#when ive been watching things get worse n worse for trans people

[vamptastic]

occasionally i sit there and just have a holy fuck i saw mcr LIVE in 2022 dude moment. i was THERE. i saw and met and talked to so many cool people and heard so many of my favorite songs and went to possibly the worst breakfast joint in north florida and dehydrated myself to impressive levels and somebody drove a HEARSE to the VENUE. dude. i was 17!!!! i got to do that as a teenager! like this band that was so important to so many adults when they were my age, that got them to the place they are now, managed to do the same thing for me years after they broke up and now they're back and i'm experiencing it right alongside the people they saved. also they're just so fucking good live, i don't think i realized how much metal influence they really have esp ray until i heard it in person, the music really sounds completely different in a way you can't capture in recordings. i spent the whole summer leading up to it with their albums keeping me company at my lonely ass internship, watching the tour from afar never thinking id get to go, and then i actually went and saw and participated in it and they've only gotten more important to me since then. just, man, mcr is everything.

[mithliya]

Back when you would’ve been using that old blog I remember DDLG was incredibly common and popular on Tumblr and the internet space around that time. I was also 14 and indoctrinated into DDLG because honestly it felt like the trend at that time. As someone who actually was actively into DDLG back then are you honestly have to laugh at the accusation that you were actively participating in it. I definitely had A LOT worse on my porn blog that I was running as a minor.

I don’t even get the point that AOS or Cosmic Cat are trying to make; would it be okay to distribute child pornography if you didn’t come at them? If you didn’t criticize their in take of drawings of children being raped they would of saw what they believed to be CP and just walked away.

Also Cosmic Cat’s confusion over why people can forgive and forget someone AS A MINOR participating in kink because they’ve been groomed into it years ago vs an ADULT who STILL is engaging in child rape fantasies (not gonna say ‘kink’ because wanting to Watch a child be raped by their trans mother is not a kink imo it’s more of a paraphilia), will forever amuse me. The situations are completely different down to the ages of the individuals, the context, the photos even, etc. This isn’t about people being loyal to you, as I can promise you that if you we’re outside for sharing any pictures even similar to that sick shit AOS was defending I would 110% be on that cancelled party bandwagon, but literally anyone with half a brain can see the situations are barely comparable.

Lastly I just want to say that I do you think it’s shitty how people bring this blog that you ran when you were under age, up every couple years. There are so many things I did when I was 14 that I regret and am traumatized by. I couldn’t imagine someone pulling up stuff I said or did while I was actively being groomed to use against me. I’m so sorry you have to keep going through this.

i must say i did engage in it in private, altho.. it was moreso that i was age regressing & the guy was sexualising it + he was controlling and wanted me to call him gross shit like daddy. and there was definitely terrible stuff i reblogged, not gonna deny that either, but it was when i was 15-16, stuff i rbed when older is pretty tame. 

but completely agree w u on the rest!!! its telling too that theysaid theyd be cool with it if i didnt call them out, its basically them saying they dont have any actual issue w anything and are just looking for issues to have bc theyre bitter i called them out & they cant actually justify what ive called out, so they decided to deflect. also if im out here defending that shit... yeah ppl do have every right to call me out, i try to hold myself to the same standards i hold other ppl to at the end of the day. if i oppose something im not gonna go n consume & defend it myself! so if it came out i was, 100% i dont see why anyone would defend me at allll

[izzy-b-hands]

Rock/Queentober 2020, Oct. 16th: Ashes

Assigned band member for this day: Brian

Synopsis: Brian/ Trans M Reader. Set just before the beginning of the 1976 A Night At The Opera USA tour. Your father has recently passed, and it’s a hell of a time, as to be expected. But Brian is there to help you through it, at least. 

TW for death of a parent, though it isn’t described in detail. Also casual transphobia, and descriptions of reader having a shitty relationship with their father. 

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“Thank you for coming with,” you say softly. 

The lights in the crematorium buzz, and you and Brian shift uncomfortably under their too-bright, clinical glow. 

But then, since your father had first taken ill, it had been uncomfortable. Awkward. 

He approved of Brian, in a general sense. But he had never liked Brian as a person. 

