#transition effects

[femcelbassmentdweller]

Overview of My First Year of HRT (2021-2022)

Hi, my name is Sylvie, and I'm transfemme! I started hormone replacement therapy on September 25th, 2021 and I've been through quite a lot on my journey to a year of HRT so I'm making two separate posts: this one focusing on the medical side and physical changes, and another that will focus on the social side of transitioning. So, here we go!

I realized I was trans the last week of August 2021, then September 9th I came out publicly, September 15th I had my first appointment with Plume, and I received my first Estradiol script September 24th, but consider my official "first day" of HRT the 25th.

I started HRT on sublingual Estradiol pills, 2mg twice a day (morning and night). Psychologically, taking the first pill hit me like a psychosomatic lightning bolt, and the first meaningful change estrogen granted me was an opening of my feelings- I could suddenly experience a "true range" of emotion, I experienced ambivalence for the first time. Physically, within the first week, I was experiencing tingling in my chest/nipples and by three weeks they actively ached, and after about two months my nipples looked different (darker, larger), and my chest started to stick out (36" to 37")

At 2 months my Estradiol was increased to three times a day and Progesterone 100mg (at night) added. By two months, my body's sensitivity had reached astronomical levels, particularly in areas that weren't sensitive before: for me, this was my nipples, armpits, and butt. My skin overall became more sensitive, slight touches made me quiver and my pain tolerance dropped sharply. During my second month my body's smell changed too and my sweat production cut back.

At 3 months, Spironolactone 50mg once a day (morning) was added and during this month my nipples had noticeably expanded and become dark enough to see through shirts, and my chest had grown enough to be noticeable small mounds in a tight shirt (38"). Also by 3 months, random erections completely stopped happening, whether asleep or awake.

Between months 3 and 5 a lot of things happened in my life; the stress and inactivity caused me to lose 50 lbs. As a result, I lost a ton of muscle mass. My thighs, upper arms, and butt became soft and jiggly, I could not lift things I could before, even with great effort.

3 month bloodwork results: E @ 133 and T @ 320

At 4 months, I asked my doctor for Finasteride, which is a DHT blocker- DHT is an androgen created by testosterone and an excess of DHT is related to hair loss, as well as some research I read back then relating to DHT and thicker/darker body hair. Since starting Finasteride, I have only shaved and used Nair on my body itself and I have experienced 75%-80% body hair loss, and much of what hair remains is now vellus hair (light, short, soft).

Between months 4 and 5, I started experiencing sexual dysfunction. Even if aroused, it was a 50/50 shot of whether I could get hard or not. Likewise, I began producing much less semen. This was when I started experimenting with different forms of masturbating too (i.e. using a vibrator).

Between months 5 and 6 I started gaining weight again, and this was when my breast growth was the greatest, going from 38" to almost 41". However, in the growth it seems I lost the sensitivity I had in the early months- my nipples and armpits are still erogenous zones, but not as potent. Additionally, I noticed fat redistribution caused my hips and waist to take a more stereotypically feminine, almost hourglass appearance (and increased from 32" and 34" respectively to 35" and 38" by 10 months).

6 month bloodwork results: E @ 258 and T @ 22

Months 7, 8, and 9 saw only slight breast growth (41 1/2") due to losing weight again from stress, but at this point I have very little body hair left, and even areas which were full before (armpits, groin) thinned out significantly over time- the most astounding of all being my butt, which the cheek hair just disappeared without me doing anything, like the hair just fell off.

Somewhere during months 8 and 9, I completely lost the ability to become erect without medication (doctor prescribed me Sildenafil, aka viagra) and no more ejaculating. Reaching orgasm became a concentrated effort instead of something that came easily, and very little clear liquid would come out during.

9 month bloodwork results: E @ 57 and T @ 28

For some reason my levels dropped between 6 and 9 months, and during that time I became very mentally and emotionally unwell due to the hormone imbalances. My doctor suggested a few things: me not waiting/letting the pill dissolve long enough in my mouth or the pill just not having the same potency on me anymore. So...

