#split-divide identity/personality

[girl4music]

Just watched ‘Eternity’ for the first time and I have some thoughts to share about what happened in it.

ANGEL: “Forget it. I didn't mean--“

CORDELIA: “Yes, you did. I'd appreciate you not trying to weasel out of it. Angelus may not be relaxing company, but at least he's honest. Shouldn't I expect the same from the not-evil version?”

Couldn’t have said it better myself Cordelia. I mean if just a drug stimulant simulating happiness is all it takes for Angel to revert into his soulless self (yeah, I’m not going to refer to him as a different entity - not when episodes like this exist) then this atonement gig really is pretty pointless. The narrative wants you to think of it as atonement but this is about absolution for Angel. If he can’t even be honest with his friends as Angel about what he says and does as Angelus, then there really is no hope for him redeeming himself. This isn’t a “loss of soul/restoration of soul” going on with the whole good-to-evil switch and even the other main characters can see that it’s not. Drugs can induce reality illusions and make it seem very real. I totally get that part. I understand why they did that. But if it’s really that easy for him to suddenly turn like that then he shouldn’t really be allowed to live - or exist. I know that may seem unfair but he is dangerous to the point of chaotic unpredictability. And I don’t think the narrative can keep lying to itself that Angel/Angelus are two entirely different entities when there’s a split-divide identity/personality problem here that can just be simulated like that.

At first I thought he was just playing Rebecca. Putting on an act to scare her away from what she thinks she wants. And I thought “Effective tactic”. But then he started delivering real abuse and violence. That clearly wasn’t acting. The drugs in the drink really did simulate the experiencing of happiness and therefore Angel behaving as if he lost his soul. If a powerful drug spiking can essentially be like the Placebo effect of the curse’s condition, then it’s not possible for me to take a redemption story for the ensouled vampire seriously because it’s clearly got nothing to do with his soul. It’s his mind! Drugs can only affect the mind!

You’re asking me to accept both contradictory narratives here. The one where he is under demonic possession and the other where he should feel guilty.

I’m sorry but I just can’t do that. It doesn’t work! It has to be either one or the other or I can’t accept it.

I can’t and I won’t accept what is clearly an absolution story that pretends to be a redemption story.

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART VII

summary: the trials and tribulations of falling in love or two idiots who can't get their shit together.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 6.8k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). angst!!! cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol and covid. feelings of hopelessness, anxiety. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hello again, here's the next part!! also here are a few songs i listened to while writing this one: salt in the wound - boygenius, flume - bon iver, the gold - phoebe bridgers, for emma - bon iver, forever winter - taylor swift and calgary - bon iver.

happy reading <3

masterlist!

January 19, 2020

Los Angeles, CA

There have always been two versions of you: the person you once were and the person the world has decided you are. The first is the one who existed long before the spotlight, the one with a bit of adolescent angst, dreams bigger than herself, and a heart still learning to shield itself.

This version was taught by her parents that she was special, but the world hadn’t yet caught on. She was the girl who felt small and out of place, who wrestled with who she was and where she belonged.

And then there’s the second version, the one who stands in the center of magazine covers, on the glossy side of fame. She is everything you once dreamed of becoming—and more. You’ve spent the last decade perfecting her image, carving her out of raw ambition and countless hours under the hot glare of cameras. Her Wikipedia page reads like an epic: awards, accolades, achievements—flawless. She’s a masterpiece.

This side of you is never tired. She never shows frustration. She knows how to angle her face when the camera flashes, to smile when the questions sting, and to cry beautifully when accepting awards. She can gracefully discuss the sexism she’s faced in the industry, yet she knows better than to name names or point fingers.

She always sticks to the narrative.

For the longest time, you hoped you wouldn’t need to split into two people. That the version of yourself from years ago would be good enough for the world. But the divide wasn’t gradual—it was sudden. It happened four years ago, the day your ex decided to make you the centerpiece of a bitter, ugly breakup that splashed across every tabloid in the country. Since then, you’ve been caught between these two identities, juggling the woman you once were with the image the world expects of you.

As you sit in the back seat of the car, your eyes linger on your reflection in the tinted window. Tonight is the SAG Awards, another high-profile event where your public persona will take the lead. You watch yourself in the mirror, a familiar stranger, and wonder: Does anyone truly know you? Do you even know yourself anymore?

“There's a line of press when you get out of the car,” Taylor, your manager, says without looking up from her phone. “You know, the usual stuff.”

“Got it.”

You nod, trying to focus on the task ahead, but your thoughts are far away. You look out the window, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of color. No matter how many of these events you attend, it never gets easier.

The car slows to a stop, the muffled sounds of the crowd growing louder through the windows.

“Why isn’t Daniel here?” Taylor asks, breaking the silence.

“He had to fly back to Enstone,” you reply, a pang of disappointment in your chest. “The season starts soon. He’s prepping.”

Last year was a challenging one for Daniel—his racing season wasn’t what he hoped for, and he’s determined to make up for it this time around. His commitment to his craft mirrors yours in so many ways, but tonight, you wish he was here with you.

“Oh, that’s too bad, babe,” Taylor says, her hand resting on your knee in a gesture of sympathy. “When will he be back?”

“I’m not sure; he didn't say,” you murmur. “Hopefully soon.”

The door opens, and the roar of the crowd hits you like a wave. Flashing cameras, the shouting of photographers, and the glittering red carpet stretch out before you. “Looks like we’re here,” Taylor says, stepping out and extending a hand to help you.

You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. It’s always easier with someone by your side, but tonight you’ll have to do this alone. You follow Taylor’s lead, plastering a smile on your face as you step out into the chaos. The cameras flash, posing and waving, but inside, you feel detached—like you’re watching yourself from afar.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally make it inside the venue, your body relaxing slightly as the noise of the red carpet fades behind you. You’re greeted by familiar faces and smiles, but the exhaustion from keeping up appearances lingers.

“I thought I was going to be the coolest person here, but clearly, you've beat me to it.”

The voice pulls you from your thoughts, deep and teasing. You turn and find Pedro standing there, dressed in a sleek silver suit jacket with black pants, his expression warm and playful.

His presence doesn't faze you; you've been filming for the Mandalorian since November last year, seeing each other here and there, not really spending time together between takes, and not acknowledging what happened at the wedding. You didn't hear from him since production stopped mid-December, only to get back on set early January. Although with everything else he's doing, you barely see him there anyway.

“You look amazing,” he says, his eyes lingering on you.

You glance down at your outfit—a sharp, stylish suit you picked for the night. It fits perfectly, giving you an air of confidence even though, inside, you feel anything but. “Thanks,” you say. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Pascal.” You gesture to his getup, offering a kind smile.

Pedro smirks, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I came over to congratulate you.”

"Yeah?"

“The Achievement Award. That's huge.”

You laugh softly, a little self-conscious. “That sounds like an overstatement for someone who’s only 28.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze piercing. Pedro has always been able to see through you in ways that others can’t. You can hide from the world, but not from him.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly, his voice firm.

“Do what?” you ask, but he cuts you off before you can finish.

“Don’t invalidate your accomplishments. You deserve this.”

There’s something in the way he says it—a weight to his words that makes you pause. Part of you wants to argue, to downplay everything like you always do, but his sincerity stops you.

Instead, you nod, offering a small smile.

“Thank you, Pedro,” you say softly. “That means a lot.”

Does it?

He sees right through and holds out his arm, a silent invitation. “Wanna walk in with me?”

For a moment, you hesitate. There’s an unspoken tension between the two of you, a history that neither of you has fully acknowledged. But as your eyes meet, the air shifts. You loop your arm through his, holding onto his bicep as the two of you make your way into the theater together. A camera flash goes off, and you smile. But this time, with Pedro by your side, it feels a little less lonely.

•••

You were sitting at a table when a fellow actor and friend started talking about you on stage. It was surreal, like time had slowed down, and you found yourself lost in thought. You’d been to countless awards shows and accepted more than your share of accolades, but this one felt different. A recognition of not just a role or a single performance, but a lifetime of work—or at least, a decade of it. And you were still young. Too young, part of you thought, for this kind of tribute. Yet here you were, about to be honored in front of your peers, the people who had seen your highs and lows.

The screen flickered to life, and a montage of your work began to play. Scenes from movies that had shaped your career, close-ups of moments that had shaped you. A smile here, a tear there, moments of triumph and vulnerability.

It was oddly like watching your life flash before your eyes—a strange out-of-body experience, as if you were looking back at someone else's journey. The montage moved through the years, capturing not just the characters you played but the changes in you—subtle at first, then more pronounced. The younger you, still full of raw hope and untamed energy, compared to the more seasoned version, who had learned how to navigate the treacherous terrain of fame. It felt like a snapshot of your life in fast-forward, as if you were witnessing your own eulogy.

You breathed in deeply, trying to stay present. It wasn’t the end, you reminded yourself.

The applause was thunderous as the montage ended, and it wasn’t until your name was called that reality snapped back into focus.

You stepped out into the blinding lights, the weight of the moment settling in as you approached the podium. The sea of faces before you blurred slightly in the brightness, but you could make out familiar ones. Peers you respected, younger actors looking up at you with wide eyes, veterans who had paved the way before you. And somewhere out there, you knew Pedro was watching.

With trembling hands, you held the award, the metal cool against your palm. You took a breath, steadying yourself before speaking.

“This is... overwhelming,” you began, chuckling, your voice breaking slightly from the emotion of it all. “I don’t even know where to start. Thank you to everyone who believed in me and to the people who supported me through the ups and downs. This means more than I can put into words.”

You paused, scanning the room, catching sight of Pedro for just a second, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that grounded you.

“When I started this journey, I was just a kid with big dreams and very little understanding of how hard this industry could be,” you continued, feeling the words flow more easily now. “But I learned early on that dreams don’t work unless you do. It’s not just about talent—it’s about determination, grit, and pushing through even when everything seems impossible.”

Your eyes drifted toward the younger faces in the audience. “To the younger actors out there, keep going. I know it can feel like the world is telling you no at every turn, like you’re not good enough or that you’ll never make it, but don’t stop dreaming. Don’t stop working. This industry can be brutal, but it can also be beautiful. Find the beauty. Hold onto it. Work for it.”

A wave of applause broke out, but you weren’t finished yet. You felt a pull, a need to say more, something from the heart. Something real.

“And through all of it,” you said, your voice softer now, “keep the people who truly love you close. In this business, it’s easy to get lost in the noise, in the hundreds of things that try to tear you down or make you feel like you’re not enough. But the people who love you for who you are, not what you can give them, are the ones who will keep you grounded. I’ve met some of my forever people in this industry, and for that, I’m grateful. Despite all the bad and all the heartache that comes with this life, it’s those relationships that make it worthwhile.”

Your gaze wandered again, unconsciously searching the crowd for Pedro, and when your eyes met his, something inside you softened. He knew what you were talking about. He knew the weight of those words better than anyone.

“I’m grateful,” you continued, your voice a little more vulnerable now, “because I’ve been able to hold on to those people. Even when things get complicated even when it feels like the world is pushing us apart. You have to fight for those connections. They’re what make this crazy, beautiful life worth living.”

You felt a lump in your throat but pushed through it, finishing with, “So thank you. To the people in my life who have stuck with me through the good and the bad. This is as much yours as it is mine.”

March 5th, 2020

Calgary, Canada

Life after the awards ceremony didn’t feel much different than before. It was still the same relentless rhythm—work, events, travel, more work. The brief moments of peace in between became rare and fleeting, like whispers in the storm of your career. Daniel’s season was supposed to start soon, and though you’d seen him twice after he flew to France for preparations, something between you felt... off. His distance was palpable, but you hadn’t allowed yourself to dwell on it too much. It was easier to stay busy, keep moving, and brush it off as a phase. After all, the both of you were pulled in so many directions—when was the last time anything felt normal?

A quiet dinner in your NYC apartment, one of the few times Daniel managed to swing by in between training sessions. The table was set with takeout boxes instead of a home-cooked meal—neither of you had the energy for anything more.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said softly, watching him as he absentmindedly poked at his food with a fork. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I miss this,” you added.

“Yeah, me too,” Daniel said, but the words were like dust on the air—insubstantial, weightless.

“Is everything okay? You’ve been quiet," you trailed off, unsure of how to breach the distance you felt growing between you.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, just a lot on my mind with the season coming up. It’s…you know, a lot of pressure.”

You reached across the table and placed your hand on his. “You’re going to be great. You always are.”

He gave you that familiar smile, but it still felt like something was slipping through your fingers.

•••

By March, you had flown to Calgary to shoot a horror-adjacent film. The setting—a desolate cabin in the snow, miles from anywhere—was perfect for the kind of chilling atmosphere the director was aiming for. You’d always loved working with indie directors; their stories had depth, innovation, and a sense of grounded reality that the big-budget productions sometimes lacked. It was a reminder of why you fell in love with acting in the first place.

On set, things moved fast. Between takes, you found a quiet corner of the cabin and pulled out your phone to FaceTime with Taylor. She was mid-ranting when she answered.

“There’s a potential shutdown happening, babe. Something about a virus…COVID, or whatever they’re calling it. Have you heard anything about it?”

You’d heard whispers from the crew, but nothing had been confirmed. “I’ve heard some talk around set, but no one knows what’s happening yet.”

“Well, I’m telling you now, it’s serious. This might be the last project you get to work on for a while. Everything else is likely to be delayed. Keep your eyes open.”

You sighed, looking around as the crew moved around with their usual buzz of energy.

“Guess I’ll enjoy this last bit of freedom while I can.”

Taylor chuckled. “Yeah, enjoy it while you’re in the middle of nowhere. Call me if you hear anything else.”

You ended the call and pocketed your phone, the unease settling into your chest. Everyone around the set seemed unfazed, but the air had undoubtedly changed.

By the final days of production, the world was different. Everyone wore face masks, and hand sanitizer became the reigning deity on set.

•••

Reality hit hard. Flights were cancelled. No one could leave. You were stuck in the cabin, snow piling up outside like a barricade against the world, while the virus barricaded you from returning home. You made a grocery run the minute things got a little hectic, filling the place with more supplies than you’d ever seen yourself buy—just in case. The panic in the air was contagious, and chaos reigned for those first two weeks.

You FaceTimed your mom as you unpacked. “I’m stuck in Canada,” you said, laughing softly despite the anxiety that gnawed at your insides.