For that matter, your father hadn’t liked you much either. He loved you as parental obligation, but it was not a true love, and he didn’t show it often. When he did, it came in the form of trying to buy your love, offering you expensive things you didn’t want or to pay your rent for a month or two out of nowhere. But always with the catch that you would then do whatever he asked of you, after the money was given. 

You had never taken it. You had a job, and your own paycheck, and love to be found elsewhere with other people. So you had let your father keep all his money, and all the love that supposedly would have come with it on the condition of your obedience. 

The last day you’d visited him in hospice, he’d made all of that very clear, in a long, meandering, often hurtful lecture. 

“As a daughter...you were disappointing, but fine enough, for a girl,” he had coughed. “But as a son...” 

He had rolled his eyes, and asked the nurse checking his IV what she thought it would take for you to get the hint and finally leave him to die in peace. 

That was when you had left. No good-bye, even as the nurse had called after you, letting you know he wasn’t likely to last the night. 

You hadn’t cared then, and you didn’t care now as the crematorium employee handed over the medium-sized white box that held the urn which contained your father’s ashes. 

If he had cared at all, after you left, there was no way to know. And what did it matter? Out of all his children, you were the only one to show up when he first got sick. You brought him to England on your dime so he could receive care and not drown his family (wife and family number four) in medical debt. You offered to fly out your half-siblings, all of them, from wives 2-4, even offering your mum the chance to fly out if she desired, even if only to slap him once soundly. 

None of them had taken you up on it. Most of them hadn’t even replied, by phone or letter. But you had made up excuses for them all, when he got sad, asking where they were. 

You had done all that, and he hadn’t cared one whit. You weren’t the way he wanted you to be, so none of it had counted. 

“He didn’t have any requests, or anything in his will about it?” Brian asks, gesturing to the box as you walk together back to his car. 

You shake your head. “I wish he had. I don’t know what the fuck to do with them.” 

“Rude of him,” Brian says as he helps you into the car, careful not to jostle the box. “Just one last fuck you, it seems like...” 

“It really does,” you sigh, opening the box as you wait for Brian to get into the driver’s seat. The urn is bronze, and a little ugly, if you’re honest. But your father had picked it out himself, and he always did get most of what he wanted, didn’t he? No matter the end result or consequences. 

“Sorry,” Brian mutters as he slips into the seat, quickly starting the car and getting it pulled out into the mid-day London traffic. “Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.” 

“If he didn’t want anyone speaking ill of him when he was dead, then he shouldn’t have been a fucking shithead in life,” you found yourself sobbing suddenly, the tears an unexpected and unwelcome surprise as they fell. 

“It’s okay,” Brian says gently. 

“It isn’t!” you protest, wiping harshly at the tears. “I want to throw this damned thing out the window!” 

Brian pulls into the nearest open spot on the side of the street. “Y/N-” 

“I hate this,” you whimper. “I said years ago: no more tears over him, or because of him. Not even one more! And yet here I am...” 

Brian undoes his seatbelt and leans close to hug you. “You can’t be upset with yourself for this. Anyone would cry; he may have been terrible and your relationship with him might have been shit, but-” 

You could see him choosing his words carefully. 

“You still knew him. For better or worse, he was in your life, and that means something. Not all good, not all bad, but a mix. And that means having a reaction to this moment, to him being gone.” 

“I don’t want him in our house,” you say as you close the box’s lid. 

“Okay,” Brian nods. “Is there anywhere in particular you want to put him? I mean, his ashes, I should say.” 

“No,” you sigh shakily. “I just want him away from us.” 

Brian’s wearing the look that comes up whenever he’s being clever, but feels unsure about it. “I might have an idea. You still want to come out on a few tour dates with us, yeah?”

“If you guys will have me,” you reply. “And so long as I won’t be in the way.” 

“Never,” Brian smiles, and kisses your forehead. “So then, if you aren’t sure of just one place for him, maybe you could bring him with, and...” 

After a moment, it clicks. “That’s brilliant. What would I do without that brain of yours?” 

“Be perfectly fine, because there are a great many days where you’re much more clever than I am,” Brian chuckles. “And more put together, too.” 

“That’s debatable,” you manage a smile. 

He shakes his head, then looks down. “Keys?” 

“Still in the ignition, love.” 

