#my dolls: mass effect

[stumbleduponbyaksident]

My favourite ME1 shakarian dynamic is them having literally no moment of attraction towards each other occurring. If their hands met while reaching to check if a space monkey has a missing module, they would not even notice. If they were sitting at Mako's hood admiring the sunset, they would not glance at each other even once. If they walked in on each other naked, they would be like "lol naked alien", say sorry and move on. If they stayed at the motel with only one free bed, they would take shifts to sleep in it. If they were locked in a cave infected with sex pollen, they would just die.

[bardspeak]

Not pictured: Peebee about to throw a wrench at them.

[rockatanskette]

My brother just said I was his best source for information on Superwholock and I don't know how to take that but it does NOT feel like a compliment.

[dcxdpdabbles]

#Holiday Requests your blogs are the sole reason i visit tumblr in the first place. Thank you for feeding my dcxdp brain rot the appreciation is very much reciprocated and i’d like to humbly request a continuation for Jason’s Doll or Mr. Flavor!

After the smear campaign had been dealt with, Tim took time to carefully convince his employees that Scarecrow had somehow dosed the whole building in Fear Gas; that way, they would return to work once he gave everyone a month off with pay to "clean out the vents".

He did not want people to walk away thinking Danny the doll was by any means haunted. It would undo every last attempt to fix Jason's image, which he had carefully constructed.

In a city like Gotham, being dosed with gas was so common that no one batted an eye when Tim called them back. Many of the employees were overjoyed by the paid vacation.

The young CEO had even gone as far as to spread rumors that no one really saw the alleged doll, causing people to assume there was mass hysteria. Everyone was happier this way.

He felt like he could finally relax after weeks of meticulous planning. He went into work assuming the only stress he would experience would be the typical CEO kind.

Then Jason, needing a favor, marched into his office within the first hour.

Tim stares at the doll sitting on his office desk, feeling the blood drain from his face as his brother happily chatters.

"He usually likes to sit by windows. Don't forget to clean him with a damp, warm cloth; his clothes are machine washable." Jason said, laying out some of Danny's tea cup sets. Apparently, his brother had been shopping. "Danny usually has his tea daily at one, but if you're working, I'm sure he'll understand. He can wait."

"Jay..."Tim started feeling Danny staring into his soul. He knew a soul existed, but that didn't stop the thing from being unnerving. Was Danny made entirely of Fear Gas? "Are you sure you can't take Danny with you?"

"I want to." Jason sighed, tracing the fabric of Danny's hair. "But we aren't sure if space travel will worsen Danny's chances of recovery. Normally, I wouldn't take any jobs outside Gotham, but Roy needs help."

Danny's head jerked as if the porcelain neck of the doll had broken, the little head falling to the side, facing Jason. Familiar whispers of hell fill the air, making Tim's stomach drop.

He leans further into the plush of his office chair, wanting to get as far away from Danny as possible while Jason smiles.

"Thank you for understanding, " he tells Danny with a fondness usually reserved for lovers. Tim might have found it sweet if it had not been that he was terrified of Jason's undead boyfriend.

"Please don't leave," He whispers, uncaring how pathetic his voice sounded.

"You're going to find Tim." Jason laughs, shaking his head. "Danny says he likes you!"

Tim's eyes slid over to the doll, feeling himself jump a little when he realized he had turned in his direction. Without a sound. Without Tim, for all his training, even noticing the movement.

There was a moment when he felt like something with sharp teeth grinning at him. The sensation came from behind his left shoulder, and he jerked around, hand flying to his hidden expandable staff in his left pocket. Nothing but the cream color of his wall stares back at him.

He slowly turns back to his guest, Danny, quite suddenly right in front of him, sitting on his laptop. Its slightly watery eyes- painted with the effect- were mere inches from Tim's nose.

The sensation of being watched by a predatory grows. A whimper leaves Tim's lips against his will just as Jason checks his phone and shoulders his travel bag. "Alright, I have to head out. Artemis is on the way here to pick me up. Thanks again, Tim."

"No." He whispers, unable to look away from his own reflection in Danny's eyes. He looks petrified. "Don't leave me here with him."

"Bye, Danny. See you in two weeks." Jason grabs the doll's head in a quick one-arm hug.

A scratching wail from down the hall makes Tim nearly fall over, but Jason only blushes as he leans closer. "I love you too."

Before Tim can find the courage to throw Danny back at him, his brother is up and out the door. Soon, his office is left in utter silence as the duo observe one another.

Tim only dared move an inch once Tam knocked on his door. "Morning, Tim. You're nine o'clock is here; I sent you the required documents for the meeting, and is that a doll?"

Her voice trails off from her typical professional pitch to the one he is used to hearing when the pair reminisce about the time they ran from assassins together. It's far more casual, with just the hints of judgment that Tim can appreciate because it means she's not above calling his bullshit out.

"This...is Danny," He hears himself introduce. "Danny, this is Tam."

His PA cooks one hip, raises a brow, and gestures at the desk where the doll sits. "I thought the rumors about the haunted doll resulted from the night job misunderstanding?"

"No. I worked to cover them up."

Tam rolls the information around in her head before looking at her tablet with a wide smile. "You do not pay me enough to handle haunted dolls. I have to be in conference room 103 in five minutes. I have to check on our coffee orders."

"But Tam-"

"No." She slams the door close. The click-clack of her heels echoes as she struts away, and Tim is left staring longingly at the blurred windows of his glass doors. He looks back at Danny, who has moved again.

This time, the cold porcelain is pressing into his left cheek because Danny is suddenly there. Standing on the arm of his office chair and leaning on Tim's face.

The scream that ripped out of his throat had the security running to his office and Tam dialing the Bats in ten seconds. It didn't help that the scream had traveled through the vents, echoing into the building as every employee looked up from their cubicle with a jump.

"What was that?"

"A little girl go hurt on level seventy-four."

"Isn't that the CEO's floor?"

"Must be one of the thousands of kids the Waynes bring to those charity events."

[raven-dor]

jealous

in which you don't realize what bucky had thought was obvious

PAIRING: bucky barnes x avenger!reader, platonic!avengers x avenger!reader

WARNINGS: flirting, jealousy, miscommunication, avengers teasing reader, kissing, slight angst ig if you squint, arguing, FLUFF

WORD COUNT: 3.4k

🎶 : jealous - nick jonas

AN: 🩵💗 - another one of my favs... honestly any Bucky fic is my fav bc i love (writing) him so so much!! Superhero name is Vortex!! ENJOY!!

“Is the bacon almost done?” You asked, skirting around the super soldier to pull the tray of cinnamon rolls out of the oven. 

“Careful, Doll.” Bucky watched nervously. “They’re hot.” 

You glared, setting them on the counter behind you. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.” 

“Just saying.” He shrugged, turning back to the task at hand. “Almost done. Two more minutes.” 

You couldn’t help but watch him work, admiring the domesticity of it all. 

This was your job, making breakfast. It had been since you’d joined the Avengers. And one hectic morning, while you’d been making breakfast by yourself for the millionth time, Bucky stepped into the kitchen, asking if you needed any help. 

Now it was both of your jobs.

“What’s the ETA on breakfast?” Clint poked his head through the kitchen door. “The masses are starving.”  

Bucky quickly glared over his shoulder, grumbling. “The masses can wait two more minutes.” 

You looked over at Clint, whispering so Bucky wouldn’t hear. “We’ll be done soon, just entertain them or something.” 

Clint scoffed, the door slowly closing as he walked back to the dining room. “What am I, a circus clown?”

You stood beside Bucky, looking over his shoulder at the now extremely crispy bacon. “You’re going to burn them.” 

“They’re good this way.” He muttered. “Besides, Steve and I like them this way. No one’s complained so far.” 

“Well said.” You admired the way his sleep shirt complemented his frame, smiling to yourself before you remembered where you were. “I like them that way, too.” 

“I know.” Bucky smiled. 

Without thinking, you reached up, pushing a strand of hair out of Bucky’s line of sight. “Rather unsanitary, Sergeant Barnes.” 

“Thanks.” He whispered, cheeks pink. “We should invest in hair nets.” 

“Just teasing you, don’t worry.” You laughed, hand still lingering on the side of his face. “Don’t want to hide your beautiful hair.”  

“ETA-” 

You whipped around so quickly you swore you had whiplash, both yelling at the unfortunate soul who had interrupted your moment. “Two minutes!”

“Okay, jeez.” Rhodey raised his hands in surrender, backing out of the kitchen as if he were being held at gunpoint. In his defense, if two of the world's deadliest assassins yelled at you with that look in their eyes, you’d be wary too. 

Nabbing a piece of bacon with the stealth of a super spy, you relished in the perfect texture (at least, in your opinion) that Bucky had achieved. “So good.” 

Bucky shook his head, a humble smile gracing his lips. “It wasn’t done.” 

“Tastes perfect to me. I think it’s crisp enough, honestly.” 

“Alright then.” He turned the stove off, placing a paper towel on the bacon’s plate to soak up the grease. “I trust your opinion.” 

“That’s a good man.” You grinned, balancing a pitcher of orange juice and a tray of cinnamon rolls on one arm. “Shall we?” 

He held the door open, taking the cinnamon rolls out of your grasp. “After you.” 

Your cheeks felt hot, attributing his kindness to nothing more than his wanting to be helpful. “Such a gentleman.” 

“Finally.” Peter groaned, practically frothing at the mouth as he stared at the food in your hands. “I’m starving.” 

“We’re all starving,” Sam grumbled, cradling his coffee with the care you would typically reserve for a newborn baby. “You’re not special.” 

“Sam.” You sighed. “He’s a kid.” 

Peter smiled, glad of the support. “Yeah, Sam-” 

“Peter.” You gave the teenager a pointed look, effectively silencing him. “Don’t push it. You know how grumpy he gets in the morning.” 

The spiderling winced, nodding in understanding. “Sorry.” 

“I’m impressed.” Tony leaned forward in his chair, eyeing the array of food you’d made. “Normally, it takes an arm and a leg for this one to stop talking.” 

“What?” Peter frowned. “Mr.Stark, I thought that was just-” 

“Guys.” Bucky groaned. “Can we eat in peace, please?” 

Steve laughed, grabbing the last red, white, and blue sprinkle donut from the box. “Don’t think we’ll ever achieve that, Buck.” 

“We have our own kind of peace.” You smiled, grabbing a couple of pieces of the bacon, much to Bucky’s delight. “Let’s be honest with ourselves, if we were completely quiet at any meal, would we feel peaceful?” The table grumbled, all shaking their heads, none of them having enough energy to argue this early in the morning. “Exactly.” 

“Well said, Doll.” 

Your cheeks felt hot as you smiled quickly at the super soldier sitting beside you. “Thank you, Bucky.” You ignored the pointed looks aimed in your direction, wishing your legs were long enough to kick Natasha and Bruce in the shins. 

Natasha leaned forward in her chair, a smirk on her face. “You two are behaving like we’re your children.” 

Before you could even respond, Bucky muttered under his breath. “Maybe if you stopped acting like children, Natasha, we’d stop treating you like it.” 

We. He kept saying we. You couldn’t bring yourself to look anywhere but your lap, heart skipping at the thought. There was no way, you told yourself, that there ever would be a we, yet you allowed your mind to drift to that dangerous place.

We.

Steve and Bucky always sparred as if it were real life, as if they were actually on the battlefield, with the stakes being life or death. It was mesmerizing, the way they moved. You and Sam had been watching their sparring session since Bucky had moved in, even placing bets on who would win from time to time. It was only when Natasha, Clint, and Wanda had overheard you talking about your routine did they join you.

Bucky would never tell anyone this, but he enjoyed having you there; your voice motivated him more than any enemy’s assault ever could. That, and the fact that he felt this constant need to impress you. Sam was Steve’s cheerleader, and you were his. It was nice to have you in his corner, even if it was for something as trivial as training. 

“C’mon, Buck!” You cheered, clapping your hands. “Wipe the floor with him!” 

“Jesus.” Sam’s eyes widened. “Relax.” 

“I am relaxed.” You responded, eyes never leaving the two super soldiers in front of you. “We all know that Bucky could take out Steve in a minute.” 

“Oh yeah?” Clint scoffed. “Because it looks like he’s struggling just a bit.” 

“As if.” You rolled your eyes. “It’s Bucky.” 

“It’s Steve.” Wanda laughed. “Captain America. Steve Rogers.” 

“Okay?” You huffed. “If we’re just naming things off - The White Wolf. James Barnes-” 

“Alright.” Natasha sighed, laughing at how defensive you became. “You have that intense look in your eye. The one you get when you’re about to fight someone.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. What time is it?”

“Why?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “You have some hot date you need to get to?” 

