#Wrong chromosome dad

[quietlyrebellious01]

The first time I came out, and mind you this was before I even knew there was a word for being trans or that it was even an option, I was in 4th grade. We'd just learned about The Chromosomes, so just imagine:

My father, chilling on the easy chair watching some local nature/outdoors program on PBS.

His 10 year old daughter son, gets home from school, marches into the living room and just says "Wrong chromosome dad!"

And then marches back to the kitchen to do homework with no further explanation.

(To his credit, he did raise me as a son in everything but name after that, even though it took me 17 years to get my junk figured out and put a name to it)

[fozmeadows]

As someone who hasn't read the works of radical feminists like Simone de Beauvoir, could you explain what's wrong and what bothers you about biological essentialism? I'm curious about your opinion after reading your post on radfems (and I'd like a perspective that isn't so based on biological gender essentialism, which I honestly have a hard time moving away from because I don't understand other perspectives well). 👀

The problem with biological essentialism is that purports to answer the eternally unanswered question of nature vs nurture in a wholly one-dimensional way - ie, with biological sex as The Single Most Important Aspect Of Personhood, regardless of any other considerations - while simultaneously ignoring the fact that biological sex is not, in fact, a binary proposition. We've learned in recent decades, for instance, that intersex conditions are much more common and wide-ranging than previously thought, not because scientists have arbitrarily changed the definitions of what counts as an intersex condition, but because our understanding of hormones, chromosomes, karyotpying and other physical permutations has expanded sufficiently to merit the shift. So right away, the idea that humanity is composed of Biological Men and Biological Women with absolutely no ambiguities, overlap or middle ground simply isn't true. Inevitably, though, if you mention this, people with a vested interest in biological essentialism become immediately defensive. They'll start saying things like, oh, but that's only a tiny minority of the population, they're outliers, they don't count, as though their argument doesn't derive its claim to authority from a presumed universality. To use a well-worn example, redheads are also a tiny minority of the population, but that doesn't mean we exclude them when talking about the range of natural human hair colours. But the fact is, even if humans lacked chromosomal diversity beyond XX/XY; even if there were no cases of cis men with internal ovaries or cis women with internal testes or people with ambiguous genitalia - and let's be clear: all of these things exist - the fact is, our individual hormones are in flux throughout our lives.

There are standard ranges for estrogen and testosterone in men and women (which, again, vary according to age and some other factors), but two cis men of the same age and background could still have completely different T-counts, for instance - meaning, even the supposed universal gender factor isn't universal at all. More, while our hormones certainly play a major role in our moods and cognition, so do a ton of other genetic and bodily factors that have nothing to do with the sex we're assigned at birth - and on top of that, there's nurture: the cultural contexts in which we're raised, plus our more individual experiences of living in the world. One of the most common, everyday (and yet completely bullshit) permutations of biological essentialism comes when parents or would-be parents talk about their reasons for wanting a son or a daughter. Very often, there's a strong play to stereotypical assumptions about shared interests and personalities: I want a son to play football with me, for instance, or: I want a daughter to be my shopping buddy. But even within the most mainstream channels of cishet culture, it's understood that these hopes are not, in fact, grounded in any sort of biological certainty. The dad who wants a sporty son might be just as likely to end up with a bookworm, while the mother who wants a little princess might find herself with a tomboy. We know this, and our stories know this! For the entirety of human history - for as long as we've been writing about ourselves - we have records of parental disappointment in the failure of this child or that to embody what's expected of them, gender-wise. More than that: if biological essentialism was real - if men were only and ever One Type Of Man, and women were only and ever One Type Of Woman, with recent progressive moments the sole anonymous blip in an otherwise uniform historical standard - then why is there so much disparity and disagreement throughout human history as to what those roles are? The general conception of women espoused in medieval France is thoroughly different to that espoused in pre-colonial Malawi, for instance, and yet we're meant to believe that there's some innate Gender Template guiding all human beings to behave in accordance with a set, immutable biological binary? And that's before you factor in the broad and fascinating history of trans and nonbinary people throughout history - because despite what TERFs and conservative alarmists have to say on the matter, our records of trans people, and of societies in which various trans and nonbinary identities were widely understood (if not always accepted), are ancient. We know about trans priestesses from thousands of years before Christ; the Talmud has terms describing eight different genders, and those are just two examples. All over the world, all throughout history, different cultures have developed radically different concepts of femininity and masculinity, to say nothing of designations outside of, overlapping with or in between those categories - socially, legally, behaviourally, sexually - and yet we're meant to believe that biology is at all times nudging us towards a set, ideal gender template? There's a lot more I could say, but ultimately, the point is this: people are different. While some aspects of our personhood are inevitably influenced by genetics, hormones, chromosomes and other biological factors, we're also creatures of culture and change and interpersonal experience. The idea that men and women are fundamentally different, even diametrically opposed, at a biological level - that the major separator in terms of our personalities and interests isn't culture, upbringing and personal taste, but what's between our legs - is just... so reductive, and so inaccurate.

We can absolutely have common experiences on the basis of a shared gender, but gender is not the only possible axis of commonality between two people, let alone the most salient one at all times, and the idea that we're all born on one side of an immutable biological equation that cannot possibly be transcended makes me feel insane. According to modern biological essentialism, intersex, trans and nonbinary people are either monstrous, mistakes or imaginary; all men are fundamentally predisposed to violence, all women are designed for motherhood, and we're meant to just hew to our designated places - which, conveniently, tend to echo a very specific form of Christian ideology, but which in any case manifestly fail to account for how variedly gender has been presented throughout history. It's nuts.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 15: Drive] [Series Finale]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, violence, character deaths.

Word count: 7.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @elsolario​ @ladylannisterxo​ @doingfondue​ @tclegane​ @quartzs-posts​ @liathelioness​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @thelittleswanao3​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @poohxlove​ @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @travelingmypassion​ @graykageyama​ @skythighs​ @lauraneedstochill​ @darlingimafangirl​ @charenlie​ @thewew​ @eddies-bat-tattoos​ @minttea07​ @joliettes​ @trifoliumviridi​ @bornbetter​ @flowerpotmage​ @thewitch-lives​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles​ @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @tillyt04​ @cicaspair418​ @fan-goddess​ 

A/N: This is the fic I almost never wrote because I didn’t think anyone would be interested in some random, angsty, 1990s, Alaskan, crime-thriller AU. Thank you for proving me wrong. I hope you enjoy the ending. 💜

Almost everything about your existence is pure chance; it’s the most freeing and horrifying truth imaginable. There’s the genetic lottery and corporate downsizing, revolutions and hurricanes, plagues, asteroids, famines, faulty airplanes and malignant blooms of cells and drunk drivers. There are 100 billion planets in this galaxy and your atoms ended up on the one called Earth. After all that, do you really think what you want matters? So make all the choices you like, all the nail-biting deliberations and promises and vows, weigh costs and benefits, do research, roll dice, ask astrologers and palm readers, start over every New Year because that’s something we tell ourselves is possible. The fact that you exist at all is one big cosmic coin flip. If you think you’re the one driving, you’re dead fucking wrong. You’re the speck of dust on a windshield, the spin of a roulette wheel. You’re a flash of silver in the universe’s pinball machine.

I spend a lot of my time thinking about chance, okay? My family is one of the wealthiest in the Western Hemisphere, and I didn’t do anything to earn that. I was born first, and I definitely didn’t do anything to earn that, Jesus Christ, what a chromosomal fuckup. I inherited an affliction that others get to live without. I can’t imagine what it feels like to wake up and not be horrified by myself, my shortcomings, my failures: too small, too stupid, too wild, too weak. And the first time someone says something like that to you, you want to apologize, you want to drop to your knees and cling to them and beg for absolution, maybe even the first hundred times, the first thousand. And then it just starts to piss you off. Yeah, I know, I’ve heard it all before, why would you expect anything different? Isn’t this getting old, Mom? Maybe you’re the stupid one, Dad, if you think you could cut me and anything but disappointments would fall out. I’m not horrified by the fact that I’m an addict. The horror came first. The horror is what led to all the rest of it.

One day when I was in 10th Grade—I was slumped way down in my chair and drinking vodka out of an Evian water bottle—my American History teacher, purely by chance, assigned me to make a poster about Juneau, Alaska. Some other kid got Los Angeles (Hollywood! The Whisky a Go Go!) and another got Chicago (the Mob!) and another got Nashville (Johnny Cash!) and some jock moron I hated got Baltimore (um, crabs? the War of 1812…?), but I got fucking Juneau, Alaska. I thought this was so unjust that I never forgot it, the fact that I had to get up in front of the class with my pathetic Crayolas-and-magazine-cutouts poster and pretend that Juneau was a place that mattered, that microscopic cloud-covered relic of a late-1800s gold mining settlement on the shores of the Gastineau Channel. Juneau was never on my list of cities to run to. It just wasn’t. It didn’t have anything I wanted. But when I started thinking about places where I could really disappear, where no one would ever bother looking, where days are short and dark and incurious and irrelevant…well, that sounds like Juneau, right?

Let me tell you something about the night I left. I’ve been more messed up, yeah, and I’ve hurt people worse, and I’ve been closer to death, I’ve been one more powder-white gram on the scale away from oblivion; but I’ve never felt that fucking low. I can’t decide if I wish I’d never gone to Juneau at all. I can’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

My flight is a red-eye with a layover in Ketchikan, American Airlines, bound for Seattle. Sunfyre has the window seat. He’s wearing the bright red Service Dog vest that I once stole for him specifically for such occasions. My dog fly with the cargo? My dog?! Bill Clinton will be elected pope first. Sunfyre is chewing contently on Milk-Bones and watching the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. He knows the drill. We’ll touchdown and deplane, and then…and then…

And then we’ll start over again somewhere new. I’ll find a flight board and pick a destination; Seattle is a hub, with spokes leading everywhere. I could go south, to Galveston, Lafayette, Biloxi, someplace where it gets hot, someplace where I can sweat her out of me, purge every cell that still remembers what she felt like. I could go west, fading into mountains or cornfields, vapid infinitesimal towns in Montana, Iowa, Idaho, Nebraska. I could go to New England or the Great Lakes or freaking Hawaii, sleep in hammocks, swim with sea turtles, drink my rum and Cokes out of coconut shells. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that nowhere really sounds good to me. My legs are suddenly tired of running. There’s an ache that rattles down to the bone.

I don’t have to tell you that I love her, right? It’s not so easy for me to say. But it’s true, and it’s beautiful, and it’s torture, and it’s a dream. It’s pain that flays you alive and then builds you back again, layers of fresh muscle and tendons and veins growing over ribs and vertebrae like a trellis thick with ivy. It’s not a high. It’s just the best life can get down here on earth. It’s the ocean, it’s the Northern Lights.

I’m swimming in a black hoodie that is three sizes too big; I haven’t slept and I’m pale and raccoon-eyed, looking like death, feeling worse. When the stewardess rolls by with her clattering cart just slim enough to fit through the aisle, I order a cup of water for Sunfyre and a double rum and Coke for myself. It arrives with two blood-red cherries bobbing in a caramel-dark carbonated sea. The guy in the next seat over gives me a judgmental little eyebrow raise.

“That doesn’t look like breakfast,” he says.

I bite off both cherries—juice dribbling down my chin, wiped away with a sleeve—and throw the stems over my shoulder. The lady sitting behind me yelps in disgust. “Because it’s dessert.”

The man smiles and shakes his head, one of those I shouldn’t find it funny but I do sort of looks. I inspire a lot of those. He’s maybe mid-thirties, long hair and ripped jeans, very punk rock, cool as hell. There is a constellation of pins on his denim jacket. One of them has a roman numeral 10 on it, a stark X nestled inside a triangle. Unity, Service, Recovery, the gold letters say. To Thine Own Self Be True. It’s an Alcoholics Anonymous pin. What are the chances?