He blushes, utterly adorable, and nods. “Right. Where they would be, of course. Sorry; I swear I’m fit to drive.” 

For now, the urn has to come into the house with you, though you let Brian put it up on a high shelf in the hall closet. It’s difficult to do, but Brian makes it so much easier. 

And a few weeks later, as the tour begins, you lighten as the urn does. 

Part of him in Boston. A bit left in New York. Some in Chicago. And finally, the rest of him in San Diego. 

You bury the ashes deep in the dirt, under the watchful eye of the public park warden who has given you permission to spread the ashes there. 

She leaves as soon as you’re done, leaving you and Brian alone, staring at the miniscule mound of disturbed dirt. 

He wraps an arm around you. “Feeling better?” 

You nod. “A little. At least he’s truly gone now. I wonder what he’d think of all this anyway, us doing this with his remains. If he’d find it neat, or hate it utterly.” 

“That’s the beauty of this,” Brian says. “He’s gone. He can’t weigh you down with his thoughts or feelings or insults or complaints anymore. All that ugly shit he used to say to you is as dead as he is.” 

“It is,” you sigh happily.

“And you’re here, and alive, and beautiful,” Brian continues. “What say we take that urn back to the hotel and leave it there, then have a walk round here before I have to get to the venue?” 

You nod and follow him out of the park, but stop at the sight of an open dumpster near the park entrance. 

He shakes his head as you toss the urn into it. “I thought you might, as soon as I saw it.” 

“He wouldn’t care anyway,” you say, as you pull him back into the park. “And even if he did, who cares? He isn’t here to yell at me about it, and I wouldn’t care for what he had to say regardless.” 

You know better than to kiss right there, the looks you’ll get. But Brian pulls you down a path with only one woman on it, and as soon as she passes, he kisses you deeply, but sweetly. 

“My father had no idea of how good you are,” you can’t help but whisper as you continue down the path with him. “But I do. And I’m so glad I have you.” 

“He had no idea how good you are either,” Brian replies. “No idea who he missed out on getting to know, to care for. I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be someone who has gotten to do what he didn’t, albeit in a different way.” 

For the rest of the quiet path, before you reach other people again, you take his hand. 

You won’t say now, because who knows exactly what the future might be. But you know that when you go, you hope Brian will keep your ashes at home. On a mantel, or a side table. Somewhere near him, whenever he’s home. 

[thecollectiverpg]

L O A D I N G   V I L L A I N   P R O F I L E . . .

NAME: DAYDREAMER AKA CASTOR BLAKE

AGE: TWENTY-EIGHT

TIER: TWO

GENDER & PRONOUNS: TRANS MAN, HE/HIM

ABILITIES: REALITY MANIPULATION (OFTEN LIMITED BY TIME AND PROXIMITY)

MEMBER SINCE: 2020

BACKGROUND (CONFIDENTIAL: SECURITY PASSCODE REQUIRED)

Childhood can be boiled down to this litany of things: Sunshine on a Sunday morning, the dull drone of the Pastor’s voice on and on and on, the sprawling farm land that made up their home on the edge of this small minded town. Cas learns to help his mother in the kitchen, sew and knit and chafe under the expectations of form and shape and God’s divine will. Cas plays piano for the congregation during service, and the Ramsey boys watch with rapt attention. They like Cas’s pretty hair. Cas likes being liked, but it makes Mr. Blake furious. It’s sinful to go looking for attention from boys. Even the Ramsey boys, as well respected as their family is, would steal Cas’s virtue in a heartbeat if they could. 

Mr. Blake is often furious, and Cas learns to cringe away from it. They can’t control it, after all. So they learn to hide, and in the willful hours of the night, they wish that everything could be different, that control was something they could have over the world. They say you should be careful what you wish for. 

Castor Blake’s control over the world begins like this: 

(i) The Blake family wake up one morning with a son instead of a daughter, and nobody blinks an eye. Even amongst the townsfolk, this is an accepted point in reality. 

(ii) After an altercation, boiled down to bruises and a bloody nose on Castor’s end, the Blake family wake up one morning lacking a father. Robert Blake attended Church service on Sunday. The next day, Robert Blake hadn't been seen in this town for years, and they were glad to be rid of him. This is an accepted point in reality. 

