#Or if you're also trans we can learn our new gender together

[bloobyposting]

Can we ACTUALLY talk about "gendered socialisation" with some nuance pls

Every time i see someone pretending that 'amab folks will never transition because they're always gonna be raised male' i make another person trans

Every time i see someone pretending that 'gendered socialisation literally doesn't exist/i am immune to gendered socialisation because im just a silly little transgender' i make that person cis again

Socialisation divvied up on gendered lines exists. It's a real strong, oppressive, arbitrary force that was invented by bathroom companies to sell more bathrooms. You are not immune to it either, you absolutely grew up with it and you're not going to lose it by accident once you find out you're a woman now. It's probably happening to you as I speak, in fact it might be in the room with you right now, and you wouldn't even know it. And some of the ways it presents will often be cut from the same cloth as toxic masculinity, and that's on you to unlearn. Call it what you want, but it came to you because you were raised to be a certain way according to the gendered expectations of your parents.

On the other hand, it's not innate. TERFs keep using that shit to push their own fascistic worldview. Gender, like biological sex, is completely malleable given time. If you hormone wash your body with estrogen, progesterone and antiandrogens, you become biologically female, your ovaries just come in a little plastic container that you get through a shady website online through legally sourced methods and a doctor's note. In the same way, you surround yourself with a bunch of women who love and appreciate you, who uplift you through your gender identity and treat you as one of their own, and you do exactly the same with and for them, your socialisation as 'masculine' will be withered away and you'll literally see your personality change in front of your eyes. It's literally so beautiful to be in a room as the person you are and have become and then realise that they see you as that person.

But, it takes a lot of work. It's bendy, and it's malleable, but it's not fully fluid. not yet at least You can't just manifestrogen HRT into your veins, you can't just will your own gender presentation into existence flawlessly without doing the busywork that comes with becoming a different person completely. It's a skill, one that takes dedication and effort to become better at.

[cepheusgalaxy]

PLEASE no bear or man discourse on my dash. This conversation doesn't really seem to be helping anyone.

On one side, we have a lot of (probably cis, idk, im assuming) woman who said they'd chose the bear.

And on the other side, a bunch of angry people.

Not to be like 'oh wah both sides are correct im neutral on this wadda wadda' but like. Men are people (i mean theres otherkin men too) and people are reasonable and bears are not reasonable and etc so logically it's way safer to chose the man wadda wadda but then I'd also like to point out how even if the other option is not very good logically speaking, a lot of people raised to be girls (like me, myself) grew up with this constant induced fear of Men. Dont go out alone, a Big Scary Man is gonna hurt you, don't be alone with a Man or else hes gonna hurt you, *scary statistics of violence towards women commited by Men shoved down your gut*, dont be alone with your Uncle because he might be Family but he is a Man and Men are not trustworthy and all etc. so you are in Danger. Just like. It wildly depends on the person you're talking about, but when we get there and generalize to the people being raised to be girls its very very Scary.

But I'd also like to point out how those views we learn as children are incredibly generalized and the group of people more likely to harm you are not "men", strictly speaking, but Privilegied People With Mote Power Than You, Incentived To Do Whatever They Want. One would think that emcompasses All Men, but then we completely ignore black men, men of color, poor men, disabled men, men with mental disorders (not the asshole in the News who got called a """""psychopath""""" again but the guy next door who is being dehumanized and ignored and demonized), trans men, queer men, etc etc. And so its our job, even if thats annoying or doesnt seem fair, to try and unlearn this bias we have and see things with clearer eyes, and be able to answer that this question is incredibly vague and it highly depends on the man or even the bear; oh maybe its a baby bear, oh maybe its my uncle Joe, oh maybe its Donald J Trump with a gun and im a minority, oh maybe—there are so many situations.

There are at least two sides on this debate, and I totally get where both are coming from. Distrust had been shoved down our (people raised to be girls) throats since childhood, and that view also conveniently serves to opress further men who are already being opressed (either you like it or not, interseccionality exists). The best thing to do would be to try and unlearn all that, and challenge the power structures that allow Some Privilegied People (because lets be honest these groups include a lot of people of all genders, because you can be both a privilegied + opressed person combo—because of interseccionality!—like a cis white gay person shoving a two-spirit/trans poc person under the bus, or a neurotypical black person shoving cluster a black people under the bus) to opress other groups.

*Not* asking random woman on the street if they prefer to be alone in a forest with a man or a bear, and then accusing them for repeating the views they've been raised with, which they did not took the legwork to unlearn.

[Image description: The "lets take ibuprofen together" meme, edited to say "lets unlearn harmful views together". /end ID.]

It's just—UGH

Sorry for the ramble. I'm gonna finish my homework now.

[nightowlwriting]

summary: steve is acting weird. avoiding you, being snippy and mean, leaving the room when you enter. all you want is your boyfriend back, but all he wants is to pretend you don't exist. when he's almost hurt on a mission, you do what you're made to do.

word count: 11k

reader specifics: no race/gender/sexuality/body type mentioned, no pronouns for reader used, powered!reader, insecure!reader

warnings: steve is mean to the reader in the beginning, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, canon-level violence, brief ptsd symptoms, slight description of blood, brief mention of racism in the '30s & '40s

brief mentions of: reader's parents being toxic, homelessness, past accidents, ableism in the past & present

note: this one hurt me lmfao. idk why this went the way it did but i'm not mad at it // also i am a queer, trans, disabled american. i have fundamental disagreements with things that marvel/the mcu as it stands for and some of the more nuanced things that you might not notice unless you're looking for it. this will take place in my writing because i cannot separate myself from the lens in which i consume/create content.

title credit: lil nas x

mobile masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his. Sure - he’s clever, righteous, courteous… You can’t forget he’s also drop-dead gorgeous because every trashy gossip magazine in a three-state radius of New York doesn’t let you forget. Neither does the sight of him waking up in your bed every morning. (Well, actually, maybe that would remind you if he was still fucking doing that.)

But lately, you’ve had to rely on the fucking tabloids to catch a glimpse of your super-hero boyfriend. The university class you had picked up on a whim at the end of the summer - Life & Times of the ‘30s and ‘40s - avoids any mention of Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. Not that your classmates do because, Christ on a bike, those magazines manage to catch pictures of you and Steve in moments that you don’t even remember. Plus, you’re an Avenger too. It’s bound to catch some attention when you waltz into a college classroom.

You’re sure if you were an undergrad trying to fill a gen-ed requirement and were sitting next to someone who could kill you without blinking but also dating Captain Rogers you’d be a little distracted too. You try not to blame your classmates too much, but they do make it hard to concentrate with their -really dating Captain America?- and -wonder if I could get an autograph- whispers. None of that matters because you’re learning, really studying, in between missions and missing Steve and believing that maybe the gossip reporters are right.

Maybe he’s forgotten about you.

You grit your teeth and push the thought away. It does you no good right now, while you’re training with Peter. He’s working his way up to bona fide missions and, because you’re the only one on the team who has experience with real-life teenagers outside of saving their lives, it’s up to you to get him to the level that he needs to be. Plus, the mission where he’s going to get his gills wet is just you, Tony, Steve, Nat, and Bucky. You’d much rather be the one to train him because you won’t traumatize him.

Right now, though, you’re just kicking his ass to try and get rid of some of the tension in your body. You feel a little bad about it, but when you started as his mentor you told him point-blank that you’d never go easy on him. That meant if you were having a bad day he either needed to up his game or he’d have a bad day too. It appears he’s taken that to heart as he struggles to dodge the hits you’re throwing his way. He lunges out of the way when you try to land a right hook but practically walks into the leg sweep that sends him crashing to the ground.

“Awe,” Peter groans, letting his guard down. You take the momentary lapse of focus to grab him by the collar of the hoodie he’s wearing and haul him to his feet, jerking one fist back to cold-clock him but he beats you to it. You hear the sound of your nose cracking before you feel it but then the pain rushes you all at once. You’ve had worse but coming from Peter, the move surprises you. You don’t yell out but he does when you push him away from you and call the fight off. Peter practically yelps your name, hands up by his head as he watches you bend at the waist, both hands over where your nose is absolutely gushing blood. “I am so sorry, I just reacted-!”

“It’s fine, Pete,” You shake your head and stand straight again, the blood beginning to leak through your fingers, “Just go get me a towel, okay?” Peter practically trips over his feet to get something for your nose and as you track him on his way into the locker rooms, you see Steve, Bucky, and Nat. The latter are looking your way, eyebrows raised like they’re asking you if you’re okay. Steve hasn’t even broken stride in his conversation so you wave them off with a bloody hand. Peter’s back in a flash, pressing a wet towel into your grasp and snapping you out of your self-pity party. “It was a good hit,” You compliment as you wipe your face off, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Prob’ly wouldn't have landed it if I had.”

He wrings his hands, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s a good thing, Peter, means you’re getting better.” You deadpan, checking to see if your nose has stopped bleeding yet, “I don’t think you actually broke it, but I’ll go down to medical to check later.” You do your best to clean up your hands with the wet towel, but it’s so soaked with your blood that it mostly just smears it around. You grimace and shake your head. “Well, I should go now before our sparring match ends up looking like I murdered you.”

“I’ll go with,” He offers, “I’m the one who broke your nose.” You let Peter walk you down to medical even though you were originally going to refuse. Perhaps petty, but it was the way that Steve didn’t even look your way as you left that made you let the teenager walk you the two floors to where you’d be able to clean yourself up. He hums in the elevator and you know that he wants to ask you something - it’s the way he holds his mouth when he’s prying for information or keeping a secret that tips you off. Finally, just before the elevator opens, you sigh and turn to him.

“What, Peter?” He grins but then it falls when he has to skitter after you down the hall. Maybe that’s why it falls - the question he asks next nearly sends you to your ass.

“Is everything okay with you and Captain Rogers?” He easily catches up to you when you stop in your tracks, ignoring that you’re still bleeding a little bit down your face and you might be dripping blood everywhere from where it’s run down your arms.

“What?” You do your best to look confused like everything is fine, but Peter is perceptive. He may fumble around and be pretty awkward, but those are really just teenager things that he’ll hopefully outgrow. You should have known that when someone caught onto how bad things are on your end, it would be Peter. (You wonder if Nat or Bucky has brought it up with Steve, considering he’s spent more time with them in the past week than he’s seen you in the past month.) “We’re fine.” Your words are stilted as you begin walking to the medical wing much faster than before.