“Actually.” Your cheeks grew hot at the question. “I do.”

Bucky’s focus faltered, eyes darting toward you before Steve’s fist barely missed his cheek. A date? “Pay attention, Buck.” 

“I am.” He glared, flipping his knife intricately before throwing it toward his best friend. “Totally fine.” 

“If you’re sure.” Steve laughed, deciding not to point out that he’d never asked Bucky if he was alright.

“You have a date?” Sam yelled, and you jumped, placing a hand over your heart to calm yourself down. “Who’s the lucky guy?” 

“Why do you want to know?” You squinted, wary of Sam’s interest. “He’s a nice guy. That’s all you-”  

A large thud rang through the room, your head whipping back toward the fight to find Bucky’s back flat on the floor, Steve’s eyes wide. “Jeez, I’m sorry. I thought-” 

You ran over, kneeling beside Bucky. “Are you alright?” 

Bucky just nodded, staring at the ceiling as he tried to regain his breath. You raised a brow, finding his lack of talking concerning. “Let’s get you to the med wing.” 

“I’m really fine.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” You stood, pulling him up with you. “You’re not indestructible, you know.” You practically marched him toward the med wing, with Steve and Sam in tow. Pushing the door open, you greeted Bruce warmly as Bucky sat on the examination table, visibly annoyed that he had to do this.

“What’s the issue?” 

Bruce looked highly amused at the way you were standing nervously beside the super soldier. 

“Steve body-slammed-” 

“Accidentally,” Steve interjected.

You nodded. “Steve accidentally body-slammed Bucky.” 

Bruce nodded. “Alright. You look fine-” You gave him a pointed look, which he immediately cowered under. “But it doesn’t hurt to check.” 

“Thank you.” You smiled.

Bruce walked back over to his desk, asking the typical preliminary questions. “How exactly did Steve body slam you?” 

“I was distracted.” 

Bruce laughed. “Not exactly what I meant. But fine. Why were you distracted?” 

He’d walked himself into that one. He couldn't stop thinking about it. How could you have a date tonight? It never came up in conversation; hell, he’d never even heard of this so-called analyst until today, before his untimely defeat. You told Bucky everything, or at least, he thought you did. He decided to ignore Bruce’s question, looking toward you curiously. “You have a date tonight?”

“I do.”

He laughed, leaning back, trying to seem nonchalant about the whole ordeal. “That’s funny.” 

“Why?” You took the bait, a reserved smile gracing your lips.

“Don’t remember asking you, Doll.” Bruce slipped a blood pressure cuff on Bucky’s arm. 

You laughed. “That’s because it’s not with you, hotshot.” 

Steve gasped, slapping a hand over his mouth as Sam fought to keep it together. “Sorry. It’s just-” Sam took a deep breath, holding Steve’s arm for support. “Are you two not- We thought you-” 

“We’re not.” You looked back at Bucky for backup, confused when he refused to meet your eye, his body language telling you he was positively miserable. “Right?” 

Bucky shrugged, the blood pressure cuff signalling that this conversation was making him nervous. “You tell me.” 

Your heart stopped, the severity of this conversation hitting you like a ton of bricks.

You hated how he made you feel in that moment, how his face made your stomach turn, guilty beyond belief. He was acting like it was the most obvious thing in the world, you two dating. Were you truly so oblivious, so unwilling to realize he liked you? “I thought you were just flirting with me.” Your voice was smaller than you’d meant it to be. 

“I was flirting with you.” He nodded. “I was flirting with you because I thought we were in agreement.” 

The confusion, anger, and agitation coursed through your veins like a ticking time bomb. “In agreement with what, James?” Your hands settled on your hips, trying to reason with him as to why you hadn’t realized. “You have a charming personality. You were hitting on the old lady at the grocery store last week!” 

“First of all, thank you.” Bucky stood up, ripping the cuff off. “Second of all…” He had this horrible smirk on his face, and you wished he were taking this more seriously. “Were you jealous?” 

“That-” You scoffed. “That is not what this is about!” 

“Fine, fine.” He searched your face desperately, like he was waiting for you to understand, for all of it to finally click. “Sometimes you just know.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“I disagree.” 

“Disagree all you want.” You glared. “I have to go get ready for my date.” 

“Fine.” Bucky nodded, hand itching to reach out and stop you. Instead, he stupidly let you go, watching as you stormed out of the room. 

“Fine!” You yelled over your shoulder.

“Shit." Sam winced. "My bad, I guess.” Bucky closed his eyes, stopping himself from punching Sam in the face. 

“I have some good news.” Bruce laughed, trying to break the tension, instantly stopping when Bucky glared at him. “You don’t have a concussion.” 

You’d yet to see Bucky since that disastrous interaction, going out of your way to avoid him. It felt wrong; you and Bucky were attached at the hip, and you spent every waking moment together. 

You hadn’t even helped him with breakfast. 

Now you were being forced to attend your weekly team bonding night. Steve and Tony had implemented this after the whole Leipzig-Halle Airport incident. They felt that the infighting would be solved by forced hangouts. 

You felt that if they had been more open and listened to each other’s side of the argument, the whole Leipzig-Halle Airport incident wouldn’t have happened, and you wouldn’t be in this mess. 

Peter sat beside you on the couch, braiding your hair (or at least trying to, he was failing miserably). You forced yourself not to look over at Bucky, as you so often did. The avoidance, both from his side and yours, made you realize just how central he was to your daily routine, to your life.

“Alright.” Steve clapped his hands, pulling you out of your thoughts and back to this dreaded reality. “What game do you guys want to play?” 

You grumbled. “The game where we don’t have to do this.” 

“Cards against Humanity?” Nat grinned as Steve’s cheeks grew bright pink, rubbing a hand over his face to hide the embarrassment. 

“Do you want Steve to have a heart attack?” You raised an eyebrow. “Again?” 

“What about truth or dare?” Peter proposed. “It’s fun, Ned and I play all the time.” 

You turned around, laughing. “Just you and Ned?” 

He shrugged, growing timid under your gaze. “It’s more fun with two people.”

“Sure.” Steve nodded. “Is everyone fine with that?” To your surprise (and horror), everyone seemed to agree. Steve went first, scanning the room for the game’s first victim. “Nat. Truth or dare?” 

“Dare.”

“I dare you to let Rhodey do your hair.” 

You scoffed, wincing as Peter accidentally pulled your hair. “That’s a lame one, Steven.” 

Nat sat in front of Rhodey, gesturing to the spiderling. “As long as you don’t pull my hair, we won’t have a problem.”

“Sorry,” Peter frowned, petting your hair gently as if that would magically take away the pain. “I didn’t mean to.” 

You smiled warmly, finding it endearing how guilty he felt about all of this. “It honestly didn’t even hurt, Peter. Just a quick pinch. I’m fine.” You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you, attuned to your every move. His gaze had been fixed on you since you'd let out that hiss. It was sweet, you told yourself, that he was worried about you. 

Even if it was over something as little as pulled hair. 

“Sam.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He lazily looked over from his very comfy spot on the couch. “At your service.” 

The super spy wiggled her eyebrows. “Truth or dare, Falcon?” 

“Truth.” 

“Who is your least favorite person to be partnered with?” 

“Quick with it.” Natasha nodded, and Sam sat up, seriously pondering his answer. “I guess, it would have to be either Peter-” 

“Hey!” 

“Or Thor.” 

“What's the meaning of this?” Thor looked absolutely betrayed. “Am I not a helpful member of this team?” 

Sam laughed, shaking his head. “You’re very helpful. So helpful that I don’t even need to do anything.” 

“Ah, I see.” Thor nodded in understanding. “The issue is that I am too good at taking down my enemies.” 

“Exactly.”

Sam’s quick to find his victim, wiggling his brows at you menacingly. You want to crawl into your skin, jump back in time, and convince the team to play anything else. There’s only one way this can go with Sam asking you the fateful question. Horribly.

“Truth or dare, Vortex?” 

You look around the room, heart beating faster than it should. “I don’t want to play anymore.” 

Sam looks a little too proud of himself. “That’s too bad. Truth or dare?” 

“Fine. Truth.” 

Sam’s smirk never leaves his face, and you’re scared that your ‘safe choice’ wasn’t all that safe. “How was the date?” 

The room erupts into chaos, each of your teammates (who had no idea) talking over each other animatedly. You stare, because that’s all you can do. They’re way too invested in your love life, and you tell yourself that after this game, you’re going to have to set some boundaries. They finally simmer down, and just as you're about to tell them what happened, Bucky scoffs, muttering something incoherently. 

The anxiety at telling them all the truth quickly turns to anger when you see Bucky so casually commenting on your date, which he has no business involving himself in. Your head tilts, and you sit forward, pulling your hair out of Peter’s hands. “Have something you want to say, James?” 

Bucky looks more than happy to repeat what he whispered. “I said I’m sure it went perfectly, Doll.” 

It wasn’t necessarily a rude comment, but the way he said it, the way he sounded, pained to even speak it, pissed you off beyond belief. Your blood is boiling, voice eerily quiet. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

"Don't I?" The room is now dead silent, all of them staring at the two of you, ready for this to blow up in front of their very eyes. Bucky shrugs, taking a sip of his Coke. “You probably didn’t even realize you were on the date until the poor guy tried to kiss you.” 

Alright. You stand up, fists clenched. “That’s it!” Steve’s eyes widen, and Sam, once again, is trying to control his laughter. “It is not my fault that you assumed we were dating! You never asked me!” Your voice radiated off the walls, loud and piercing. 

Bucky scoffs, standing up, trying to escape the very argument he started. “Next time you announce to the world that you have a date, I’ll make sure to tell you that I’m in love with you!”

If you thought the room was quiet before, it’s even quieter now. No one dares to move, all of their eyes glued on Bucky, shocked that the man, the super soldier who is normally so stoic and reserved, just yelled out his love confession. He turns around, barely taking one step, when you scream at his back. 

“I didn’t even go!” 

He stops, back still facing you, like he’s scared to turn around, scared to face the music, to even allow himself to feel hope. “What?” 

You huff, suddenly becoming very self-conscious of everyone’s eyes on you. “I got to the restaurant, I saw him through the window, and I couldn’t do it. I left.” You hug yourself, laughing bitterly. "Happy?"

Bucky turns around, and suddenly, all that yearning, all the hours spent longing over you when he thought he had no chance, has finally paid off. Your anguished face, conflicted beyond belief, tells him that maybe, just maybe, you realize what he’s always known. “Why? Why did you leave?” 

You can’t do this in front of everyone else, you can’t confess that you’ve loved him since he got here, that you feel empty when he’s not by your side, that you would crumble into nothing if he ever got hurt. So you take the coward’s way out, tears threatening to fall as you whisper. “I’m done with this.” 

Bucky shakes his head, and that simple action alone compels you to stay. “Why?” 

You realize now that you are fully crying, a tear drop falling onto your shirt. “Bucky-” 

“C’mon, Doll.” He’s urging you, begging you to say it. 

You almost sob as you speak the words you know you can’t take back. “He wasn’t you.” 

He practically jumps across the room, hands on both sides of your face as he pulls your lips to his. It’s not gentle, it’s needy, it’s like he’s not sure if this is real, and if it isn’t, if this is all a dream, he wants to make the most out of it. Your eyes flutter shut, hands grasping his shirt to pull him closer. You sigh into his touch, his hold. 

It’s like one of those cheesy scenes in the movies Steve forces you to watch. 

Wolf whistles erupt around you, all of them cheering you on. Again, you tell yourself to set boundaries with them when this is all over. Soon, the wolf whistles die down to a dull roar, and Tony clears his throat, bringing you both back to reality. “Should we give you the room?” 

Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire as you pull away, avoiding eye contact with everyone, staring into Bucky's chest. “Sorry.” 

Bucky just smiles, kissing you quickly before returning to his seat. You kind of stand there in shock before sitting back down yourself, beaming like you can’t believe that just happened. Clint claps his hand, once again pulling you from your thoughts. “Let’s get this show on the road. Your turn to ask someone.”

You nod, but you can hardly focus when you feel Bucky’s eyes following your every move. “Peter, truth or dare?” 

taglist: @milesdrift @eddiemunsons-lover

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[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: The Blind Demon

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

( A continuation of Humans are weird: An army of heroes )

“Where is our empress?”

It was the one question the human delegation would not relent on. Despite the Sygonic diplomat’s best attempts to steer the conversation towards more fruitful topics, such as a cease fire between their two powers or even a complete cessation of hostilities, the human’s would not open discussion until they could verify the state of their captive empress. A notion lead delegate Harken was doing everything in his power to avoid.

Before the war between the Sygonic and Terran Empire had broken out their empress, Imelia Asghar, had surrendered herself to the Sygonic people. Officially she stated her reasoning was that she would not risk the lives of her people in war without risking her own, but in reality Harken and many of his colleagues suspected it was more of a propaganda tool for the human masses.