(iii) The previously struggling Blake farm turns into a powerhouse overnight. They’d struggled through the last few years of Castor’s life, and his mother swore they had been blessed by God when everything started to go better for them, when their near barren land became lush and full of life.

(iv) Castor has always daydreamed that he could fly. Like some of the heroes he sees on the news. The world has been bending to his will, lately, he thinks, as he climbs to the roof of the barn with his gangly teenaged arms. He stands on the precipice of the jump for a long moment, heart beating in his chest. The laws of Gravity don’t apply to me, he tells the world. And the world listens. This is an accepted point in reality. When he jumps, he doesn’t hit the ground. 

Castor becomes adept at getting what he wants. He becomes adept at giving other people what they want as well. Anything his mother could wish for becomes a reality. He lets Malcolm Ramsey kiss him behind the barn (and okay, that's for the both of them). And when the Pastor tells him that he’s destined for wonderful things, Castor listens. He lets them make him one of the God-touched, a hero who can change the world for the better. 

Castor becomes Daydreamer. He’s practically the poster boy for The Crusaders, a Christian youth based superhero team. Castor was easy to sell, after all. A halo of golden hair, kind eyes, the innocent look of a boy who would do anything to help you. He wore white and kept a golden cross around his neck, unblemished when he stepped through a burning fire to pull civilians to safety. The fire won’t burn them, he says. This is an accepted point in reality, for about ten minutes. Castor was adored, because Daydreamer could do anything, or so the people said. 

Which made it worse that he couldn’t. Reality slipped away from him at a moment's notice when he made it for himself. It was easier to hold changes when they pertained to his own person, his self-ordained control. But the crops started to fail again on his mother’s farm if he didn’t return home often enough, and Malcolm Ramsey grew out of wanting to kiss him behind the barn (which hurt, even if it had nothing to do with his powers), and fire would eventually burn hot enough to hurt again. He was powerful, but he wasn’t powerful enough. You’re still growing into it, his Pastor said. You shouldn’t play god anyway, one of his teammates warned. Castor listened to one and not the other. 

Castor practices until he makes an art of it, of twisting the world in subtle ways. He changes the laws of the universe for split second intervals, to save a life, to fetch a kitten from a tree, to turn water into wine. He takes bigger leaps of faith and bigger risks, and goes to more extreme lengths to save the day, while his teammates whisper behind his back that he doesn’t seem quite as steady on his feet as he used to be. Daydreamer crawls his way to fame faster than the rest of them can, and they might say he's losing his grip on things, but he thinks they’re just jealous. Jealous because everybody loves Daydreamer, the golden boy. Jealous because the Tin Soldier looked at him and said: you’re going places, Kid. 

There’s no “I” in team. There’s no “I” in God, either. Except for when there is. Except for when Daydreamer feels like he could do anything he fucking wanted, and nobody could stop him. He saves a man from a car wreck, and tries to change the laws of the universe so that gas won’t burn, combustion engines won’t work. It would make everything and everybody safer, wouldn’t it? But everyone just gets mad, instead, so he undoes it with a wave of his hand and sets everything back on fire, wills everybody to forget, which doesn’t always work. But no one minds anyway, because Daydreamer is still a golden child, golden boy, with a bleeding heart and earnest eyes. 

He’s being courted by the Guardians. Or maybe he’s courting them. It’s a seduction in one way or another. The Crusaders have been on the up and up, but they’re still the minor leagues, and Daydreamer was made for bigger and better things. His growing power makes him an attractive find, and he is tested in an occasional collaboration. Mind Master shows up while he’s stopping a bank robbery, helps to save the day, and it makes for a pretty photo-op at the end of the day. Daydreamer loves it, half loves him, because he’s hungry for glory and the immortality that comes with fame. He’s hungry for power, and for the pleasure of getting exactly what he wants. Daydreamer hates the fucking Crusaders, and he hates his Pastor from back home, and he hates so many of the limitations in place around him. It makes him feel like theres a storm inside, a ticking time bomb waiting to go off as he pushes himself harder and harder. 