“Are you serious?” her voice was a mix of worry and exasperation. “You should’ve been back by now. What about New York?”

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to get back. Airports are closed.”

She sighed heavily, the sound crackling through the phone. “Just take care of yourself, honey, alright? Don’t be reckless. Are you alone?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be fine."

Her voice softened. “Be careful, okay?”

“I will, Mom. I promise.”

•••

It was a particularly dark, cold afternoon. The kind where the sky hung low with thick clouds and the cold crept in through the cracks of the cabin no matter how many layers you wore. You had wrapped yourself in a blanket, the silence of isolation pressing down heavier than usual when your phone buzzed on the table.

Daniel’s name appeared on the screen.

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the answer button, but you couldn’t ignore him. Not yet. So you swiped to answer and brought the phone to your ear, forcing a soft, casual, “Hey.”

His voice on the other end was calm, but there was an undercurrent to it—a kind of distance that had been growing for months. "Hey," he replied, his Aussie accent tinged with something heavy. "How’s it going over there?"

You shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it. “You know… same. Snowed in. A lot of waiting.” There was an awkward pause. You filled it with a half-hearted laugh. “How about you? Everything alright?”

He cleared his throat, and you could feel the shift before he even said it. “Actually… I don’t think we should keep this up.”

The words hit you like the cold outside, seeping into your bones, but not with shock—just a kind of muted inevitability. There it is, you thought, the final crack in what was already falling apart.

Your brain hummed with white noise after that. You don’t remember what you said in response, something vague like, “Yeah, I get it.” The words came out on autopilot, and you weren’t really listening anymore. It wasn’t traumatic; it wasn’t the kind of breakup that destroyed you. It was like slowly waking from a dream and realizing it had already ended before you even opened your eyes.

His voice was kind, soft—too soft. “You’re so great, you know that, right? This just… it wasn’t working anymore. For either of us.”

You nodded, though he couldn’t see it. Your mind was elsewhere—on the conversations with Pedro, on the way your heart leaped when you heard his voice instead of Daniel’s. You had known, deep down, for a while now where your heart really was.

“I guess we knew this was coming,” you finally managed, voice steady, as if you were discussing something as simple as the weather.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But still… I didn’t want it to hurt.”

The niceties and the polite words that followed hurt more than any fight ever could have. It was the kindness of it that made it sting—the acknowledgment that neither of you had it in you to fight for something that had already drifted away. There was no anger, no raised voices, no accusations.

Just two people who had loved each other briefly, now saying goodbye like they were parting ways at an airport terminal.

“Well, take care of yourself, alright?” Daniel said softly.

“You too,” you whispered, already feeling the weight of finality.

And then it was over. The phone went silent in your hand, and you stared at the screen as if it could offer you some kind of closure that you weren’t sure you needed.

•••

The days began to bleed into one another. You were alone in that cabin—snowed in and quarantined from the world. The only connection you had was through your phone, through calls with Sarah and Oscar, who checked in on you daily.

Most days, you found ways to pass the time. You read, you cooked—burned some things, too—and found yourself sitting by the old piano that had come with the cabin. Your fingers brushed against the keys, unsure at first, after so much time spent focusing on acting. But the music came swiftly, like muscle memory. The songs poured out of you, stories in lyrical form, shaped by the silence and solitude around you.

But some nights, the quiet was too loud.

The breakup with Daniel lingered in the back of your mind like a dull ache. You had been okay with it for the most part; you knew it was coming, and neither of you were in it anymore. But there were nights, like tonight, when the weight of it crashed down and the loneliness felt too heavy to carry. You lay in bed, tears wetting the pillow, thinking about how everything had ended in polite goodbyes when maybe you needed the screaming.

•••

One day, in the middle of baking—flour dusting your hands and a bowl of half-mixed batter sitting on the counter—you received a text: “I hope you’re doing okay.”

You stared at it, your heart skipping a beat. You had thought about him every single day and wondered how he was coping and whether he was safe. Anytime Sarah called, you asked about him, telling yourself that it was enough to know from a distance. But now, with that simple text, you caved.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

His reply came almost immediately. “Not really. Mostly lonely.”

Your heart broke for him. You knew how hard it was for him to be alone. He thrived off people, off energy. And now, the world had gone still.

“Wanna talk?” you typed, holding your breath.

“Would love to hear your voice,” came the reply.

So you called him, and the hours melted away as you both talked about everything—about the virus, about work, about how isolating it all was. He asked, finally, “How’s Daniel?”

You hesitated. “We’re no longer together. Haven’t been for a while.”

There was a pause, then a soft, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

You quickly changed the subject, but it lingered between you, the unspoken acknowledgment of what that meant. After that, you spoke almost every day. The isolation became less suffocating, and with each call, you both felt a little less alone.

•••

On Pedro’s birthday, you baked a cupcake in his honor, lighting a single candle before FaceTiming him. When he picked up, he laughed, “You made me a cupcake?”

“Of course I did,” you said with a grin, holding up the tiny treat. “Now, pretend to blow out the candle.”

He played along, puffing his cheeks and making a ridiculous show of it. “Thank you for this. It’s not much of a birthday without people.”

“Well, you’ve got me,” you said, singing an off-key version of Happy Birthday. His laughter filled the space between you.

Later that night, he posted a screenshot of your call on his Instagram story, and the internet lost its mind. Comments flooded in—"Omg, she baked him a cupcake!"—“My favorite best friends!”—and you laughed at the attention it brought.

•••

One evening, as you sat at the piano again, your phone propped up with Pedro on FaceTime, he listened quietly as you played a new melody. “I think the lyrics need work,” you said, biting your lip.

He smirked. “Let me hear them.”

You hummed the first few lines, fumbling over the phrasing. “See, it doesn’t quite flow.”

“Let’s try this,” Pedro suggested, offering a line.

By the end of the night, the song felt whole, and you felt lighter.

The days passed—isolated and cold—but your connection with Pedro was alive and warm again. And as the weeks stretched on, you couldn’t help but wonder: How long until you fucked this up again?

October 5, 2020

Budapest, Hungary

Pedro had always known loneliness. It was a quiet, persistent companion, but in Budapest, it had taken on a new form. The city was beautiful, its streets old and layered with history, but none of it could distract him from the hollow ache in his chest. The early mornings on set, the long hours of filming—the work was steady. But outside of that, the hours stretched endlessly.

He had been filming in Europe for months, and though he loved his job, the thrill of creating something special—the distance—both physical and emotional—was wearing him thin. He had been keeping in touch with you, his constant thread of connection. The texts, the occasional FaceTime calls, were easy and comforting. But he could never shake the weight of what he hadn’t told you. What you didn't allow him to say. It felt like a brick in his stomach.

You lived strangely in his head.

He still hadn’t found the courage to say the words. I love you. They haunted him—a truth he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Every time he thought he was ready, he backtracked, swallowing the confession whole. His cowardice infuriated him. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d been in love with you for years, the feelings growing stronger and deeper, but now… now you were thousands of miles away, and he was stuck in this self-made purgatory.

His thoughts often drifted to his mother lately. She had always known how to comfort him, her voice soothing, her advice simple but profound. What would she have said about you? About his inability to speak the truth? He could hear her in his head, telling him to stop being such a fool, to just go for it. But she wasn’t here anymore, and he felt lost without her, more than he ever let on.

The days on set were repetitive but engaging. The crew was tightknit, and the project was exciting. He threw himself into work, hoping it would distract him. He laughed with the cast, bantered with the director, but when the camera wasn’t rolling, his mind was elsewhere. It was with you.

•••

A few weeks later, after wrapping up in Budapest, he found himself in Switzerland alone again. He didn’t know why he’d come. The scenery was breathtaking, the mountains vast and quiet, but the isolation magnified the emptiness he felt. It was as if everything had come to a standstill.

The stillness weighed on him. The quiet, once a solace, now felt oppressive. He spent his days wandering the small towns, drinking coffee in hidden cafés, trying to convince himself that the solitude was a gift. But he felt shattered, more broken than before.

One night, the loneliness became too much, and he called you. Desperation tightened his throat as he waited for you to pick up, his mind screaming at him to just tell you. The phone rang, and when you answered, your voice was soft, familiar, and full of comfort.

"Pedro," you said, and it was enough to stop him in his tracks.

His breath caught, and the confession lodged itself in his throat again. He had been ready, so ready, but hearing you—he thought better of it. What could he say that wouldn’t ruin everything?

"Hey," he replied, his voice rougher than intended. "Just wanted to hear your voice."

You chuckled softly on the other end. "You good?"

"Yeah, I’m good," he lied, the words heavy on his tongue. "Just…miss talking to you, that’s all."

"I miss you too," you said, and it broke him a little more. The call went on, but he had already retreated into himself, too afraid to say what needed to be said. He listened to you talk about your day, your laugh filling the silence on his end, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was failing—failing himself, failing you.

•••

The next day, he went for a walk. The air was cold, biting, but it didn’t bother him. He needed to clear his head. He walked along the cobbled streets, past quaint houses with shuttered windows, and let the weight of his feelings wash over him. It was overwhelming. His history with you, all the unsaid things, all the moments when he should have acted and didn’t. It crashed over him like a wave, leaving him breathless.

He found a bench and sat, his head in his hands. One day, he thought. One day, I’ll tell her.

December 31st, 2020

New York, NY 

The phone call from Oscar came two weeks before New Year's Eve. His voice was warm, as it always was, but there was an unmistakable edge of hope in it, the kind that crept in after months of isolation.

“It’s just something small,” he had said. You could hear his smile through the phone, that charming grin he always wore. “Not a lot of people, you know. Just family and close friends. After the last few months we've had… I think we need this.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar in person in what felt like forever, and the idea of being with people—Oscar’s people, your people—sounded like a balm to the soul. You agreed before he could finish the invitation, the excitement bubbling up despite the world still not feeling quite right.

You got tested later that week, making sure you were safe to attend the gathering.

When you arrived at Oscar’s apartment, the city had an eerie quiet to it. New York was never still, even during the pandemic, but tonight it felt subdued, like it was holding its breath for something more. You headed for the entrance, and the soft sound of music spilled out the moment the doors opened.

Oscar met you with his arms wide open, pulling you into a tight hug. “Look who finally made it,” he teased, his face lighting up in that familiar way. “You look good.”

“You too,” you said, stepping back and taking in the warmth of the room. It was intimate—just the right amount of people to make you feel at home, but not so many that it felt overwhelming.

Before you could take another step, Sarah swooped in, stealing you from Oscar’s embrace with an exaggerated squeal. She enveloped you in a hug so tight you could barely breathe.

“I missed you so much!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with delight. You hadn’t seen her in ages, and the reunion felt like a weight lifting off your chest. The two of you spent the next few minutes catching up, your laughter blending in with the soft chatter around the room.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him. He had arrived a little late, typical of him, but the sight of him sent your heart into a dizzying spin. It had been almost a year since you last saw each other in person.

He moved through the room, and when he finally made his way toward you, your breath hitched. He wore a simple black t-shirt, the fabric clinging to his toned chest. His hair was longer, fluffy from the months of lockdown, and his big brown eyes—usually so full of light —looked tired.

But when he saw you, the weariness seemed to lift for a moment.

He said your name softly, stepping close. His arms opened, and you fell into them without hesitation, wrapping yourself around him in a way that felt too familiar, too safe. He held you tight, his grip lingering longer than necessary, like he was afraid to let go.

“Hey,” you breathed against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him—pleasant, familiar, grounding. The world seemed to fall away for a moment, leaving just the two of you. You pulled back slightly, looking into his face, wanting to say something—anything. You couldn’t live without thinking about him. He consumed your every thought, and somewhere along the way, you had come to terms with how you felt about him.

But the words stuck in your throat.

“At last, we see each other,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, his hand still on your back.

“At last,” you repeated, your heart pounding against your ribs.

You both opened your mouths to speak, then laughed in unison.

"You first," Pedro said, his eyes twinkling with amusement, though there was something deeper there—something lingering just beneath the surface.

But before you could say anything more, Sarah reappeared, her arm hooking through yours as she dragged you away. “Sorry! I need to steal her for a sec,” she said with a laugh, oblivious to the quiet intensity of the moment she’d interrupted.

Pedro smiled at her, though his eyes flicked back to you. "What I wanted to say can wait," he said softly, his voice carrying a promise that sent a jolt through you.

You promised yourself you’d find him later.

•••

In the kitchen, you and Sarah were rummaging through cabinets for more drinks when you heard Oscar’s booming laugh. Turning, you spotted him and Pedro, who now had a ridiculous pointy birthday hat perched on his head. You burst into laughter at the sight, unable to resist.

“Cute hat,” you said, pulling your phone from your back pocket. “Let’s document this moment.”

He grinned, grabbing Oscar by the shoulder and pulling him in for the picture. Pedro tilted his head, drinking from his beer, and Oscar looked up at him with a puzzled expression as you snapped a photo.

“Perfect. That’s going on Instagram for sure,” you teased, and Pedro groaned.

Before anyone could respond, Oscar’s wife walked by, eyeing the hat on Pedro’s head with mock suspicion. Pedro took his cue, unlocking from Oscar and jokingly attacking her with the pointy hat, poking her side with the plastic tip. You snapped another picture, laughing as she swatted him away.

“Send that to me,” she called over her shoulder, and you nodded, tucking your phone back into your pocket just as Sarah handed you a drink.

•••

The night continued, the energy in the room bubbling up as the countdown to midnight approached. Karaoke had started in one of the rooms, and you couldn’t resist.

Pedro avoided it at all costs, standing in the doorway with a bemused expression. After your rendition of Losing My Religion, he caught your eye.

“That was something, huh?” he said, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I was extra terrible just for you,” you shot back, walking over to him. “I know how much you hate this.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” he said.

Just as you were about to respond, a woman’s voice broke through the moment. “Oscar said you were in here,” she said, stepping forward. “Hi.”

You turned to see her approach Pedro, and before you could fully register what was happening, she leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips. A casual, intimate gesture that sent a shock of realization through your entire body.

You blink, dumbfounded, as Pedro shifted slightly to make introductions. “This is Julia,” he said, his voice a little too calm for the turmoil suddenly spinning inside you.

Your mind raced, trying to place her. And then it hit you—she was in the group photos he posted from the crew of the movie he was filming in Budapest. One of the producers, you think.

