighed. Where had he put the little silver knob? He’d had with him the day before. He’d ever shown it to Peli and Fennec and Greef Karga and IG-11 and even Luke. He was really proud of the last piece of the Razor Crest and was sure its presence was why he hadn’t gone ‘Full Sith’ after he and his dad had accidentally picked up that piece of whatever it was from the old Imp base. 

Luke had said the whateveritwas had actually been a bone, covered in hardened lava from one of the clones in that lab. Creepy and yuck. Grogu still wasn’t sure how that had ended up in his pockets. Maybe he had just rested his hand against the walls of the caves as they made their way through it and picked it up without thinking?

His dad had thought that was pretty likely, given all the miscellaneous stuff he pulled out of Grogu’s coverall pockets at the end of any given day. Rocks, string, desiccated frogs, buttons. You name it and Grogu had probably picked it up at some point. 

That was probably how the Mandalorian had ended up with it. It had been laundry day among many other things as they had been preparing for the Mudhorn Clan Festival. Who knew something like an old Sith bone could affect you that way? Other than Luke and Fennec of course. They knew. 

Grogu understood why Luke knew stuff like that. He had been taking self-guided lessons in Jedi lore, history, use of the Force, and all that kind of thing. Grogu had been impressed because the Jedi hadn’t really been fond of self paced education. As a youngling you had to attend classes, perform duties and chores, undergo tests and trials, and then, if you were lucky, one of the various Jedi who instructed you or knew your instructors would stop by and say something like, ‘Hey, you, yah, you. I need a padawan. My last one’s in the infirmary and won’t be out and about again for a while’. Or words to that affect. At least that’s what his friend Ian told him and Ian was a pretty reliable source of information. 

But while Luke might be the exception that proved the rule, Grogu had no idea how it was that Fennec Shand understood all that stuff. His dad called her an assassin, but she described herself as a ‘fixer’. You’ve got a problem and for the right number of credits, Fennec would fix it for you. Peli had joked that Fennec refused to tell her how much it would cost to get that Jawa ex-boyfriend of hers to stop calling her, so she wouldn’t fix just anything. Fennec had said watching Peli try to dodge the Jawa was priceless and then cackled in glee.

It was true that Fennec Shand didn’t just laugh or giggle or straight up smile at things. She cackled. She grimaced. She raised on eyebrow and gave you a look. Ohhh. Maybe she was a Sith! That would explain how she knew so much about them. Only one way to find out. 

Grogu found Fennec sitting by the remnants of the campfire, poking it with a stick. 

“Hey kid, looking for a new way to almost freak your dad out?” 

She was giving him that smile that wasn’t really a smile. He shook his head ‘no’. 

“Oh. Well then how can I help you?”

Grogu walked over to the split log she was sitting on and hopped up onto it and sat next to her. 

“What, you wanted to sit in some shade?”

She didn’t quite cackle when she said that but she sort of did. 

Grogu began to coo and sign and grumble his question to her.

This time she actually smiled as she shook her head. 

“Kid, what you have to understand is that in my line of work I have to know about a lot of different things. The problems I ‘fix’, well they aren’t easy. They know someone’s coming after them and they do whatever they can to not get fixed, like hiding or running away, or spending all their time standing next to someone they think might scare me. But I don’t scare easy, kid.”

Grogu could believe that. Fennec wasn’t afraid of his dad, that was for certain. 

“So maybe, once or twice, I had to study who the Emperor was and how he got that way, which also meant I ended up studying the Sith and who they were and how they got that way. It’s not light reading and I don’t recommend to anyone. Not even your friend, the Jedi. Your dad might find it instructive. Mandalorians and Sith aren’t that different. That may be why that little relic didn’t affect your dad as much as it affected you.”

Grogu stared up at Fennec, because he was annoyed that she had also made that sort of comparison between how Sith behaved and how the Mandalorians had once done things. There was a reason the Jedi had always been fighting both groups. 

“Or… it could be that your dad didn’t have this in his pocket”. 

Fennec held up the silver ball for Grogu to see and then handed it him. 

“You know, that’s not a standard part to a Razor Crest. That’s actually a hilt knob from the lightsaber. I haven’t tracked down which lightsaber it came from yet, but I’m pretty sure that Jedi would be glad that you care for it now. I found it here on the bench, so don’t go running after any crazy ideas that I used the Force to take from your room. The Force doesn’t work that way and we both know it.”

Then Fennec ruffled his hair and walked toward her ship. Grogu hoped that she wasn’t leaving yet. Maybe she needed a padawan… he was sure that Luke’s self-guided study program would be improved by working with a Master.

