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#gender is so fucking muddled in my brain
dilatorywriting · 1 year
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Monster Mayhem: Donkeys & Dragons
Gender Neutral Reader x Malleus Draconia Word Count: 3.0k
Summary: In which your friends are idiots who think gallivanting around a haunted castle surrounded by lava is a great idea. And then there's a dragon.
ie. Or, I watched Shrek this afternoon and could not stop thinking about the memes of the Prefect being Donkey and Malleus as the Dragon.
[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [EPILOGUE]
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‘Treasure beyond your wildest dreams!’ Ace said.
‘Knowledge long since lost to time!’ Deuce corrected.
‘Yeah, okay, but what is it,’ you asked.
And neither of them had an answer.
Abandoned castles suspended over a sea of bubbling lava were not your preferred holiday destination. You’d told Ace this several times. You’d begged, pleaded, to please just be normal for once. But noooo. Both the snarky, ginger, bastard and the other half of his singular brain cell had apparently decided that suicide ala boiling rocks sounded like a perfectly lovely plan for your Saturday evening.
“I’m just saying,” you huffed as the rope bridge swung worryingly beneath your feet, “taverns are a thing. Faires. Market runs. Casual side quests that won’t wind up with us being flambeed alive.”
“But there’s treasure!” Ace complained, the muddled light off the lava below illuminating his pout in a way that made it look especially punchable. “I heard there’s this really awesome magical sword! Or maybe it was a shield or something—”
“Or something,” you grit out. “What if it’s a book, huh? You can’t even read.”
“We can try!” Deuce returned, a spark of that familiar determination zipping through his blue eyes.
“Or we can sell it,” Ace said, which was certainly the more likely option of the two.
One of the rickety, wooden, slats cracked beneath the low heel of your boot and tumbled down into the lava below. Maybe it hit the gurgling pool of death with a hiss, or a whump, or some other cool sound. But all you could hear was the ringing in your ears.
“Oh my god. I’m going to die.”
“I mean, maybe,” Ace shrugged. “But at least you’ll have a cool new sword propped up at your grave or something.”
You managed to make it all the way to the other side of the horrible death bridge without plummeting to your doom. Except now you were standing at the foot an equally horrifying castle. It was massive—grand on a scale that seemed entirely impossible for something constructed in the heart of a volcano. Its dozens of ebony spires clawed at the sky. The walls crawled with grey ivy and thickets of thorns so dense that you couldn’t see even the barest hint of brick beneath. It looked evil in the way that cursed tombs felt evil—eternal, and still, and oppressive. Like a creature in its own right rather than just an agglomeration of black stone.
Ace drew his sword and Deuce readied his axe. You sighed and plucked at the strings of your stupid fucking lute, and wished once more that you’d had the foresight all those moons ago to take the cushy internship position Lord Crewel had tried to offer you. But, no. You’d wanted to be an adventurer.
The massive double doors of the entrance swung open with an eerie groan. A pair of stern looking gargoyles stood guard as the three of you cautiously made your way into the castle. You swore you could feel their eyes following you—that you’d seen them flex jagged claws into their stone perches in an aborted attempt to dive after you.
The inside of the looming fortress was no more welcoming than out. Dark, emerald, stained glass windows lined the walls—smothering any of the warmer light from the volcano and tinting the entire hall a sickly green-grey. The stone floors and walls were elaborately carved with the faded stories of dynasties long since passed, but what had once surely been immaculate craftsmanship had shifted and cracked with age—crushing floors into tight slopes and littering already narrow walkways with heavy debris.
“We just have to find the tallest tower,” Ace hummed, swiping at a few dangling trails of thorns with the blunted edge of his blade. “And then the highest room in that.”
“The treasure is never in the highest room in the tallest tower,” you complained. “You just heard that in a drinking song once.”
“Is that true?” Deuce frowned, looking terribly betrayed.
“No way!” Ace snipped. “I told you! An old crone read my fortune in her bone dice, and she said to always check the highest room in the tallest tower! Because that’s where I’d find my greatest treasure!”
“Maybe the greatest treasure is the friends we’ve made along the way?” Deuce suggested helpfully.
“No.”
So you split off from a grouchy Ace and dejected Deuce to try and find some stairs. Every room in this stupid castle was swimming in so many shadows that you could hardly tell right from left, let alone if there were any kinds of secret doors or passageways that may lead to an equally secret tower. The chamber you’d found yourself in now was gigantic, and each tentative step you took echoed discordantly through the ashy gloom. You kicked miserably at a loose rock and it skittered off into the darkness with a dull thunk. And then something… odd, began to happen. That darkness began to move—to rise and unfurl like a great set of wings on a beast. And—oh. Oh no.
“Would you look at that,” Ace whistled under his breath, neck craned all the way back as he squinted at what was most definitely the tallest of all the towers this creepy castle had to offer. “Guess what, nonbelievers. I found the—”
“DRAGON!”
Whoosh went the great swathe of emerald fire as it exploded down the barren hallway and nipped at your heels. You dove out into the open courtyard just in time to avoid being roasted alive, and the gargantuan monster behind you let out a roar fit to shake the earth. A quick tuck-and-roll left you crouched behind a fallen pillar, and the dragon’s bright, green, glower turned on you and your garbage hiding spot with a rumbling snarl. Its rows of sharp, white, teeth closing just above your head—missing its mark by barely a hair’s width.
“Gotcha!” Deuce snarled, his armored fists dragging the dragon away by its tail. Or, well, tried to. Because the dragon was a hundred feet long at least, and your blue haired friend probably looked like nothing more than a pesky rat darting between its feet. It turned and snapped at him irritably, taking a great, big, step forward in a bid to get a firmer stance to attack. You threw yourself in the other direction to avoid being trampled.
“Go!” Ace called, charging in from the other side. “Quick!”
Because at the end of the day, they were still both your brave, tanky, warrior, friends. And you were just a very, very, squishy bard who really would not fare well against a particularly motivated goose, let alone a dragon. So you skidded through the rubble and onto your feet, and started to sprint back into the castle’s halls—hoping maybe you’d be able to find a bit more cover.
There was a great clatter, and both Ace and Deuce yelped. You looked back hurriedly to see the pair of them clutching onto the dragon’s tail for dear life as it whipped them back and forth through the ash and debris cluttering the ground. With one, final, great, sweep, the dragon pitched them into the air and sent them careening through the roof of that ‘tallest tower.’ You muttered a hasty incantation and the sparkling outlines of soft feathers danced along your fingers. You hoped you weren’t too far. You were probably too goddamn far. But you hummed frantically under your breath nonetheless and entreated your middling magic to give them a soft landing.
And then there was another wave of green hellfire raining down over your head and you turned and ran.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—
Even if you’d been a champion sprinter, there was little good it would have done you against a beast whose stride was longer than you were tall. You made it back into some hall or other, and into another cavernous room, and then you were pinned into a corner—the dragon looming over you like a vengeful wraith come to take its due.
It was gigantic. Probably the biggest creature you’d ever seen. And it was sleek—all lithe muscle and glossy rows of black scales that glittered oddly in the dull, grey, light. Its wings spread wide behind it, spanning the entirety of the vast chamber. They looked like the sort of wings that could stir up a hurricane. The curling horns atop its head seemed sharp enough to gore a man or twenty, and the purple crests lining its skull were tapered down flat in a way that reminded you a bit deliriously of a pissy cat pinning its ears back before it swatted at you.
Its lips curled back over pointed canines as it snarled at you, and you were showered in a swathe of hot sparks.
“Oh, what large teeth you have,” you squeaked, and when the dragon dipped closer to bellow into your face, your reeled back with a splutter. “I—I mean white, sparkling, teeth!” you rattled, nearly incoherent. The dragon’s snout twitched away, almost like you’d startled it. “I mean, I’m sure you hear this all the time from your food, but—wow! Just! Very lovely! Definitely the prettiest smile I’ll ever be eaten by!”
Slowly it lowered its great head, and you could see the neon glare from its narrowed eyes.
“Not that you have to eat me,” you added hurriedly, hoping to whatever Gods could hear you that your smart mouth could finally be useful for more than just talking circles around assholes in bars or weaseling your friends out of shitty contracts. “I’d very much like not to be eaten. But all the same, we did intrude in your home—and it’s definitely a very nice home—so I’d totally get it. And I guess if I did have to die today, knowing that my life would be in the hands of something so magnificent is certainly reassuring.”
The dragon seemed to preen a bit at that. You could see the sharp crests beneath its horns soften as tension bled from the beast’s posture. It ducked in close again, and this time you felt a sharp pull of air rush past your cheeks as it sniffed you. Its nostrils were the size your head—bigger even, maybe. You didn’t want to think about it, but the dry heat of its breath puffing into your face made the entire thing a bit hard to ignore.  
“Did I mention what a charming home you have?” you rambled on. “Very aesthetic. The gargoyles at the gate were a lovely touch.”
The dragon made a low, warbling, noise in its throat that wasn’t quite a growl, but wasn’t particularly… reassuring, either. It made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
It ducked away—not far, just enough to reach one of the large, carved, walls at the outskirts of the room. Its long neck slithered out before pausing pointedly over an archway. It took you a long moment to realize it was gesturing to something. Another gargoyle from the looks of things—this one almost entirely crumbled away under the strains of time. You could just barely make out the shape of its square jaw and taloned fingers.
You nodded so hard you nearly gave yourself whiplash.
“Yes! I see! Very beautiful! Such fine craftsmanship!”
The dragon cooed at you. Swear on your life and all the money in your back packet. An actual, honest to God, coo. Fuck, maybe you’d managed to charm your way out of imminent dismemberment and death after all.
It ambled closer once again, a curiosity lighting its eyes and warming those neon irises into something that was less poisonous-hell-fire and more mellow-evening-in-the-forest.
Amidst all the rippling waves of ebony scales, your eyes caught on the smallest smear of crimson. Just a touch of red—right along the spikes of its tail. Carefully, cautiously, slower than molasses, you stepped forward with your hands raised. You whispered a handful of familiar words under your breath and your palms glowed fuzzy and blue. Dragons were supposed to be inherently magical, right? So this one would certainly understand that the string of syllables you’d babbled out were good, and helpful, and not at all a provocation. The dragon was looking down at you with lidded eyes, its gaze a bit unfocused. You gulped.
“I’m sorry my friends messed with your tail,” you apologized, gingerly holding your fingers out to hover over the abrasions without actually touching. “They were just trying to protect me. If—if that makes it any better.” The minuscule wound began to knit itself back together neatly beneath the pulses of your magic. “I do tend to need a lot of protecting—I’m not much a warrior, if that wasn’t completely obvious by the everything about me—so I can’t really blame them for being a bit gung-ho about it.”
After a moment or two, the scratches had faded back into solid, matte, black and you drew back with a content hum.
“There! All fixed!” You gave your most winning smile. Please don’t eat me, your brain chanted on endless repeat. Please don’t eat me please don’t eat me please don’t eat me—
The dragon reared back and settled on its haunches with another heavy puff of sweltering breath. You could feel the heat of it prickling all the way up your arms. After a long, long, moment of silent consideration, the dragon leaned forward again and rumbled deep in its chest. When you only stood there, properly petrified, it huffed again and bumped its nose against your sternum, nearly toppling you over.
“I don’t—” you started, nervous. “I’m sorry. I don’t really get what you’re trying to say.”
With another sigh that sounded entirely too put upon, the dragon lowered its great head. The air itself seemed to grow heavy against your shoulders, and you could taste the cloying bitterness of strong magics on the back of your tongue. Black miasma oozed from beneath the dragon’s talons and melted along its scales. The caustic scent of ash and petrichor burned along your nostrils, and you had to pinch your eyes shut and cover your nose to keep from coughing. You managed to sneak a peek past your fingers just in time to watch the shadowed outline of the beast collapse. And out of that puddle of black goo emerged a man­. He was tall and lithe, just as the dragon had been, with glowing green eyes that were terribly familiar. They were framed with thick, dark, lashes and sat perfectly on a face that was nearly too handsome to be human (well, it really wasn’t human you supposed, so that little tidbit probably accounted for said inhuman beauty well enough). Recognizable eyes and stature or no, the curling horns atop his head would have sealed the deal plenty well enough on their own.