Things had been going well with her as their captive. The Sygonic Senate had afforded her every luxury, going so far as to treat her as a noble guest rather than the ruler of their sworn enemies. They couldn’t decide on if to use her as a bargaining chip down the road with the Terran government or political pawn, but they wagered for the interim keeping her happy would keep all parties content for now.  

Then Lord Commander Abarax Caston had demanded a meeting and things went straight to hell.

During their discussion the empress goaded and prodded at the lord commander’s ego and intellect, or lack of, until Caston took hold of a glass bottle and threw it at the empress. The bottle smashed against her face with such force that one eye ruptured into a gory mess and her face was scared with a dozen glass shards slicing her skin.

Medical professionals from across the Sygonic domain had been transported to tend to her but even with the physical injuries healed and a freshly cloned eye the damage was already beyond fixing. All the empress needed to do was to open her mouth and tell her people that she had been brutalized by none other than the Lord Commander himself and the peace talks would fall apart like quicksand beneath their feet. 

“As I’ve said before,” the Sygonic diplomat repeated yet again, “Empress Asghar is currently unable to attend this meeting and we should proceed without her.”

The human diplomats shared several expressions ranging from disbelief to sheer outrage.

“How can we negotiate in good faith when you will not present our head of state to us?” the lead human diplomat, “Conner” the Sygonic diplomat thought their name was, spoke. “How can we be sure she is even alive?”

With the concern finally spoken aloud it spread like a virus through the entire human delegation. If he did not act soon they would most likely leave and the peace talks would-

With a loud groan the door to the room slowly opened cutting off the growing murmurs of discontent and drawing the eyes of everyone in the chamber.

“Please do sit down, gentlemen.” The voice was soft yet authoritative as the speaker slowly entered the room. “I was hardly worth this much commotion even before I became a prisoner.”

To the relief of all, Empress Imelia Asghar strode into the room. She wore a flowing gown of the richest emerald and a simple crimson Fascinator Hat that made her the center of attention immediately with hardly any effort. The calming effect she had over her delegation was not lost on the Sygonic delegates, but it was only momentary as the humans noticed something off-putting.

Asghar’s face was hidden behind a mask of pure marble white carved to her exact likeness. In place of her eyes were two pitch black lens’s that hid her eyes. It was like looking into the eyes of a doll and it quickly dampened the human’s enthusiasm to see their empress.

Why is she wearing a mask? The Sygonic diplomat thought to themselves. The surgeries should have repaired any physical damage.

“Empress Asghar….is that you?” one of the human’s asked uncertainly.

The empress took a seat on the Sygonic side to symbolize her continued imprisonment and turned her gaze across the table to the human delegate.

“Have you so quickly forgotten me Bradlin? And here I thought you were my favorite diplomat.”

Her coy response left Bradlin flatfooted and bumbling as he was unsure of what to say next. The other diplomats were not so easily dissuaded though.

“He does make a good point, we need to first confirm your identity.”

With a nod Bradlin pulled out a small scanning device and swept it over the empress. It beeped several times before flashing bright green.

“Scans say it is our Empress.” Bradlin said, though he still looked unconvinced.

“Would you kindly remove your mask for facial recognition?”

It was here the empress appeared to hesitate. Nothing verbally said but her body language tensed for the briefest of moments.

“The scans should have been enough.” Asghar replied with a hint of annoyance.

“Scanners can be fooled,” the diplomat countered, “and as you said we are your favorite diplomats; who better would recognize you?”

Tilting her head to look at the Sygonic delegates, Asghar slowly reached up and removed the stone mask. A collective gasp of horror came from the humans as they laid eyes on their empress once more.

Her face was a patchwork of cuts and gashes; some still fresh and leaking thin trails of blood. A collection of purple and greens dotted her face from deep swelling bruises. Her lips were split in several places but worst of all was the hollowed eye sockets that gazed out at the gathered dignitaries.

“What in the seven hells have they done to you!?”

Bradlin directed the question at his empress but his gaze was squarely directed at the Sygonic delegates. “Is this what you do to your prisoners!?!”

The Sygonic’s had no response and stammered fruitlessly. None of this made sense. The empress was perfectly fine after her surgeries; they had even seen her in person and she had shown nothing but perfect health.

“It is nothing I cannot endure for my people.” Empress Asghar replied as she picked up the mask and returned it to her face.

“There has been a grave misunderstanding.” The Sygonic’s began but the humans would hear none of it.

“You sick monsters will pay for this! Guards, get in here!!”

From outside the room a platoon of human guards followed shortly by their opposite numbers of the Sygonic guards. The pair drew weapons and pointed at each other while shouting orders back and forth. Several delegates ducked under the table or hid behind chairs as the tension continued to mount.

“ENOUGH!”

The gathered rabble was silenced by the dominating voice of the empress as she stood up from her chair.

“This is a place of diplomacy! Put away your weapons and stop acting like children!”

“But Empress-“ Bradlin countered.

“But nothing!” Asghar silenced him. “We are Terran’s, and we do not forsake the code of diplomacy for anything.”

No one dared move for fear of starting a war as the empress’s words slowly calmed the heads of her delegates, the fate of the war hung by the thinnest of threads. ----------------------------------------------

The meeting broke up not long after that. The humans visible deterred about the treatment of their empress and were already spreading news of her treatment back to the entire Terran Empire. The Sygonic delegation was all but assured that the war would not cease any time soon as a result of her viewing.

As the empress walked by the lead delegate grabbed her by the wrist.

“What did you do?!” they demanded. “You were healed, your injuries things of memory!”

The cold mask of the empress turned to face the delegate.

“They were.” She admitted. “So I inflicted these wounds on myself.”

The delegate let go of her and took a step back in horror.

“How do you think my people will react when they hear you have not only tortured their beloved empress, but have brutalized her in unimaginable ways and yet still remains unbroken?”

She took the stone mask off and revealed a bloody smile; the very act of smiling opening wounds and causing small streams of blood to run between her teeth.

“Did you think I would sweep my treatment under the carpet and act as if nothing happened? Did you think your surgeries and cloned eye would earn you my sympathy?”

The delegate looked into the hollow eyes of the empress as she shook her head. “Your Lord Commander signed your death warrants the moment he struck me, and I have just provided the final nail in your coffin.”

[mourn-and-watch]

in all seriousness, dragon age being almost officially dead to me is, like, whatever. i'm used to hanging out in dead fandoms because i'm usually extremely late to the party so i think i'll manage. i was excited for veilguard but even if it was bad bad for me (which it wasn't. i have my problems with it but they didn't ruin the franchise for me) i would also manage because dragon age to me always was extremely flawed but had an enormous potential for fan content. at some point i started to treat it like my favourite fantasy playground where i can smash pre-existing barbie dolls with the ones i made myself. all my barbie dolls are in place and i still can do whatever i want (and i plan to continue to do so) and, i guess, i shouldn't be upset.

i am upset, however. for all the devs affected by laid-offs, but especially the writers. these people created dragon age as we know it, and it's been a messy series in every aspect, including the writing, it's been insensitive at times, at times dumb and undercooked, but there was always an immense amount of potential that's been inspiring fans for years, and also a feeling that all, or at least the most of it was created with genuine passion. and realizing that there is no one left from the team that made dragon age what it is, every installment of it, is just. genuinely sad. and it's not a theseus ship dilemma, because it's not like they were slowly replaced one by one. they were just fired. this ship is destined to sink, it's falling apart in front of our eyes because neither ea nor bioware cares about writing. not many companies do nowadays, to be honest. and it's kinda devastating. grifters will celebrate that like a "downfall of woke slop", but they'll get only more ai slop instead, lol, because good writing doesn't guarantee good sells. best selling games of 2024 are shooters and sports games. and elden ring which is a nice exception, but an exception nevertheless.

i don't think mass effect will save bioware at this point. even if it's an absolute banger it still has to meet ea's expectations. which are unrealistic, to say the least. also people who wrote characters like mordin, tali, legion, thane, garrus and liara are all gone. either they left themselves or were laid off. like, if you want "old bioware magic" to return, there is none. the same people who wrote your favourite characters and storylines in da/me were also working on veilguard. i may be wrong, but somehow i think they didn't all lose their ability to write here because they went woke or whatever. i think the inconsistent quality of datv writing that can only be described as 'we're so back/it's so over' pic is a consequence of multiple rewrites, constant director changes and shitty decisions, both internal and coming from bioware/ea higher-ups. i also may be wrong, but it wouldn't be such a big problem if writing wasn't at the bottom of priority list.

if i recall correctly, when gaider left willingly, he highlighted that bioware didn't treat its writers seriously at that point. and i'd say that tracks. like, from countless veilguard rewrites and scrapped ideas to lay-offs of every single studio veteran.

idk what else there is to say. i'll cheer for every studio that value its writers and i hope all ex-bioware devs will be able to do something new and exciting. i also doubt bioware is the last studio that will experience such a decline in the years to come. the narrative of this shitshow will also be twisted into 'go woke go broke' and it already slightly draws me insane. fuck ea fuck bioware fuck grifters. also i beg everyone to start appreciating writing as a craft because otherwise it's only going to get worse!

[starmosaics]

Many Rohinis are known for being in the public eye and having an infectious presence— whether it’s good or bad, eyes are on them, but from my observations and my own personal experience along with having loved ones with Rohini placements, most of us feel like we’re playing a part.

You can find Rohinis sometimes unknowingly play into someone’s projections or fantasies of them, other times they’re entirely aware. This may leave the Rohini native feeling alone and misunderstood because of their tendency to show people what they want to see, not who they actually are within. I feel like people tend to have this “idea” about Rohinis that can be so far off from the reality that at times the Rohini native may unconsciously absorb whatever that idea of them is. The Moon is receptive meaning it is constantly receiving stimuli and is sensitive to its environment; it can be easily influenced. Rohinis also receive a lot of passivity, jealousy and anger from people when they don’t match that person’s idea of them. However you perceive a Rohini to be, in worst cases the Rohini can mirror it back to you as we know the Moon reflects.

Marilyn Monroe for example had a Rohini Sun and was either loved or totally loathed by the public and had this reputation for being this beautiful and sensual actress. She often publicly portrayed herself as this innocent woman with a teasing presence that made men go crazy for her, yet she had a very sorrowful and vulnerable side that not many people got to see.

She was known for something called “The Marilyn Monroe Effect” where she would alter herself into a persona which caught people’s eyes. Essentially, Marilyn was wearing a mask. She was a character perceived as a sex symbol by the male gaze.

In her journal entries, Marilyn wrote about loneliness. Bette Davis also said she could sense Marilyn’s loneliness when asked about the actress as she and Marilyn starred in a film together.

Another example is Rohini Sun Priscilla Beaulieu who was 14 when she met her future husband Elvis Presley who was significantly older than her. She was heavily idealized by Elvis and was deemed to have an innocence that Elvis favored. Elvis claimed that he could “train her anyway he wanted.” He ended up doing exactly that; molding her into his fantasy wife, treating her as if she was a doll. He made her dress a certain way, he made her wear makeup and told her to dye her hair and she willingly did out of love for Elvis to embody being “the perfect wife”. Once again, here’s an example of a Rohini playing a role and being shaped by those surrounding them. She also had a lot of Elvis’ fans show disdain towards her as she was dating one of the biggest stars at the time.

In the 2023 film “Priscilla” directed by Sofia Coppola, based on Priscilla’s book “Elvis and Me”, it dives into Priscilla’s backstory. The director perfectly depicts how lonely Priscilla was standing beside Elvis. Many of the scenes within this film show Priscilla being alone in a large empty house.

Rohinis often put their best foot forward to show the world and those they love much like Marilyn and Priscilla did and as a Rohini Sun myself, I can heavily relate. It would make sense for people with this nakshatra in their charts to do such since Rohini is Lunar in nature and the Moon has a mysterious and deep side; being selective as to what you present to the masses (Moon rules masses). There’s a very soft, vulnerable and somewhat melancholic side of Rohini that they possess.

It’s a very vulnerable thing to unmask and show the real and raw unfiltered self when you’re idealized by others or expected to show up a certain way, and it can be a very isolating feeling to not feel understood by anybody which is a very familiar phenomenon to those with Rohini placements. When people don't grasp your nature, thoughts and feelings, it can create a profound sense of isolation, making you feel alone even when surrounded by others, which is what I meant by in an earlier post about how Rohinis may feel alone in a room full of people. To be unknown or misunderstood is to be lonely.