Oh.

Julia greeted you happily, oblivious to the terrible ache now pooling in your chest. You felt your throat tighten, the words you had wanted to say earlier were now swallowed by this unfamiliar wave of jealousy and disappointment. You went mute, unable to find words that wouldn’t betray how much this hurt.

Pedro’s voice broke the silence again, almost too nonchalant. “This is what I wanted to talk about earlier.”

Your stomach twisted. “Oh, great,” you managed to say, forcing a smile that you didn’t feel.

“And you?” Pedro asked, clearly trying to keep things light. “You said you wanted to talk, too.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, and your mind screamed for you to say something—anything—but all you could muster was, “No, um, it was nothing, really.”

Something stung deep inside you. It was a dull ache, gnawing away at your resolve. You needed a way out. Fast.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” you said to her, your voice tight. “If you’ll excuse me…”

And before either of them could say anything more, you slipped away, making a beeline for the kitchen where Oscar stood.

“Hey,” you blurted, pulling him aside. “He’s fucking dating someone? And you didn’t say a thing?”

Oscar looked at you, taken aback. “I—it wasn’t my news to share.”

You pressed your fingers to your forehead, trying to swallow the embarrassment. “I know. I know, I’m sorry. I just… I can't believe I was about to confess my love for him and make a fool of myself. Again.”

Oscar stared at you, his eyebrows raised. “You were what?”

You laughed, though it was tinged with bitterness. “Yeah. But now? I mean, clearly, it’s just another sign. The timing’s never right. Never.”

Was it punishment? you thought.

Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly uncertain of what to say. Instead, he walked over to the counter and grabbed another drink. “Here,” he said quietly, offering it to you.

You took it, staring at the liquid swirling in the glass.

"It’s fairly new, you know," Oscar said softly, his voice tinged with hesitation. "Like two weeks or something. It’s not serious yet."

“I just don’t get it,” you muttered, almost to yourself. “I don’t.”

Oscar sighed, his hand finding your back, a comforting weight that helped ground you. “I know. I know.”

You knew there was else nothing you could do right now, so you poured the drink down your throat, feeling the burn as it went down.

•••

“There you are,” Pedro called softly, his voice muffled by the cold air as he stepped through the glass doors onto the backyard patio. The wind hit him immediately, sharp and biting, but the bitter cold felt fitting, almost poetic.

You stood there, your back to him, a silhouette against the frozen horizon. For a moment, he was transported back to the first time he saw you in this very spot, under a much different sky. That night, the air had been warm, filled with the kind of anticipation that crackled with every glance exchanged. You had stood just like this, dressed similarly too, arms crossed against the world, hair cascading down your back like a curtain he desperately wanted to pull aside.

But tonight was different. Tonight, your shoulders were tense, hunched against more than just the cold. When you turned around, your face wasn’t full of curiosity. It was distant, your eyes heavy with an emotion he couldn’t quite name, but that he knew he was responsible for.

"You bolted out of there," Pedro said, his voice strained as he tried to sound casual, but the worry leaked through.

You gave a soft, bitter hum, a sound he couldn’t decipher but felt in his bones. "I was a bit shocked, honestly."

He swallowed, suddenly nervous, fumbling with the words he had rehearsed in his mind so many times but never managed to say. "I know. I wanted to tell you about her, I just... I don’t know. It’s new. I didn’t think it was important enough yet. I thought I’d find the right moment, but it never felt... appropriate. And I didn’t want to make things weird, you know?"

Pedro kept talking, words spilling out as he tried to explain. He mentioned her name—Julia—said they had met on set, that it wasn’t serious yet, that it had barely even begun. His voice grew quieter, more unsure with every sentence, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

See, Pedro hadn't planned on getting into a relationship, not when his every thought was consumed by you, not when he knew he loved you, and yet here he was. He didn't know what he was doing anymore.

But your expression had already changed. He could see the way your face shut down, the way your gaze hardened, and it twisted something deep inside him.

“Don’t apologize to me about your relationship,” you said, the words sharp and cutting. “That’s the kind of thing that makes me feel like I’m some kind of Machiavellian villain.”

Pedro winced, his breath catching in his throat. He hated this. But before he could say anything, you spoke again, your voice lower, more controlled.

"Our time never seems to align, does it? It never has, and it never will. It's funny, even.” You paused, looking away, your voice a strained whisper.

Pedro wanted to scream. He wanted to tell you that he felt trapped between his own heart and the razor-sharp edge of what was right, what was fair. The guilt and longing were choking him, twisting his insides until all he could feel was the jagged ache of wanting something that was always just out of reach.

You took a deep breath, the cold air clouding in front of you like smoke.

"Are you happy?" you asked, your voice barely audible. A mirror of his very own "Do you love him?" from last year.

Pedro looked at you, his heart hammering in his chest. “I’m trying,” he said quietly, the truth in the words landing hard.

You nodded, your lips pressed together in a sad, resigned smile.

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

It was an unspoken agreement—a quiet acceptance that, once again, you were not meant to be. That your lives had written this story long before you’d ever had a say in it.

a/n: enough sadness, their time will come soon ;)

a like, reblog or comment, anything is very much appreciated <3

[roadside-oddity]

There is a Rampant and Vicious Cycle in the Online Left That Needs to Be Addressed

Every leftist needs to understand that not every proclaimed leftist is a safe person or one that is acting in good faith. Many people in this sphere --even if they are minorities themselves-- are Abusers. Let me be clear: they are Abusers REGARDLESS of --NOT because of-- them being a minority. Despite this, many of them have weaponized their standing as a minority in order to get away with their behavior and achieve what they see as some form of power and control over others. Let me be clear. I am referring to those that:

Manipulate and lie about pressing situations (especially when it's to harm another person or demographic)

Excessively use idpol to either elevate themselves to holier than thou levels ("listen to ___ people but only when it's something I agree with, which just so happens to devolve from constructive change to making others grovel and plead forgiveness endlessly before me") or belittle others (ie their skin color, gender, queerness, disability, neurodivergence, religion, age, etc.) in order to discount their point or not treat them as equal human beings; yes, even if their skin tone is white or if they are men, abuse does not have to be backed up by systemic issues in order to be abusive or at the very least harmful (sidenote: this does not apply to people talking about their experiences as a minority that is otherwise not experienced or understood by others, the issue I'm pointing out is when it's twisted to cover everything not directly tied to their identity and proclaim themselves as the only ones allowed to be the voice of reason, therefore shutting up everyone else and to avoid any constructive criticism or discussion)

Act on rage and at times even trauma to bring forth harmful ideals (ex: truly hating every person of a demographic, wishing for a genocide, making actual death or rape threats towards someone or a group, conversion, etc)(sidenote: I'm not discounting those that have trauma and even have harmful thoughts, just please seek help and understand that it is not healthy nor sustainable to paint or alter reality to be in line with what trauma makes you believe)

Actively try to get others they don't agree with to either permanently leave the internet or commit suicide and even celebrate when either happens

Excessively test others on their "purity" on unachievable standards to the detriment of everyone and Leftism as a whole (purity culture is fueled by christian culture in order to disguise doomerism, accepting defeat when change is not possible, of which is the very thing that will kill leftism)

Infight over weird made up issues (remember how divide and conquer is a war strategy? To split hairs and discount others for non-issues is to do the work of conservatives and nazis for them)

Shut down people or discussions over minor slights such as using an incorrect word/phrasing or any numerous perceived mistakes (example I've seen here: berating a person with schizophrenia (or a trans person or any other minority) for using a derogatory term for themselves when they're talking about how everyone else is speaking over them and not listening), ignoring the hypocrisy or not taking into account any number of mundane causes such as non-native english speakers, generational gaps, being in the process of learning (either recovering from harmful beliefs or simple ignorance), using those terms to prove a point (such as that example I mentioned above), neurodivergence, etc.

Not letting others talk about their experiences of oppression when those experiences don't match theirs, instead opting to call those people bigoted for contrived reasons

A rejection of nuance, intersectionalism, and even reality to better suit their goals (ex: claiming that every trans man benefits from the patriarchy and can never experience misogyny)

Misuse of therapy speak and terminology in order to water down those terms and render them near meaningless so they can weaponize them under the pretense of their original use (ex: gaslighting), or to cut off any need to connect or sympathize with other human beings and instead speak to them like a PR message (refer to this video by Zena and Poppy for reference)

They never speak on true leftist/progressive ideals or positive change, they only engage in destructive discourse or any behavior listed above

Making baseless dangerous accusations towards someone they don't like. Before you go harr harr you're doing that, I'm not calling out any specific person and am merely listing dangerous behaviors I've seen people here act out. What I am referring to are when someone casually calls someone specific a predator (or whatever else) with absolutely zero proof and expecting everyone to believe them no questions asked. This has been shown to ruin people's lives

Any other similar behaviors not included in this list (as well as classic logical fallacies), but what I've mentioned above should paint you a good picture

Every example I've pointed out were REAL EVENTS I've seen from people that proclaim themselves as leftists or even just progressive, and sometimes are even minorities themselves (some even infight against their own communities using the behaviors listed above, often out of internalized bigotry)(an example of a real event that happened here recently were when several people were making rape threats towards a trans man by the username of @a-faggot-with-opinions). To be blunt, I'm pointing out exclusionism in practically every form, asexual discourse, transandrophobia, TERFs/radfems, TEHMs, tankies, "cornbreadtube", nationalists and ethnonationalists, and all else I don't have the terminology for For many of the people that fall under that bullet list I would hesitate to even refer to them as leftist or progressive, as they never seem to actually show they act on it or even believe in it, only making an appearance in those communities for their own destructive personal gain; hell, often times they have ideals that directly go against what those communities stand for! Examples include TERFs with white supremacist beliefs, transandrophobes that are misogynistic, ethnonationalists that are antisemitic, puritans that are ableist, the list goes on forever. Once you know what to look for, you can see the hidden or overt bigotry behind their false "progressive" statements

No one is infallible No one is better than everyone else You are not immune to propaganda No one is immune from behaving abusively

These people are dangerous, whether they actually qualify as abusers --as I've been referring to them as such for brevity and impact-- or are people that are engaging in hurtful or fully abusive behavior (use this paragraph as a disclaimer, I of course can't know if someone is an abuser in real life unless there is documented evidence of such). Regardless, they are hurting the left and are letting the right win

If you see any of these behaviors either 1) take caution if you're unsure, 2) block them, or 3) if you have the fortitude, call them out. Either way, use your best judgement and think for yourself (or discuss with good faith leftists if you're uncertain). And remember, often times (albeit not always) they are actually fully aware of their disgusting behavior and are choosing to act maliciously, not ignorantly.

Stay safe, log off, do what you can to support your local community and leftism as a whole, don't let these people distract from the real issues at hand. Have empathy, if you don't have empathy then act in compassion, if you don't or refuse to do either please do not engage in politics. Misanthropy has no place in matters concerning humanity.

And remember: we have to stand together in unity so we can create a better future for all

[honeyedmiller]

Close | Din Djarin

pairing: din djarin x f!reader

warnings: so much fluff, like literally this whole thing is just pure tooth rotting fluff and din and so soft in this, helmet comes off, reader and din are in LOVE

word count: 5.1k

synopsis: the man in shining beskar armor is one of mystery, and you were determined to get close to him.

based off of the song “close” by nick jonas

not revised (go figure) so sorry if there’s mistakes.

divider by @saradika

“‘Cus space is just a word made up by someone who’s afraid to get too… close.”

He intrigued you from the moment you set your eyes on him. Tall, broad, glinting in beskar, and a complete mystery underneath the helmet.

You often passed him and his little green apprentice in the marketplace. It started off with you glancing at him. It then turned into small smiles on your end, and a curt nod on his.

The spring air was fresh the first time he spoke to you. You were picking out some fruits for your home, when you turned around and saw him standing behind you. You gasped softly, beaming up at him.

“Those are Grogu’s favorite,” The masked man said, tilting his visor down at the fruit you had in your hand. “I was going to get him some, too.” His modulated voice was deeper than you expected, but had a warm tone to it nonetheless.

“They’re my favorite, too.” You respond with a smile, splitting the fruit in half after quickly peeling it and handing it to the small creature.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to—” He starts, but you shake your head.

“I insist.” You grin as Grogu coos up at you, his ears perking up.

“He likes you.” The Mandalorian says, and you give him a small smile.

“Well it’s nice to officially meet you to, uh,” You pause, not knowing what to call the man.

“Mando.” He says, and you nod.

“Mando.” You repeat, holding out your hand. He looks down at it for a second, like he’s contemplating on shaking it or not. After a couple of beats, he extends his hand to shake yours.

“What’s your name?” He asks you, and you just grin up at him before slowly backing away from him.

You knew Mando obviously wasn’t his real name, so you decided to be a mystery to him all the same. You didn’t know much about Mandalorians, but you did know they had a creed they followed. It was strict and hid their identities, and you respected that. You just thought it’d be a bit fun to mess with the man in glinting beskar for awhile.

He knew it, too. He knew you were playing a little game, and honestly, he thought he’d hate it. He was a straight-to-the-point kind of man.

But he didn’t.

He saw it as a challenge. He asked people around to see if anyone knew your name, and no one did. Maybe you were just a private person. Which, in all honesty, you kind of were. You minded your own business on Nevarro. You were friendly, just not very talkative.

You on the other hand had went to the local library to find any books you could on Mandalorians. There weren’t many, but you did find one that explained some of their history and their language. Next time you saw Mando, you’d surprise him with your newfound learnings of his culture.

That wasn’t going to be for a few months, though. He ended up getting a job that sent him to the near other side of the galaxy.

He thought about you every single day. He didn’t know what it was about you that had you in his mind stuck like glue. Maybe it was the way you smiled up at him, how you were so friendly to his son, how you remained a mystery to him. Maker, it was just you in general. Your sweet voice, your kind eyes, your beautiful smile.

Mando felt strange about the way he perceived you. He barely even knew you and he was already thinking about you nearly every waking second of the day. He’d never felt this way with anyone, except for one other person.

Omera.

When he was on Sorgan, he almost thought about risking revealing his identity for her. He’d started to feel strongly about her, but he whisked those feelings away quickly.

He never knew how to connect with someone. His lifestyle always prevented him from settling down and allowing himself to actually get close to someone for once. He had a hard time expressing his feelings, and when they overcame him, he just shut down. He’d go into panic mode and close himself off completely so nobody would be able to experience the softer side of the man underneath all of the armor.