He catches me staring, and I ask: “Does it really make you a better man?”

“It doesn’t make you better. It just makes you real.” He smiles again, patient and kind. “It makes your emotions and experiences real, your relationships real. And so you become whatever version of yourself you were always supposed to be. But you have to want it. Not your wife, not your parents or your kids, not your pastor, not your friends, not your parole officer. You.”

I speak without knowing what I’m going to say. “I want it.”

“Yes, I think you do.”

He sees a lot, I think, as the plane descends into the grey fogbank of Seattle. 20/20.

When we land, the man squeezes into a cab with me and Sunfyre—he sniffles into a Kleenex for a while before reluctantly admitting that he’s allergic to dogs—and pays the fare. The cab’s worn brakes squeal to a stop outside a residential treatment center on the banks of the Puget Sound. When we step out onto the sidewalk, I ask the man if he’s going to take me to get one last drink first. He laughs in my face. Fucking jerk.

He pulls out a black Sharpie and rummages through his pockets, his wallet. He can’t find a scrap of paper. He writes his phone number on the underside of my arm instead. “You call me, okay?” he says. “Call me when you get out. Call me before you get out, if you need to. I don’t care if it’s in five minutes, I don’t care if it’s at 2 a.m. You just make sure you call.”

“Why would you do this? I mean, you don’t even know me. You have no idea who I am.”

“Because once, years ago, someone did the same thing for me, and someone did it for her too. Maybe one day you’ll be able to pay it forward. I don’t care who you are or where you’ve been. It doesn’t matter to me. I’d like to think that we’re all more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

And then he waits for me to go inside. He doesn’t leave until he watches me check in at reception on the other side of the rain-flecked glass. Outside, a brand new day is beginning. A misty sun rises as pieces of the sky fall.

Sunfyre trots into the lobby alongside me, panting cheerfully, shaking the perpetual Seattle drizzle from his fur. There’s a girl at the front desk, just a girl, and that’s the other thing that’s different now. She’s not a maybe-future-one-of-my-girls. She’s just like anyone else. I already have a girl. I mean, I don’t anymore, not really. But I still do.

I throw my things onto the counter: my single suitcase, my tattered wallet, my bundle of cash held together with rubber bands, my scraped-up electric guitar.

“Checking in?” the girl asks.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes, I guess.”

She opens my wallet, reads my license, blinks in bewilderment. “Aegon…?”

I sigh dramatically. “It’s Greek.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You dream of him; and when you do, he’s always smiling. He’s reading your palm in an empty Taco Bell, he’s kissing you under the Northern Lights, he’s regaling your parents with stories—of lobster fishing in Portland, of cattle ranching in Denver—all through Thanksgiving dinner, he’s undressing you in his moonlit apartment, he’s climbing into your bed. He’s not angry, he’s not ruined, he’s not running away. He’s exactly as you remember him in his best moments. He’s all chaotic white-blond hair and weightless light, sharp laughter and bright eyes. And each morning there’s a splinter-thin moment before you remember that he’s gone. That’s the worst part, really. You always knew it would be. You can’t even begin to forget him.

Your friends want to help you, but they don’t know how. Neither do your parents. Your dad gets an atlas from the study, throws it down on the dining room table, and opens it to a map of the world. “Pick anyplace and we’ll go there,” he says. “We’ll close the vet clinic for two weeks and we’ll all go.” But you can’t give him a single name: not Athens, or Paris, or Buenos Ares, or Cairo, or New York City, or Rome, or Tokyo, or anywhere else for that matter. It’s the strangest thing. All your life you’ve been waiting to get out of Juneau, but now nowhere sounds good to you. And maybe that’s a lesson you wish you’d never learned: sometimes freedom is less about places than it is about people.

The blood on the equipment recovered from Trent’s apartment matches DNA from the first three victims. He is charged with eight counts of first-degree murder and held awaiting trial in the Lemon Creek Correctional Center. His family visits him faithfully each week. His lawyer is exasperated that he won’t plead guilty and spare his parents the humiliation and expense of a protracted court battle. But Trent’s story never changes: he’s innocent, he’s never killed anybody, he doesn’t understand how the blood could have been found on his belongings. He wants to know exactly what items the police tested; he and his lawyer are still waiting for the prosecutor to turn over all the details during discovery. In the midst of the scandal, the upheaval, you fade into the backdrop like the stars behind fog. People talk around you and through you. They offer gaps that you don’t care enough to fill in. Drinks clink, whispers fly, conspiracies are exchanged between pool shots. You watch the days grow longer and wait for the future to arrive. You don’t know what it will look like, you can’t even begin to fathom it. But surely there must be a future. Life goes on. It did for your mom after Jesse. It will for you too.

A week after Aegon leaves, there is a knock at your parents’ front door. You open it to find Aemond standing there in the muted amber-pink afternoon light. His hair is long and loose, his Armani suit immaculately tailored, his BlackBerry nestled in his right hand. He glances up from it at you and his jaw falls open. And only then do you realize how awful you must look.

You tell Aemond, your voice hushed and heavy, ankles in quick-drying cement: “I don’t know where he is.”

“No, I can see that,” Aemond replies, dull horror in his blue eye. Then he turns around and strides halfway down the driveway towards the street, where a cab idles as it waits for him, engine exhaust pouring into the air like smoke from a firepit.

“How’s your dad?” you call after him when you get your bearings.

He pauses under the dwindling light. “Alive. For now.” And then Aemond considers you for a while. “I suppose if I ever want to find you again, I know where to look.”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

I’ll always be here.

A month crawls by like a wounded animal, dead leaves snared in the fur of its belly. The flesh on your thigh knits back together. The things that Aegon ordered show up in Juneau, packages left on the front porch and stuffed into the moose-shaped mailbox like Christmas gifts in a stocking. You pack these remnants of him—Zoobooks and cooking accessories, knives and Chia Pets—into a cardboard box and tuck it away in a dusty, cobwebbed corner of the attic, and you’re aware the entire time that this has happened before, almost exactly twenty years ago. When your dad puts a Third Eye Blind or Red Hot Chili Peppers or Oasis album on his record player, you find some excuse to leave the room. When you tack magazine cutouts of beaches and cityscapes to your bedroom walls, all you can think about is where Aegon might be now. You wonder where he works during the day, a surf shop or a construction site or a farm or a fishing boat; you wonder who he spends his nights with.

I’ll always be here. Even if I leave, I’ll always be here.

~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty years ago to the day, almost to the hour, a man fell into the Gastineau Channel and drowned. They found water in his lungs, though the autopsy was only a formality, an afterthought; Jesse had a reputation in Juneau, and no one was particularly surprised to see how his story ended. There were abrasions on his back and shoulders, contusions on his wrists, but so what? He probably tripped half a dozen times before he tumbled over some guardrail and into the frigid black water. There was a bloody mess of an impact wound on the side of his face, but who cares? The blood alcohol concentration doesn’t lie. The man was wasted, and more than that he was a waste. If his premature demise hadn’t been then, it would have been later, in a week or a month or a year. And when someone like that goes, there’s a sigh of relief that accompanies the misery, isn’t there? There’s the sense of a weight being lifted from a scale.

You’re sitting in Ursa Minor at the usual booth, but the bar is practically empty. It’s Valentine’s Day. Joyce is with Rob, Kimmie is with Brad; Heather’s parents have spirited her away on a short vacation to Sitka to try to take their minds off Trent’s imminent lifelong incarceration. Your mom and dad’s February 14th tradition is cooking a homemade Italian dinner together—pasta, bread with herbs and olive oil, caprese salad, tiramisu—and then settling in for a romantic Blockbuster rental. This year, it’s Runaway Bride. Your mom loves Julia Roberts. They didn’t ask for privacy, but you gave it to them anyway. Kimmie offered to drop you off at Ursa Minor and then drive you home after her date with Brad so you could drink away your sorrows without having to worry about calling a ride. So now Kimmie is getting wined, dined, and plied with boxed chocolates at the Red Dog Saloon while you drain appletinis and flip through one of Jesse’s journals, not knowing what you’re looking for.

Dale is washing pint glasses in the sink behind the bar and humming cheerfully along to a Cake CD. It’s just you and him tonight; evidently, Dale doesn’t have a hot date either. It was nice of him to eschew the usual Shania Twain or Sheryl Crow soundtrack. He’s trying to spare you from any crooning love songs. He must have forgotten that Cake has its own little slice of relevance in your memories of Aegon, those memories that refuse to fade, ink in your skin as dark as night.

Your fingerprints trace Jesse’s scrawling, handwritten letters. It’s his very last journal, the last words he ever wrote. His final entry is unremarkable, a lucid recollection of his latest woodcarving project: it’s a family of tiny bears, three of them. He says he wants the cub to have the same slope of your cheeks, the shape of your eyes. And it’s just like your mom said. It really did seem like he was getting better.

You flip to the next page, blank. The heading reads: Thursday, February 14th, 1980.

You go back a few days. And your gaze catches on words that you’ve read before, months ago, back when the journals were a new discovery like striking oil. The entry is from Saturday the 9th. It ends with an unceremonious bullet point of a reminder: dinner w/ Dale on Thursday.

You leaf forward to Thursday, to the blank page that tells you nothing. Back to the 9th, forward to the 14th, again, again. Valentine’s Day 1980, before Dale had married his wife, after your mom had stopped trying to make plans with Jesse, maybe even rebelled against them; just two unromantic, discarded men with a vacant slot in their calendars and troubles to drink into submission. Except that Jesse never came home.

Dinner with Dale, you think dizzily. Dinner with Dale on the night he died.

The opening notes of The Distance shout from the stereo. Everything suddenly feels very loud.

Reluctantly crouched at the starting line,

Engines pumping and thumping in time…

What had Aegon said about that song before you sang it together, stomping and staggering across the hardwood floor? It’s not about NASCAR, it’s about a journey!

Outside, it’s a rare clear night in Juneau. The Northern Lights are a kaleidoscopic ribbon against indigo night, the sky a mausoleum of stars. And you remember when Aegon sang Everlong, when he grabbed your hand, led you upstairs to the roof, kissed you for the first time under the ethereal, shimmering curtain of green and purple and blue…before Heather had interrupted to tell you that Dale was closing the bar. He was irritable, he was tired; he wanted to go home.

The arena is empty except for one man,

Still driving and striving as fast as he can…

And then they found a body, didn’t they? Yes, you can remember being in Aegon’s apartment and hearing the police cars zoom by. You remember the red-and-blue flashes on his face. You remember thinking they looked like sapphires and rubies, the ocean and blood.

The sun has gone down and the moon has come up

And long ago somebody left with the cup,

But he’s driving and striving and hugging the turns

And thinking of someone for whom he still burns…

Icy claws glide down the length of your spine. Memories play back with a focused clarity that you didn’t have before: Dale groggy and yawning just before they found the fifth victim at Christmas, and again before they found the eighth the same night Trent dragged you—shrieking, bleeding, virtually naked—out of your Jeep. You remember Dale at your parents’ New Year’s Eve party talking about how maybe the killer was an athlete with brain damage from CTE. You remember him offering to give Trent a box of his old equipment from when he was a park ranger. You remember him watching as Trent towered over you here in Ursa Minor with a cue stick clenched in his fist, demanding to know where you had been the night before, Dale’s eyes gleaming with disapproval and fascination and…and…oh god, opportunity.

He’s going the distance,

He’s going for speed,

She’s all alone (all alone)

All alone in her time of need…

And now Aegon’s long gone, but you’re still here. And so is the Ice Fisher.