He shook off the shadows twining around his ankles with a lazy twist of the hand and then turned to you with a curious little hum.
And holy fuck Mister Dragon apparently had no sense of shame, or maybe just no qualms about social niceties and practicalities, because his human self was wearing about just as many clothes as his lizard form had been.
You squeezed your eyes shut with a squeak, and then double covered them with your hands for good measure.
A chuckle rolled through the air—as dark and pleasantly rich as the finest of chocolates. And then there was a clawed finger beneath your chin, tilting your head back, and back, and back until you were at least half-way sure it would probably be safe to open your eyes again without infringing on his decency.
“You are fascinating, Child of Man,” it—he—hummed, low in his throat. His thumb dragged down to hook beneath the curve of your jaw and support the finger tucked up under your chin. “And it’s been so, very, long since I’ve been fascinated by anything.”
“Uh,” you replied, like a perfectly functional human being.
The dragon’s lips curled up over his pointed teeth—still just as sharp and white as they had been when he’d been so much bigger and scalier.
“I think I’d like to keep you,” he said with a nod to himself, as casually as one may talk about picking up extra groceries from the market.
“Uh,” you said again.
“You did mention that you needed protecting,” he continued, tapping a clawed finger against his own chin. The small smile quirking his lips twisted into something smug. “And that is certainly something at which I would excel.”
Your head was swimming.
“I—I mean. I’m honored that you—that… you—” You couldn’t even think the words, let alone get them past your brain and out of your mouth. You cleared your throat and fought to keep your eyes level with his clavicle and nowhere else. “D-Don’t you think you’re moving a bit fast?” you laughed nervously. “I mean, I’m sure my friends will probably be on their way back down soon—and—I mean, we haven’t even introduced ourselves yet. I don’t even know your name.”
He blinked, slow and serpentine.
“Oh. I suppose you wouldn’t.” He canted his head to the side, long strands of that inky black hair of his spilling across his shoulder. An amused sort of grin worked its way along his mouth. “Dragons are not keen to give out our true names so readily, but you seem like a clever one. Tell me—what do you think I’m called then, hmm?”
You glanced up quickly at the horns atop his head and couldn’t help yourself.
“Tsunotarou?”
He let out a bark of laughter that seemed to shake the walls.
“Oh,” he trilled, looking positively delighted. The hand not curled beneath your chin reached down to snag your own, and he brought your wrist up to his lips. You could feel the imprints of his canines against the soft skin there. “I’ll definitely be keeping you.”
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scitties-enjoyer · 2 years
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The effects of the turf war on the mycelium resistance members was very much permanent* (I've written a fic where this has come up before, it wasn't intended to be scarian when I wrote it but you could definitely read it that way)
And I'm thinking of the ideas I have about Grian and Scar having a kid**
Their hatchling I think would also have the effects of the mycelium. So their baby ends up referred to as sporeling by Grian as often as hatchling. Scar isn't actually upset about their baby being mycelium, to be fair. Anyway point is I have feelings about them having tiny magical newborn hatchling sporeling thing.
If we're going with the "they've been married the whole time" thing they've been talking about the possibility of having kids since season 6 but Grian wasn't ready, things got in the way in season 7, in season 8 they were thinking of child soon and then once they were ready the fucking moon was starting to get big and when that happens bringing a baby into the world ends up at the bottom of the priority list. And then the easter egg hunt in season 9 was a tipping point for Grian of "okay I want a baby now"
Grian shuts himself and the hatchling up in Scar's starter tree and doesn't allow any visitors for a few of weeks because instincts. Just him, Scar, and their hatchling in their little bubble. The kid has Scar's eyes and Grian's hair and their wings are a weird blending of Grian and Scar, floating like Scar's but feathered like Grian's, though the colours are different.
Ther baby of course is a menace as soon as they can walk. Which isn't too long. An adorable menace who can get away with almost anything but. Okay you know how when they want to be Grian and Scar are actually extremely competent? Yeah they're definitely teaching their kid all their tricks. ***
I have more ideas but my brain has decided these ideas no longer exist so, there you go. Their baby is a tiny terror and they love them very much and encourage them very much.
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Watcher!Grian related footnotes under the cut
* well, watcher!Grian could remove the mycelium from himself but he isn't too great with his magic at the time and he can't remove the mycelium from the others so he won't remove the mycelium from himself both out of principle and also because honestly he's not in any danger or unhappy like this.
** ask me about my ideas about watcher Grian and watcher biology and Grian's gender please I have so many ideas. Also the kid's species is a complete anomaly on so many levels because of it.
*** Grian takes some time to teach their kid watcher stuff he wishes he'd been taught instead of muddling through, and while personally he doesn't use his magic to give himself unfair advantages over players, he thinks while his kid's young that it's more important they learn how to use their magic in safe, controlled circumstances than it is to keep things fair.
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olli-is-a-fish · 7 months
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After months of muddling through what tf is going on with my gender and how i wish to be percieved and finally landing on "i wish to simply be as chaotic as i can" (masc but fem but also neither, something entirely other),
Being misgendered in random ways is actually kinda euphoric. I use they/them most of the time cause its easier than explaining "im not a guy but masc things r fun and i hate being percieved as fem not bc im not but cause im scared thats all ull think i am". But sometimes someone will cause me he/him and my brain just dies for a second because YES.
My (sorta fem, chosen) name has a more masc nickname that almost everyone calls me. I have 2 friends i dont talk to super frequently but both of them only call me the longer version and its so nice cause i hear it so rarely just that sprinkling is enough.
If i manage to medically transition when im older i cant wait to fuck with gender so much as soon as i get to a point where when a stranger sees me they think im a woman im gonna be so weird.
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Steddie Mating Run AU, Memories of You
Eddie remembered the day he presented vividly. It was his junior year of high school, and he sat near the back of his second period science class. Mrs. Waters was droning on and on about the mitochondria while he doodled in his notebook, only half paying attention. He was a late bloomer. People usually presented in their middle school years, but the teen never showed any signs of the big life change. Eddie was more than happy to stay like this. He was already a freak. Why did he have to worry about the societal norms associated with secondary genders?
It seemed his body took exception to that thought as Eddie felt his body suddenly...shift. Dropping his pencil and falling back slightly, Eddie struggled to keep his body upright. A sudden pang traveled through his body and hit him in the gut. Hard. Hard enough to knock the wind out of him as his legs trembled. A dawning horror came over him as everything around him suddenly began to smell stronger. He was presenting in the middle of a fucking science class. The goth didn't bother to raise his hand and ask. Instead, he ran past the confused teacher, down the hall, and to the nearest bathroom where he ducked into the first stall and slammed the door shut behind him
"No, no, no, no, no." He cursed quietly as his senses began to overwhelm him. The buzzing of the florescents above him, the smell of the urine on the floor, his jeans-fuck, why were his jeans suddenly way too tight? Eddie was frantic to get his pants off, practically tearing them off his body with a pained yowl. Looking down at his boxers, Eddie froze when he saw the blood. His brain was muddled by the blurred senses, but it understood what all of this meant. He was an omega. A male omega. A freak among freaks. And he was in the middle of a hormone addled high school full of knot headed assholes who would be more than happy to take advantage of anyone in his situation.
Eddie couldn't stop himself as he fell to the floor, ignoring the way it made his body flare up in pain. Eddie brought his knees up to his chest and buried his face in his legs as he began to sob loudly. This was it. His life at the school, in this town, was completely over.
"Hey, are you okay in there?"
Eddie jumped at the knock on his stall door. His head turned to see a pair of white and blue Nikes facing him through the crack of the stall.
"Wh-what do you think?" Eddie snapped through hiccups. His head was on fire now, just like the rest of his body. He could smell himself now, the odor tinged with the pain he was currently going through. "Ow...." The goth hissed as he clutched his turning stomach.
"What happened? Did you get hurt or-" Nikes approached him but stopped less than a foot away, probably overwhelmed by the newly presented Omega's scent. "Oh, wow."
"Yeah." Eddie wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his leather jacket. "Some time to fucking present, huh? In the middle of this shit hole school...fuck it hurts." He whimpered out. Watching as Nikes feet moved before a shuffling sound could be heard. Despite everything, Eddie was still on his guard. Ready to run if the other boy tried anything. Instead, Nikes hand came into sight with a small white bottle labeled heat suppressants. "Wha?"
"This is your first time, right? Take two every hour. It'll help get rid of the pain." Eddie hesitated for a moment, but another strong pang hitting him in the gut made up his mind for him. Snatching the bottle out of Nikes hands and dry swallowing two of the pills, no problem. For once, he was happy he forgot to eat breakfast so the pulls could work faster.
"Thanks." Eddie grunted out as he struggled to focus on breathing through the pain. Sniffing the air a couple of times where he was greeted by the scent of freshly mowed grass. "You... you don't smell like an omega."
"Oh, I'm not." Nikes said as his feet shifted awkwardly. "I carry these for my girlfriend in case her heat starts early, but you can keep that bottle."
"Thanks." Eddie shifted, trying to ignore the heat that rushed to his face as he spoke to Nikes. Fucking pheromones. "Hey, this might sound weird, but could you just stay here with me? Until the pills start to work?"
"Ugh, yeah! Course! My next class isn't for a while anyway....I'm not sitting on the floor, though." Eddie laughed.
"That's fair. This floor is a cesspool of piss and typhoid." Nikes snickered but didn't say much else after that. The two fell into a comfortable silence as Nikes stood guard in front of Eddie's stall. It had probably been thirty, forty?, minutes before Eddie was able to comfortably stand up. His smell was significantly dampened, and it didn't feel like his entire body was on fire. As he began to pull his pants back up, Eddie heard Nikes gather his stuff.
"Hey, I gotta head to class, but congrats on presenting? I think? I don't know what you're supposed to say to someone about this kind of thing."
By the time Eddie got the door open, Nikes had already long since gone. The only evidence he had been there was the bottle of suppressants in the teen's pocket.
It had been years since the incident, and only now was Eddie aware that Steve Harrington, his supposed mate, was Nikes. A tiny part of his brain, the one he went out of his way to supress most of the time, wondered if that meant something.
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floordash · 7 days
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My Pinned
This is my Silly about me WOOF! >:3
Minors go away this is a NSFW!!!!hypno blog i do not want any children around these parts
Name: Button
Age: 21
Pronouns: She/They
Gender: girl thing
Sexuality: ?%#%%!??!#
COOL FACT! 490 is XD in roman numerals :3
DM's are open for Mutuals and my asks are open to anyone
KINKS!!!!
🦴 hypnosis
🦴 armpits
🦴 scent play
🦴 feet
🦴 cnc
🦴 monsters
🦴degradation
🦴 humiliation
🦴 petplay
LIMITS!!!!
❌ scat
❌ vomit
❌ farting
❌ hard gore
❌ fire play
❌sudden Loud noises that make me think you broke my shit or are talking yelling about how you hate me and everything is my fault behind my back
❌actual death threats
❌inflation (including the economic kind)
❌ needle play
❌(whatever I add here later idk what it's called)
The secret area where I am hiding my triggers that are technically open but just because they are open doesn't mean I'll always respond to them how you expect me to! This is more for a quick reference for people who I had already sent my path notes to as well since I'll keep updating this list
Triggers (patch notes 2.3)
Whipped= pleasure and obideince (quick)
Tell me you're cute = I say I'm cute cute is interchangeable
Snaps (sounds)= pleasure
Treat = pleasure
Jingle bells (sounds) = drop
Woof = woof (I can only bark)
Speak normally = please say this so I stop barking
Answer = makes me answer the question asked honestly or say what's on my mind
Freeze = oh damm I am frozen
Unfreeze = ice become water (does what it says)
Lightswitch on/off = drop and raise triggers (perfect for fractionation)
Suck = makes me not be able to talk for reasons
Good girls _____ = secret magic trigger
Pleasure (also me saying please and thank you) = yes
Spell your name: I spell what I've been tricked Into thinking thinking my name is yes
Deez n-:me saying it will drop me I cluding typing which is why I didn't finish typing it
Shake shake shake: fuck you If you use that one if I wanna switch I can't if you use this it muddles my brain to much
Oink: i oink
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returningtohell · 9 months
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perceiving gender in a backward way from the norm is so funny. i'm transmasc and was talking with someone about how people see me as a girl because i don't have a dick but i got muddled and said, "which is completely ridiculous logic because that would mean -name of transfem friend- is a guy!" like genuinely forgot there are people who see her as a guy. was fully conscious of the fact she has a dick but my brain lost the connection between that and what her gender is. gender is really fucking weird. i have lost my grip on it.
