#writing about identity

[luxyena]

[writersbeware]

Stripping Away the Old

Some women keep their maiden name when they marry. The reasons are varied, but deeply personal. Meanwhile, some hyphenate the combination of last names, which is another way to hang onto the maiden name. Me, no. I hated my name because it identified me as a member of a dysfunctional family. A family in which I was ridiculed, harassed, tormented and belittled. As long as that name was mine, I…

[hairmetal666]

No one knows who writes the Hawkins High Tattler. It comes out every week, without fail, has for almost two decades. Everyone reads it, even teachers, even parents. It's caused more the one suspension, grounding, and even--famously--a shipping off to boarding school.

Steve's never let the Tattler get to him much. He's in it, of course, practically a new story every week. But it's just silly gossip.

Of course, Steve is also, currently, the titular Tattler, so. It's not like he's surprised when his name shows up.

It's his third year, his last year, and he knows everything that ever goes on at Hawkins High. It's pretty easy, honestly. Everyone thinks he's ditzy and vapid; nothing more than hairspray and polos. People will say anything around him, assuming he's not listening or not interested, and then bam. It's in next week's Tattler. No one even suspects him.

The confessions locker probably helps. Down by the theater, busted and unusable, the perfect place for people to leave tips, to tattle on their friends (or enemies, as the case may be).

That's what he's doing right now, checking the confessions locker. After 9:30 on a Friday night, the place silent as the tomb, perfect time for it. Pretty standard fare this week. The only thing of interest is that Eddie Munson was the person who broke all Ms. Click's pencils and left the stubs on her desk. This one, he laughs at, can't wait to publish it; can't wait to talk to Munson about it.

He gets a lot of stuff about Eddie. Most of it he doesn't publish because it's bullshit about satanic rituals--the nerdy kids he babysits play dnd, and there's no way Karen Wheeler is letting anything satanic happen in her basement--or about his sexuality, and one thing Steve doesn't do is out people.

Gathering up this week's submissions, he closes the locker with a soft clink, and he swears, swears he hears the squeak of a tennis shoe on the polished tile of the floor. He freezes, heart in his throat. Nobody has been here this late before.

Seconds pass but there's only silence. Confident he's only hearing things, he heads out, the parking lot just as empty as when he arrived.

---

He sees Eddie a few days later, when he's picking up the kids from the arcade. They typically exchange casual greetings, but as Steve waits, Eddie stands with him, offers him a cigarette.

"Read that was you who messed with Click's pencils. Good one."

Eddie shrugs, gives a little bow and a smile. "Happy to be of service."

"It was my class, when she found them. Never seen her so mad."

"No way," Eddie laughs. "Not even when Hagan drew dicks on all the textbooks?"

"Not even then, man. She was throwing pencil stubs everywhere."

"Fuck, sad I missed it." Eddie takes a drag, Steve's eyes following the movement, lingering on his mouth. Something warm and tingling builds at the base of his spine and he forces his gaze away.

"How long you in detention for?"

"I'm not. Swore it wasn't me, and Click doesn't want to admit she reads the Tattler, so. Not much they could do. "

"I've seen it sitting on her desk!"

"I know! She reads it when she has detention duty!"

They lean against Steve's car, laughing, and Steve feels good. This is good. He likes Eddie. He's funny and dramatic and smart and kind. He's not deserving of any of the mean things that get submitted to the Tattler.

The kids come streaming into the parking lot then, and Eddie stubs out his cigarette, says "see you around, Harrington," and Steve finds himself flushing for reasons he can't quite explain.

---

He starts seeing Eddie around way more. He's in school most days, smoking in the parking lot after the last bell, chatting with Steve in the hallways.

It shows up in the Tattler; big news that the King and the Freak are hanging out. Most of the submissions are about it, increasingly elaborate rumors about their supposedly deep, close friendship.

He wishes he could tell Eddie.

Eventually, Eddie invites him to smoke at the quarry. He doesn't hesitate to say yes, doesn't even bother to try ignoring the swoop in his stomach, the speed of his heart.

They sprawl out in the back of the van, Eddie's loud, raucous music pounding around them, sharing a joint back and forth.

Steve gets hazy, boneless, can't stop watching Eddie, the way his lips purse around the joint, his long hair glinting gold in the weak light of the camping lanterns, the pleased shine of his eyes every time he makes Steve laughs.

