#shoes Fit me technically it’s just the back of them are v stiff and never fail to tear up the back of my feet and also they’re raised

[pallases]

how is it only tuesday 😭😭

[deansleather]

An Agreement

Pairing: Crowley x Reader Prompt: Crowley for @spnhiatuscreations week 6, and “Is this goodbye?” for @cas-is-my-hero ‘s 100 Followers Celebration (I tweaked the quote, hope you don’t mind Summary: After being sent wrongly to Hell, Crowley decides to compromise; your life back in exchange for one date with him. Simple and harmless, though something seems to change as the night wears on. Word Count: 3942 Warnings: fluff! technically death, but this is in the SPN world; no one dies for long, just a basic idea of what happened is told

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A/N: I have got to say, I really enjoyed this one. I certainly have a little thing for the King of Hell, and I hope you enjoy this as much as I! As always, FEEDBACK IS LOOOOVED! EVEN JUST A LIKE HELPS 

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“A bad boy can be very good for a girl.” ― Melissa de la Cruz, Girl Stays in the Picture

           You woke up on the ground, resting on a red rug. The room smelled of cologne, sulfur, candles, and a little like iron, a strange mixture that was both pleasing and unsettling. You felt as though you were awakening from a yearlong sleep; everything was hazy and blurred, and the moment you began to move everything started to ache. Your head was throbbing, and as you began to take in the unfamiliar surroundings, your stomach started to knot.            

           The last thing you remembered was the car, coming all too fast as you ran to push the little boy playing ball from his definite demise. You weren’t really thinking, but subconsciously you had hoped you had a chance of living. It was strange; you had a body, you felt sentient, yet you couldn’t tell if you were alive, per say. You had expected to wake up to the beeping of hospital monitors and the rustling of their stiff sheets. Even with the effects you were currently feeling, there was no way you would feel so okay without heavy medication.

           “We’ll never get anywhere with her in this state,” a man sighed, his accent striking to you. What was it? Scottish? British? You heard a snap, and suddenly the haze was gone, your body now entirely able and well. You blinked a few times, pushing yourself up from the ground slowly, testing your limits.

           “What the hell?” you asked yourself, looking down at your body to find no injuries, not even a scratch of road burn.          

           “You’re more correct than you realize,” the same voice taunted. Definitely British. Slowly, you raised your eyes to the owner of the accented tone, your heart skipping a beat at what you saw. He was shockingly intimidating, his eyes digging into your soul from over his glass of golden drink, you presumed alcohol. He sat on a thrown, red and black and intricately designed. He wore a suit, his crossed legs lifting up an extremely shiny shoe. You gulped as you finally let your eyes meet his, the intensity of his gaze staggering.      

           “What’s going on?” you murmured, rubbing your clammy hands on your legs. He smirked, setting down his drink on the stand beside him, slowly lifting from his seat and walking towards you. When he was just mere inches away and you were sure your heart was going to hop out of your chest, he stopped.        

           “You’ve been sent to Hell, love,” he divulged, his hands behind his back. “It’s where the naughty girls go.” You shook your head, looking around the room at what must’ve been his cronies.

           “No, no, no,” you rushed, panicked. “There must be something wrong, I’ve tried so hard-“

           He raised one of his hands, making you stop in your tracks. You weren’t sure what it was, but there was something so damn daunting about him. It hit you in that moment, the reality of the situation.

           “Wait,” you murmured, your breathing practically stopped. “Does that make you…Satan?”

He chuckled, shaking his head as if he was appalled.    

           “No, Luci is off gallivanting with the Winchesters. I’m much better.” He winked. You weren’t sure what most of his sentence meant, but you felt comforted that you weren’t speaking to the Devil himself. “I’m Crowley, King of Hell.” You were about to question the semantics, but he reached his hand out to one of his followers, a clipboard weighted with papers handed to him. He looked down at it, calling out a stranger’s name. He squinted at the words, looking back and forth from you to the paper.

