#it feels silly to cry over a revelation such as I am Me I am not that person but fuck man big moment for me right there

[redrocketpanda]

What you have to offer is uniquely you, something that no one else has. People will enjoy it because its yours, made by you, made up of all your youness.

When you compare yourself to others and try to be like them, or make your work more like theirs, you suffocate your own voice, your own contribution, your own you.

I have my own distinct style, my own distinct voice. I have ideas that are shaped by who I am. I have a unique perspective and way of doing things. I have things that no one else has. I am not that person. I am me. And what I have is immensely valued and valuable.

There is no one else like me. No one else can do it like me.

And it's okay to be scared. It's okay to feel like we're not good enough. But don't let that stop you, don't let it lead you to hide yourself and your work away. Make the weird little things that bring your heart joy, that make you sing, that bring you to life. And keep making them.

Because you are good enough. And your work is good enough.

So let it be, let it exist, let it breathe.

________________________________

I really struggle with crushing imposter syndrome, self-esteem and creative anxiety to the point where it often stops me from doing things. But after years of work in therapy, support from friends, and exposure to helpful tools, the wheels are finally starting to turn. The pieces are starting to click in place. The combination of my interactive fiction workshop + the EEAAO speeches yesterday lead me to some further realizations, and I wrote myself a love letter. Maybe it's a love letter to you too.



[soapymansuds]

Eternity and counting

Pt 5

(Pt1, Pt2, Pt3, Pt4)

(Ok y'all, going on vacation and this is the last chapter I have pre-written SO the next upload may be late. Apologies in advance.)

Obey me! X Angel!MC (They/Them Pronouns)

TW: Suicide, depression, self-deprecation, death, big feelings, lots of sad.

MC just can't handle anything anymore and takes their own life. Imagine their dismay to find even death isn't the end for them.

~/\~

And so I do. Because I'm stupid. And selfish. And did I mention stupid? There is literally nothing dumber I could be doing. And that thought doesn't stop me. I trace a long since overgrown path around to the back of the house. Lifting the ancient stone of a raven statue, I reach blindly underneath in search of the spare key. Mammon told me about it during my first week here because he so frequently forgot his own keys inside. I chuckle softly at myself as my hand makes contact with the delicate key, the idea of something so small being so unchanged for so long being a little bit silly to me.

The key fits as snugly in the door as it always has, and I revel in the soft click of the lock as I twist it. I take a moment inside, breathing in the soothing smell of the house. It's peppery and smokey, but something sweet hides beneath the muskier smells. Like marshmallows on a campfire or a sweet oil rubbed into old leather. It's warm in my lungs. The air itself feels like soothing aloe on my hot skin. The thought makes me smile, conjuring half-muttled memories of Asmodeus hunting me through the house in an attempt to care for a sunburn I more than earned. I take a gentle half-step further inside, reminiscing on each small scuff and half-fixed crack on the wall as I unconsciously wander the halls.

I find myself strangely unbothered by the fear of discovery that drips its way down my spine. My wings brush against walls and decorations in the same way they did when I was first reborn, still getting used to their presence and the new space I took up. But I simply can't wrap my head around being here in any other way than how I always was. So I continue my venture through the halls like I'm human once again, with no regard for the gentle swish of feathers on the walls.

I stop for a moment in front of a mirror,, and the sight of myself, or more accurately, the cloaking spell covering me, makes me shiver. It feels so wrong to try to be someone else here. And so I drop it. The spell falls from my skin like a peel from a banana, and I sigh with the relief of it.

I feel nearly entranced by the whole experience. Head soft and clouded, as if I were dreaming. Maybe I am? It's been a year since I've seen these halls in the waking world so it's not totally impossible, but I struggle to remember falling asleep.

A gentle sound rouses me from my thoughts, a huffing of some sort. Or maybe a gasping? It's breathy regardless, so I follow it to its source.

My room.

Or, my old room, I suppose. Can't imagine it hasn't been taken over by somebody else's hobby.

As I approach the door, though, it's cracked open, and the light that flows through is the same as it's always been. The gentle golden glow of my desk lamp dances over my toes and across my cheek as I peek through the crack. To my surprise, it's exactly how I left it. My pens lay haphazardly across my desk, and my slippers are tucked at the foot of my bed. Even the vines of my ivy are thriving. What catches my attention the most though, is the way my lamp light shimmers on his head.

That snowy white hair I could pick out of a crowded club, even after all this time, shakes gently on my pillow. The shaking wracks his whole body, despite how tightly he's curled into himself. I realize with a cold wave of sorrow, that all that huffing was sobbing. I haven't seen Mammon cry like this since the Belphegor incident and the sight of it resonates in the pit of my stomach.

He's mourning.

He's still mourning. After all this time.

I consider running again for just a moment, but even if I could convince my mind to leave, I'm certain my body wouldn't follow suit. I feel faint as my knees melt from below me. Unfortunately, my efforts to keep myself up are in vain, as not only do I fall to the floor, but I press the door open further in the process.

The sound seems to startle Mammon, because, despite my focus on the floor, I can hear him shuffle in the bed.

"Fuck off Lucifer..." He mumbles, voice achy and raw. He waits in silence for what he's definitely expecting to be Lucifer's stern remark.

I attempt to take his moment of silence to press myself up and out of the room, but my movements are sluggish and awkward, and my wing bashes clumsily into a table, knocking over my lamp. I watch in near slow motion as it falls and I reach to stop it. But it's too far and I'm too dazed, and before I know it, the room is dark.

I whimper pathetically as I stare at it, delicate glass thrown across the floor. I scoot to pick up the pieces, cradling them in my palm.

"Who are you?!"

Mammon yells at me, suddenly shot out of bed. My head snaps up to look at him and I feel my heart crack. He's broken out into his demon form, but in spite of the attempted threat, all I can see is the pain in his eyes. His cheeks are red and shiny in the moonlight and his eyes carry bags deep enough to swim in.

"I-" my head rattles with the force of looking up at him, down at the shattered lamp, and back up at him. "I'm sorry..."

It's pathetic. What am I even apologising for? For scaring him? Breaking the lamp? For leaving? I'm sorry is hardly enough of an apology for all of it. It's barely enough for a single grievance.

His gaze though. It pulls me from my thoughts. His snarl falls and his forehead smoothes as he stares at me, and it hits me with a wave of terror that I am no longer hidden. Why would I have dropped the cloaking spell? How could I be so stupid? Did I want to be seen? How fucking selfish.

"M-mc?..." He whispers my name like it could scare me away. Like he's praying for something.

"I... I'm sorry, I just..." I stutter out words with no real meaning as I try desperately to justify myself. I stare back down at the shards in my hand like they hold some sort of solution, but they fall from my fingers with a clink as I'm slammed backward into the floor.

Mammon has plowed straight into me and taken us both down. He grips onto me like I'm going to fade straight through his fingers if he lets go, and I can't rightly blame him. His shoulders shutter with each fanning of his breath over my shoulder. It takes several moments of listening to his combination of whines and sobs for my brain to restart, but as I come to my senses, I wrap my arms around him in turn.

And it breaks me. I've spent a year carefully storing and sorting all my emotions. Handling problems without worrying about them. Actively avoiding any big feelings. And all it takes is Mammon to throw all that effort to the wind. Tears flow from my eyes, hot and heavy as they drip past my ears. My breaths shake in time with his and for several moments, there is nothing. The world falls away and we're not an angel and a demon. We're not even people. We're just two old friends crying in each other's arms. 

(As always, thank you for reading! Comment to be added to the tag list!)

~Your friend, The Author

*tags*

@spffldlbrnf @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf @seraphlies @averageradstudent @sasa-mya @ayshela @miracl3d @mehkers @fersitaam @crywicked @crypt-exx

[deepcolorobserver]

I really want a terf lesbian to coax me into detransitioning

At first she pretends to support me and my transition, pretends to be a trans ally, says all the right things to befriend me and we hit it off. She's cute, funny, and for a while we're just friends.

We flirt a bit, always silly and joking and friendly. The kind of thing close friends do, until one day she admits she sees me as more than a friend. And god it's exciting, it's exhilarating, it makes my heart flutter. Who cares that she's a lesbian, maybe I'm the exception. Someone she likes enough to look past conventional desire.

So we start dating, a casual fling, but the sexting is HOT. She doesn't use preferred terms for my anatomy, always says clit instead of tdick, always asks for tit pics, but it's okay, a lot of the transmasc terms are a little clunky in dirty talk anyway.

She tells me I would look good with long hair. Men can have long hair right? I would be so pretty, such a pretty boy, so I grow it out for her. My hairline starts receeding on T and I'm worried about it, I confide in her, and she suggests stopping T. I got the changes I wanted, right? It's better that I don't hate myself for the changes I don't want, and she's right, even if she says it's mutilating me now. So I stop.

The whole relationship has been digital, and we talk a lot about meeting in person. Joking around, of course, neither of us have plane ticket money. But one day she asks for pictures in panties and a bra. I don't own those anymore, so she offers to buy me a pair. It's not feminizing, and I'm into degradation, she says. Men in lingerie can be degrading, and it would suit me. So I agree, because the idea is kinda hot, and I dress up for her. She's right, it is hot, even if it feels so wrong.

Slowly, she starts to introduce terf rhetoric to me. Very subtly, starting with ideas I can agree with and pushing more extreme views onto me. It makes me hate myself, of course, for transitioning and living as a man. There are lesbians that use he/him, she tells me. And if I were a lesbian, we could make "I'm in lesbians with you" jokes. The rhetoric swims in my head. I'm a lesbian, yeah. I still identify as a man, for a while.

One day it comes to light that we live in the same city. We can meet up easily. And it's like a revelation, a sudden flip. I'm with her almost every day, I'll stay over several nights at a time. Always in the lingerie she keeps buying me. I'm wearing it all day, wearing it to work, just so she can take off my clothes and see it when I get to her place. It's not long before we move in together. She calls me girly pet names, things you would never call your boyfriend. And the wrong feeling, all it does is turn me on and endear me to her.