“I just thought I’d ask, well, because I’ve sort of noticed… Something just seems off, you know? Like, you two used to spend a lot of time together, and maybe it’s the recon mission coming up, but I was just thinking that you two really barely look at each other even when you’re in the same -”

“Peter!” You say his name much louder than either of you expected and both of you jump. “Peter,” You say softer, looking at the glass door to the medical wing instead of him, “Just leave it, okay? It’s nothing you have to worry about, kid.” Peter ducks around to open the door, forcing you to look at him. “He’s just focused on his stuff and I’m focused on getting you whipped into shape for this mission. We only have two days.” Once you’re inside and surrounded by the medical crew Tony keeps on staff, he thankfully drops it. You love Peter, you do, but it’s a lot like having a little brother. You can only love them so much before you want to fucking strangle them. Eventually, as the doctor checks to make sure he hasn’t broken your nose, you have to order him away to go study or something. “I’ll join you later,” You promise him as the doctor prods at your tender flesh, “I have an essay due soon.”

That’s another thing that’s been bugging you that Peter surely picked up on. Nearly everybody knew you were taking a course at the local community college, but nobody knew what it was about. You’d wanted to keep it a secret until you told Steve, but the day you had registered he’d flown out for a two-week mission without telling you or saying goodbye. After that, you decided it didn’t really matter if anyone knew what class you were taking, and keeping it a secret sort of spiraled from there. If they wanted to know they could look it up. Maybe it was petty, but you just wanted the class to be over and done with so you could forget that you really only picked it up so you relate to your boyfriend more.

If you can even call Steve your boyfriend anymore. You’re not so sure where you stand and, honestly, you’re really close to giving up on the relationship as a whole but you can’t do that. Before you were dating, you were friends, and Steve… He never gave up on you. Not once. How could you repay him by giving up on your relationship? The one that you thought was The One? Even if it hurts, even if you’re unsure more than sure these days, how could you? Somewhere, though, you know you deserve better. You don’t deserve the sinking, dark feeling that lingers in your gut for most of your days now or the way that you second-guess every move you make - even in the field. It’s dangerous but you can’t do anything to fix it.

You’re too scared. You know that eventually, it will happen, he’ll break up with you, but you’d like to put that day off for as long as possible. To relish in the love he once had for you, how pure and powerful it was. You’re sure that you’ll never experience anything like that again.

Hell, you might never fall in love again.

Those thoughts don’t do anything to help you, though, so you try not to have them. You get clearance from the doctor and get cleaned up as much as you can without taking a full body shower. The idea to go back to your room and take one crosses your mind but you know that Steve’s probably done training, probably heading back for his own shower, and you don’t want to open that can of worms. Instead, you go to the common room and drop into the couch between Peter and Tony. They’re talking about something something science something something, but you pull your stack of books and notebooks out from the shelf underneath the coffee table and continue outlining your essay from where you left off. The assignment was focused on how the end of WW1 changed American life and then how life changed leading up to and during WW2 but that had hit a little too close to home for you, so you’re writing about the racial tension and overall racism of the times. Tony and Peter keep talking over your back and then you hear footsteps heading toward the common room.

You barely look up when they enter - Nat and Bucky - because it’s fine. It’s normal. They’re just two of Steve’s best friends, that’s all, nothing to be jumpy about. You don’t even register that emotional pain that hits when you realize that, yeah, you’re not one of his best friends anymore. You doubt you’re even considered a friend in his book.

You groan and lean back into the couch, bringing your study materials with you. Peter glances over, skimming over your page and a half of shorthand, and gags. “Jesus, can you write like a normal person?”

“Oh, sorry,” You say lazily, not looking up as you continue to scribble in your incomprehensible code, “I do forget that some of us had privacy at home.” You lift your lips just a little bit to let Peter know you’re kidding, looking up at him through your lashes as you slouch next to him. He looks red in the face. “Besides, once you have to start doing mission reports you’ll be begging me to learn my shorthand and use my stenography machine.”

“I keep telling you that I can update that ol’ thing,” Tony draws your attention. For the first time, you realize that Nat and Bucky are on the loveseat looking at you expectantly. Steve is standing in the corner over their shoulder reading a book from the bookshelf in front of him. His back is tense and he looks like he’s not reading, just listening. You force your eyes back to Tony on your right and shake your head.

“No, because then you’d know my shorthand and it makes me too happy to see you spend hours trying to decipher it.” His eyes wander to your essay again, trying to find any patterns that he can use to figure out what the hell you’re writing on anything ever. He’s opening his mouth to make a smart-ass remark that will no doubt lift some of the weight off of your shoulders when another voice speaks up.

“Wow,” Steve doesn’t even look at you even as he says your name sardonically, “Way to be a team player.” Your mind comes to a screeching halt, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s playing at. Even Bucky and Nat look surprised at the cold way he spoke to you, Tony and Peter both gasping from your side. You can’t say anything, throat tight and burning with tears as you stare at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows. What do you say to that? How do you respond? You know it wasn’t a joke because he’s not laughing, not smiling, not even looking up from that fucking book in his hands. You can’t tell if you’re more hurt or embarrassed, but either way, you don’t want to stick around for someone to get the nerve to say something.

Instead of replying, you slam your textbooks shut and bundle everything into your arms. You doubt Steve even notices that you’re making such a hasty retreat but if he does, he doesn’t say a fucking thing. You feel like you’re in high school - practically running through an empty hallway with your notebooks and textbooks pressed to your chest, trying not to cry. It’s ridiculous. You’re a trained assassin, you’re an Avenger, you are strong and powerful and yet… And yet. You’ve given so much of your heart and soul to Steve Rogers that he can knock you down eight pegs without even trying. Without even looking at you. You can’t wait to go on this fucking recon mission, where you can put all of your focus on making sure Peter is doing okay and gathering the intel. Where you can stop thinking about how easily Steve Rogers seems to be pushing you to the side.

You spend the next two days writing your essay, ignoring almost everyone, and working on your essay. On the day of the recon mission, you’re running out the door for your eight a.m lecture, printed essay in hand, and reminding Tony that he promised to pick you up on campus after class for the mission.

You’re lucky that you went, too. You hadn’t counted on the professor making everyone stand up and tell the class the subject of their essays - didn’t realize that it would be twenty-five percent of the grade on the paper. You’ll never understand college professors and the weird shit they do, but the class is informative and entertaining. He goes around the room, starting on the opposite side of you, so you’ll be last. Great.

Several students did their papers on the propaganda of the time, one student was brave and did her essay on the ethical dilemma of the super-soldier serum and eugenics, and most of the other students focused on pop culture and how it changed. When your professor looks at you it’s almost like he’s expecting you to have done nothing but fawn over Steve and Bucky, considering you know them personally. He looks surprised when you clear your throat, stand and say: “I focused on the casual and institutional racism that faced non-white Americans at the time.” You almost preen when he looks impressed and then the shame fills you. It’s just… You want Steve to be proud of you. You want him to congratulate you on going back to school, even if it’s just for one class. You want him to be happy and surprised that he was the inspiration for taking the class.

Though, lately, the class has been more for you than for him. You like learning new things, pushing the boundaries of assignments, making people uncomfortable with the truth of the times you’re studying as told to you by two people who lived it. It’s nice. Normal.

Everyone needs a little bit of normal.

But, honestly, normal is fucking boring. By the time your class is over and you’re handing in your essay it’s like ants are crawling over your skin. A combination of nerves from the upcoming mission, a head full of fog from whatever is happening with Steve, and a little bit of fear at the thought of taking Peter into the field has you bolting for the door the moment your essay is taken from you. You’d worn your tac-suit underneath a pair of baggy sweats and a loose hoodie, so you don’t even bother slowing down as you head toward the car that Tony has waiting for you. He’s in the front seat, grinning at you from underneath his aviators and Peter is driving.

You slip into the backseat without thinking or looking at who’s there, tossing your bag in the back and peeling your hoodie off. “God, Tone, we’re goin’ to die before we even get to the mission with Petey driving.” You toss your hoodie back to join your bag and finally see who’s sitting next to you.

Of course, it’s Steve. He’s looking at you - but not really. He’s looking through you, like he can’t stand that you’re both crammed in the backseat of Tony’s electric car. His gaze catches you and holds you in place. Everything around you goes cold and fuzzy, making you miss Peter’s indignant complaining that he has his license so he should be able to drive… And then Steve scoffs and looks out his window, ignoring you. It stings but you have a job to do. You make some witty retort back to Peter, but it falls flat as you struggle out of your sweats. This is what life is, you think. Relationships aren’t meant to be forever - you learned that at a young age.

Until your accident at fifteen, you had watched your parents run out of helium, their relationship expanding and cooling in arguments, in days spent not talking, in trips to your grandparents without the other, in passive-aggressive computer searches for divorce attorneys left open for anyone to see. Then, after you were trapped between those machines - after you spent hour after agonizing hour with electricity pressing between your atoms, being torn apart and rebuilt as a young god - after that day you watched them expand against each other before the neutron core of their relationship collapsed on itself and the resulting supernova sent you to the streets. But then Fury found you. Then Tony, then Nat, then Steve.

Your parents exploded out from each other and the shockwaves ruined your life. At least now, your relationship with Steve is ending silently. There’s no explosion, no collapse, no rapid expansion to take over your cosmos. Your relationship with Steve is simply approaching the event horizon, where it will hang in the air until one of you takes the final step and you both become frozen, two collapsing objects on opposite sides of the universe. Maybe that’s what you already are. You feel so far away from him in the back of Tony’s car - like he’s eons and light-years away from you - and you feel so cold. Frozen, down to the bone. It makes you stiff in your replies to Tony and Peter, slow on the uptake when the car pulls up to the quinjet, nearing stasis and unable to respond when Nat asks if you’re okay.

Finally, you turn to look at her, nodding. “Fine,” You clear your throat, “Been a rough day.” You do your best to smile at her, but your face feels heavy. Your chest feels cold and tight, making you worry about your performance on the upcoming mission. When Peter shakes his head next to you, discreetly telling Nat not to press, you’re focused on Steve and the electricity humming in the most base part of your body.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. You turn away and force yourself to smile, throwing a weak and numb arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Are you ready for this, Pete?” You jostle him back and forth, leading him toward the sitting area behind the cockpit. “Gonna get your ass kicked?”

“Please,” He shoves you off, nervously laughing, “Not with the skills you’ve taught me.” He mimics throwing webs, making hissing noises under his breath, and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re payin’ my medical bills when I have to save your ass, Spidey.” You shake your head and strap in next to the wall, Peter taking the seat to your right. Tony, from the aisle across from you, points a thick finger your way.