[guillotinesandroses]

HIII omg i literally love you thank you so much for answering my previous ask (i feel so bad for doing this rn but i got another odd prompt) so what if we swap what we did for the previous one and it’s individual upper moon reactions finding out you’ve become human again (so like adding on to the previous) feel free to ignore or answer whenever you like!!

Note: Very cool concept! Haven't seen this done before, so I had fun trying to figure out the logistics of it :] For now I decided to just write the six main upper moons since doing too many all at once gets kinda draining and annoying to edit lol. I'll do the other demons if someone asks me to.

This one can be read as platonic or romantic. Reader is still implied to be mentally around the same age as the characters, though.

Characters: Kokushibo, Douma, Akaza, Hantengu, Gyokko, Gyutaro

Content Warnings: Blood, injury, gore, cannibalism, murder, canon typical violence and themes, morally fucked up reader to varying degrees depending on the character in question

Editing notes: This has not been edited yet.

Remnants of the Past

Kokushibo

> Upon sighting your figure fleeing towards him, all six of his eyes blink open in surprise. Blood pours out of open wounds, your breath comes out ragged wheezes, and you collapse when you see him. He appears beside your writhing form in a flash. His worried, racing heart hides beneath his cold and calm exterior as he examines your wounds. He receives no answer when he tries to interrogate your shocked self, but he soon feels as if he needs none. 

> The flesh of your arm is far too soft for a demon, the skin lacks any of its usual markings, and your blood smells... unmistakably human. All of the comfort he had found in knowing you were indestructible shatters. His attention turns to the culprit finally showing itself, a demon slayer of seemingly normal stature. However, the sword of this human is far from common, curving a way fit more for piercing rather than slicing. He makes fast work of the slayer- who was admittedly rather powerful- before going back to tending to you. 

> From the few answers he managed to squeeze out of the cocky eyesore of a slayer, he gathered that this was a new remedy that was being worked on. The fact that it worked on an upper rank such as yourself was worrying, but it should not be anything to get too concerned about. There should not be any need to examine your injuries, so he ignores your snarky comment about him making you wait. Instead of giving it the time of the day, he holds you up to inject his blood back into your body. He does his best not to pay any mind to the fret constricting his lungs as the dark liquid courses through your bloodstream. 

> However, he cannot pretend not to notice when the mass amounts of blood he has poured into you shows to have no effect at all. When you shift around in discomfort, he reprimands you for allowing a slayer to catch you off guard. You try to strike back with sarcasm as you usually do, but shut your mouth when he threatens you into staying still. At the end of the day, his orders demand absolute obedience, and your close relationship does not change that. Eventually he has to give up and admit that his efforts are producing no results; he needs to take a different approach and meet with his lordship. 

> Normally he would trust you to survive on your own. Now he hovers over you, much to your annoyance. Even so, he cannot help himself. Humans are so fragile. Although demon slayers unaware of your past would leave you alone now, regular humans and wild animals have turned into real threats instead.

> Every nerve in his body screams, terrified that this could be permanent. Still, he remains calm on the surface as he patches up your wounds the old fashioned way. He knows all too well how vulnerable the human physique is, treating you with more grace than one would handle a porcelain doll with. The irritated twitches of your mouth do not go unnoticed by him, he understands why you would hate being considered weak. Even so, he also knows you are grateful for his care from your bashful, averted eyes and the gentle manner you hold his hand in when he helps you up. 

> On your way to the agreed meeting place, a lone demon slayer crosses your path. This is of no concern at all, though the man harshly questions why a human would hang around a demon. Kokushibo cleaves out the slayer's heart in a swift and uncaring movement. Your expression did not as much as shift at the man's accusations, much to Kokushibo's delight. This newfound humanity has not changed your resolve, which his lordship would hopefully take into account when considering your fate. 

> Luckily, in spite of your seemingly permanent human form, his lordship opts to keep you alive. A poison such as this is a definite threat, but by examining your body he should be able to find an antidote to reverse its effects. Until then, you are to remain in the Infinity Castle for safekeeping and experimentation purposes. Frustrated and longing to gain back your stronger form, you agree to the arrangement. An immediate sense of relief brushes over him the second your safety is guaranteed. 

> He does not hide this from his lordship, thoroughly satisfied with the end result to these unfortunate circumstances. Although his lordship disapproves of this warm relationship between the two of you, viewing it as a hindrance at most, there is no questioning the loyalty either one of you has shown to him. You may not be as punctual or absorbed in his lordship's goals as Kokushibo is, but in not a single corner of your mind do you hold a wish to disobey him. The hierarchies of demons may not matter to you, but you have never gone against them either, holding a strange form of optimism for the future of the species. 

> He may not be able to fully understand you, but he knows that in his many centuries, thousands of things have slipped past his fingers. You are the only one he managed to grab a hold of. The idea of your death sends shudders running up his immortal spine, something he only realized upon witnessing your newfound vulnerability. Perhaps lamenting on past mistakes is worthless, but he now regrets allowing you to fight on your own. As much as conceals his thoughts, your snarky comments and oddly hopeful smiles fill his heart with a rare sense of delight. Regardless of what the future may bring forth, he will not repeat his mistakes; you will remain alive by his side. 

Douma

> His colorful eyes widen in confusion when you rush past the treeline towards his temple. You collapse onto your knees in front of him, but he does not even get the chance to tease you for the action. A demon slayer jumps out of the forest, and he blocks the hunter's blade with one of his golden fans. In spite of the slayer's confidence and genuine skill, Douma emerges victorious from the battle. This is largely due to you shouting at him to actually dodge the blades just this once instead of reveling in his masochistic tendencies. 

> When he is done and turns to you, he completely understands that something is truly wrong here. By now your bleeding should have stopped, you should not even have a scar left on your body as a demon of your rank. Without warning, he strikes a hole into your bicep with one of his razor-sharp claws. You grit your teeth as the crimson liquid flows through you and await the usual surge of strength that comes with demonic blood transfusions. However, your condition shows no improvement at all as the minutes pass, and soon he is forced to give up his efforts. 

> Thoroughly amused, he giggles before asking you for more details. The poison's effects are rather concerning when you explain them to him; you have been turned fully human again. As hilarious as he finds this predicament, he does bring you to one of his cultists who is more informed on mortal medicine. The whole way through he teases and bugs you, but at least his presence ensures that the cultist does not dare slack off while treating your wounds. You are the one who needs to insists going to Kibutsuji with the information on this new poison, he would have much rather kept you all to himself as a cute little human-demon. Being on the way to meet with the Demon Lord does not make him lessen his antics at all, though. 

> The moment you glance away distracted, sharp teeth sink into your shoulder and you jump. Lips suckle at the flesh, drinking up the warm blood. You grunt and roll your eyes, shoving your fingers into his. He yelps at first but like the little freak that he is, allows the noise to turn into a delighted gasp right after. You do your best to ignore him when sighs with glee, red liquid running down his lips as he explains in detail how he wishes you would dig your way into his mind with those dull nails of yours. 

> Suddenly, cutting him off, a pair of arms wrap around you and swoop you away from your infuriating partner in crime. You demand that the slayer put you down, only for him to exclaim that he will protect you with his friend. Douma laughs so hard his back arches and he has to grip his sides not to fall over. You almost feel bad for the two humans for how insistent they were in shielding you. Soon enough the slayers have been taken care of and he pokes at you, chastising you for not thanking him even though he has saved you twice today already. 

> Closing your eyes, you try to ignore his taunts. This comes with ease until he brings up the pity in your eyes when he killed the two demons slayers. He coos as your eyes snap open again, twirling one of your accessories around his finger. How pure of heart you must be to feel even for such foolish creatures. Perhaps being human suits you better. Besides, he quite likes your newfound vulnerability, it's so adorable! 

> Though it must also be so burdensome, maybe he should relieve you of that suffering and pain. He does not even get the full suggestion of devouring you out of his mouth before you shoot it down. Even so, he just laughs off your rejection, smiling bright with empty eyes like he always does. Once again he reminds you that pitying the weak only makes them weaker in the same way allowing them to believe foolish things does. Not in the mood for this kind of conversation, you change the topic and try to retain your sanity during the trip. 

> The King of Demons is more than displeased at the discovery of this new poison. Even his own blood cannot reverse the effects of this toxin. Irritated to have lost one of his most powerful servants, he demands to experiment on you until he finds a way to undo it. Obviously, you have to agree and Douma oh so graciously offers to watch over you while you are in this vulnerable state. Despite your irritation, you agree to the arrangement; locking your whereabouts down to a specific place makes transporting you easier for Nakime. 

> Arriving back at the temple, Douma urges you to have some sake and describe how it tastes and affects you with your human biology. You decline, calling him out on just wanting to get you drunk to see you make a fool of yourself. Giggling off the accusation, he whines over you being no fun at all. In spite of all his talk, he gulps down the ineffective alcohol and stays by your side for hours. Although he may do his best to act insufferable to draw reactions from you, he does not want you to die. 

> After death, there is nothing; you stop feeling, your heart stops, and your brain stops. He does not want you to rot. If you rot, there will be no one he can talk to so openly. In spite of your supposed apathy, you neither hate, judge nor revere him. Such a person- one capable of accepting him as he is- is difficult to find even among demons, and he is not ready to let go of this kind of treasure just yet. 

Akaza

> His eyes widen at the unlikely sight- his rival, primary sparring fighter, one of the worthiest opponents he has ever faced- runs through the woods, wounded and out of breath. Bright blood pours out of your body onto the white snow as your legs give out. What an utterly disgraceful picture, Akaza thinks and scrunches his nose. Before he can berate you for letting yourself get into this condition, a nichirin sword almost sinks into his forearm. He grabs said appendage and sends the demon slayer flying. 

> Although the slayer proves faster than most, proven by how he landed on his feet, he gets defeated soon enough. Akaza raises a brow when he turns to you. By now your injuries should be long gone, yet you still pant and wheeze as you try to keep your guts from spilling out. He walks over but freezes halfway through. Your blood smells... human. 

> Used to containing his hunger, he ignores the saliva gathering on his tongue. Against his will, his heart squeezes in worry as he crouches next to you. He does not wait for an explanation, unpleasant memories reaching for the surface. Pushing his finger into one of your wounds with furrowed brows, he assures you that you will survive, mind not truly present in the moment. He has the cure this time, he can save... 

> ...Who can he save? That does not matter, he will save the sickly person before him at any cost. The haze in his eyes grows into desperation as no amount of blood seems to work. So, he forces in more and more blood. You will be cured, no matter how long he must remain by your side, no matter what he has to do! 

> You are the one who needs to push him away. This is not accomplishing anything, all it does is hurt more. Even after pulling his hand away, he refuses to leave your side. Raising an eyebrow at his strange amount of concern, you tell him if he wants to help, he should go and get some bandages. He performs the request in an instant, moving you around to wrap with a mixture of gentleness and frantic fear. 

> He remains at your beck and call even after having taken you to cave before sunrise. Tireless, he keeps checking on your bandages and wellbeing, keeping you warm in the cold weather. You nearly managed to give him a heart attack by stepping out of the cave into the sunlight, entranced by feeling it on your skin after so long. He tries not to think about how angelic you seem in its glow, light shimmering like fireworks in the ice that covers the trees. Truly, he should kill you for having become so weak again... but he knows too well he never could. 

> These thoughts grow worse when nightfall arrives and you prepare to meet with the Demon Lord. Akaza comes up with as many excuses as he can for keeping you around. Even humans can become strong, you could become worth fighting again. Besides, this should not be permanent. No, regardless of whether you get turned to a demon again or not- a worthless thought to consider since you surely will be- this weakness of yours must be temporary. That means you are worth keeping around, you will be allowed to live, he tells himself and hopes his master will agree. 

> Akaza's anxiety reaches its peak when kneeling before the King of Demons beside you. He would pray for this transformation to work if that would have any effect on it at all, but he is certain whatever gods may have existed abandoned him long ago. Your persisting human form makes him even more certain of this. At least Kibutsuji allowed you to live even if only as a test subject for now, it is your only way of becoming a demon again after all. In spite of that small success, Akaza's heart aches even after leaving the Infinity Castle. If the effects of this poison are permanent, you will grow old and die. 

> Although the pain of that reality would be unbearable, you remain blissfully unaware of Akaza's internal conflict. Allowing the snowflakes to melt on your warm skin, you find yourself entranced by the pillowy sky. The cold water floating down, sticking to your lashes and rushing down your forces that sense of humanity further into your veins. Concerned, he asks you about your sudden quietness, unnerved by your absent eyes in the wintry atmosphere. When you respond, he almost wishes he had not asked. Being human again has brought back memories of your past with an unpleasant intensity. 