You’re staring at Dale, eyes huge and glossy with terror. He glances up, gives you a brief casual smile, looks down at the pint glasses again. And then his eyes come back to you. He sees you and you see him, really see him, and it’s the first time in your life that you can recall him being a centerpiece instead of an ornament for gazes to skate over like ice, wallpaper or taxidermy deer heads or a mirror. And you watch as the thing that lives inside Dale stirs awake. It is a shadow with fangs, talons, barbs down its spine, a weblike scribble of a brain loud with the echoes of screams; and it unfurls and fills him completely, all the way to his fingerprints. It possesses him, it eclipses him.

It’s Dale, you realize like a bullet slicing through an aorta, spilling an ocean of hot blood. It was him twenty years ago and it’s him now.

You gasp and fumble for the cannister of bear mace still clipped to your purse. Dale crosses the room with staggering swiftness, like a wolf, like a storm, one pint glass still gripped in his hand. He reaches you just as your thumb presses down on the cannister’s release tab. The rust-colored mist spews not directly into his face but into the room; Dale is hacking and rasping, you both are, but he isn’t in too much pain to haul you out of the booth and onto the floor. You’re screaming, you’re clawing at him, your eyes feel like they’re on fire, tiny pinpoint infernos that drill down to the bone. You can feel the ice-cold juice and schnapps and vodka of your appletini, knocked off the table when you fell, soaking through the back of your sweater. You can feel pebbles of glass as they burrow into your flesh. You are dimly aware of a barstool tumbling over as you struggle with Dale.

“No!” you cry into the monstrous hand that he clamps over your mouth. “No—!”

Dale brings the bottom of the pint glass down on your head. The Distance lyrics—she’s hoping in time that her memories will fade—swirl around inside your fractured skull.