“You don’t pay medical bills anymore,” He waggles his finger, “So you’ll just have to make him do your homework for a week.”

“Mister Stark!”

“He’ll have to earn shorthand to do your essays,” Nat chimes in from between Bucky and Steve, who are both doing their best to not look at you - or anyone really. “You willing to share that with him?”

You lean back in your seat and jab at Peter with your elbow. “Hell no, so I guess Spider-Boy better do his best.” The arachnid in question grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat.

“No pressure, right?” He complains, “Not like I’m already nervous or anything.”

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Bucky pipes up, drawing your eyes back to Steve, “It’s goin’ to be a cakewalk.”

“Don’t jinx it, Barnes,” You warn half-heartedly, tucking in on yourself, “We need this to be easy.” From the look on his face - everyone’s face, really - you know that they heard you loud and clear when you were really saying I need this to be easy.

After an uneasy laugh from Bucky, a claustrophobic silence settles over you all as the jet begins to take off. You’re in for an hour ride and plan to spend it going over battle plans with Peter when harsh whispering catches your ear. It’s Bucky and Steve nearly crushing Nat between them until she gets up and sits across from Peter, rolling her eyes. Still, you try your best to run him through the actions you both had planned - the names, the setups you needed to execute them, everything. If something happens to Peter, you’ll never forgive yourself.

And then, cutting through your soft promptings to Peter and his equally soft replies, Bucky’s voice. “Leave it, Steve. Until after this mission.” Even Tony looks up from his tablet, curiosity piqued. Their faces are both red, set hard and angry at each other and your stomach drops. What the hell is going on that Steve ‘Till The End Of The Line Rogers is fighting with Bucky You And Me, Pal Barnes? You must shift, or lean too far into Steve’s eyesight, because for the first time in what feels like years he is looking directly at you - and seeing you, too. It makes your pulse jump and, almost instinctively, you want to reach out and ground yourself on the rubber of the seat underneath you.

You don’t get the chance, though, because Steve speaks. “No, why should I? This is clearly affecting the team.” He’s still looking - glaring - at you like you’ve done something wrong. “What’s the point of waiting? I’ve been waiting to talk about this.”

“Bo, I don’t think this is the time,” Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, then, and you know what’s coming. You know that it’s time, that Steve is about to break up with you in front of your teammates. Your friends. Your family. You steel yourself for the anguish you’re about to feel and then jerk your chin out, hardening your resolve.

“Buck, it’s fine. If Steve wants to address something, he can.”

Natasha says your name, a low warning over the hum of the quinjet. “I think he should wait.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to wait!” Steve unbuckles himself and stands, “I have tried waiting, and look at where that has gotten me.” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out a breath. You unbuckle and stand, too, unsure of where this is going. “You need to,” He holds one hand out, pointing at you while his voice shakes. You notice his hand is shaking, too, but fractionally. If you didn’t know Steve as well as you do you may have never noticed it. “You need to get it together.”

“I need to get it together?” You question, eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling with how fast they shoot up. You’re not totally sure you’ve heard him right because what do you have to get together? The broken shards of your relationship? The information and research for your final paper? The awful way you’ve let yourself be treated for what seems like forever?

“You heard me,” Steve says, at the same time Bucky leans his head back and groans deep in his chest. “What? Someone had to say it.”

“We should wait for this,” Nat speaks up again, but lifelessly. She knows now that you and Steve are both on the warpath, neither of you are going to stop. (That’s also why the two of you work together as a couple so well. Very rarely are you both so worked up about something that you can’t back down, so the other is always there to meet you halfway and get you back to earth.)

“No, no, no,” You say, near hysterically, “No, he wants to do this now? Before a mission? Instead of the fuckin’ weeks we had to hash whatever crawled up his ass and died out? Be my guest. He’s already dragged everyone into this by treating me like a pariah.” You’re not sneering, but your teeth are gritted so tightly together you can hear them scraping and feel a tension headache beginning to bloom in your temples. Bucky looks… Almost incredulous at your statement. Like putting the blame on Steve is a dick move or something.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here?” Steve is curling his lip, glaring at you. There’s something behind his eyes, but he’s buried it so deep that you can’t reach it and figure out what it is. “I’m the bad guy, right. Right, right, right.” He scoffs, shakes his head, and then he’s running his fingers through his hair like he really can’t believe what you’re saying to him.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” You throw your hands out to the side and let them slap back down on your thighs. “You ignore me, you make me feel like shit, you talk down to me like I’m some insignificant foot soldier. How else am I supposed to take that, Steve?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe ask me what’s wrong? Maybe ask me why I’m acting like this, instead of ignoring all of your problems like a child?” He mirrors your moments, but the sound his hands make when they hit the outside of his suit is more powerful than yours. Fueled by anger, you think. Anger and whatever the hell was in the serum Erskine pumped into Steve.

“Ask you?” You repeat, near-hysterical, “Ask you? Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Hey, Mister Rogers? Mister Captain America? Mister Ignores-His-Partner-For-God-Knows-Why? Hey, just why are you doin’ that?” You’re surprised that you’ve said something so snotty, but you don’t back down. (Steve looks surprised, too, and Bucky has stood up next to his friend like he’s about to start berating you as well. At least he looks more cautious about it, like he’s not totally sure that this fight should be happening.)

The more surprising part of your fight is how fast it’s shut down. Tony and Nat stand at the same time and exchange a glance like they’ve surprised each other. “That’s enough,” Tony starts.

Nat cuts him off. “I don’t care if you fight this one out instead of talking, but if you do it before this recon mission you two are going to blow it. Do you understand me?” She looks dangerous, the sharp edge of a knife spiraling through the air. You force yourself to look away from her, from Tony, from Bucky, from Steve. She’s right. You know she’s right - especially on this mission. Peter is there, going to be in real danger even though there’s not supposed to be one Hydra agent in a four-mile radius. You have to clear your mind and focus on protecting him.

Steve seems to think the same thing because he stands down. When you watch him collapse in on himself, Bucky’s arms around his shoulders, into the little quinjet seats your everything aches. Heart, lungs, eyes - everything. Even though you don’t know what’s going on, what could have possibly happened to make your relationship sink this quickly and out of the blue, you still love him. He’s still The One for you. You still want to be the one to comfort him and make him feel whole when he’s struggling.

But you can’t. You can’t and it kills you.

The heat of battle makes a lot of things fade into the background. Important things like why the fuck are there Hydra agents here? and Steve is going to break up with you when you get back on the jet and Tony swore on the fucking limited edition AC/DC vintage tour poster he has in his office that this would be an easy in/easy out information mission. None of that matters, though, because you’re in deep shit. There are seventeen of them, all primed to the teeth with weapons made to take your team down permanently.

You’re practically glued to Peter, calling out commands and plans for him to initiate. It’s when all of your plans fall through that you take a hit from a heavy fist on purpose, hitting the ground hard. “Plan F, Spidey, Plan F!” You cover the instruction with a groan and then you’re back on your feet, working your way toward him.

“Plan F?” Tony says, somewhere above you in his suit. Your comms crackle ominously as another heat-seeking grenade is launched, interfering with the radio waves your tech relies on. You don’t worry about it, because you know Tony is on it. He’s your eyes in the sky.

Peter is the one who answers his question, watching your close hand-to-hand tilt out of your favor briefly. “Plan Fuck It, Mister Stark.” He grunts as he webs up a Hydra agent, jerking him away from where he was about to slip a knife up and under Natasha’s kevlar. You finally drop the guy in front of you, ignoring Steve’s disappointed Language! and toss one of your knives toward Nat for her to use. Tony is still laughing in your ear, wheezing as he drops down and snags the rifle from one of the snipers and then takes back off.

What your little protégé failed to mention about Plan F is that it’s not just chaos, but controlled chaos. You let loose, letting a soft current cover every inch of your skin as Peter switches to his conductive webbing and takes special care to not web any of his allies. Except for you - if you’re in the way and he catches you in a web it doesn’t matter because you’re you, alive with electricity that drops the men that get caught in the web, too. You rip out of the webs and turn the current off when one of your teammates gets too close.

More Hydra agents are pouring out of the woods, topping out their numbers around twenty-five. That’s twenty-five too many in your opinion, especially when you can see Peter getting tired, his anxiety spiking, his moves having more and more hesitation behind them. You need to get this over with quickly, but you don’t have the options to do that. Steve, Bucky, and Nat are really the heavy-hitters - you, Pete, and Tony are the only ones without serums despite all of your individual abilities. Desperately you reach out for a web that’s still connected to Peter’s arms, pulling him out of the way of a baton that’s about to come down on the back of his neck.

The baton the agent is wielding glints in the coming dusk, freezing you as Peter scrambles past you with a quick apology. You’ve seen that before - seen it, felt it, know it like the back of your hand. There’s no way that you could ever forget that weapon. The man stumbles when his hit doesn’t connect but then rights himself and searches for a new target.

A long, black baton that splits into two prongs at the end is heavy in his hand. Electricity crackles between the bulbs at the end, flashing in the setting sun and your memories. The man only has one, but if it was hooked up to a machine, spinning. If there were four, five, six. If you were pinned between them, screaming in the pain as they rewrote your DNA… You’ve only felt it once, but you’ll never forget it.

And now, you’ll taste it again. On purpose this time. The man holding the stun baton is going for Steve’s back - his strong back, the one that protects people, the one that holds the weight of the world, the one that lays in your bed, the one you see whipping out of rooms as you’re entering just so that he doesn’t have to look at you - and you can’t let that happen. It only takes ten amps to kill a regular human, but you know those things are cranked up to twenty minimum. You don’t want to see how many amps of current it will take to stop Steve’s heart. You’re between the baton and Steve before you can think about what you’re doing or what comes next, the hard bulbs settling unyielding into your side and cranking out maximum power for maximum damage as soon as the current is connected and able to flow from one bulb to the other.

The pain hits you and your throat catches on it. It burns through your body, setting everything on fire - your chest hurts as your heart protests the electrons and then your powers kick in, sweeping them into your very atoms and cells. You’re a live wire now, ears humming and body thrumming with power you’ve only dreamed of. It hurts, and it burns, and you feel tears rising in your eyes because you’re back there - back begging for death or for life or for God and god at the same time - but then it’s over. The man sees that you’re not seizing up, not dropping dead in front of him, and he takes three steps back.

It’s not far enough.