He likes Eddie so much. Everything about him, honestly. Butterflies ping in his stomach, happy and slow, and he thinks how nice Eddie's lips are, wonders how soft they must be. And he thinks--he's read the submissions, right--he knows the things they say about Eddie, and he wishes it was true, he wants--he wants--

He wants

---

Steve's running late to check the locker. Lost track of time at the diner with Eddie, and it's making him panic.

He stuffs the submissions haphazardly into the pocket of his hoodie, dancing with nerves, willing himself to grab them all and get out.

Locker emptied, he sprints towards the exit. He has a second to process someone barreling towards him in the dark, but he's going too fast to stop, can only brace himself as they collide.

It sends him sliding across the floor, Tattler submissions spilling out of his pocket like snow. He hits the ground, scrabbling for the papers, praying that whoever is here with him can't see them in the low light.

Hands grips his biceps. "Stevie, Steve, we have to get out of here" and there's a second where he's comforted by the familiar rasp of Eddie's voice before terror spikes again.

He pulls himself from Eddie's grasp, searching for any dropped submissions in easy reach. "Wha--why--what's--"

"I ran into Jason Carver and his band of idiots at the gas station. They're on their way to here to try to catch the Tattler in action."

Steve freezes. "I don't--that's not--I--"

In the deep silence of the empty school, they both hear the slamming of a door, a bitten off giggle. Eddie grabs his wrist and they run. Into the theater room, through a door Steve didn't know existed, to the backstage area of the auditorium.

"You should be safe here," Eddie says.

Panic spirals through him. "I can explain. I was just--I forgot a--I needed--"

"Harrington! I know, okay? I already know."

Steve can only blink at him, swallows rough in his throat. "What--Eddie, I--"

"I saw you. Weeks ago. Forgot my notebook in the theater room after Hellfire and had to run back for it. You were there, at the locker."

"You can't tell anyone."

"I'm not going to."

"No, Munson, you really can't. Nobody can know. Nobody--"

"Swe--Stevie, I promise. The secret's safe with me." He rocks back on his heels, chewing on his lip for a second before he continues. " I--I couldn't figure you out, you know? I saw you around with those kids and it didn't make any sense. King Steve, babysitting tiny nerds? But I saw you at the locker and..."

"You're giving me too much credit, man."

"I don't think so. You're never--fuck, Harrington--you're never mean. At least, not in the last couple years. You spread gossip, but you don't punch down, and you're funny as hell. Mean as shit too, but only to the people who deserve it."

His ears burn and he looks down. "Just because I have fucking--fucking editorial standards doesn't mean that I'm anything special."

Eddie scoffs. "Remember, Stevie, I was reading it a year before you were here. Cruel, vapid garbage. Always the most vile, pointless stories about people who couldn't defend themselves. And how many submissions have you gotten about me, for instance, that you've never used?"

Steve clenches his fists. "I would never--"

"I know. Sweetheart, I know. That's why I li--You're so fucking good, Stevie."

He laughs, ears burning. "I'm really not, Eddie. I try to write about fun gossip that can't hurt anyone too much, and nobody's found me out because they think I'm too dumb--"

Eddie reaches out then, fingers connecting softly with the edge of Steve's jaw. He can't help but lean into the touch, eyes flickering closed.

"You don't want to hurt people because you're fucking kind. You know how I know for sure? You must get submissions every week about me, and you've never once printed that I'm--" Eddie stops then, swallowing hard.

Steve's throat goes tight. He rests his hand over Eddie's, still holding his face. "Me too," he whispers. "Kind of. I like--it's both. For me."

"Oh," Eddie breathes, mouth lifting in a bright, beautiful smile that Steve can't help but return.

He's watching, sees when Eddie's gaze drifts his lips, making his breath hitch. He doesn't really think about closing the distance between them, slotting their mouths together in a tentative, gentle kiss.

"You're just full of surprises aren't you, Steve Harrington? Eddie asks when they part.

Steve blushes. "That's sort of the last of them."

"Sure. Next you'll be telling me you've played dnd."

"I have a character."

"What???"

"Human paladin. Dustin worked on it with me. Ready to get out of here?"

"Human paladin," Eddie gapes. "You know--you said--what's happening?"