Silence descends like a curtain, shadows in, lights out.

~~~~~~~~~~

I knock, and he opens the door. The house smells like fresh bread and alfredo sauce, rosemary and crushed garlic. My rental—a Toyota 4Runner, I remember what she said about the Nova being a bad idea in Alaska—is parked in the driveway behind her Jeep. Sunfyre is standing beside me, eyes sparkling, smiling with that unburdened-by-intellect innocence that dogs have. There’s a bouquet of blue-dyed roses in my left hand, cool melancholy blooms of life like seawater, like bruises.

“Hi,” I say to her dad as he stands in the doorway. “It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you too, Aegon.” He’s not just staring at me in the artificial front porch light; he’s gawking, he’s damn near speechless. “Wow. Wow. It’s really good to see you.”

Yeah, I know I look different. The dark rings around my eyes have vanished, my face is less puffy, my hair is trimmed and healthy and mostly out of my face, I stand taller. I’m wearing a white turtleneck sweater and a leather jacket, black skinny jeans, my combat boots. I have a red chip in my pocket that I can’t fucking wait to show her: 1 month sober. On the first day, you think you’re going to die, and on the second day you wish you would. But you don’t. You live, and that starts out as a grisly inconvenience, and then you get a taste for it. “You can probably guess who I’m looking for.”

“Yeah, I reckon I can,” her dad says. “But she’s not here right now. She went to Ursa Minor.”

I grin, a crooked little curl of the lips. “I think I remember how to get there.”

I hop back into the 4Runner with Sunfyre and pull out into the street, snow and ice chomping under the tires. I had missed driving, I realize now. I got so used to almost never being able to do it that I forgot how good it feels to turn the wheel yourself, to watch the speedometer ramp up when you decide you want to fly. Ten minutes later, I swerve into Ursa Minor’s deserted parking lot and screech to a stop across three separate spaces.

“Oh, what the fuck!” I choke out as I step into the bar, coughing into my sleeve. The blue roses tumble out of my hand. Ursa Minor is empty, but there’s something in the air, something invisible that drives scorching, stinging needles into my eyes and my sinuses. Tears stream down my face; my exposed skin prickles and burns. Sunfyre sneezes over and over again and lingers in the doorway, gulping in fresh night wind from outside. There’s shattered glass and green liquid on the hardwood floor. There’s an upturned barstool. The stereo is playing Cake’s cover of Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

What the hell happened here—?

And then I see it: the cannister of bear mace that had rolled under the booth, the same one she and her friends always sat in.

She used the bear mace. She finally used it. But why?

There’s blood on the floor. There’s blood on the table too. There’s a tattered, olive-green journal opened to a blank page. The pieces slide closer and closer and then link together, an explosion in my mind like fireworks.

I bolt outside and study the snow-covered parking lot. There are fresh tire tracks there under the murky luminescence of the streetlights; they lead out to the main road and then north towards the lakes.

“No,” I whisper to no one but the fierce wind, the sky threaded with the opalescent Northern Lights. “No, no, no…”

I sprint back inside Ursa Minor, get the phone Dale keeps behind the bar, and call the cops. “Stay where you are,” the 911 dispatcher instructs me sternly. “Wait for the police, do not attempt to investigate yourself, do not attempt to intervene—”

“Yeah, fuck that,” I say, and slam the receiver into the cradle. Then I swipe the black 8 ball off the pool table.

I load Sunfyre into the 4Runner and spin out of the parking lot, following the parallel lines of tire tracks like the etching of veins beneath skin.

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a sound, rough and grating; and then you realize that it’s you being dragged across the ice. When your eyes flutter open, you see the uninterrupted sky: indigo night, distant stars, the Northern Lights. Your clothes are wet with snow; it’s so cold that the fabric is freezing, stiff and crackling when you try to move. Dale is lugging you over the frozen lake by the collar of your sweater. It’s choking you, but of course that doesn’t matter much. He’s about to kill you anyway.

“It’s not right,” Dale mutters, and you’re aware through the disorientation and the fog-like cloud of pain that he’s not really talking to you. “Your mom’s a nice lady. It’s not right that she had to lose two people this way, she doesn’t deserve that. Oh well. It can’t be helped now, can it?”

You whimper something, disjointed helpless words. Please, hurts, don’t, please.

“It’s not me,” Dale says, as if it’s perfectly logical. “I mean, not really. It’s this part of me that I can’t cut out. I can only feed it so it goes away for a while. It quiets down sometimes, it hibernates like a bear in the winter…but it always comes back. And my god, is it hungry.”

You smack clumsily, futilely at his hands as he hauls you over the ice. Dale doesn’t seem to notice.

“You have to make it look like an accident. That’s the ticket, if you don’t want anybody to know. You shove a hiker from a ledge, a drunk into the ocean. I did that for a long time, never raised suspicion. Never pinged on anyone’s radar. Jesse was the hardest, though. Good lord, did he fight. Had to pour a bottle of Everclear down his throat. Had to make it look like he was drinking that night. He wasn’t, which was unusual. Kept saying he wanted to turn things around. I think you had something to do with that. Now this? You were never supposed to be here, ladybug. What a shame. What a goddamn shame.”

Consciousness is a river that you dip in and out of; blackness crumbles around the edges of your vision, collapses in, recedes, swells again like a wave. You moan, you beg, you struggle as much as you can. It’s not much. It might as well be nothing.

“Things were easier after I got married,” Dale continues. He has a large hiking backpack slung over his broad shoulders, you see now. It jostles from side to side as he drags you. You know what’s in there: a chisel to break the ice, fishing line to strangle you. “Having someone else there all the time, it was a distraction. And it kept that thing inside me…not tame, no, I wouldn’t say that. But chained up down in the basement, maybe. Now I’m alone again. And when the chains start rattling, there’s nothing to stop me from hearing them.”

You get your feet under you, twist around, and slam your fists into Dale’s chest as hard as you can. He laughs in a baritone rumble and shoves you back down onto the ice; your head hits the ground, and you can feel yourself fading again, the last wisps of sunlight at dusk.

“Sometimes you want to hide,” Dale says. “And sometimes you don’t. I was ready to stop hiding. I can’t tell you what a high it was every time they found a body. The news, the ceaseless chattering around town, the name they gave me…incredible. Exhilarating. I couldn’t sleep for days after each kill. I’d toss and turn all night imagining what the headlines would be. Let me tell you, ladybug. I’ve never tried heroin, and I never need to. It can’t possibly be better than this.”

What will happen to my parents? you think, heartbreak gutting you, dull knifes rearranging your organs. What will happen to Heather and Kimmie and Joyce? What will happen when Aegon finds out he left too soon?

“I knew I needed someone to pin it on,” Dale informs you calmly. “Didn’t take anyone who went to the bar, didn’t take anyone who could be traced back to me. And still, I knew they’d figure it out eventually if I didn’t give them another suspect. At first, I was thinking I might use Aegon. He was a little small, sure, but he showed up around the right time and he was an outsider. Then I saw the way Trent was with you…aggressive, menacing…and I knew it had to be him. It was almost too easy. I planted the seeds, and good lord did they grow.”

“They’ll know,” you croak. “If you kill me, the police will find my body and they’ll know Trent’s not the Ice Fisher.”

Hideously, horribly, Dale smiles down at you. “Oh, ladybug, I don’t think they’ll ever find you. They found the others because I wanted them to. And no one is looking for victims anymore. Once you sink, I’ll cover up the hole with ice and snow. No blood, no signs. People will assume you’re a runaway. It was just too much, wasn’t it? Trent getting arrested, Aegon leaving town. Maybe you ran off after him. Maybe you threw yourself in the channel. Who could say? No, your bones will become silt, your name will slowly disappear from Juneau. And in ten or twenty years, your parents will have you declared dead in absentia. That’s my best guess. That’s how it will go.”

“No,” you sob, battling against the hands knotted into the collar of your sweater. “No—!”

His knuckles bash the side of your head, and a black silence rolls in like high tide, engulfs you, drowns you. When you swim back up into consciousness again, Dale is a few yards from you and drilling a hole in the ice with his chisel. You try to crawl away and promptly collapse, frail and boneless. He glances over at you, chuckles pleasantly, and then begins using a hatchet to widen the opening.

No, you think, hooking your fingers into the snow and dragging yourself towards the forest. No, no, no…

Dale’s ready for you. He walks over, grabs both of your ankles, tugs you with terrifying ease to the hole in the ice. Then he has a length of fishing line in his hands, and he’s looping it around your throat again and again, and he’s tightening it until the needle-thin nylon wire bites into your flesh, spilling tendrils of blood. You know you don’t have a chance, but you try; you owe it to your parents to try. You claw at the fishing line and you struggle and you cry out in hoarse, useless screams—

And then you hear something that doesn’t make any sense. Through the darkness, through the wind, there are the barks of a dog. Sunfyre rockets into your dimming field of vision and jumps on Dale, snarling and growling and snapping at his hands, his face. Dale flings the dog away, and as he’s distracted, Aegon arrives. He’s holding—ludicrously—a black 8 ball from a pool table, and he smashes it into Dale’s head. A sick, wet, crushing sound ricochets, cracked bone cushioned by flesh, and Dale howls as he rolls onto his side and covers his head with his hands.

He peers up at Aegon, furious and pained and stunned. “You?!”

“Me.” Aegon’s voice is dark and low like thunder, like the iron gale of storms over the ocean. “And I’m a killer.”

He lunges at Dale, still wielding the 8 ball. Dale’s massive hand juts out and closes around Aegon’s wrist, and then he yanks him to the ground. They’re grappling on the snow and ice, they’re striking out with knuckles and elbows, they’re ripping at each other with their bare hands. You’re trying to unravel the fishing line still coiled around your throat, panting in deep, frantic breaths so you can see and think clearly, so you can scramble to your feet, so you can help Aegon. And then Dale gets away from him just long enough to grab you again, to wrap the ends of the fishing line around his fingers. He delivers one last macerating blow to your skull, pulls you by your throat to the gaping hole in the ice, and shoves you through.

The water is so cold it’s paralyzing. There is a thought that seizes you—so overwhelming, so strangely rational—that says all you have to do is stay where you are, to wait a little longer, and then you’ll never hurt again, you’ll never be disappointed or caged, you’ll never be anything. And you think of all the lives you could have lived, all the places you could have gone: cities and beaches and deserts and valleys, gardens and rivers, ruins and glass. You were always so afraid of really going after them. What the hell were you so afraid of? Everything worth fearing is right here in Juneau.

I can still do those things. I can still live. And I can still help Aegon.

You jolt out of your inertia and clamber madly for the surface. But you don’t hit frigid open air; you hit ice, ice too thick to break through, ice too thick for more than a murmur of light to penetrate. Your palms press against the semitransparent wall; bubbles of carbon dioxide spurt from your nose and mouth. You feel for the opening that Dale made, but you don’t know where it is. You are lost beneath the ice, running out of air, fading rapidly. Then you hear Jesse—and you aren’t sure how you know what his voice sounds like, but you do—speaking softly and kindly to you, comforting you, telling you which way to go.

I’m sorry that no one knows the truth, you say without speaking. I’m sorry we thought you destroyed yourself. I’m sorry you never got the chance to truly live.

You were all better off without me anyway, he answers, without any bitterness at all. And that’s true, isn’t it?

There is a great disruption that rocks through the water. New currents stir into existence, fresh waves spring out of the darkness. And then someone takes your hand and draws you towards a noise, muffled through the ice and water: a dog barking, you realize. Then your palms find the opening and you inhale brutally cold air into your aching lungs, the best you’ve ever tasted. Aegon helps pull you through the hole and out of the lake, out of the jaws of oblivion.

You lie together on the ice, breathing in gasps that turn to mist in the night wind. Dale’s body is sprawled several yards away. The hatchet he’d used to break up the ice is buried in his neck, spine severed, eyes slick and vacant. You can see reflections of the Northern Lights flickering in them.

“You came back,” you whisper to Aegon as whirling police sirens approach, the lights dancing on his face: blue like the ocean, red like fire and blood.

“Of course I came back, Appletini,” he says, laughing with frenzied relief, kissing your cheeks and forehead over and over again, lake water dripping from his hair. Sunfyre jumps around you both, yapping ecstatically, his tail wagging. “I couldn’t leave without my Juneau girl.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s wind, but it isn’t sharp like a blade. There’s a sky, but it isn’t cloaked in cloud cover or fog. The boats that bob in the surf are sailboats and cruisers, not fishing vessels. Dolphins crest out of the sun-speckled waves like someone coming up from a dream.

It’s June 9th, and you’re soaring down the Pacific Coast Highway in the red Ford Mustang convertible you rented after the plane touched down in Seattle. Aegon is in the driver’s seat, black sunglasses and white T-shirt, his hair whipping in the breeze. He has one hand on the wheel and the other behind your headrest. Sunfyre is in the backseat, grinning like only dogs can. You turn up the song on the radio: Drive by Incubus.

You and Aegon had stayed in Juneau long enough for your skull to heal, and for your parents to find someone else to take over the vet clinic. They settled on a 32-year-old from Detroit: Justin McNair, a former Marine like your dad, and he either has no family or a bad one because he never wants to talk about them. Perhaps it doesn’t really matter which it is; perhaps sometimes they’re just about the same thing. Your parents have already basically adopted him. He eats dinner with them three times a week and calls your dad when he needs help with house maintenance or scaring a moose away from his truck. And just before you went south, Aegon showed him how to make the world’s best hot chocolate.

You send postcards back to Juneau from each town you stop in. Heather’s bon voyage gift to you had been an indecently revealing swimsuit. Joyce appeared with—what else?—a stack of books fit for leisurely beach reading. And Kimmie gave you, however bizarrely, a compass. So you don’t get lost, she had said with an innocuous little smile. You honestly couldn’t tell if she was joking.