At month 10 I started injections and almost immediately started feeling much better. There is a hormonal low day for me every week, the day before I do my injection again, but it's not hard to deal with. I feel like myself!

Now months 11 and 12, nothing really noteworthy to update except I'm desperately trying to eat more so I can gain weight to grow my boobs. Just stopped taking Spiro though, but I use Tgel to maintain my girldick because I'm a Switch.

Lastly, I'd like to say I'm open to any questions anyone might have, and I'll do my best to answer them. You can DM me, email me secretly from a fake account (bellatrixnovus@gmail.com is my email), whatever! I just hope this information is of some value to someone out there!

[lazylittledragon]

hey idk which anxious pre-t babe needs to hear this but i didn't get to when i was younger so. testosterone will not make you ugly. it won't make you a horrible person. it won't 'mutilate' or ruin your body. if you want to go on testosterone then literally all that happens is it makes you really fucking hot and REALLY fucking happy.

[yooboobies]

By day, one way, by night another...⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

{cr. 0613data, namuspromised, dwellingsouls}

[angermango]

Re: MEMENTO MORI

a few weeks back i suddenly had a lil kick and remembered I haven't tried making something for Madness Day or really done Madness stuff for a long time even though i still love these violent jellybeans dearly and figured I could redo a concept I did for the last Madness Day i did something for back in 2021.

so naturally i left it until last night to actually do most of the drawing. Jeb, Hank and Tricky have all died a stupid amount of times.

[fresherfriut]

[gatekeeper-of-witchcraft]

correct me if I’m out of line bc I’m not a detransitioner, but I hate hate hate how common arguments against transition/“in defense of” detransitioners is “they can’t have kids!” or “they can’t breastfeed!”

why should mitigating harm always come down to what a woman can do for a potential child (or a man’s ability to father children)? why isn’t it enough to keep HER from harm? it’s just prioritizing women as broodmares all over again. why isn’t it enough to keep HER from chronic pain, heart and blood pressure issues, incontinence, necrosis, limited mobility and death?

[thedeadedhooman]

I get a boner every time jared padalecki transitions from sam to gadreel to sam

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Chapter 6 - The Butterfly Effect

Read on AO3

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N (2nd POV but Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Dubcon, Plus-sized Reader/OC, female Reader/OC, Everyone learns new things about each other, Manipulation, PTSD, Doll has a tragic backstory, Poorly translated Spanish, Lots of introspection

~4.2k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above but honestly nothing particularly bad happens this chapter.

John gives you space for the next few days, letting you settle in around the edges of his own routine. You’ve always been an early riser, and so is he, but he starts every day with a run, and you prefer a slower pace. You’ve taken to coming downstairs after you hear the front door close, and stretch on the living room floor (you wouldn’t call it yoga, but you’ve spent the last few years keeping up with the Kinsey kids, and you know how important it is to maintain flexibility), and make coffee before you go back upstairs to get dressed and ready for the day. John always showers first thing after his run, but after the second day he starts taking off his shirt before he drinks a glass of water at the sink, watching you from the corner of his eye to see if you’re looking.

And maybe sometimes you are. It would be a useless endeavour, pretending that he’s not nice to look at. He’s big, barrel-chested, with thick, muscular arms, and he’s hairy in a way that’s unbelievably attractive, and he gleams with sweat after his runs. If he didn’t look so damn smug every time he catches you looking, you’d probably gladly spend a few long minutes studying him. Something about the man makes your fingers itch to pick up a pencil.

You just orbit around each other for those first few days. He’s working on some project outside, and you putter around the house a bit and look for new jobs online. You were surprised that he didn’t confiscate your laptop to keep you from calling for a rescue, but he made no effort to stop you from using your laptop or your phone. Perhaps he’d really listened when you’d tried to set boundaries. He’s certainly given you space to adjust.