           “…that’s not me,” you inputted, relief flooding through you. “My name’s Y/n Y/l/n.” He shook his head, glaring at the man closest to him.            

           “What is this?” he hissed, his eyes blackening. Your heart dropped. The man stuttered.

           “I-I don’t know sir, she came in just like the rest, everyone else has been correct today…”

           Crowley growled under his breath, closing his eyes to think. He threw the clipboard back at the man’s chest, looking to you calmly.

           “Well, I suppose you should start heading north,” he sighed.

           “So, I’m dead, huh?” you said, laughing without humor. You rubbed your face, muttering to yourself. “I’m not ready to be dead, I have so much to do. I was just trying to save that boy I didn’t realize this was all going to happen. I mean who expects-“

           “Shh,” he hummed, placing a finger on your lips. Your heartbeat fluttered once more. “I’m willing to create a sort of…compromise.” He raised an eyebrow.

"You're not supposed to make deals with the Devil," you said. He laughed at this, bringing a small smirk to your lips.

           “Well good thing I’m no devil then.” He placed an arm around you, leading you towards a small wooden stool near his thrown. You sat down, thankful for the respite. “You’ve made quite the impression, I have to say…I like you.”

You blushed at the sentiment, feeling both pleased and ashamed. You had just seen his demon eyes, and yet here you were, pining over the supposed King of Hell. Could it get any more backward? But as he kneeled in front of you, you realized why he was so intimidating. It wasn't the throne, or the demon onlookers, or his position in Hell of all places; you found him sexy.

           “So, what do you propose?” you whispered. He smiled at you, brushing a piece of hair from your face.

           “Go on a date with me,” he said simply, his accent making the sentence even more charming. You squinted your eyes, suspicious of his intent.

           “If this is a coy way of asking for sex the answer is a solid no-“

           “No, no,” he defended, putting his hands up, his amusement at your distaste palpable. “Just an innocent little playdate, you and I.”

           “Alright,” you nodded slowly, still unsure. “So, what am I getting?”

           “Besides the night of your life?” he teased. “I’ll undo all this messiness. You’ll live to see your bland little life once more.”

           “My life’s not bland-“ you began, quickly cutting yourself off. The King of Hell was offering you a very generous agreement, best not disrupt it. “It’s a deal.” He smiled, clapping his hands together.