> He swallows, knowing a demon's own memories are far easier to control, to push down and forget. Although your past remains for the most part a mystery to him, he loathes to think of his own. Something within his heart shifts, much to his chagrin. He truly should not feel this way, should not feel the urge to protect someone so weak. Your death would only be a natural, fitting, and expected turn of events. Even so, he finds himself hovering near you far more often than he would like to admit. 

Hantengu

> When you emerge from the treeline running for your life, he shrieks and scrambles off on all four limbs. Surely the threat must be great if it has sent someone like you running, right? Eventually he has to slow down but to his surprise when he glances back, no one is behind him. Neither you nor whatever was following you are anywhere near him. He hesitates before sneaking back, yelping at the sight that awaits him. 

> Initially he hides further behind the tree, trembling, but then whispers to the assailant. What gives the slayer the right to bully and wrong the weak? How cruel to hurt someone so innocent. The demon slayer lowers the sword from your neck and smirks, claiming it is a lucky day, two high ranked demons gone in mere minutes! Upper Four trembles at the words and insists he deserves pity but as he predictably gains none, a battle breaks out. 

> After his clones are done, he peeks out from his hiding place. Creeping forth cautiously, he shakes as he realizes you still have yet to heal. Sekido tells his original self to pull himself together, that kind of cowering pisses him off. Karaku licks his lips as he takes in your pained wheezes, making an inappropriate comment on them. Urogi lets out a gleeful laugh in agreement, finding your suffering amusing, but Aizetsu disagrees. 

> Such a poor thing you are, something is clearly very wrong. Zohakuten scoffs from the sidelines, going on about unjust villains tormenting the weak. Yes, this is a type of situation his entire being is quite familiar with. Such a poison's existence is a scary though, turning into an even weaker creature than he already is makes him shudder in terror! Thankfully, there is an easy cure for your predicament... or at least he thought there was. 

> He quakes in fear, trying to calm himself as your condition shows no sings of improvement. Oh, no, perhaps his weakling blood simply is too pure to induce a transformation! He truly apologizes, even though it is not his fault in any way! He is far too pathetic, you see, so you must have pity and forgive him! You brush him off, too delirious to get fully annoyed and tell him to get in contact with the Demon Lord. 

> Helpful and considerate as always, he gets around to doing that right away! However, as he does so, a group of demon slayers suddenly attacks him and claims they are saving you. He screeches and cries, begging for them have mercy on his feeble self, but it is all for nothing. Although he takes care of most of them on his own, you still have to finish the last one by whacking her upside the head with a fallen branch. You snarkily remark that you have to still do everything around here yourself, allowing the stick to crash into the dirt. 

> He gives a quivering smile, saying that a gentle soul like him would be nothing without a partner like you. The rest of the trip to the castle goes by swiftly, as does the meeting. His lord examines you and he tries his best not upset the Demon King. The thought of doing so rattles his very core, his entire being! Unfortunately, nothing can be done for your condition, how scary! 

> That could have been him if he were not better prepared! To him, it is simply another thing to get jumpy over. The thought of losing his invincibility sure is horrifying. Luckily, it was you and not him! You are not particularly appreciative of these comments but stick beside him either way, and he is oh, so grateful for that! 

> Cruel as the world may be, at least it blessed him with a friend who owns a heart as kind and sensitive as his! Kibutsuji utilizes this predicament as a way to urge Upper Four out of his shell more often. He wants his 'protector' to be able to defend him again, does he not? It works and he actually does pick up the slack, growing a little bolder than usual. You better be grateful, he is putting his own frail skin on the line here! He will not go much further than this though... or perhaps he will, considering the type of person that you are. 

> He is a virtuous and kind man after all... maybe it's time to return the favor. You have protected him quite often and stood up for him, defending his word against the brutes who dare doubt his integrity. Truly, you are a gracious and understanding hero, a saint among throes of garbage. Yes, this could work out. You may not be able to shield him physically anymore, but you'll keep sticking up for your fragile, vulnerable old pal, won't you, former demon? 

Gyokko

> Normally he would scowl at and maul whoever interrupted him while he was enraptured by the dance of the muses. However, this time the disruption to his creative process came from his most devoted fan. No great artist could possibly look past the call of loyal admirer. So, he turns around only to bear witness to the most glorious art piece. You lay before him, blood pouring out into a puddle below you. 

> As you scramble and fail to get back onto your feet, your hands slip from beneath you, failing to support your rupturing body. The vermilion splashes over your arms, coating them like paint. He urges you to stay still with a gleeful grin, praising the aesthetic and elegant display you have brought before him. Those splotches of crimson and maroon contrast with your skin tone in the most gorgeous and refined manner! He must capture these most sublime shades into the piece of art they deserve to be.

> However, before he can do so another disruption, this time utterly unwelcome, springs before him. Only because of your warning, he was able to dodge the strange blade slicing at him. Infuriated, he lashed out and attacked until the demon slayer was torn to shreds. What a poor and uncultured cockroach, that one took atrociously long to die! Now the maggot resembles its true, inferior form more accurately. 

> He hums in delight at thought of another beautiful masterpiece created by his godly hands. Truly, that worthless lower life form should be grateful for having been made into a sculpture worth existing. Though one thing still troubles him, a mere ordinary human should not have been able to bring you, strong and beautiful, to your knees. He finds the answer in your marred features, a horrendous and disgusting truth. The fine art that once was your demon markings have been washed away. 

> In place of the formerly superior and chosen being resided a mortal. Vulnerable and pathetic, wounded and brutalized as all humans should be, yet his guts churned at the gory visual. Rather than relishing in the bloodshed, his throat dried like that of a fish tasting surface air for the first unfortunate time. If someone like you could so easily be twisted back into this horrid form, could he or his lord be corrupted in such a way? What an uncomfortable thought, he shakes it off to his best ability. 

> To truly rid himself of it, he pushes his blood into your injuries. Soon enough you will be back. Perhaps much weaker and therefore less worthy, but you will be back nonetheless. Then he will have no need to burden himself with such thoughts any longer. However, no amount of extra blood seems to be causing any resemblance of change within your physique. 

> No, this could not possibly be! Not his admirer, one of the very few intelligent and cultured enough to see the beauty in all of his art! Why, out of all the useless maggots crawling this earth, did you have to suffer in this way? Oh, how cruel the world is, to take away his muse, the one whose ideas were actually worth considering. He should create a vase inspired by this unsightly transformation, as soon as possible. 

> However, undoing this nonsense takes priority on his to-do list. You were not meant to be a mere human, a weakling, a creature headed for death since its creation. So, he brings you to the mightiest being in the whole universe, the Lord of Demons! If his lordships's might cannot fix you, nothing in this world can. This should be an easy feat... or so Gyokko assumes. 

> Upon witnessing your persisting mortality, conflict stirs in his brilliant mind. This is still you- ethereal, art-loving, inspiring you- but you are now horribly human. Even as you take the form of lesser being, he is fond of you. However, your existence needs to be refined again, and someone must now make sure your fragile form does not crumble, leading to your untimely demise! He is not sure he can handle that, his chest is already painfully tight from all this worrying, you see! 

> Though it is as they say, beauty is pain, no? Usually he much rather prefers the pain of others, but he is not too picky. An artist must be open to new options, interpretations, and sources of inspiration! You will continue to be his muse, and he will create art that will go down in history. Surely you would not disagree with this arrangement... even if he asks you for just a few drops of your delightful, easily staining mortal blood, right? 

Gyutaro

> Your bloodied footfalls echo in the halls of one of the Entertainment District's largest buildings. They splatter against the wooden floors and you heave with desperation. Only after reaching the one demon near enough to help, you allow yourself to collapse into the closest wall. His eyes widen in shock as he tries to ask what the hell happened to you. All you tell him is to not get cut before your strength fades. 

> He does not get the chance to shake you back to reality or question your ominous words. His sickles deflect an oncoming, oddly curved blade on instinct. A battle ensues and all he can gather in the heat of the moment is that this slayer is guilty for your current condition. He keeps your words in mind and goes on to win. After putting the dots together, it is blatantly obvious that you were poisoned in a way that rendered you far more vulnerable than usual. 

> He tries to keep his voice steady as he crouches down before you. To his horror, your body reeks of blood, human blood. It is not excess from the slayers or other humans, it is your own. With a sharp breath, his gaze darts around before grabs a proper hold of you. Berating you for being so stupid as to let yourself get cut by a sword obviously containing poison, he injects an irrational amount of his blood into your veins. 

> As it shows no sign of working, his breath quickens as he tries to shake you in a weak attempt to make the blood course through your body as it should. You groan in discomfort and tell him to just help with patching up the wounds. Although he complains, he does so with brows furrowed in worry and frustration. As soon as the bandages are in place, you begin to move together to get to a human doctor. You have to act as the brains for now, since his panicked scrambling is not exactly the most helpful thing. 

> The ways he scratches himself in with the hand not supporting you are also concerning, even with his demonic physique. So, you ask for more support to get him to stop. Meanwhile, a million thoughts race through his mind as he holds you in a grip far too tight, as if you may crumble away if he eases up. The scales need to be balanced more, he thinks while holding back the urge to rip and tear at his skin once again. Once he gets his hands on the rest of those demons slayers, he swears they will never forget who it was that sent them into the afterlife. 

> Now, this time it seems lady luck decided to stand by his side. He will get to do what he does best sooner than expected; he will collect what is due. A group of demon slayers comes along and tries to start a fight with him. However, before he even gets the chance to strike back, you step in with a well-concealed mischievous glint in your eyes. With your new, obvious human appearance, you step forward as well as you can and scold them for judging your dear friend. 

> He is no demon, he is your dear partner, who is currently being so kind as to help you recover from your surgery. They should be ashamed of themselves for jumping to conclusions like that! With your stern voice and convincing, confident act, the slayers end up apologizing, much to Gyutaro's amusement. As soon as the inexperienced swordsmen turn around with their guards down, you give him the go ahead to strike. After finishing them off with his usual ruthlessness, he tells you the act was unnecessary. 

> You hum in agreement but at first offer no response aside from a chuckle. When you ask him so sweetly if he can blame you for wanting to contribute, he breaks out in uncontained, delighted laughter. In spite of the cruel situation, this atmosphere persists for a while as you prepare to inform the Demon Lord of this development. As your injuries begin to weigh down on you once again and you quiet down to spare energy, familiar, uneasy thoughts creep into his head. You sure are charismatic... and persuasive... and beautiful. 

> If you had met when you were humans, surely you would not have spared even a glance into his direction. Only in these twisted circumstances did he even have a chance at knowing a person like you. Even now, this sense of companionship was almost ripped away from him. Nowadays he is so used to having the control he lacked through all of his youth. Still, today was a grim reminder that the world is more than eager to try to rip it all away from him, everything he has managed to claw into his hands with blood and sweat. 

> There is much more he needs to do still, reasons to get stronger. Especially after the Demon King's failure to turn you again, he knows he must keep his guard up. With poisons like that, his sister's life is on the line as well. Your invincibility already shattered, but he refuses to let it burn to ashes. Even as the world seems to quiet down once more, he will continue to work hard and ensure there is nothing in this world for you to fear. 

[omgfangirlland]

Kinda want a batfam x reader where she was actually loved but she just didn't notice it.

Bruce didn't want reader to be involved so he hid her but to her it came off as Bruce not wanting to deal with her. She never noticed the loving and longing glances they gave her.. The yearning of wanting to call her their sister/daughter but they couldn't as she was born weak and they didn't want her to be in danger. She began to loathe them but also loathe herself for being born weak. She was smart, able to learn and copy moves but never had the strength to properly execute the techniques. She never noticed how the batfam would protect in her in the shadows while she continue to hate them for not caring for her.

(Bonus, she dies and get sent back to the past, finding out that they care for her or the batfam goes back to the past.. Months before her death and makes up for everything)

-🔱

The born weak part immediately made me think of Jeff "Joker Moreau(I still believe we were robbed of this romance option much like how I think EA were cowards for not letting us romance Garrus and Tali from the first game) from Mass Effect the trilogy, because he has a mild(to severe but it doesn't look like that in the games, just the brittle bones and maybe breathing problems? can't quite remember) case of brittle bone disease, and it's essential to his character, so I'm taking a lot from him- needing leg braces, crutches/cane/walker, his attitude-

I'm also making the batfam go back into the past-

Hope this is the thing you were referencing here 😩⬇️

CW: death, inaccurate depiction of brittle bone disease(my only knowledge is wiki and one videogame character)

PS this will have a part 2 because I started at like 4- it's almost 7:30 rn 😩😩 I'm tired :))

When Bruce first saw you in the back of Gordon's police car, you were a mess. Glassy eyes, busted face, both legs broken, and your nondominant hand bruised to hell. The aftermath of a Bane attack that left you alone, no other family members wanting to take in a sickly child like you, too much responsibility.