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sulky-valkyrie · 10 months
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*crashes in to fight your brain* tell ME about your ocs. tell me about your origins ocs - tell me about their worldstates! their romances! their specialisations! their besties and their worsties! tell me about your hawke(s)!!! TELL ME UR FAV INQUISITOR, IF YOU HAVE ONE!!!!
Vee, my beloved!  I started working on an answer to this and then my life exploded like 6 different times and it’s been sitting in my drafts and well now it’s 6 months later and ooooooops.
A thousand apologies and a dozen flowers and candies of your choice are winging their way towards you as we speak.
My most most mostest most important OC is my Tabris.  She refuses to use her first name because some shit went down with her mother.  Duelist berserker rogue (hush, canon is only a suggestion).  She is romanced to her surprise by this goofy-eyed shem who tells the dumbest jokes, doesn’t seem to mind how spiky she is, and nicknamed her Ris.  She also falls for Morrigan, so when the ritual comes up, it’s all really fucking awkward or possibly awkward fucking (or is it???).  
Everything goes tits up when all the wrong people die at the battle of Denerim and she’s left broken and alone until she finds Anders in Vigil’s Keep, and he coaxes her out of her shell as much as she coaxes him from behind that happy-go-lucky mask of his.
And of course, THAT doesn’t last either because Morrigan was seen back in the Kocarri Wilds (fuck canon, I write my own timeline) and she’s GOT to go find her, and when she gets back he’s gone and so is Justice and thus begins her adventures in Kirkwall.
My second most important OC is the Madman of Kirkwall.  He really started out as a comedic relief side character in both of my big huge long fics, but accidentally grew a really complex personality.  He will sleep with anything that can consent, regardless of race, species, gender, or which side of the veil its from.  He loves his siblings dearly, is ready to fight god for them, and very well might have to.  Also he gave Cullen that scar after yet another “mages aren’t people” tirade.  He’s met both Ris and Trev (in two different timelines/world states), and is both wary and fond of them.
Trev is the only Inky I’ve developed at all: she’s got a temper the size of a city, was never prepared for any sort of leadership or responsibilities, and is muddling through and handling it badly.  Her poor coping mechanisms include using magic to stay awake, falling for people who are bad for her, and threatening to set people and things on fire.
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yonder-wander · 1 year
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sexuality and affection stuff
Whenever I find myself with The Heartache, and I’m like, ah, I’m in Bleeding Heart brain, it is a good sign to check in if there’s something I’m denying myself.
It remains REALLY DIFFICULT for me to truly conceptualise that I’m allowed to seek touch as anything other than a byproduct of responding to someone else seeking touch. The game of “Dont Be A Slut” has a rule that pretty much requires desire smuggling: You Can Only Be Touched By Someone Who Wants* To Touch You
(* “want” here defined as “wants for themselves, not for you, and not as an act of obligatory reciprocation”)
It’s really not that different to the game [not shame] constructed around my gender Stuff. That had the rules of, if I recall, “You can’t initiate the conversation, you can’t correct anyone you’ve already told, and you’re not allowed to answer any question about how you identify. You can exit the game one or two ways: complete conviction or complete defeat.”
This game was unwinnable, and [not shame] kind of knew that from the start. And I’m here I guess going, okay, what’s the rules of this new game I’m sure I have no interest in playing?
Let’s see.
“You can’t ask to be touched, only try to make someone else want to touch you. Trying to provoke reciprocatal touch is allowed, but any touch you get back doesn’t count because it wasn’t REALLY genuine. Sexuality is banned - no matter who starts it, because Nobody Actually Wants To Do That.”
This game is pretty incompatible with accepting that actually I do want Touch That Is For Me. It muddles it into “I want someone to WANT to touch me,” which is vague and weird and erases the fact that’s already true. I want, actually, to be able to trust that it’s okay to ask - that it doesn’t render everything fucking null. That little part of me is so sure it’s unwanted unless it’s providing - that it gets its needs met as rewards only. And it is desperate for “proof”that it “doesnt need to ask”.
But the game makes it look like I don’t care, and don’t want. That’s baked in.
I don’t really know how sexuality fits into any of this because it’s absolutely under this whole thing, it’s just extra weird. It’s something I Absolutely Can’t Ask For. It’s something I don’t know how to want, even, because it’s so banned. [not shame] is so loud about how I’m wrong for wanting a thing there’s no chance of receiving. The game has a rule and that’s Follow The Leader, and wow it’s loud. It’s loud about how I’m not wanted, it’s loud about how I never will be. And that’s not true, but I can’t prove it. I think a lot of the pain is my inability to prove it.
I’m not a monstrous gross pervert for wanting intimacy. I’m not selfish any time I am wanting a hug that isn’t a hug-back. This is normal, and okay, and the voice saying well, you screwed this for yourself so I don’t know what you’re complaining about is just as much wanting to ask as I am. It says you got asked once and you didn’t show up so maybe suck it up because you made her deal with this but it knows that if that’s the case it’s just as okay to ask.
I don’t want to sound like I don’t get any touch-for-me. I do. But it stops registering when part of me is so scared of whether other people want to touch me. That part doesn’t know it’s not just a convenient object that exists to provide something for someone else. I’m not a convenient object. If I was open about having longings I’d be okay. It doesn’t have to be that I’m deeply sad before I can ask for someone else to put their arms around me, for me to be the one who is held. I know that I’m still rebounding from how needy and entitled I got during my primal panic. But this isn’t about needing touch to feel okay - it’s about trying to feel okay with wanting touch. Idk.
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mr-e-nigma · 3 years
Text
You say “I’m not nonbinary” and yet you kin Charlie Kelly. Care to explain your reasoning?
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The Plan (Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader)
title: the plan
pairing: natasha romanoff x f!reader
warnings: mild swearing, mentions of homophobia, FLUFF with a dash of angst
summary: Y/N has been in love with Natasha Romanoff for a VERY long time and honestly, Tony is getting sick of watching it. Natasha has been in love with Y/N since the very first day and Steve can’t take the assassins obliviousness anymore. Steve and Tony, reluctantly of course, team up to make the pair notice how perfect they are for each other. (OH SHOOT IM SORRY I SUCK AT SUMMARIES WOW)
requested by @iamninaanna: 
Hey Sunshine, I love your writing, so I'm here to request something :) 
Can I please request a Natasha Romanoff × reader, where the Avengers are playing truth or dare, and somebody challenges Natasha to kiss the reader, or something like that, and then they confess their feelings to one another. I was having something in mind, I hope it's not to specific, that like Natasha rambles about the reader to Steve A LOT, and he's so sick of it, he has to do something about it, while it's the same situation with reader, just that she's talking to hers best friend, which can be any of the Avengers, you decide, and then Steve and the reader's best friend make a plan together, and well, you know the rest <3
Okay, that was a lot, but I'm really excited😊 Thank you if you write it!!
a/n (i think that's what i put when i’m responding, if i screwed it up please let me know, it would be much appreciated) :
hi taja! thank you so much, this is the first time someone has requested something and im really excited. but also terrified. more terrified. reader is a girl but if someone wants me to rewrite this as gender neutral, i can.  hope i do it justice and if your reading this, thank you for reading. if anyone has any feedback, it’s always welcome. okay here i go!!
the story: 
Y/N Y/L/N flopped backward on to Tony Stark’s bed, grabbed the nearest pillow and let out a angry scream into the unsuspecting piece of cloth and feathers. 
“Woah kid, what’d the pillow do to you?” Tony joked, his eyes still trained on whatever new gizmo he was working on, chuckling at his best friends antics.
“It’s fucking Natasha” Y/N mumbled quietly into the pillow, her voice muddled by the soft white sheets that she buried her head farther in. Tony was silent, the only sounds was the clinking of the Tony’s robots and tools working, so she assumed he hadn’t heard her. Not that she wanted him too anyway. 
Y/N was in love with Natasha Romanoff. Head over heels, fully in love with the assassin that she’d worked closely with for the past years. To describe how Y/N felt about Natasha in words would never to how she really felt in justice. Natasha was a tall glass of Coke: Orange Vanilla. Rare, unsuspectingly sweet, and utterly addicting. Her red hair, the black bodysuit, the way she fought, she could take down 10 men on her own, with her bare hands. She was sweet- always sharing her secret candy stashes with Y/N- smart -helping Y/N out when she was still taking classes. 
Sometimes Y/N really thought Natasha felt the same way, then she flirted with a guy here and hot girl there and the idea fled from her brain.  Y/N had never seen Natasha have an inclination toward women, she flirted with every living thing. Y/N liked to think it was a coping with feelings for someone and that's why she was so flirty but in reality, Y/N knew there was no way she felt near the same way. She was an extra to the Avengers. And besides, no one even knew she liked girls. 
“It’s what, darling?” Tony had moved and was now sitting in front of Y/N, spinning around in his chair like a little kid in their dad’s office.
Y/N wanted to tell him how in love she was with Natasha, she wanted to tell him all the little things she noticed, all the little things she loved. But she couldn’t. How would Tony take it? Tony might take it okay, but the team? Steve? Bucky? They were from the 40′s, women didn’t love other women openly back then, did they still think it was... unnatural? She didn’t think she could deal with being any more of an outcast. Did Natasha like girls? The thoughts were drowning her slowly, cutting off her air supply, the last bit of air building up into a scream that she would never let out. 
Tony coughed and Y/N realized she’d been silent for too long. “Tony....” she took a deep breath in, “I- uh-...,” Tony raised an eyebrow, waiting for to go on. Y/N coughed clearing nothing from her throat, elongating the silence before she just spit the words out like hot fire. “I’minlovewithNatashaandIdontknowwhattodo?” 
“You’re what?” Tony asked, having caught nothing of that sentence, something about Natasha but honestly he was still lost. 
Y/N felt a little better and slowed herself down. She trained her eyes on a seam in the comforter and whispered, “I’m in love with Natasha and I don’t know what to do”
There was a silence and Y/N could feel it smothering her, pulling her into the water, dunking her head under, she was drowning and, and and- Tony erupted in laughter. Y/N’s head shot up and she stared at him, color drained from her face. Tony rocked back and forth but when he came up again, he caught the absolute terror on her face and his smile dropped. 
“Y/N?” he asked softy, he stood up, plopping on the bed next to her, “Babe?” Tony tried to catch her eye, ducking his head but she turned away. He grabbed her chin in his large hands, “Babe, I wasn’t laughing at you. God, I’m such an idiot.” he blew out a harsh breath, “I was laughing because I already knew, not because you are in love with her.” Tony felt her face relax and he turned her chin to meet his eye. 
“You knew?” Y/N asked softly, tears still gathered in her eyes. Tony’s eyes softened as he saw the tears and he used the pads of his thumb to wipe them away. 
“I’m sorry Y/N. I don’t care if you like women. I’ve known you had some sort of feelings for Natasha for a while, you can see it when you look at her. I was just waiting for you to tell me.” Y/N laughed at this now and threw her arms around Tony, who wrapped her up in a hug. “Now, tell me more about Natasha and this ‘love’” he said, his voice muffled by her hair. 