           “Perfect, I’ll pick you up at six.” Another snap of his fingers and you were home, zapped into the room next to where your friends sat looking through your stuff, their crying sounding through the house. You looked in the mirror before stepping out to greet them. You looked disheveled and sickly, which was perfect. It would take a hell of a lot of explaining to clean up this mess.

~~~~`

           Six rolled around much too quick; it turned out to be a lot of work explaining how you, who was dead hours before, waltzed into your living room like nothing happened. You claimed amnesia; you figured it was better than witchcraft or insanity. You did manage to get dressed up in the time you had left though, putting on makeup, a dress, doing your hair, the whole nine yards. If a full-on suit was his day wear, you figured a night time date with him was practically ball gown worthy. You did wear comfortable shoes though; dying can take a lot out of a girl.

           Your door bell rang at six o’clock sharp, your heart racing at the sound. You were sitting on your couch, trying to breathe deeply. You were going on a date with the charming, handsome, British, and extremely enticing King of Hell. No biggie.

           You opened your door, instantly faced with Crowley looking…well, dashing. It was an unusual word for you, yet it just fit. His hair was gelled, his suit even more delicately tailored and perhaps even a little old-fashioned, the roses in his hand adding to the effect. He seemed to have speech taken from his as well, his eyes lighting up as he took you in. His eyes squinted as he smiled, an extremely endearing trait.

           “You look…” he shook his head, trailing off. “Well, breathtaking.” You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you felt the heat rush to your face.        

"Why thank you, you don't look too shabby yourself." He smirked, putting out his arm, prompting you to follow him. You linked your arm through his, gratefully accepting the flowers as he handed them to you. You closed the door behind you, double checking to make sure it was locked. He smirked at the action but made no comment. "So, where are we going?"

"Now, what fun would it be to tell you?" You scoffed but didn't push it. You weren't sure what the boundaries were with him, and you didn't plan on getting on his bad side. He escorted you to his car, and while you were no expert by any means, even you could tell it was out of most people's price range. Ruling Hell had to have some perks.  

           The car ride was silent, the only noise the sound of your heart thudding in your ears. You got so paranoid that he could hear it, you rolled down your window. Hair done or not, you really weren’t ready for your true feelings to be revealed to him. The windows were tinted so you could barely see out of them anyway, it was a nice relief to at least slightly see where you were being taken. He had promised there would be nothing inappropriate happening, but you still felt uneasy with putting all your faith in him. There was no way the ruler of Hell was entirely wholesome.

You saw bright neon lights in the distance as the car turned onto a graveled side road. The air felt heavy, slightly tacky even; you hoped that the date would take place indoors, as there seemed to be rain coming very soon. Finally, the car pulled to a stop in front of a quaint square building adorned with bright lights and advertising posters. The largest of the lights flashed each letter individually.

S M A L L ‘ S  J A Z Z C L U B

You whipped your head around to face Crowley, a smile growing on your lips. He looked encouraged at your expression and you could swear you saw a little blush, but it could’ve just been the flashing lights behind you.

“This is great,” you exclaimed, nodding quickly. “I’ve never been!’

"It's a ball," he winked. "Nothing too extravagant, though something told me that was the way you'd want." You nodded, thankful. You had imagined some sort of excessive party that would unavoidably exhaust and embarrass you in one way or another. This was much better, needless to say, and by the sight of the other women entering, you dressed accordingly. He exited from his side, rushing to get the door for you. You laughed, letting out a shy "thank you" under your breath. This was it, you were going on a date with Crowley. Something about the laughter coming from the building and the bright lights calmed all your nerves, leaving you just with a feeling of exhilarated zest. You heard distant thunder, as you began to walk in.    

“Sounds like we made it in the nick of time,” Crowley commented, leading into the club, past the hostess after giving her a polite nod. You looked at him strangely, unsure. He continued to lead you deeper into the club, until you were in your own private corner booth, curtains draping at the back of the semi-circle seat. Crowley extended his arm, allowing you to sit first. You were shocked by the comfort of the seat, especially with the petite size of the place. It wasn’t often that places like these had anything but hard, wooden chairs. “Can you see the stage alright? I can rearrange if not.”

You smiled at his doting, nodding in affirmation.