On Wednesday, you video call your Lola— It’s been routine for ages, since you always had Sundays and Wednesdays off from work— and catch up. You start the call shortly after John leaves, to give yourself some time to talk privately. It’s nice to see her familiar, wrinkled brown face, even if she’s half the world away from you.

She clocks that you’re not at home right away, and gets that sly, knowing smile when you tell her you’re staying with a friend. “¿Estás viendo a alguien?” she asks. “¿Un joven tal vez?” Are you seeing someone? A young man perhaps?

“No nada de eso. Sólo quedarme con un amigo.” No, nothing like that. Just staying with a friend. Once again, lying to make it seem like you’re not in trouble. It’s not like your Lola would be able to do anything about your situation anyway. You would just worry her.

Of course, Lola is much too observant not to see that you're hiding something-- Even if all she sees of you is a video call once a week, you're her granddaughter and she knows you. "Dalisay," she says, her tone a mocking approximation of sternness. "Eres una mujer adulta. Me gustaría saber que eres feliz, que estás saliendo con alguien agradable. No tienes que mentirme. Mientele a tu otra abuela.” You are a grown woman. I would like to know you're happy, that you’re seeing someone kind. You don't have to lie to me. Lie to your other grandmother.

You laugh. "¡Es complicado Lola! Él es—" It's complicated Lola! He's—

The door opens, and John limps back in, early. "Rolled my ankle," he explains, taking your wide-eyed look as concern. "Just need some ice."

"Muéstramelo," Lola demands, laughing. "Tiene una voz hermosa.” Show him to me. He has a handsome voice.

John turns toward you, frowning. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"I always call Lola on Wednesdays-- John, sit down, you need to ice your ankle, what are you doing?"

He's standing on one leg, in the middle of the kitchen, fishing a mug out of the cupboard rather than getting something cold and sitting right down. "I--"

You're not sure what possesses you, but you get up, and you make him sit, and you go to make him his coffee and wrap a bag of frozen peas in a tea towel. When you turn around, he's reached across the table to pull your laptop closer, smiling at the camera when Lola claps he hands together, beaming.

"Es guapo, Dalisay. Pero no joven, ¿eh?" She says, laughing. He's handsome, Dalisay. But not young, huh?

"No," he agrees, "soy demasiado viejo para ella. Todavía soy lo suficientemente egoísta como para intentarlo de todos modos.” I'm too old for her. I'm still selfish enough to try anyway. Lola laughs at his honesty, pleased with John already.

You set down the coffee and glare at him. But you gently set the ice pack on his raised ankle. He pulls you into his lap, sitting you on his other thigh. "John!" You protest.

"Oh, relájate, apo,” Lola chides, unhelpfully reading the situation just the way John wants her to. She seems impressed by John's accented Spanish, happy to not need to translate her words to English to speak with him. She speaks English perfectly well, but she prefers Spanish, calls English clunky and ungraceful. "Yo también fui joven una vez. Me preocupaba que ella nunca encontrara a alguien.” Oh lighten up, apo. I was young once too. I was worried she would never find someone.

"No es que ella no pudiera,” John says. "Ella es tan hermosa, pero mantiene la distancia." It's not that she couldn't. She's so beautiful, but she keeps her distance.

“John, stop that,” you say, and you do mean the way he’s talking, but you also mean the hand that’s firmly gripping your hip, kneading your soft flesh. It’s not hard enough to bruise, not even enough to hurt, but it’s distracting, and makes your heart flutter. The movement is also hitching your skirt up a little higher on your thighs.

The innocent, laughing look he gives you is no help. “Sorry, love.” He kisses your shoulder, his hand sliding up to your waist instead.

You glance over at the screen, wincing when you see two of your cousins crowded into the screen with Lola, all of them stifling laughter and one of them holding a chubby baby.

“He needs to buy you a ring, cuz,” Ligaya says, waving her baby’s chubby hand at you. “Say hello Berting, that’s your auntie Dalisay and her boyfriend.” She and her sister, Ceci dissolve into giggles. The baby laughs too, although he doesn’t have any idea what’s going on around him.