During his one month in jail, Trent learned how to meditate and do yoga. He’s still kind of a dumbass, but he’s also a supposedly devout vegan Buddhist, and he had the decency to leave you alone aside from an apology letter that he slid into the moose-shaped mailbox: handwritten, six pages, lots of spelling and grammatical errors. Oh, and he finally got that job with the Forest Service, probably mostly due to his high-profile wrongful detainment. Now hikers get to swoon over his muscles and hair flips.

You’ll go back to Juneau, of course. Maybe just for visits, maybe for more than that someday. But it will never feel like a cage again.

Aegon calls Aemond every two or three days, a habit he started when he was in rehab. At first it was by necessity—he needed someone to pay the $30,000 bill—but now you think he secretly looks forward to it. He updates Aemond about how the road trip is going and reassures him that the plan hasn’t changed: south to San Diego, and then cutting east across the country to Miami. You don’t know what exactly life will look like there, and neither does Aegon. That’s not the important thing about going. Part of AA is making amends, and Aegon has a lot of work to do in that respect. He wants to go back to Miami, he says. He’s ready to go back.

San Diego is exactly like Aegon once told you it would be. You weave through the rust-colored peaks of the Laguna Mountains and there’s the Pacific Ocean, glittering and sapphire-blue, peppered with surfers and sea lions. It’s hot and it’s beautiful beyond words and everything grows there: ivy, cactuses, palm trees, calla lilies, roses. And for the first time that you can remember, the world feels breathtakingly, impossibly big. You get carryout from an unassuming restaurant called The Taco Stand, and then Aegon parks the convertible in La Jolla. You walk down the steps carved into the cliffside, paper bags in your hands full of tacos and churros, Aegon carrying Sunfyre so the dog won’t slip.

You sit together on the golden sand and watch the 8:00 p.m. sun sink into the waves, Aegon’s arm around your waist, your fingers tucking his lock of silvery hair behind his ear. And then he takes your hand, kneads it until it’s sinuous and relaxed, and reads the lines of your palm in the amber dusk like firelight.

“It says you’re happy,” he tells you. “And that you’re free.”

“I am,” you reply, smiling as the ocean stretches out like the arm of a galaxy: the ancient past, the infinite future.

[princess-of-the-corner]

And Yet More Random Fanfic Quotes!

: )

*

IcyThotPainRelief: Remember Zuku murder is illegal

Izuwu: Ur one to talk!

IcyThotPainRelief: Look if im not allowed to ruin my reputation neither are u! we either go down together or not at all bitch!

*

Mom-o: Hagakura! That is highly inappropriate! Even if he does sound like an unsavory individual, we still don’t know how Midoriya feels about the whole situation! So, it’s best not to assume his feelings on the subject.

Izuwu: Well he’s dead to me so technically u guys arnt wrong the bastered can rot in hell for all the heart ach he gave my mom!

Mom-o: Oh okay, carry on you guys.

*

SharkBoi: Am i gunna need to bail my boyfriend out of jail?

WeepingDarkness669: Thats only if he gets caught

Pikachu: Bold of u to assume our dear Kacchan knows anything about keeping things lowkey when it comes to acts of violence

*

Tired™: Dont be dragging me into u guys is shit! I was a happy little introvert chilling on my own until u guys showed up!

IcyThotPainRelief: U should of thought of that before spilling ur entire traumatic backstory within a 5 mile radius of Izuku “I will save people with the power of friendship” Midoriya

*

Izuwu: So as auntie Mitsuki is beating my dead-beat dad with her shoe and guess who decided to show up out ow fuckin nowhere?

Pikachu: The pizza delivery guy?

WeepingDarkness: Death itself?

DisneyPrincess: The cops?

AlienQween: *gestured with feeling* Aliens?

SugarDaddy: The League of Villains?

Hentai: Jesus fucking chist guys…

Izuwu: ALL MIGHT!!!

Izuwu: With like?? a bouquet of flowers?? and in a blazer?? Cuz like apparently hes going out with my mom??

IcyThotPainRelief: I FUSKING KNWE IT!!!

Izuwu: Still not his secret love child Sho!

Izuwu: So anyways All Might is there and is all like “what’s going on” and Kacchan goes “we’re beating up Deku’s shitty dad” then All Might said “wait he’s alive??”

DefyingGravity: Deku’s useless Y chromosome user: quit telling everyone im dead!

DefyingGravity: Us: sometimes i can still hear his voice

Izuwu: SO ANYWAYS

Izuwu: Auntie finally stops beating up my father because she too is really surprised to see All Might at our door step which now allows my sperm doner to finally be aware of his surroundings and he looks up at All Might and goes “who the hell are u and what do u want?” and then All Might looks this man dead in the eye and fuking goes “Im here to pick up ur wife we have dinner reservations!”

*

Izuwu: I THOUGHT WE WERW FRIENDS IIDA!!

Saaanic: We are and it is my job to tell you that your entire existence is being held together by sticky tape, a lot of prayer, and spite.

*

WAKEMEUPwakemeupinside: you ever think about how we define sandwichs by the inside of them not the outside

WAKEMEUPwakemeupinside: like you never say “oh i gotta wheat bread sandwich”

*

“You’re worth a hundred of them,” Todoroki said shortly.

“I disagree,” Iida said dryly. “A hundred of any of them would make poor company.”

*

LabSafety101: she’s surprisingly subdued rn, I actually convinced her to take a nap

Dadzawa: that’s because she worked for 72 hours straight with minimal caffeine

LabSafety101: hey chiyo

GrannyChiyo: if she’s already asleep I can’t do anything

LabSafety101: yeah but can you make sure she’s not about to die in her sleep

Yamadad: the boys made sure she ate, dw

LabSafety101: was it healthy?

Yamadad: idk but it was food!

*

UncleGun: I know for a fact that basically every kid in school at least knows half the common swear words

UncleGun: but it’s also really fun to say “dagnabbit”

*

“Alright. I didn’t ask you to get your hero costumes because today you will all be fighting Shinsou.”

The whole class raised their eyebrows. Shinsou tried his hardest not to scream inside though.

Because, what the fuck?

“Uh, sir. That doesn’t seem very fair,” Momo spoke up.

“Yes I know.” Aizawa nodded, “Also, none of you are allowed to use your quirks. Except him, obviously.”

“Why!” Bakugou shouted, “I wanna beat him nice and fair!”

Aizawa was not fazed. “You all know how Shinsou’s quirk works. Once you respond to him, he can make you do anything. That is all. Is that too hard for you?”

The class frowned. Was that a trick question?

Aizawa nodded, and made to sit down. Shinsou stopped him, speaking quietly, “I… I think you’re overestimating my power, here.”

Aizawa just scoffed, “I think you’re underestimating their stupidity.”

[…]

After five minutes, there were only three students in front of him. Kouda, because he didn’t talk anyway, Ojirou, because he had actually learned his lesson at the sports festival, and Sero, who had literally taped his mouth shut.

Aizawa walked towards them and stood next to Shinsou. The ones at the wall, looked at him in varying degrees, of shame and disbelief.

The teacher sighed, “All you had to do was not talk.” He shook his head at them, “That’s all you had to do.”

*

Pro Hero Hawks: So you’ll get to meet all kinds of heroes! Maybe even All Might!

Pro Hero Hawks: Yes, this is naked bribery.

*

“Young Midoriya is quite the hero fan, isn’t he?”

“He’s not just a fan, Yagi-san, he’s not just an air conditioner either: Midoriya-kun is an entire HVAC system.”

*

“Gentlemen, I am here, with some brand new handcuffs! Who would like to try them on first?”

*

Izuku, despite his professionalism as an analyst, despite his commitment to be a hero, still found that teenage urge to throw his head back and groan at the prospect of something that could be seen as a boring, pointless task. He fought the feeling down, self-control pinning it to the ground and discipline clubbing it with a half-brick in a sock before dragging it back into the depths of his mind, and then assumed a low stance.

*

Mirko’s kicks were well known for breaking bones.

Coincidentally, high schoolers tended to have bones.

-

I AM CACKLING I LOVE THIS

[sardonic-sprite]

Part 2 of Dad!Tim AU (so Q doesn't murder me in my sleep /aff) tw: referenced rape, referenced attempted/intended murder

(Part 1)

As we hit the ninth month, everyone is tense and on tenterhooks, but Tim is by far the worst. He can't sleep for more than an hour without jerking awake from a nightmare: the faceless child growing up, hands around a sword, smirking on Ra's's right hand, maybe coming to Gotham, but to hurt Tim's family, not join them... other times it's the child dying in infancy or even birth, and Tim doesn't know if that part is worse, the grief, or the next part, the fear, as Ra's's sister advances on him to try again

Nine months to the day since Paris and Tim is a wreck and the whole family is buzzing out of their skin, ready to ACT, but its not until 2 weeks later that they finally get Talia's call.

And in the background, there's a baby crying

Everyone is all wtf talia we said we were gonna WAIT and she grimly tells them there would be no waiting, she needs them to come pick up the baby now. Because the baby is a girl. Because Ra's will only accept a MALE heir, and he's not going to bother raising a child he has no use for. Because Ra's's sister is furious with the disgrace of bearing the wrong sort of baby and wants nothing to do with something that was supposed to be her greatest honor. Talia can only be gone so long before they will realize she has not in fact buried the infant in the snow, so they need to come NOW

Everyone bursts into frantic motion, freaking out, livid, terrified. Its all way too much, and Tim just sits and stares blankly, because he thought he'd have just a little more time. Dick sees this, and gently asks if Tim wants to stay back, and if he wants someone to stay with him. He does. So the others go, and Dick sits and holds Tim's hand as Tim tries to process. And he realizes that if not for Talia, all of his pain, all of his terror, all the violation would be for absolutely nothing.

And then he realizes that makes him MAD.

How dare they? He thinks. How DARE ra's and his sister throw the child away just because Tim gave her the "wrong" chromosome? HOW FUCKING DARE they treat a human child like a goddamn happy meal toy, like it -- she -- is disposable because she isn't what they wanted?

He gets up ("Tim?" Dick asks softly) and goes to find Alfred. The room right across from his, Alf, the one that has a view of the gardens, thats the nursery. Tim may still not be READY for this but he'll be damned if he can't do better than fucking RA'S.

So he and Dick and Alfred spend the tense, anxious hours moving and arranging baby stuff in the room, while Barbara folds all the onesies and diapers into the drawer and calls leslie about formula bc they don't know any nursing mothers

They get the call that the family arrived, they have the baby, they're on their way home, and Talia will keep up the pretense as long as she can so they can get back to Gotham. Baby's sleeping now, they say, and swear she looks just like Tim.

"You've got a regular little Snow White on your hands," Jason laughs, and no one on the plane is ever allowed to tell Tim how close Jason came to stealing his child (HER CHUBBY LITTLE CHEEKS STEPH JUST LOOK i see them jay.) "Black hair, pale skin (you're still paler), red lips, well, whole red face when she really wants to wail."

Tim doesn't know what to make of that yet, but at least maybe it seems like he'll be able to look at the child without constantly seeing her mother. (Not that she deserves that title).

They can't paint the nursery tonight and have it be dry, but they're going to paint it, Tim decides. Something colorful and happy, not like the soulless beige he grew up with. Nothing like his soulless childhood.

The family arrives. They arrive and Tim and Alfred and Barbara and Dick go down to meet them, Tim clutching Dicks hand. The door of the plane opens and they file out, and its Cass, a complicated mess of emotions on her face, who holds out the tiny, TINY little swaddle

Tim's hands are shaking as he reaches out, but no one says so. Dick just carefully supports Tim's arms to make sure he's steady

Jason was right, he thinks. She is a little Snow White. Her skin's a little darker than his, but still paler than he'd have thought. She's got black hair, but that was a guarantee. She's got a little red mouth that yawns into a perfect O and blinks open blue eyes, but he doesn't know if they'll stay that color.

Its hard to believe he's a FATHER. He has a DAUGHTER. He's still only 17.

That's when Baby begins to cry, and Tim panics, and the others have to calm him down and promise its not his fault, she's only hungry, and they go upstairs to get a bottle. Then they all troop to the nursery, where Alfred and Bruce have to help Tim settle in Martha's old rocking chair, and show him how to hold the Baby in one arm and the bottle in the other hand, and help her eat.

Slowly the others trickle away, to sleep, to give him privacy, because jts all so surreal, and there may or may not be tears on Tim's face. Finally its just Bruce and Alfred, and they help Tim put Baby in the cradle thats been in the Wayne family for nine generations. Then they go, and Tim's still sitting on the rocking chair, staring, like this fever dream is going to disappear, and there won't be baby or nursery or this awful terrifying weight in his chest, and he's not sure if he would really want that or not

He hears a soft sound by the door and springs up, grabbing for a weapon he doesn't have, but its only Damian, looking as lost and unsure as Tim.

"I thought you went to bed"

"I could not sleep."

Tim can't really argue with that

Damian edges closer, looking at Baby's face like he's searching for something there.

"Have you named her?"

"No," Tim scoffs, because he didn't fucking want her, he thought she'd come with a name, just barely laid eyes on her or held her. Then he feels shame because what kind of father doesn't want to name his own child? His voice softens as he explains, "i have no idea where to start"

"At the end then," Damian suggests, just as soft. "With Wayne." And it might just be the kindest thing the kid has ever said to Tim.

"Ok," he says. "And in the middle?" It feels like a cop-out, asking Damian of all people to name TIM's child. But Tim can't... there's no logical process to follow here, naming is an emotional experience, it forges a CONNECTION and Tim just... all that furious resolve is much harder to draw from when he's confronting the reality it entails

Damian purses his lips, hesitating. Finally, he says, "There's Bahar. It... it means 'brilliant.'"

And at first, Tim balks, because no, that's what RA'S wanted from the child, Tim's brilliance, and what the FUCK, Damian-- and then he realizes. That... this might be, no it probably is, Damian saying "fuck ra's. The baby girl will be brilliant, and you're brilliant too."

He finds himself smiling, just a little, and repeats, "Bahar. I... I like it."

Damian smiles just a faint bit too, then.

"What... what about the beginning?" Tim tries, but Damian shakes his head and tells him that's for Tim to decide. He turns to go. Then Tim calls him back.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tim asks, "What's the word for 'snow?'"

Perfect little snow white... bury the kid in the snow... fuck ra's...

"... 'eira.'"

Damian leaves, and Tim looks down at the tiny little baby.

"Eira," he tries. "Eira. Eira Bahar Wayne."

It almost looks like Eira smiles.

Part 3

[mother--of-maggots]

WHY YOU SHOULD VOTE FOR THE MUNTJAC

FOR THE @weirdanimal-tournament​ !!!