“Yeah, actually I have a really good view.” The booths had been slightly elevated in the back, giving you the perfect spot to see every bit of the stage. Saxophones were leaned against seats, a large bass and drums planted next to each other, all tied together with a microphone in the middle. The place was extremely pleasant; it smelled of wine and incense, and the lighting was just dim enough to set a mood without blinding every customer. Crowley motioned over a waiter, ordering both your drinks at your request. It was a deep red wine, though it surprisingly wasn't too tart or burning; it tasted almost sweet and warmed you as you drank.

“Thank you,” you murmured, taking another sip. “For…everything. You didn’t have to do what you did I’m sure, and this is a small price to save my life.”

“Well, it can’t always be death and punishment. Variety is the spice of life, isn’t it?” he purred, his voice deep and rough. Jesus, if his job was to tempt people over to the dark side, he was doing one hell of a job.

“When is the show supposed to start?” you asked, looking eagerly to the stage. You saw him smile in your peripheral.

“Eager, aren’t we?” he teased. “Once they get most of the meals out, I believe.” You rolled your eyes, causing him to laugh.

“Who cares if we eat,” you continued, enjoying his reaction. “I’d rather enjoy some jazz as I starve, thank you very much.”

“Maybe we should avoid another death, no?”

He shook his head, and you thanked the waiter as he put bread on the table. You both grabbed a piece, you nibbling at it mindlessly. He looked to you with squinted eyes, deep in thought. You set your bread down, resting your arms on the table to lean in towards him.

“What you thinking about?” you asked, feigning nonchalance.

“Just curious,” he prefaced. “How did you die? You don’t seem like the type to have a target on your back.” You laughed, shaking your head.

“No, definitely not. I ran out in front of a car-“ you began.

“That tends to do the trick,” he nodded, smirking at his own ornery remark.

"I wasn't finished," you insisted. "I was pushing a little boy out of the way."

“Ah, I see,” he murmured. “So, you enjoy playing the hero?”

“Well,” you shrugged. “I obviously don’t do it often, or you’d probably have seen me before this.” He nodded, the logic passing whatever he expected to hear. You thought for a moment, looking from your hands to him.

“What is it, love?” he pressed, his eyes never leaving yours. You blushed.

“Well,” you sighed. “I guess I’m just not sure what I can and can’t ask you. I definitely don’t want to…offend you.”

“Pissing off the King of Hell does seem unwise,” he agreed. “Though I doubt you would push me that far.”

“Well then, uh, I guess my first question is, well, what is Hell, exactly? What do you do to the people?” you asked tentatively.

           “I’m sure you’re imagining the whole chains and torture devices, and there are some crevices left like that, but it’s mostly standing in a line now,” he stated simply. You blinked at him.

           “…standing in a line? That’s Hell?”

"Can you imagine standing in a line for all eternity?" he quipped. You shrugged, weighing his words.

           “But what about like, I don’t know, Hitler?”

           “Love the originality, darling. There are plenty of evil bastards in history to choose,” he teased.

           “Alright, Stalin, Napoleon, Hitler, all the big bad guys. Their punishment is just to stand in a line? That seems to…I don’t know. Fall a little flat?” you expressed, dissatisfied. He smirked.

           “Don’t you worry dear,” he assured. “I have all the grossest bastards in a special corner of Hell. Their punishment is perhaps a little harsher than your average thief’s.” You smiled, feeling a strange comfort with that. You continued your interrogation endlessly, letting him also pick your meal as you had been too consumed in the conversation to peruse the menu. It wasn’t long before the meal came out (he had picked the most expensive meal on the menu, you later noticed) and the band started playing. You weren’t nearly as engrossed in the music as you were in Crowley. Thankfully, the music was the perfect volume to create some ambiance, but not force you to shout.

           “Alright, so this might be a touchy subject,” you started. “But…what’s the deal with God? If there’s a Hell, then there’s gotta be a Heaven, which means there’s a God, right?”

He nodded. "There is a God, a bit of a wanker, a dead-beat dad at best if you ask me."

You grimaced, and of course, Crowley noticed.

           “What, don’t appreciate the blasphemy?” he taunted. You shook your head, looking at your food very intently.

           “No, no, not that religious just…don’t really wanna piss the big guy off, either,” you admitted.

           “I suppose that also makes sense,” he relented. “Though there’s little need to worry, he’s not much of the strike down type. Half the time he’s nowhere to be found.”

           “Mysterious ways and all, huh?” you joked, raising an eyebrow.

           “You could say that,” he murmured, chewing in thought. He looked you up and down, smiling slightly as he set down his utensils. “Enough of the existentialist. Let’s talk about you.”

           “Alright.” You laughed nervously. “What do you want to know?”

           “All of it, everything there is to know,” he insisted. “The night is young, and I’m here to listen.”

           And so, you told him everything you could think; your birthday, about your family, your favorite books and poets, what shows you watch, what shows you hate. He asked about your exes and you reluctantly even shared that. There was something about your relationship that seemed so…open. You supposed he had been alive for countless centuries, but it was more than that. It was as if you could tell him anything at all and he would eat it up, listening to you with wide eyes as he soaked in the information. It felt nice and undeniably sweet, though it seemed strange to associate the word with him. Despite his title, he had been nothing but sweet and gentlemanly, and he deserved the credit.