“He’s too old to be anyone’s boyfriend,” you grouse.

“He looks more like husband material to me,” Ceci crows. She points a threatening finger at the webcam. “You’d better be good to her! She’s our favourite cousin.”

“Y mi nieta favorita,” Lola says, And my favourite granddaughter, cupping her hand around her mouth as if that would keep Ligaya and Ceci from hearing her. They both laugh, unoffended, Ceci batting Lola’s shoulder lightly.

“I will,” John promises. “She makes it easy. She’s much too good for the likes of me.”

“And don’t you forget it, English!” Ligaya agrees. “Are you coming to see us for Christmas this year, Lisay? There’s at least four babies you haven’t met yet.”

“I’m not sure I can afford to this year. We’ll see if I can find work—”

“¿Qué pasó? ¿Perdiste tu trabajo?” Lola asks. What happened? Did you lose your job?

“You practically raised those niños!” Ligaya protests, as if that would change the facts of the matter. “They love you!”

You grimace, and haltingly explain that Mr. Kinsey had made a pass at you, and you’d been fired so that he and his wife could work out their marital issues. Apparently you’d been just too tempting to have around, despite the fact that you had less than zero interest in your former employer. By the end of your explanation, Lola looks ready to fight, and Ligaya and Ceci both look furious too. “It’s alright,” you say, trying to convince yourself as much as you are them. “I wouldn’t have been able to leave if they didn’t fire me. And I didn’t want to be raising someone else's’ kids forever.”

Ceci wiggles her eyebrows at you. “Yeah, Lisay, you want your own babies, eh?”

“You should start painting again,” Ligaya suggested, flicking Ceci with the hand not currently supporting her son. “You could sell prints online, portrait commissions. You’re as good as your mother, and she made it into that London Gallery.”

Lola notices the way your smile strains and shoos your cousins away. “El consejo es bueno aunque graznan,” she says. “Eres demasiado buena para dejar de pintar.” The advice is good, even if they quack. You’re too good to stop painting.

You change the subject, and Lola talks some about the children, about neighbourhood gossip, catching you up on everything before you end the call. You sigh, sinking into John unconsciously. He’s so big, and so solid, you wish you could do away with that undercurrent of fear ruining the little comfort his arms would provide you otherwise.

“Why’d you stop painting?” he asks.

“It’s not the same anymore.”

“Is anything ever the same?”

You twist to look at him. His eyes are too blue, piercing though you like he’s able to read the thoughts in your head. You have to remind yourself that he can’t, that he doesn’t know you well enough even to guess. You’re getting to know him pretty well though, and you recognize this earnestness, this plea to let him in, to let him help. John is a man who needs to do something all the time, that needs to focus on a task. You wonder what it is that nips at his heels so sharply— Is is inherent, genetic, something unavoidable, written in the core of his very deepest, truest self? Or is it just that he’s running from something, and must stay in motion, driving himself ever forward to keep it from catching up?

“Have you ever lost anyone, John?”

Surprise widens his eyes for a flickering second, before he hides it behind a tight smile. “Think we’re talking about you, Doll.”

“You don’t have to answer. I think it’s just easier to understand, when you have. Painting just reminds me of my mam. It’s like trying to swim with lead shoes on. It’s so hard to keep my head above the water that it’s easier just not to swim.”

“Maybe you could try takin’ off the lead shoes,” he suggested, his arms tightening around you. Levity and reassurance, like he knows exactly what you need. “Or maybe you just shouldn’t go swimmin’ alone.”

“A lifeguard,” you say, rolling the thought around in your head. Maybe that was the problem, the empty space was too apparent when there was no one around to fill it. You’d painted the flowers on the credenza with Ripley there, and that had even been nice. You’d thought it was just a fluke, but you hadn’t really thought about why it had been different. “That’s an interesting thought.”

“Did you have everything you’d need? We can look through the boxes for your supplies.”

You shake your head. “No. Yes. I have watercolours somewhere. Just no acrylics. But I could start with watercolours.”