You’ve only felt like this once before - right after you were unhooked from the machine that changed your life and brought you to your new family. You remember how you looked when you were put in front of a mirror with all of the pent up electricity circling your body - how your eyes were filled to the brim and dripping with bright and blue electricity, the way it was jumping across your body, how you didn’t need to breathe because your body was fully saturated with pure, unadulterated power. You wonder if you look like that now and assume you do because you can see the bright blue reflecting in the terrified eyes of the Hydra agent.

Your suit, unlike everyone else’s, is not grounded. It’s metal, metal, metal. You’re made to conduct, born for it, and the earth beneath you comes alive with bright white as you release all of the energy, the power, surges down and out. You’re practiced. You can reach out and feel the synapses and neurons of every human being in the clearing, know exactly where your teammates are standing, and know exactly how to target everything but them and the pitiful amount of electricity their brains carry. You grin, something truly feral and unhinged, and you can see the fear in the Hydra agent. Then, you let go.

You know that everyone is going to be pissed. (Maybe not everyone.) You’re not built for this, not made to take down nearly twenty fucking people at once. As you let go, you feel what they feel. The seizing muscles, the stopping of their hearts, the inside of their bodies crisping against their bones. At that moment, that delicious moment, you see the universe.

You become God. You become everything - your mother and your father and God and god and anyone else who’s watching your life from the ether. You become the judge, jury, and executioner of souls that you don’t know from Adam. You become lightning, and thunder, and exposed nerves of the cosmos at the same time. The world bends to your will and you relish in it, taking that power in your fist and wielding it to protect the man you’ll love for the rest of your life and the family that you’ve made. You will stop at nothing to end this, even if it means turning yourself inside out to do it.

You damn near do turn yourself inside out too, but that doesn’t matter, does it? The blood spilling from your ears, nose, and eyes feels like heaven. It’s hot, and thick, and it’s proof of the power that your body holds. You’re a temple and a sanctuary, a war-room and a bunker, a field of flowers and a sun-dry desert. It does not matter if Steve doesn’t love you at that moment, because you are love and hate wrapped into one package. You are everything and nothing, spread thin at the beginning and the end of time.

And then none of that is true. You are just… You. Standing in a clearing, surrounded by twenty-something dead Hydra agents and your terrified, terrified family. It hurts to breathe and you can taste blood in your mouth, but that’s an afterthought. Steve is still standing behind you, but he is alive. That is what matters.

This is what love is, you think.

Pain and pleasure.

Even if he leaves you, you will always love him.

Pain and pleasure.

You’re weak at the knees when he finally turns to see you - and you’re a sight. Struggling to stand, fingertips blackened with soot but not burnt, blood pouring from your nose, ears, eyes… You look like death, but you feel like life. Someone says something behind you - Peter, maybe? Or maybe Tony, in your comms? - but you don’t hear it. Everything tunnels out, your weak knees finally collapsing as you keel backward.

Steve bears down upon you almost immediately. You’re halfway to unconsciousness when he wraps you up in his arms, keeping you from falling in with the pile of bodies around you. He’s saying your name, harsh and soft and then in a voice like he’s ordering you to wake up. You loll about as he drops you down onto a patch of clear grass, hands searching your body for wounds. When he skims over your side, where the baton has burnt through your suit and your flesh, you surge back toward being able to have cohesive thoughts. The pain brings you back, hands wrapping around Steve’s arm and calling out his name. “Steve! Fuck, that hurts!”

“Honey,” He breathes, “Fuck, we have to get you back to the jet.” His jaw ticks, hair dirty and loose from its normal style. “Why’d you do that?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer from you, ordering Peter to web something up to carry you over your protests.

“I’m fine,” You argue, only slurring slightly, “I feel fine.” But you’re going to let Nat and Bucky load you up on the webbed stretcher anyway because it’s the first time Steve has cared for you in a long time. You want to relish in this moment, the way that he didn't say your name but called you honey.

Well, and because Natasha slides a thumb across her neck over Steve’s shoulder in a silent threat.

You groan when Bucky accidentally grabs your calf where there is an absolutely awful stab wound, but you wave off his apology. “How could you have known?” To be honest, you hadn’t even known it was there until his Vibranium hand was slipping against it and sending shockwaves of pain through you. Peter is next to you the whole time that you’re being carried back to the jet - Tony staying back to begin scanning the bodies of the Hydra agents for the information you need and any other information they may be carrying. The poor kid is nearly at a breakdown, so you reach out to him and shake his arm when his fingers twine with yours. “Chill out, kid, I don’t know how you got it into your head that this is your fault, but it sure isn’t.” He sniffles, but hands back with Steve as Bucky and Nat get you situated in the small medical room of the jet. They transfer you and then make to leave, only Bucky hesitating near the door.

“Stevie’s goin’ to be here soon and… I don’t know what made you do what you did but you have’t explain it to him. He’s bendin’ over backwards to figure it out, and we don’t have’a clue. Came out’a nowhere.” He looks at you for another moment before shaking his head and stepping out of the room. Your head is spinning, partially from what Bucky just said and partially from the pain and stimulus of electricity. You wait there, then, because this is it. This is the event horizon. You wait there, eyes closed, until you hear footsteps approach the med room, and then the door slowly opens. Steve says your name, holding all the finality and weight of an atomic bomb. You don’t open your eyes until he swings a chair next to the stretcher and lays a hand on your calf.

“You don’t have to do this,” You finally say, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. “I know that you don’t want to.” Steve only scoffs and begins to wash the stab wound using a packet of soap and a water bottle. You say his name twice before he looks at you, something between hate and hurt curdling into a glaze over his eyes that stops you in your tracks.

“Just let me do this. It is the least that you can do.” His words are painful and stilted, like it’s taking force to push them past his teeth. You lay back down and close your eyes, content to just feel the pain of Steve beginning to stitch you up and then dress the wound before you feel the pain of Steve leaving you like you knew he always would. (Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his.)

When he’s done he sits back and puts his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heaves a heavy sigh and then shakes it off, “I’ll dress your burn, and then we’ll talk.” And normally, yes, you would agree but this is too important. You want to get it over with so you can lick your wounds metaphorically and dress them literally - and then you want to go home, you want to pack your bags, and you want to disappear and remake your life somewhere else.

Some far-off place where everyone you know won’t take one look at your face and know that you’re still painfully, deeply in love with Steve Rogers, end of your semester be damned. Family you’ve made be damned. You can’t sit around and be in love with him like a neon sign on a dark highway while it’s painfully clear that he hasn’t had a sign on his highway in a long time.

So instead of agreeing, you swing your legs over the stretcher and swallow your flinch when the burn pulls tight. Steve opens his mouth to argue but you give him a tight-lipped shake of your head and his jaw snaps shut. “No,” You say, voice not giving in to the emotion swirling in your chest. “I have let this go on long enough.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Steve fucking scoffs again and looks away from you. “One day was long enough.” He says, cutting straight to your core. Okay, ouch. You take a deep breath and shake your head to try and bite back the tears that are inevitably rising in your eyes. If one day was long enough for him to realize he doesn’t want to be with you, why did he let it go on for nearly a full year? Why did he spend so long leading you on, pulling you by a thread before garroting your heart with it? What was the point?

“If you want to leave me, just say that,” You reply harshly, standing and wobbling away from him. He just watches you go, watches the way you struggle past the lead weights your muscles have become, the way you’re starting to feel the stab wound on your leg, the way the skin on your burn is beginning to blister and only just now losing its heat. He just watches you, where the Steve that loved you once upon a time might have helped. You turn your back on him, hands on your hips so that you can hide the way that you’re crying and your hands are shaking.

“If I want to leave you? If?” He says. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, “I think after what you’ve done, it’s not an if, sweetheart.” The way he says it tastes like iron. Steve never calls you sweetheart like he never calls you by your name. It’s always honey, lover, dovie. You don’t turn to face him because you’re struggling to keep yourself above water. “I spent so long thinkin’, wonderin’, askin’ myself - God damnit, will you look at me?” You turn slowly, not because you’ve never heard Steve speak like that but because his voice is desperate and raw. When you turn, you’re not sure what to expect. Maybe him, standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and disappointed like in those PSA’s he had to film once. Maybe he’d be angry, hands clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed like he gets in meetings when he doesn’t agree with something but he’s out-voted. But you never expect to see him crying, lip wobbling, folded in on himself like a young boy instead of the strong, invincible man you’ve come to love.

He looks so different.

It hits you, then, that you’re not looking at Steve Rogers. Not really. He's not Steve Rogers, not Captain America, not even Captain Rogers. You see him as he was - before America spat it’s untruths all over him and injected him with a serum that changed who he was, is, will be. He’s not the able-bodied man that you know, not strong and unreachable, not the heartthrob that overshadows the team during press events. He’s not America’s Darling, not really. Not where it counts.

You’re looking at Stevie Rogers. Stevie Rogers who, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to die before he made it out of toddlerhood or soon thereafter. Stevie Rogers who the doctors said wasn’t supposed to survive. Stevie Rogers who grew up sickly, rattling painful breaths and never playing ball with the neighborhood boys. Who couldn’t walk until middle school when he got his braces off. Who never had a partner because Bucky, strong and handsome and tall Bucky, was always deemed the better option. Who believed in his country so much that he tried to sneak into the second world war, subjected himself to a painful medical procedure so that he could change his very DNA to be what the world wanted him to be.

Captain Steve Rogers. Captain America. Strong, blond, patriotic, resilient.

You’re sure that if men don’t want to go to therapy now, in the modern age, they certainly didn’t want to go in the ‘40s. So where did that leave Steve, your Steve, standing in front of you and looking small, and broken, and sad, and alone? Did they expect him to take his new, taller, working body and run with it? Did they not think about how he would lose a part of himself in the process? How did they expect him to go from disabled to abled without some disconnect?

You think about the You That You Were Before and the You That You Are Now, and how you lost a part of yourself when the accident gave you your powers and how you’d lose yourself if someone figured out a way to take them away. You Before formed your identity around being normal - living in a shitty home with shitty parents, sure, but normal - and You Now form your identity around your powers, your team, your job, your love. If you lost those things, what did you have left? Who would you be?

When Steve lost his identity and became everything that America wanted everyone to think that America was, what did he have left? Sure, he could tell himself that he represents America - strong and patriotic and just - but it must have conflicted with everything he knew about himself before that. You know that disabled people now know that American society is unjust, unfit for them with abled people not willing to make room to allow them to thrive. You can only imagine what it was really like for Steve in the ‘20s and ‘30s and ‘40s. What he had to do just to survive. (Medical experimentation, you remind yourself. Did they know it wouldn’t kill him? Did they know his body wouldn’t rip itself apart with the new sinewy muscle they were packing on? Did they care? Or was he just a body they saw as broken? A project to fix? To turn him into something more like them and call it patriotism?)