           Too soon, your forks began scratching against empty plates and the band said its final goodbye. The light began to brighten and waiters rushed around to pick up the last of the plates. The night had ended, and too early for your taste, though you’d never admit it. Crowley begrudgingly stood up, extending an arm out to you.

           “Seems the night is coming to a close. Shall we?” You nodded, blinking the tears from your eyes. How ridiculous, you’d just met the man and you were this upset at parting ways? Maybe you had too much wine. Or perhaps you just really, really, really liked the witty, charming, handsome, and extremely British man. The ladder was most likely.

           The ride back to your house seemed shorter than it was before, which just figured. You weren’t ready to get out of his car that smelled deliciously of his cologne. You didn’t want to lose sight of his suited figure and watchful eyes. You’d miss the deep lilt of his voice when he spoke to you, much gentler than you’d seen him speak to anyone else.

           You just weren’t ready for goodbye.

           He walked you up to your front porch, both of you silent as you stood awkwardly in place. What was the protocol here? It wasn’t often that you dated demons, but you doubted that it was the wisest choice. Who knew what would come of keeping in touch, or if his intentions were nearly as pure as he had been leading on.

           “Crowley?” you murmured, clearing your throat.

           “Yes, pet?” he responded earnestly.

           “I know I’ve bombarded you tonight.” You smiled. “But can I ask just one more question?”

           “Of course.” He took a step closer. “Anything.”

           “Why did you ask for a date? You could have asked for anything. What did you get out of this?”

           He looked away for a moment, nothing but the rustling of the trees making a noise. You heard the thunder from earlier, but much closer this time, and both of you watched as the dark clouds above moved closer and closer. He was quiet until tiny droplets began to fall, neither of you moving to avoid them.

           “Do you really want to know, Y/n?” he whispered, his expression unsure.

           “Yes,” you insisted without hesitation. He breathed deeply, taking his time, thinking through every word as he spoke.

"I've seen countless souls over the past centuries, sweetly good and deliciously bad, and yet all similar. Then there's you, all these years later. When they pushed you beneath my throne…well, I had a hard time holding myself together. Part of me was pleased to have you in Hell, at my constant bidding, but I knew it was unlikely you belonged there. Of course, I was right, I always am, yet there was no victory in this. I wanted you to stay; I wanted to stay with you. This little…agreement was the only way I could imagine that happening without turning you off. I knew my usual seduction would do little on you. So,” he finished, gesturing around him. “Here we are.”

           “Crowley…” you began, unable to speak properly. There weren’t enough words, how could you ever express your feelings? Speaking just wouldn’t do it, but you could think of one thing that may just get the message across. Gently, you cupped his jaw, rubbing your thumb against the stubble of his beard. Incredibly slow, you leaned in to kiss him, his lips needy and ready once you connected yours to them. Tenderly, he grabbed at your waist, his hands sending shivers up your spine. The rain began to get stronger around you, making both of you slick and soaked, but neither of you cared. It was as though the world had turned off for a moment. He rubbed up and down your arms gently, just enjoying you. You felt him smirk into the kiss at the feeling of goosebumps. Eventually, you were the one to pull away, your breathing heavy. Crowley seemed barely winded.

           “I suppose this means I’m not alone in the sentiment?” he retorted. You blushed, feeling a sense of uncertainty. Was this really the right thing?

           “I-I really should get some sleep.” You cleared your throat. He nodded, taking a step back. You took out your keys, prompting him to walk off your porch towards his car.

           “Thank you for a lovely night,” he whispered, getting out his own keys. When he was halfway down your walkway, you called to him.

           “So, is this goodbye?” you called. He stopped, turning on his heels to face you. “I mean, like permanently?”

           “It doesn’t have to be,” he stated calmly. There you both stood, the rain continuing to soak you, though neither of you budged as you thought over your next move. Who knew what the right thing was? King of Hell or not, you liked him, more than you had anyone in a long time. Someone had to rule the underworld, and you turned out to be lucky it was him. Even if you ended up being sent to Hell for this, at least you’d have him as company.

           “Screw it,” you muttered under your breath. “C’mon, let’s go dry off.”

           He smiled, walking back to you and wrapping his arm around your shoulders.

           “Lead the way,” he said, a sense of pride overcoming him. “I’m going wherever you are.”