The day I bring up top surgery, she spends a very long time sucking on my tits, kissing them all over. Don't do it, she tells me. I look so good like this. It compliments my body type, I'm meant to have tits. She makes me say it, say I love my tits. She makes me say that I love my pussy, I love all the things that make me feminine. I'm crying as I say it, but I tell her I think I might be a girl. She says I always was, and always will be. My biology was made with a purpose, and I'm meant to be a woman. I ask her to use she/her pronouns, to use my dead name in bed. We scissor and I cum harder than I ever have, all because she uses my deadname. If it feels this good, how can it be wrong?

She misgenders me outside of bed anyway. Soon everyone is using my deadname and she/her. I'm so wet all the time. She takes my body every night and uses me to pleasure herself. She makes me cum while telling me what a beautiful woman I am.

She convinces me to get pregnant with a surrogate. We both want kids, and this is the only way to do it. The whole time she talks about how beautiful the process is, what a lovely woman I am, fulfilling my purpose. She holds my hand as I birth our child. I forget all about wanting to be a boy.

[naurimastaur]

Seeing them for the first time, again

Summary: losing a lung and your friends to wkcd meant Gally had a pretty shit year. What’s the harm however, in seeing a familiar face?

Pairing: Gally (maze runner) x nb!reader

A/N: this is so cringe but I’m so obsessed with him Idc if this flops with the dying tmr fandom// also this is my first attempt at angst so go easy on me

———————————————————————

“Hey everybody relax, we’re all on the same side here,” Gally called out amongst the chaos. The faces of his old friends turning towards him in apprehension. The familiarity of his voice momentarily pausing their act of rebellion, the concealment of his face enhancing their confusion.

“What do you mean, we’re all on the same side? Who the hell are you?” Thomas, ever the skeptic, interrogated.

Gally’s eyes weren’t focused on him however, for lingering in the back was the reason he joined the right arm to begin with; y/n. Wretched and messy but all in one piece, they stood in front of him.

It was like seeing them for the first time, all over again.

———————————————————————

Gally had heard the familiar siren of the box’s arrival. He wasn’t remotely interested most of the time on seeing who came up with it. On this day however Gally had overworked himself, and the idea of joyfully revelling in a greenie’s newfound terror seemed like a treat.

Towering over the box he spotted a figure hiding amongst the supplies, crouched like a caged animal, eyes wild and ferocious. He had to admit his curiosity was peaked, most greenies were crying at this point. This one however had looked at him in rage, a hand lingered behind their back.

“Where the hell am I?” They snarled, chest slightly heaving, the only real indicator of their fear.

“Your new home,” Gally had replied, a sarcastic smile on his face. His gaze never left the greenie, whose eyes had regarded each and every teen boy in front of them with predatory caution.

“Why can’t I remember anything?” They questioned, eyes never focused on one person.

“All part of the glade’s charm,” Gally said, before he had reached out an arm for them to take. His admiration controlled his limbs before his brain did.

The greenie considered his offer before they had hauled themselves up, and bolted towards the maze doors. Gally hadn’t bothered to run after them, leaving the job to someone who actually cared like Newt. He had however returned his gaze to the supplies, noticing one of the crates was missing a shard of wood, no doubt a fault of the greenie’s.

He had to admit he was enamoured from that point onwards.

———————————————————————

Now they stood adjacent, mirroring their first encounter. Y/n was looking at him with rekindled fury, this time paired with their tainted memories. Their gally had died back in the maze, physically and figuratively. This version was a stranger; a defying act against fate.

The fire within them was awakening once again, where it was quieted by the nature of the glade, it now burned with the raw desire for revenge.

Their wrath was overcoming their joy. For where their heart was aching for the comfort of Gally, for the ease of his embrace, the overbearing rage was all-consuming.

Wkcd had taken Gally, that much they were certain of. This was a trick, a taunting illusion created from the depths of their imagination and wkcd’s tampering. Their time confined within wkcd’s laboratories meant they were forever trapped in their own mind, never knowing for certain what was real.

What was real was that there was a time when Gally had been theirs, when his company mellowed their temper and gave them faith. But those feelings had died with him, things were different now. They were both different; no longer two sides of the same coin but two puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit anymore.

( why did I write this cringe corny ass ending)

———————————————————————

A/n: might write a part 2 if I’m feeling silly. Also, why did I describe y/n so animalistic? Bc I’m so crazy and quirky and I can do what I want!!!! If you’d like to leave a request for any character for me to write, feel free I’m open to any! To my Weasley twin enthusiasts I will write them again don’t sweat it, I’m going through a phase<3

@thescrunkler despite you not being in a tmr phase, you’re getting tagged anyways x

[berrypass-de-murdler]

2 - 3 Touchdown to Murder

it's so empty!

Chauffeur Bronze is a Komodo dragon made of actual gold - for an apparent 'aristocrat' he's not very fancy-looking though. That stop sign is attached to his back for some reason-

DON'T READ THE EPISODES WITHOUT READING THE BOOKS!!

The blimp lands, and everyone (except Crimson) leaves for the airport. It’s so nice! Logico can’t help but slide on his belly across the spotless floor.

LOGICO: Wait-

White is taken aside by a chauffeur. But so is Slate! In fact, everyone has a servant it seems - except Logico. Logico gets a dead security guard!

???: Sorry, I am late.

Logico looks up to see a large golden fellow.

LOGICO: Are you here for me? BRONZE: No. I work for Lady Violet.

Boss Charcoal is also there, reveling in a few bags of cash.

LOGICO: Why have you followed me to Drakonia? I barely know you. CHARCOAL: I don’t… [sniff] I don’t know!! I thought… [crying] LOGICO: All right, all right, Jesus.

He then gets an uncomfortable shower, because Slate spits water all over him!

LOGICO: What the fuck?! SLATE: I’m sorry. [drinks and spits again] I want you to know I have a water bottle. I may not be human, but I can pretend to be. LOGICO: Well, go pretend somewhere else, because there is an EXPOSED WIRE on the ground! 

Logico clicks - of course that’s a perfect murder weapon. Why else would it be exposed? Feeling risky, he picks it up and waves it to the suspects.

LOGICO: Anyone know where THIS came from?

Bronze is backed against a wall.

BRONZE: If you put that too close, it will electrocute me! LOGICO: Yes, obviously! BRONZE: But more so for me, I am made out of metal! LOGICO: REGARDLESS, that would be true for ANYONE.

When Logico calls Irratino, he just blabs about how silly it was that his coffee grounds looked like Captain Slate.

LOGICO: Okay… does that mean she’s the murderer? IRRATINO: What? No.

Assuming that was to be believed, it turns out all along that Charcoal was putting on another tough-guy facade.

CHARCOAL: Oh, so… it’s illegal to electrocute someone to death now?! Why can’t… [sob] Why can’t I be… a free man?? LOGICO: You are quickly losing all of your sympathy points.

After that uneventful hysteria, it’s time to leave the airport. I wonder what will happen next.

The end!

In my defense I'm just trying to make the early episodes an ok length instead of like one paragraph like they were in the first series, it's difficult to extend episodes where nothing happens ;w;

So enjoy some stupid suspect banter for the time being <3

Would you enjoy some ridiculous cheese nuggets?

The power of Goat Lord compels you!

See you next time murdlers!

[yuhi-san]

not sure what i expected from the original trigun anime after watching stampede but it was not whatever the hell i am watching right now. 

the sheer amount of idiocy going on is staggering. like i knew vash was a dork (it was all i ever knew about trigun before) but i did not expect wolfwood to be just as much of a moron.

actually the entire first episode is a hilarious fever dream.

so far

the dialog is pretty darn good and funny, not at all corny

both old and new vash radiate sad, wet puppy energy but old vash has a very thin cover of moron over it

whatever i thought millie would be it was not whatever a female hunk of a himbo is

“He is the worst womanizer anyone has ever seen” oh god yes he is

the whole confusion about who vash the stampede is is gold

i certainly feel for old vash too but sometimes he is just asking for it, now isnt he

what the fuck was his introduction to wolfwood anyway??

so far wolfwoods cross is a lot cooler in stampede but there is something hysterical about him pulling guns out of his cross as if it was a glorified, crucifix shaped storage closet.  

“it's kind of a long story but also short!”

talking about wolfwood, i know what's up with him but if i wouldn't already i'd probably be really really shocked once the revelation hits

oh thank god no one died in this version of julys destruction! … except it still fucked everyone over and many people still died indirectly because of it so not that great

oh hey im at episode 12, i guess it will get slowly start to get more serious and dark now i guess, since that's what i heard

ah

we have seen vash struggle and all before but him sort of hugging himself while crying there damn that really hits in a special way. 

like when he isn't being silly he is so ernest in his feelings and all

when millie and meryl saw him toples is was a dramatic revelation but vashs little funny sounds and the tiny awkward wiggle did absolutely send me

also: “is this some cursed christian science” i can’t- 

not gonna lie i am a little tired/annoyed with people immediately turning on vash once they know who he is even in situations where he did nothing wrong and even has been helping

horrible lyrics indeed but damn the singing. let johnny young bosh sing some more as vash

[ryans-planet]

darlin, you keep talkin bout things you want to have be done to you. And I’m startin to think we share a damn brain.

Or maybe I’ll have a chick flick moment and say fate. But either way, since I’m legally obligated to tell you, I’ll be very southern and just tell you I’m crushing on you like an 18 wheeler. But god is it makin me wanna worship you.

I know I talk a whole lot about using you like a slut. But darlin, I just wanna live in between your legs. Wanna praise you, for hours. Wouldn’t that be a great ending to a week of edging?

I’d have spent the whole week teasing you, not letting you cum, fucking you everywhere I can, in my office, in my bed, god let me have you in the bathroom at a restaurant. I’d spend the whole week using you like a hole, only tell you how much I like your cunt. How you’re such a slut letting me fuck you whenever I want and not even being allowed to cum. Just being a whiny lil slut for me, whenever I want. Begging for me to touch your cock, but all I’d do is laugh a little, tell you how hot it is to see you all desperate for me.