The muntjac deer is one of my favourite freaks of nature and here is why.

look at this skull. looks like a fucking dragon, right? 

WRONG. ITS A MUNTJAC SKULL

These bastards are some of the weirdest freaks you’ll see. on their face, they have scent glands for marking on trees. Instead of doing what almost every other animal does and peeing to mark their territory, they evolved these body horror style glands on their face to do it.

They have fangs. why?  because they can. The males use them in territory and breeding fights, but they’re really not as useful as they look. But they’re sometimes called vampire deers, so thats fun.

They bark. like a dog. or they just scream like my dad does when he stubs his toe. 

Heres some other short little fun facts! - they smell absolutely dreadful! - Indian Muntjac have fewer chromosomes than a fruit fly! - they aren’t very big at all! like, 52 cm, which is pretty small for a deer.

So. VOTE MUNTJAC DEER FOR WEIRDEST FREAK!!!!!

[slonkel]

oooh are you as obsessed and intrigued with platypus(es?) as I am with whale sharks??? wanna tell me all about them????

OOOOH! A PLATYPUS ASK!!! Alright. Gonna try maintaining a formal voice, but only because I can't communicate using nothing but giggles and giddy squeals!!! I am also taking this ask as an excuse to go on a one hour platypus studying spree!

Alright! So! A lot of people seem to be surprised when they learn that platypuses have venom, but they seem to get more surprised when they learn the venom is PAINFUL as HECK! The pain can last for days, weeks, even months, and most pain killers don't even work on it! Apparently, there was some guy in australia who got stung by a platypus in the hand, and, when interviewed about it FIFTEEN years later, HE STILL FELT DISCOMFORT AND STIFFNESS IN THE HAND! FIFTEEN YEARS LATER! So, yeah, platypus venom really hurts. It doesn't kill humans, but apparently it can kill small animals. ALSO. PLATYPUSES GLOW UNDER UV LIGHT?! Yep, Platypuses are fluorescent!! Also, platypuses have FIVE chromosomes to determine sex, which usually birds have?! That's not where the bird similarities stop though, NOPE! Platypuses also have a cloaca, which serves as a multi purpose tool, in a sense! Absolutely hilarious, because people have been wondering what the heck platypuses even are for the longest time! Platypuses are one of only FIVE different monotremes! There are only FIVE MONOTREMES! Monotremes meaning egg laying mammals, the other four being echidnas. Also, little fun platypus tidbit, according to my Korean dad, the word platypus in korean is literally translated to, "duck raccoon." Also, the scientific name of the platypus has been changed, like, three times! It was originally going to be, Platypus anatinus but then they discovered that some random BEETLE of all things had already called dibs on the Platypus part, so they changed it to Ornithorhynchus paradoxus, absolutely hilarious that they decided to add, "paradox," at the end! The first bit, Ornithorhynchus, just means duck-like. So this name really just means, "duck-like paradox." Who says scientists aren't creative? Anyways, it was finally changed to Ornithorhynchus anatinus, which means, DUCK-LIKE BIRD-SNOUT! WE GET IT GUYS! STOP WITH THE BIRD COMPARISONS!

Anyways, I love platypuses so much(I am by NO MEANS an expert, and all my knowledge comes from the internet, so, you know, I might be wrong). ALSO, I do not know exactly how much you love whale sharks, but I would love to hear all about them!!!

[effervescentdragon]

none of you get to pull the biology card on me actually. i am a child of an embriology professor who went through one of the most rigorous med schools in his time, who pulled the "prenatal testosterone peaks may be the cause of homosexuality, therefore its a pathology" card on me as an argument, to which i pulled an unimaginable amount of research to show him why he is wrong, because you dont argue with a scientist like you argue with someone who is not. i spent years talking to him about this, and this man in his fucking fifties sat down and dismantled his homophobia and transphobia even though he was a med school professor in an extremely corservative country. one of the last convos we have had was my dad asking me to explain how she/they and he/they pronouns work, and promising to make his classes more inclusive, to do research and include the concept of transness as something that's not a pathology in his classes. promising to do better, to use more inclusive language and not to assume everyone was cis and straight. he never got the chance to, you know. and that sucks, but then you come into my inbox and pull XX&XY chromosome argument on me? with absolutely no respect, because you deserve none since your existence is a waste of perfectly good air, fuck right off. trans women are women.

[kittievampire]

REQUESTS OPEN.

A friend of mine told me that the shit I write alone is too little, too boring, so I decided to fuck his dad. I also decided to open up a little request box. Shoot me an inbox to see what diamonds I have in my bag!

Masterlist

Obey Me

I will literally write almost anything for my bois.

CHARACTER RESTRICTIONS

Mephistopheles, Thirteen, and Raphael

Though I believe STRONGLY that Raphael should be dominated and reduced to nothing but tears and whimpers, I just don't think I know enough about him to capture his character somewhat properly

Same goes for the other two

SMUT

I'm a kinky bitch, so you won't be judged for submitting literally anything

I'll only be able to write female or GN reader, sorry boys

I wanna stick to what I know, and looking at my double x chromosomes, I think I only know a girl's bod

I'm also really fucked up in the head, so if you wanna be choked half to death by Belphie SAME

I won't do scat, piss, gore, or vore tho, sorry to the freakishly freaky freaks out there

If there's anything I'm uncomfortable with writing, I'll most likely lyk

That and if the concept is nice but it's just that one thing, I'll ask for an alteration

Don't be shy to request some rough shit though, I think we all wanna have rough hate-sex with Satan, it's fine, I get it

Absolutely will not write any smut about Luke, that's just a no-no altogether. Even when he's a grown-up and good-looking, he'll still be our lil chihuahua

Seriously, if you request Luke, I will respond with this

ANGST

Uhhhh

There's a limit to how angsty you can get?

I guess cheating's the only thing that's a bit iffy for me (that Satan and Lucifer fic was a one-time thing, I can't put myself through that again)

Other than that, I'll lyk if there's anything I'm uncomfortable with writing. Same as smut rule applies here.

FLUFF AND HCS

Lol ain't no restrictions here bub

I kill for sappy moments with my bois

I will literally do anything, I don't think you can go wrong with this area (watch y'all's asses prove me wrong omg)

I'll take any hc you think of. For spicy head canons, same rules as smut apply here

Overlord

I've started fiddling with the idea of writing some stuff about our dearest floor guardians, so I think I wouldn't mind too much writing some stuff about them

CHARACTER RESTRICTIONS

Just know that I haven't read the manga, but am planning to, so anyone who isn't present in the anime isn't going to be around

SMUT

Once again, I feel it should be mentioned, I'm a kinky bitch

I'll do just about anything short of scat, piss, gore, vore, etc.

For these, I'll mainly do a female reader, sorry fellas, just wanna stick to what I know til I think I know what I don't

Will NOT write anything about Aura, Mare, or any other under-age characters in the smut category. They're still kids. No.

Will NOT write anything about non-humanoid (enough) characters

Aka, hamsuke is a no, lizardmen are a no, anything/anyone related is a no

ANGST

Nothing to say here, I have no limits until someone suggests something truly traumatizing

FLUFF & HCS

No limits, don't think you can go wrong with these

Same rules apply as smut for the spicy hcs

Persona 5

This was an impulsive add because I was so pissed that they wouldn't let me date Yusuke in the game, so I wanna imagine that I can.

CHARACTER RESTRICTIONS

I've only played Persona 5 Royal and watched the anime, so anyone not present in either will not be written about

SMUT

I will NOT write about Futaba, Jose, or Shinya for this section, that is a NO

Other than that, request whatever you want for this section. Once more, I'm a kinky bitch. And I'm in love with Yusuke 🥰🥰🥰

Gore, vore, piss, scat, etc. will not be written about, sorry freakishly freaky freaks

Once more, for these, it will be only female or GN reader. Sorry, fellas

ANGST

Anything short of cheating here would be nice

No real limitations here

FLUFF & HCS

Can't go wrong here, everyone's welcome

Anything's welcome

Same rules apply as smut for the spicy hcs

Twisted Wonderland

I think I'm ready to start writing for this fandom, but I'm still relatively new so bear with me please

CHARACTER RESTRICTIONS

Che'nya and Silver are the only characters I don't feel I know enough about

These are VERY temporary restrictions, though! I promise I'll educate myself soon to remove these restrictions!

SMUT

For this section, I will NOT write anything about Ortho. Yeah, no. he's too precious ;w;

Once more, feel free to request anything short of scat, piss, gore, and vore

I also strongly believe that some of these characters deserve to be topped to tears or should top the reader to tears, so you'll probably see some favoritism with some of the Housewardens (my beloveds)

Female or GN reader for this section! Sorry, guys.

ANGST

No real limitations here. No cheating would be nice tho

FLUFF & HCS

No limits here

Same rules for smut apply for the spicy hcs

THIS FANDOM SECTION WILL BE CHANGED PERIODICALLY, AND MORE FANDOMS WILL BE ADDED TO THE LIST AS I BECOME MORE COMFORTABLE WRITING FOR THEM

Additional Notes

If I don't reply immediately, I'm most likely being fucked sideways by life and don't have the time

Doesn't mean I don't love you guys tho 💙

I will also be prioritizing Kin of the Demon Prince, or whatever other fic I may write in the future if I'm finished with that one, just be aware

If you tell me to surprise you, I'm gonna make whatever I pull outta my ass a complete self-indulgence, and you'll be the one to blame for it, sorry kiddo

If ya wanna just ask a question regarding my thoughts on certain things, my story Kin of the Demon Prince/other fics I may write, or myself (no personal stuff, just shit having to do with fandoms), I'll gladly answer them, just shoot me a question

Still trippin over the fucking my friend's dad bit?

Don't worry, jeez, I didn't fuck his dad, relax 🙄

I fucked his mom.

I'll be your dealer, come down to my alleyway (inbox) and see what kind of diamonds I have in my bag, I'll be waiting~

[jd-logan65]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠…

TW: Self harm mention

It was probably around the time before I started 6th grade that I first felt like I was more than just a "tomboy". I had pretty much ditched dress-wearing, except for important events, and started dressing more in baggy t-shirts and jeans. I just didn't feel like a girl, but I guess I wasn't at a point yet that I knew I wanted to be a boy. Then, a few months into 6th grade, I got my first crush.

Her name was Carrie. She was a friend of mine from the group of other tomboyish friends I had made. We walked laps during gym and we talked and laughed and just had good times whenever we had a chance to hang out. I never told her how I felt, because I was trying to figure out what I was feeling. And I was feeling afraid. The thought of being a lesbian worried me, since Carrie wasn't the only one. I started thinking that other girls were cute, but I also kept crushing on guys. So was I bi? I was taught that these types of questions were wrong by my conservative family, so this was the start of my mental anguish and troubles.

At some point, I just accepted that I may have been either. It still caused me some worry, but I let it be for a while. Then, I had a fancy band event. And I had to wear a dress. I may as well have had a mental breakdown, because I cried and cried in the bathroom, telling my mom I didn't want to wear the dress. Again, all those feelings I had before about these articles of clothing were just heightened. Angry and desperate (later attributing it to not being ready to lose her "daughter"), my mom forced me to wear it. And I just sat there, sobbing, before cleaning myself up and going. That was one of the first major incidents that started it all. After a while, I began noticing that I wasn't growing like all of the other girls. My cousins were getting periods and other developments from puberty and I largely remained the same as the months passed by. This caused me great anxiety and my mental health started deteriorating again.

I don't remember much, but at a later point, I just felt like wanting to be a boy. Simple as. So not only was I questioning my sexuality, but I was also questioning my identity. And I was not in a good place to do any of those. So, as one can imagine, that further affected my mental health. I became depressed and had suicidal thoughts. I started self-harming, hiding behind jackets and long sleeve shirts. Then, at the end of a car ride with my mom, I broke down after a while of her questioning me (I looked sad and distant). After trying to spit it out, I told her that I liked girls and that I didn't want to be a girl. At this point, after putting everything together, she came face to face with the reality that what the doctors told her 12 years ago was bull. She didn't know what to do at that point, so after comforting me (a reaction I didn't know I would get), she decided to throw out the hypothetical that maybe I had male chromosomes, but I'd have to have a test to figure it out. This was just to buy her some time to discuss what went on with my dad. This seemed to calm me down since, as a kid who was in and out of hospitals, I was familiar with tests and some medical jargon. When we got back, my parents discussed in private that they would tell me the truth during summer vacation. They didn't know how I would react or take the news, so they just wanted my mind to be clear during the rest of the school year. But my mind was racing practically every day of the next few weeks. I was so excited at the possibility of having male chromosomes because that meant I wasn't crazy. I still accepted that I was female though, and prepared for the results to say just that, but I still held onto a bit of hope. Then, summer vacation came. And my parents called me into their bedroom for a talk...

[twst-random]

Ace is definitely that one friend that defends his friends when they’re being made fun of

—

“Epel, are these the guys?” Ace asked

“Ace— It’s fine really, you don’t have to do anything-“ Epel tried

“Nono, I just want to talk to them 😇” Ace innocently said

Epel knowing that innocent tone tried to stop Ace

“ACE NO—“

Epel couldn’t do anything to stop Ace

—

“Uhh.. what’s happening here??” Deuce asked confused on why Ace was yelling at 3 second years

“Apparently Epel got insulted by those guys and now Ace is going off on them” Jack replied while eating popcorn

“Oh okay”

“WAIT WHAT?? DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED WHEN ACE LAST DID THIS??” Deuce yelled

“Yeah, but they deserve it tbh” Answered Jack

“Oh? What’s happening and why is Ace yelling at those 3?” Vil suddenly approached as he happened to walk by

Deuce yelped as he heard the pretty mans voice

“Oh uh- uhm.. mm…—“ Deuce tried replying but got interrupted by Aces shouting

“YOU DO NOT MAKE FUN OF EPEL YOU NASTY MUSTY DUSTY SMELLY DIRTY CLOWN ASS—“

“Hmm.. all because of my sweet potato? Interesting..” Vil mumbled

They then immediately switched their attention to Ace violating the 3 second years