He couldn’t help but wonder from time-to-time what life would be like if he’d just settle down. Sure, he had a house to come back to now, but he had no home. Someone he could come back to after a long journey to ask him how it went, assure him everything will be okay, be there for him when he needed someone.

He craved that so badly, but he knew he just couldn’t get it.

The next time he saw you, it was the peak of summertime. He spotted you first. He was in the marketplace trying to restock on food for him and Grogu, when he saw you talking to the spice vendor. You had that same pretty, kind smile on your lips as you shook the vendor’s hand, putting your purchase in a bag you had slung over your shoulder.

You wore a black sleeveless shirt with a floor length green skirt. You looked even more beautiful than when he left.

You turned your body in his direction, saying your goodbye’s to the vendor as your eyes snapped to the familiar shine of beskar in front of you. You halted for a split second before approaching him slowly.

“Mando.” You greet, smiling up at him.

“Cyar’ika,” He nodded down at you, and your heart skipped a beat. Sweetheart. He’d called you sweetheart.

“It’s been awhile.”

He nodded.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mando.” You softly grabbed his bicep for a second, not wanting to overstep your boundaries. You let go of it quickly before walking off into the opposite direction, leaving each other to wonder about the other for the rest of the day.

That day, Din made it a point to stop by Greef Karga’s office.

“What can I do for you, Mando?”

“What can you tell me about this woman?” He pulls up a hologram photo of you from his glove, feeling nearly guilty about what he’s about to ask his old friend.

Karga quirks his brow at Din. “She’s not a bounty, is she?” He strokes his chin as his stance goes wide, gaze flickering between the hologram and Din’s visor.

“No, I just–” Din pauses, not even knowing what to say. “It’s to babysit Grogu. Need a sitter next time I go out to hunt a bounty.” Din lied, and Karga laughed knowing he was.

“Sure, Mando.” He chuckled, and Din’s face was hot under his helmet. Luckily, Karga didn’t press any further and gave him your name and where you lived. Din thanked the man and headed out for your house later on that evening.

You were hanging your freshly washed clothes up with clothespins, humming an unfamiliar tune. Din approached you carefully not wanting to startle you, but he did anyhow.

You jumped as you turned and saw him, putting a hand over your heart.

“Stars, Mando. You scared me.” You huffed, clutching your tunic against your chest.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s alright. What brings you on this side of town?” You hang up the tunic in your hand, turning to face him.

“Just… strolling through.” He shrugs, but he knew he couldn’t lie to you.

“Uh huh.” You grin, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I actually, uh, asked Greef where you lived.” He admitted, visor tilted down toward the dirt crunching underneath his boot as he scuffed his foot.

“Do I have an unknown bounty on my head?” You half joke, and Mando tilts his helmet.

“You do anything that could make you a bounty?” He retorts, and you laugh. Oh, how he liked that sound.

“I may be wanted for making the best pog soup in town,” You joke. “Wanna join me for some? It’s almost finished.”

“I can’t.” He shakes his head, and you give him a small, sad smile. You wish he would, but you respect him and his wishes.

“Sure. Would you like some to-go?” You ask, picking up the woven basket that previously contained your freshly washed clothes. You popped your hip out and held the basket to it, tilting your head at him questioningly.

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not, Mando, I’m offering.” You softly chuckle in disbelief.

He wondered, for a second, how his real name would sound rolling off of your tongue. He bet it would sound like honey. Something sweet, something pure.

“Sure.” Was all he said, and you coaxed him to follow you into your home.

It was cozy and comfortable, walls decorated with artwork made my locals that they sold at the marketplace. The place was perfect for a small family, but since it was just you, you had more room than you knew what to do with.

You pulled out a container and ladled the soup into it, cautious not to burn the pads of your fingers. You packed the container nicely in a bag, handing it to Mando.

“Here you are.” You push the bag into his hands, and he looks down at it before presumably looking at you.

“Thank you, cyar’ika.” His voice is soft behind the modulator, his heart filling with that unfamiliar warmth once more.

“You have to let me know how it tastes. You know, once you try it.”

A small laugh is heard behind the modulator, and your heart swells at the sound.

“I will. I promise.”

Din went home that night, warming up the soup again after he put Grogu down for bed so he could eat in silence. He was used to it; it was comforting. But it also made his heart strings tug with the wish that he’d have someone to share a meal with. He was scared to join you for dinner, so he quickly said no. He was scared you’d turn around to try and look at his face; he was scared of you not liking what he had to say; he was scared you were going to find him mundane.

Even with all of the stories he had, he was afraid you wouldn’t find any of them interesting. He was terrified you wouldn’t be into him. So, he pushed and pushed and pushed himself away until he was so certain all of his feelings were detached from you.

But, when he took his first sip of your pog soup, he knew he was doomed. Maker, that was the best soup he’s ever had in his life. Usually, he’d scarf down his meals. It was a habit he was trying to unlearn. But with your soup, he savored the taste on his tongue and enjoyed each and every flavor it had to offer.

It easily became his favorite meal in the whole universe.

Weeks went by and you’d make him the soup, even when it was the peak of summer and sweat would glisten on your forehead. You did it for him, because he intrigued you, and you wanted to get to know him.

That opportunity finally came one night when he knocked on your door in the late hour. You were surprised to see him standing at your door with his son fast asleep in his arms.

“Hi.” You said softly, motioning for him to come in. He stepped inside, only allowing himself a few inches into your home.

“Sorry to come by so late,” He starts, “The water went out at my house, and, uh, I was wondering if I could borrow your shower.” He explained.

This was the first time you heard a more shy tone behind the modulator. It was sweet, and you could tell it must’ve taken him a lot of courage to even come here and ask you such a favor.

“Of course. Let me, um, get you a towel.” You walk over to the hall cabinet and take out a towel for him, going into the bathroom and hanging it neatly on the towel rack.

“Thank you.” You felt his visor linger on you for a little longer than you were used to. You looked down at your attire and finally noticed that you were wearing a sleep tunic that barely covered the top of your thighs. Your cheeks heated in embarrassment, and to shift the awkward ambience, you held out your hands.

“I can watch him while you shower.” You gesture to Grogu, and Din hands him to you carefully. The little creature coos, nuzzling into you as a tiny hand clings onto your tunic. You smile down at him as you settle down on the couch in your living room, rocking him softly.

“Thank you.” The Mandalorian says, turning swiftly to the bathroom.

He didn’t take long, and you tried to not let your mind wander to what he looked like underneath his helmet. You tried to guess his features deliberately, weighing the options of dark or light eyes, hair, skin, everything. You bet he was gorgeous underneath the beskar. It was a shame no one got to see him, but you respected him and his privacy.

You wonder how many people have seen him with his helmet off. If anyone’s ever gotten to touch his face. Oh, that man was probably so touch deprived. The thought made your heart sink a bit.

Your thoughts dissipated into thin air when the bathroom door opened, steam coming out of the room as he stepped out in his flight suit. The only piece of armor he had on was his helmet. You frowned softly in the darkness, thinking that must be insanely uncomfortable for his wet hair to be sticking to his helmet like that.

“Here,” You stood up, careful not to wake the baby. You gestured down to a basket that was empty, and motioned the Mandalorian to put his armor in there. You took a piece of armor for him and gently set it in the basket, and he followed suit with the rest of it. “I can wear a blindfold, Mando.” You told him. He looks at you, tilting his visor.

“I know other people can’t see you. I presume Grogu here already has, but, I can wear a blindfold so your hair can dry properly. That helmet must be awfully heavy.” You explain, and he thinks about it for a moment.

“Okay.” Was all he said, and you smile as you head into your bedroom and set Grogu down on your bed before rummaging through your clothes for a blindfold. You found one tucked away in a corner of a drawer, and you held it out to him.

“I’d feel more comfortable if you put it on. You know, so you don’t think I’m trying to get a peak at you or anything.” You smile softly at him, and Din’s heart clenches. You respected him and his creed, and he was so thankful of that. You drop the satin material in his bare hands, which you noticed were tan. That was just one piece of the puzzle that is this man before you.

You turn on your heel so you’re facing away from him, and he takes the material and wraps it gently around your head to cover your eyes. His fingers accidentally brushed your neck as he pulled back after tying the blindfold onto you.

Goosebumps raised onto your skin, and he noticed. Even in the dark and with the tint of his visor, he noticed. He felt it, too.

He wasn’t a man of many words. That was something you both knew. But in that moment, he wanted to tell you you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen in the galaxy. He wanted to tell you everything there was to know and take you to every single planet that he think you’d like.

But, as always, he was at a loss for words. Too many thoughts and emotions trying to claw their way out of him, and he wouldn’t let it surface. He wouldn’t let himself fall for someone as beautiful and smart and kind as you. He just couldn’t.

You felt yourself being spun around as Din waved his hand over your face. “Can you see how many fingers I’m holding up?” He held up four, right in front of your face.

You shook your head. Everything was pitch black.

“Good.” Was all he said, before you heard a hissing sound of pressure being released.

“You can stay in here awhile and, I don’t know, talk if you’d like. If not I set out a blanket and pillow for you on the couch out there.” You pointed in the wrong direction of the living room, and Din’s lips curled up in the slightest.

“What would we talk about?” Din’s unmodulated voice rang through your ears, and you gasped. His voice was beautiful. Almost shy sounding, but deep and smooth.

You shrug your shoulders. “Whatever you want to talk about. I don’t get company, ever, so… it’s up to you. Or we can just go to bed and we don’t have to talk at all.”

“I can… tell you about some stories of my adventures across the galaxy.” He offers, and you grin toward the sound of his voice.

“I’d love that.”

And so he does. For the next couple of hours, you sit on your bed with your arms enveloping your knees to your chest as you listen to him talk about these intense days hunting a bounty, battling Moff Gideon, running into Jedi, the fact that he gave Grogu to Luke Skywalker, how he won the darksaber and gave it rightfully and respectfully to Lady Kryze, and how the Mandalorians retook their home planet.

He even went as far as telling you that he wasn’t originally born a Mandalorian, that they saved him after a droid killed his biological parents, which is why he absolutely despises the bots. Well, besides IG-11 and R5-D4.

You soaked in every single detail he chose to give you, finding himself loosening up over time while he talked to you. He found you very easy to talk to, and he could tell you were attentive as you followed along with his stories.

“I’ve never talked this much to anyone, ever.” Din chuckles, sighing softly.

“Really? I could listen to you go on for days. You’re an amazing story teller, Mando.” You smile softly, and his heart skips a beat.

He contemplated on telling you his real name, too. After all, you two’ve been acquainted long enough. He knew your first name so it was only fair that he told you his.

“It’s Din.” He says in a near whisper. He saw your brows thread together in confusion, so he elaborated.

“My name is Din.” He says, and he saw your body go rigid.

Your heart melted at the fact that he was willing to give up a part of his identity to you. That he trusted you enough to even tell you everything he’s said thus far, including his actual name.

“Din.” You repeat, and him hearing you say his name felt so right. Like it was a secret of yours to keep.

“Just… do me a favor, please. Don’t repeat my name to anybody, and only use it when it’s just us two together.” He gnawed on his bottom lip as anxiousness overtook his body. He was never vulnerable with people like this, and not having any of his armor on in a place that wasn’t his home furthered his anxiety.

You reached out in front of you, successfully finding his warm hand as you gave it a soft squeeze before pulling away. “Of course, Din. You have my word.”

After that night, you two seemed to get closer. People noticed and talked, but you didn’t really pay any mind. Neither did Din. There were many more nights of him coming over to your place to talk and eat delicious meals with you, which he finally allowed himself to do. You ate with your backs to each other as you talked about your days, another brief mission Din went on, and how Grogu is finally getting along with the kids of Nevarro City.

It wasn’t until the fall time that you realized you were starting to fall for the man in shining armor. It’s ironic, really. The one person you’d told yourself was off limits, you found thinking of nearly every minute of the day. The one that you were sure of just being strictly friends with.

You were falling in love, and you were falling hard.

There were some days you felt you couldn’t even face Din, because you genuinely feared total and complete rejection. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t have something to cover your face to hide your feelings or the soft sparkle in your eye every time you looked at him.

Whatever affections or strange feelings Din had for Omera a few years ago, he had for you much stronger. He found himself wanting to be the source of your beautiful smile and laugh. He wanted to be near you as much as he could, and the times that he couldn’t, he found himself spending every second thinking of you.

Some might say it was an unhealthy obsession at that point, but truthfully, you both were just lovestruck fools. You didn’t need to see Din’s face to know that he was a loyal, trustworthy, honorable man. He had a heart of gold that he only reserved for you and his son.

He never thought that with his old lifestyle he’d be able to settle down somewhere. Now that he’s here in Nevarro with his son, he wanted a family. Not that Grogu wasn’t his family, of course, but he wanted to settle down. Start some family roots here. Find a wife, have a (human) child, grow old with his family here.

He saw that life with you.

The times he thought about it in depth, he truly thought he might’ve actually been going crazy, but he didn’t care. He was so content with just him and Grogu in his cozy little home, but ever since he finally allowed himself to grow close to you, he feels as if the house isn’t a home without you in it.

Come winter time, those feelings from you both never dissipated. If anything, they grew stronger.

It was a busy day at the market one particular chilly day. Vendors were selling caf and pastries, which you gladly indulged in. You were looking at a new painting to buy for your house when you heard your name being called. You whirled around to come face-to- well, helmet, with Din.

You smiled up at him.

“Mando, you’re back!” You cheer, going to give him a hug, but you stopped short. You suddenly remembered you were in a very public place, where wandering eyes could clearly see you both.

Din felt your hesitation and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest plate. The metal was cold, sending a shiver down your spine. You relaxed in the familiar embrace (you two may’ve cuddled from time-to-time when he came over to talk with you), looking up at his visor.

“Wanted to surprise you at your house, but you weren’t there. Figured you’d be here instead.” He explained, and you grinned up at him.

“Was a short trip, hm?” You asked, walking with him through the market. He kept his hand loosely wrapped around your hip as you walked.

“I needed to go back to Mandalore for something.”

“What was it?” Curiosity overtook you, and he looked down at you.

“Not here, cyar’ika. Let’s go back to your house.”