When Daydreamer loses control in the middle of a busy city street, it’s the Guardians who deal with him. Oh, he had started with the best of intentions. Taking down a dastardly villain. The fight, the words, all second nature. But Daydreamer reached for their power and felt something snap, the time bomb finally going off. The wake of destruction he left behind him was almost a beautiful thing, but people got hurt and suddenly, Daydreamer wasn’t a hero anymore, he was something to be scared of. 

He never expected that the world could turn on you so fast. And his wrath in the face of it could rival the fury of God. He sits for a while in the care of the Guardians, who talk of limitations that should be imposed upon people with power such as his. The Crusaders crumble in his absence, in the shame of his new public perception. His mothers farm turns barren under the hot sun, in the absence of the boy who made the flowers bloom. Mind Master visits him, once, twice, three times. He doesn’t remember anything special about the encounters, but he feels like there's some kind of wall in his head now, and he remembers limitations.

When Daydreamer finally wills himself out of the situation at hand, he still has the fury sitting in his chest. He’s always been good at getting what he wants, and now he wants to be a God. If people want  to paint him as a bad guy, he’ll play the part. The Collective welcomes him with open enough arms, and Daydreamer becomes a living nightmare. 

[realm-of-dragons]

Staff App - Hawks

Played by Admin Grimm

OOC:

Name: Grimm

Age: 21

Preferred Pronouns: Any!

Timezone: PST

Discord: N/A

Any topics you want added to the content warning list?: Pandemics

Second choice character?: Bakugo 

IC:

Name: Takami Keigo AKA “Hawks”

Age: 27

Gender ID / pronouns: Trans Male, He/Him

OTPs, BroTPs, or NoTPS?: EndHawks baby… As far as BroTPs go I’m down for basically anything- I’m hoping for friendship between him and Rumi, but ultimately will be up for whatever has good chemistry/history in the setting of the group.

Race: Skyfolk

Appearance: Hawks is of average height and has a narrow but athletic build. Despite his small size, he holds a great deal of muscle packed into his form, and could probably crush a skull between his thighs if he wanted. He has large, terra cotta colored wings, although he mostly keeps them folded against his back nowadays. His hair is long, messy, and blond, but typically tied back into a braid. 

Role: Prince Consort of the Elves, Elven Ambassador to the Skyfolk, Former Skyfolk Chieftain, and Royal Pain in the Ass.

Skills:

Hawks was once one of the fastest and most acrobatic flyers in his tribe; he still retains some of these skills, although he is limited by his injured shoulder.

Hawks can use both a sword and a bow with deadly accuracy mid flight, and has hunted all sorts of animals to feed his people.

When it comes to grounded combat, however, he is average at best with a blade. He’s still learning to compensate for his newfound lacking mobility.

He is excellent at reading others, a skill which helped him serve as chief, and is dedicated to helping others - it should be noted, however, that his communication skills are solely diplomatic. When it comes to his own personal thoughts and feelings he is garbage at communicating.

Backstory:

( i. )

There exists a species of bird which possesses exceptionally colorful tail feathers. It’s just a pheasant and it struggles to fly, spending most of its days grounded. It poses little threat, but it’s feathers are bright and vibrant and serve as a warning to would-be-predators. ‘Danger,’ they say, and though a bluff, they are quite effective. For the most part, the birds are left alone.

Sometimes(all the time), you’re that bird.

So maybe your feathers are dull, and your wings are average size at best, and you’re nothing particularly special to look at - But that’s not the point.

You’re just like that bird, because all you have to do is flash a vibrant and energized smile, and suddenly you’re the picture perfect representation of what your peers should aspire to be. Never mind your struggles, your anguish, or your pain. Never mind your lost childhood, your missing parents, and your failure at making friends. None of that matters in the slightest. You’re not angry. You’re not upset. You’re not in despair. 

You smile and wave and suddenly, you’re not just some orphaned, washed out, failure of a replacement chief - suddenly, you’re a warrior. A leader. Determined. Hard working. The child prodigy who took over an entire tribe at fourteen. A man who never lets anything drag him down.

It’s better this way.

( ii. )

There’s a species of bird which is preyed upon by anything and everything in its environment. It lives in constant stress and fear of being caught out, torn apart, and eaten - or, it probably would, if it possessed the same sentience as people. It’s small, fluffy, and even as an adult, appears to be newly hatched. It spends most of its life seeking out small bugs and seeds. It hides, in hopes that a predator of its own predator will grant it just a few moments longer.