“ALL OF YOU LOOK LIKE YOU HAVE A PART TIME JOB AT A CARNIVAL, YOUR DADS PROBABLY NEVER RETURNED FROM GETTING THE MILK, AND ALL OF YOU HAVE NO BITCHES.”

One of the second years was about to open their mouth to defend themselves but quickly got silenced by Ace

“NUH-UH, YOU DONT GET TO SPEAK. Oh you… you were the one who told Epel he’s girl and will never be a boy.😐”

Epel looked down when Ace said that. Some people would make fun of him for being trans and pick on him for that reason

“Since you can’t shut your transphobic mouth i’ll fucking super glue it. If i hear your mouth ONE MORE FUCKING TIME I WILL LITERALLY PUNCH YOU.” Ace angrily said

“Well my bad I wanted to point out that shes a girl pretending to be a boy!” One of the second year yelled

Ace got real mad after hearing that.

“shut yo skin tone chicken bone google chrome no home flip phone disowned ice cream cone garden gnome extra chromosome metronome dimmadome genome full blown monochrome student loan indiana Jones overgrown flintstone x and y hormone friend zone sylvester stallone sierra lain autozone professionally men silver patrone suck my ding dong head ass pubg fortnite flip phone remote control dreilly auto parts silver bronze ash amiibo uv light pen sushi ramen harrison ford gamer bitch ass virgin lamp thermometor lean mean string bean charlie sheen limousine canteen trampoline serpentine antihistamine wolverine submarine unclean nectarine broken gene halloween defective spleen smokescreen lames dean putting green tiny peen anti vaccine aquamarine eugene extra green nicotine vamline jellybean magazine protein lightnings mcqueen vending machine wharchu mean Ocean Man by Ween head ass with hisuglybass snag a toothass bitch fucking rat ass bitch breath smell like fucking metal and toxic gas fuckign uglybass hoe bitch get yp and make tour own sandwich im toed of this bitch looking like a fucking lob chopper with hs ugly ass you fucking ugly ass coco nut ass built bitch you fucking iphone 11 built like ass hoe built like a stuffed fucking purse fat ass bitch looking like a white little boys fucking hairline fucking annoying ass bitch, looking like that bitch Rom ratatouille ugly ass bitch you fucking no for nothing ass bitch smelling like fucking acid dirty ass bullet bag ass hoe built like my none existent ass bitch BUILT LIKE A WHOLE MCDONALDS MENU BOARD IN THE DRIVE THRU CUBE ASS BITCH UR BUILT LIKE AN !PHONE 11 CRACKED BITCH ASS BROKEN PHONE ASS BITCH LOOKIN ASS BITCH LOOK LIKE THAT MONA LISA ASS BITCH FROM RATA-RC/UWE BITCH LOOKING LIKE A MONA LISA GONE WRONG U LOOK LIKE KIRA WHEN HE GOT RAN OVER STUPID BITCH ASS LOOKIN LIKE ASS OF UP BEFORE I WILL PERSONALLY SEND MY FUCKING FISTS TO YOUR FACE. And i swear to FUCKING god why the fuck is your bubble gum dum dum belt buckle banana truphle Huned Knuckle knuckle Jones underground flint stone x and y friend zoned Sylvester Stallone Sierra Leone auto zone professionally seen silver Patrons stone cheek bone alone cyclone homegrown jawbone postpone unknown megaphone un grown hydrozone moricone muscle tone safety stone microphone progesterone mountain anemone bone grown allophone cyclone ankle bone leave me alone tik tok knock knock 12 O'Clock Plug walk Millie walk night hawk peacock moon walk engine block interlock penny stalk after talk alarm clock interspawk sour dock down the block poison hemlock jay walk chalk walk hawk squawk electrical shock metamorphic rock sedimentary rock my glock has a lock lack sack six pack lack around the track pack the snack in a crack Kodak black backpack feedback attack a kodiak asma attack in my back data track maniac telephone rack in my stack bushwhack dentist plaque bumper track heart attack hack tac quack quack flack pack in rack tippy tap slap the baseball cap frap trap crap nap gap zap trap lap whack back lap tap handicap weather map hair air sac track comeback halfback knickknack bounce back hatchback look back extra tax macaque pack back unstuck clack lunch snack or treat smell rycovenantmustdie feet tweet tweet on the street so fucking annoying. 😐😐” Ace finished his 5 page 20 paragraph per page, and he said that in ONE breath gawh lord lordy

—

“Ace I understand that you wanted to defend your friends, but did you really have to say that?” Riddle scolded his favorite dorm mate

“They had it coming smh”

I am literally cryingI WROTE THIS AT 3:43am and i have school RUHGAHHHJAJAJ

THIS FANFIC FEELS AND LOOKS SO ASS

[deservedgrace]

Am I being petty? My dad is always saying stuff like “I’m praying for you to be successful” or “god made you perfect”. I know he means well but it’s so uncomfortable whenever he does those things. I don’t want you to pray for me, I need real help. You don’t know the real me and you probably wouldn’t be as proud if you did. He still thinks I’m the perfect Christian boy instead of an atheist who’s figuring out their gender. He claims to love and support whatever I want, but he always leaves out being a girl when listing off topics, and has questioned me at random times about trans athletes when I’m too tired to think of an answer.

In my opinion, absolutely not.

I was actually just talking about the prayer thing with my friend last night. So many christians use prayer as almost a silencing method, whether intentionally or unintentionally. When I left the church I realized just how abysmal my comforting/supporting methods were because while I was in the church, I and everyone around me relied on cutting uncomfortable topics short with "well I'll be praying for you" or ask to pray with you about it, and offer literally NO other support while also expecting prayer to, just fix it magically. Hilariously, the same people that are always like, "god's not a genie, you're praying wrong if you're expecting him to answer every prayer you have" seem to ask for and expect genie-like responses from him while doing NO work of their own to support the people they're praying for. Prayer is Very Very often used as a substitute for support. Even when I was deep in the church it never felt sufficient, but I couldn't say anything because it was supposed to be sufficient and if it wasn't sufficient that was a problem with me and my "sinful nature". Churches and christians that focus on prayer over actually being the hands and feet of jesus (fucking doing something about it) aren't fostering proper community and support. They're fostering a culture of not being able to talk about difficult things, of suffering in silence, and of relying on a silent and unprovable god which often results in being taught to rely solely on yourself.

I really feel for you with the gender thing. I don't know the full context of your specific situation but I see "god made you perfect" used to silence any notion of being trans far, far too often. The implication being, being cis is the default, being trans is going against who "god made you to be", etc. I've noticed this especially of christians who believe in complementarianism (men and women have different roles to fulfill), many of them tend to "love and support whoever you are"........ so long as it falls into their tiny box of what they deem acceptable. I don't want to turn this into a whole thing about gender but even in a worldview that doesn't recognize the existence of trans people, there isn't a definition of womanhood that includes every woman and excludes every non-woman and vice versa for men ("a woman is someone who can have babies" excludes those with infertility issues, something that affects up to 20% of women, "a woman is someone who has XX chromosomes" excludes intersex women, "a woman is someone who has a uterus" excludes women who have had hysterectomies, "a woman is someone who has had a uterus at SOME point" excludes women that simply born without one, which happens to about 1 in 5000 based on a quick google, etc etc). My point being, they're trying to draw these confining and limiting boxes where they can't. Humans don't work like that. Their idea of perfection is something that is simply biologically and sociologically and historically unsupported. Gender is complicated because humans are complicated. It's disappointing that some people can't see the beauty in that and it's devastating that it often causes so much pain and suffering to those around them.

I really hope you're able to find proper support. If possible, I encourage you to (safely!!!) continue exploring your gender. And it makes complete sense that you'd feel uncomfortable about these things. Prayer without proper support is skirting responsibility at best. Tearing down trans athletes and doing the christian "god made you perfect" thing with the implication of cis being the default is not a supportive environment to be around. I'm not going to be able to remember the quote verbatim but one of my favorite god/trans quotes is something along the lines of "god made trans people for the same reason he made wheat but not bread and grapes but not wine; so humanity may share in the act of creation". I'm not necessarily encouraging this as a "gotcha" statement, I can hear in my head exactly how my church would respond to that. But outside the church I think it's a beautiful reframe despite me not believing in god anymore. And if you would prefer something less religiously related: I'm deeply sorry you're not in a supportive environment. There's nothing wrong with you. As far as I can tell you're having a very normal reaction to the shit you're having to put up with and the situation you're in.

[loop-loremaster]

I've been thinking and I've done some further research into the map. I talked about these these "Reality Warriors" before, and now I truly think that they are more than likely definitely some kind of formation of those that came before The Seven, or are those that are gonna form some new kind of Seven.

Brutal Bastion and some of the scattered buildings around the arctic look similar to the Bastion, with the same architectural design and reoccurring theme of a statue of (presumably) a woman and their (stupid) indestructible floating spheres. Along with a Stonehenge-looking structure and stone manhole around where the Zero Point presumably is now. (A single example of a stone tablet of the "Stonehenge" is below.)

The statue of the woman (pictured below) is what I am mostly interested in. I'm definitely grasping at straws, but... what if it's important?

There are a bunch of similar statues near The Citadel and other places in the autumn biome that show the form of The Ageless, somewhat similar to this statue.

The Ageless is more of a marble-white colour (possibly made out of the same material that can be found in Shattered Slabs) and holds a shield out in front of him with both hands, while the unnamed Reality Warrior statue is coloured darker like the buildings that layout like an outlier. She holds a sword behind a shield, her right hand holding the sword, and her left the shield.

It's possible there's some sort of meaning behind it, but I'm not gonna pull an "English teacher reads a sentence and talks about it completely incorrectly". But I've got a feeling these statues say a bit more than what we really think, or I'm just completely insane.

In Chapter 2's final event, The Foundation says this to Jones;

"Why does she make me keep saving you?"

As far as I'm aware, we never learnt who The Foundation meant by "she" and it was never followed up. You could assume that he meant another Seven member that wanted to keep Jones alive, but it's not certain. Or we could have an answer and I'm completely wrong.

The Seven were always solitary and focused on protecting the Zero Point by themselves (with minimal external help) until they HAD to intervene physically (whether that be the Visitor setting off the Rocket, the Paradigm defeating The Devourer, The Scientist making Rift Beacons, etc...)

They had to intervene at some point to better the island and progress the plot line (and also so the audience is introduced to new characters and plot points).

But as far as we know, it's just the seven of them. We currently know nothing about the Reality Warriors, and it might be AGES before we even do, right? (next month cough cough) So why am I theorising with such minimal leads and clues?

Because I'm crazy, anyway.

The woman that is depicted in the model of the statues might be the "she" the Foundation was talking about. Some sort of alpha protector of the Zero Point, the one that kickstarted the whole "protect the realities, let them follow their own cycle" kinda thing. The true leader of the Seven, the Reality Warriors, and all those that devoted their life to serving the Zero Point before and after.

We don't know who she is. Yet.

But I've got an insane idea that is..very unlikely to happen. But a theory's a theory, and the straws are in the blender right now and I'm swallowing them whole. This post will now be a derailed trainwreck for a theory.

We never knew who the Imagined and the Order's mother were, assuming they even had one.

Scientifically, they would need a mother in order to even have the female chromosomes in their structure in order to be birthed/created in the first place. This goes for both their "better" versions and "the originals". (Unless there was just some boring old surrogate mother and Geno is actually a devoted gay dad in his millions or he discovered mpreg)

I'm assuming that the woman in the statue could be the mother of The Imagined and The Order. It'd mean that she is opposing the Oathbound, the future of the Imagined Order, and that she's probably older than we think.

But it's possible she's also discovered immortality in a way similar to how the IO did, but maybe with the Zero Point's blessing or something so she could continue to protect it and pull the strings behind the scene. it's just a hunch and sounds like an interesting idea of "my ex-wife is now the enemy".

TL;DRTB: My theory is that the unknown statue of the woman that is common within the Reality Warrior's area is the Imagined/Order's mother and/or Geno's ex-partner. That and the idea of her being the original ancestor of the Reality Warriors and who the Foundation says is "she" during The End.

I wrote this in an hour. thanks for coming to my TED talk and I'd like to reiterate the fact this is a certified "Matpat" (there are no straws because they are a continent away) type of theory.

[midsummereve1993]

@youlightmeupfinn @la-undercover-latina @ali-r3n @valeriiecameron @sutton2001

Summery so zander becomes the age where things start to happen and what should’ve be a great talk ending up going south when tommy and then places there imput into it.

Warnings talks about the birds and the bees please no minors.

A/n I tried My best and I hope it was good because I know nothing about boys nor do I know what they go through, I felt odd writing this and look most of the stuff up for the boys lol.

May 3 2022

The talk that ending up going the wrong way

Mick sat in the living room with the other three guys working on details for the tour when he heard footsteps and saw his oldest grandson coming into the living room. His daughter had gone out with Mikko and the other kids to plan his 12th birthday along with Mick's own birthday tomorrow. "Grandpa is dad or mom here,'' Zander said, looking embarrassed and just wanting to speak to somebody. "No buddy, they went out for some stuff but what's up, "grandpa can help you, Mick said looking at his grandson who had wide eyes like a deer caught in headlights. 

"Um, well when I woke up my boxers and shirts were wet and sticky and there was white stuff on them. Am I dying?'' Zander said, bursting into tears, making mick tense up at what his grandson just said, "oh buddy, no you're not going to die. "Why were they sticky and what was the white stuff Zander said, asking the question he dreaded asking Embarrassed because of his uncles being there.