You both made your way back to the warmth of your home, shucking off your three top layers so you were left in just a long sleeve and pants. You kicked off your boots before you made your way to the couch, sitting down as you waited for Din. He sat down next to you after checking to see Grogu was fast asleep in his pod.

“I went to Mandalore to ask the Armorer for something. Something I want you to have, something very significant and dear to me. But I want you to know this first,” He begins, leather-bound hands grabbing your own. “Cyar’ika, you’ve been nothing but a light in my life. I spend every day thinking of you and how much you mean to me and Grogu. You’re brilliant, kind, brave, beautiful, and so many more things that I couldn’t even begin to cover. You’ve made me fall in love with you the past near year that I’ve gotten the privilege to know you. You’ve got me, cyar’ika, and nothing would make me happier if you’d become my riduur, my wife, my partner for life.”

Tears are flowing out of your eyes now, and a happy sob escapes your throat. He untangles one of his hands from yours to take something out of a pocket he has, and he presents you a shiny necklace with Din and Grogu’s signet as the pendant. A Mudhorn.

Your free hand flies over your mouth as you cry, looking down at the beautiful necklace and back up to Din’s visor.

“Din.” You choke out a whisper, moving toward him to embrace him in a hug. He hugs you back tightly, resting his helmet against your forehead. You take both sides of his helmet and lean back, sniffling as you smile in pure adoration.

“I would love to join your clan, Din. Become your riduur. Be your wife. Partner for eternity. I love you.”

“Cyar’ika.” Din’s modulator barely caught onto his whisper. You two held each other like that for awhile, your sniffles finally dying down.

“You know, Mandalorians have an oath we follow our whole lives after we’ve been sworn into the creed,” Din starts, breaking the comfortable silence. He pulls back from you and brushes your hair out of your face. “Honor is life, for with no honor one may as well be dead. Loyalty is life, for without one's clan one has no purpose. Death is life, one should die as they have lived.”

“That’s beautiful, Din.” You whisper, hands moving back down to your lap. He takes off his gloves and grabs your hands into his once more.

“Mandalorians also don’t do wedding ceremonies. We just say a short vow together, and that’s it. Once we’re married, you get to see my face.” Your breath hitches in your throat, and your heart pounds rapidly.

You completely forgot about ever wanting to see him, let alone being allowed to see him. The thought of him showing his face to you made you both nervous. He was worried what you’d think, and you were happy you could finally put a face to the man you’re deeply in love with.

“So, we can just say the vows right now, and that’s it? We’re married?” He gives you a short nod, and you mirror his actions. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. Let’s get married.” You smile at him, giving his hands a squeeze. He chuckles softly, wanting nothing more than to kiss you right in this very moment.

“Okay. We need to say them at the same time, so I’ll say them to you and then we’ll say them together,” He instructs, and you nod to signal you were ready.

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde. Got it?” He asks gently, rubbing his thumbs over the top of your hands.

You nod with glossy eyes and a drumming heart.

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.” You both say synchronously, and a tear falls from your cheek once more.

“We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors,” Din says, unclasping the necklace so he can put it around your neck. “My riduur. I’ll love you forever.”

“I love you, Din.”

“Are you ready to see me now?” His voice wavers a bit, and you can tell he’s nervous.

You’re his wife and you’re part of his clan now and he wants to spend the rest of his life loving you so tenderly and sweetly as you deserve, and yet, the nerves coursing through his body at the thought of revealing himself to you are in full force.

“Whenever you’re ready, riduur.” Your voice is sweet and patient. Even if he wasn’t ready to show his face to you now, you’d be completely okay with it. You fell in love with him for his loyalty, honesty, kind heart, and protective nature.

Even so, he removed both of his hands from yours before moving them up to his helmet, taking a deep breath before slowly lifting the heap of beskar up and over his head. He set his helmet down on the ground, eyes moving back to your face.

You were in complete awe with what you saw before you. He was simply the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life. Tan skin, brown eyes you could easily get lost in, strong nose, pink lips, and some scruffy facial hair along his jaw with a mustache to match. His brown curls sat messily atop his head, and you just couldn’t stop staring.

Before he could speak out of nervousness, you moved both of your hands and held the sides of his face gently. He closed his eyes in pure bliss, never being touched by another like that in his life. His eyes slowly blinked back open to look at you, brow creasing as he waited for you to say something.

“Meshla,” You whispered, and he inhaled sharply. He had no idea where or how you learned a word of Mando’a, but hearing you speak the language of his people made his heart swell with absolute pride. “You’re so beautiful, Din.” You lightly trace the tips of your index finger over the curves of his face, resting your hand on his cheek once more.

You swept your thumb over his cheekbone, moving closer to him to press a kiss onto his forehead and his nose. You leaned your forehead against his and closed your eyes, rubbing your nose against his gently.

“I love you, my riduur.” He whispered, and you smiled as you leaned in a little more.

“I love you too, Din.” And finally, your lips connected. The kiss was soft and sweet, but passionate and full of promise and want and need.

Falling for and marrying the beautiful woman from the market in less than a year was not on Din’s agenda, for his fear of getting too intimate to someone overtook his whole being. But, stars, he was so glad he took that leap of faith.

And, maker above, was he ever so eternally grateful that the person he chose was you.

Someone who made him unafraid.

Someone who allowed him to get close.

tag list: @cool-iguana ; @party-hearses ; @amanitacowboy ; @angel-in-beskar ; @pamasaur

[doberbutts]

I've seen some people I follow reblog posts about how transmisogyny is real cause discrimination against trans women is unique to them being trans women while transandrophobia isn't real cause none of the mistreatment they face is unique to being trans men but can be divided into different stuff: transphobia, sexism against afabs, misogyny, people being scared of men, racism etc

And while i do think transmisogyny is much more obvious and a bigger legal issue, I really don't get this argument cause, like couldn't all groups that are discriminated against have the reasons split up like that? It feels disingenuous to just handwave discrimination against trans men in that way.

I'm sure you've made posts about this in specific before, but i haven't been able to find them, and i really respect your perspectives and arguments. I'm personally agender, so reading about this kinda stuff is really important to me since i dont know most of it first-hand.

Hope you have a good day!

Well, that's why I say that logic is a complete misunderstanding of intersectionality theory.

Each and every individual is an assortment of identities and this assortment AS A WHOLE will influence the pressures of oppression and how they are demonstrated throughout this person's life.

Oppression is both systemic and individual and thus what may be true of the individual is not always true of the system and visa versa.

Almost every single instance of oppression is fueled by multiple factors and very few exist solely as a 100% unique experience. Antiblackness ties closely with antisemitism. Antisemitism ties closely with ableism. Ableism ties closely with homophobia. Homophobia ties closely with misogyny. Misogyny ties closely with transphobia. Transphobia ties closely with xenophobia. Xenophobia ties closely with racism. And now we have gone in a circle. In oppressive society, it is rare to find bigotry that does not double back on itself like this.

Let me be clear: transmisogyny is real. And also, trans men are oppressed. Both are true.

[schizoidvision]

7 Ways the Devaluation of the External World Impacts Schizoid Individuals

The schizoid personality is characterized by a profound detachment not only from the social sphere, but often also from the individual's own physical experiences. Schizoid individuals often devalue the external world as a multifaceted coping strategy rooted in their deep-seated need for emotional protection and preference for solitary introspection. This devaluation stems from early developmental experiences and an inherent mind-body split, leading to a disconnection from emotional experiences and a perception of the external world as emotionally unfulfilling or threatening.

By prioritizing their rich internal life and minimizing the significance of external interactions, schizoid persons protect themselves from vulnerability, maintain their divided sense of self, and mitigate the emotional impact of unmet needs and societal expectations, thereby preserving their identity and emotional equilibrium.This detachment, or devaluation of the external world, has a multitude of implications for their interpersonal relationships and life experiences. Below, we explore seven ways this devaluation manifests...

1. Emotional Disconnect

The schizoid individual often experiences a significant emotional disconnect from others. Their internal world is rich and complex, yet when it comes to sharing or understanding emotions externally, there is a barrier. Relationships thrive on emotional exchange; thus, this disconnect can lead to perceptions of aloofness or coldness, hindering the development of close bonds.

2. Preference for Solitude

Given the comfort schizoid individuals find in their own thoughts, they might prefer solitude over social interaction. This preference can be misconstrued as rejection or lack of interest in others, which can alienate friends, family, and potential partners who do not understand the intrinsic value that solitude holds for them.

3. Difficulties in Expressing Affection

For someone who devalues external experiences, the physical expression of affection can feel inauthentic or forced. This might manifest in a reluctance to engage in common gestures of intimacy such as hugging or kissing, creating a sense of distance in relationships that rely on such expressions as assurances of love and care.

4. Perceived Indifference

The schizoid person's detachment from the physical world can lead to an appearance of indifference. When one devalues their environment and the people within it, even significant events in the lives of loved ones may not elicit a strong reaction. This perceived indifference may be deeply hurtful to those who expect an empathetic response.

5. Struggle with Social Norms

Social norms dictate a certain level of engagement and responsiveness in relationships. Schizoid individuals may find these norms restrictive or nonsensical, leading to a clash between their natural inclinations and societal expectations. This struggle can cause misunderstandings and conflicts in social and professional relationships.

6. Intellectualization Over Emotional Expression

There is a tendency for schizoid personalities to intellectualize feelings rather than express them. They might offer a philosophical perspective on a situation that requires emotional support, which can be frustrating for someone looking for a more human connection.

7. Rejection of Roles and Identities

Finally, the schizoid individual's devaluation of the external world includes a rejection of the roles and identities that society imposes. This can lead to an aversion to titles like "spouse," "parent," or "employee," which come with expectations they may find constraining or inauthentic. This aversion can strain relationships that are defined by these roles.

Video From My YouTube Channel: The Divided Self: Schizoid Personality

[perplexingluciddreams]

An exploration of gender as a nonverbal autistic

This is going to be an attempt at expressing my feelings about my own gender and queerness, as a nonverbal autistic with language difficulties, low awareness of the world around me, barely any sense of self, and so many other things that affect my ability to understand and be aware of the concept of gender and sexuality to begin with.

I tried to write this like a properly structured essay, but because my thoughts are so disorganised in general (and I have so many thoughts on this topic), I couldn’t manage that. So, I have decided to present this as if it is a collection of journal entries; that is basically what this is, in truth! You will just have to experience the disorganisation in a similar way to how I experience my own mind. The most organising I was able to do was split it up into some categories, to make it slightly easier for you, reading this. Some things that I wrote could fit into more than one category, but this is how I chose to divide it up.

I have written a lot about the words I use to describe the way I feel, how I choose those words, and how that has changed over time. My delays in certain areas of development, and the other ways my various disabilities affect me, have a significant impact on the ways I have come to understand my gender identity and the internal (and partially external) process I went through to get to where I am now.

I have no doubt that things will continue to shift and change and as a result, the way I define myself in different contexts will also change. This is just my first attempt at getting a lot of this out of my brain and into words, for other people to read.

I wrote this is many fragments, so it doesn’t flow or connect, and there may be some repetition. Each paragraph may have been written at a completely different time, and therefore doesn’t relate to the last paragraph, or the next. Some of this is just stand-alone statements, some is longer examinations of my feelings. But all of it is true to my experience of the world and of queerness.

I have never been able to express the majority of this before, so I think it is pretty good for a first attempt!

**Note: I make a reference to having speech at a point in my life. I am nonverbal due to late autism regression, and grew up semiverbal with very unreliable speech, and language issues. I had very poor communication.**

Here we go!

I am inserting a “read more” here because this is very long. Really, very long.

Part 1 - The Words

I don't really think of myself as a man or a woman, or a boy or a girl. I have called myself a transsexual man before, simply because that is the clearest way to explain to someone where I'm coming from and where I'm headed. But I don't particularly like the word "man" to describe myself. I like the word boy, just because the word is nice. But that doesn't mean I am insistent on people calling me a boy. 

I choose the words I use for myself simply from what I like the sound or feel of the most. The last thing I want is to be boxed in, though. I only use labels as descriptors, to explain to other people - they are a tool to communicate something, not a set of limits and boundaries to put on myself.

I know a lot of people might read this and think "that sounds like nonbinary", but I don't use that word. Again, simply because I don't like the way it sounds or feels when i read/write/hear it. And yes, I suppose I do exist outside the conventional binary, but that would be the case regardless of whether I was transsexual or not, because of my autism. So that is not something that needs to be labeled in my opinion (for me personally). Because the conventional binary is not something that exists in my experience of the world.

I hate that there's one set of accepted terminology to label queerness - such a fluid and complex piece of identity - and that I am even more "other" if I choose to say that I AM female, I WAS a girl. I don't like the word transgender unless it is being used as a verb - transing gender. I like the word transsexual because it describes something I will DO (top surgery, eventually). And partly because of how it sounds and the pattern of typing it on a keyboard.

My gender is what I DO, not what I AM. Gender as a verb.

Socially, changing my name and pronouns is much more connected to my barely-there sense of self, and past trauma. I needed to start again, because I felt that my life had changed completely (and it *had*). I like he/him pronouns because they sound different to how i was always referred to growing up. And they simply sound nicer. 

Even though I don't understand most of the social stuff that comes with gender stuff, I still have positive and negative connections to certain gender-related things. And relating to the way I was raised - it still affects me, even though I can't grasp the complexity of how and why.

I enjoy the fact that I am fucking with gender, fucking with expectations. I am a female that is also a boy. I love the contradiction.

I still call myself female, because if people really mean it when they say "gender and sex is separate", then "female" does not mean "girl" or "woman".

Most words I used to describe myself as a child were put on me by other people. I used to repeat them over and over in my mind, as if to explain to myself that that's what I am. Especially my own name. I felt that if I just repeated it enough then maybe those words would stick and feel real. They never did. I don't know what words I would use to describe myself now, but I don't think I need to know. I'm just me. No words are needed for that.

When I just exist as myself in the world, words are barely relevant. My world is so sensory-based and rich in sensations that there's no point even trying to put words to it.

I don't think there's anything wrong with creating new words for things that already have words to describe them, language is constantly evolving and different people will have different experiences that they want to describe in different ways. However, I don't think it is useful to argue for stopping the usage of "outdated" terms, as there are always going to be people who prefer those terms. Not all people are going to agree on a word that they find most fitting or appropriate, even in one community.

I try my best to examine my feelings about myself and what causes a good reaction in me and what causes bad reaction in me. And then I use whatever words I have to try and explain it as best as I can.