But sweetheart, when I tell you I’d make you cum so good after. Treat you exactly how you deserve to be. Kiss all over you, leave bite marks. Suck on your cock, finger your holes. I’d want to make you cum over and over. All you’d have to do is ask for what you want, I could fuck you, or eat you out, or use toys on you. And I’d praise you the whole time. Such a pretty boy. You look so handsome like this. You deserve to be treated this good. I wanna treat you that good, so bad darlin. God I’d get so fucking hard. Might have to hump the mattress as I eat you out. Cause doin it for you would get me off enough.

Ain’t that a lovely idea, pretty boy? hope it gets you as needy and horny as it gets me.

- 🗝️ (from his office, maybe imagining fucking you instead of working on this case)

We are on the same wavelength…/silly

And I’ll be honest with you, I read this and Im so pent up and needy that reading the praise absolutely made my eyes water. Reading how much someone wants me, my god man. You’ll have to message me soon if you get the courage (I am begging you, please please please please. ) you can’t just say those things and not expect me to fall head over heels myself??????? I’m going a little insane over here 😭 (plus if you message me I get a lovesense toy tomorrow you’d be able to control at some point. if you’d like to of course.)

I just, god please, I wouldn’t know what to do with all of the praise, all of the touching, I’ve never been the center of full attention like that. It makes me fucking shiver to think about or imagine.

God, I want that so bad, be your toy, anytime you feel like I need it. Anywhere. The restaurant, the coffee shop, your bed, office, anywhere we go. I’d revel in how much you love using me. Yeah, I’d whine and cry and beg for you to make me cum, watch you laugh at me and let out a pathetic whimper.

I just Jesus Christ, are you a mind reader? Like you know I’d stumble through asking but I’d absolutely do it anyways. Watch me flush and whine trying get the words out. And if you were to say that I deserve to feel that good while touching me I’d start crying and cum so fucking hard probably. I’d love that you’d get off on eating me out, but god I’d do anything to suck your cock, give me everything for a week, just what I need up until I cum for you multiple times, I’d be crazy to not beg for your cock in my mouth.

[8bitsupervillain]

Higurashi When They Cry Hou Ch. 3 Tatarigoroshi pt. 4

Going off of past chapters (all two of them) I imagine the plots going to really start kicking off soon.

Given some of the merch I've seen I wouldn't be too surprised if there was an eroge version where you could snag Satoko and Rika.

Let the girl dream Keiichi!

Feel like you have to be either in your early twenties or younger, or over fifty to be able to hang erotic art without being judged. Anything in-between and you'll get judged as a pervert. Back when you could buy them, I had a faint dream of buying a statue of Mara from the Shin Megami Tensei games and having that out as a conversation starter. Unfortunately they wanted over three hundred dollars for that, then as now though I'm broke.

Rika knows about the inciting incident from the Last of Us Part 2. I've never played that game, it looks alright.

Something something moe. Anyway, baseball shenanigans! What fun! (checks watch)

I have nothing pithy to say, I just found this little exchange amusing. The idea of a fourteen year old telling an older kid to just man up and admit he's a pervert is extremely funny to me, especially since this is all happening in the bathroom.

Please translate girls as cake here.

Just guys being dudes. Talking about being perverts in the public restroom.

Who doesn't enjoy a good ojou laugh every now and then?

Get out of here main plot! We have silly antics to drag out for longer! Anyway, now they're off to have a big barbecue to celebrate their win at baseball. What a lark. What follows is a lot of descriptions of meats and vegetables.

Which made me learn that I'm not a man any more. I am somewhat dismayed at the revelation that I've suddenly lost my gender, but there it is. Food descriptions don't really do anything for me, you could describe a food as the absolute most sumptuous meal anyone has ever laid their eyes upon and it just washes over me. It's not even down to me being unable to visualize it, it just doesn't have any particular effect on me. Maybe I just have a hard time imagining smells? I don't know, I've never bothered thinking about it.

For a split second I had an absolutely wild thought that the coach, Irie, was actually in fact Satoko's older brother. The guy existed for maybe an hour at this point, but he has character art, so my brain just snapped it's metaphorical fingers and went "that's the boy! Satoshi! Somehow they just don't know, because of plot reasons!"

Only for this screen to immediately pop up after the thought occurred thereby completely derailing that thought. I don't think Irie is Satoko's missing brother gang.

[tf2-oneshots]

i have a silly lil hc that boils down to pyro and spy being long lost siblings, could i please have a oneshot of what happens when thats found out?

Dear god…of course you can

Warnings: none!

Rating: General

Medic couldn’t believe the results. He stares at the sheets of paper, eyes flickering between the two in his hand. Multiple grey streaks were printed onto the lines, many of which were in identical placements. He scans them, confirming their matching positions before setting the papers down.

Earlier, he collected blood samples from each member of the team. He ran it through his fancy new machine, giggling as he pressed the buttons to run his tests. When the last sheet of data escaped the clunky printer, Medic came to a startling realization.

Spy and Pyro were siblings! Full blood and everything. Medic grabbed both of their papers, hurrying out of the medbay to find them in the common room with the other mercenaries. The doctor clears his throat.

“Spy, Pyro, could you two come with me?” The papers are held close to his chest, concealing their contents. Pyro looks up from their coloring book, head tilted with curiosity. They set the periwinkle crayon back inside the box and stand. Spy, however, has gone completely invisible.

Medic looks around only for his sheets to be snatched out of his arms. Spy uncloaks, analyzing the papers much to Medic’s dismay. The doctor tries to snatch them back, but a hand to his face keeps him at bay. The two hiss like cats, trying to fight for the papers. Medic pulls on Spy’s arm while the Frenchwoman fights to keep his distance.

“Whatever is on these papers can—“ He pauses, eyes wide at the fine print. Medic finally takes the papers back, glowering at Spy’s rude behavior. That is, until Scout snatches the same sheets out of his hands. He hunches over, blocking Medic from taking them back.

“Lemme read it, god! Ok, uh, Spy’s got a, uh, sib-ling match with…Pyro.” Scout’s jaw drops. Pyro slaps their hands to their cheeks, demonstrating their shock. Medic grabs Scout, throwing him onto the nearby couch and finally getting his precious lab results back.

“Well, since none of you care about patient confidentiality, I might as well tell everyone your secrets! Scout, you have a—“ The younger shouts, tackling Medic to stop him from speaking. He covers the man’s mouth, loudly shushing him with panic in his face. Bandaged hands are pressed to the German’s mouth before being yanked off.

“Dear god. Men, Spy has been lying to us! I always knew you weren’t from Paris, Texas!” Soldier jumps from the couch, forcing Spy into a headlock with a war cry. He punches the woman in the face despite the protesting screams coming from her.

“Get off of me!” Spy stabs the American in the back before sliding his larger body to the floor. She rolls his shoulders, straightening his back with a brush to her sleek suit. Bastard could have stained it.

Spy marches away, infuriated and confused by the revelation. Pyro? His sibling? Don’t make her laugh! That psycho was probably raised by fire obsessed wolves! There’s no way Pyro of all people comes from the refined and quaint city he refuses to name for anonymity.

Hours go by after the ordeal. Spy had retreated to his smoking room, quietly huffing one of his cigarettes. There’s a knock to his door, which drags his attention away from his newspaper. As it creaks open, she has a feeling she knows who it is.

“Mmph, mmph mn?” Pyro peaks their head into the room. Their glass eyes look to the Frenchman as he sets down the paper. Spy stands, approaching them with an exhausted look.

“Don’t tell me you believe that crazed doctor? I believe that those results were a mistake.” Pyro makes another muffle, hand gesturing slightly before they fully enter the room. They hold a tray of eclairs, and from the looks of it, they were freshly baked.

“A peace offering? Well, who am I to say no to that?” Spy takes one eclair, deciding to spoil herself today. After being punched in the face, he deserves a reward. Taking a bite, he instantly perks. Its delicious! The cream was mixed perfectly, and the chocolate has just the right amount of sugar. Its almost familiar to Spy. Too familiar.

She swallows, not daring to take another bite. It…it can’t be. He looks into those empty glass eyes that never blink. Pyro stares, hands still holding the tray of eclairs. Their filter emits a soft sound with every breath they take.

“This is mother’s recipe.”

Rip Spy -H

[king0fcrows]

I am NOT happy with the changes they made in Trigun Stampede.

I was worried I wouldn’t like the art—but then it turns out the art was fine (actually quite pretty!) and it’s writing I’m so disappointed with!

They’ve super changed Meryl’s character to be way flightier and clueless—not the serious, uptight but self possessed character I liked for the original story—and where the fuck is Milly?!!!! Where is my beloved big girl?! If they seriously are replacing her with this Roberto guy, I can’t fucking even deal.

(And I actually like the kind of character type Roberto is implied to be—I want to like him even after the little I’ve seen—but I don’t want them axe a beloved character to bring him in!)

Also—It seems they merged Jenora Rock with the city of Inepril—the town where they need a new plant and the town is encouraged to turn Vash over for the bounty?

However, instead of having the town turn on Vash (important because the fact they betray him and he still helps them is the entire fucking *point* of Trigun), the military police *forces* them to turn him over at gun point—and then he and the captain fight a weird pointless duel that endangers the town for no reason?

It’s not because Vash escapes and people chase for him for the bounty which escalates into shenanigans—which is results in the people chasing Vash to blame him for the damage *they* cause, AGAIN a core theme of the original show and manga—but just because the kooky captain thinks that’s a good idea even though Vash is already in his custody?

And again—this is not a sadistic gang leader who is set up to revel in destruction. Nor is it set up as a “I’ve been hunting you for years and now I just want you dead” kind of vibe. NOR is it because the captain is secretly won over by Vash and wants to find a way to let him win while saving face (like with the Bad Lad Gang in the original) but just because ???????