You shake your head at him, still filled with despair, and try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Stevie,” You start, pet name easily replacing what you had been calling him because it’s not fair to shoe-horn him into a body that doesn’t feel like his own. You wonder if he still expects the bone-grinding pain that he used to tell you would happen when it rains. He raises a hand, a strong and family hand, shaking his head.

“I just need to know why I wasn’t enough for you,” Steve looks sad, slouching in on himself like he’s expecting to get his ass handed to him in another alleyway and hope Bucky is there to save him. “I need to know why you wouldn’t just break up with me if you wanted to see other people so badly.” You suck in a shocked breath because, okay, that’s not what you were expecting. Between that and the paradigm shift you’ve had on how Steve must view his identity, body, and self, you’re stunned. Steve continues like he doesn’t even register that you look shocked and pale and now you’re crying because he thinks you’re cheating on him? “And I get it. I get it. You have no idea how much I understand. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me either, okay?”

You cut him off there because what the actual God damn fuck is he talking about? “No, Stevie, I’m not cheating on you.” You shake your head again and this, your statement, lights a fire in him. He still looks like Stevie rather than Steve, but there’s anger there. You imagine that’s what it might have looked like moments before he got himself in trouble back before he was serumed. “I’m not.”

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges, jaw ticking and chin jerking up, “Oh, yeah? You can’t lie to me. I know, okay? The act is up, it’s over, I know, okay? You can stop pretending.”

“Steve, I do not fucking know what you’re talking about but I”m not cheating on you!” You raise your voice, not really angry but more out of necessity. You need to get it out of his head that he is anything less than everything you want - that you could possibly love anyone more than you love him.

“I wanted to clarify something for you,” Steve says like he’s reading an old script from when he was just a beefy, red/white/blue stage prop for the American military, “I am excited to meet with you, but there are some rules. Do not talk about Captain Steve Rogers. I don’t want to hear about him,” As he continues to recite something that has clearly hurt him, you go lax. You know exactly what’s happened - your fists unclench, your jaw drops a little bit, and it feels like someone has gutted you, “I think it is wise to keep work and pleasure separate, and it’s a rule I will enforce heavily. I look forward to seeing you again.” He’s sneering at the end, tears falling down his ruddy cheeks.

“Steve,” You try again, but he cuts you off.

“Am I just work for you?” His voice is shaking more than you thought possible, and so are his hands. You’ve never seen Steve so off-kilter, so thrown, and it breaks your heart that yes, technically, you’re the cause of this. Before this, before this horrible misunderstanding, your relationship with Steve was the paragon of trust so neither of you cared if the other read emails or texts. You remember the email - the email from your fucking college professor - because it had made you so angry that he’d referred to your relationship with Steve as something as simple and base as just pleasure - like you could even put words to the galaxy of a relationship you had with Steve - that you’d gone to the gym to work off some of that irritation. You hadn’t wanted to take it out on anyone accidentally. When you came back from the gym, Steve was gone on that two-week mission that he’d left on without saying goodbye.

Oh, God. You feel sick to your stomach as the paradigm of the way that Steve’s been treating you shifts violently to the left. You have to physically hold yourself up and try to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve looks… Brokenly smug. Like he knows he’s right, but he’d rather gnaw his own legs off than be right.

“No,” You croak, “No, Steve, you’ve got it all wrong.” You want to reach for him, but it feels like the room is closing in on you. You’re second-guessing everything now - especially what you’ve just said. How many people said the exact same thing to him pre-serum because they said something meant for Bucky to him? How many times did he hear that when he was getting a new diagnosis, hoping for the best? How many times had his own mother said it to him when he told her something someone had said, fresh-faced and not yet used to the way that abled people sometimes treated disabled people? You think you might be sick. “That email was from my professor, Steve. I’m not cheating on you, I’d never.” He laughs darkly and sits back down in his chair, head in his hands again. You try to gather the strength to move toward him when you see his shoulders shaking, a telltale sign that he’s crying.

“A professor,” He says with a watery laugh, “Right.”

Finally, you realize that he needs you, needs to know you love him, that you’d do anything for him. You can iron out the kinks later - figure out why he didn’t want to come to talk to you past the original hurt, why he treated you so coldly, why he didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do this to him - but now, you need to show him that you’re here. That you choose him. That you’ll always choose him.

You make your way to him and set a shaking hand on his shoulder. For a brief second you think he’s going to shake you off but then Steve’s hand shoots up and latches onto where your hand is resting, dipping his head to press against your arm. “Stevie, please,” You say, unsure of what you’re asking him to do, “I picked up a class, just one, and it’s… I picked it up for you, it’s about the ‘30s and ‘40s and…” He looks up at you and he looks so broken - face ruddy and wet with tears, lip wobbling, chest heaving as he tries to not sob. His brows are knit and he looks confused, “I just wanted to be able to understand you better. You had to leave so much of yourself at the door when you joined the Avengers, had to leave so much of yourself in the ice… In Erskine’s lab… Stevie, I just wanted you to be able to be you when you’re with me. I wanted to know the you that you were before you became Captain America.” Your voice is shaking, knees knocking together, and honestly? You feel like you might blackout.

“What?” He rasps, “What?”

“He sent that email because too many kids signed up for his class thinking that they’d be able to look at pictures of you and Buck for a semester. Emailed me directly because he knows we’re…” You choke on your words, shaking your head because you’re not even sure there’s a we anymore, “Because he knows I’m on the team. Didn’t want me walking in and making his class about just a few years in the ‘30s and ‘40s rather than the culture of the time.” You don’t know how else to explain it to him, but Steve isn’t saying anything - practically isn’t moving or breathing- so you continue to try and explain what’s really happening as best as you can, “And - and that email made me so angry because he singled me out, didn’t email anyone else about it, and I left to try and work some of that out; I didn’t want to take it out on you, or let it spoil - let it spoil… But when I came back from the gym, you were gone. You were gone for two weeks and I didn’t know why.” You’re crying harder now and pretty sure that within the next sixty seconds you’re going to collapse if you don’t sit down.

Steve shakes his head, still looking like he doesn’t understand. “What?” He says for a third time, “A class? A college class?”

“I just wanted to feel closer to you,” You confess, “Just wanted to understand a fraction of your life without making you do the heavy liftin’ and teachin’ me. Shouldn’t have’t do that,” You’re sobbing, barely biting out your words as you realize that something you’ve done to strengthen your relationship with Steve has destroyed it, “Shouldn’t have to explain a whole different time just to feel loved, Stevie. Should be able to be with someone who understands without you havin’ to explain.” You’re not sure you can say Peggy’s name out loud, and you hope he understands what you’re saying without making you actually say it, “Should’a been able to have love with someone who knew, and I know I’m nothin’ compared to what you should’a had, but I want to be. I want to be in the same ballpark instead’a watchin’ from the stands.” You wipe your face with your free hand and look away from Steve when he stands in front of you. You don’t want to see the look on his face - what he’s thinking about what you’ve said.

He says your name and you glance at him, but his expression stops him in your tracks. Where Steve looked broken and hurt and fuming with anger to hide the anguish, now he looks stricken. You shake your head, “No, no. I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty-”

“You think that I care about whether or not you can understand the ‘40s?” He cuts you off, hands moving to curl around your biceps, “You think that I care whether or not you can relate to a time in history when you weren’t even thought of?”

“Of course I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, but you shouldn’t have to not care, Steve,” You argue, shaking your head, “That’s what I’m trying to say. You should be with someone who understands without explanation. I just wanted to give that to you - didn’t know that this would happen.”

“I should be with someone who loves me,” He argues back, “If you love me, that’s all that matters. My past be damned.”

“But your past is you!” You try to pull away from Steve, but he anchors you there. You’re dizzy from being so close to him after this long, but also because of how many different twists this situation has taken. You can barely keep up with how bad your communication with Steve has become - barely keep up with how you need to fix it, or how to fix it. “Your past is you,” You repeat when you realize that Steve isn’t going to let you go. “And you shouldn’t have to give that up so that someone will love you.”

“But you love me,” He says desperately, ducking his head so that he’s nearly nose to nose with you, “You love me, right?”

“More than anything,” You say, closing your eyes and relishing in the feeling of being so close to Steve, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks, or anyone else. I’ll even stop goin’ to class if you want me to - Steve, I just can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this thing where you don’t talk to me about what’s botherin’ you.” You’re choking up, barely whispering, but you know he hears you. YOu can feel his warm breath on your face, “Nearly fuckin’ killed me.”

“I thought it was goin’ to be easier,” He breathes, nose bumping yours, “When you eventually decided to leave me for him. Thought I was savin’ myself some trouble.” You can practically taste his tears as they fall again, “Buck and Nat tried to tell me that you weren’t - that you wouldn’t - but I just couldn’t believe them.”

When you open your eyes, his are closed. This close to him you can see the soft freckles that are blooming over his eyelids, his soft eyelashes kissing his cheekbones. You can feel him breathing, feel him nearly pressed against you in a way that feels hauntingly nostalgic and terrifyingly fleeting; like you’ll be able to feel his warmth for years to come, but he’s about to disappear. “That’s okay,” You finally whisper, “It’s okay that you didn’t believe them. That you thought what you thought. It’s okay.” He shakes his head against yours, opening his mouth to protest, but you refuse to let him feel guilty about feeling this way - you have plenty of time to sit him down and talk to him candidly about the way he acted because of these feelings, anyway. “If I would have been in your place I’m not sure I would have believed them.”

“I treated you so badly…” He shifts and wraps his arms around you. It’s almost immediate - you relax into his arms and wind yours around his waist, keeping him pulled against you as he presses his face into your neck and you press your cheek against his chest. “So awfully.”

“We’ll talk about that, okay? But later. Right now you just need to know that I love you, Steve. I love you more than I can tell you - more than I can express.” You want to kiss him, but you can’t. Can’t kiss him, you need to wait for him to kiss you, for him to close that gap and show you that he still loves you like you love him. “We’ll have to have a talk, a long and hard conversation about this, Stevie, but for now… For now, I’m just content to be with you, okay? MIssed you so much.”