Steve twines their fingers together, leading Eddie towards the auditorium exit. "Well, first we're going to walk out to my car and then we're going to my house, and we're going to look through Tattler submissions. Maybe makeout a little bit."

Eddie giggles. "What the fuck? Like. What the fuck, sweetheart?"

He turns to face Eddie, smile big and pure and bright with happiness. "If you're really nice to me, I'll let you help write this week's issue."

"Oh, oh. You're going to wreck me." Eddie mumbles, almost to himself.

"If you're lucky." Steve beams.

[anneapocalypse]

So, just curious how many writers and creators will have to be forcibly outed by relentless harassment before we acknowledge that "This queer characters was written by a cishet person and that's why they're bad" is not good criticism.

[mamawasatesttube]

the whole "jason rules crime alley and none of the other bats are allowed there!!1!" thing is so funny like. tim LITERALLY lives in the theater where bruce's parents died,

[starry-bi-sky]

Incorrect Quotes for the Blood Blossom Au - DPXDC

Original Post Context Here but TL:DR - Vlad poisons (orphan) Danny with blood blossom. He runs off, finds Pre-Robin Battinson, Battinson saves his life. Danny is currently staying with him until the time being. Batdad all around, found family, woo!

————————

Bruce after giving Danny an antidote: poof. Just like that, the toxin’s gone

Blood Blossom, not gone just sedated: wrong! toxin’s right here you fucking brussel sprout

————————

Vlad at a gala while his godson is (allegedly) missing: Mister Wayne! A pleasure to meet you, I wanted to speak with you about hopefully setting up a deal between our brands—

Battinson, currently housing his (allegedly) missing godson: I don’t like you.

Vlad: —and it’d be a— i’m sorry?

Battinson, louder: I don’t. Like. You.

Vlad:

Bruce:

Vlad: If you could tell me what I did to offend you--

Battinson, with the intensity of a thousand suns: No.

————————

Danny: 🧿🧿

Bruce: 🧿🧿

Danny: 🧿🧿

Alfred, in the corner: Can you two socialize like normal people

————————

Danny: gun to your head, who would you rather kiss: riddler or the joker

Bruce:

Bruce: gun to my head?

Danny: gun to your head, yes.

Bruce, without missing a beat: pull the trigger

————————

Danny (is currently unaware Bruce = Bruce Wayne): hey Vlad's planning on poaching Mr. Wayne's company out from underneath his nose, would you be able to prevent Mr. Wayne from making any deals with him? Or just in general from being alone with him?

Bruce, realizing Danny doesn't know he's Bruce Wayne:

Bruce: ...yes.

————————

(Danny and Bruce are leaving Wayne Enterprises, Danny is wearing a face mask and obscuring most of his identity. There's a swarm of paparazzi at the doors)

Bruce:

Danny:

Danny: there's an open window on the first floor bathroom

Bruce, immediately turning on his heel: mh. mhm.

————————

Aunt Alicia:

Bruce:

Aunt Alicia:

Bruce:

Bruce 🤝 Aunt Alicia: "Vlad Masters can go fuck himself" club

————————

Bonus! Because looking at it makes me giggle and I think it needs to be shared

POV: You're Alfred living with two of the most socially awkward people in Gotham. Now with biblically accurate heights!

[dukeofthomas]

Here's my controversial opinion; if you're trying to write Bruce as a non-abusive, good parent, you should also write him respecting his kids' privacy, boundaries, and not stalking&surveying them.

[future-crab]

It's been said before, it will be said again, but it's still worth saying: the fact that art centering on straight romance is allowed to just be bad, but art with queer romance in it always has to be indicative of A Serious Problem With the Way We Tell Queer Stories makes being a queer person making queer art deeply stressful

[ghostbsuter]

Sometimes.

Just sometimes.

Bruce, tired father of too many children, wished for a small break.

Just a tiny one.

He pinched his nose, cowl covering his head and expression and glared.

"I can't believe you snitched on me!" Billy batson, freshly revealed teen and sitting on his usual spot during meetings, hisses.

"If I have to get parented, so do you!" Danny fenton, also freshly revealed teenager, glared right back.

"Boys." Both their attention snapped to wonder woman, still tense and warry.

"Do you two have adult supervision, at least." Batman asks, feeling slightly more drained than before, he can feel Nightwing's stare at the back of his head, coming closer.