[auraee]

- ℙ𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕪 𝕓𝕣𝕠𝕨𝕟 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤. -

❈ 𝕎𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖𝕣'𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖 ~ Hi hi! This is a little something that I wrote earlier today... I've grown quite fond of Kaeya (if you've seen how much stuff I've reblogged about him, hehe) and I think I'm slowly moving out of my writers block, so yeah! I did have a longer piece in the works for him from before, but then the block came and I kind of felt bleh... but I'd like to get to work on it again along with the other things I wanted to do for Kyo too! But I do hope people end up enjoying this! By the title you can see what the dabble will be about and if you don't have said feature you might possibly have trouble reading it, but not a crippling amount I don't think. This piece uses she/her pronouns to describe the reader, if that makes you uncomfortable let me know and I'll post and alternate with neutral ones, I just prefer to do the first because these are relatively self-indulgent.🌺

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞𝕖 ~ Mystery of love - Mree

❈ Happy reading!

Under sequin stars, I watched my love twirl under my arm. Awkward in her steps, but she did so beautifully — her timid nature complimented the delight in her brown eyes. 

Oh, her eyes... 

Once, she’d told me that she found them… unappealing. Unflattering— in comparison to my sole blue one. My heart hurt at her words. They spilled from her plump lips like bothersome, unwelcome thoughts that she kept buried in the confines of her mind. But…how? I didn’t understand.

To me, I thought. Your eyes are the most enchanting thing I’ve ever looked at. 

… And then I spoke it. 

A small smile graced her lips, then, a giggle. “Oh you’re just saying that.” _______ mused. “Thank you, Kaeya. That’s very sweet.”

Oh no, no— you misunderstand. I didn’t mean that in a shallow manner. In a manner that would simply glaze over and dismiss the thought. I reject it out right. It’s incorrect. “Your gaze to me represents many things, actually ______.” I whispered, her bronze skin tender against my palm. “Which is why I find it enchanting.”

I watched her face contort and change, it was like watching a painting give life to itself with no artist, except this piece seemed curious and confused. “What do you mean?” 

My heart ran a muck in my chest. My mind, a spiral of thoughts and urges to kiss her and explain later, but I was somehow able to remain calm. I always had been able to do that, it’s within my nature. “Well, your eyes remind me of chocolate cake, freshly baked and drizzled with glacé icing. They remind me of morning coffee, delicious and energising. They remind me of wood used as kindling to nurture a fire, keeping many, many homes warm during the night when it’s especially cold out.”

I couldn’t stop myself. For the first time in a long time I chose to speak my mind. Hm, it’s funny how I often found myself doing that whenever I was with her.

The more I spoke the vigour in my voice became apparent. My love’s expression had changed again. Her eyes widened and her lips parted to form a sweet ring of surprise. She clung to me, my waistcoat whining as it crinkled under her grasp and melted into me the way death afternoon did on my tongue and I savoured it. Every. last. drop.

“And during sunsets— I know that they’re not one in the same in terms of colour, but when I look at you, when I gaze into you,” 

Grinning, I let my forehead rest on _______’s.

“I see stars sparkling in them. They peek through just enough. I see comfort and warmth because they’re exactly the way they are. I love them. To me, ______, they’re absolutely perfect.”  

“K-Kaeya… that’s… I-I don’t know—”

_____ paused and I was left in silence.

Perhaps I had been too passionate, or perhaps I hadn’t been enough before this moment.

______’s cheeks prickled with warmth in my palm. She mumbled my name, losing courage to look me in the eye. Adorable. Her voice was quiet— deliciously flustered. My urge to take her grew. 

To feel. To taste.

“Thank you… truly. I don’t know what to say. I-I’m completely lost for words.”

_____ rose onto the tips of her toes and pressed her lips against my cheek. I chuckled at the gesture.

“Is that all you’ve got, sweetheart?” I hold on her hip tightened. “Because I intend on offering you far more than just a kiss.”

❈ Like what you read? Consider reblogging, commenting or leaving a tip! - 𝕂𝕠-𝕗𝕚

Reblogging my work helps get my work out there and supports me!

If you’re just going to like this post— don’t. Likes don’t do anything for me. They don’t help in any way shape or form. So please don’t like my work if you’re not willing to reblog them as well.

- 𝔸𝕝𝕝 𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕘𝕠𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤 -

❀ 𝔸𝕟 𝕠𝕝𝕕 𝕥𝕒𝕝𝕖 ⚘ ꕤ 𝕀𝕟 𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕝𝕚𝕗𝕖 ⚘ ❁ 𝕊𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕞𝕠𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕟

[airlock]

supposed to be asleep; instead thinking about what it is we really mean when we say Neurotypical and Neurodivergent

I remember mentioning those terms to a former therapist of mine (who I stopped seeing for amicable reasons, not because he was bad or anything like that), and him always finding them strange, and saying that he doesn't think there's anyone out there who would actually fit the description of Neurotypical. at the time I kinda thought he was full of it, but lately I feel I've been starting to understand what he was onto.