He sighs, nose pressing against yours again. “Missed you too, dovie. Missed you more than I can even say,” His voice breaks as his lips brush yours. Your relationship is not without its flaws and problems - Steve’s actions when he thought you were cheating on him are proof of that and, well, the fact that you didn’t realize what was happening, why it was happening, or a large part of your boyfriend’s psychological makeup having an impact on your relationship while it went unknown by you… There is a lot of work for the two of you to do, a lot of work to do, a lot of communication to be done… But you’d do it all for Steve, over and over again.

When he presses forward and presses his lips gently to yours, you know that he’ll do it all for you, over and over again, too.

[faemen]

Don't know what you mean by again, but. Isn't that transphobic? People worked so hard to get recognized as the opposite sex, male and female. It's literally in your pants... if you want to be unique, then "catgender" and "stargender" and "neopronouns" aren't it. You're not quirky, just offensive. You seem decent so please change your mind.

mmm sorry but no. im trans myself and while i know that doesnt excuse me from being transphobic to others, dont think im going down like this. you DO realize that gender literally isnt a real thing, right?

like. thats why people use the "oh its an illness there isnt actually anything different in their brains or genes" excuse to say trans people arent real but... its literally looking at different people's bodies and going "okay, we're going to divide ALL of society based off this now. itll be our main assumption and biased system, and anyone who goes outside it is or does everything different is a threat to us."

itd be like going "okay, brunettes are not allowed to express emotion, must be the strong ones, and blondes have to be soft and do all the kid work" ultimately? its LITERALLY all based of body parts. its allowing people to judge other people without getting to know them because of labels and boxes that we're all forced into.

which is.. what youre doing rn actually. YOURE being transphobic by saying the opposite gender and that xenogenders dont exist, actually. and that we must all stick to a binary of our own creation.

and no, im not dismissing any trans people. you know why? because although gender didnt exist to begin with, it DOES NOW, and its a really important part of people's identities. its more of a feeling than anything you can explain with research, and i think thats really cool tbh. its why sometimes we're queer, sometimes we dont label, sometimes we choose names based on who we love or dont instead. we change, we evolve, because we're all human at the end of the day. gender is something weve reclaimed as important, a part of us. and sometimes? male and female just dont define that.

yeah, sometimes your feeling IS of another one in the typical binary, and the parts associated with the gender everyone assumes you are can be painful to look at. that doesnt mean that people without dysphoria or with xenogenders are invalidating you in any way. theyre just exploring an open concept WE as people invented!! theyre making up their own definition for their identities and creating nouns and flags to represent it and.. dont you think thats awesome?

its also why it makes me sad to see all these exclusionists and haters. cishetallos ARENT the enemies, actually. its just society as a whole that decided thats the norm, and the default, but its really not. we're all so unique and different and i think we should give each other a chance.

its why queer used to be a slur, because they were afraid to not know everything. they didnt like that we were going outside of what they always knew, couldnt be put into boxes, that we were unpredictable. THAT was queer to them. different. weird.

but to us? we're all considered weird, so we banded together under that word. whats the point though if our own community, that was forced to form under those same circumstances, cant be open to new identities? weve already been pushed out of 'normal' circles for being different, so when people like you want to make a new normal IN THE QUEERS AS WELL, there is no point. may as well keep on dividing and dividing until nothings normal anywhere.

i.. talked for a while there didnt i. but hey, hope it helps. im not like you, so id like to give you a chance. i havent lived very long under the queer umbrella, but even i know what its supposed to stand for. i hope you and all the rest with hatred and exclusion still in their hearts can learn too.

[gay-jesus-probably]

Bisexuality didn't "feel right" as a label because you're biphobic and will do anything to distance yourself from bisexuality. Get well soon, the bi community will be here when you're ready.

Are you the raging homophobe anon back for round two or a new guy? ...It doesn’t really matter, you people are all the same.

If you are the same anon, then now I’m extra pissed off at you because do you have any idea how difficult it is to make fun of your messages? You’re making this really hard for me. First you send a five word ask declaring me a homophobe with no details, and it took a lot of thinking to come up with a vaguely funny response to such a lackluster prompt. You’re a really bad improv partner.

And now you send me this shit. Sorry everybody, no jokes today, now I’m actually just fucking furious.

Let me tell you a story, anon. When I was an innocent little twelve year old back in the far of reaches of 2011, I first discovered Tumblr, and soon enough I was learning about different genders and sexualities, and began exploring my own identity. As you already know since you’re sarcastically quoting me talking about my own fucking feelings, I’d been having a minor sexuality crisis for several years at that point, since gay, straight and bisexual were the only label I’d known before then, and none of them fit me. Despite me trying all of them. Multiple times. You condescending piece of shit.All this was resolved by me stumbling across a post defining pansexuality, and that being the first and only sexual identity that’s ever actually felt right for me. It clicked instantly, and has continued to be my sexuality for literally a decade now.

But back when I first started entering the queer community, pansexuality was actually pretty controversial. So was bisexuality. The two were just lumped together actually, because according to the exclusionists back then, bi/pan people are attracted to the opposite sex, and therefor are basically just straight. Actually they rarely cared enough to bother differentiating between bisexual and pansexual people, they just lumped us all in together as a bunch of heteros pretending to be gay for attention and oppressing the real gays. What a bunch of special fucking snowflakes, pretending to be gay for attention. So there I was, a twelve year old queer kid with a brand new identity, being welcomed by a bunch of exclusionists angrily yelling about how I was definitely just a hetero faking it for attention, and being pansexual was Wrong and Bad. But it was okay, because the exclusionists knew better than me. They knew how I really felt, and what my real identity was. They could fix me. I just had to agree with everything they said and become the person they decided I was supposed to be.

I didn’t do that.

Let’s jump forward a few years. I was older, and still perfectly confident in my identity as a pansexual. I hadn’t considered any other parts of my identity. Why would I? I just never really thought much about gender. Then shortly after my fourteenth birthday, I watched a short film online about a trans boy figuring out his identity and working up the courage to come out to his mother. I don’t remember what it was called or most of the details. All I remember was the last scene where the boy and his mother got into an argument about him not feminine enough, which ended with him screaming that he wasn’t a girl. And then I unexpectedly burst into tears because neither was I.

So that was a fun surprise. Once I pulled through that unexpected sobbing breakdown in the middle of the night and re-evaluated my entire life, I realized that yeah. I really wasn’t a girl. I wasn’t a boy either. Fortunately by then I knew that nonbinary people were a thing, so I had plenty of options. I spent awhile feeling things out and experimenting with different labels and pronouns before finally settling on agender and they/them pronouns. Which was great! I felt better than ever, and was confident that I had my identity down and everything would be fine. But everything was not fine. Because I’d been so happy about the biphobia dying down that I hadn’t quite noticed the exclusionists switching targets. Now the nonbinary people were lying. What a bunch of special fucking snowflakes, pretending to be queer for attention. The ones who wanted to medically transition were declared to actually be poor confused trans people who couldn’t get over their internalized transphobia to accept their True Identities. And the rest of us... well, we were just a bunch of cishet special snowflakes playing at being trans for attention, and oppressing the real trans people. I wasn’t agender. I was a cis girl making up fake identities for attention, and calling myself nonbinary was Wrong and Bad. But it was okay, because the exclusionists knew better than me. They knew how I really felt, and what my real identity was. They could fix me. I just had to agree with everything they said and become the person they decided I was supposed to be.

I didn’t do that.

Step forward a few more years, now to eighteen year old me. There’s no dramatic revelations or long struggles this time, just a slow realization. Because I’d been single for years, and I wasn’t bothered by that. I actually enjoyed it. Marriage didn’t sound very appealing. Neither did dating. I’d dated people before, but I wasn’t sure if I actually wanted to; it was just... the thing I was supposed to do. I found people attractive, sure. But I hadn’t wanted to flirt with anyone. Actually, now that I was thinking about it, had I ever felt romantically attracted to anyone? I didn’t even want romance in fiction! So I experimented. Went on some dates just in case age made it more appealing (it didn’t). Began calling myself aromantic, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the longer I used it, the better it felt. It was right.

But once again, the exclusionists were back and even angier than ever. Because now aphobia was in full swing. After all, asexuality wasn’t really queer. It’s just not having sex! It’s basically straight! What a bunch of special fucking snowflakes, pretending to be queer for attention. And the aromantics, oh the aromantics who weren’t asexual were even worse. Because everyone knows that love is what makes us human. How could someone not feel romance? Us aro people weren’t just lying about our identities, we were pretending to not have feelings so that we could get away with using people for sex without commitment. Being aro meant I was an abusive sex crazed monster taking advantage of all the poor innocent allo’s. I wasn’t aromantic. I was a sexual predator making up a fake identity to take advantage of people, and even though I wasn’t actually sleeping around calling myself aro was Bad and Wrong. But it was okay, because the exclusionists knew better than me. They knew how I really felt, and what my real identity was. They could fix me. I just had to agree with everything they said and become the person they decided I was supposed to be.

And I didn’t fucking do that.

Look. I’ve been here for a very long time, and I have dealt with so many versions of exclusionist bullshit. Every aspect of my identity has been met with random fucking strangers online smugly informing me that I was wrong about myself and they were right. And that’s just the ones that wanted me to pretend to be something else; about half of the exclusionists didn’t make any attempts at conversion therapy, and instead skipped straight to suicide baiting. I’m not even getting into the actual homophobes I’ve had to deal with, or the TERF’s that have come after me under the assumption that I’m a trans woman. My point is, I’m pretty fucking used to this sort of thing.

This just hurts a little more, because like I said earlier, the first round of exclusionism I faced was just expanded biphobia. And the bi/pan community banded together in the face of that. We weren’t the exact same identities, but we were being treated the same, and we were similar enough that nobody really minded the difference. It was wonderful. Bi and pan people were a tightly knit group, and that was a sense of community I desperately needed when I was young. I’ve been seeing this coming for awhile. There’s been increasing amounts of bi people getting drawn in by exclusionist bullshit, and I’ve seen anti-pansexual sentiment growing. I just... really hoped it wouldn’t get this far. It’s sad, y’know? It feels like losing an old friend. I’m really disappointed that you think trying to force people out of their community is right. It’s fucking pathetic, and I hope that someday you’ll rediscover basic compassion and realize how much damage you’re doing to yourself and others. This sort of thing doesn’t help the bisexual community. It drives people away. It’s like the damage that TERF’s have done to the lesbian community; this sort of thing poisons the whole well. I hope you re-evaluate what you’re doing and find a more healthy mindset.