They don’t seem to understand the hijinks aspect of the original show weren’t just there for laughs but were always to tie it back around into a serious theme later—to have heft during an emotional bait and switch, to slide from comedy to tragedy, and highlight the fragility of humanity/how fast tables can turn.

And they make this shallow show of Vash kind of trying to save the townspeople—but there’s no real sense of urgency or connection to his character?

Meryl meets him and then…he barely speaks to anyone, except in a background scene and some passing comments about the plant? There’s no soft poignant moment where you see Meryl observing Vash in his interactions with the towns people to realize “oh he really cares about them!”—which was ALWAYS present and felt in the original series. Likely because they didn’t even give Meryl and this Roberto guy time to get a feel for who is Vash before the introduced all these other elements that didn’t feel cohesive?

Also, during the battle, they shallowly kind of have him cry—but there doesn’t seem to be any sincerity to it? It almost is like the silly play crying he does when playing a fool over food or donuts or flirting in the original series—but instead it’s being done in a serious moment and just totally ruins the scene? There’s no camera focus on Vash’s inner realization that “oh god, this idiot just set off bombs and endangered people and once again it’s my fault!” and him tearing up. It’s just him awkwardly crying and flapping around like a headless chicken.

Like seriously, what the hell did I just watch?! Where was the fear and sincerity and emotional weight?!

Where’s the willingness to have a still moment to build tension and let the characters build emotional depth? That was ALWAYS something that made original show handled so brilliantly and made me LOVE it.

(Also, where the FUCK are my weird alien half beauty half body horror plant women? I know they didn’t show them much in the shot—but if they really changed them to just be these vaguely humanoid beings made of light, and not fleshy multi-limbed creature with feathered wings growing smaller bodies from their back, I’m gonna riot.)

[nowis-scales]

Rating: Mature Audiences

General Warnings: Suicidal ideation, self-harm ideation, actual self-harm

Fandoms: Fire Emblem IF / Fire Emblem Fates

Additional Tags: Revelation Route, Childhood Abandonment, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder — PTSD, Family Drama, Angst with a Happy Ending, Therapy, Post-Canon, World Building, Character Death, No Deeprealms

Chapter Word Count: 6,333 words

Chapter Summary: Kagero's revelation brings potentially disastrous consequences for Ryoma and the Hoshidan Royal Family.

[Read it on AO3.]

When realization engulfs Ryoma, it is a three-way tie of clichés between what he wants to do.

Firstly, he wants to scream. Who wouldn’t want to in his situation? Honestly, when was the last time he got to let out a good scream? He’s certainly yelled a lot in the past few days, and plenty in the war beyond that, but it was never a scream. Even when he had been hurt, sliced open by the rotting, possessed corpse of a Vallite, he kept it muted to more of a grunt or a groan. Screaming denoted panic, and the last thing he wanted his soldiers to see on a battlefield was their leader panicking. However, this confrontation was no battlefield; it was just a silly tea room that Kagero had dragged him to so she could lay out how he’d been brutally stabbed in the back by everyone he trusted. And if that wasn’t something to scream about, what was?

His other choice, the one that is becoming increasingly appealing, is just to cry. If it has been a while since he screamed, then it has been even longer since he had a good, long cry. He would love to just break down in tears in front of everyone, whimpering and sniffling and sobbing about how hurt he is – because make no mistake, as angry as he is, he is also very hurt – and making them feel sorry for how they’ve treated him. Gods, he would love to do this, but the little serpent in his mind reminds him how manipulative that sentiment is.

If the only way you can forge forgiveness is through guilt, then do you deserve it?

Finally, and potentially the most likely if his history is anything to go off, he kind of wants to throw up. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s thrown up because of a stressful situation, after all. He couldn’t stop in the days leading up to his genpuku ceremony, where everyone was crowding him telling him how exciting it was that he would soon be king. If it weren’t for Mikoto, he wonders if he would have just been doing it daily until the officials got him where they wanted him. Now, though, she is not here to protect him from the consequences of his fear. She is only able to sit in his mind, a memory of lost comfort, as he stares down the table at his retainer. How would she feel if she knew that he is afraid to look at her daughter?

In the end, it is words that come out first, poised and controlled, like a king’s should be. “Am I correct in believing that you have brought the culprits to me, Kagero?”

She hesitates, glancing over at Hinoka, but nods carefully. Curious, he thinks. Was it Hinoka’s idea to confess? The thought almost makes him happy. It’s very like Hinoka to be the one person to at least half have his back, even when she doesn’t entirely. In a way, he supposes she’d be returning a childhood favour.

“Initially, I, like I am certain you are, was deeply unhappy with what I found. I never anticipated that so many of our allies might hold a grudge against you, even with the…” She pauses, like it’s suddenly taboo to tell him to his face how unlovable he’s been lately. “The, ahem… conflicts, I could not believe that they might choose to betray you.”

Ryoma does not turn his head as he murmurs, “Neither can I.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Corrin wilt. He almost wants to snap at her, asking how she could have the audacity to look sorry. It is her mistrust in him that led her to this. She clearly didn’t care then – why now? Did Hinoka make her feel guilty enough that she felt she had to?

“I know I am speaking out of turn, your majesty, but I believed the same as you. I did not want to think that our allies would behave so poorly. However, I could not shake the feeling that there was perhaps more to the matter I was not seeing. The group, once pinned down, seemed to have been chosen quite carefully.”

No one with enough conscience to simply speak with me, he almost blurts out. Sakura’s exclusion surely says something about that, he would think. Although the inclusion of Setsuna was certainly a mistake. He’s willing to bet a fair sum of gold that she’s the one who blundered and made them easy targeting for Kagero.

“It was because of the specificity that I decided to investigate further. Earlier today, we joined for a meeting to discuss the true intentions behind their actions. Without their input, I could only speculate, but when we spoke, things became much clearer…”

He straightens his shoulders. Angry as he is already, the least he can try to do is look dignified. Besides, if he puffs his chest up, he will appear stronger.

“Their reasoning for thievery sounded reasonable?”

Kagero notes the bite in his tone. He sees it from the twitch of her lips. Nonetheless, she continues, appearing to try not to be intimidated by this situation. It’s strange. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her squirm like this, or at least not in a long time. He wouldn’t have expected that this would be the subject that would get her hot under the collar. Maybe she worries her job is on the line… She should know that he’s not exactly in the position to be firing his only retainer.

“The matter is… more complex than good or bad decisions, milord. Their first goal was rapidly abandoned once they were in possession of your records. More important matters came to light not long after, and when they spoke of them, I felt they revealed their true feelings surrounding their actions.”

Ryoma’s heart skips a beat. Is she insinuating that everyone here read what he wrote? Suddenly his palms are incredibly sweaty, and it feels as if millions of tiny insects are crawling under his skin. He prays that his face isn’t rapidly turning red. Gods, what do they know?

“What matters?”

Kagero says nothing. This only frustrates him more. Part of him is tempted to leap to his feet and order answers, but the terrified part of him knows he is glued to his spot on the floor for the foreseeable future. Whatever they know, no matter how much they know, it could be very, very bad. His mind races with thoughts, and his heart pounds in his chest.

They found out you don’t always love your people, that from time to time you resent them, even though you are sworn to protect and care for them. They found out that your best friend growing up – your male best friend – was actually your lover, and he dumped you for being a clingy, pathetic child. They found out that you get unfairly jealous any time one of your siblings cares better for another than you do for them. They found out that you’re probably the reason everyone they love has died. They found out how badly you want to hurt yourself sometimes as punishment. They found out that sometimes you wish it was you who died instead of Father.

Kagero’s gaze moves to the rest of the group, signalling them to take the floor. The frog in a pot of boiling water technique, huh? Strategic, yet cruel. Just looking at Kagero had been hard enough, but now that he is forced to turn his attention to the entire group, his heart squeezes tightly. The retainers are still too ashamed to look at him, but his siblings, to their credit, are trying. They also just happen to look like they are four seconds from bursting into apologetic tears. Much to his chagrin, Corrin looks to be the worst for it.

If I can’t cry about this, then neither can you.

What unfortunate luck it is that she is also the first person to speak.

“Ryoma, I…” Corrin begins, swallowing thickly. “I just want you to know that we never meant to do anything to hurt you, and if you’re upset about what happened with the journals, I completely understand.”

“Of course I’m upset,” he snaps, his hands curling into fists, “Not only have you affirmed that you have no trust in me, you also showed a blatant disregard for my privacy as a person. Now you have all the arrows you need to pierce my reputation. I’m sure you’ll have a more agreeable king of Hoshido in no time, once I’ve abdicated the throne.”

“That’s not-”

“Lord Ryoma.” Kagero says firmly, frowning. “You agreed that you would listen to everything before giving any reactions. Please, allow Lady Corrin to continue.”

It’s only a request, but it feels like an order. He obliges, if only out of habit. Mikoto made it a rule that everyone should speak their piece in her court, and he has not yet been able to shake off the instinct to heel when commanded to do so. It certainly does not help that Kagero is in some way an extension of Mikoto.

She nods at Corrin to proceed.

“You’re… you’re absolutely right that we took your journals because I was having trouble trusting you, and I’m really sorry that we did. At the time, it just seemed so much more important for us to have that information about my father, and Hinoka thought-”

Hinoka thought?

Idiot, he curses himself. Of course it was her.

A hot, sharp sense of betrayal shoots through Ryoma’s veins, and it takes all his might not to shoot his sister a nasty glare. His face prickles with heat, and the tears earlier refused push at his throat and eyes with an elevated intensity. Corrin, he expected this from. Takumi and Azura, too. But Hinoka? The one person he has trusted most in this life? Part of him feels he should have known. Her devotion to Corrin rivalled even his own. He should have known she would take her side. It is just like her to decide to meddle in someone else’s affairs! His blood boils like lava under his skin. It is only out of the corner of his eye that he can take a glimpse, and even then, he can see her shrink. Corrin, on the other hand, seems entirely oblivious to his rage.