"Well since I can't get hold of your mother looks like I'll have to explain it, come sit down,'' Mick said to his grandson and watched as he sat down, "now what you had was called a wet dream and it's normal because you're hitting puberty and is completely normal. "Would that explain the hot girl in my dream, '' Zander said, smirking at the thought of the pic that caused him to feel something. 

"Yes bud exactly,  "so what is the white stuff, "Well z it's called sperm and your body makes it and it is one ingredient to create a baby. Tommy placed his own input into it making mick glare at the drummer like his head would rip off his shoulders. "Sperm and it makes babies, "wait wait I produce babies that will never get to live, Zander said with tears in his eyes at the thought of it.  Tommy's eyes grew wide and knew he needed to fix it fast. 

"No no buddy, see sperm is only one ingredient used to make babies, "see women have periods which produce eggs which have x chromosome while a man's sperm has a y and a c chromosome.  "So how does that create babies?'' Zander said, looking at his uncle and back to his grandfather.  "Well Zander sees a man and women have different parts, "the man has a penis and the woman has a vagina or a pussy as I like to call it, Vince said, smirking , making Mick drop his head.

"A pussy, "you stick your penis inside a cat wouldn't that make cat babies and last time I check that's animal cruelty uncle vince zander said making mick curse himself for having bandmates. "What Vince means buddy is pussy is another word we like to use for a woman's vagina and us perfectly normal,  "so anyways once the man sticks his penis inside the woman's pussy they both have a oragsm. 

"Wait wait what's a oragsm zander said, making all the men in the room wish they hadn't opened their mouths. " a orgasm is where is   pleasurable release of neuromuscular tensions at the height of sexual arousal that is usually accompanied by the ejaculation of semen in the male and muscles spasms in the women pussy. 

"So you have to have sex to produce babies and you stick your penis inside a women doesn't it hurt,  "yes if a women is a Virgin which means she has a cherry that Needs to be pop. "So girls have cherries you pop now I'm confused. "Zander what the three idiots are saying is all females have what they call a hymen which we call cherry and when a man and women have sex for the first time then the man pops ot and she bleeds for a minute and causes pain but once it done its fees good.

"So during the oragsm the man realizes the sperm which travels through the tunnel of the pussy into the womb of the woman where it meets the egg that the woman produces. And the women eggs has x chromosome while the man has a y and x chromosome, "they the sperm meets the eggs if it's crying a y the eggs would become a y and x which will produce a boy while a sperm carrying a x will result in the egg being a xx egg which produces a girl .

"So I was once a sperm living in my dad's body and I traveled through my  sadness, grossing out at the thought of doing that, "it is normal buddy and everybody was once a sperm and was a baby once. "So once the sperm and egg meet it becomes a baby and the woman's body grows it from nine months until the baby is ready to come out.

"But where did I come out, "well there's types of ways babies come out, a c section is one where they cut the baby out of the woman's stomach and the other way is through a woman's vagina.  "So we just randomly appear.  "No see, your mother has contraction which causes the cervix to dilate which makes the uterus contract which is where the baby grows at and when they reach ten centimeters dilated They push the baby out.

"So you are basically saying dad put me inside mom and then mom pushed me out it doesn't hurt her, "it hurts buddy that's only because a woman's body has to stretch Round the baby's head which causes the pain but after that it's a smooth saying. Zander sat like a deer in headlights making mick place his head in his hands and cursing himself when his daughter found out. "Dad we were home, Mick heard his daughter's voice and saw Zander get up and raced toward his mother and waited for the final bow. 

"Mom mom, why can't I remember being a sperm that travels through you and why can't I remember you pushing me out?'' he said to his mother whose face had suddenly gone pale and then red. "Buddy what have you learned,'' Starlyn said glaring at her uncles who had suddenly gone pale at the sight of her. "Well women have a pussy and a ww supposed to make them feel good but now I'm even more confused,'' he said.

 "Ok bud look dad will take you upstairs and help you understand better while I handle your uncles and grandfather starlyn said kissing her son's head and going into the living. "Would someone kindly like to explain to me what appen. "Wel Starry Zander had come downstairs and said his boxers were sticky so i started to tell him them drummer and Vince put there two sense in and it all went down the drain, "poor boy I think we traumatized him vince said and saw his niece glare at him.

"You and Tommy just confused the young boy, why didn't you let dad handle the situation,  "we wanted to help starlyn, that's all. "Yeah well your help Alright and got the boy all confused lord help me this is the reason why I pity you when you had to explain the birds and the bees to your children. "Hey Nick got lucky he only had one daughter. Nikki has three daughters and two sons and Vince had one son and had a daughter before Sky passed away and Tommy has two boys. We give ourselves a break. 

"But you explain it to your boys perfectly fine so why was my boy different, "because he just kept asking questions and digging deeper and deeper into the conversation so we did deeper to Vince said and earned a smack from his niece on the back of his head. "Well next time please let dad handle it because I know your minds, "yall were a hit with the laddies back in the day but lord have mercy have no ideal how to explain to somebody.

"Hey we did pretty good with you didn’t we Tommy said and saw mick glare at the man, "I had to ask Donna because I was traumatized because dad included yall three in on the talk but dad thinks for trying to help him she said giving mick a kiss on the cheek and headed into the kitchen to fix some lunch leaving the four guys in the living room.

Mick turned to the guys and gave them a glare,  "if my grandson has trauma from this we will have a discussion about what you're allowed to say and what you're not allowed to say. "Grandpa, "Thank you for trying to help help and uncles think for also trying to help but please no more help Zander said giving them all kisses on the cheek and headed into the kitchen to help his mom while mikko come down and sat on the couch blowing air.

"Think God that is over. "Yall got the boy so confused that I had to backtrack until he understood it better but I never want to do that again, "well you have three more behind him and might I remind you stetson  is almost a year away from being eleven followed by Hattson who is three years away from it. "Don't remind me please,'' Mikko said to the guys.

After that day Zander couldn't stand to look at his uncles for a while and wished he had waited for his parents but was kind glad he did because if he his Parents knew he was checking out the next door neighbor daughter who was the same age as him well let's just say he would never be allowed to have his own room again.

[nathank77]

5/18/24

3:59 a.m Updated 4:05 a.m Added to 5:53 a.m

I was tested how disoriented my mother is and I asked her some questions. She was giving me weird answers. Like we live on hummingway Avenue... we don't.. I asked her if she was fucking with me. Maybe she's high... she also said she lived in Hendersonville Alabama...

Then I asked her what her daughters name was. And she said "don't even make me go there." And I said, "Skye." And she said verbatim, "that's one of them." And I then said, "wow you're really going to go there, fuck off." And she said, "skye and nala."

I'm fucking livid. Idk whats wrong with her but like woah with the transphobia. I want to leave...

And it's like all i hear around me is my deadname thanks to this hallucination...

And beyond that want to know something I constantly worry about- what if when my parents get really sick and get dementia/alzheimers and they only remember me as my deadname. It's always been a concern cause I'll fucking leave. I won't be around that shit.

She also broke at least once rib that's all i know for now. As I boil with fucking rage.

No update beyond that... I am home now..

And I'm still boiling with rage. This is why I don't want to be out. People look at you different treat you different and say shitty things like that to you when they are mad. Christ her blood alcohol level was 200 and she was on oxy- condone and she still said it and it was really fucking bitchy.....

Like she meant it... and like she wanted to hurt me... and it's like yea I know you wish i had stayed unhappy to appease you.

So I have to try to sleep with this rage while I also worry about her. I didn't even hug her. The blood and that comment it wasn't fucking worth it. Like FUCK YOU.

Skye wasn't there. I was AND YOU HAVE THE AUDICITY TO SAY THAT TO ME. FUCK OFF. I WONT EVEN REGRET IT IF YOU FUCKING DIE TONIGHT. WHY? CAUSE YOU FUCKING MEANT IT.

I don't know why my family is like this. Why do I deserve this? Like sure if I had a more normal mother back in October or November or even sooner I would have been institutionalized for my ocd or psychosis... but beyond that, why the fuck can't I have a normal loving family?

That's the only reason I can see. If I had another straight laced parent like my dad I would have been drugged and sedated. I would have lost my autonomy.

So yea. I mean beyond that I guess I deserve this off hand transphobic remarks.

I'm a stronger and better man than any fucking cis guy. For christ sake I am self made. I fought for this and I'm fucking PROUD of who I see in that mirror. I'm fucking in love with myself.

This world is so disgusting. My family is so fucking disgusting.

This is why I want to kill myself. I have nothing. And when my siblings get older I expect remarks. I honestly do.

This is why it's actually not debatable if i ever end up with someone their family can't fucking know not even their fucking kids. I expect them to fucking lie. I'm done with this off hand comments. People are fucking nasty. EVERYONE IS.

And don't think for a second they won't go for the jugular everyone always goes for it when you're trans. It's the perfect fucking put down..

I don't hate myself I hate the fucking world and how cruel it is. I hate fucking people bc they are all fucking fake and I'm fucking DONE with people.

I'm going back in the fuckint closet. I'm fucking proud but I'm sick of people going for thr jugular. All I hear is my fucking deadname thanks to fuckint kristen dew and then my mom had to fucking day that.

I'm so fucking done with everyone. No one is ever going to know I'm Trans but my future partner. I'm going to take my fucking trans channel Down. I'm going to lie some men grow tits when they get overweight and need surgery.... thats what happened to me. Otherwise I have a fucking penis and XY chromosomes.

And idgf cause this is about how cruel the world is but don't fucking think for one fucking second I'm not fuckint proud of who I am. I love my fucking body. I don't want to be cos but the world has to see me like that in order to respect me.

I have snipped so many people out of my life and I mean the solution is to NOT TELL THEM.

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

So another problem I am having medically that doctors simply ignore is that some of my bone structure is shaped very weird, but because the end result looks somewhat normal or attractive overall they won't take it seriously as a sign that something is up with my chromosomes or genetics?

Like my rib cage is shaped more like B than A in this diagram I have drawn, especially from the side:

A: A normal curved rib-cage, B: clearly belled, especially out the front lower ribs

But my breasts are big enough to come up level with them even in a sport's bra, and mostly disguise it unless you actually cop a feel and realize how far into my chest area my boobs actually go. Like I have 36E breasts and no one will believe it until they feel me up or I hand them my bra because my ribs bell out under my breasts so sharply. I have had women get pissed off at me when I tell them my breast size because I look relatively flat with clothing on [at least compared to what the cleavage amount suggests or my actual cup size] and they just get angry that I 'delusionally' think my boobs are bigger.

The problem is that means I have a rib shape so weird that any support garment or binding that's supposed to go down my ribs is shaped entirely wrong for my body, but also it means I have "genetic condition" level weird bone shapes and my doctors are just ignoring it because I look "attractive enough".

And it isn't just my ribs! I am half a cm off from qualifying as having microcephaly [my mothers head is huge and my dad has a normal head, all my relatives do], I have zero nasal bridge [flat line from top of forehead to tip of nose] and a nose shaped like a child [little button baby nose never impacted by hormones, I am 36]. I have a notably long skinny neck, a really shortened torso and really long legs and arms compared to the rest of my build. My mom called me "spider monkey" growing up because I had such weirdly long limbs and the teachers had to make an exception to the touching the ends of your shorts rule, because my arms reached my knees and they acknowledged that wasn't fair.

But long legs and child -like facial features are considered attractive on a "woman"!

And the chromosome anomalies that are known to cause this only show up in MEN!

So my doctors have always refused to even check my chromosomes!

In addition to this I technically qualify as being intersexed anyway due to hormonal complications, and have many other reasons to believe I am probably a chimera, including details about my mom's pregnancy, but they won't check! Even though it would be super relevant to managing my health!

They take one look at a "woman" who has long limbs and breasts that completely disguise the shape of their ribs, and a baby's nose and a dainty neck who sounds like a child at 36, who looks NOTHING -in body shape or proportion or any of these traits- like either parent or their full blood sister and who has stacking autoimmune conditions and simply REFUSE to check my genetics!

Also my pinkies are shaped like lightning bolts and my arms stick off my elbows at funny angles. My leg bones grew in at different rates cause me to be 'knock kneed' so severely I couldn't walk without bruising until I finished growing, and I keep getting weird rare growths that aren't supposed to happen at all at my age or multiple times unless you have a genetic condition, and they still just "Don't feel it's necessary u.u" to check, like...

And over and over what they cite as their reason is that most of these conditions -usually but definitely not always- come with severe mental impairment, and I seem to be of at least average intelligence, so I can't -possibly- have these mutations, even though the diagnostic manual specifies that not everyone with these abnormalities is impaired at all. Meanwhile they treat me the way people treat obviously autistic adults who sound like children due to underdeveloped facial structures.

And it seems to me that if they are ruling out the need to even look into it by people being "of average intelligence" they are guaranteeing that all known cases will continue to only show up with severe mental impairment.

And then I can't find a bra that goes down my ribs to support big boobs that doesn't dig horribly into my ribcage, and I can't bind to look actually flat or hide the wiggle without the same issue. And everyone gets some combination of angry or surprised when they see me with my shirt off, and tells me it isn't normal.