Often the words I have are not enough and either I cannot communicate something at all, or I try and it is inaccurate and/or inadequate.

It is very difficult for me to put such abstract thoughts/concepts/feelings into words, I lack the language for that and often also the awareness - there is so many steps to communicating something for me. For example, most people have the automatic urge to communicate things, and know that option is always there. For me, it takes mental work to even remember other people exist and I am capable of interaction with them. And of course after that follows so much more work to do the actual communicating.

For years I thought of the words "transgender" and "transsexual" as off limits. "Those are the things I am not allowed to be".

A lot of words have shaky definitions and that makes it hard for me to even understand what they mean, never mind use them to describe myself.

I would often rather use a phrase, or a paragraph, to describe myself, rather than a singular word. I really don't want to be misunderstood. 

I think that the way I experience gender cannot be put into words, and it certainly can't be labeled with one thing. I'm just grateful to have the opportunity to even try and communicate these things, and to explore it openly in the first place. Because of course I would still explore it inside my own head, even if I didn't have the words or couldn't tell anybody - I was already doing that, before I had access to all this new language.

I know a lot of people don't like the word "tomboy", but since I was a kid I've always really liked it. It brings to mind a mental image of young girls (in a time when clothing for men and women was much more separated) dressing up in boys clothes, boys school uniform, and the feeling of freedom from that. I always wished people would call me a tomboy when I was a kid.

I had a feeling of "oh, that's what I want to be when I grow up", when I first learnt of what butch is. Even though I am not sure at all of my sexuality, because that relates to other people and I am never sure how I relate to other people, or if that’s even possible, especially in a romantic or sexual way.

The words I use will always be slightly "out of date", or "not right", because of the time it takes my brain to catch up with everything. I will never find words to properly describe myself in a way that feels fully correct. I live in a world of my own that doesn't need words, only the acknowledgement of a feeling inside my own head. However, that is not very useful when trying to communicate things to other people.

Some words just taste and sound like defiance.

Part 2 - My Physical Existence

With puberty, I had so much discomfort with the change in my body, not only because it felt as if I was developing wrong, but also because of age and developmental stage - I felt it was too early, I was not ready for that. Big changes are bad.

I do have dysphoria, but only really around my chest, and the way people refer to me (which is also complicated and related to trauma). And other than that, I don't care a lot about how I am viewed, as long as I feel free to express myself however I want.

Aside from my chest, I am comfortable being female. I like having a vulva (as much as it intrigues me about what having a penis is like), I don't want to change that about my body. I don't mind having a uterus (apart from menstruation, which is not fun, but it's not the worst thing ever and it doesn't make me feel overly dysphoric).

I recognise that I have a physical form. I did have to develop the awareness of that, but I do not see that as ME. I am just a floating mass of thoughts and feelings and experiences.

My body was made for me, it wasn't made wrong. There are things I need to change about this body to make it more comfortable to exist in, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it was made wrong to begin with, despite feeling that way sometimes.

Disabled bodies inherently break the rules.

Many times I have wondered, perhaps, if my chest were much smaller, I wouldn’t have a problem with it. The main thing I struggle with due to my very large chest, is the physical discomfort. It aggravates my sensory issues in a massive way, it causes back and rib pain from the weight and pressure. The ways that having a large chest increases symptoms of my disabilities are the biggest reason for needing top surgery. Gender wise, I think I would be unbothered by a more “neutral” body, where I could easily forget about my birth sex. If/when I get top surgery, I will be removing my entire chest - the end result being a flat chest - however if I naturally had very small breasts I wonder whether I would pursue top surgery at all. I’m not sure of the answer to this, I can’t imagine hypothetical situations well, but it’s something I think about often.

I find relief in having physical reminders that it is different now (to when I was a child) and I won't get hurt again, I am safe now. I now have a buzzcut that I touch every time I am scared and remember it is not like when my hair was long, not anymore.

Sensory issues and physical limitations affect my physical appearance. And, my mannerisms are affected. I cannot look how I WANT to look. How I WISH I looked. As a result, my perception of myself and my external appearance, are even further divided. My generally low awareness and weak sense of self comes into play here as well. There is such a disconnect.

Part 3 - Awareness and Understanding

I can't stick labels on myself because in order to do that, I need to perceive myself as a person first. If other people want to use certain words to describe the way I am and the way I try to find joy and comfort in this confusing and scary world, that's absolutely fine by me - words are important and helpful and useful. But I don't know enough about the character that other people see and perceive, to say those things about "me".

I don't understand the concept of gender at all really. For me being trans is just about having more of the things that make me happier and more comfortable. I don't know what it means to BE a boy, versus being a girl - just that, out of the two, I would much rather be a boy. It is complicated, having such strong feelings towards and/or against things that I barely grasp the concept of.

My (lack of) understanding of gender and awareness of the world and myself definitely impact the way I define my identity. I would like to say that I am not bothered about labels much. That, to me the human experience is too complex and varied and colourful to be fit into black and white labels, I am just somewhere on the spectrum of human, but as descriptors they can be useful. And all of that is true, however, I do have intense preferences on which words I and others use to refer to me, even if I don’t at all understand why. Those preferences have shifted over time, as well, which sparks a period of questioning and examination, every time I hear someone use a word I previously preferred and find myself physically recoiling from the discomfort.

I cannot understand social constructs such as gender and gender roles. It just add to the confusion that surrounds my brain every day of my life.

If someone views me as a woman (or a girl), nowadays I am okay with that. It definitely would have bothered younger me, because I couldn't yet wrap my head around the complexity and fluidity of identity, and how it can't always be described by words with strict definitions. But as long as people use the name I chose for myself, and refer to me in the the way I ask, I am okay with any assumptions they may make about me based on my outward appearance. Because it's me, and how I define my own identity, that matters. Not how I look to other people. And my appearance is not something I have much control over at all, anyway. The first thing people notice about me is that I’m disabled.

Part 4 - Growing Up

The stages to breaking down my identity enough to identify it as a trans experience, for me, were this. First, it was necessary to understand what gender and sex is, and that there’s a difference between the two. Then, to understand social roles assigned to male and female that create "girl" and "boy" expectations. Thirdly, to have enough awareness of myself and understand my individual experience (and be able to compare my experience to others’) enough to figure out how I feel about gender. Lastly, to finally get communication skills and the control over my life to be able to TELL anyone. This last step is a work in progress!

The way I see it, I was by default a girl when I was younger. Because I had no control then, and that's what was assigned to me. I really couldn't say what I wanted almost at all until I was about 16 years old. And one of the first complex things I finally could communicate (at a very basic level, just scraping the surface) was the gender stuff. I attempted this a lot of times before 16 but I simply didn’t have the language, the understanding, the awareness, the communication skills, etc. to get my point across. The first time I tried to tell another person about experiencing queerness, I only had the words “gay” and “lesbian” to use. I knew that these were not right, but that was all I had. The only words I could use were ones I had read or heard, from other people, and that greatly, greatly limited my ability to express my unique internal experiences. Instead of trying to find other words, I instead became very insistent upon being gay/lesbian, only because I knew it was more than that.

I have a lot of memories of scary experiences where my unreliable speech took over and blurted out scripts (delayed echolalia) about being queer (using words I wouldn’t choose), simply because I was trying to learn and understand my feelings about queerness better with watching/reading media from other people. And that lead to ridicule and more exposure than I was ready for or wanted. I didn’t want other people to know, at that stage. I wasn’t done with the processing, and I needed it to stay internal. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

I was one of those people where it was always obvious I am queer, or at least “different” in just about every respect. I have never had a choice to hide it. I mourn the fact that I was never allowed the chance to inform other people of this part of my identity in my own time, with my own words. I am grateful that I even have the privilege of writing this, but there is a reason that there’s so much to write here in one go. There is so much I haven’t had the ability to say at all, until now, and even more that I haven’t had the chance to say right.

Sometimes I have the feeling that, even in the queer community, with the accepted labels and identities, I don't fit. It makes me sad sometimes, that I couldn't fit an accepted “role” or label. I have come to an understanding that that is not what being queer is about at all, which helps. I think part of the reason this upsets me, is because I am so disabled that I will never “fit” in any real queer space with other real queer people. I am left outside, watching from the edges. I am outside of everything. 

But - It comforts me that there have always been people like me, just existing in the world. We have always been here. When I was younger and had all these thoughts and feelings about gender that I didn't understand yet, had no context for, couldn't express and didn't have proof of anyone else who had the same experience - it comforted me to think "if i am feeling this, then statistically another human at some point in time must've felt the same way".

When I was younger I used to believe - queer is what people say when they mean "dirty" and "wrong". It’s what people say when they mean something worse but don't have a word for it.

My identity of being trans is simply my identity of being me.

When I think about "passing" and wishing things to be easier for me, I don't think "I wish I passed as a boy", I find myself wishing I was just a girl, and then my life would be so much less complicated. But, of course, it will always be complicated for me, because of how others perceive my autism first, before anything else. I feel I struggle to be seen as a whole human with a complex human experience, because to so many people I am just my autism. Then also lacking of awareness of gender and only knowing my own feelings - even if I was a girl, I would still have this difficulty! - but still, in this situation, I think "I wish I didn't have these feelings to begin with". I think that shows it is more about the difficulty of coping, rather than other people's view and opinion based on my appearance and outward expression.

When using words to refer to my younger self, those experiences and the way they were labeled and explained at the time does not cease to exist just because I choose to use different words for my present-day self. I am more accepting of this now, I used to really struggle with the fact that it had changed over time and my black-and-white thinking of “one or the other is true”, made it very challenging.

When I was younger, the only way I knew how to make everything “wrong” with me (autism, physical disabilities, queerness, lack of faith in God, etc.) an understandable concept, was to come up with the overall explanation that “my brain is broken”. I just thought that must be the only answer. It was the only way I could process how many things I thought were completely and utterly wrong about me.

It feels like two facts colliding when I see my birth name, and it makes my brain hurt and my understanding of the world shatter.

Part 5 - The Choice

When people misgender me, it is more upsetting to me that people ignore my choice than that they perceive me "wrong" or make the wrong assumption. I actually don’t mind assumptions much, if someone looks at me and thinks I’m a woman that’s okay with me nowadays - I understand that I appear female, because I am, and a lot of people connect female with woman (or girl, as I am often also assumed to be quite young). But I also can easily forget that someone might not know my pronouns straight away, simply because of struggles with theory of mind - I forget that other people don't automatically know what I know, that they can't read my mind.

It is upsetting only because my choice is not being respected or understood or seen, from my brain’s point of view. Having the ability and opportunity to choose the way I am addressed, the way I identify, the way I talk about myself and want others to talk about me, is incredibly valuable to me. For so long I have only had other people’s words, both for them to freely put onto me, and to use in my laboured attempts at communication. Attempting to grab onto the closest words to my true meaning and piecing them together like jigsaw pieces from different puzzles that don’t quite fit.

Now that I can write something like this, with so many words that are mostly my own, to have someone go against that (whether it is intentional or not - it doesn’t change things because of my low theory of mind, I can’t think from another’s perspective and understand that they don’t know what I know) is spirit breaking.

A lot of the parts of my transition can be (partially) attributed to different things, different reasons. I changed my name partly because I had no connection to my birth name, and struggled to remember to respond to it. It also reminded me of bad memories that I don’t want to relive every day. Having a new name was part of a necessary process of changing every part of my life so it never feels the same way it used to - at least, not in the ways that I can control. I already wrote about how I need top surgery for reasons including but not limited to dysphoria, pain, sensory issues, and so on. I love having my hair buzzed (as much as I have the occasional urge to grow it), because it feels like me. It feel different to when I was younger, and it’s a physical reminder that I am safe now, every time I touch my head or catch a glance of myself in the mirror.

Technically, with these other reasons to attribute many parts of my transition to, I could choose not to identify the way I do. If I didn’t feel a strong connection to queerness, I don’t think I would spend so much time trying to sift through thoughts and feelings and experiences and memories and holding them up against different words to see how it fits. I have basically no awareness of gender outside of myself, I can’t figure out my sexuality because I don’t know how I can even relate to other people. I could put a mental block between me and this topic, and never call myself queer or trans or anything like that ever again.

But - I DO choose to collect these parts of me, and spend the time holding them up to the light and squinting at them from every direction, to come to align them with these words. That is my choice.

I am the same person I always have been, I just get to choose now. I have the power and control.

Thank you for reading, if you got to the end! I love to know that my words are seen by other people.

[luxe-pauvre]

The modern world, and particularly the internet, provides unprecedented opportunities for identities to split, duplicate, propagate and disperse. Online anonymity and physical inaccessibility weaken the super-ego and liberate the id. The screen invites us to enter a virtual environment where the checks and balances of face-to-face contact are no longer applicable. In cyberspace, people are free to be whoever they wish. Approximately half of young people lie about their personal details on the internet. From the age of around eleven, they become accustomed to creating false identities that, on the whole, exhibit distinctly regressive characteristics (such as excessive vanity, or a desire to incite envy in others). A 2019 study conducted by the charity YMCA discovered that two thirds of young people edit photographs of themselves before posting them on social media spending up to forty five minutes removing spots, enhancing skin texture and whitening teeth. These ideal selves are almost always close to being perfect and hugely discrepant with real, embodied selves. They promote states of extreme incongruence: inner tension, discomfort and dissatisfaction. Information technology allows digital natives (that is, people born after the proliferation of computer technology and the internet) to divide the self so deeply that their aspirational ideal - or ideals - achieve a kind of independent existence. The result is a fragmentation of self that resembles dissociative identity disorder, the cardinal feature of which is the splitting of consciousness into two or more distinct personalities. Digital natives create versions of themselves that completely transcend the physical limitations of a photographic image; they can invent beautiful avatars to represent their ideal selves in cyberspace, sloughing off embodiment like the skin of a snake.

Frank Tallis, The Act of Living

[forallnumbersosc]

When there are two of the same value for example let’s say seven and fourteen divided by two seven, do they look identical, similar or are they unique? Would this also apply to others that aren’t originally an another a value! Say our four and a four from another region?

That's a really good question!!

According to my research, when the value of a number is divided, resulting in two different numbers, they seem to take random aspects of the former number's personality and divide it up between the split numerals!