“S-she wondered if maybe you would have written about why you wouldn’t tell me. You haven’t been acting like yourself lately. When we fought the other day, you were…” She cringes. “You said things I never thought I’d hear you say to anyone, let alone me.”

The heat in his face only seems to get more fiery, although this time, it is from shame. He hangs his head. The same pool of guilt that he felt that day has been sloshing around in his belly ever since. There has only been one other time in his life where he wanted to take his words back this badly, and even then, he could not muster the courage to say a simple “I’m sorry”. He clutches at his kimono in frustration. For a moment, he almost feels as if Hinoka was right to stab him in the back. After all, this is just what he’s like.

“She thought maybe you might have written about why you were acting the way you were, and while you didn’t say it in such exact words…” Corrin pauses. “It was clear to us upon reading your journals that something more was happening.”

Yes, he longs to jump up from the table and shout, yes, I was hiding all the way along. I was hiding and I did not want any of you to find me. And I won’t come out of my hiding spot now.

No, he should not get too far ahead of himself. All Corrin has said is that she knows something more about him. What she knows could be anything.

He does not raise his head to look at her. He cannot look at her when she is tearing him open. He made that mistake last time.

To his surprise, however, she says nothing more. It is Hinoka who takes on the voice next.

Of course it had to be Hinoka.

“There was so much that you didn’t tell us, Ryoma. Things I don’t think that you ever told anyone.”

Her voice is entirely lacking in confidence, but gentle, like she’s talking to a child with a scraped knee. It’s her way of saying that she means no harm. He hates it. He doesn’t believe it. How can she pretend to be kind when she knows what she’s done?

“It wasn’t your business,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

A deep crease forms between her brows. “Whatever is going on with my brother is my business, especially when it’s as bad as some of this stuff was. How come you never told me about any of that? Why would you choose to suffer alone?”

Why would I share my rightful punishment with the people I love most? To hurt them more than I already have?

You grew up without your mother and father because of me.

These words do not leave him. A heavy sigh takes its place. “I am not going to repeat myself, Sister.”

Hinoka makes a choked noise. It almost brings him some semblance of satisfaction. Though he can just barely see her face from this angle, he knows she is turning red. She stumbles to try and recover, but nonsensical sputters are the best she can offer. Good. He will not answer to her. She clearly expected to get much further with her sad excuses.

Azura tries next.

“Ryoma, I implore you, please understand that we are all here to help you. If you refuse cooperation, then we will never find our common ground. You agreed that you would try.”

Hearing “we’re all here to help you” alone makes him roll his eyes. He’s heard that one before. Empty words as far as he’s concerned… It scares him a bit, to think that he’s become this bitter, yet the emotion keeps bubbling up anyway. Perhaps he is close to vomiting after all, just not in the traditional sense.

“I said I would listen before making any judgements,” Ryoma corrects, “Unless there is more to say, however, I do not trust that your actions were based in sound logic and fairness. None of you have offered me any reason to think such a thing.”

Azura hesitates, but never breaks eye contact, her amber eyes boring directly into his soul. “There is more to say.”

The next words come through gritted teeth, but he pushes something that could almost be considered a smile. “Then by all means, Azura, continue.”

Back to Corrin again he remarks, watching as Azura turns to her and nods. Perhaps his hypothesis about how planned this was is closer to the truth than he initially thought. Is Azura speaking so little because she will snap under the weight?

He remembers writing something about how aloof she was around him, once. Envy struck him every time he saw her with Sakura, laughing and talking as sisters. Sakura hated ghost stories, but she always listened to Azura’s. He could never seem to forge a similar connection with her. He often wondered if Azura even liked him at all. Does she? Or is he here for the same reasons as Takumi, out of obligation?

It's a silly idea. Everyone present is there out of obligation. He shouldn’t kid himself.

“Ryoma, ever since I met you, the one thing that our siblings all say is that you’re one of the people they look up to most in this world. Even when it seemed like there was no hope all those years ago, I’m told you stood firm. You did everything you could to protect your family, and asked for little in return. You didn’t need anything or anyone. At the time, when I heard this, I thought you were admirable. Your protectiveness, it reminded me of Xander in the best of ways. It made me believe that I could really learn to care for you some day, just as your siblings do. You were so strong, but… the man in those journals…”

His eyes squeeze shut, bracing for the impact. There must be just a tidal wave of insults and disparaging remarks just waiting beyond these words. Coward, monster, and degenerate are the first handful to spring to mind. They must be coming.

“He scares me, Ryoma. He scares all of us.”

Fear. He did not expect that answer. It makes him shiver all the same. Surely, this must be followed by a speech about the good of the kingdom. One of them – probably Takumi, the prospective heir – that he cannot be this wrapped up in his head if he is to do right by his people. They will tell him he is monstrous and needs to step down, for the good of everyone. And they would be right about his abhorrence, of course, but he does not want to hear it. The reasons they provide will not be genuine. He doesn’t want to hear anything from them. They are lying about their fear for him to be rid of him. None of it is real. They don’t care.

“What do you have to fear?” He asks with the tone of a pointed knife. “My resentment of you? I doubt it.”

“We’re worried for your safety and well-being, Ryoma.” Corrin says, and Ryoma laughs softly. It’s tiny and bitter, but it’s enough to make Hinata and Setsuna shuffle in their seats. They haven’t so much as sneezed during the entire confrontation thus far.

“Such dishonesty doesn’t suit you, Corrin.”

“I’m not… I-I’m not being dishonest. Your journals, they… what you think about yourself isn’t normal. I don’t know any healthy person who talks about hurting themselves the way you have. We really are worried about you.”

“And why should you be?”

“Because your journals have you describe yourself much more intimately than anything any of us have seen. I worry that you might be in need of a healer, and just not know how to ask or, or be too afraid to ask because you worry what people will think. I never knew how deeply you felt about our family… or how much some of these things pained you…”

“Our family?” Ryoma repeats. “No, no. As far as you and all the others seem to be concerned, this is your family. I am the monster that is ruining it. You would all be happier without me.”

Takumi’s voice is strangely soft when he answers, “That’s not true.”

Somehow, that softness only makes Ryoma more upset. He barely spares a glance at his younger brother. “Don’t kid yourself. Wasn’t it a few days ago that Corrin told me you were ‘ranting and rambling’ about how little I cared?”

Takumi looks down, guilty. Hinata tries to pat his shoulder comfortingly, and Takumi, to Ryoma’s surprise, allows it. Takumi almost always brushes him off when he tries to do something like that. An aching jealousy nips at his heart. Not only does Takumi not want him, but he has someone better. Everyone always has someone better, don’t they? They replace you and then that person gets to wipe their tears when you make them upset, all because you can’t control your feelings. Everything would be better if he just swallowed everything to keep them happy. They don’t really care about him. Nobody really cares about him. And why should they? He makes everything worse. He’s proven it right in front of them!

No, enough of this. He’s done. Ryoma begins to rise from his spot at the table, hoping to preserve some scrap of his dignity. “I don’t have the time nor the energy to play mind games with all of you. If this is all you came to do, then I have nothing for you.”

“Wait!”

Hinoka again. Her voice is much clearer this time – louder and stronger, too. Distinctly removed from her behaviour before, he might add. When he looks into her eyes, he can see that a flash of determination mixes with desperation. Her brows furrow deeply as she looks up at him.

“Why won’t you talk to us?”

He heaves another sigh, somehow even heavier than the last. “Because your compassion is nothing more than a falsehood.”

“Just because we’re mad at you doesn’t mean we don’t care about you.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He should have expected this – she is nothing if not stubborn. Considering he now knows that this was her idea – something that still makes him seethe with betrayal – he’s not surprised that she feels like she has to stop him. Otherwise, she will have done something underhanded for nothing.

“What, are we not allowed to be mad that you lied to us?” She presses. With the sharpness of her tone, it suddenly it feels like they are children again, having petty arguments over toys. Or perhaps in this one they’re older, bickering about whether Mama was right to say that Father was being too soft on the Nohrians. It’s all déjà vu, really. He remembers what this is like. He remembers that neither of them ever felt like they got the other to see their side.

His mouth opens, but nothing exits. Something is rumbling inside of Hinoka. Can his vocal cords take another argument? They have just barely recovered from his time with Corrin.

“You lied to Takumi, Azura and me for our entire lives. You said whatever you said just to get Corrin on our side. We’re going to be mad at you for that, Ryoma, but that doesn’t mean that our concern here isn’t real.”

He swallows thickly, gaze darting to the floor. “The only reason you “care” about me, Hinoka, is because you feel sorry for me. No man likes to be pitied. You’re more likely to have a stronger dynamic as a group if I’m placated, because you won’t have to account for your guilt or my anger. That’s all this is.”

“I care about you because you’re my big brother,” she fires back, eyes narrowing, “I care about you because even if I’m angry, you’re still a person and you are clearly in pain.”

“My pain is not your concern, and I reiterate once again that it is not your business. You made your choice. I gambled with my place in your heart and I lost. Fill it with your other siblings and leave me out of it.”

He moves to turn to the door, but Hinoka just keeps fighting.

“You can’t do this, Ryoma. You can’t just keep pushing everyone out. You keep saying that none of us care about you, but you won’t let us do it.”

Gods damn it, does she not know when to let go? Already she’s ruined him with her cruel plans, invading his privacy and humiliating him, and now she’s trying to play the caring little sister? Where was his caring little sister when everyone was shouting him into a corner, huh? Where was she when he smashed the mirror the other night? She’s just like Corrin. They’re all just like Corrin. Liars, the lot of them. How dare they toy with him just to comfort themselves! He is not some broken toy that they can keep trying to shatter!

Teeth and fists clenched tightly, Ryoma snaps, whipping around to face her. “If you want to prove to me that you care about me, then you can forgive me right now. If you can do that, then I will believe you, no more questions asked.”

She gives pause, bearing down on her lip with her teeth. She repeats his motion from only moments ago – mouth open, and then closed.