~
“STEVEEEE” Natasha groans, letting down her normal assassins façade. 
“Mmm” Steve hummed in reply, motioning for her to come in to his room. She smiled and darted to the spinning chair in the corner, propping her feet up on the desk. It was silent for a little bit, the pair just enjoying each others company when Natasha spun her chair around and broke the silence. 
“Do you think Y/N likes women?” Steve already knew the Natasha liked women and he was totally cool with it. Nat has been surprised when he had been super supportive but was very grateful for all the love and reassurance he’d given her. 
“Nat,” Steve sighed dramatically, “She can’t NOT know your in love with her, unless she’s totally oblivious which she may be...” He turned to face her, jumping on his bed to be closer to her, “You should just tell her” 
“But...” Nat frowned, “what if she doesn’t like women? And I creep her out? And..” She stopped as she felt Steve lay a hand on her shoulder. 
“How could she not like you?” he questioned, “And trust me, it’s quite obvious how she feels.” 
“HOW SHE FEELS?!” Nat practically screamed, so unlike her that Steve leaned back. She cleared her throat, “Sorry- she feels...?” 
“She’s in love with you, obviously”
Nat grabbed a pillow from the bed and screamed into it, then looked at Steve, wary, “Really? Y/N with her...” Steve tuned out the rest of what Nat said, he’d heard it all before. Too many times. Nat sighed, in a happy way that Steve had never heard from her before, “Y/N...”
~
Steve knew that this had to end, Natasha and Y/N pretending they weren’t head over heels for each other. He’d heard enough of Nat’s wistful rants, it was so unlike her, it was starting to worry him. If he was correct in his guess, Tony was feeling the same way. So, despite Tony being, well, Tony, Steve sought him out to solve the mess. 
~
“Truth or dare, old man?” Clint smirked at Tony, all the avengers had settled for a night in and decided to play truth or dare. Y/N had rolled her eyes at this, they were too old for it, but settled in next to Tony anyway. 
“Dare, obviously” Tony rolled his eyes at Clint, eagerly awaiting his fate. 
“I dare you to stand on top of the tower and sing at least 30 seconds of ‘Rich Girl’ by Gwen Stefani and livestream it.” Tony laughed at this and stood up. 10 minutes and one livestream later, all of them were laughing harder then they had in a long time. 
“Okay, okay, my turn to ask,” Tony smiled, “Natasha, truth or dare?” Steve couldn’t help the smile that overtook his face, the plan was in motion. 
“Dare...” Natasha didn’t let her voice waver, her signature smirk on her face. 
“I dare you to kiss Y/N”
The whole room fell silent. Y/N’s face flamed and her eyes filled with tears. Was this a joke? Tony knew how she felt. How could he? The eyes in the room were on Nat and her but she ignored them as she got up and ran out of the room. Tony’s eyes widened as Y/N darted through the door. 
“Nice going, Tony. You upset her.” Natasha’s glared at Tony, angry. But inside she couldn’t help but wonder if she ran because she didn’t want to kiss her. Maybe she hated the idea. Maybe she didn’t like women after all. Nat got up, she had to face this. “I’ll go get her” She dragged her hand over her face and got up. Tony and Steve exchanged a glance as she left, hopefully this wouldn’t blow up in their faces
~
“Y/N!” Nat yelled down the hall, “It’s me, I’m sorry Tony was a jerk. Can we talk?”
Y/N heard Natasha’s voice and faltered, she had to face this at some point. She took a deep breath, letting the cool confidence she had on missions fill her. 
“Yeah, I’m here Nat” She called back and within seconds Nat ran around the corner. Nat’s eyes softened as they looked into Y/N’s beautiful eyes, still just as mesmerizing, puffy and red. Nat took an unconscious step forward, her thumbs caressing the hidden tear streaks. Y/N’s breath caught, her heart flipping at Nat’s touch. Before she could think about it, Y/N leaned up and let her lips meet Nat’s. Nat responded immediately, pulling Y/N to her, wrapping her arms around her, teeth tugging at her bottom lip. Y/N groaned into the kiss, letting her fingers card through Nat’s hair. They pulled away after a minute, smiling like idiots. Y/N looked down slowly before glancing back up shyly at Nat. 
“Um... I really like you Nat” She whispered, with a smile
“I really like you too Y/N” Nat chuckled, pulling her in again for a sweet, soft kiss. It said everything they hadn’t said. All the nights of longing, the confusion and the love. 
Tony, Steve and the rest of the team watched from the security room, smiling and high fiving at the happy couple. 
AHHH I HOPE YOU LIKED IT!! feedback is always appreciated!!
tagging: @iamninaanna (to be tagged when i write something just drop me an ask)
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bump1nthen1ght · 3 years
Text
Thicker than Water (Demon x Reader) Chapter 1
Pairing: Female Reader x Gender Fluid! Demon
Genre: High Fantasy
Warnings: Arm Injuries, Several mentions of blood
Word Count: 1870 Words
Summary: A summoning gone awry ends up in your favor
Chapter 2
A/N: Alright, I know I literally just posted a demon story but this post showed up on my dash and my god if I have never been more inspired to write a fic. I legit wrote this in 2 hours in a frenzy. Also I plan this story to be multi-chap, but still rather short, so maybe 3 parts in total
Before that night, you had never known what nearly-passing out felt like.
Your mother had done it, once or twice, usually after a particularly stressful day at the shop. If you didn’t check on her between your studies she may forget to eat entirely, your father as well. But you had been lucky; Someone had always been there to catch her, to cradle her head and spoon-feed her strength back.
On the forest floor, surrounded by the smell of your own blood, you have no such luxury.
The black spots flickering in your vision blend into the desne canopy above you and your tears only muddle your sight. The iron and copper of the summoning circle drawn around you drown out the scent of fresh pine and grass, while your ears can only focus on your own heartbeat and the bickering of the four boys.
Oh, that’s right, they’re still here.
It seems you had lost more fluid than you realized, probably because of your incessant crying. You had tried to stop the flow, but your brain was losing coherent function with every second. The boys conversation sounds far away and hollow, bouncing off your eardrums and confusing your sense of direction
“You idiot, I told you not to go for the arm!”
“We needed a lot of blood!”
“But she needs to read the ritual dumbass! She can’t if she dies!”
Ah yes, the ritual, it all is flooding back to you now.
Having received a private education from your father at your family’s apothecary, you were already prone to isolation as a child. It didn’t help having no siblings, nor a lacking natural talent for friend-making. Although you had lived in the city all your life, the young people your age knew very little about you, and you them.
You knew they had rumors about you, The daughter the apothecary hides away; That your gaze can turn people to stone, that you can curse and poison people with a couple words and the right ingredients.
The truth was you weren’t so glamorous. You knew your way around a medicine cabinet, sure, but nothing about poisons or magic spells. You didn’t have any special abilities to compensate or explain your reluctance for socialization. Just some overprotective parents and a shy disposition.
So when the handsome postmasters-son began to pay you special visits, you let your guard down. You let him walk you to and from the market, memorizing your weekend route. You let him in for a bit of tea late at night, especially when it seemed so cold, and told him where the spare key was kept. And yes, you even told him about your favorite secluded spot in the forest, where the sounds of civilization were far away, where you could be alone.
And here, in these last moments of your life, you can’t help but feel so naive.
“Hey, hey!”
A boot taps your cheek, shaking you out of your revelry. Your glassy eyes look over to your right.
It’s one of the local merchant’s boys, you think his name is Nicholas? It doesn’t really matter. All you knew about him was that he was a bit rough around the edges; always nicking things from pockets, looking up ladies skirts, and skipping his lessons. That’s what your dad complained about anyway.
A page is shoveled in front of you, dangling over your face. Your eyes take a while, but focus on the words. Nicholas’ boot heel digs into your neck.
“Read it out loud, or we’ll kill you.”
Clearly I’m going to die anyway dumbass, why should I help you?
You might’ve retorted, if you were in such a physical condition to do so. But instead, you do as you're told, and start speaking.
To your left, the postmaster’s son, Richard, sucks in a breath with anticipation. Any false composure he had while luring you here is gone, his feet tapping with excitement as he holds your left arm and lef bound spread eagle.
Holding your right leg is Markus, another merchant boy. He picks at his teeth.
“What are you guys going to wish for?” He whispers. It goes in your ear and out the other, too focused on forming coherent sentences.
“A full-harem of babes, obviously.” Simpers Hunter, the son of a landlord. He isn’t ugly, only a bit plain, and has enough money to boot. Compared to the other bachelors in town however, he has had little luck in procuring a courtship.
“A million coins could get you that and more, idiot. That’s what I’m wishing for.” Whispers Richard.
“What are you going to wish for Nic?” Asks Markus
“Oh my gods, will you guys shut the fuck up?”
Nic snarls, unconsciously digging his heel back into your throat. You choke and stutter, but keep going. The runes around you, written in your own blood, begin to glow.
All of the boy’s eyes widen and they step back from you. Your limbs sink like dead weight as the words begin to flow out your mouth with no thought. The paper with the chant drops to the ground, out of your sight, but it's like your brain has been reprogrammed; You know the rest, know it in your bones.
The grass begins to simmer and burn under the summoning circle, smoke swirling into formation above you. When the final word whispers out of you, you feel your body go lax. You don’t even remember tensing up
I guess this is it. Sorry Mom, Sorry Dad.
You clench your eyes, just hoping the demon will be quick. That it will at least leave a recognizable corpse.
“Holy shit.” You hear muttered, unsure by whom.
Your eyes are closed, body teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, but your senses are still intact. A hot wave of breath washes over your face and the ground below you trembles with heavy footsteps. The boys are quiet but you can hear their hearts pounding. They thrum with life, while yours slowly fades.
“Why have you summoned me, mortal?”
Even half-dead, your muscles tense in fear. The demon's voice is deep and resonates like a crowd talking all at once. It reeks of inhuman power and cracks like thunder.
A brief silence passes, before Nicholas finds his courage.
“We have come to ask for a wish.”
Later, when recounting the story, you will mention that the demon looked over to Nicolas, unamused, despite never seeing it yourself. The demon huffs, the heat of it blowing over you once more.
“I don’t believe I asked you.” The demon mutters. The cacophony of voices blend together into one, bland and emotionless. Even in your state however, you are able to decipher a couple of louder tones which overpower the others. They seem...angry.
“But...you…”
“I asked….”
Your eyes snap open as a wet droplet lands on your cheek. Lingering above you, drool seeping from their unnaturally sharp teeth, is the creature. It’s face resembles that of a goat, but sharp fangs stick out from their lower lips. Their eyes are golden and shine in the night, piercing right into yours. Despite the part of your body screaming out in terror, another part feels oddly….comforted. It’s why you don't startle when they brush a hand against your cheek, their thumb wiping away your tears. Their palm is warm, not like a blistering flame, but like a thick quilt. Like hot chocolate on a rainy day.
“......What do you need of me, little one?”
Their hand, padded and calloused, slides down your arm, closing up the large gash on your inner bicep. In another movement, they do the same to the other. Power and vitality seems to sink back into your body, drip by drip.
Words escape you, but not Nicolas.
“Excuse me, demon, but we're the ones who summoned you.” The sarcastic tone of his does little to hide the quivers of his fear, especially when the demon's neck turns toward him at an unnatural speed. Still, he persists. “Not her. And we want-”
“Do you take me for a blind fool?” The voice bellows, sending all the boys to their knees. Markus clutches his ears while Hunter whimpers on the ground. Nicolas falls back to the ground, eyes widen.  The demon stands to their full height, several feet above all of you. “Do you think I was born without smell, without sense?” The step away from your body, swiping at the ground with their fingers, taking a small bit of your blood with it.
The demon sticks their thumb and forefinger in front of Nicolas’s face, causing him to yelp and fall onto his back. “Is this your blood which forged the connection? Was it your words that spoke me into existence? Was it your body which came to the brink, wrenched open the door and pulled us both through?”