"Do the voices count?" Danny asks, to which Billy nodded. "Yeah, do they? Zeus has strong opinions, and many kids. He probably can parent, somewhat."

They shrugged both, like they hadn't just opened another whole can of questions.

"Wait!" Danny snapped his fingers, "what about clocky? He sends us on time missions, has his own lair, and lets us hang around. That counts? Right?"

The other teen nods in agreement.

(Knowing both are black haired and blue-eyed teens, he already knows Dick will never let him live this down. Deceived by children, for YEARS.)

(So much for being the greatest detective.)

(The text he sent to Alfred is between him and his butler dad.)

"Or—"

In the end, the two agreed reluctantly to stay around for a while. The Kents, the Allens, Diana, and the Waynes have opened up their homes to house them permanently.

Much their amusement, they declared, that to make no one jealous, they'd switch homes every other week or so.

That alone smelled like chaos.

Whatever, it was Diana's first week.

(And if the house of mysteries appeared in front of them sometimes, that's also between them and a very suffering John constantine.)

.・゜-: ✧ :-

A continuation

[incognitopolls]

From Wikipedia:

Dissociative identity disorder (DiD, formerly multiple personality disorder): the alternation of two or more distinct personality states with impaired recall among personality states. In extreme cases, the host personality is unaware of the other, alternating personalities; however, the alternate personalities can be aware of all the existing personalities.

People with DiD are often stereotyped as violent or dangerous. These stereotypes are not only wrong, they're dangerous to the people who have DiD. This question comes from a place of recognizing the harm these stereotypes do, and asking whether it's possible for people who don't have DiD or similar disorders to write characters with DiD without playing into harmful stereotypes.

–

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[stuckinapril]

I want the labels to not matter at all I truly just want to be doing things bc they speak to me and make me feel something

[luxyena]

[chaoswarfare]

dp x dc prompt #51

when damian was sent to investigate a‘brainwashing summer camp’ he was not pleased. The kid who shared his cabin room might make it more bearable though. Danny seems to hate this place just as much as he does.

Two days later after both of them are tied up in the store room for spying, maybe he should have come in with a better plan.

summer camp dead serious thing that nobody but my brain asked for.

[genderqueerdykes]

honestly one of the funniest parts of the internet is total strangers actually, seriously try to un-diagnose you. like i have literally been diagnosed with schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder numerous times by multiple psychiatric professionals, but 1 guy on the internet decides he's suddenly a mental health professional who can assess a total stranger via their blog. how do you not see how funny that is, like my brother in christ you can't even see me

[heich0e]

"you know that's not how it works, right?"

atsumu and osamu's heads both snap up from where they're stooping over a paper schematic laid out before them, sitting cross-legged amidst a debris field of cardboard, styrofoam, and various wooden parts.

the sun streams in through the open window on the other side of the room, and little motes of dust that have been stirred up through the afternoon's excitement are caught in the light as they twist and spin through the air, fluttering slowly towards the ground. the breeze that slips in through the window is cool but refreshing, the smell of spring carried in on the edge of every wisp of air. you take a deep breath to savour it.

"whaddya mean?" atsumu asks, his brows—so much darker than the peroxide blonde of his hair, and the contrast even more stark since he's seated right in the sunlight that makes his hair practically glow—pinching together in the centre and expressing his confusion. osamu doesn't say anything, but his own expression is equally perplexed as he sits beside his noisy brother.

you laugh, taking a sip from your glass of water as you lean against the doorway.

"i said that's not how it works."

osamu's grey eyes flicker back down to the instruction manual in front of him, his lips pursing thoughtfully as he mulls over your comment.

you sigh, a little smile tugging at your lips. "samu, i'm not talking about the crib."

both brothers look up at you once more, now thoroughly confused by your interruption and wearing nearly identical expressions which convey that sentiment. you set your cup of cool water down on the chest of drawers just inside the doorway: an old wooden hand-me-down from their mother, who insisted you take it for the nursery and give it a second life in a new miya household. you pad into the room, approaching them both slowly as you carefully avoid the various pieces of disassembled crib that litter the floor, and crouch down to sit between them.

atsumu sees the way you struggle on your descent, still not quite used to the bump that has swollen at your waist and grows with every passing day, and he quickly reaches up to help you settle in between the two of them. you murmur quiet thanks, squeezing the blonde's hand with your own before you pull away.

once you've finally made yourself comfortable on the nursery floor, you huff. "what i meant was that's not how twins work."

you'd caught the tail end of the brothers' conversation as you passed by the doorway to the nursery—a casual but enthusiastic debate on whether or not you should be expecting one baby or two.