Wrong answer.

“Well?” He glances around the room. “Anyone?”

Not even Corrin?

She looks as if she could cry, but she won’t budge. She just keeps looking at him with pitying eyes. How is he still wasting his time believing in her? He could kick himself for hoping she might try. If she refused to forgive him then, why now?

Not even Azura?

Azura looks down at her lap, her face nearly camouflaged by a waterfall of icy blue hair. Where was all that power from earlier? His heart is in his throat. She loves him even less than he thought.

Not even Kagero?

She is acting as if this doesn’t even involve her. Too straight, too narrow, too clean. Mikoto’s retainer, but never his. Saizo would have stood by him.

The silence, it feels like a lifetime. It cannot be any more than a minute, yet the pain of their quietude feels as if it ages his bones ten years. Tears push at him, but he swallows them, pushing a hand through his hair. Crying is becoming increasingly inevitable. That horrifies him. If his journals were not enough to convince his siblings to forgive him, then breaking down would only remind them that his core is quite feeble in comparison to the exterior. He would loathe to give them the satisfaction.

“That is exactly what I thought.”

Whoever speaks next speaks with a voice no more than a breath. He does not know who. It is quick like a blow to the ribs, and it makes him explode. “It’s not that simple, Ryoma.”

“It is that simple, actually! It is a yes or no question,” he stares daggers at the group. “So what is your reply? Yes or no?”

“Ryoma-” Hinoka tries to interject, now rising from her own spot on the floor.

“Yes or no?”

Still nothing.

Willpower alone is not proving to be enough to defeat the tears this time. They well in his eyes before he can manage to stop them. No matter. Even if he could, his voice still wavers when he speaks. Some of them look a bit sad to see it. He wants to scream at them to stop lying.

“I know I am not… that I cannot…” The words are catching in his throat. Fuck. He does not want to do this here. Every word is coming out tortured, physically painful… and he won’t be able to get away from this without crying. How pathetic. “I know I am not… a good man, but… I want to be better. I want…”

He shakes his head. “No, it does not matter what I want. You cannot love me.”

Corrin stares up at him with pleading eyes, her voice just barely above a whisper, and suddenly they are ten and four again, trembling before the might of Nohrian soldiers. Sumeragi is nowhere to be found, and he knows he will have to get her out of this situation. He failed her then. He’s failed her now, too. It makes him sick to even think about that night.

“Ryoma, please. We’re your family. We want to help you.”

How can you help me if you can never forgive me? How can I help me if I can never forgive me?

“I don’t… need you. I don’t even… w-want you,” he groans, hoping to shake the memory of her desperation out of his mind. Those damn eyes of hers… He takes a few steps backwards, and Hinoka reaches for his wrist to steel him. He yanks it away, shouting. “I said don’t need your help! Get away from me!”

“Ryoma!” Hinoka pleads, “You have to believe us.”

“Believe you? How can I be expected to believe in you when none of you believe in me?” He yells, eyes glimmering with tears. Gods, they’re going to fall. If he weren’t so overwhelmed by his other emotions right now, he might be embarrassed that they start to slip down his cheeks. The feeling is almost foreign. “This is unfathomably cruel. I know that I ruined your lives, but if your guilt is so deep, why are you still rejecting me?! You’re supposed to be my family!”

“You’re not making any sense!”

Corrin places a hand on Hinoka’s arm. Neither of them noticed her stand, but she is there, ready. She shakes her head slowly at Hinoka, as if to tell her to stand down. Hinoka looks from Corrin to Ryoma, and then back again. For the first time in this argument, Ryoma believes that he might see a flicker of genuine worry cross her face, but he cannot bring himself to believe it. She just wants to win. She wants to have her cake and eat it too. She wants to feel better about herself.

“I’m not just here to feed your hero complex, Hinoka!” He shouts at her and Corrin, as if shouting will give him some semblance of greater power. “I’m not just another person for you to “save” so you can feel better about yourselves. I am the way that I am, and I am horrible. I am the reason you grew up without parents. I am the reason Corrin was taken away. I am the reason you’re all in pain now. Nobody can forgive me for that! Stop pretending that it’s possible!”

“None of us blame you for what happened to Mama and Father,” Takumi tries, “None of us blame you for what happened to Corrin, either. You need to see a healer; you’re not being fair. This isn’t healthy.”

It doesn’t matter what he says. It doesn’t matter what anyone says. Even Ryoma knows that he is too far gone, consumed only by his failures. He clutches at his head. “I let Mother’s killer get away! I told Corrin I wouldn’t care if she was dead! All of this happened because of me.”

Where there was once a coherent thought in Ryoma’s head, there is now only one phrase, repeated over and over like the chanting of a religious man. No more. No more. No more. No more. No more. No more. No more. No more. No more. No more. No more. No more. He cannot stomach a moment more of this. He wants to leave. He wants to hide himself away and never come out again. He wants to punish himself. He wants to die.

Kagero may not be able to forgive her liege, but she knows him. She knows this. Her face is somber as she moves swiftly and quietly to Ryoma’s side. She does not dare lay a finger on him. She merely guides him to the exit, knowing that this is where it ends. There is nothing more that can be done. No more, no more, no more. They failed.

They failed.

The heaviness of her heart is apparent in her voice when she turns her head over her shoulder, though she tries to keep it even for the royals’ sake. “I’m sorry, Lady Corrin, Lady Hinoka. I don’t think we can continue.”

Ryoma lets out a small sob and hates himself for it, clamping a hand over his mouth. In between all of this he is sure that he is murmuring, but nothing is coherent. It’s all just ripples of something, the waves of anguish he feels he is drowning in as he swims through his mind. His lungs suddenly feel so heavy that he cannot breathe, and for a moment it seems entirely possible that he could be suffocated by his own tears.

“He’s not well,” Azura says behind him, probably turning to face the others, “It’s best we leave him for now. Kagero knows what to do.”

Kagero nods in their direction, and then, with the slightest touch of his arm, begins to usher him out of the room. He wishes she wouldn’t keep acknowledging them, even knowing that she is not on his side, either.

Nothing feels like it makes any sense anymore.

It makes him want to die.

Why didn’t he die when he should have?

__________________________________________

The hallways of Castle Shirasagi are quiet. Eerily quiet, apart from the sound of the king’s muffled sniffling and shaky breaths. All the way along, Kagero is shushing him. It’s pitiful. He feels like a child. Thank the gods that the rest of the castle staff must have cleared out of the way when they heard the commotion. The last thing they wanted was to be caught in any royal’s reign of terror. Of course, that also means that everyone knows what is happening, and that quickly replaces the slight relief with more pain. The servants are probably all trading gossip as Kagero guides him through the hall. Fuck them. Fuck everyone.

Ryoma just about collapses upon arrival to his room. Far away from the tormenting world of his siblings, he remains a mess. He has never felt so small. He gasps for breath, swiping at his eyes, internally begging the thoughts to stop. He longs to cast Kagero out of the room and weep with reckless abandon, clawing at his skin until it bleeds. He wants to tear out chunks of his hair and burn his skin and pound his fists against his temples until they bruise because gods forbid, he should have a second of respite. He did this to himself, but his family is helping by torturing him with a promise that they can’t keep, and he knows even more now that he deserves to have all these bad things happen to him.

Kagero is comforting him, but he wishes she wouldn’t. Why not take one of her shuriken and bury it into his flesh instead? It would feel good for both of them.

“Here, get comfortable,” Kagero murmurs as she guides his near-limp body to his bedding, almost falling down with him as she brings him to where he sleeps, “You need to rest.”

“Rest?” He shakes his head. “I c-c-cannot… rest...”

Kagero does not dignify his complaints, moving to look through his belongings as if this whole thing is painfully natural to her. She knows exactly why she is here and what she is looking for, bypassing all other distractions. With ease, she locates one of two hidden compartments – and pulls out a worn and heavy wooden box. Flicking the rusty golden seal, she pulls it open, revealing the box’s contents: four bottles of liquid, and a small cup. The bottles feature the same duo of liquids, the first being a translucent blue and the other an opaquer green. For each, there is an emptier bottle. Kagero grabs the translucent blue, uncorks it, and pours it into the cup with a steady hand.

Sleeping medicine, he recognizes. It’s been a while since he’s taken it. She is right to give it to him now. He downs it in one swift gulp, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“That will help.”

He nods in agreement, sniffling.

“Will you be alright if I fetch you some water?” She stops for a moment. “Orochi may also have some herbs that will help.”

He nods again, voice and mind still too broken from before to say much else.

“I’ll return soon, milord. Please, try to relax while I’m gone.”

With that, Kagero is off. As silence fills the room, so too do Ryoma’s thoughts.

How could she possibly expect him to relax?

His mind keeps drawing back to the tea room, with his siblings. He is so angry with them, he cannot believe that they keep toying with him like this, yet at the same time all he wants is to be one of them again. He wants to be their big brother again. He wants Corrin to trust him and Hinoka to fight for him and Azura to like him and Takumi to look up to him and none of that is going to happen because this is what he deserves. He deserves this pain! Hell, he deserves worse! This is his bed and he can lie in it, but gods, he just wants his family. They are the one thing he has in this life, and if he doesn’t have them, then he doesn’t have anything. Everything else belongs to Hoshido, but they are his. Were his. Now they’re nothing.

That itch is coming to him again. His eyes flick down to his hand, the knuckles still slightly puffy and red, scraped in places where the glass tore through his skin. It is clean enough to not have to bandage anymore, and somehow, that in itself feels like the calling for another.

Tempting. It’s far too tempting. He is not within his right mind and cannot consider whether any of this is a good idea as he grabs the sleeping medicine, uncorks it again and takes a large swig. You’d have thought he was in a drinking contest with how fast the gulps go down. He must have taken two or three mouthfuls before he tears himself away, reaching for the green one next. This one is twice as bitter to his memory, but it is needed. A memory of a healer handing this to him as a child flickers in his mind.