Nicolas, trembling like a leaf, shakes his head no. The demon’s eyes jerk up to the others. “And was it any of these young men?”  
Richard furiously shakes his head, while Hunter stays collapsed on the ground. Markus pushes himself away, hands still clamped around his ears. The demon sneers, before turning and walking back to you.
The demon kneels before propping your upper body up with a gentle touch. A comforting claw rubs your lower back while another paw rubs the tension out of your shoulders.
“Now, mistress, what may you ask of me?”
Your muscles may no longer tire from blood loss, but your mind truly feels like it’s on the brink of breaking. The demon, with fearsome fangs and a soft look, looks to you for an answer.
“I-I…” You mutter as the demon continues to massage your back. They hum.
“Take your time, it is alright. Rituals are difficult, I can only imagine the toll your body feels.” The mass of voices have synchronized, fading from a hundred to a single, harmonious tune. It is cavernously deep, but pleasant. It reminds you of the portly older man who used to read stories aloud every holiday.
You feel your body unconsciously turn towards your captors. Nicholas stays stuck to the ground, the whites of his eyes almost glowing in the darkness. The others have slowly moved to their knees, all terrified with shaky limbs, and look like they might make a run for it. Markus is slowly inching towards Nicholas’ shoulders, trying to lift him up to his senses.
For the first time in your life, a deep, boiling hatred burns your skin.
Cowards. You sneer, with all the malice stored in your reserves.
“I want-I want…” You stumble as the anger bubbles out of your belly. “I want them to hurt. To feel humiliated.” Nails bite into the palm of your hand, letting out blood as you clench knuckles. “I want everyone to know what they’ve done, who they are, every fault they’ve ever been guilty of. I want them alive, but I want them to burn.”
The demon smiles, pulling you in for a hug. You collapse into their embrace, keeping your eyes locked onto the boys, those rats. The demon hums a contented tune as they rub your back.
“As you wish, my master.”
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queenboudicaa · 2 years
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From Graham Linehan from The Glinner Update [email protected]
Played The Fool
Sue Donym
Sep 16
I remember my college days studying journalism, which don't seem so long ago, but actually are now, and as a young eighteen year old, a friend gives me something she says explains gender. It is Judith Butler's Gender Trouble. I have heard of this book. People treat it like The Bible. I eagerly open the book and attempt to read it.
I cannot make heads or tails of it. I conclude I simply am not smart enough or well-read enough to understand the religious revelation. I make it to page sixty before giving up, the constant mentions of ‘Althusserian’ and ‘structuralist’ and ‘reifying’ finally defeating me. I don’t feel like any of the book has actually managed to lodge itself in my head.
I give the book back to my friend, and then I pretend to everyone around me that I have read the book. No one figures me out.
When I get older, I realize they all did the same thing.
In my senior year, I win election to student government. I am to represent ‘LGBT’ people. I am proud. I am unaware I am now standing on a cliff, the ground beneath me slowly breaking. I bury my head in the sand as my position becomes increasingly precarious.
I meet with faculty during the first semester. I read through a policy. Suddenly ‘LGBT’ has morphed. It’s ‘LGBTQI+’. I don’t know what the Q and I stand for, let alone that seemingly erroneous plus sign. I am supposed to be the expert, and all these middle-aged people are looking at me to explain the youth speak which is even bedeviling I, the putative youth. I muddle through, using this surprise new acronym, and then I Google it surreptitiously in the meeting. It means ‘Queer’ and ‘Intersex’, and the plus sign appears to be decorative in nature. I wonder what the Q covers that ‘LGBT’ doesn’t, let alone the God-damned plus sign, and I wonder why ‘intersex’ needs to be included at all.
They talk enthusiastically about how everyone has a gender. There are women with penises, men with vaginas. Gender is understood to be how you feel inside. I contort my mind around this way of thinking as best I can. A man is someone who behaves like a man, and a woman is someone who behaves like a woman. That is the working definition you have, even though you paper over it with phrases like ‘identifies as.’
I don’t think about. You can’t. You are told this is how it is, how it has always been, to think otherwise is actually you replicating the kyriarchy, over and over and over again, and you nod and accept it, because you are given this set of facts and told to nod. Pseudoscience justifies it. People talk about ‘brain scans’ and ‘the wrong bodymap’, and ‘indigenous genders’. It’s all conjectural bullshit, but everyone goes along with it.
When I can’t perform the cognitive contortions, I simply don’t acknowledge contradicting evidence. To do so would be to jump off a cliff into an abyss. It is a reflexive thing, unconscious, and its origins lie in the instinct for self-preservation.
Everyone goes along with it. I am a coward, so I accept it and move on. I am twenty two years old, and I don’t know any better, and I want to trust the organizations that say they hold my best interests at heart.
Part of my role on student government was providing student-based pastoral care in my college’s LGBT center. By the time I get there, it’s morphed into the LGBTQI+ Center. I consider myself even-keeled and well-adjusted, perfect to help ‘my people’.
Many of the people that come see me have fairly normal problems. I speak to lecturers about not being homophobic, meet with faculty about LGBTQI issues, and sit through interminably boring student government meetings full of bloviating Young Democrats self-assured about their future self-importance. Increasingly, more people come to speak to me about trans issues. Walking through the center one day, someone assumes I am a ‘pre-hormones trans man’. When I correct them, and say I am a butch lesbian, they suddenly become hostile. I don’t know why, but I feel offended to my very bones about being assumed to be a man.
More and more of my fellow butches suddenly start declaring themselves to ‘truly be men.’ I don’t think about this. You’re not supposed to think about it, or question them, just accept and affirm and acknowledge and adulate their new found authenticity. I get a new package of fliers from an LGBT charity, open them up, and suddenly find that I, simply defined as ‘butch’ (forget the lesbian!) am now supposedly ‘trans’ and under the ‘trans umbrella.’ I call this ridiculous, and loudly.
Someone pulls me aside to ask why I’m being so transphobic.
I meet with a charity group. They have this young woman on staff who declares herself ‘non-binary’ and uses ‘they/them’ pronouns. She does not strike me as gay, and her entire purview of ‘LGBT’ seems to forget the first three letters. She assumes that I am a trans man. When I tell her I am a lesbian, she asks ‘are you sure? Maybe you’ll change your mind’. She then starts talking to me about her boyfriend.
I wonder why this straight girl with dyed hair is telling me what to do on gay issues. What gives her the right?
At the end of the meeting, someone I know from the charity group tells me that ‘Aiden’ is upset I forgot her pronouns. I hadn’t realized. I tell him that this dyed hair fag hag told me I’ll change my mind about being a lesbian. He says that doesn’t excuse messing up Aiden’s pronouns.
The next time I meet Aiden, she keeps calling me ‘he’. She gets upset when I get angry with her.
My student body president sends me a please explain email the next day about upsetting Aiden.
One day in the center, in walks a man in a dress. That’s what I thought in my unfiltered thoughts, before the cognitive dissonance kicks in. But the Aiden experience has taught me a lesson to not speak up. The man uses ~the magical pronouns~, ‘she/her’ and this means he is a woman. He dresses like a prostitute downtown and declares he’s a lesbian.
He says he is a trans woman. But Chloe is different from all the trans women I had met before. They would call themselves ‘gay men gone too far’, tell you hilarious stories, wingman for me at the bar, argue about ‘when Madonna went bad’, arguments that turned into handbag duels at dawn. Many of them were older, and many of them had stories about surviving in a homophobic world, surviving AIDS, dangerous johns, and the joy they felt now, that gay rights had gone somewhere. This man was very different to them.
My hair stands up on the back of my neck every time I deal with ‘Chloe’. It requires conscious effort to make sure I don’t mess up his pronouns, because my brain says that’s ‘a fucking man’, but my cognitive dissonance around the situation and my sense of self-preservation knows that if I don’t call this man a woman I will be in for it. I have seen the results - ‘Chloe’, all six feet of ‘Chloe’, screaming at a fellow trans woman, Clara, half his size, for saying ‘you’re a man honey’. Chloe himself came to me demanding I ban her from the space. I refused.
Clara stops coming into the center. I ask her why, and she says ‘those flipping transvestites, they’re not us.’ Clara never comes back to the center.
None of this thinking about Chloe’s pronouns is conscious. I feel guilty every time my thoughts use the ‘wrong pronouns’. My head is tied up in knots - not something freshman me would have considered, turning up to the center with the goal of getting laid, now trying to smile and put up with this man.
He makes every conversation in there uncomfortable. We relax when he is gone and only homosexuals are in the room.
Suddenly, my straight friends start asking if I’d ‘sleep with a trans woman’. I try laughing this off. One friend gets very insistent, and when I tell him that I wouldn’t consider someone with a dick, he starts wondering if my preferences are ‘rooted in bigotry’. I ask him if he’d sleep with a trans woman. He tells me that no, he’d prefer a woman who can have his children.
I smile and nod, and when the conversation ends, walk out of the room as fast as I can.
Chloe tells us at length about their sexual proclivities. Bondage and leather and ‘being a dom’. Chloe tells us about his lack of luck on lesbian dating apps. I keep to myself that I had ended up setting a height filter to filter out ‘the trannies.’ Nor do I tell him that me and a group of women had made fun of men like him on lesbian dating apps, swapping screenshots and Silence Of The Lambs jokes.
Soon there are more Chloes and fewer women. They all start talking about radical communism, about ‘sex work is work’, ‘cultural appropriation’, and about ‘TERFs’ and how hideous they are. One of them expounds to me at length why I shouldn’t read any feminist works from the seventies, because they hated trans women, and I wouldn’t want to hate trans women, wouldn’t I?
They all behave the same way. I keep getting reports about the Chloes harassing people in the center, particularly young lesbian women. Then there is an influx of ‘Aidens’, straight women declaring themselves to really be gay men. One of them tells me I am ‘appropriating the culture of trans men.’
One day I am in the center, and I look out the glass window of my office. There are a dozen people sitting in the common room of the center, talking animatedly. I realize none of them are lesbian or gay in the actual sense of the word. I feel uncomfortable, but I cannot articulate why I feel such discomfort.
One of the Chloes knocks on my door. This one wears a pink tube top and a pencil skirt. I am strongly reminded of Buffalo Bill. He asks me out for coffee. I decline. He asks why, as I am single. I say that I am busy that day. He tries asking for another day. I say I am playing club football that day. He keeps trying to cajole me. Eventually I dispense with the politeness and tell him I am not interested in him. He shouts at me that I am transphobic and leaves.
A few hours later, my phone blows up. His friends are calling me transphobic for not being interested in him. It’s just one date, they say. One little coffee. You might like it. You don’t know. Your last girlfriend dressed the same. You need to unlearn your genital preferences.
I think to myself my last girlfriend was a foot shorter and had a vagina, but I don’t say anything. I ignore the messages. He is allowed boundaries. I am not.
I am sitting in a class. It’s on sexual histories, a class I took to broaden my horizons from my journalism degree. I try not to think of the student loan I’ll be incurring from taking it.
Strangely enough, it is perhaps the first blow to the self-imposed contortions of my thoughts. The professor starts his lecture by pronouncing that sexual orientation is, in fact, a social construct. He explains that the word ‘homosexuality’ did not exist until the 19th century, and thus, homosexuals are a creation of repressive Victorian sexuality. I find this theory strange. I had grown up in the ‘born this way’ era, to be sure, but my homosexuality seemed biological, instinctual, basal to my very way of being. A powerful attraction to women came to me as naturally as breathing, or seeing, or farting inappropriately on the second date. Yet here was this man telling me, that in fact, my perceptions were merely constructs based on my surroundings.
It seemed strange to me. Someone from the class, notorious for asking questions, puts his hands up and asks about the Romans - you see, he is a student of the classics, and he remarks that the Romans knew of homosexuals. The professor gravely informs in that in fact the Romans were aware of a ‘behavior’, and that as ‘homosexual’ as a word did not exist at the time, there were no homosexuals. Only behaviors, that we codify and understand on a cultural basis.