"yer gonna explain twins to us?" tsumu guffaws in the wake of your words, looking to his brother for solidarity in his indignation. samu's eyes instead flicker down to the bump of your stomach where your hand is resting.

"we're kinda the experts in the room y'know," osamu teases you, his gaze flickering up to meet yours. you roll your eyes.

"experts?" you parrot back incredulously. "says the guy who barely passed biology, and the one who's forgotten everything about high school other than volleyball scores and school lunch menus."

you point to atsumu and osamu respectively as you make your remarks.

"hey!" atsumu whines.

"i remember other stuff too," samu laughs a bit as he reaches up and ruffles the dark hair at the nape of his neck. you cock a brow as you lean in towards him.

"oh, yeah?" you challenge his assertion. "like what?"

"cute girls," osamu says as he turns his attention back to the assembly instructions on the floor before him, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips. you resist the urge to swat at the back of his head.

behind you, since you've turned your body to face his brother, atsumu pitches forward and hooks his chin over your shoulder.

"so, what was that about anyway? the twin thing?" he asks, muttering in a way that tells you he's got a pout on his lips even if you can't see it.

you lean back into atsumu slightly, watching as osamu picks up a piece of crib and turns it over in his hands to survey it, comparing it to the complicated illustration in the instruction manual.

"even though you two look so much alike, you're fraternal," you say, tilting your head to peek up at him through your lashes. "and your mom's mom was a fraternal twin too."

atsumu hums. you've not told him anything he doesn't already know. "s'genetic!"

"it is," you agree, running a hand over your stomach absentmindedly. "but the gene that makes you more likely to have twins has to do with ovulation. which means it has to affect the mother—and i have no twins in my family."

atsumu sucks in a sharp little breath that you can't help but think sounds a bit disappointed. osamu pauses in his instruction surveillance.

"besides," you remark, peeling yourself up from against atsumu's chest, "we already heard the baby's heartbeat, and there was definitely only one in there."

osamu looks over at you, pointing the mystery piece of crib in your direction. "our ma said the same thing, and still ended up with the two of us. careful whatcha say."

"she says i hid my heartbeat 'til the second trimester!" atsumu agrees with his brother, supporting his argument in a distinctly proud way—a wide grin stretching across his face.

"troublesome from the very beginning, huh?" you tease him, and he reaches up to pinch your cheek playfully in response.

"what about identical twins then?" osamu asks. "they genetic too?"

"no," you shake your head, atsumu's fingers still lightly holding the fat of your cheek and making your words come out a little funny. "they'a fweeks o'naytchor."

atsumu laughs, letting his grip on your face go. "freaks of nature?"

you rub at your stinging cheek with your fingers, glaring at him resentfully. "there's no real reason why identical twins happen. they shouldn't happen, by all accounts. but for one reason or another the fertilized egg decides it's going to split and basically clone itself even though it's not supposed to. that's weird."

"so, who has identical twins?" osamu asks, reaching up and running his thumb over the red mark his brother left on your poor cheek.

you purse your lips as you consider his question. "well... anyone could, i guess. in theory. there's no real rhyme or reason to it."

atsumu and osamu's eyes lock over your shoulder, and you can't help but noticed the look they share between them. the one that makes you want to groan aloud.

the one that clearly reads of hope.

[tech-obssessed-shark]

Idk if there is anyone out there who needs to hear this but:

If you’re having issues with your gender, sexuality, or just identity in general… it’s ok. It’s okay to discover yourself, it’s okay to change, and it’s ok to be comfortable with who you are now. Everyone goes on their own journey at some point, you should embrace yours. If you ever worry it’s “just a phase”, that is okay. You are allowed to try new things and experiment, you are allowed to realize if what you thought about yourself wasn’t true. You are allowed to grow and you’re allowed to change.

From, An AroAce Agender person who thought they were a Straight Girl, A Gay Transmasc, A Bisexual Genderfaun, An Asexual Biromantic Demiboy, and many more.