And it was- but that wasn't what worried Bruce. The man didn't know how soft he could be with his touch, the pats of praise he gave Dick, Tim or Jason could easily hurt you- what if he squeezed your hand too hard and broke your finger? What if he hugged you too tightly and dislocated something, or cracked your rib?

He was terrified. So terrified, he flinched away the first time you tried to hold his hand- he wasn't prepared, didn't expect it- he was sad for two weeks when you didn't try to hold his hand again. And Dick wasnt any better- he was stressed, shaking with the need to just grab you and swing you around like a doll- which you were in his eyes, the porcelain kind that the tarot reader at the circus always warned threathened him not to touch or he's bound to shatter them into milion of tiny pieces.

Jason met you a lot later, and when he first heard Bruce say that you had brittle bones, he didn't much care. "She's not a china plate, Bruce, she won't break if you look at her wrong." He remembers saying, but seeing you was another story. Your room was on the ground level, and seeing your stiff walking, hearing the metal of your leg braces, your hand around a cane, made him choke on his words.

He knew he shouldn't patronize you, shouldn't baby you- you were more than capable, that was very clear- but everytime you went to sit up, to grab something deemed a bit too heavy in his opinion, every time you were going for the stairs, he was the first to say something against it or to react- hindsight 20/20, he came off ruder than he meant to be.

Tim wasn't talking to you. He was afraid his tired mind would slip and say something that would make you hate him beyond repair, and while he wasn't afraid to touch you, he did think you'd hate it if he did. So he kept to the shadows, to the internet, keeping you out of the eyes of the media and nuking comments he didn't like before you could even have a concept of their existence.

Cassandra was your second shadow from day one, simply refusing not to follow you from the shadows once you were out of your room, which was starting to be less and less. She thought it was a bonding activity, but to you, it was just weird events you refused to acknowledge, because your mind immediately went to ghosts. The salt was way too high? You sigh and turn around to try and find Alfred, but the clicking of a glass on the marble countertop stops you. The salt wasn't on the shelf anymore. "...Thanks?" You take the salt and refuse to look at the cupboard again. Cassandra nods to herself, happy to be of help.

Damian was Bruce's little spy. You thought kids didn't want to be your friend because of your illness, but the truth was that Damian was a jealous and protective kid, and Bruce was ready to bite heads off at the slightest mishap. Like when one kid laughed at your walking aid- Damnian was quick to report back to his father, and Bruce was even quicker to threaten the school and student- nobody would believe how terrifying Bruce "Playboy" Wayne actually is when it comes to his kids.

But all that to you seemed like no one wanted to be near you, that nobody wanted to know you because of how you were born. And slowly, you started resenting your supposed family. You didn't care about your colleagues at school- they were strangers, but Bruce took you in- he was supposed to be different.

At one point, you thought he did it for PR reasons- "Bruce Wayne adopts disabled kid" - you were ready to be paraded around, for him to act up in front of the cameras, but the man barely agreed to let you go to an in-person school. Soon after your mind settled that he simply wanted to hide you, that he deemed you a stain on his name or simply not useful to him since you couldn't be Robin- so you remained quiet, a good kid with high grades, because what else could you do in their eyes besides dream and learn?

You didn't remain quiet when Bruce mentioned that a team of pilots and a spaceship crew would be at the next gala. You begged for an hour straight, almost cried, and when he gave in, you sure did- in the coziness of your own room.

On the day of the gala, you dusted off a dress you bought out of pure spite, expensive and too showy for the graduation party your school had planned- you fully wanted to sneak out and just catch a taxi or get a bolt to your school since Bruce forbade you from going, but when the day came you were simply crying too much due to overhearing tit bits of Jason arguing with Bruce about you.

So your day was spent in your room, doing your hair, having a mental breakdown over your eyeliner being sisters, not twins, and you felt amazing- until Bruce stared you down. He was biting his tongue to not cry, he still sees you as the little tween, and seeing you all dolled up made him realize how fast time passed. To you, he seemed utterly disappointed. And an argument almost broke when he refused to let you use your cane, insisting on the wheelchair. He won. For now.

You were on a mission, and a wheelchair won't stop you, not when you'd be so close to your dream- you just didn't expect to meet your dream while Ivy was attacking. Alas- you stole the spaceship Bruce was presenting as a something-something for the Justice League - you didn't care, you just wanted to pilot the babe.

When his voice came through the coms of the spaceships, you did panic, your replies being grunts and hums, and as they complimented you, you felt vindicated- finally, you couldn't wait to see their faces when they realized it was you who learned in second how to maneuver this beauty through Ivy's attacks, that it was you using the weapons on her plants to get them out of trouble.

Ivy wasn't having it. Her anger and desperation only fueled her powers, and as she took care of the bats, for now, she refocused her full attention on the airship. Attack after attack, you evaded and shot, but one vine came down hard on the tail of the craft, taking the wing out with the engine.

The craft was built to withstand a crash, the interior was made to move as little as possible during such a scenario, and the belts were made to hold tight. Anyone else would have gotten some ugly bruises, but anyone else didn't count for someone with brittle bones.

The crash didn't kill you, the broken spine and punctured lungs from the jolt of the impact and hold of the belt did. It was slow and painful, but you couldn't be happier in your last moment.

The family was in ruins.

They didn't sleep that night... or the one after. Everyone felt guilty to some extent, like they could have done more, better, but Bruce knew you would have stolen the ship either way, your diary said as much. You wanted to prove to him and the others you could do it- could be the best at anything you put your mind up to- and you were. You were amazing, your laughter through the coms will be a memory he'll hold dear to his heart. He wished he had said that while he could.

Dick was punching his way through dummies when he wasn't lethargic, while Jason simply locked himself in his apartment, drowning into his own sorrow. Tim and Cassandra busied themselves with anything they could, anything that would distract them from the need to cry, and Damian was close to stealing your corpse and throwing you in the pit- Alfred decided to sedate them- slightly-, what really put them to sleep was the cuddle pile as they watched movies they took from your room.

When they woke up, they did so in their own rooms, deciding to just lie in their own beds for the day, not quite having it in them to get up... Everyone but Tim, who got up to steal the coffee pot.

The young man stopped dead in his track as he saw your disheveled self eating breakfast. He did something he's only done while severely sleep deprived. Passed out. Your mouth hung open as he made impact with the floor, and all you could do was yell for Alfred with worry.

[dolphin-diaries]

How To Prevent Detransition In Five Simple Steps (Part 1)

Originally published on Dolphin Diaries.

What do you think of when you hear ‘detransitioner’?

The Right, likely. Grift and pantomime for clout, such as that of a certain doll or the world’s most Korean and Christian man. Coercion; forced detransition.

What do you think of, say, when you consider willing and genuine detransition? If you could look at Chloe Cole past her rhetoric, her ideological allegiance, her utter lack of compassion for those outside of it—what do you see?

Is it regret? Self-hatred? Pity, maybe? A correction of a shameful (stupid, even) mistake? A bizarre decision you struggle to imagine yourself—or anyone—making? A web of uncanny, discomfiting choices, written in flesh?

Maybe, if you’re trans yourself, you might also see your own fears. Not necessarily forced detransition—that wouldn’t make you like her. No, maybe you look at your past doubts and wonder if you could’ve been her, under different circumstances. Or maybe, it’s merely the thought of something that brought you great joy—your transition, the alteration of your body, your freedom—being broken, hated, turned inside-out. Like a shredded garment.

Perhaps you’re just unnerved to see it undone.

Detransition, in the eyes of the masses, is an undoing. That implies discontent, and since this discontent is over transition—something not only voluntary but often hard-won—it also implies that transition itself was a mistake. Seemingly, a preventable one.

And so there is only one conclusion: detransitioners must be prevented. I must be prevented. I am a stain on the medical, social, and queer establishments that have created me, whether you look at it from the Right or the Left. The ‘reverse’ dysphoria I feel is, by all accounts, utterly preventable. Naturally, then, we must attempt to prevent it.

The belief about detransitioners is that they need medical gatekeeping to prevent them from having transitioned—a more robust system of checks that would’ve helped them realise they were never trans. Or perhaps, that they need the topic of transness altogether excised from the zeitgeist. For instance, a known detrans grifter Maia Poet tweeted she is retrospectively grateful to her parents for having hyper-surveilled her after she came out as trans. She still socially transitioned and continued to identify as trans for twelve years afterwards, so it can’t have helped in the way she wanted, but she’s still grateful for, uh. Something. Whatever it is that was accomplished, which, it seems, was not a lot.

Well, no one was expecting cutting social commentary or lucid solutions from Ms. Israeli Sellout Poet, so never mind her. Let us put the grift aside.

That is the knee-jerk response, isn’t it? Make fun of the loud and stupid and obviously wrong ones?

That has its place, but let me assure you, detransitioners exist outside of TV and Twitter. Most are disinterested in sharing a pedestal with Maia or Chloe, regardless of what they believe. Let us even put myself aside as a singular subject. Let us examine what is normally either cynically weaponised by the Right, or else timidly swept under the rug. Because if you allow the idea that willing detransitioners truly exist—and they do, I assure you; if I turned my screen off, I’d be looking at one—then you must also allow the possibility of, well…

Transition regret.

Allow yourself compassion for a detransitioner—a random, regular person—that is staring at rock bottom and finding that their transition took them there. If I were them, I’d surely ask what could’ve been done to prevent that. What could’ve been done so that I never existed such as I am.

A very rock-bottom kind of question, I know. But the only way out is through.

So what is the most effective way to prevent detransition? What has been done to that end? How is transition handled, and what does that mean for detransition?

1. The Doctor Will See You Now

Over the past few months, I’ve spent a good chunk of my god-given procrastination allowance on scrolling online detrans communities that explicitly ban transphobia. You may call that biased, but I’ve found that detrans spaces which make no such explicit attempts are swiftly overrun by Gender Criticals. Not even detrans ones; the topic is hot-button and embarrassing enough to encourage unmitigated manipulation of the audience. It’s a bit like browsing spaces for discussion of cosmetic surgery. When an issue is too unseemly to be spoken of in polite society, the snake oil salesman can peddle whatever the hell he wants. By contrast, trans-positive detrans spaces tend to be smaller, less fraught, and more diverse in issues discussed and feelings expressed.

(To be clear, I will not quote anyone here. While their accounts were told neither in privacy nor in confidence, online messages in small communities carry a presumption of anonymity and non-disclosure, which I intend to maintain.)

Indeed, a sizeable number of even explicitly trans-positive detransitioners express some desire for a prior intervention. A therapist or psychiatrist that would’ve entertained alternatives, or questioned why their patient wanted to transition. It’s not uncommon, when queried by people unsure of surgery or HRT, for such detransitioners to advise waiting until total certainty is achieved. Unlike GCs, though, they often lament the lack of medical professionals that will neither attempt to do conversion therapy nor consider detransition an untouchable topic.

(As I’ve alluded to before, it is difficult enough in many places to find a therapist that even knows Trans 101. ‘Advanced stuff,’ like detransition, is beyond contemplation. It’s not that skilled-enough professionals don’t exist, but that there is no resource for finding them.)

There is a common denominator among such detrans people. They are often—though not always—young transitioners, having done so either in high school or shortly after. They’re usually from countries that have an informed consent model of transition care. Under this model, a doctor does not diagnose with gender dysphoria—or indeed anything at all—but merely provides assistance in alteration of sexual characteristics. That’s the idea, anyway; reality varies and often does not quite match that ideal, but by and large, the doctor’s job is then mainly to explain what the patient is signing up for. What intervention or investigation exists, if any, is minimal or perfunctory.

From a purely technical perspective, these detransitioners are asking for something that wasn’t this doctor’s job to do. But it is a fairly heartless argument to make. “Well, if your dysphoria wasn’t actually dysphoria, you should’ve gone to a therapist instead!”—rather silly, isn’t it? Easily refuted with: “If I knew then what was wrong with me, I wouldn’t be here.” And anyway, just because that is how the system works does not necessarily mean that is how it should work.

There is a wrinkle here, though. Informed consent may be the norm in, say, the USA—for now, anyway—but it is not worldwide. In most places you ought to receive a gender dysphoria (or transsexualism, if the updated DSM is yet to be adopted) diagnosis before access to medical transition is permitted. So how does the diagnostic model hold up when it comes to detransition?

2. Hoops and Hoops and Hoops

As I mentioned in my first essay, I am a young-ish transitioner from a country that very much does not practice informed consent. I started transitioning medically at 19, which is young for an adult transitioner but post-pubertal nonetheless. However, transitioning in adolescence would’ve been functionally impossible for me. Even if my parents were supportive and I somehow found a doctor to prescribe me blockers/hormones—the latter of which is monumentally unlikely, as it was illegal—it would still basically mean social death. So, in effect, I transitioned as young as was humanly possible.