When the event happened that caused fourteen to divide into two seven's, it seems one of them received more of fourteen's violent tendencies than the other, whereas the other seemed to be more focused on deceiving poor two into re-multiplying and combining....

It should be noted that usually if two different algebraliens combine and split, their personalities don't usually bleed into their separate selves, except for very very rare occasions... (and even then I've only gotten proof of this through interviews...)

Appearance-wise, an algebralien that has divided into multiples will look smaller, but will be identical or near-identical to their fully formed self, with a slight chance that they may change in minute ways such as finger and toe count! Color-wise they don't tend to change, though! So, say an eight divided into two fours, they would share a similar color scheme and body build as the combined eight, but they would resemble two fours numerically!

(I actually got Eight to help out with this ask for a more visual explanation!)

[Eight uses he/they/she in this blog!]

To expand a bit, there is also the possibility that two algebraliens appear in the universe that ARE the same value, and the only things that tend to stay the same between them is the appearance of their manes, nose patches, and tails! Sometimes they may share similar body-builds, but they never are perfectly identical!

[wutheringmights]

please please please explain how the bullshit military death cult in Fourth Wing is unsustainable. I need more Iron Flame slander in my life lol

I may have chosen the wrong phrasing last night. It’s less about the sustainability of the magical dragon country’s military college, and more about how much Yarros’s tendency to use specific numbers riles me up. Very specifically, a graphic at the beginning of Iron Flame. 

(Note: I only got a little bit over 200 pages into Iron Flame before I had to return it to the library; if there is an universe rebuttal to any of this, I may not have reached it yet; I also do not have the book in front of my to double check specific numbers, but luckily Yarros’s Specific Numbers have rustled my jimmies so much that I have been spamming my group chats about them so I inevitably wrote them all down.)

The graphic in question is this:

It illustrates the structure of the titular Fourth Wing. As you can see, it is made out of 3 sections that are then divided into 3 squads. You will notice two important notes on this graphic:

Each squad contains 15-20 people

Each of the four wings that make up the dragon rider cadets in the military academy has the same layout

With this information, I should be able to more or less calculate the number of dragon riders attending the military academy. 

In theory, the fourth wing has 8 people in leadership positions, and 136 to 180 squad members. That’s a total of 144 to 188 people in the fourth wing. 

If the fourth wing is identical to the other three wings, that means that there are anywhere from 576 to 752 dragon rider cadets across three grade levels. That’s already a pretty small number, but this is an exclusive military program. It’s not an unreasonable.

Except it’s actually impossible for there to be 576 to 752 dragon rider cadets. Why do I know that? Because Yarros already gave us a Specific Number.

Let’s rewind. In Fourth Wing, it’s established that you cannot advance beyond your first year unless you bond with a dragon. If you do not bond with a dragon, you repeat the year until you either bond or die trying. There are also only a select few dragons who are willing to bond each year. 

Yarros, of course, told us specifically how many dragons were willing to bond not only for that current freshman class, but for the two years previous:

1st year: 100 dragons*

2nd year: 137 dragons

3rd year: 163 dragons

(*actually, it was 101 but two dragons, in a super special unprecedented move, bonded with the same person; I’m trying to count the cadets, not the dragons so this really does not matter)

That means that there are around 400 dragon rider cadets, which is way less than what the info graphic implied. You can argue that the missing 176 cadets are those who did not bond with any dragons, but I highly doubt they would make much of a difference. Why? Because dragon rider cadets keep dying. 

I kept track of how many people were dying in Fourth Wing. By the end of that book, there were less than 80 bonded cadets still alive. Yarros then contradicted herself in Iron Flame by stating that there were 89 cadets in the second year. This isn’t because a bunch of cadets suddenly bonded with dragons and advanced a year; that only happens in a one a year ceremony. Yarros is just bad with numbers, which shows how silly I am for going to this much trouble trying to prove her wrong.

All that’s to say that I’ll split the difference and say that 85 cadets were still alive at the end of the first year. That means that there is a 15% death rate between bonding with a dragon and getting to the end of the first year. 

That means that by the time each class ended their first year, this about how many dragon rider cadets there should be:

1st year 85 cadets

2nd year: 117 cadets

3rd year: 139 cadets

That’s 341 people across all four wings. That means each wing has about 85 people. 

But wait! People die beyond their first year. There’s an ever decreasing number of cadets each year. If we assume that 15% death rate is consistent each year, that means that by graduation day, each year has: 

1st year: 85 cadets

2nd year: 100 cadets

3rd year: 102 cadets

That’s 287 cadets across all four wings, or 71 people a wing. I need not remind you how that is far below our predicted 144 to 188 per a wing. 

And I haven’t even mentioned that not every dragon available to bond even bonds. So those starting numbers are already the best case scenario where every possible dragon selects a cadet. Our actual class numbers are probably 10 to 20 people smaller, and that’s before the numerous deaths. 

When I started Fourth Wing, I inferred that the incoming freshman class started with about 700 people. (Each of the freshman dorm floors hold 156 people; there are at least three but it makes more sense for there to be a floor for each wing. Sixty-seven freshman died on the parapets. That’s a total of 691 freshmen, which I rounded up to 700.) 

Xaden (terrible name) has a speech where he claims that 1/2 of the incoming class will die by the end of the first year, 1/3 by the second, and 1/3 by the third. He’s probably just trying to scare the newbies, but let’s take him at his word anyway. 

According to his estimation, by the time the freshman class graduation, 172 people should still be alive. That’s a 21% survival rate, according to Xaden. That is somehow less severe than what is actually happening in the books.

There's never a point in time in the story where we acknowledge that the class sizes are this small. Everyone is dying, and there always seems to be more nameless faces than not. Yet, as all evidence suggests, there's not even enough people in the entire dragon rider curriculum to fill up a movie theater.

Ultimately, the numbers don’t really matter. What matters is that this fantasy military system is wildly inefficient. I understand on a trope-level why it has to be deadly. New Adult, the gangly older sister of YA, loves a good deadly game of wits and wile. Yarros was commissioned to write a romantasy story, and by god she was going to write the most marketable one possible. But you would also assume that Rebecca “second generation army brat who loves military heroes and has been blissfully married to her for over twenty years” would have a better understanding of how the military works. 

On the most basic of levels, you win a war by having the most people still alive at the end. Everyone knows this. It’s not that hard. It’s in the best interest of the brass to keep your soldiers alive. When that best interest gets screwed over, it’s usually because of economic issues (like being able to afford the supplies needed to keep your troops alive), or prejudice (soldiers from persecuted demographics being less worthy of better food/ammo/missions, under qualified officials earning their jobs via privilege, etc.). 

That is in itself another gross simplification. My point is that there’s no good reason why you would kill your own troops before they can even reach the battlefield. That’s a waste of resources! I don’t care if the dragons demand a blood sacrifice, or whatever. A practical military leadership would find some way to reroute failed rider cadets to a different career track before they needlessly died in training. The training can be as dangerous as you want, but for world building sake, be practical about how wars work. At least acknowledge that the military’s favorite canon fodder aren’t soldiers, but foreign civilians. 

Believe it or not, but I actually don’t really care that the worldbuilding is nonsense. Can I write a needlessly long essay about how the numbers don’t add up? Sure, but who cares? It’s just bad in a normal way. I’m more than happy to let other people harp on it. 

What is interesting is the way that Yarros views the morality of the military. It’s one thing for something to be pro-military. It’s another when your book’s thesis comes down to “it’s morally wrong for the big, powerful, totally not American, country  to not provide military intervention to smaller, poorer foreign countries that are being viciously attacked by a seemingly unbeatable, dehumanized enemy.” Yarros doesn’t even try to cover it up; Xaden makes a giant, righteous speech about how they have a moral duty to protect citizens, to actually quote the book, “beyond our borders.”

As I said when I first read this: what the fuck? 

Rebecca “second generation army brat who loves military heroes and has been blissfully married to hers for over twenty years” Yarros claims she is writing a series about the dangers of censorship. See how callous we are for letting other people die, and then covering it up? Yet, she mindlessly reproduces that idealized justification we’ve been fed for decades. Yarros, it’s never about helping civilians. I know you’re a biased army wife, but you know about the oil and the military industrial complex. You know America is not the good guy. 

Moreso, the in-book movement to wage a war “beyond our borders” is labeled as a rebellion. According to this series, it’s counterculture to want military intervention overseas. Yes, Yarros is writing the world’s most marketable book. In a post Hunger Games society, there must be a little rebellion sprinkled in there. But to frame the desire to fight a war as any form of counterculture is downright insidious. 

Fourth Wing is a book that looks you in the eye and tells you that the government is lying to you-- the war beyond our borders is necessary, that if we do not send the army to fight our inhuman enemies, they will hurt not only our poorer, less fortunate allies but also our homeland. War is a morale imperative.

I haven’t finished Iron Flame yet. Perhaps this rant is premature. Maybe the series turns itself around. But as one can imagine, I don’t trust Rebecca “second generation army brat who loves military heroes and has been blissfully married to hers for over twenty years” Yarros to have thought it through all the way. Just a gut feeling. Who can say? If I am wrong, I would be more than happy to eat my words, though. I would love to be wrong. 

Me being wrong means that the most compelling reasons why Fourth Wing is bad really is the bad worldbuilding, prose, romance, characters, action, lore, smut, dialogue, editing, and everything else. There’s already a hundred big brained book reviewers who are making a video essay career off of telling you that in five hours or less. I respect the hustle. Personally, I never want to hear about this series again unless it’s about how Yarros built her blockbuster book series on conservative ideals of militarism and foreign policy, and then had the audacity to tell you that’s what it means to be a rebel. 

[io-archival]

Identosis

(note: this was originally coined by coinings-of-aquarius, on a blog which has since been terminated. the archive is here.)

Identosis is a term for when someone, their identity or a part of their identity splits or divides like a cell going through mitosis in some way.

Term and flag coined by us on July 14th, 2022. ———- TW: Mention of suicidal thoughts and headmate death.

We imagine / intend for this to have many different kinds of applications. ~ A sysmate / individual who splits into two separate headmates. For example, a sysmate who splits into themself and their own daemon. ~ A sysmate / individual who splits into two and becomes a part of the original headmate (the other one disappearing in some way). For example, a suicidal sysmate making a tulpa of themself without suicidal thoughts so the suicidal part can go dormant. ~ A single identity splitting into two separate identities. For example, going from demigirl to bigender librafeminine and maverique, or going from pansexual to polysexual because one’s attraction to women separated from the rest of the orientation and disappeared in some way. ~ Et cetera.

It is for any identity that changes in some way related to it being split into two or more parts. It is different from fluidity and growth. Personally, we experience the second and third examples.

[girl4music]

Angel/Angelus really be on that Emily Rose bullshit.

Who are you dude? A person or a demon? Maybe I’m taking the demonic possession thing too seriously.

[chisecco]

What's the difference between asexual and aromantic?

Can either of those orientations be attracted to a person?

asexual referes to a lack or complete absence of sexual attraction (eg. thinking someone is hot or sexy), though it is also used to describe a lack or absence of attraction in general

aromantic refers to a lack or complete absence of romantic attraction (eg. being in love with someone)

asexual and aromantic people can date regardless if they use the split attraction model (basically it's the divide between -sexual and -romantic attraction) or not.

ace and aro people who choose to date others may do so under the premise of a queerplatonic relationship (basically its this neat thing that goes beyond friendship and/or romance like a "would you marry and raise children with your best friend" sort of thing)

asexual people may experience romantic attraction and aromantic people may experience sexual attraction, neither of these things makes any of the groups dirty, especially being aromantic and allosexual (alloaro).

as such asexual people can have sex (lack of attraction =/= sex repulsed) and aromantic people can date (lack of attraction =/= romance repulsed). even asexual aromantic (aroace) people can choose to have sex and/or date if they want to

i simplified as best as i could! however if you choose to delve into asexual and aromantic communities (esp aromantic communities) there is a lot of cool analyses about our identities and how we experience attraction which may solve other questions you could have

cheers!

[jessilynallendilla]

So I just read Danny Phantom: A Glitch in Time and...it was ok

Had this come out when I was a kid and just watched Ultimate Enemy I would have gone absolutely feral over it

this show came out in 2004 so not quite sure how to feel about the updated technology IMO it would have been cool to have a time capsule of the show than the common floating timeline you see in comics

unlike with DC graphic novels you can tell the person that wrote this is actually a fan of the show and not a rando corporate pick the plot is plausible and the characters stay in character

A loyal tribute that brings in new lore and character growth

it also retcons the hated movie Phantom Planet

And it leaves enough to be curious for the sequel

People either seem to love it saying it's a good continuation the more serious take they wanted or hate it saying they're tired of villains being complex and redeemable and not pure evil anymore and the plot seems too much like tumblr fanfiction

I made notes as a read it so spoilers under the cut

Dash Kwan Paulina and Star are ghost hunters 

Tucker has instagram/twitter “Spectregram” fans 

The Fentons supply the town’s ghost hunting tech unasked 

Tucker’s wiki “click-a-pedia" has him listed as married to Ember 

Danny and Jazz just accept their father is such a bungler he can’t even kill a guy by abandoning him in space 

Dan was strong enough to dent the only thing that can contain him and just it being knocked off a shelf was enough for him to break out (why Clockwork the Master of Time never foresaw this happening moved it from a table to a more secure location ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  ) 

So uh... Dan just absorbed “ate” Clockwork  

Ecto energy can reach atomic bomb levels so dimension ending threat there 

Since the Disasteroid his powers have been fading their theories match their personalities Tucker-science Sam-government Jazz-trauma  

“Do you have any childhood trauma you wanna talk about?” (like Jazz as if you weren’t there) 

Vlad found a primordial source of ecto energy and just kept that information to himself for a rainy day 

Jazz has a magical girl transformation for her ghost fighting suit 

Vlad is just “ignore those clones” (there in clothes so did Vlad just buy multiple copies of Danny’s favorite outfit how did he know his size) 

Vlad is such an old man who doesn’t know how to use modern computers 

“not a place of honor” ah the nuclear waste warning (we don’t really get much more exploration of this or the seven ancients) 

Sam is a horse girl 

Valerie still holding that grudge huh 

In Pariah’s Keep Danny is suffers from bad memories and holds Sam’s hand to comfort himself 

The Keep is Fright Knight’s domain  

Danny just forgets humans are the ghosts in the Ghost Zone (in line with how often he forgets what powers he has) 

Fright Knight calls Pariah his master 

Vlad is such a loser he keeps getting his shit kicked 

Maddie “That’s not my Danny.” 