“Yeah? We can look now, if you like.”

“Maybe in a bit. I’ll make breakfast first.”

“I can do it,” he offers quickly. “I want to take care of you.”

As much as you aren’t quite ready to admit it, he already is. “No, I think it’s my turn. Just give me a minute. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, but this is kind of nice.”

He hums his agreement, picking up his coffee. You think he’s doing it so he can’t kiss you, and you’re so pleased that he’s starting to get it that you almost consider kissing him instead.

But you don’t. You just let yourself enjoy the moment.

Maybe that’s enough, for now.

You decide that having him sit and watch you painting would be awkward, so once you hunt down your watercolours and a sketchbook with heavy paper, you set up outside while he works. He’s constructing some kind of frame over a concrete pad, a covered porch, you think. You sit out of the way, facing the copse of trees that surround the house, and the overgrown, weedy garden. It looks like it had been set up early in the season with the best of intentions, but you suspect that it was too hard on his knees and back. He’d made the mistake of planting everything straight in the ground— You probably would have suggested planter boxes, if you’d been here in the spring. Then he could have sat on a stool— It would have helped keep the bunnies out too. The few tomatoes left on an abandoned vine have little bites nibbled out of them— Almost everything has little bites taken out of it.

It makes you smother a laugh. It’s easy to imagine John railing against nature— He’s so stubborn, there’s no way he gave up for a good long time— Cursing the rabbits and deer, leaning over the once-neat rows until his back ached. There’s a pair of rusting garden shears stuck out of the ground, evidence that he quit in a fit of pique some months ago.

He’s looking at you— He has a sense for when you let happiness slip through, like a hound picking up a rabbit’s trail in the woods. You can feel the burn of those bright blue eyes on you, the heavy weight of his attention. Does he make note of everything you smile at? You wonder how long the list is now. Puppies, the Stuart kids, Lola and your cousins, and now his poor attempts at gardening. You haven’t really let much else get past your careful, polite mask, knowing full well that stone-walling him is your best defence. He’s searching for an opening, and once he finds it, he’ll pop you open like a clam.

It seems inevitable. Still, he’ll have to work for it, if he wants you to let him in. He’s already set himself the first of his Herculean tasks, to get you painting again. It would be easier to face the Nemean lion. Your grief has sharp teeth, unblunted even after a decade, still dug deep into your heart.

“You aren’t painting,” John says in your ear. His hands settle on your shoulders, holding you in your seat when surprise would launch you a few centimetres into the air.

You turn your head to look at him, and he’s far too close. “You aren’t working.”

“Takin’ a break. You look like you’re thinkin’ hard about something. What’s on your mind, Doll?”

“Your garden. Must have been a storm of misfortunes to make you give up.”

“Few things get the better of me, but this was one of ‘em. Have to settle for buyin’ produce at the shops like everyone else.”

“It’s not really so hard.”

“You the expert in gardening?”

“No, I just used to help my gran with her garden. Picked up a thing or two about keeping green things alive.” You take a dry paintbrush and dust it over his fingertips idly.

“That the one we talked to today?” he asks.

“No, that’s Lola. Gran is the Scottish one.”

He hums, smooths out tension in your shoulders with his thumbs, catching the slightest touch of your skin at the collar of your sweater. "Didn't think you had family in the UK."

You tip your head back, looking up at him. He shifts, leaning his forearms on the back of the chair, hanging over you. "Just my Gran, she got remarried a bit before we moved to Manchester. She thought her husbands-- Well, I'll say kids, but they were full adults, older than my mam already-- She thought they were more respectable than my parents. Wouldn't categorize her as a real warm and fuzzy lady."

"You don't talk then?"

"No. Not since my parents died. We had a proper row at the funeral and she's never apologized, and I'm certainly not going to."

"Learnin' a lot about you today, Doll."