The procedure to acquire legal access to hormone replacement therapy was pretty antiquated during my time. Internment in a psychiatric ward, a prior real-life test, the nine yards. (For the unaware, a ‘real-life test’ is a requirement to have lived as your desired gender for several years prior to any medical transition.) I was diagnosed rather thoroughly both for presence of gender dysphoria and an absence of alternative explanations, such as schizophrenia, BPD, autism, and, put colloquially, mummy or daddy issues—having a ‘broken family’ was a strike against the transsexualism diagnosis. Anxiety or depression was also a no-no. Under this particular model, literally any other condition is a contradiction to transsexualism. You are to be deeply distressed about your genitals and assigned gender stereotype, and absolutely nothing else at all.

Because yes, naturally the pathologisation of gender entails reliance on stereotype and archetype. What makes a man or a woman, after all? When the goal is to have transsexualism as the last possible resort, it’s not enough to merely wish for a different set of genitals or breasts or to describe oneself as a man or woman—gender must be dissected. And that dissection, inevitably, leads to ‘bitches be crazy.’ Man like car, woman like kitchen. Man fucks woman, subject verb object. Et cetera.

Of course, declaring any ‘irregular’ thoughts about gender to be the sole purview of a perfect and utterly healthy citizen, is just cruel. Gender conformity is a violently enforced social protocol. Therefore people that run up against it—trans or not—are highly likely to be made maladjusted. To deny them care on that basis alone is inhumane. If you are found too ‘wrong’ to be transsexual, you will then be told to go treat whatever is wrong with you—your symptom, not your cause. Gender will not be entertained.

Now, that the psychiatric treatment of gender dysphoria is inhumane, dated, and deliberately difficult and arcane, is not news. It is designed to prevent transition first and foremost and also secondly and thirdly, and only lastly to enable it. Some young people in the US may feel enough distance from such treatment as to not understand what it truly entails. To some it is buried history. Most, though, even when unaware of what such procedures are or were, understand they are/were bad. Nebulously bad or specifically bad (mostly the former), but bad nonetheless.

So here’s the first question: does this work? Does this ensure those that truly need transition can do it, and none that don’t, can’t?

I can obviously just point to myself and be done with it, but one person can be anything from an anomaly to a fun fact, just not a tendency. So let’s work through this.

Obviously such procedures do not prevent all transition. Do they reduce the number of transitioners? It is impossible to count for sure, but certainly such procedures generally exist in societies that are not amenable to trans people, and therefore some plainly do not survive long enough to try. It does not matter whether they would’ve eventually detransitioned or not; severe psychiatric procedure does not coexist with widely available, comprehensive therapy. It does not matter because no one will ever find out.

What of those that do survive, though? One extreme conclusion to make is, if you can survive without something, you do not need it. I’m not particularly interested in a survival-only existence as I do not live in a cave and hunt mammoth. (And even prehistoric people made jewellery and painted cave walls with art, so clearly they cared about things beyond sheer necessity, too.) So that aside, how do the lives of those that actually engage with the procedure pan out?

Naturally, one of the results of such procedures is the delaying of access. Some things, like hormones, you can get on the sly, but surgeries you simply cannot receive without either the doctor’s permission or a great—and I do mean great—deal of money. The procedure is designed to take several years before any access can be granted at all, assuming you go through it swiftly and successfully. The more stringent the procedure, the fewer doctors can do it; a degree of waiting is involved even before it begins. In my country’s case in particular, transition is fully paid for by the patient—there is neither state nor insurance coverage, at all, for anything. Even doctor visits in government-sponsored institutions are de facto paid because you need to grease some palms for someone to bother. No, there’s no suing the doctor that won’t treat you without the agreed-upon bribe; you can’t afford it and you won’t win. Therefore there’s also risk of further depression and suicide as great financial burden falls on people that, as a rule, have below-average funds, poor employability, and no family support. But assuming you soldier through, the overall result is a transition timeline that spans about a decade or two. The bulk of social transition will happen in the first five years, whereas surgical interventions, due to cost and laborious approval processes, fall on the last years.

This can be seen as a boon to detransitioners. Delay in access means more time to change your mind, hypothetically. The fact that surgeries are generally impossible until many years in transition means—hypothetically—there’s less chance you’ll end up with changes that cannot be reversed or amended without further surgical intervention, or at all.

As I’ve mentioned in my previous essay, I do believe such calculus to be heavily hindsight-skewed, favouring present lack of regret and dysphoria over past misery and the humiliation of the psychiatric grinder. It’s a little like getting hit with a hammer to the head and then falling madly in love with the doctor treating you. Sure, in hindsight it softens the blow of the head trauma, but you still wouldn’t recommend anyone walk around with a sticker on their back saying ‘Hit Me.’

I can understand, however, how a detrans person who never went through any of that, now deep in dysphoria blues, could find such an argument empty air. Infuriating, even. Perhaps they’d even say they’d gladly be a bit miserable for a couple years so long as they didn’t have to deal with all this now. Grass, greener, et cetera. So let us say this really is a possible advantage of the procedure—

If it actually makes you less likely to go through with transition once you begin the procedure and uncover doubts creeping in.

Does it?

3. A Patient Is A Person

There’s an elephant in the room, though not many notice it. To a cis person it may well be invisible. You might’ve spotted it when I first flippantly described the procedure I went through and mentioned a real-life test. Most people cannot be reliably and consistently integrated into society as the ‘opposite’ gender until they have some kind of physical intervention. Especially not in places that are highly transphobic, where being visibly trans is either not an option or a very dangerous one. But clearly, people do pass this ‘real-life test’ somehow. Is it really only the most androgynous among us that are allowed to transition under such procedure?

Well, no. Although doctors will be more charitable if you already seem like a ‘lost cause’ to your birth sex. Nothing wasted and so on. But like I said, you can always get hormones on the sly. It’s not even hard or prohibitively expensive.

That’s not the only issue with the procedure. How do you reconcile putting all this time and money into a (marginalised) diagnosis with (often precarious) employment? Why are trans patients supposed to have a singular script for their lives and genders, whereas cis people are permitted variance?

In the end, how do you prove to someone else that transition is right for you? Is it really all the silly quizzes and the identically heart-wrenching stories? Eh. Not exactly. In my experience, the doctor makes half their mind up the moment they look at you. And most every patient seems like a regular cis person—a fertile woman, a boy that can be made a man—and so the knee-jerk response is to help you stay that way, no matter how you feel. So there are two options: memorise a rote script of suffering and hope for the best, or, much more reliably and painlessly—

Already look like a transsexual.

Put plainly, the current diagnostic model of transition only works when you’re already transitioning. To access transition you must’ve already done so. Yes, we all simply pretend. Yes, people just memorise whether they’re supposed to like cars or kitchens and how they should describe their sex lives. Of course they do. People seeking transition are human.

You can wag your finger however much you want and insist that people must follow protocol, and whatever happens as a result of disobedience is their own damn fault. The empirical fact is, protocol as written is un-follow-able. Because it is un-follow-able, no one actually follows it.

The result of a system whose first and foremost purpose is to make as few people transition as possible, is very simple: everyone lies. No one trusts doctors. No one in their right mind would go to a doctor that controls their legal gender marker based on the patient’s tales of masturbation, and then bare their true gender feelings with an expectation of help. Even the doctors themselves do not care how you really feel or whether you’re lying. They know the system is faulty, they know none of this is human or nice, but they also don’t understand why anyone would transition and they don’t care to. They have a hundred more patients, a thousand more protocols that are also neither human nor nice. This is psychiatry, and you are an annoying and rare brand of crazy, one that’s both utterly perverse and—they know—not actually crazy, not hallucinating or threatening suicide (and if you do: you can’t, remember?). What you’re doing is wasting a bed and their time. So all they want is their bribe, maybe a dissertation subject, and for you to cooperate and be gone.

What actually decides access to transition? A little bit of luck, a little bit of social acceptance in one’s immediate social circles, but chief among all: money.

If we must prevent the possibility of detransition at all cost, surely financial disincentive still works? Not the way you’d want it to. The only thing cost barriers ensure is that the rich can do whatever they want on a whim, and the poor can’t have even that which they desperately need. That is the only social balance money can buy.

And what decides eventual detransition?

The truth is, at least for me, it wasn’t regret. I’ve lived a long while in trans circles shaped by such transmedicalism. And if I’ve learned one thing, it’s this:

Transition regret was everywhere.

It is not at all unique to detransitioners. Certainly wasn’t in my circles. Many trans people who were also my contemporaries and fellow countrypersons had something or other they regretted about their transition. Some had even found the whole process extremely traumatic. They regretted not allowing themselves any femininity/masculinity that ‘contravened’ their desired gender. They got haircuts, clothes, friends, surgeries—anything related to gender, which is everything—only and solely because of the need to transition under very strict guidelines. Sometimes consciously, sometimes not. We lie to the doctors, yes, but that does not mean we are untouched by the transition procedure at our heart. The procedure is long and complex, and thus at a certain point, it occupies a lot of your attention and time. You live and breathe the sex questionnaires and psych visits whether you want to or not. And, as I’ve established, no one in the whole hospital cares how you truly feel about your gender—so for a while, you may stop caring too. It’s a matter of survival. Not just in the sense of access to transition, but in the very banal calculus of things that will and won’t get you beat up in an alley. At some point it’s only human to mentally check out.

In other words, everyone was fucking miserable. Trans, detrans—everyone.

People transition because they want to. Because everyone wishes to be an architect of their own fate and body, insofar as they can, and for some that involves choosing which way their body grows and ages. How it occupies the mould of sex. And when barriers are put between you and your agency, what follows is not obedience. You are human; you are not an algorithmic machine; you do not simply obey, you choose. So what do most people choose when they want something very badly and are told they cannot have it? They resist, of course. Resist, lie, scheme. And resistance to stringent protocol takes a lot out of you.

If doubt starts whispering in your head and you’re not listening, will you even hear it?

Put plainly, there’s no space for gender feelings in survival mode. What the diagnostic procedure causes is precisely that. It does not matter whether one’s need to transition is caused by some sort of True Transsexualism or trauma or misogyny or self-delusion or a secret millionth thing. You want it, and there’s no resource, no space, and no help for you to dissect that need. No time, either, because everything costs years—be it in money, in waiting, or your own life. You have an acute need and a difficult path to it. That is all.

And when all is said and done, and now you want to detransition? You’ve spent years to transition in the first place. You’ve invested great effort and great money, even if you’re not yet ‘done.’ You’ve likely lost family members and friends. Sunk cost is a hell of a weight, and sunk cost is precisely what the diagnostic model—a prevention model—engineers in spades.

4. A Dream of Utopia

So the informed consent model has no oversight, and the diagnostic model is a horrible grinder. Informed consent seems to be the patented harm reduction choice of the two. But surely those are not the only things that can exist? Surely we can dream of more than just ‘less harm’? Can there not be some sort of prior screening by an actually humane doctor who understands both trans and detrans needs? No quizzes about masturbation or kitchens or cars or whether you demanded to be called ‘boy’ or ‘girl’ at age four—just a robust way to determine whether you actually have gender dysphoria or not?

Let us say it is possible. When detrans people ask for qualified, humane, non-transphobic aid in helping them through their feelings on sex/gender, they are not asking for the impossible. Their need is one that must be answered in a just and caring world; it is already being answered for trans people, so why should the detrans be any different? And from there, you might think, it follows that it’s possible to attempt a system whose aim is some reasonably brief and minimally invasive pre-screening, which would filter out would-be detransitioners and enable trans people to pursue their transitions.

It is possible to attempt that. But.

All systems of restriction and access have a problem: there’s a power dynamic at play. Transition is often a pretty acute need. Doctors can make mistakes, they’re only human. Who is to decide what is real gender dysphoria? What if the doctors are not so humane? What if they enjoy holding power more than they enjoy helping? ‘Just don’t hire them’ isn’t really an answer—if we knew how ‘not to hire bad people,’ we’d have already colonised Pluto.

That doesn’t mean no system of restriction has its place. Access to weapons has similar problems, but most people would agree it’s probably not right for them to know nuclear codes anyway. Obviously no one worth listening to would compare detransition to guns or nukes, but let’s say, for the sake of the argument, that the possibility of detransition is so utterly undesirable that, if a prevention system could exist, it must.

The question remains: what makes gender dysphoria real?

The answer is very simple. Ultimately, it will always only be real because you said so. Because the patient said so—not the doctor.

If you’re a medical professional, you know how much of your diagnostic work relies on patient testimony. How you must at times cajole them into being honest, or to decode what exactly ‘bubbling pain in the liver’ means. Those unfamiliar with the medical world often imagine there’s always some kind of screening that can determine with certainty if the patient is lying or misguided or unsure. And yes, even if John insists he never put that Christmas ornament up his arse, the X-Ray will show it one way or another. But in many cases, it’s not that simple, and patient testimony is crucial.