Sometimes(just today), you’re that bird.

You’ve grown into your role now, more than you thought you might - and maybe the discomfort and the emotional volatility doesn’t really go away, but you’re good at hiding it, and you think that’s good enough.

But you’re just like that bird, helpless in your own environment.

You’ve heard of dragons. You’re not stupid, you know what they are. A dragon took your parents and injured countless others, naturally you’ve been educated. But education and preparation are two very different states of being, and you’re not sure any amount of knowledge could have possibly prepared you. 

You’re meeting with the other elders about something or another. You don’t really remember, after, and it’s probably not important, anyway - the sudden roar and burst of wind warns you too late to completely dodge the claws lunging your direction. 

Dragon.

The aftermath is chaotic; since you’re injured, you’re responsible for leading the evacuation, not for fighting. Every part of your body aches with discontent at running away, but there’d be no point in forcing yourself into combat. It would be stupid, and no matter how chaotic your thoughts might be, you’re not suicidal. So you obey, you lead your people to safety, and you watch as another fells the beast.

After, all you can think about is that you didn’t do anything. But it matters little. The beast is gone. You’re alive. You let a healer see to your injuries.

( iii. )

Today, you’re a fledgling bird about to leave the nest for the first time.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve already learned to fly, that you’re a leader and a warrior, or that you’re more adult than any of your peers will ever be- Today, you leave.

There’s a tradition amongst your people that all must go through before becoming chief - you skipped that, before, because your predecessor expired prematurely and your tribe was desperate for leadership. You had big shoes to fill, and you filled them as needed, but now, it’s time to move on. The dragon plaguing your people is dead, and though you still loathe your lack of involvement in the affair, you’re doing your best to move on with life. That means following tradition. 

It is custom for would-be-chieftains to travel for one year in solitude, surviving entirely off the land and the world around them. When they return, they are given a new title befitting of a leader, and they are welcomed with open arms back into their family.

You don’t really need to do that, all of your tribesmen already accept you as their undisputed leader, but you feel utterly useless when you remember how quickly the dragon struck you down. So you make a decision, and you place someone else in charge as interim leader as you prepare yourself for a long journey.

The thing about fledgling birds, though, is that they very rarely return to their nest of origin. You intend to return, so maybe you’re not like a fledgling at all- 

When you take flight, you feel dread seep into your bones. You keep flying, but you don’t look back, for fear that any glance home may be your last. 

( iv. )

You process the sound, first. Then there’s light, followed by pain, followed by delirium and the sensation of falling. You hit several tree branches as you descend - you know, because you feel the leaves and twigs rake against your flesh - but it’s difficult to determine how many. You hit the ground hard, pain exploding through your young body, and think to yourself, ‘this is it. This is death.’

Then, there’s void.

But you don’t die.

You drift in and out of consciousness for several weeks before you do finally wake. Your surroundings are unfamiliar, full of soft fabrics and lush plant life. You’re… In what appears to be a bed - you think - you know that humans and Elves keep different bedding from your own race, but you’ve never seen one quite like this. It’s soft and much larger than you’re used to, and it seems reflective of wealth and status. 

Pulling yourself into a sitting position takes incredible effort, and you realize with great disdain that your wings are injured. You manage, though, and find yourself looking up at a large Elven man.

So, here’s the state of things: You were struck by lightning. You’re recovering with the Elves, in the king’s guest chambers. This man is the Elven king himself. You’re making good progress. But.

And there’s always a but.

You might never fly again.

It’s… A lot to process. And even in the following weeks, as you regain your strength and begin moving about and exploring your new surroundings, you still struggle to wrap your head around it. Flying has been second nature to you. Instinctual. Another part of your existence as a Skyfolk. You can’t fathom a life without it.

You’re a caged, flightless bird, right now. Enji is nice. Extremely nice. Nicer than he really ought to be, all things considered. You refuse to call him King Todoroki because you like pushing his buttons, and secretly, you think he likes it too. But… There’s still something missing. This isn’t right. You need to finish your journey and return home, but you can’t do that without your flight. No matter how accommodating Enji is, it still doesn’t change the fact that you’re lounging around a golden cage and you really do not belong here.