...But also at the same time: Who the fuck do you think you are? Take your condescending bullshit and shove it directly up your ass you fucking waste of oxygen. How the fuck dare you. Do you realize the fucking audacity it takes to claim to know someone's identity better than they do? You self centered egotistical douchebag. Your parents should feel ashamed for having raised such an utter failure of a human being. I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but I can already tell you beat off twice a day to how fucking clever you think you are. If you ever darken my inbox again you’d better be damn sure you keep it anonymous, because if I find you I’ll kick your fucking teeth in, you smug piece of shit.

[nonbinarypoststhings]

Hi, irrelevant, I know, but do you remember anything about the highschool period of your life? I swear this part is the most stressful part of all my life, first I figure out my sexuality, then I move away from all my friends, then my gender, and as if it's not enough, add to that school and standardised tests and all the typical drama of being a teen. Oh and also don't forget that you're somehow supposed to make choices that will affect the rest of your life.How does anyone even survive it?

I do remember my high school life, and as I have reconnected with one of my old classmates recently, I've even talked a bit about it with her.

(Warning for Homophobia, transphobia, Sexism, Racism. Only the homophobia is like explicit, but the others are mentioned. Feel free to tell me if there is more warnings I should have. Also, long post)

High school is a tough period of time for everyone. Everyone is struggling with who they are, and what they want in life.

And add in the layer of being Lgbtq+ it becomes more frustrating.

I have a hard time translating the school things from my country to others, but I believe I graduated what would be translated into high school only this year, but I will still talk about my old school which I graduated from three years ago.

My class back then was not the best place for anyone who is lgbtq+. Me and the classmate I mentioned earlier connected well back then, and still do now, but the rest of them..? Not so much (I will also exclude two more people from that rest, who also is my friends now).

We were a class of 22 or 23, and yes I believe that most of us probably were at least somewhat accepting of the lgbtq+ community, we still only had, from what I know, 2 people who actually is in the community. Neither of us accepted it at the time, even though we both were proudly supportive of the community.

The thing is, she struggled with internalized shit about her identity and that delayed the realization.

I was genderfluid, and same thing there. I denied my own gender because, my friend was nonbinary, I couldn't also be, right? So internlized shit that delayed the realization.

Neither of us came to term with it until after we had left that school.

But I have a clear memory of us both Hating our class, we were a class of mainly guys, and every single guy was white (tbf, we had 1 person who wasn't white in our class all together).

We all know what white cis straight men are famous for...

Being bigots.

I don't know if anything has changed these past years, I haven't talked to them. But back then,

At least half of them were openly sexist, homophobic, transphobic etc.

I have a clear memory, that still Disgusts me so much to this day, of a sex ed class where the teacher, bless her, tried to be inclusive and ask us what we thought about gay couples. (Not how it should be done, but it was atleast a try in the right direction) The guys, who always ran the show (the ones I hated more than I think I can explain), said (TW for Homophobia):

"Gay guys are disgusting. Lesbians are hot".

I was so mad, my skin was crawling with disgust, still is when I think about it. To everyone who only accept lesbians because they think it's hot, you are disgusting. Lesbians are real people and they are not there to please some man. It's not for you, it's between the lesbian and her girlfriend and you should Stay Out Of It!

It wasn't a great place to be out in, so maybe it wasn't weird for us to ignore our own identity, to not want to be lgbtq+ in that space, because if we had been out back then even just to ourselves we would've had to face these people every day and therefore face these kind of things knowing that they are talking about us like this. Even though they didn't know it, they were and it was disgusting and terrible.

(I am not saying repress your gender or sexuality until you are older, you don't have to do that at all. Just be safe, and know that if people are mean or ignorant, they are wrong. You are valid and loved and we all support you so much. Find support, and don't let bigots tear you down. You are Valid and you are who You are no matter what others tell you)

I wanted out of that class, from those people, ever since I was like 6-7 years old. I hoped when we switched school when we were 12-13 that I would end up without a bunch of them. I did still have that same class, which really I had expected even if I hoped differently.

At 16 I got a change to move across the country, I took it. Actually, I kinda fought for it, and I was lucky enough to get it.

Moving away from all my friends were scary even if I had made an active choice to do so. I was terrified that I would be lonely, and that everyone at this new school would be terrible and I had to move back home and face that shame of failure (obvs, it wouldn't be actual failure to get out of a toxic place if it has been that, but I saw it as such)

When I came to this new school, everything was super different from back home.

My class was, to my standards, filled with so many different people with different cultures. All of them different from mine because I was from across the country, from a small town. And suddenly here I was in a gigantic city.

Anyway, this school taught me a lot, about everything. My class had openly Lgbtq+ people. My new friends were suddenly all queer or questioning, and I was in awe, because... It could be like this?

Also, everyone was super nice to me. Asking for my instagram on day 1 so we could be friends on there, showing me how to get back home in this new city when everything was so new to be, starting conversations and being just geniune good people. Like, huge shout out to those people.

I learned so much about oppression, and how to stand against it in this school, not because I myself was oppressed, I'm white and at the time I thought I was cishet.

No, I learned because our teachers wanted us to learn about all these things that I knew were real problems but I had only heard of in fiction, never in real life.

I got to a safe space, where racist teachers got fired asap. Where teachers were openly queer and my classmates could come out as trans to the class simply by stating their new name and pronouns. No questions asked. I got to a school where every introduction included name and pronouns. Where we were all shown that we can be who we are and that is okay. And where teachers apologized to students in a real and honest way when they did something wrong.

In this environment I got to figure out who I am. Yes it took two years, but I figured it out and felt safe enough to tell my new friends in weeks, because they accept everyone.

So, the question, how do you survive high school?

My answer is simply, you hold onto the belief that you will survive, and that things will get better. And you will get there.

You can try to find other lgbtq+ people in your school, I know some have groups you can join (mine didn't).

And with the tests, I guess I recommend you study, and remember that a bad grade isn't the end of the world. You are worth more than a grade.

I wish I could promise you that you could enter a school like mine, where everything certainly wasn't perfect (you never get rid of high school drama...), but it was still a very friendly space.

But I can promise you that you are not alone and things will be better. If it gets better in high school or if it gets better years later, I can't tell you. But it does get better. And you will survive.

Also, sorry for this extremely long answer, it was probably not what you're looking for. But I hope you find an answer in there eitherway.

Long story short, high school is a shitshow, but the show must go on.

Also, gender neutral bathrooms in schools should be standard (it has been in all schools I've gone to and no one is complaining here, not even the transphobes).

Also, the reason why I barely mention the girls in my old class, is simply because there were almost none and nothing any of them have said when I've been around has been relevant to this answer.

Tell me if you want things tagged or added to the warnings at top.

[queerchoicesblog]

A Few Words On Pride Month 2020

So, pride month has come at last. No matter how crazy it sounds right now as we're experiencing first-hand one of those events that will end up in history handbooks one day.

I'll be honest, it's quite difficult for me to talk about it now when everything that is not Mrs Rhona releted seems so well less relevant than it was before. But I want to share a few words that most likely nobody will read but I'll let them flow anyway.

I watch that video every single year during pride month. It's from a series I liked quite a lot back then, it's called Sense8. The character speaking is a trans woman, an lgbtq+ hacktivist, reminiscing her disastrous relationship with her transphobic mother yet finding strength in her own sorrow. There is a passage I love:

Today I'm marching to remember that I'm not just a me

But I'm also a we

And we march with pride

These words resonate with me: they summarise perfectly the deep empathy and acceptance that I feel should make us stick together. Both inside the lgbtqa+ community and as human beings: "I am a human being, and thus nothing human is alien to me". I'm quoting by heart a Latin playwright named Terentius (Terence in English, I guess?) so forgive me if I got something wrong but what I mean is...we should all care about each other because no matter our differences, our sexuality or color of skin or class, we are human. We are brothers and sisters: I'm an only child but I believe that the definition of a healthy family is one where people overcome differences that don't truly matter in the end, they don't define us as worthy or unworthy of love and respect which should always be given to another human being.

Unless there are valid reasons not to.

As the latest happenings in the world have shown, a hard truth we all know has been reinforced: we live in a cruel, unfair world where, as Nomi said, "hating isn't a sin on that list and neither is shame". A world where people get hurt or killed for reasons which can be hardly called a motive for violence: not being white, not being rich enough, being different, holding a hand or kissing a person of the same sex in the street.

We may comfort ourselves saying these fears were past fears, last century or even Victorian age fears but no, they're still out there. And we can't turn a blind eye.

The current pandemic added new ones, making our lives even more miserable. Speaking of the lgbtqa+ community, I think I can say the social distancing is hitting even harder. Does anybody feel lonelier now? I rise my hand, I do. I'm not referring to the fact that pride parades are cancelled (because we all know there is a freaking valid reason atm), but getting in touch with other people is way harder now. In my personal experience, getting in touch with fellow lgbtqa+ folks was rare even before the pandemic, now it's hella tough. In the street we hide our faces behind masks and don't have the same careless attitude we used to display. Shaking hands and even the lightest touch or proximity are not allowed under the new restrictions: a few weeks ago, over here a couple was charged for hugging each other in the street. How sad and dystopic are these times we live in...

Virtual meetings can help but they're not like in person meetings: the warmth of personal interaction is simply not there. We try but it's not there. Couples are separeted by lockdown rules and so are some families. Lgbtqa+ hotlines are a saving grace and I cannot stress enough how important they are and how anyone struggling with their mental health or literally anything concerning themselves, their gender and sexuality should feel free to contact those volunteers who are a blessing restoring a little faith in humanity.

My thoughts are for those of us who got stuck quarantining with homophobic/biphobic/transphobic etc parents or roommates, and those stuck in abusive contexts. Yes, even relationships because - I know I'll be super unpopular saying this but we can't lie especially to the minor or vulnerable ones- lgbtqa+ relationships can be abusive and toxic too. As I said, we're human and I am sick and tired of the honeyed sunshine rhetoric of lgbtqa+ people and love as an ever right and righteous safe haven. It is a safe haven for us to some extent but we must acknowledge there are problematic issues in our community. We have to be honest with each other especially for the sake not only of each other but for the vulnerable ones and the young. Like criticising or reporting abusers, predators, rapists and so on don't make us all filthy creatures who will burn on a stake for our abominable sins. It just makes us responsible and looking out for each other.

We spend so long dreaming of finding someone of the same sex to be with that when someone shows us any sign of affection our feelings for them grow fast, even when red flags or abuse enter our lives. We stay because we're hungry for love and crave what straighties seem to get so easily: love, acceptance, reciprocity. To the young and everyone who needs to hear this I wanna say: it doesn't have to be like that. Don't ever settle for cheap love only because you feel you will lose your only chance to be loved. There are good people out there too and you deserve one of them at your side. You will find them, your paths will cross: just be patient and never ever forget the importance of respect and consent.