“That I’m stubborn and that I distance myself from the people that love me?” you ask, flicking the paintbrush at the tip of his nose. His whole face scrunches, and it’s kind of endearing. You’re already feeling soft about him from this morning, because Lola liked him, and because he didn’t ask if she spoke English, just launched right into Spanish that was a maybe a little rough around the edges, but good enough.

“That,” he agrees. “But I think it’s good that you hold your ground. You’re not stubborn for the sake of it, you say what needs to be said. I’d bet good money that you were in the right.”

“It doesn’t always matter who’s right and who’s wrong, John. Sometimes you have to set aside ego to make things right.”

“Tryin’ to teach an old dog new tricks?” he asks.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll teach yourself. Now go on, get. You’re distracting me.” You wrap your hands around one of his, and press a fleeting kiss to a spot between his thumb and his wrist before releasing him. “And be careful of your ankle. If you need to carry something heavy, let me help you.”

He laughs and withdraws, his shadow sliding over your page as he moves away. “Yes ma’am. You’re pretty cute when you’re bossy.”

“I’m always cute,” you say blithely.

You don’t look at him, so you miss the way he glances back over his shoulder, blue eyes burning. “You’re damn right about that.”

Ducking your head down to hide your smile, you pick your pencil up and look back to the garden. Something about the red-handled shears stuck in the soil speaks to you, so you lightly sketch it out on the page, humming to yourself quietly. The next things you need to hunt down are your headphones and the old mp3 player so you can listen to music while you paint.

There’s something soothing about hearing John work anyway. The whirr of his drill as he screwed framing lumber into place, or the buzz of his saw when he cuts pieces to size. He’s methodical, exacting— What makes him so good at building probably made him a poor gardener too. He can cut and fit pieces of wood together to make any shape he pleases, he can make a plan and nothing will fight back against it, beyond a warped bit of lumber here and there, but a garden grows as it will, and there’s no controlling the wind or the sun or the rain, let alone the creatures that might come looking for something tender and green.

That same struggle plays out between the two of you. He sees a map and a destination where you see a landscape. The journey, the exploration, is what matters to you, the light and shadow, the soft growing things and the hungry teeth that nip at the roots. In his mind he’s already built a house at the top of the hill, and he wants to pull you inside, lay you down, plant his seeds in a different garden, watch something new grow. It’s not simply impatience, but a need for control, for surety.

He exerts that control outwards, bending the world to the shape he likes. You’ve always turned it inwards, pulling in on yourself, turning your life into a safe little cocoon, turning deprivation and isolation into an art. Constructing masks to get you through, reliable scripts, being whomever you need to be to make things easier.

And perhaps it was easy, but it was lonely too.

Maybe they really had done you a favour. By pulling you out of your comfortable routine, they’ve forced you to face yourself, for the first time in ages, to ask yourself what it is that you want, to see who you are.

You feel like a butterfly, wings still damp and unfurling, perched in John’s hand. He could risk letting you fly away, or he could force you to stay by destroying some integral part of you. There’s no telling which path he intends to take, not yet.

You can just hope.

It might be insane— It certainly feels insane— but you really want him to be a good man. Not just out of self-preservation, although it probably weighs something in the equation, but because you want him. He’s right when he says there’s something here, something that’s been rolling around in the back of your mind since Ghost dumped you in his lap. It hasn’t even been a week, but it feels longer.

You keep half an eye on him while you put the first pale washes of colour onto paper. A few small versions first, to get a handle on light and shadow, colour values, just to remember how to mix colours the way you want to, and then start on the larger version, feeling a little more confident.

You’ve just blocked in the base colours when you notice that John’s limping again, and showing no sign of stopping his work. Sighing, you set your paintbrush down and stand. “John,” you say gently, putting yourself in the path between the saw set up and his lumber pile. “It’s time to take a break.”

“No, I’m fine, Doll. Get back to your painting.” He tries to move around you, but you side-step and block his path again. “It’s just a sprain,” he says, exasperated. “I’ve worked through worse.”

As if that was a good reason to ignore pain. “And you never considered that maybe you shouldn’t have had to?”