 ~~~~~

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[what-soul]

Gender

It occurred to me while I was exploring the nature of this sense of yearning for a sort of “coming of age” story that I haven’t written anything about my sense of gender on this blog, something which seems to always be bubbling in the background even when I’m unaware of it. The last time I made serious notes about gender was at Sierra Tucson and soon after moving to Crownview, and was likely postponed due to needing to adjust too quickly and return to old coping mechanisms. I have an excerpt here I’ll copy from Sierra Tucson:

I’ve been thinking about gender identity as it relates to physicality and societal expectations. If I am male, I feel like that identity shouldn’t come exclusively from biology, especially concerning outliers. Thus it seems that gender as we truly define it is something more abstract; belonging to a group. But then, how is such a group defined if not ad-hoc, biologically inspired judgement? Perhaps it’s more useful to recontextualize gender as the identification with certain values. We might imagine a distant future where biological gender has been genomically removed, but people still fall into gendered categories (even a literal “man” or “woman” card, like a club membership) by taking a personality and values assessment test. But then, what are these values? What follows is a first draft from perceived societal norms and expectations:

Male:

Strength

Stoicism

Self-sacrifice?

Self-sufficiency/solidarity

Engineer

Protection

Confrontation

Direct

Outward

Honor

Female:

Elegance

Compassion

 Flexibility

Cooperation

Designer

Growth/nurturing -> support

 Indirect

Inward

Fairness

Notice that none of these are diametrically opposed; one person could have all these qualities, although such a person would be just short of perfect. These represent the values of a gender identity as well as the attitude/mindset. They are designed to fit with antiquated gender norms and are all positive qualities meant to empower any who embody them. This is not prescriptive, but descriptive, and no effort is made to make an explicit tie to biological sex. Additionally, qualities are made to be abstract. Qualities like “physical” v “emotional” implicitly dehumanize and are too close to reality to be appropriate values.

After a page of doodling I came to these values:

Strength | Elegance

Stoicism | Compassion

Structure | Flexibility

Independence | Cooperation

Protection | Support

Honor | Equality

I’m sure if I rooted through Journal 0 I’d find notes expanding this model, but I’m lazy.

Now then, I suppose I should explore my relationship to gender here, something I’m finding particularly hard to keep a train of thought about.

I can’t say gender has always been a complicated subject for me. I don’t recall having any particular interaction with it as a kid up to... we’ll say middle school. I think it really only became complicated when my asexual fetish branched out into transgenderism and the homosexual side of my bisexuality came out. I would often imagine myself as female with a male in fantasies - this didn’t so much cause me to question my masculinity as wonder what “masculinity” and “femininity” really were. In my head, the difference seemed superficially anatomical, but I got a distinct feeling there was something deeper to it.

I also questioned my gender identity as far as being trans goes, but at the end came to conclude that, for one, anatomical gender was irrelevant other than how it affects the perceptions of others and post-op transsexuals were deluding themselves into thinking physicalizing a fundamentally abstract part of their personality would somehow lead them to self-actualization. On the other hand, an easy counter-point was putting myself in the shoes of a female social scenario and recognizing that any such exchange made me uncomfortable; I didn’t like being treated “like a girl”. But then, so too did male social scenarios.