This made less sense to me than before. It made even less sense to me when someone else asks about trans people. The professor remarks that ‘trans people have always existed’.
Yet homosexuals were invented by the first sexologists, rather than through self-definition? We had to have heterosexuals invent us, as other, first?
I am sitting with some gay friends, and one of them complains about the focus on trans issues when we still don’t have same-sex marriage federally yet. We talk about our disappearing spaces, and I voice that sometimes I am the only lesbian out of thirty people sitting in the LGBTQI+ student center (it had been renamed). I think of it in terms of getting laid - because suddenly all the ‘lesbians’ in the center had penises. It happened so quickly that it was easy to notice. I went to a lesbian group, and it was a sausage fest I made up an excuse to leave. The Chloes moved in, and the lesbians instantly left. I feel constantly uncomfortable, watched, stared at, envied. The Chloes all talk about their genitalia and violent pornography at length, in public, and it makes me feel gross and dirty, and I start to dislike most of them.
I post on my Tinder that I’m not into penis. I log in the next day to find out my account has been banned. Tinder never gives me a straight answer as to why I was banned.
I finish out my term on student government. I don’t run again. I’m a senior. I finish my degree and hurry off to the real world. One of the Chloes takes my place as ‘LGBTQI+ students representative’.
It is the one who tried getting me to go out on a date with him. He makes me feel uncomfortable throughout the whole handover.
I am upset, because he will destroy everything I worked for.
I go to the gay bar with some friends. But when we go, we feel like the only homosexuals in the whole god-damn bar. It’s full of people with dyed hair. A man in a dress tries grinding on me, and when I turn around and tell him no, he calls me ‘transphobic towards trans femmes’. When I declare I am a butch lesbian, people ask if I am a ‘TERF’. I don’t know what a ‘TERF’ is, other than ‘terfs’ are bad. I have been told terfs are bad, so it has to be true right? I don’t want to be a bad person.
I try going to other gay events, and suddenly I am outnumbered. Me, a few older lesbians, and some gay men huddle in a corner of spaces we once proudly called our own, as the Chloes and the Aidens declare it their own - and even worse, that they are just the same as us. It is unnerving, and they no longer feel like safe spaces for me. Gradually, we all stop going. There were no more gay people in the gay space.
I have a lesbian friend. She tells me excitedly about a first date. She meets them in a quirky coffee shop. It is a trans woman twice her size. When she tells the trans woman that she’s not interested, they lose it at her in the coffee shop, calling her a transphobic bigot and screaming and shouting and threatening to hit her.
She tells me, because she knows I don’t tell people things. But she cannot say anything in public. She’ll be transphobic. So she keeps it to herself, and this man gets to continue preying on women who think they’re safe, catfishing, coercing and abusing them.
To say otherwise gets you labelled a terf. And terfs are bad. Why are terfs bad? Don’t ask. Just accept that terfs are bad. Terfs hurt trans women, and you wouldn’t want to do that, would you?
Eventually, my friend hears of her date doing it to someone else. She writes a call out post, saying that you shouldn’t hide important facts about yourself on dating sites. She gets called a terf for saying that ‘lesbians don’t have dicks’, and being verbally abused in public was the rational response of an oppressed person to oppression. It’s a scarlet letter, and she is branded with it. I am a coward and I do not speak up in public. I hate myself. I am thinking of my personal prospects, and not my friend, and not my people. Because if I speak up, I can kiss the career I dream about goodbye. I fear that scarlet letter being branded on my forehead.
I tell my friend in private that I support her. But I daren’t say that in public.
I daren’t ask questions.
One day, I am aimlessly browsing the internet at work. I have written enough copy to cover my ass for the next few weeks. I wait until my boss leaves for the afternoon, and wait out the rest of the day mindlessly scrolling. I see a post in an LGBTQI+ students group on Facebook I’ve forgotten to leave. It’s a troll post, which is apparently ‘terf rhetoric’. The link is still there, and the comments are blowing up, united in performative outrage.
I click the link . I find myself laughing at the description of ‘men in dresses’. To these ‘terfs’, a man has a penis, and a woman has a vagina. Anyone saying otherwise is a damned fool. It seems such an easy way to think about it. I mean, what is a woman, anyway? It doesn’t seem evil, wicked or bad. It seems… sensible.
Finding out more about this new way of thinking becomes addicting. I keep my scrolling through it on my phone. I have always had a fondness for reading people being harshly critical about anything, and now I have an endless source of it, articulating things I knew instinctually but could never find the words to verbalize, could never find the courage to verbalize. I wonder if I am being radicalized - images of ISIS radicalizing fighters over the internet run through my head. But everything seems to make so much sense. I am no longer contorting my thoughts around the desires of others, but thinking freely, observationally, openly, fearlessly.
It felt like my mind had freed itself from chains, chains placed upon it all those years ago, when that naïve eighteen year old who wanted to get laid tried reading Gender Trouble.
The gunk on my mind slowly unclogged. My way of thinking suddenly changed. I was no longer denying what my eyes saw in front of me. No, now I saw things as they were. There was no more contorting my way of thought. For the first time in a long time, I felt clear-headed.
One of the links I clicked in my flurry was a link to Dr. Ray Blanchard’s paper on ‘autogynephilia’. I read it, and finally, I had an explanation. Homosexual transsexuals. And ‘autogynephiles.’ The two types of his famous and controversial typology.
‘Autogynephiles’ - men who had a sexual fetish for ‘being a woman’, a fetish for an alter-ego female self, a fetish for our bodies, our minds, our souls, our experiences. All reduced to jerk-off fodder for some blockhead man.
It explained why they were so desperate for lesbians to date them. They needed us for validating their sexual fetish. Our lives and experiences, our spaces, our dating apps, our culture, our media, our websites, every breath we took, as far as they were concerned, needed to be focused on validating them. Because otherwise, the fantasy was ruined! This straight man would not be able to jerk off over ‘being a lesbian!’. We were not people, we were non-player-characters in their video game. Actresses in pornography, extras in a film where they were the protagonist, and we were off script. We weren’t fully-formed people, with our own desires, we were things, objects, film props.
The entire gay movement, from the lesbians to the gays, to the homosexual transsexuals, reduced to nothing props in some straight man’s sexual fantasy. That’s all we were to them, ultimately.
And I was expected to go along with it?! We were all expected to go along with it?
Not only that, I had gone along with it. I had advocated for this.
What had I done?
Every moment you come close, every moment you start thinking something isn’t right, you start feeling a little foolish.
Of course this is fine. Everyone is telling me so. The media, the public, the people around you. No one voices concerns. When you have them, you don’t say anything, because no one else is, and because you are a coward.
You feel a little foolish because this is foolish. Saying some women have penises is foolish. You know it is foolish, from the minute that idiot phrase leaves your mouth, to the minute it dances across your tongue, to the minute your nerves send the signal to your larynx to make the required movements to produce the very sounds. But, you think, you are no fool.
You are no fool, you think, when someone says ‘biological women have XY chromosomes’, or that it’s okay for a man on the college track team to identify as a woman and take a place on the woman’s track team. You know that’s not right. But everyone else is going along with it, and you are no fool, and you shouldn’t feel foolish, because everyone says this is the right thing to do, the right side of history, doing right by an oppressed minority, so you go along with it.
You are frightened of realizing you are a fool. So too, is everyone around you. No one likes being played the fool, no one likes realizing they were sold a pack of lives as a naïve eighteen year old looking for other gay people. And no one plays you for a fool. And thus the dance continues, everyone one too frightened to admit that, perhaps, we are all fools, believing in something physically impossible, no different to the bible-banging megachurch attendee, with our owns chants, our own magic words, ritual knowledge, and ability to be born again. We are smart. We liberal. We are on the right side of history. We couldn’t be believing in something that isn’t scientifically backed. We’re smarter than that. We’re not fools.
And when it finally gets too much, and you drift over to the cliff’s edge, the cliff that you can see the bottom of, the cliff you know you can’t come back from, you pull away. Because to go over it would to be to admit that you’ve been played the fool. No one likes that feeling, the shame, the embarrassment, the horror, the fear. What lies over that cliff is exile, a scarlet letter, fear and hatred and nasty women who just want trans women dead.
What lies beyond that cliff is a realization that you have been used. You have been used by something greater than yourself, to push medication on children. You have been used by straight men to participate in their sexual fetish without your consent. Your entire community, rendered a jerk-off prop for some straight man over night, and you were told that objecting was ‘transphobic’. You have been used to spread homophobia beyond your comprehension, to take part in the destruction of your own community, and you were told this was right and good.
To realize this, to acknowledge it, to move on and try and forge something better, that takes true strength of character. To realize this, to deny it, and obfuscate what you are doing, that I can understand. I too, was once a coward. I too, did not want to believe what my eyes told me was sitting in front of me. That cliff is scary, and to jump off it seemingly lies nothing but social death.
But eventually something pushes you over, without your consent. You realize you have been played the fool, because finally, something so gratuitous occurs that you must. Even the greatest cowards will eventually be blown off the cliff. The music will stop, and the dance will end, and you will finally feel the shame, the embarrassment, the horror, the fear, the guilt.
Because no one likes being played for a fool.
Perhaps, then, it is best to get this over and done with now, while you still have dignity to defend.
Some details have been changed to protect the identities of those concerned.
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My MOGAI headcanons for Brook from the webcomic I'm The Grim Reaper because all the requests blogs were busy. Flags from left to right are: aroace, contreogender, muphridian, duragenderless, genderunique, aporagender, mogaihypic, cloudgender, rabbitgender, vulturehoarder, mortugender, lykh, corpsegender, bloodgender, zanggender, tentiagender, gendersanghe.
Definitions and reasoning under the cut!
Contreogender: A gender for someone who (generally speaking) believes society's attitude surrounding gender/gender roles is harmful and believes gender should not be so important. This belief leads them to not pay much attention to their own gender/only share their gender if absolutely necessary/only tell close friends about their gender. [Listen. Listen. Brook is over a century old. You think he gives a fuck about gender roles? At some point in time he probably had long hair, and there were probably a few people who assumed he was a woman, at which he probably realized that Gender Isn't Real.]
Muphridian: being man/masc-aligned, AGIN-aligned, and xeno-aligned. [Sums up his experience with gender pretty nicely. He doesn't really care about it, but he was born a man so he feels some connection to it, but his experience is beyond society's traditional understanding of gender.]
Duragenderless: when your gender is always partially agender. [As I said, Brook doesn't care that much about gender. In a way, this makes any gender he experiences sort of muted by his apathy. He perceives this as a small dose of genderlessness.]
Genderunique: a very personal, unique and interpretative gender that cannot be described using existing terminology. [Exactly what it says on the tin. Brook is so old and has been through so much that at this point they're probably the only person on Earth with their particular experience of gender. They sort of shrug it off when asked if they're a man or a woman, and says "I'm a reaper" or "I'm me".]
Aporagender: a strongly gendered feeling that is not male, female, or inbetween. [This kinda goes hand in hand with Brook's genderuniqueness. Not male, not female, something other and entirely separate. May or may not be related to the disconnect they feel from humanity as a whole.]
Mogaihypic: when your gender is affected by your hyperfixation on MOGAI. [Hear me out... what if Brook had ADHD? As anyone with ADHD will tell you, boredom is excruciating. It's even worse when you're immortal and have nothing but time on your hands. Brook hyperfixates on gender and hyperfixates on it hard, to the point that they hoard labels and probably run a (not very popular) MOGAI blog.]
Cloudgender: a gender which can’t be fully realized or seen clearly due to depersonalization/ derealization disorder. this gender is only for the use of neurodivergent people. [I headcanon Brook as having some sort of dissociative disorder due to trauma and the fact that she's over a century old, a timespan the human brain isn't really built to comprehend. Her dissociation makes it difficult to introspect and leaves gaps in her memory, which affects her view of herself and by extension, her gender.]