To all those experiencing anything like the relationships or toxicity I mentioned, who feel silenced by the sunshine rhetoric, I say: you are not alone, stay strong and you did nothing wrong, others did and I'm sorry you're going through this cause you don't deserve it.

I share a similar shutout to those struggling with mental and/or physical disorders. If you ever felt pretty much invisible, you're not. I see you, many others see you and we're all rooting for you. You're stronger than you think and you're beautiful.

The not-as-unfortunate-as-the abovementioned but still quite forlorn are the star crossed lovers meeting that special someone in a bad time. Quarantine will see the blossoming of some romances but also takes no prisoners, blowing off others. They don't vanish though, in most cases they turn into those impossible loves and what if we love so much in the movies and hate in real life. I wish I could lay a blanket or pull into a tight hug all those going through this. Your pain is not irrelevant even if there are worst things in the world right now, our souls hurt for things like that. I hold your shaking hand wherever you are as you stare blankly at your phone, waiting for a message or a call that will never come, or you reminisce, listening to a romantic playlist you still have saved on your device. Your suffering is my suffering.

On a brighter side, cause I don't wanna be a complete downer, the luckiest ones among us are blessed with love and I can't be any happier for you, whoever you are. I can picture the one day a few years from now when I will be talking to someone and they will share their story saying how they met the love of their life during the pandemic. How it wasn't easy at first because of all the uncertainty and fears but they kept trying and it all started with a social distancing date at a park or via Zoom. You lucky ones, cherish that and never take what you have for granted: the love you feel and that special someone is showing you is a balsam in hard times. Please cherish it dearly and never stop loving: one day you'll warm these old bones and lonely heart if we ever get the chance to cross path.

Actually I don't have any more wisdom to share, granted what I wrote can be called wisdom, nor giveaway. I considered doing a lgbtqa+ one in honor of the pride month but I feel nobody would be interested. Or at least not by me and I fully agree: writing is getting hard and I feel like I risk of ruining everything I dedicate myself to, as I usually do in my life. I'll follow the tips of a few anons (I think?) and devote this month to educate myself over aspects, nuances or realities I am not fully familiar with: so I'll watch Pose and Sex Education. Hopefully I'll learn something new that might make me a better human being.

Feel free to share further advice: books, articles, movies, series, documentaries...you name it! Drop a message or an ask and I'll make what I'm starting now a lasting project!

That is my advice: if you're stuck inside with nothing much to do this month, find something that might enrich you, even a little thing, and go for it.

As well as reminding yourself the usual stuff: you are not wrong nor unlovable, you're not offensive or dirty for being attracted to your same sex or both or none. Not to quote Lady Gaga, but it's truly is that simple: you are born and beautiful this way.

Stay safe and stay strong, my darlings 🏳️‍🌈

Love,

E.

[dinviataunuitiptrans]

#dinviataunuitiptrans

It's 2020 and my only resolution is to take it easy on me and go walk whenever I feel the sadness circling my soul, so this day I do just that.

I woke up freezing because the heater got broken and I know that if I stay indoors I'm gonna fall into some sort of despair so I go and brew some few cups of tea, purr them in bottles, roll up my last blunt from the stash, eat some pasta left overs from new years eve, dress myself in pretty colors and head out. It's been one hour of walking therapy so I stop by McD. to pee and then head out to the small park to have a smoke and rest my legs.

"- Futu-ți morții mă-tii de adiere băşită" is the best my brain could think of when the wind blowed away the tobacco from my rizla while trying to roll, so I start all over.

"- Futu-ți morții mă-tii...", this is my second attempt, the tobacco is all over my pants so I take a deep breath and keep on trying.

"- Futu-ți morții mă-tiiiii!!!!"

That was my 3d attempt to roll but the wind had other plans for my lungs. But then you came bye amused by the words you didn't understand, holding a pack of cigarettes and inviting me to stop fighting the wind and have a smoke from your pack. So I take one and you take a seat next to me and we lit up the cancer tubes, I say thanks and you say I'm very cute and smile. To scare the shyness away I pretend to flip my hair in the gayest way possible:

- Oh, just cute? and I thought I was beautiful, now you destroyed my dreams to ever be an instagram sensation.

You start laughing and tell me I'm actually beautiful and we start playing this game where we kinda make fun of how dumb we as humans are, I'm cracking up silly jokes and you do the same, I tell you I find you very cute also and I apologise for shattering your dreams of being an insta model, you laugh and you give me another cigarette and then move a bit closer to me.

- You're very smart for such a young guy...are you seeing someone?

- Love, you're sweet but I'm not that young...

Then you touch my hand and tell me you already like me and that I don't have to lie to impress you because you have been with guys younger than my age. That's how I find out that I'm most likely 22 or 23 and that you're just few years older than me, you're 25. I tell you lies are not my sexy kink and that I'm born in 1984, on the 31st of May. You laugh but I see the awe on your face so I tell you the good looks run in my family and that if you see my brothers you'll know what I'm talking about.

- Show me

You say that and then cuddled so close to me that you give me no option but put my arm around you while I start pulling out pictures from the phone.

- Here is Patrick, he's the love of my life and one of the sweetest man the Universe has given us. He's gonna be 35 this year.

You say we look alike but that I'm prettier than him so I turn a bit red and start feeling kind of uncomfortable so I swipe away.

- In this picture he's with Max, they are at a court hearing. Max is the oldest one, he is in his 40s and he lives here in UK but up north. I haven't seen him for ages and I miss him and his signature paranoia very much. This is Andrei, I have tons of pictures with him, we live together and he is so sweet that every time I think of him my heart melts. Probably the reason I take secret pictures of him while sleeping.

I show you more pictures with him and tell you the story when I had to sleep in his room and how he cuddled close to me when we were sleeping and you press yourself against my body and tell me you get it why. This makes me feel even more uncomfortable cuz you kinda took up every cm of my personal space but I don't know what to do so I brush it off.

- He's 22 and he might be one of the sexiest of us but he's not the youngest, Gherman is. See? This is Gabi but I call him Gherman, this is a screenshot from one of our chats, I always do this pictures when we talk so that I have them to look at when I miss them. You would say he's 14 but actually he just turned 18. He's an adorable pain in the ass but with the soul in the right place. And this is Chriss, look how gorgeous this guy is and his heart is pure gold. He's such a talented artist but unfortunately he wasn't discovered yet, he draws nudes and erotic art and it's mind fucking blowing. This is a photo with Chriss, Rami and Teo, I almost cried when I got these pictures of them. Rami represents the whole notion of humanness and he's shy just like me.

- This guy is blonde... is he also your brother?

You pointed out to Teo so I show you more pictures with him and then pull up pictures with Andreas also.

- Yeah, we have few blondes in our family but we decided to love them nonetheless. This is Andreas, not only that he's blond but he's also a very wise man. It's always such a pleasure talking to him. He's in Germany now. Just like Leo.

I'm looking for pictures with Leo so I start scrolling for the screenshots from the last whatsapp conversation and you decide to take a break from your cuddle and have a smoke. Now I feel more comfortable even though you're still resting your body next to mine.

- Here is my adorable Leo.

- He looks alot like the first guy without the beard..

- Like Patrick?

- Yeah

You see the pictures with me and Vlăduț and you like him.

- This is your brother also, I can tell. Is he old like you?

- No, actually he's young like you. And also an amazing musician and sound therapist. He makes sounds with weird instruments and then you feel a bit better. But he's not in London anymore, he returned home, he wasn't feeling very good here.

I feel you're a bit disappointed and probably thinking that you'll have to settle with me but once you get me started with my brothers it's very hard to make me stop.

- And this is Aris, he looks like an artist because he is one, he's a painter and a tattoo artist. And this is Elias, if you're ever looking for a smart conversation then he's the guy to go to. Him or Alexander. The difference is the sarcasm of Alex versus the warmth of Elias.

Then I show you Alexander and you smile and ask me if Elias and Alex are twins but I have no chance to answer because now you're handing me your phone and ask me to pull up my fb and I do just that so you start looking around while I'm getting even more nostalgic going through the pictures in my phone. I'm looking for a picture with Abel but I have no more time to show it to you

- You're transgendered?

- Oh love, there's no such thing as being "transgendered", nobody can transgender me, I am transgender because this is how I am.

- You mean you're not a real man?

- I'm just as a real human as you are love, and for sure am a man. Just that I'm a trans man

- And you're proud of this sickness...

And then you show me my cover photo.

I felt your disgust even since you said "Trasgendered" and I know very well that look in your eyes, I once had a crazy girlfriend who used to look at me just like that and somehow it feels so fucking familiar that I sense what is going to happen next so I try my best to avoid it. I tell you that each of us has its own life to live and that people must learn to accept and embrace diversity if we want to heal this human race. I tell you that body parts are just that, body parts and that gender identity is not defined by sexual anatomy. I want to tell you more but I was right and you snap into rage mode, slap the shit out of me almost poking my eye out with your nails.

- Fucking disgusting predator, man with pussy, you should be burned alive.

You walk away in anger showing the middle finger, shouting "fuck you", so I shout back that you wish to have the luck to get fucked by such a proud trans man but that I don't fuck crazy bitches anymore so you turned around and you were fuming so I told you that if you come back to hit me again I'm gonna punch you in the face. You left. I start rolling one and feel sorry I got angry and yelled back but somehow so relieved that you went away.

Dear L.,

You have my FB now and somehow I hope this message gets to you: please get some medical help you are in desperate need, and you won't get to meet nice guys like me everywhere.

I know you have serious mental issues cuz a healthy mind wouldn't let you go to total strangers looking for their attention and affection on a bench in a park, you don't cuddle with strange men and expose yourself like that.

I lived with a girl like you, extremely violent and unstable that is, for a whole year and I know that you were just looking to meet somebody that looks like a nice guy but actually hoping to get an asshole so you can have an excuse to violently manifest your pain. Been there through that already so I know the drill. The fact that you discovered I'm transgender was just the trigger you were looking for, and I didn't feel you hated me but I did feel that you wanted to make someone suffer and you found me, so it was just a matter of time until something would have triggered you.

PS: I'm sorry I threatened you but I don't like being hit. I wouldn't have hit you back but I would have called the ambulance because I learned that being a sweet person doesn't help when somebody suffers like you do.