So when your wings are deemed as healed up as they’ll ever be, you start sneaking out. You can’t get off the ground. Not yet. But you hope with enough practice, someday you’ll soar once again.

( v. )

You’re a hawk, now.

You don’t believe it, personally. Hawks are fierce, powerful, and incredible flyers - you’re weak, emotional, and barely able to slip off the ground on a good day. But Enji insists you’re a hawk, and you can’t bring yourself to argue, because nobody has ever seen your real persona before and thought so highly of it. 

Maybe that’s the nature of your relationship, though. It’s difficult to tell. 

You’re a fighter. You keep trying no matter how many times you fall, because you hate the idea of remaining grounded. Enji is there to catch you, to patch up your scrapes and bruises, and offer encouragement in how own unique way. And finally, when you do manage to take off and soar above the trees, you feel alive. This is what you were missing. 

This is who you are.

But.

You wouldn’t be here without Enji. You’d be dead, or worse - and you’re grateful, you really are, but you don’t know how to ever repay him. Soon you’ll be stable enough to continue with your life, and you’ll need to leave and go home. Enji can’t go with you. He has a kingdom to run, and you’ve accepted that. You tell yourself it’s what’s right. That it was inevitable and this is the way things are meant to be.

But. 

In the months you’ve been with the Elves, you’ve learned their culture and their customs. Maybe you don’t really fit in, but you enjoy their way of life, and you love the people you’ve met. Back home, you had friends and family, sure, but there was so much pressure - For the first time in your entire life, you feel free. Freedom is terrifying. Powerful. You crave it.

You reach a crossroads. Go home and face your responsibilities or stay and learn to enjoy your life. It’s not an easy decision to make - there was so much resting on your shoulders, and maybe there still is, because you’re expected to return, sooner or later.

But.

You’re a hawk. You’re fierce, determined, and you follow your heart. 

So you stay.

Extras:

Hawks can still fly, but he reaches his limit much faster due to his previous injury. He chooses to just walk most places instead, keeping his wings tucked against his back when he’s in motion to better balance the weight. 

He is a little spoon at heart, but tends to be a big spoon in practice due to his absurdly large wings. He has to sleep on his stomach or his side to get comfortable.

Hawks loves fried foods, particularly fried birds; he’s been told this could be interpreted as cannibalistic, but refuses to stop eating meat anytime soon.

Keigo was his birth name, and although he is trans, he does not find discomfort with it because of dysphoria; it’s a remnant of his parents, and Skyfolk gender is wonky anyway.

In spite of that, Hawks only allows his former tribesmen to call him Keigo; he much prefers to be called Hawks.

Writing sample:

Keigo’s been in a weird sort of state lately. The injuries haven’t exactly helped his energy levels, sure, but given he’s mostly recovered, he should be able to get out of his bed and wander. And still, he’s skipping meals. Choosing to lay around. A stranger might consider him lazy. Enji doesn’t berate him for the behavior, and Keigo considers that a miracle. He doesn’t know if he could handle judgement over this melancholy. Not like he can control it, anyhow. 

So they spend the days talking. Sometimes Enji reads to him. Keigo had never imagined how deep and rich the Elven culture is - he’d heard some things, in passing. The Elves were mostly isolated, before, so whatever he had heard was mostly secondhand, and, as Keigo is now learning, incorrect.

They’re sitting in bed, Keigo pressed firmly against Enji’s side. He’s been told that Elves don’t ordinarily allow this type of contact, but Keigo’s never been pushed away, and it’s one of the few things that keeps him grounded. Enji sets aside the scroll he’d been reading from and gently runs a hand over Keigo’s feathers.

“I’ve told you much about my people, but I’ve not heard much of yours.” 

Keigo stiffens. “I didn’t think you’d want to learn about them.”

“I do. I don’t even know why you ended up so far from them.” 

Well, that’s fair. Keigo supposes that, at the very least, he owes an explanation. That much information is hardly a concealed secret, just… Emotional? No. That’s not the right word, but he doesn’t have any better way to describe it. He shrugs. “It’s tradition for future chieftains to travel for a year, prior to taking charge. A right of passage, you know. When they return home, they take a new name, and are given the honor of leading.” He smiles softly as he speaks, the familiarity giving him some small comfort in this bittersweet reality.