He frowns down at you. The difference in your heights has to be at least a foot, but he has a funny way of tucking in his chin and hanging his head when you’re standing close like this, and looking at you straight on anyway. A soft little hand settles on his stomach, unbidden— You’re not sure that you’ve instigated contact with him before, it’s always been him reaching out for you, his big hands achingly gentle. Is anyone ever gentle with him? Is he ever gentle with himself?

“The work will still be here tomorrow,” you remind him. “You have time to rest.”

A raindrop splashes on your outstretching arm. The two of you look up in tandem, at a heavy grey cloud that’s rolled over head— It hasn’t blocked out the sun yet, and neither of you had noticed it creeping up— and then at each other. “Guess the weather agrees with you,” John says.

You both scramble apart and into action. John covers the pile of lumber and the saw with tarps, weighed down with a few odd bricks so they won’t blow away, and you quickly pack up the water colours and your paintings. You don’t get there in time to stop a few splashes of rain from hitting the page, but you get everything inside before it’s completely soaked and set it on the kitchen table for the moment.

While you’re filling the kettle and looking outside, watching the rain splash against the window, John comes in too, and looks at your work. “The rain ruined it,” he says. “I should have been paying more attention to the weather.” There’s guilt in his voice, as if it’s his fault that the rain chose to fall where and when it did.

You set the kettle to boil, and join him, studying the paintings. Each of them unrefined— The smaller ones are just work-ups anyway, but the raindrops have warped the colours, creating voids with saturated edges. You wouldn’t say they’re ruined. There’s an artistry to incident, story preserved on paper in a way that your art wouldn’t do alone.

“No, I like it better this way,” you say decisively. “It underlines the theme of futility, don’t you think? How we’re at the mercy of the weather, whether we like it or not.”

“S’pose so,” he admits grudgingly.

His mouth is set so it almost disappears under his moustache. He really does hate the reminder that he has no control over some things. You dash upstairs and grab a couple of towels and tuck them under your arm, and take John’s hand, leading him out onto the front porch.

He follows you without resistance, although there’s a funny, curious look on his face. “What’re you doing?”

You let go, and put the towels down on the bench. “What does it look like I’m doing?” The rain is coming steadily now, the sky turned darker, sun all but blotted out, and it’s cold on your skin when you step out from the shelter and into the downpour. You throw your arms out and spin, laughing.

There are many things in this life that you can’t control. Things that are fixed, unchanged and immovable, laws of nature, the whims of weather, and Captain John Price. But you have choices too. You can try to move a mountain, but you’d be better climbing over it. You can choose to struggle against the current, or let it sweep you along. You can dance in the rain rather than wish it were sunny.

And you can hold out your hand, and invite John to dance with you.

Image Credits: Banner Dividers

[feral-like-a-dog]

No one warns trans boys about anything fr. Voice dropping? Hurts like hell and you sound dorky (affectionate and passes quickly dw). Leg hair in skinny jeans makes your legs feel numb after a while. Bottom growth too big so you have to choose which side of the seam it goes on, but so small itll break rank and shoot pain so bad youll see god into your stomach everytime you step wrong (also passes and is not permanent. And funny.)

Trans men and transmascs please share the things no one warned you about transitioning is so sexy and fun

[zeb-z]

demon girl tina who shaves her horns down, who tries to be everything a demon isn’t. never angry, never pressed, sweet and easygoing. perfect in every sense of the term. who’s traumatized from purgatory, who’s afraid of losing what she loves as much as she’s afraid of being shunned by who she loves for what she is. for all the imperfections that fracture her perfect image. who craves trust, a place to belong, the secret of who she is just bubbling under the surface, shaved down and hidden just underneath the cat ears she wears.

human girl bagi who embraces imperfection, who loves with loyalty and longevity. who would go to the ends of the earth for her loved ones, knowing their worst sins, their terrible crimes, and going I will love you anyway. I will be there for you anyway. who’s best friend is a demon, who she knows is a demon, who she met at his worst, and wouldn’t let him go through it alone. who understands the importance of secrets, which means she knows the value of honesty, and is ready to lay out all her truths once she cares about someone enough, trusts them enough.