I became more and more aware of a deep discomfort when stereotypes were applied to me, such as remarking that my eating habits are “because I’m a boy”, or that I’m acting “just like a boy”. It felt wrong, alienating, dehumanizing even, not because they were technically inaccurate, but rather because they robbed aspects of my personality and placed them in a categorical identity I had no control over. For a while I felt some sense of pride when I saw how unlike the stereotypes I was, caring nothing for “football” or “cars”, but such an attitude has likely led me to my current situation; a lack of socialization with “male culture” and thus a stunted ability to make friends.

If I might go off on a tangent for a bit, I have this particular image in my head. When I lived with a friend, there was a grey cat named Sophie there. She was very odd to deal with, because it almost seemed like she didn’t know how to act like a cat. She was stiff, easily spooked, would stare blankly at toys or playful advances from the other cat, and loved nothing more than to lie down on someone’s lap where she didn’t have to move around. I’ve been told she was removed from her litter too early; essentially, she never had the opportunity to learn how to be a cat, and what resulted was this uncomfortable mess. I am that cat, “catness” being “manhood”.

Speaking of, I do remember always being incredibly uncomfortable with the word “man”, less so with “boy”, and that still seems to apply. I cringe every time I remember that I’m supposed to be a “man”. Is it fear of the expectations therein? A residual reaction to the inherent dehumanization of labeling?

I don’t think all of this is solely related to gender though; I get similar (though less pronounced) feelings when people comment on my race being causal to my personality. There’s just something deeply unsettling about people having these easy visual markers to tear off large chunks of your humanity before you can even speak.

As for my perception of the stereotypes associated with men, I suppose I should list those:

Strong, aggressive, teasing borders bullying

Smart or stupid, serious or clowns, usually overconfident

Ravenous appetite, a proclivity toward activity

Sports, cars, sex, money, fame, success

Competition, independence, invulnerable

Expected to self-sacrifice (stoicism, women and children first)

Heavy lifters, pull the weight, breadwinner, work yourself to death

Soldier, worker, grunt, slabs of meat

Big and bulky, powerful, threatening, hairy, smelly

Unrespectful of politeness (body humor, farts, burps are “funny”)

Dirty slobs, pigs or bulls, wrecking everything they pass

There’s a few societal roles tangled up in there (child, adolescent, adult, family-man) but you can get the general picture. As I write these I interpret only negatives, but it occurs to me that there’s nothing inherently negative about any of them (with some exceptions). Someone matching these stereotypes would think them either natural or even virtuous.

Uh... Back to my original motivation, exploring this sense of... disconnection or lack of finality with my gender. This feeling I can’t quite place. One that’s most strongly responded to this image:

... and others like it...

From what I can tell, the two main commonalities are “serious face” and “contrast” (young and old). The second image especially fascinates me because I can see the adult’s eyes shining through his child body. Something about that, unattainable levels of wisdom well beyond their years... I’d compare it to nostalgia, or even a longing for something to be nostalgic about.

I want a coming of age story set in elementary school featuring a main character who’s older than they appear. Am I looking for a role model? A transitional period between being taken care of and taking care of others? I want to feel small for some reason. Do I want to be masculine in the strong protector sense? I lack it as-is. Many of the things Satoru does are unthinkable for me simply because of my personality, things I wouldn’t mind doing but can’t because that’s not the imaginary self I’m roleplaying... Personality? Something to tinge what to me is a dull grey mush of a personality? Or happiness, belonging, connection, friends.

And then in anime, when I see boys shirtless

It’s not jealousy, or lust. I wish for a toned physique, and enjoy looking at theirs. But at the same time, I feel a counter-feeling of shame from wanting anything “manly” like well-defined muscles. I don’t want to be a “man”, yet I find myself wishing for just that.

I just want to be “me” without that being labeled.. Just “human” suffices, I think. (though I’ve had issues with even that...)

I keep thinking about writing some kind of story in which a girl wakes up as a boy and has to deal with everything that comes with. She’d be a kind of self-insert for me, in that neither of us knows what being a boy is like.