Enji frowns. “You were to be chief, then?”

“Oh, yes. I was. I won’t be, now. I can’t fly.” As if to prove his point, Keigo attempts to move his left wing, the one that took the brunt of the lightning strike. It barely twitches.

“You still could. My healers don’t know much of your anatomy, your wings might still recover.”

Keigo really, truly wants to believe him, but he’s sick and tired of getting his hopes up. He’s probably not going to regain his flight. There’s no point fixating on a fantasy. Not when it only brings disappointment. He leans closer, nuzzling his face into the crook of Enji’s neck. “Please don’t… I can’t...”

“Keigo.” Enji’s voice is strong, firm, and determined. Keigo bites at his lip, muscles tensing. “You’re strong. You want to recover, and you will.” Then, after a pause, he asks, “you’re given new names when you return, as a sign of strength?”

Hesitantly, Keigo nods. “Yeah…” 

“Then allow me to give you one now. You’re a fighter. You’ve shown me that much with your… Fiery attitude.” 

Oh, that’s one way to phrase it.

After a nod, Enji continues. “You’re a bird of prey, fierce. Powerful. Agile, fast, cunning, and a bit of an ass sometimes, even when you’re still recovering. But you’re a creature to be revered and awed. Like a swarm of hawks.”

“Hawks…” Keigo says, the name foreign on his tongue. “My name is… Hawks.” 

Maybe, just maybe, he can get used to it, in time.

[pastellnebula]

so uh

ever since I broke up with my ex ive been reluctant to label myself as a demiboy

during our relationship, when i was feeling horrible abt my gender or related thing, my ex either just told me i was valid or used all my labels and it made me feel worse, like he was just reassuring my delusion.

protip: telling ur nonbinary boyfriend "but you really are a [their entire fucking identity using all their labels]", you're probably making them feel bad and you should check with them

after i broke up with him, I couldnt fucking think about using the word "demiboy" without hearing his voice in my head and it made me cringe. I felt scared.

he always made me feel insecure, unsafe, like i had to stick my arms to the sides of my stomach and make sure a wall was behind me. thinking about it, I still feel that

he will never understand that feeling

feeling like im not allowed to say no, that if i do, I'll be guilt tripped and blamed for something

feeling like i couldnt speak out against his actions towards other people and me, that id be an sjw if I did (hint: he implied that once when I said he shouldnt call black ppl at our school the n word, even if hes not saying to them. his excuse was "its a habit".)

feeling like if i focused on anything else but him, i was doing something wrong. once i went to town with my mom to watch a movie and go grocery shopping and i forgot to check my phone and i had at least 10 worried messages bc i hadnt texted him in 3 hours.

feeling like i made all this shit up even though i know i didnt. feeling like some of it happened but it actually wasnt as bad as I remember because he fucking gaslighted me

feeling unsafe at school and at home because he told his friends that Im trans without my knowledge and called me he/him and his bf at school, around people, so ill never know when my mom calling me into the living room or wanting to tell me something on the way to school is just about a funny video or something she read online she wants to show me or if its her confronting me about me being trans. I dont know if people at school know or not. im always fucking scared deep down.

he'll never fucking understand what he did to me and what he put me through.

last time he apologized he told me he still cared about me

if that were true, he wouldnt have treated me like he did even after we broke up. because apparently i didnt even know the worst of it

and his friends tell me he's suffering

but did he have a panic attack every day the first week of school because he was afraid of getting put on a team with me in Comp Science?

they tell me he's suffering too, but does he have panic attacks at the sound of tapping in a certain rhythm?

they say that, but does he have panic attacks around me because hes afraid i may do something to him? because hes afraid that me "wanting to talk" is something more?

did he spend fucking nights awake thinking that itd be better if he wasnt even there because some of his closest friends believed me over him?

no? oh wait fucking sorry that was me

people expect me to apologize to him

i honestly don't fucking know what i should apologize for

for hating the guy who ruined a year of my life? for hating the guy who caused me tons of fucking pain? i dont even know what.