When it comes to psychology and psychiatry, this issue could not be more acute. Often there is nothing else to go on at all. That doesn’t mean therapists are just useless soundboxes—but neither are there Top 10 Signs My Patient Is Actually A Narcissist. Nor are there actually body language experts that will totally tell you you’re being delusional; peddlers of simple and exact solutions are, as a rule, charlatans.

In short, therapists and psychiatrists are not mind readers. They are only analysing what you are saying about your own mind, and what you’re doing about it. They can aid you in interpreting yourself, but at the end of the day, you’re still the one doing it.

And here’s the kicker: no single issue faced by detransitioners is something trans people do not experience. Some detrans people first transition as a form of self-harm after sexual assault; but childhood sexual trauma is common among trans people who are happy in their transitions, too. Many detrans women felt pushed out of their gender by internalised misogyny and the impossibility of envisioning happy lives as women; but all those that are brought up or grow up as girls experience misogyny, including trans men and trans women. Detrans people often cite only wanting to transition after they learn of the possibility of transition and not from early childhood, as if that is evidence—but many trans people do not seek transition until they learn of its existence, too.

Trans people doubt their transitions all the time. Feel unhappy with their transitions, at least sometimes. And they self-harm via detransition too—a lot. The idea that none of this happens, or only happens very rarely, is a fiction recited for the sake of self-defence and attaining civil rights in a hostile world. Spending any time in trans spaces will tell you the truth is much more nuanced. And even so, even still, only some of those people detransition. And only some of those do so completely of their own free will, and not out of despair or a successful right-wing pipeline.

For every seemingly telltale sign of future detransition, there are numerous counterexamples. In fact a trans person can have all those signs at once, and nonetheless remain trans. Diagnostic criteria for a condition requires a list of symptoms, and if no number of those can be definitive? That means there can be no diagnosis. No (medical) condition.

In other words, resources, attention, and qualified aid can all accommodate detrans people exactly as it does trans people. Procedure cannot. Just like it can’t satisfactorily accommodate trans people. It is a dead end to treat the matter of gender as if it is a disorder, an ailment of the individual, rather than an exercise of agency against a society which enforces sex/gender.

Additionally, I have so far spoken in extremes. Real and not-real trans people; detransitioners that utterly regret their transition and wish it never happened. It was necessary for the argument. But many detransitioners do not have such black-and-white feelings about their past. Some are nonbinary and unhappy with either ‘man’ or ‘woman’; some do not maintain that their gender dysphoria wasn’t actually real; some even reject the label ‘detrans’ on principle, even though they have verifiably detransitioned. I have not mentioned any such case because I wished to argue that even the most ‘textbook,’ most acutely regretful case of detransition has little to gain and much to lose in a gatekeeping-first transition system. However, I must also point out that the ‘textbook case’ is the only case that can envision any gain at all. It isn’t real, but it’s a lovely mirage. To the rest of us, there isn’t even that.

5. I Have Bad News—Or Do I?

Yes, what I am saying is that detransition is inevitable. I’m saying its negatives can be curtailed by therapeutic and medical care that accommodates for detrans people—as much is true for trans people—but, regardless of how preventable detransition may seem, there is no way to simply solve it. Detransition can only be vanished by going back in time and making medicine freeze at the turn of the twentieth century, before such things as exogenous hormones were invented. Even a full ban on transition would be just a costly inconvenience, but ultimately not a magic bullet. People do banned things because they want to all the damn time. Oh, and I guess we’d also have to sterilise every single female horse.

So does that mean detransitioners are necessary collateral damage?

Only if you think detransition is inherently, inevitably, invariably undesirable and bad.

When you discover you want to detransition, it can be hard to accept for a myriad of reasons. Sunk cost, fear of ostracisation, shame, or even because you have no idea what detransition can look like and you don’t know what to do. And then there’s dysphoria and dealing with the wider society’s disgust and I-told-you-so’s. Some amount of what one might call a ‘bad time’ is unavoidable.

But why? What makes wanting to detransition—not resigning to it; wanting it—bad? What makes it socially reviled and pitiable? What makes going through it feel so difficult? How is the shame of detransition engineered—and what for?

See you in Part 2.

[jazzajazzjazz]

She’s here and will smear the walls with you if you stand in her way! Jack is one of my favourite Mass Effect characters and I’ve wanted to make a doll of her for ages. Hope you enjoy!

Everything made by me expect the following:

* Trousers - Kosucas on etsy, modified by me

* Boots - standard Monster High (not sure which doll), modified by me

* Stand - modified basic Monster High doll stand

Original doll is a second hand Cleo de Nile

————————

If you’d like to support a struggling artist commissions are always open (unless otherwise stated) and a link to my Kofi is in my pinned post. ♥

[deadpeopleinc]

Even more marauders era headcanons/fun facts from my au for them (some are really out of context)

There are 4 small clown dolls in the Gryffindor common room that are moved around daily solely to scare James

Remus had a buzz cut in 1st year and will pretend he doesn't know what your talking about if you bring it up

Regulus never really came out about being trans, he just kinda showed up one year as a boy and everyone was too scared of the Black family to question it

This then led to rumors that Regulus pre-transition was a different family member who was kicked out

That led to Sirius (somehow) managing to convince the entire Hogwarts population that Regulus was always there, and that his younger sister was a mass hallucination/Mandela effect

Every 'conversation' between Peter and Remus makes it seem like they don't even like each other, they're each other's favorites

James and Remus can't sit through horror movies without at least a little tears of fear

James is a childhood friend to like a fourth of Hogwarts

Barty never pulls a prank that is completely safe, a chance of death is essential

Concealing charms don't work on animingus forms, so Sirius had to come up with a bullshit excuse as to why his dog form is half white

Peter and Remus were cheerleaders in 3rd year after James and Sirius dared them to. This dare only happened bc they refused to play quidditch

Dorcas managed to hide her and Marlene's relationship for 8 months, solely bc of how unobservant her friends are

Mary was a theater kid and will cry if you bring it up

Sirius knew about jegulus before they even got together, but it took them months to actually tell him bc Sirius had a habit of pretending he was bothered by the idea and they thought he was being genuine

Narcissa has star based nicknames for everyone in her family

Sirius took up calling Narcissa Polaris so she wouldn't feel left out bc she's the only one without a star name

No one actually knows why Narcissa wasn't given a star name, not even the rest of the Black family

Barty likes to pretend the fact that both of his 'crushes' (Evan being his boyfriend) being blonde with blue eyes says nothing about his type

Peter can't tell the difference between when someone is genuinely flirting with him or making fun of him, rosekiller's aggressive flirting doesn't help

Sirius is weirdly into origami

Lucius and Narcissa treat Snape like their practice child

Marlene and James 'dated' when they were like 6 bc they thought it meant they got their family's money quicker

Sirius has a sweet tooth, Snape does too and they both hate it because of that

James is, surprisingly, more of an introvert than a extrovert

Sirius knows he's actually a Slytherin and won't wear green because he thinks it'll make it obvious to everyone else, it wouldn't

It's extra devastating because green is definitely his color

Regulus was supposed to be a Gryffindor and everyone can tell

Like he acts like every other Slytherin, he just has a vibe about him

Snape gossips with almost every professor and painting at Hogwarts

There's an incident board in the infirmary dedicated to the marauders

Lily keeps a small bag of cat treats for the strays at Hogwarts

Remus is allergic to pinecones

Peter is Russian and grew up there, but he can't stand the cold

Once again, that is it for now. These are fun to make so there will be more, but alas, I bid my farewells (for now)

[mariamakeslemons]

141 and Video games

A silly little thought, partially due to having picked back up my 3DS and playing some older DS games...

-Price, I feel, is about mid-to-late thirties by 2019. So, he was at least born around 1984-ish.

-His first game would have been Sonic the Hedgehog 2, played on a schoolmate's Genesis. He was shit.

-I feel like he was a playstation teen, having the one at home as a kid before getting the two as a Christmas gift from his mum. He played the shit out of Sons of Liberty.

-However, only a small handful of games really caught his interest. Price feels like he's too old for video games (he's not) and he's too mature for them too (he's really not).

-If someone gave him a strategy rpg, you wouldn't see him for a week. Then he'd show back up and explain how to play the game in the most ruthless manner.

-Ghost grew up poor, so he never really had video games. Didn't really have mates that were willing to let him play with theirs.

-Can't miss what you never had, right?

-He would have one "date" (whether he is actually dating them or not is up in the air) who collected older video games and encouraged him to play with them during an at home date night.

-Ghost would fall in love with Nintendo's more low stakes games. Animal Crossing and Pokemon both have no traumas that make him need to leave the room.

-Soap and Gaz were invited to Ghost's New Horizons island and they were shocked at how good the island looks.

-Pretty, popular Gaz grew up playing Yugioh and Pokemon TCGs. Everyone wanted to play against him, with the winner getting something from the loser (the other kids wanted a kiss to the cheek if only to brag)

-Too bad for them, Gaz has always had a strategic mind that makes him almost unbeatable in any pvp games.

-He talks about playing all the popular games, and he does, but he's super nostalgic about the older, more obscure platformers. Think Vince the VooDoo Doll and Jak and Daxter as a range of obscurity to popularity.

-Challenge him to a platformer race, because that's where Gaz's weakness in games is. The man is terrible at them, but he loves them all the same.

-Video games? With Soap? Lord...

-With his big family, video games weren't a fun pass time. It was war. His little sister wanted to play Animal Crossing, his little brother fought with his older brother to play a mature warshooter, his older sister wanted to veg out with Katamari Damacy.

-He fell in love with Mass Effect and Dragon Age, enjoying the stories and how the games changed based off choices. Also, he can explode things with fire. Always a good time.

-Soap only picks up Nintendo due to Ghost, and he ends up playing things like Fire Emblem and Splatoon.

-Don't invite him to your New Horizons island. He is a menace and will hide pitfalls all over the place and sneak inappropriate things into said island (fake nude statues, creatively dropped items, etc.) He's the worst. Ghost will tell you.

[charmingdollthing]

Doll who’s witch is cruel and evil. She spews a miasma of curses that infect entire towns, steals firstborn sons, bloodies the harvest moon, and lets loose hordes of monsters under her command. She revels in being hated and feared by the nation. Feared by everyone but her doll. She’ll be in the middle of torturing some poor sod and in will walk the doll, who will start to sweep but before it can get anywhere, it’s pinned to the floor covered in a shower of kisses and hugs.

“My sweet doll!” The witch cries out excitedly, no matter the circumstance, “Look at you you’re so cute. Yes you are. Yes you are.”

“Missus, please,” the doll whimpers, embarrassed and blushing all over the place, “not in front of the torturees.”

“Oh yes in front of the torturees my precious,” she smiles a wicked, happy smile, “nothing strikes fear in the heart of the masses then knowing that their terrifyingly evil witch,” she pauses for dramatic effect, thunder rumbling outside, “is capable of love.”

Then she returns to joyfully laying kisses onto her doll.

[hellyeahscarleteen]

The Second Guesser's Guide to Hormone Therapy

Hormone therapy –and transition in general- isn’t one-size-fits-all. Though many transgender people seek medical transition, others may choose not to. Every transgender and nonbinary person (like every person, period⁠) has a unique way of expressing their gender. This means hormone therapy doesn’t always look the same.

Though having such a wide definition of transition sounds freeing, for second-guessers like myself, it can also cause indecision. Many nonbinary people struggle to sort through where on the gender spectrum they fall and how they want to express that. Certain effects of hormone therapy might feel too masculine⁠, feminine⁠, or just be unwanted. It’s normal to be scared and unsure. Starting hormone therapy is a big decision and doubting it doesn’t make someone any less trans.

Most of my doubts manifested in the form of never-ending questions. My biggest question–What is my goal?–was a nesting doll of other concerns. What presentation will make me feel euphoric? What parts of my body am I most dysphoric about? How masculine is too masculine for me? For some binary trans people, the goal is passing⁠ as a cisgender⁠ person. But what would passing even look like for me? As a nonbinary person, I had trouble deciding what effects I wanted from testosterone⁠. Some appealed to me: my body fat being redistributed, my muscle mass increasing, and my voice changing. Others scared me: getting acne and experiencing male pattern baldness. All the other effects sat in a gray area along with my gender...

Cay Macres is here to help if you're feeling scared by the many unknowns of transitioning or unsure if you're ready to take the leap to HT. This piece is for the second-guessers - those who feel the answer to "What presentation will make me feel euphoric?" isn't all that simple. Continue reading Cay's guide below