“It will help with the night terrors,” he remembers them saying.

He’ll need that. Without a second thought he grabs it and downs a few mouthfuls, shivering at the unpleasant flavour. Some escapes his lips and drips himself down his chin as he pulls himself away from the bottle, careful not to take too much. Too much won’t help. It has to be just the right amount, or he won’t live to see the fruits of his labour. He corks the bottle and puts it back in the box, putting himself back to his bed and wiping his face with the sleeve of his kimono.

This will help.

This is the only thing that can help.

[celestialholz]

BREAKS DOWN THE DOOR

So. Couple fairy type ones for you. Please consider: Ephemeral TM019, Vanilla TM127. You essentially pick up what I’m putting down, I am sure 💕

I do indeed pick it up, and then I shake it up. xD Two fics; two very different forms of connection, just for you my friend. ^_^ Cross-posted to AO3 here as chapters three and four respectively, welcome to the revenge of the Fairy types. (Vanilla under the read more!)

TM19: Disarming Voice

It’s a revelation, the first time his best friend sings.

Brassius is fresh from hospitalisation, a deep, fragile blue coating his heart, but as they sculpt and paint together in the studio they’ve begun to share, he hears soft words, sung sweetly almost under breath. It’s stilted, lacking flow – he pauses between lines, lungs still recuperating – but it’s unmistakeable nevertheless.

“When your day is long… and the night… the night is yours alone…”

It’s soulful, melodious, in tune, and sung through a quiet smile. It’s indicative of recovery physical and mental alike, and it sparks utter joy in Hassel’s gentle heart, despite the song’s inherent sadness. He listens silently, eyes falling closed behind his canvas, heat prickling behind his lids.

“Don’t let yourself go… ‘cause everybody cries…”

Oh stop it, he says within his own mind, not remotely meaning it. You’ll start me off crying, dear. I already love you far too much…

“Sometimes everything is wrong… now it’s time to sing along…”

He doesn’t need open eyes to know that’s an invitation rather than a simple lyric; he chokes a tender laugh, faces him tearfully, joins his beloved in voice. He matches him pause for pause. I will always wait for you, Brassie.

“When your day is night alone… if you feel like letting go…” he’s weeping now, inevitably, though there is no trace of judgement upon the smiling countenance that meets his. “If you think you’ve had too much of this life… well, hang on…”

Brassius meets him then, in the studio’s centre; they intwine hands automatically, equals, partners, the song perfectly relevant to both in its own unique way.

“’Cause everybody hurts,” they whisper-sing, gazes miles-deep. “Take comfort in your friends…”

Arms spontaneously embrace, pull each other tight to them, murmur traces of loving, relieving sobs.

“I hadn’t thanked you yet, for staying by my side once more,” a breathy voice rasps against him. “Not just now, but ever since we’ve been acquainted. Such permanent sunshine…”

“I am privileged to be able to shine upon you,” comes the tender murmur in response. “Thank y-you, for remaining in the light.”

Dual shadows chased away, they sigh together, foreheads meeting. They keep building, Hassel knows – keep getting nearer and nearer to admitting what lays beyond their friendship.

… Now is not the moment, he understands gently. Now is about healing, and singing, and quietly loving, and so he pulls back before he loses himself completely, eyes bright, and begins anew.

“If you feel like you’re alone… no, no, no, you’re not alone.”

“No, I’m not,” Brassius whispers, clinging tight to his hands, grey gaze sparkling in silvered joy. “And nor are you, dearest Hass.”

*-*-*-*-*-*

Years later, the song for their wedding’s first dance seems obvious, but they ponder individually all day nevertheless, pensive throughout their League matches.

When they present one another later with the exact same song in the exact same moment, both laugh until they’re almost breathless, lips joining in harmonic silliness.

They conduct one another’s light, after all. There could have been no other real choice.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

TM127: Play Rough

“I need training, dear.”

Larry glances up from the newspaper he is merely glazing over, brow raising.

“Is that a formal request, Kate?”

Her eyes glint, challenge clear.

“Yes. Yes it is.”

The newspaper is spontaneously dropped; steel meets the forest, gazes locked.

“Mm,” he murmurs, conclusive. “Five minutes.”

She grins, almost evil, and the spell is cast. “Game on.”

Their Pokemon collected, they meet on the battle court in their own yard, hands shaken, excitement barely concealed behind simple nods as they walk to their respective sides.

For a husband and wife who take battling far too seriously, training is akin to warfare. He doesn’t generally consider himself passionate, but this… this is different. He knows her, intimately – knows how she looks in the dead of morning, bathed in heat; knows how she wears joy, softly and with infinite kindness; knows how she brings light to his world, light he had never seen the merest wisp of before being at her side. She thrills him on every possible level, and the sheen of battle is no different.

And so, as he does every time, he will play the game. He will bring every moment of his Elite Four training to their own garden, to an unsanctioned bout.

He will give her the battle of her life, because she is worth every tiny little half-second of his devotion.

… And, well. He’d be lying if he claimed not to enjoy these things himself, too, even if it is mostly through osmosis.

He releases Oricorio to her Lokix, and grins claim them both.

“Begin,” he announces simply, and they glow.

*-*-*-*-*-*

It is left in the end to Ursaring and Flamigo; his bird preens proudly as they stare one another down, fire united, and Ursaring lets loose a low growl. They are no strangers to their mother and father’s duels, and play their roles as though the world will fall if they do.

“Play Rough!”

“Dodge.”

Flamigo does, deftly – he is faster, and holds the overall advantage. Both Pokemon wear their gleaming crowns, casting the fauna around them in glistening fractures of light, king and queen of the residence; it is blinding, but husband and wife both retain utmost focus.

“Brave Bird.”

“Intercept!”

He blinks, briefly, as Ursaring meets Flamigo head on. He sees a flash of a younger Katy behind his eyes – a memory, five years old, of her refusing to temper herself to his stubbornness.

She had never known when to quit, even against insurmountable odds.

“Just have dinner with me!”

“I… I can’t just have dinner with you.”

“And why not?”

“Because we’re both in the League -”

“So are Hassel and Brassius! Never stopped them, has it?”

“I… no, but -”

“But nothing, silly man. You’ll meet me in Treasure, seven sharp. Be terribly unprofessional of you to miss such an important meeting, dear…”

He flips back to reality, smile clinging to him. She shifts his horizons daily, cherishes him for exactly who he is… inspires him to become brighter.

His stare sets, and watches every minute detail; watches Ursaring as though she’s in slow-motion, the grasp and the throwback and the setting up for -

“Brave Bird!”

“Play Rough!”

It ends in carnage; both sparkle out, gleam receding, simultaneously knocked out by blows taken in unison. Recoil damage can be a cruel mistress.

They thank their friends as they meet once more in the middle, smiles identical.

“Very well-played, darling.”

“Very well-played indeed, dear.”

Technically, the game is a draw – but as he feels the burst of light against his heart, as he takes her hand and they head for the Pokemon Centre, he acknowledges silently that he much prefers to think that they both win.

Got a request for The Technical Festival, which celebrates Ephemeralart and Vanillacupcakes through the medium of TMs? Take a look here; my askbox is open!

[tr4p4nr0t]

Silence. I have a complicated relationship with silence. I frequently say I enjoy it, yet I always seem to break it. A poem I think of often says:

"I killed a plant once because I gave it too much water.

Lord, I worry that love is violence."

And I think to myself, perhaps my love is the kind that leaves you with a burnt tongue too. I can never be sure.

But I always disturb the silence.

I put on music, I talk to myself. I whistle. I scream and I have a really loud laugh and I love telling stories with endless unnecessary details. And if I personally dont make any noise myself- I accidentally bump into something. That something is always very fragile and barely holding onto life already. That something falls. Then it breaks. And then it lets out the most gut-wrenching, soul-shattering, guilt-inducing screech known to man.

Nothing is silent about me.

Except for the way I walk.

I can't help it. I move around in such silent manner, if I don't speak and let people know I'm approaching beforehand I always startle them. I suppose I can never put my foot down on the ground hard enough. The way I come is quiet. Scares you if you didn't see me.

Usually they don't see me.

I enjoy silence, even if I carry too little of it in my existence. Even if I can't protect it's presence.

We're sitting side by side, knees touching together. My legs are numb- I know because I clutched onto them to stop my hands from shaking and the legs i gripped didn't feel mine. We chat and joke around. It's nothing serious, it never is. We have a strict rule about not talking of things that actually matter. That could change something. We ignore what won't let us rest. It's alright though, because he laughs at all of my jokes. It's so effortless. Every single story I tell entertains him. He likes the way I play with words, make impressions, silly sound effects- I like the way he looks when he tries to hide his chuckle, the way his whole body shakes and the way his eyes just light up at the stupidest stuff ever. And somewhere in between, he reaches out. It's over for me, I know. I hold his hand. It's cold. My body is always warm. I think of everything then, all at once. Millions of possibilities cross my mind while I realize in very, very few of them I wouldn't want to keep his hands warm for the rest of my days. It's a painful revelation. Not long after I find myself half naked, kneeling before him. For a brief moment I find myself thinking- being on the deathrow wouldn't feel much different than this.

I kiss him. I sink my teeth into his flesh. I claw at him. Because I know. I know if I don't, he'll slip out of my fingers. I wrap my arms tightly around his waist. I hold him so close we end up sharing a breath. I t's not enough.

He doesn't touch me.

He doesn't kiss me either, not even once.

He doesn't hold me back.

He makes sure I won't be able to fool myself into saying ''Oh it's fine, His body was the only thing I wanted anyways. I used him as well.''

My shoulders are freezing. I only realize just how cold I am when his hand accidentaly brushes against my arm and his warmth makes me flinch.

I should've kept my shirt on.

It's around then when the lights go off. I realize they have a motion sensor. Also, when the light goes off, so does the ventilator. And that constant buzzing noise that accompanied us was, in fact, produced by the said ventilator.

Now it's dark.

More importantly, it's silent.