tina getting flighty and nervous when she’s told that it’s love what bagi feels - not because she doesn’t feel the same, but because she does, and it’s all she’s ever wanted, and isn’t that just terrifying? because she doesn’t think she fully deserves it. not yet at least! and she doesn’t want to lose it. imperfect, clumsy, secretly a demon tina, still processing purgatory and everything that came before, so afraid because she believes she can’t measure up. once she’s worked on herself, once she’s perfect, she says. once she stops panicking at purgatory flashbacks, once she stops losing her temper, once she can provide stability, once she’s shaved her horns and they stop growing back - then she’ll be ready. as soon as she’s made herself into something easily lovable.

bagi listens to tina as she spills some of this to her, under the moonlight along the beach. not quite all her worries, but some, just like she had given not quite her whole heart, but a part of it, in that room that represents bagi’s mind. and bagi doesn’t press for more than what she’ll give, because she cherishes what has been given already, because she’s in no rush and has no where else to go, because above all else, she’s in love and willing to wait. and in the meantime, she’ll reassure tina that she doesn’t want perfection - she just wants tina the way she is.

[i-cast-zone-of-truth]

Yuanzhou’s Youth

Please listen to a few seconds of this vocal timbre okay. Know that this is the character’s/actor’s voice. Now think about them using this in the ost WHENEVER he was being tender or vulnerable at all. WHICH WAS PRETTY OFTEN. And then think about them cashing in on all those associations by using the song at the end when he dies. FUCKED UP RIGHT

[xumoonhao]

it's the one and only you // and memories of us

[ginaporterr]

HAPPY FOUR YEARS OF HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL: THE MUSICAL: THE SERIES (Premiered: November 8, 2019)

the wildcats' first & last episodes (insp)

[hadesoftheladies]

went on the twitter radfem space and it was full of the most obscene racism and violent language. tiktok is absurd, too. and now radblr is just near constant in-fighting and bullying. there's just no room for black radical feminists on the internet. i think i've gotten all i was ever going to get from this place. i think it's time i just move out of here and focus on reading theory and building irl community and maybe focus on the youtube channel. any mutuals that want to keep in touch, y'all can message me and we can figure out how to stay in touch elsewhere! (like discord maybe!) those who want to follow the channel can subscribe and stay subscribed until i upload. i may just create a website specifically for blogging and my thoughts after compiling the posts i've kept on this account. not deactivating immediately, since i still have loads to figure out and arrange, but i don't think i'm helping anyone on here and i'm tired of the hostility. i don't need anymore in my life. i'd rather just curate in my own space and accumulate a volume of work that i can use for other things and not have my blog polluted by racism, homophobia and anti intellectualism. i'm tired of trying to convince the unwilling. i'd rather just be a proper essayist and have people fight about me rather than with me XD.

[shelfperson]

dark dark nights and violent things // vaudevillian girls and violin strings // all of these are the prettiest things when i’m in love

they’re so cute 🥰 hope nothing bad happens to them 😊

[mothmvn]

more cisgender women should be looking at cisgender boys' puberty as a menopause preview, honestly. i find that cis men treat menopause with more pause, ironically, because they recognise the emotional/physical rollercoaster - gee, your body is suddenly sweating absolute buckets and smelling way outside of your control? you feel gross, you keep growing patchy hairs in new itchy places, and summers have suddenly become unbearable? woof, been there done that, let's get you an ice pack and some gatorade buddy, i mean mom

until menopause hits them, cis women (among others) can sometimes treat male puberty as a gross horror that they are forced to mitigate the consequences of - ugh, men with their hair and their smelliness that they can't keep sanitised, it's a concession to live with them, it's a chore to share space with them. you know it's not just a Boy Hormone, right? this exact same testosterone will jump you in a dark alley 30 years from now, you can accept it before then or keep treating it like an enemy latched onto those around you