The Ghost Zone and human world were split in half an unnatural divide 

Danny is still a C student (io don't think he's going to be an astronaut)

Ghosts are manifestations of human emotions not separate entities (take that Fartman) 

Eventually they start to lose their human identity it’s why some are less human 

Vlad has his own “Where’s the rest of it?” meme 

They figured out all ghosts run on some emotional drive or purpose  

Danny realizes his purpose is protection but now there’s no longer the monster of the week threat or his parents he never asked himself what he wanted 

Now instead of constant fighting he’ll help the ghost achieve their desires they just want to keep doing in death what they did in life and heal the rift 

Fight for control Clockwork 

Vlad finally grew as a person realizing it was his action and drive for power that drew everyone away and has making amends as his new purpose 

Dan just doesn’t want to be alone (makes sense the “no more painful human emotions” +Vlad’s anger and abandonment issues so he’s all the emotions and pain) 

Dan is destabilizing flashing back to his pre Dark child form because he’s a being outside his destroyed timeline  

Danny is the GOAT 

Clockwork needs to fix what he can of the time streams and Danny has two choices Post Disasteroid+no powers or Pre Disasteroid+powers  

Danny gives up being accepted so he can fix the realms “I’m Danny Phantom, proctor of humans and ghosts!” 

They are back to being invisible losers and Sam is just happy goths aren’t popular anymore 

The city doesn’t know how they avoided the Disasteroid but the Mayor declares ghosts are responsible for everything the city will now have a branch of ghost hunters and Danny Phantom is again public enemy #1 

Clockwork transfers Dan from Vlad into one of the empty clones he’s Vlad’s responsibility now he’ll be too busy to help again 

Clockwork’s powers are finite (so he isn’t omnipotent and all powerful) but he still feels something wrong in the stitches he feels weaker now 

And Valerie has a Time Medallion and is pissed (but there was a Valerie in the crowd at the Mayor’s speech so the two Valeries might meet up in the sequel)  

Jazz is ecstatic she was right about ghosts being emotions based  

[lookismstuff]

UPDATED: The Mystery of Daniel (Hyungseok)'s Two Bodies: List of the Wild Circulating Theories so Far...

Disclaimer: Not 100% my original thoughts but a combo of multiple fan theories and my own opinions. Spoilers alert, obviously.

BGM:

"Identity" by Jeon Changyeop and Kim Hyunjoon

Okay this theory post is divided into: A) The origin of the alternate body; B) The functions of the alternate body; C) The reasons why Daniel was chosen or why he found the body; and D) Where the alternate body was stored before.

First, theories of the origin of the alternate body.

Origins A and B explain why the two bodies look more and more alike as the real Daniel grows and matures. The others see it from different angles.

ORIGIN A: FUTURE SELF OR FUTURE/PRESENT TWIN

Theory 1

Most popular theory: the alternate body is Daniel's own future body or a better artificial version of himself, which somehow was transported to the past timeline by either a supernatural (Questism has supernatural elements and is set in PTJ universe, you see) or technological means. As Daniel changes and grows, the alternate body will eventually integrate with the real Daniel or vanish.

Theory 2

The alternate body is Daniel's brain dead biological or artificial twin, which will later get its own consciousness (the theory doesn't mention any connection with Jinyoung Park, the mad genius scientist, or how the body will be conscious).

Theory 3 (Update)

The alternate body is Daniel's alternate timeline self and he transported his body to the past because in the future everything was ruined either by Charles Choi or by Jake's brother and he was determined to fix everything from the start.

ORIGIN B: SOMETHING TO DO WITH JINYOUNG PARK (Why both Daniel's real and alternate bodies look like the scientist)

Theory 1

The alternate body is a real person's body, which is made devoid of any consciousness either from an incurable illness or from a series of experiments, with or without the consent of the body's true owner.

This true owner might be an unknown son of Charles Choi (Choi Dongsoo)'s or Jinyoung's. Therefore, the alternate body is Daniel's twin or cousin or whatever.

Theory 2

The alternate body is an artificial biomachine created by either Charles himself/his team or Jinyoung/his team or together, and was either modeled fully after Jinyoung's young self or sampled from his DNA.

Then who's the real son/relative of Jinyoung's? The answer is the real Daniel.

ORIGIN C: SOMETHING TO DO WITH D.G.'S MURKY PAST

Theory 1

The alternate body is D.G.'s original body (James Lee / Lee Jihoon) that was modified through plastic surgery. D.G.'s current beautiful body is his artificial, alternate one. That's why he looks so young. D.G. planned to live with two bodies while running away from his crimes as James. But he failed.

Theory 2

The alternate body is artificial and was created as D.G.'s alternate body, and was injected with his capabilities and memories as James. But D.G. failed to use it.

In theories 1 & 2, maybe D.G. failed to use the body because:

He parted ways from Charles because of extortion, exploitation, ideological differences? And a) he was no longer helped by the CEO, OR b) he set himself free from Charles.

Or his consciousness couldn't return to that body somehow (if it was his original one) so he has no choice but to live with his current body only.

Or he couldn't transfer his consciousness to it (if it's artificial) and had to resort to plastic surgery instead to shed his James identity.

Theory 3

The alternate body is a result of genetic mutation that runs in James's and Daniel's family (a.k.a they both are genetically predisposed to split into alternate bodies at a certain age and are related).

My opinion: and maybe James' side of the family are all gone, bought into silence or were killed so noone could confirm the connection...idk.

Is that why he lived alone as a student and noone looked for James?

Theory 4 (UPDATE)

The alternate body is James Lee's real body that was modified through plastic surgery and other experiments, and the current DG is an orphan who claimed that identity

ORIGIN D: 'LEGACY' FROM GEN 0 OR GEN 1

Theory 1

The alternate body has been around since the 0th generations but was later stolen and/or stored until it was reused in Daniel's era (the fan theorist did not explain who used it back then and why). Charles probably killed its real owner to get it (whoever created it or whoever originally lived in that body).

Theory 2

Charles was the original owner of that body when he was Elite, or before it. He no longer used it for reasons similar to the previously discussed D.G. theory

Theory 3 (UPDATED)

The original body is the body of Jake's half-brother, and the reason why he was adept with that man's techniques is because he is the original body of that man, not the one in Mexico right now.

Moving on to the theories of the functions of the alternate body (Functions A, B, C)

The theories either pinpoint him as a soldier (function A), an experimental subject (function B) or a private property (function C).

FUNCTION A: TACTICAL DATA BANK/ BIOMACHINE / SOLDIER

Theory 1

The alternate body is someone's private tactical data bank just like the "system" in Questism (another PTJ universe webtoon). The skills are 'downloaded' from various fighters including D.G., Gun Park (Park Jonggun), Goo Kim (Kim Joongoo), 0th & 1st generations fighters, and maybe even countless soldiers, mercenaries, or even criminals that we'll never see in PTJ universe.

Theory 2 (mine)

The alternate body is a biomachine weapon/perfect soldier for hire for criminals/ private sectors/ the government in a secret project carried out by either Charles or Jinyoung (idk...I mean Manager Kim features many of the NK-SK espionage and conflict in its plot, and Viral Hit/How to Fight features mercenaries. Both webtoons are set in PTJ universe.)

Theory 3

The alternate body was an alternate fighter body for various fighters in the previous generation, and the memories of the combat skills were stored from whoever inhabited it, plus multiple fights.

In all three theories, the maximum combat capability can only be accessed when the body senses danger, helplessness, or is drugged (in UI mode)

Theory 4 (UPDATE)

The Body was actually sent from the future by Daniel's future or alternate timeline self to assist Daniel and to prevent the bleak things that happened in the alternate timeline(s).

FUNCTION B: ONGOING SOCIAL EXPERIMENT MONITORED BY SEVERAL PEOPLE

Theory 1

The body serves as a guinea pig for Charles's social experiment on human behavior, which ranges from daily situations (school life) to workplace (industry/hallyu entertainment biz) to dire situations (life and death combats).

Theory 2

CEO Steve Hong (Hong Kyeongyeong), aka Jay (Jaeyeol) 's father actually knew about the social experiment or secret military project regarding the alternate body. He probably has been spying on Charles since forever.

In this theory, Jay has been his dad's unwilling spy since Daniel's alternate body became his friend. He's also in a capacity as alternate body Daniel's secret bodyguard both because he genuinely cares for Daniel and because it's an order from his dad.

In both theories, Crystal is an unaware spy of her dad (through her stories to Gun Park (Park Jonggun). And her original body is the beautiful one which is why she makes sure to do workouts in it. The shorter Crystal is the alternate body.

FUNCTION C: A PRIVATE PROPERTY OF JAMES, ELITE (CHARLES) and/or JINYOUNG

(Please read the previous sections about James, Charles and the 0th generation... if you're still here)

Now, onto the theories of why Daniel was chosen/found the alternate body.

The theories are either focused on Daniel's house itself or the existence of person or persons who might be aware of the existence of alternate bodies. UPDATE: The new theory about a future Daniel is also thrown into the mix.

REASON A: DANIEL'S HOUSE IS THE KEY

Theory 1

Because the house Daniel currently lives in was Charles's first lab and his house, the alternate body was drawn to that place out of his storage or wherever, for whatever purpose, and entered the house when Daniel was asleep.

Theory 2

Because of a supernatural connection between Daniel's current house and Charles's alternate body project, Daniel's alternate body was born in it when Daniel was asleep (something in the house triggered its birth).

REASON B: EXPERIMENT IS THE KEY

Theory 1

Because the alternate body was a gift from Charles (as a part of his social experiment or not)...but I'm not sure about this one. I think when Charles said "gift" he meant sarcastically as in "I lost it but you found it and wasted it."

REASON C: DANIEL'S MOM AND THE 0th GENERATION ARE THE KEY

Theory 1

Because Daniel's mom made a deal with whoever made that body (maybe it was not Charles or Jinyoung, or maybe it was them). And she rented the house for her son on purpose to help him turn his life around or she was forced to participate in an experiment because of something in her/Daniel's dad's past (my opinion: but why didn't she recognize the alternate body as Jinyoung's lookalike/as the body her son would inhabit? Wouldn't whoever made the deal with her show her the body first? Or not? )

In this case

Someone transported the alternate body to the house (someone who knew that Daniel moved there).

Or the alternate body moved on his own..zombie-like, out of wherever he was before.

I must admit that Reasons A and C make me scared lmaooo...imagine the conspiracy. Also imagine a brain dead body moving around while...or one that was born out of thin air.

REASON D: DANIEL'S FUTURE OR ALTERNATE TIMELINE IS THE KEY

Theory 1

Because the alternate body was actually sent by Daniel's future or alternate timeline self to prevent Daniel from making the same mistakes that he made in that future or alternate timeline (the war against Charles and another 'great power')

Last but not least, theories of where the body was stored before Daniel found him.

The places are either secluded or private properties.

Theory 1 (mine)

The secret asylum ran by Hangyeol of Workers (Ilhae) behind the plastic surgery clinic, or in the clinic itself.

If he was a real person maybe

He was abducted and experimented upon in one of its wards without his consent until he was brain dead.

Or he was taken there in secret when he was already brain dead before.

In this case, since apparently Eugene (Yoojin) has no idea of the existence of alternate bodies, maybe Hangyeol either didn't tell him or someone else ran the place before they both did.

Theory 2

Jinyoung's secret lab where Samuel Seo (Seo Seongeun), Johan Song (Song Yohan), and Daniel's alternate body are currently being abducted, tortured, and drugged.

Theory 3

Other locations owned by Charles including Daniel's current house, Charles's companies, his house, his lab, James's old house, his old high school.

Theory 4

Locations owned by D.G. (his house, etc)

Theory 5

Locations owned by members of the 0th generation fighters. I don't know if this is still valid since Gapryong Kim didn't seem to get along that well with Charles/Elite towards the end, and Tom Lee (Lee Dogyu) didn't know about alternate bodies.

Theory 6 (mine)

A government lab (if he was created for government military purposes)

Okay thank you for reading this (if anyone does) and I know it's very long etc. This fandom is full of creative theorists. Anyone who stays with me until the end of this post or even at the beginning, I love you so much and I'm sorr

[our-aroace-experience]

I’m aroallo (aromantic bisexual, to be specific), which, strictly speaking, is using the split attraction model, but weirdly, I don’t really consider my attraction to be “split” in any way. When I was questioning being aro, I felt quite unsure about my aromanticism because I was so sure of my bisexuality. I felt worried that identifying as aro would alienate me from the bi community, and disconnected from the idea that attraction could be neatly and clearly divided into categories such as “romantic” and “sexual” — I personally felt that the distinction was much more nebulous and was reluctant to label myself in such a way that implied I could easily fit my own feelings into those categories.

Looking back, I definitely did a lot of overthinking! But what made me finally feel comfortable accepting that I was aro was, (perhaps surprisingly since I’m not aroace), the aroace flag! I remember reading somewhere that the use of orange and blue on the flag, rather than purple and green, represented that some people viewed their aroace-ness as a singular, unified identity, rather than two separate ones. It kind of clicked with me then that I felt the same way about my own identity. Obviously “aromantic” and “bisexual” have quite different meanings, but they both accurately describe the same part of myself, rather than being two different ones. It’s part of why I like the aroallo flag so much (other than its fantastic colours), because it unifies my identity in a similar way, and that was really important to me when I first started using the label.

To be honest, I’ve gotten over these feelings a bit. I had a few misconceptions about the SAM when I was questioning (as is probably apparent) and I don’t have a visceral “no!” reaction anymore when considering that it applies to me. As I settled into my identity again, I realised that, to be honest, I had gotten overly worked up about this. During the tumultuous experience of questioning, the intricacies of identity and my own personal hang ups felt like a very big deal, but now it all seems pretty inconsequential. It’s nice to regain that confidence in myself. But, food for thought, I guess. I still don’t consider my romantic and sexual orientations to be any different from each other even though that might seem contradictory to some. Aro identity isn’t always as clear-cut as it’s made out to be!

(This ended up being way longer than I meant for it to be! Oops.)

thank you for sharing, i’m so happy to hear you’ve found confidence in your identity. the only person it has to make sense to is you, that’s always the most important, and it seems like you’ve gotten there!