I take a break and pull him closer. I rest my head on his stomach.

I love the silence, so naturally, I ruin it.

''Have you missed me?'' I whisper, as quietly as one can possibly.

He doesn't answer.

Nothing is silent about me.

Except for the way I cry.

Soon after, he's done. He doesn't wait for me, doesn't look me in the eyes. Only thing he can offer at that point, is a weak apology.

I leave, as quiet as I came.

[vizthedatum]

Self-validation but slightly angry vent

One of the great things about my healing journey has been my own self-validation.

I think “moving on” for me is not about leaving the past behind, but it’s about letting go of people, ideas, and things from your current and future life by brutally and explicitly confronting what happened in the past.

I do not want to forget, and I won’t stop talking about any of it, including all the good stuff.

A lot of people have silenced me, starting with my parents. I learned how to silence myself. And then I’d forget/ignore and repeat all my toxic cycles.

There is very little I can change about how I’m perceived in this world. There will always be people, regardless of any community I’m in, who will judge me on the way I communicate, my neurodivergence, my pain, my gender fluidity, my choices, my varying levels of productivity, etc.

I am going to unfairly judge people too no matter how aware I think I am. I will disappoint people and be straight up wrong. It’s inevitable.

This is what I’m working on now: I want to “move on” from the fear of perception and the shame of my own biases.

I know that, at the very least, I’ll grow and learn if I do this.

I want to revel in MY PRIVILEGE that I worked so hard for by being so unapologetically me: the ugly crying, the meltdowns, the laziness, the makeup, the art, the infodumping, the friendships, the breakups, the lessons, the silliness, the way I move in this world, the anger, the eating, playing with lots of toys, liking cute things, saying what I want… all of it.

I want to not care when I tell people I’m gender fluid and that it is important. I want to tell and show people who I am. I want to bind my breasts in public so bad and be flat and topless - but not every day. I want to snap and be mean to people who don’t use they/them for me. 

I want to be neutral and firm in my beliefs about how I’m not going to guess what anybody wants out of me anymore and how I won’t accept advice that makes me feel uneasy. And I will get upset about anything I feel is remotely discriminatory even if you’re the most “woke” person alive (because if I hold myself to self-reflective standards of trying to understand where I went wrong, why should I not do it to you?).

I don’t care about your feelings about who I am or what I do if you can’t communicate with me. If you don’t like that I identify as a feminine man who is non-binary, sapphic, so thoroughly Bengali, and very spiritual… then what are you doing? Using me for entertainment or an exercise in self-hatred (you’re paying me with your time, money, or energy either way)? I can be compassionate about your pain, and I honestly think it’s pathetic when people cannot be for mine. 

If people think I’m not conforming to their beliefs or that I’m not spending enough (or less) energy/time with them without putting in the effort to communicate, then they can remove themselves from my life (or they will be removed).

I have cut out several friends this year because I deserve so much more alignment than what I settled for in the past. Part of why I’d end up in jobs I was in miserable in, rollercoaster relationships, and friendships with people who could not meet my needs… was because I wasn’t meeting my own needs.

I am an extremely burnt out brown trans person who wants to be free and do spiritually fulfilling work for the world but instead I am perceived as a brown woman who works in academia who gets sexualized when I don’t want to be, used for my kindness by people who think I’m too naive to know any better, lectured by ex-family and ex-friends about how I should act, and straight-up trampled. People have been trampling all over me, and I’ve let them… sometimes I even encouraged it as a form of sick self-harm. 

Maintaining autonomy under capitalism, white supremacy, and paternalistic patriarchy isn’t easy - so I’ll play by some rules so that I stay safe. 

But for now, I validate myself by knowing I’m worthy and fine by being me. Perfect and flawed. My emotions and choices don’t make me crazy. My perceptions are valid and evolving. My body is my body. My career doesn’t define me. I love my relationships. My existence is valuable and priceless.

[crisishauntline]

There’s a card in the deck of the game We’re Not Really Strangers that says something like “What question are you most afraid to ask me? One that you wouldn’t dare to ask?”

For me, that question in L's and my relationship is "Would you still love you if I had a penis and/or if I was trans?" Because I know her answer would be "No, I'm a lesbian." And that makes me sad. A little angry too, if I'm being honest, because it's not just that she's expressed a preference for women and vaginas, she also makes frequent disdainful or disgusted comments whenever penises or dating/loving men come up in conversation. Which isn't a lot, but it's enough that it bothers me.

I am sure of myself and my convictions on this topic. I am not a pick-me girl crying reverse sexism or men’s rights, and I’m not bringing up trans people as an empty rhetorical device or a virtue signal. I’m aware of the differences between systemic discrimination and cultural/social/personal biases. Obviously, there are layers of misogyny and patriarchy that don’t always apply when she directs the disgust she's received from men back at them (as well as anyone else “like” them in body/gender only). And I can see that a lot of her repulsion comes from her own hurt—being treated as disgusting, untouchable, or unlovable by boys and men since she was a kid just because of her weight. But I don’t think it’s fair, not just to trans women and non-binary people but yes, also to cis men. I don’t think there is anything wrong or revolting about masculinity or penises, just because both have been used in ways that are violent and oppressive. Toxic masculinity is not the only kind of masculinity, and people who have penises aren’t always men/masculine.

As a bi/pan-identifying person, I have deeply loved and reveled in the bodies and minds of certain cis men and trans women and non-binary people. I am not ashamed of that, and there are many intimacies and thrills from those relationships that I still treasure in my memory. I reject the implication that being attracted to men and/or people with penises makes me gross or stupid or lesser-than by association. I don’t claim to be personally oppressed because of biphobia, but it exists and I refuse to accept, validate, or internalize it when I encounter it.

My bi-/pansexuality aside, another reason I’m scared to ask this question is the murky/indifferent relationship I have with both my body and gender identity. On the whole, I think I like being a woman and I like the cunt I came with. I think I’m attractive enough and don’t feel particularly dysphoric, nor do I have a particular yearning to be a man, have a penis, or even present in a more masculine way, but I do fantasize about these things sometimes. The thought of going by different pronouns doesn’t do much for me. I think as someone who doesn’t really like to be perceived in any sense, it’s difficult to imagine a different gender identity or body changing that for me. But who knows, maybe it would.

At this point, L and I have asked each other maybe over a hundred of silly yet earnest “Would you still date me if _____” questions. I’ve heard her say yes to some of the most ridiculous scenarios I could come up with—What if I was a ghost, a sentient jar of Skittles, a person named Adolf Coca-Cola? What if I sneezed a gob of snot directly into her mouth when I orgasmed? What if I was constantly pissing or shitting my pants just a little bit? And while her affirmative answers to such hypotheticals have surprised and delighted me, it also makes me feel even shittier that despite being able to see past all that, she wouldn’t be able to see past a thing as harmless and trivial—but also potentially joyful and beautiful—as my gender or my body type.

I want to have this conversation at some point. I don’t know when. I’m not convinced it’s worth fully opening up about it when it comes to my own gender/body insecurity. I do want to encourage her to be more mindful about her preferences and how she expresses them. In my opinion, genital preferences aren’t inherently bad or harmful, but turning them into a value system is.

[rkrispyt]

Better late than never?

Goodness, where to begin…

Throughout my life I’ve found that I always look to small, seemingly insignificant things for a tiny dose of joy.

In the past this has been anything from jamming to my favorite song after a bad day, to laughing at the way birds hop instead of walk, to coloring, to rewatching a favorite movie or series, to random acts of kindness, to making wish lists of things I want to accomplish in my life, and so many more.

For one wonderful summer, hsmtmts was that source of joy. I had so much going on and needed that light, especially coming out of the pandemic. I needed to see these younger versions of myself and so many I love through these characters. Along the way I was completely charmed my Portwell, and reveled in adoring that comfort ship, meeting so many incredible people along the way who I’m so grateful are still friends of mine to this day.

When it all went sour (no pun intended) I felt very down for longer than I’m proud to admit. I didn’t have another source of simple joy, and I was right in the thick of the time of year where life is very difficult. It’s the time I need the simple things to lift me up more than any other time of year. And I had nothing in its place but this sad disappointment watching something that once brought me such joy turn into something so bad. And feeling like this thing I once loved was basically saying “you imagined all that, we don’t want you here, this isn’t for you anymore”.

But all along the way have been @aroundthewaygirlao3 stories. Practically every day. And they bring that wonderful, simple little joy that I need.

It may seem silly but I am a storyteller at my core, and I find such solace and happiness in being swept away by them, whether acting, choreographing, directing, writing, or reading.

It’s funny that for so long I felt so ashamed of that. As women we’re always shamed for our interests being juvenile or unimportant, or “that’s not even real, how are you so invested in it? It’s pathetic”. Meanwhile men can light cars on fire, show up in ridiculous face paint, cry over their favorite sports teams or Marvel movies and that’s all “valid”?

I’ve come a long way even being on this site, admitting my age (well, generation lol), and refusing to be shamed for it or feel embarrassed about it.

I’m leaning into joy. And silly as it may sound, things like her stories and having her friendship are a big, reliable, consistent source of those simple little joys.

Happy birthday, friend. I hope it’s the best year yet, and one in which you continue sharing your incredible gift with us all.

Attention Fellow Fangirls: it’s our darling author’s birthday!

Let’s make this week @aroundthewaygirlao3 Appreciation Week, yeah?

I’ll post something new every day this week as a prompt to spread some love to the birthday gal!

Today/Monday:

Reblog and share what her stories mean to you! Any particular reason you love them, why you look forward to them, what they mean to you, how they bring joy to your day, etc.

Can’t wait to see how her work has impacted everyone!

I’ll go first on my personal as soon as I’m home from work ❤️

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @aroundthewaygirlao3 AND THANK YOU FOR ALL THE WONDERFUL THINGS YOU PUT OUT INTO THE WORLD TO MAKE OUR (WEEK)DAYS A LITTLE BIT BRIGHTER WITH PORTWELL GOODNESS!