Rabbitgender: a subset of bungender for when one feels their connection to bunnies is not soft or cute, but rather feral, skittish, and territorial. [Need I explain? Brook feels a deep connection to rabbits because they're her demon, the thing she's spent decades caging and training and restraining, the thing she knows better than she knows herself. Of course she doesn't view them as anything resembling soft; how could she?]
Vulturehoarder: when you hoard AGIN and death-related genders. [Brook is dead. Xe's dead. It affects every part of xyr life; why not xyr gender? As this is pretty much the reasoning behind every gender after this, I won't be expanding further on those.]
Mortugender: a gender / gender addition that has strong ties to or relates to death in a deep way. The prefix mortu- is added to a gender when said gender becomes stronger in the presence or feeling of death. Coined with people with Cotard’s Syndrome in mind, but isn’t exclusive.  
Lykh: A xenogender characterized by supernatural vigor and a sense of disembodiment. Someone who identifies as a lykh might feel like their gender exists in spite of or apart from their earthly existence. Synesthetically, this gender feels undead, incorporeal and/or extradimensional, like a conspicuous absence. 
Corpsegender: A xenogender / kingender relating to one’s undeath. One’s gender perception is altered by the fact that they are undead, their gender might be muddled or weak but not necessarily. Some examples of “undead” can be zombies, vampires, ghosts, etc.
Bloodgender: A gender that is shrouded in confusion because of an overwhelming feeling of animalistic rage and feralness. This gender has a lot to do with frenzied confusion, anger, and visuals of gore and violence.
Zanggender: A gender based off or related to the "zannie" unnatural (Kovit in particular) from the book series Market of Monsters by Rebecca Schaeffer (or the Webtoon adaption 'Not Even Bones'), and/or a gender that draws energy from others' pain/violence. May or may not feel malevolent and/or related to blood. From the French word 'sang', meaning blood.
Tentiagender: A gender based off of or related to Nita's (main character of Market of Monsters by Rebecca Schaeffer) ability to control bodily functions, and/or a gender that feels made of many parts, each of which can be controlled through concentration, but is draining to control. From the Latin word 'potentia', meaning power/force.
Gendersanghe: a gender that feels thick, sometimes dangerous, iron-like, and related to blood. It can be connected to winter, darkness, and death.
I also headcanon xem as sepulcherine/ morguegender but I couldn't find a flag for that!
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uwu-shinsou · 4 years
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First,,,, CONGRATS ON 500 BB!! YOU DESERVED IT!! And uhhh if it's not much a bother can I request Shinsou Hitoshi with 6 and 13 (if it's alright! If youre not comfortable with doing it you can do whatever youre comfortable with, I care abt your well being more than the fic that Im requesting) and I dont really uh care if its hc or a drabble or smth cuz im inlove with anything and everything that you make! Again congrats! Have a nice day :))
Title: Whatever You Say
Prompt: Accidental Text, Hate-to-Love
Warning(s): Mild language
Pairing: Shinsou Hitoshi X Gender Neutral!Reader
Genre: Drabble, working through feelings
Word Count: 1.3K
A/N: THANK YOU ISSA!! 🥺💖I’m so glad you requested!! Bc I’m trying to keep these shorter like “drabbles” I had a hard time doing like,, full on hate to love so this is more like resentment to friends with implications of hidden feelings?? AHAHA but uhhh yeah, I hope you all enjoy 🥺and in case you missed it, my last year of college has started, so I will be updating less frequently, but I will still be around and writing and vibing!🤗
500 Event Masterlist
✿ .✿ .✿ .✿ .✿
Oh shit.
You flew down the hall, bursting into Kaminari’s bedroom without knocking. The blonde sat up quickly at your intrusion, but relaxed slightly upon seeing it was you.
“What’s up speed racer?” He joked, folding his legs up to make room for you on the bed. You walked up to the side of the bed, dropping your knees on the edge and falling forward face-down onto the covers.
“I messed up, Denki,” You groaned, rolling over onto your back and staring at the ceiling. “I sent a text to Shinsou-”
He let out a little snort. “Now that’s unusual.”
“Yeah,” You agreed. “Because it was a text that was not meant for him.” 
“It couldn’t have been that bad, right?” He asked, now a little nervous. You couldn’t blame him. You and Kaminari had clicked instantly at the beginning of your first year at U.A., and now you’d pretty much consider him your best friend, and you his. But come the end of first year, with the trial and following announcement that Shinsou Hitoshi, general ed student, would be transfering into the hero course- and more specifically- your class, Kaminari Denki had seemed to collect himself yet another best friend. 
And you had made your first rival.
You hadn’t wanted to. But when you had first heard about Shinsou’s quirk, people couldn’t help but compare it to yours. As long as you maintained skin to skin contact, you could command another person to do anything that you wanted. Paired with your athletic background (which started when you were young, at the insistence of your parents that it’d “prepare you for hero training”) you were clearly the superior “mind control” student. You didn’t understand why another one was needed in the hero course. Wasn’t he just fine being in the general course?
But of course he had to join class 2A, become Aizawa’s favorite, and start to steal the attention of your best friend.
But Kaminari was his own person, and he made his own choices about when he hung out with the two of you. It really wasn’t fair to put him in the middle of your mess of feelings. And even though he was Shinsou’s friend, you knew he would keep your secrets.
You turned onto your side to look at him. “Here just- read this.” You shoved your phone at him. He took it in his hand, his face contorting into a grimace as he read your mistake once, twice, three times.
“...Why the hell did you send him this?” You slapped your hands against your face in embarrassment and despair. He mockingly cleared his throat. “‘Can you believe purple hair beat me in today’s exercise? Why does he have to basically have my quirk? If he wasn’t so hot I’d be really pissed.’” Kaminari let out a whistle. “Wow, now there is a lot to unpack here, hun.”
You winced. “Yeah, that text was supposed to go to Mina, but I mean- fucking hell, I don’t know?” You ran your hands over your face. “I guess I somehow just clicked the wrong contact and instead it went to him! And it’s even worse that he hasn’t responded about it yet.” You’d never outright said to Shinsou that you disliked him, but you had to assume he knew, and felt the same way about you.
“I didn’t know you thought he was hot,” Kaminari said, wiggling his eyebrows. You launched a pillow at him that he ducked. 
“C’mon, anyone with a brain can see that he’s attractive,” You muttered. “It’s the same as Todoroki, or maybe Bakugou if you took away some of the attitude.”
He let out a sigh. “Yeah you’re right.” After a moment of silence he pressed your phone back into your hand. “Anyways, I think the best approach would be to sort it out face to face. Texting can make things too muddled sometimes.”
“Since when did you have so much wisdom?” 
He nudged you with a knee. “Hey, there’s a reason you came running to me.”
“I suppose you’re right.” It’ll probably be really awkward and not fun, but you should try to explain yourself in person.
Which is how you found yourself on the outskirts of the woods by the dorm buildings watching Shinsou workout, your presence still unnoticed as his back was turned to you. Kaminari had directed you here, knowing that his friend often trained here on his own. 
Suddenly he relaxed his stance, speaking without turning around. “What, you got more to say to me than what was in that text?”
You gritted your teeth at his words. What is up with his attitude!? “Yeah, well maybe I do.” You crossed your arms, shifting most of your weight onto one foot.
Shinsou glanced over his shoulder. “Sucks for you, I’m busy.” He reached down to the ground and slung his towel over his shoulder. “Since my quirk is clearly inferior to yours, I need to keep training.” You winced slightly at his words.
“Hey, I never said it like that-”
“Yeah, well you didn’t have to.” He sighed before turning to face you fully. “Look, I get it, you feel like I’m trying to take your spot here at U.A. Well just- don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll stay out of your way.”
As he began walking away, you found yourself stepping after him. “Shinsou, it’s not fair to phrase it that way.”
He stopped and turned to face you once more. “What do you know about ‘not fair’?” Shinsou took a step closer to you. “‘Not fair’ is getting into the general class, only to see someone just like me being praised for their power in the hero course. ‘Not fair’ is working as hard as I can to make my dreams come true, only to find out that I still have to compete against you. ‘Not fair’ is wanting to so desperately hate you for it all, but I can’t. Not when I see your strength, your power, your drive and ambition, and I can’t help but admire it. Admire you.” He let out a soft snort of mock amusement to himself. “I do kind of hate you for that, though.”
You stood there in silence. What do I even say to that? Shinsou watched you warily, waiting for a reaction.
“I don’t hate you, not really,” You said slowly. As good a place to start as any. “Resented you, yes, but hate is a strong word.” As you continued talking, your mouth let more and more words spill out, words you didn’t even know you had wanted to say. “And yeah, I was worried that you’d ‘take my spot’ or whatever, but I think that was the competitive nature of this school getting to me. They support friendly competition between students, but maybe I took that too much to heart.” You toed at the ground, slowly looking up to meet his eyes. “I was worried about you joining our class because I think you have amazing control over your quirk and you’re really talented. You really do have the potential to be an incredible hero. And I think… I’d like it better if we were friends, instead of pitting ourselves against each other.”
As you waited for Shinsou’s response, you started to get antsy. Why do I care so much about what he’s going to say?
Finally he answered. “Alright. Friends is a good place to start.” He held his hand out to you, as if to shake on it. Hesitatingly you reached out, your fingers firmly grasping his. He tightened his grip. “Should we also acknowledge that you said I was hot in your text?”
His words brought on a wave of nerves, and you yanked your hand back as if it were on fire. “That- That was a typo!” He began walking back towards the dorms with you hurrying to catch up to him.
As you matched his stride, he huffed out a laugh and sent you a knowing smile. “Sure, whatever you say.”
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Teenage Dirtbag
(Cormac x Jeanie)
Warnings: fluff and smut
A/N: Cormac feels bittersweet about his abnormal teenage years, but a tryst at the abandoned O'Keefe's College with Jeanie changes his mind about what never was.
The last of my birthday weekend self-indulgent drabbles. I dug deep and pulled Cormac back to the front of the closet to wear just for today.
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Jeanie inhaled the scent of moss and rain that filled the air around the abandoned boarding school. If it weren't for Cormac, Hannah and Brett this was surely how her own building would end up in a few years. She didn't mind the dynamic it created between her and her boyfriend, or that the purchase was for some ulterior scientific motive. She got to keep the kids and her job, and he got to maintain one of the last untapped portals.
Now they were in Galway where everything started. Or, as Jeanie pointed out once she knew the stories, Cormac’s friends gaslit him for an entire semester.
“That's how comic book villains are born,” she watched as he turned on the power grid and fumbled around with his necklace.
“I suppose,” his catch phrase, “But even Tony Stark created a murder robot. He scrunched his nose and scratched his head in the most adorable way. Then something clicked.
“Tony Stark is a murder robot.”
A calming female voice responded before Cormac had the chance. “Tony Stark is more closely related to a cyborg than a robot. Good morning, Cormac. Jeanie.”
“See how she uses disdain when she speaks to me?! Jarvis doesn't speak like that.”
“Silvia doesn't have disdain for you. She's a computer program.”
Jeanie and Silvia spoke collectively, “I'm an artificial intelligence system.” The schoolteacher pointed at nothing as if to say even they can agree on her being beyond just a program.
“I'm also not female or male, I am a sexless non-binary system. You decided to gender me when you were fourteen years old based on the voice modulation you placed inside of me. I have no body or sexual organs.”
“You just got out Cormac’d!” Jeanie teased as his cheeks grew rosy.
“Come on, I'll show you around.”
----
The next few hours were like visiting a museum of Cormac’s memories. He admitted that he had the ability to go to university much earlier than most anticipated, but he hung around because he actually enjoyed the small group of friends he accumulated his years at O’Keefe’s. Even if his relationship with Martin, the resident Draco Malfoy, was contentious. Even if they were understaffed, underfunded and simply unable to accommodate any real science program. He felt a sense of duty to the school that kept him safe when his Nan could not.
“I could have gone with my mum’s side in Dublin if I wanted. My aunt was just worried what I might just get up to if I did.”