(something to clarify on those statements. some of you might be thinking, wait, you really had to explain to a practicing therapist what "neurotypical" and "neurodivergent" are? and others of you might be thinking, wait, how could you possibly think that your therapist, who unlike you has a degree, might have been full of it? so let me clarify on both of these fronts in one fell swoop. I've studied psychology myself for a good long while, and one thing I learned doing so is that staggeringly little of the field is actually about neurodivergent people, and what little is, rarely ever says things that are serious and sensible about them -- seriously, you would not believe the type of ignorant shit I've heard out of students and professors alike. makes it quite strange that as a society we're so stiff on the assertion that they're the sole rightful authority on neurodivergent people, no?)

the thing about it is that I'm really not quite sure I've ever met an actual neurotypical person in my life. and I know, I'm extremely online, of course the people that I hang out with are overwhelmingly depressed autistic types -- but I'm talking about more than that. I'm talking about, say, how, when earlier this year a clinician was explaining my ADHD diagnosis to me and my mother, she was seeing herself in every symptom described but also begging the clinician not to diagnose her with nothing. and y'know -- ADHD is thought to typically be genetic in nature, isn't it?

and y'know, most people are more like my mother, stubbornly refusing the idea that they might be different in some way, than like me, earnestly trying to figure out who I am, what my limitations are, and how I can live with them.

how many people are there who would seriously self-identify as Neurotypical? people who care about the distinction are overwhelmingly neurodivergent. and if Neurotypical is only ever other people, then, how do I really know that someone actually is that -- am I just assuming, when I talk to them?

and again to be clear, I'm not thinking of my obviously neurodivergent internet friends when I'm talking about this. I'm thinking about family members, I'm thinking about people I went to school with, I'm even thinking about the ones who bullied me in there. do I really know, for a fact, that any of these people are Neurotypical? if I think about it long and hard, is there not a single thing that they do that I could possibly spin into diagnosis? do I know that they don't fit in with not just not a single one of the conditions that people talk about a lot, but also with every page in the DSM? do I know, or is Neurotypical just some chimera that I'm forced to assume perhaps exists somewhere out there?

is Neurotypical like gender biology, inasmuch as not even cis people ever fit perfectly into the checklist of things that are supposed to signify a certain gender or another, much less trans people?

so I then asked myself: if I had the power to take those words two, Neurotypical and Neurodivergent, and put them up on the shelf forevermore, never to be used again -- what, if anything, would that change? would there be any experiences that can no longer be described? would anything be lost?

I came to a conclusion, in the end. and it's that, while there doesn't seem to be anyone who can aptly be described as Neurotypical, there most certainly are people who are Neurodivergent. but it's not because of the definition given -- it's not merely because some diagnosis or another described them aptly. it's because there are some people in this world who, directly or indirectly, knowingly or not on the part of their oppressors, have been othered because of their minds.

or perhaps I should say -- consistently othered because of their minds. because every once in a while, everyone puts other people up in a box that's labeled "this person does not think human thoughts in the way that I do". I don't understand how someone could be so stupid in traffic; I don't understand how someone could be so rude to a stranger; I don't understand how someone could commit murder -- things like that. but not everyone gets their lives shaped by people constantly, continuously coming to that conclusion about them, and often from a position of power.

it's really a lot like race, in a sense. race is not a concrete, material fact whatsoever. the racial role that a person is made to play can vary greatly with the context. but racism is nonetheless pervasive enough that it would be silly to tell people that race doesn't Exist in any sense. it may be a fickle, imaterial idea, but it's one that impacts people's lives for better or for worse time and time and time and time again.

similarly, it may be the best way to draw the line between Neurodivergent and Neurotypical isn't to draw the line between having or not having mental conditions, but to draw the line between people who are or are not othered because of their mental conditions.

not, mind you, that it would ever be as simple as redefining those words (or coming up with new ones) and then rigidly adhering to that definition.

firstly, because I imagine that the reason why we drew the line where it presently is, is so that no one has to play Oppression Olympics for the right to identify as Neurodivergent. I must surmise that moving it from that spot always carries the risk of inviting people to practice all sorts of disingenious gatekeeping about what does or doesn't count as a Neurodivergent Experience.

secondly, because it can be so tenuous anyway to settle on what is or isn't exactly being othered for mental conditions. we know that someone who knows of your diagnoses dropping an r-slur on you would be unambiguously that, but what about, say, all the ways that bullying kids for "being weird" often surgically targets autistic people, while seldom coming from people who do realize that the people they're targeting are in fact autistic?

and thirdly, because of how contextual these things can be. like, in school I've always been the Other because of my mind, but when I'm posting shit here on Tumblr, I'm really just one of yall, am I not? and sure, here we're all deranged weirdos anyway, but like -- are anxiety disorders more "normal" in a group of ambulance drivers than in a group of bored socialites? is depression more "normal" in a group of social workers than in a group of athletes? is autism more "normal" in IT than in a marketing studio?

so at the end of the day there are still a lot of open-ended questions I'm beholding here, but the one thing I feel I can take away for sure from these ruminations is that Neurotypical, in the way we've defined it, is almost certainly a chimera.