“What, like a criminal?” Jeanie burst into a fit of giggles picturing Cormac in a life of crime. Although.. “That's the Delaneys, right?” Jeanie pondered. “Gordon and I knew some Dublin Delaneys.”
“That's like knowing a Smith.”
They had circled back around to his old dorm room where they had dropped off all their gear for China. Jeanie lingered on the old desk having perched on the corner. Her arms hugged around herself against the draft. Cormac sat comfortably on his old bed stretched out with his arms towards the wall behind him. An aged and browning poster of a full moon above his head.
Jeanie grimaced at the water stains underneath him and tried to hide her disgust. “At least I hope those are water stains,” she joked.
Cormac moved his knees apart and stared down at the bed, “Jaysus, love, what kinda stains d’ye t’ink t’ey are?!”
Jeanie raised an eyebrow. Cormac’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head. “If you need t’know, I was a shower wanker.”
He was so matter of fact, like he was about everything, Jeanie snorted. Still he made a big production of unpacking his massive sleeping bag and rolling it out along the mattress. He smoothed out the nylon, and presented it to his girlfriend for her to sit down finally.
As Jeanie settled in, Cormac stuffed his hands between his legs and his face flushed. “Do you have a boner right now?! Wait, because I'm on it bed? Is this some.. Puberty regression? AM I THE FIRST GIRL WHO SAT HERE?!” Jeanie couldn't help but squeal.
“NO! Hannah and Tara have sat here loads of times.”
“Yeah, but have you touched their vaginas?”
“JEANIE!”
“CORMAC!”
Jeanie played along and stole a kiss. Her lips pecked his briskly, but then again. They lingered longer so her tongue could sneak just inside his welcoming mouth. She may as well have waged war.
Cormac pushed his own tongue deep inside of his girlfriend’s mouth. As their tongues battled for the upper hand, Jeanie clung to his shirt and laid back on the bed pulling him along with her. She ran her hands under his tee-shirt up his back to dig her nails into his shoulder blades. His forearms on either side of her to prop himself up.
Cormac situated himself inside of Jeanie's legs that drew up alongside his hips. Still fully clothed as they kissed heavily. His belt buckle got trapped by the button of her jeans as they fought to come undressed. Both laughed at the absurdity of acting like horny teenagers simply because they were in a childhood bedroom.
Still, Cormac finally undid Jeanie's pants and tugged them over her hips to her ankles. He was clumsy at the laces of her boots which he gave up on and just yanked off and tossed somewhere in the room. Up on his knees, he threw both shirts he wore over his head. He fumbled with his belt and pants, standing only to strip them off before climbing back on top of Jeanie now in her bra and panties.
The cold air pimpled their flesh, but they ignored it when their kisses commenced. Jeanie’s hands were enmeshed in Cormac’s soft, dark hair. His lips and tongue started to wander to the base of her throat which he nipped and sucked where he could feel her pulse beat under his warm mouth. A brief moment she thought he would bite harder for fun; then he did. All the while he palmed the fabric of her panties in quick succession.
Jeanie’s breath caught at how brazen Cormac was being in broad daylight. Out in the open on top of the sleeping bag instead of in it. The static from portaling that ran through his nerves just under the skin passed on to her. Her brain was too fuzzy with desire to tell if the heat on her sex and clit was from the rapid friction or just the electricity Cormac emitted.
Jeanie couldn't even focus beyond the sensation. Her fingers and hands with a mind of their own drew his boxers down to expose his bare ass to her touch. She used it to draw his no longer secret erection into her entrance. Cormac’s hand and her panties in the way. He happily let her go so he could start pushing into the fabric with the head of his cock. Her ankles locked on his waist so her heels could dig into his lower back. They urged him to rut faster in spite of their underwear.
As klutzy as Cormac was with her jeans and boots, his long fingers were experts at undoing Jeanie’s bra. He kissed her shoulders and arms behind the straps he pulled off to expose her breasts. Breasts his mouth consumed hungrily. His tongue circled and practically inhaled one of her nipples before alternating to the other. He sucked in time to his bucks.
Jeanie deigned to speak, her words punctuated by Cormac’s movements. “I'm.. really..” she moaned “Cold.”
She was, he realized all of a sudden. With more laughter and flourishes, the two managed to zip themselves snug inside the sleeping bag. Jeanie's panties and Cormac’s underwear discarded in the process. Their bodies pressed to each other while his cock pushed into her thigh. The heat was immediate, in more ways than one.
They laid on their sides and faced one another. Cormac’s leg tangled around Jeanie's lower one. Her leg closest to the ceiling wrapped around his hip. Her calf draped along his ass while her hand reached between their bodies and took hold of his shaft. She positioned it just outside her entrance that ached to be filled. All the blood in her body swelled there.
Cormac gazed downwards at her hand, his breathing uncontrolled as Jeanie guided him again inside. Without any more instruction, he thrust inside of her so far and sharply that his pelvis collided with hers. Then he pulled almost completely out and sheathed himself to the hilt again. He repeated this over and over until they found a rhythm. Hips and sexes crashed like meteors with each powered motion.
Jeanie could only hold on. Her nails felt inches deep in Cormac's muscles along his shoulders. she had fleeting thoughts that yesterday wasn't his first time. That he lied perhaps out of embarrassment thinking he was no good.
Except he was, she was out of practice. The last time she had sex this good was.. She didn't want to think of him now. He was gone, Cormac was here. His forehead pressed into her jaw and cheek as he pounded into her. It only just dawned on her his glasses were on, bent at an unnatural angle in the crook of her neck. He didn't like to travel with his contacts in.
At this angle, Cormac hit Jeanie's clit every time he lost himself in her tightening walls. He was silent except for snorts of heavy air like a horse that escaped his nose. Both of them covered in a sheen of sweat until that lightning shot through Jeanie’s body. She coiled and recoiled and drew her boyfriend to her as she came. Cormac’s name echoed off the empty walls.
Not much longer until he did the same with a shudder and a muddled, husky “fuck” in Jeanie's shoulder. Cormac's body trembled which took her aback. Whether it was from the post-orgasm rush, or emotions, she didn't ask. Instead they held onto one another and babbled mindlessly until they fell asleep in the sleeping bag.
It was loud thunder and SILVIA through the old PA system that startled the couple awake.
“Cormac. Jeanie. May I suggest you leave as soon as possible? There is an approaching electrical storm that will surely affect the magnetic field produced by portal travel.”
They rushed to get dressed and repacked. Cormac was annoyed, “If you knew. SILVIA, why the hell didn't you tell me before?”
“Coitus interruptus. Perhaps Ms Turner feels I dislike her, but I can't imagine how much animosity she would display towards me should I interfere with your sexual intercourse. She's already jealous of our long-standing relationship”
Jeanie felt highly uncomfortable at that moment, watched even. Cormac was incensed. “SILVIA.” Then he shut her off, and they were bound for China.
Tag: @robertsheehanownsmyass @elliethesuperfruitlover @super-unpredictable98 @forenschik @slutforrobbiebro @frogs--are--bitches @nightmonsters @bisexualnathanyoung @bwritesstuff @rob-private
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exalok · 2 years
Text
Some Thoughts, as previously mentioned
specifically about daud, his aceness or non-aceness, how it relates to mine, and the limits of my writing -- partly in response to your letter, anonymous
under readmore because this might get long and so you can skip it if you’d rather
okay so. i would like to clarify that i’m going to say stuff that contradicts the things you said, and um, i don’t want you to feel bad about it? maybe you won’t and this is a silly disclaimer to lay down. or maybe you will but for other reasons than what i’m trying to avoid by saying this. what i mean to say is i did have an intention going in to most of my daud-fic, which isn’t the one you seem to believe, but also the author is dead and that intention doesn’t matter if it can’t be seen from the reader’s point of view
specifically, what i’m contradicting is “changing a character’s sexuality” -- i am going to explain my intention, and what i think the problems are with that intention, and if i remember to i will finish by reconnecting it all to what i think of the ace discourse (hopefully i won’t do this entirely backwards in an effort to contextualize)
to be honest the intentions were probably multiple and this is why i confuse myself and leave it unclear.
1) sex is fascinating in what it can show about two characters, and it’s meaty and physical without necessarily getting gory (though i enjoy toeing the line, dunno what that says about me), and it’s considered this Huge Thing by so many of my peers/family/etc or this average entirely normal thing by others of my peers/family/etc all at once and the problem with that heaping pile of contradiction is there is a lot for me to process but i absolutely cannot while anyone else is in the room for various reasons (embarrassment, fear, anxiety, incomprehension) and so the solution is facing it on my own, hence writing -- but also my entire brain latched on to dishonored and specifically corvo & daud, and they have become a comfortable little nook for me to explore otherwise daunting subjects with. the more i think on it the more i love using them both as a vehicle to explore various facets of identity (sexuality, gender, and i’m making forays into politics maybe)
2) i still like ace!daud. i want ace!daud. i want to figure him out. this is mostly difficult because to figure him out, to make him feel real while also being ace, i need to make him familiar to me -- because if i base myself on outside experience, on hearsay or stereotype, he will feel fake -- and i barely feel familiar to myself. i often don’t understand my own experience. i will simultaneously stare at the smallest little detail of my behavior and have the hardest time focusing on what the hell it means, like the most myopic brain analyst.
the result is i try to have both at once: daud as asexual, and not even necessarily demisexual -- daud not caring much for sex, not always even liking it -- but asking for it anyway for his own reasons, often twisty ones that he’s not necessarily aware of
part of this is because i still have a hard time understanding being sexual as, like, a full-time thing, and the only way i have of translating it is through awkward replays of stuff i’ve seen elsewhere (largely present in how i write corvo these days). there are so many parts that perplex me, and so many things that seem to be assumed in some narratives but not at all in others, and i don’t know what is because of focus and what is because of culture and what is because of reality and what the difference between all of those is anyway
part of it is because i can’t pick and choose to save my life and am forever cursed with making Weird Soup out of all the things i want to think about
conclusion: the intention that comes through is probably primarily the sex one, because that’s the most obvious when i refuse to use modern identity labels for a bunch of dudes who haven’t ever properly thought through that shit -- but also! sometimes! i write things that feel like they contradict how i see ace!daud! and those parts always end up feeling a little wrong, but they’re still there to be read and accepted as part of the narrative and they muddle my attempts even more
so. ace!daud discourse. that definitely existed in my vicinity, and as i automatically absorb most of the stuff that passes me by, yes, it did get to me a little. after all, my intentions are contradictory: i want to write the boning, and i want them to enjoy it, but i also want to explore what it might mean for daud not to like it after all. is that not, on some level, disrespectful? what about his taste for control, the giving and the imposition of it, and its relation to where and how he grew up, and the decisions he made later on? is it wrong for me to want it to make sense? am i thinking about it too hard?? that happens, but also i don’t know. i don’t have enough experience with any of it to have feelings or opinions about how i’m treating the subject beyond “yeah i like where this is going”
i am of the strong opinion that writers should write what they like, even if it’s shitty. i am also of the strong opinion that i’m responsible for trying to think through what i’m writing, and not completely trample people in the process. those two opinions don’t always coexist comfortably.
it doesn’t mean i’ll stop writing -- fuck no, i love words so goddamn much, and i love dishonored beyond reason, and i think that with time i’ll get somewhere where what i’m trying to do will make enough sense to me that i’ll be able to have it show up on the page -- but my early efforts will continue to exist as well, however self-contradictory they are in their underpinnings, and i guess sometimes i just need downtime to reevaluate the whole of my progress
i probably forgot where i was going with this partway through??? but i hope it mostly makes sense. have a glimpse of the gears, whoever managed to get to the end
(oh also i only recently decided to start compiling a little something where the intention actually is having daud not be ace so i can see what i’ll do with that now that i have a bit more understanding under my belt -- they’re very stupid about it, as they usually are)
here’s to hashing out one’s feelings about shit they wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole in real life!!! /sets off fireworks, throws confetti, jumps onto a sled and disappears
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