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#inclusivity
onlytiktoks · 20 days
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flightlessangelwings · 5 months
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Being inclusive with your reader insert fic is a kindness. It tells people of color (poc) that you are considering someone who does not look like you in your fic. It shows love and dedication to our craft. It tells poc that they belong here too and they can see themselves in your story.
Poc aren’t look for activism in fic, we know fandom isn’t that serious, but we should be able to have that same level of escapism when we turn to fic and fandom. We belong here too. This space is for everyone, not just one group of people.
Just to give a few examples of how simple it can be: say “skin warmed” instead of blushed, say “cradled your head” instead of running fingers through hair, say “angles yourself to kiss” instead of standing on tiptoes, use italics to indicate Spanish to take out a throwaway line of “you didn’t understand Spanish” things like that. Small changes that do not impact the fic at all but make a world of difference in inclusivity!
And for anything you can’t/don’t want to change, simply add warning in the beginning. Things like hair descriptors, anything reader might wear, some backstory for reader (especially involving family or where the story is set), readers job, things like that. A lot of times just having that heads up before the fic makes a world of difference!
And one example of kindness we as writers always worked to change: until recently (just a couple years ago) it wasn’t common to label the gender of the reader. But those who aren’t female asked writers to label it so they know which to read and which to avoid, and now it’s common to label the gender/pronouns of the reader. So it is possible! It just takes effort! And I’m a writer myself so I know it can be done!
We can pretend to be a bartender or a bounty hunter or an actress or anything else. But we shouldn’t have to imagine we’re a white one.
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our-queer-experience · 3 months
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we need to adopt will wood’s “boys girls neithers boths and in-betweens” when addressing crowds. i think that’d be cool actually
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tanuki-kimono · 1 year
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Once again GREAT inclusive fashion by designer Kei Hirabayashi.
Those boots were created with wheelchair users in mind, especially people with foot paralysis. Their zippers mean they are easy to slip on/fasten/take off. And they look absolutely amazing, I’d love to own such a pair!
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intersectionalpraxis · 2 months
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fixing-bad-posts · 5 months
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[Image description: A tumblr post, edited blackout-poetry style to read, “lesbian is an umbrella term! Lesbians like women. you can be a guy and a lesbian. you can use he/him pronouns and be a lesbian, be nice”]
lesbian 👏🏻 is 👏🏻👏🏻 an 👏🏻 umbrella 👏🏻 term! 👏🏻
Submitted by @lordchiefinjustice
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clownrecess · 1 year
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(Tw for a VERY brief mention of infantilization)
I want to talk about interacting with AAC users in person, specifically for speaking people.
1. Being an AAC user, I get left behind during conversations a lot because it takes me longer to add in my statement. By the time I'm done, the topic has oftentimes changed and then what I want to say isnt relevant anymore, and sometimes wont even be understood because to everyone else what I just said was out of place and random. This feels really frustrating and sometimes isolating, as well as embarrassing. Please wait for us, we want to converse too.
2. Sometimes when I am not yet done responding, people will watch me and try to guess what I'm going to say. If all I've got down so far is "I already", people might go "I already.. know!" "I already.. saw!" etc. Please stop doing that. Even if you got the idea correct, you might use the wrong words, which frustrates me. And even if you say it all correctly it's still frustrating, imagine if someone tried to guess what you were saying by interrupting you every time you started to talk. It's annoying.
3. Dont comment on what in our folders. If I open a folder to get to another word, and whilst doing that you see a different word in it that's funny or inappropriate or whatever, keep it to yourself. Its annoying. You have acsess to those words, and it isnt treated as weird, so why is it for me?
4. Don't infantilize us. We aren't perpetually children. We are our age. Treat us as if we are a speaking person of our age.
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morallyinept · 7 days
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ADORATION - A Joel Miller x Breast Cancer/Mastectomy F!Reader One Shot
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Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎
BODIES MASTERLIST
Summary: After some completely unexpected and devastating news, a long journey of loss and healing, Joel shows you how beautiful he still finds you.
Pairing: No Outbreak Joel Miller x Breast Cancer/Mastectomy F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity, hair colour etc... However, Reader had breasts and hair before treatment. I've imagined Reader to be around a similar age as Joel, who is 56 when writing this, however Reader's age is not mentioned, so you can determine/imagine it's you, if you'd like to, bub.)
Word Count: 8.3k
Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."
Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.
Triggers & warnings: Mentions of breast cancer/double mastectomy/surgery/grief/loss/depression/body issues/illness & recovery/fear/mentions of death. Established relationship/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks)/breast worship/Joel loves on you hard.
NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.
I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.
Author’s Note: It's important to me that all types of readers are represented in my work, therefore this collection of stories is written for readers with REAL bodies. However, anyone can enjoy them. Whilst this story may not specifically represent your own personal journey, it is my hope that it resonates and offers comfort and enjoyment. The condition/disability mentioned in this story is not 'one size fits all' - everyone's journey is personal and unique, and I have undertaken as much research as I can to write accurately and respectfully. 🤎
MAIN MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST
Enjoy! 🖤
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You’re whining, keening softly as your nose dusts the crown of greying curls resting just below your chin.
They tickle gently on the inside of your nostrils each time you inhale, smiling into the beam of sunlight that strobes onto the pillow, blinding you into a warm, balmy bliss.
Causing your body to spasm and jerk beneath him; little bursts of electricity soar with static, crackling down your spine. You arch your back, pushing your nipple further into his warm, wet mouth.
The insatiable pull around your nipple draws hisses from behind your teeth, eyes rolling back into the furthest reaches of your skull.
Your fingers press into the back of his cranium, cradling him close; losing yourself to the never-ending swirl of his tongue around that fleshy, hard bud as he tongues it, sucks it, nips it...
Hips grinding in a languid cadence against his crotch, a hard bulge catches on your clit as you grind against his cock; stiff and leaking into his faded, worn-out boxers.
Joel’s a self-confessed breast man. He likes pawing at your ass too on the very regular occasion, but he spends most of his foreplay time - and any time, really - latching onto your breasts like a hungry infant.
He likes to suck your nipples out of the puffy swell of your areolas on warm mornings when you wake nestled around him. Coax that stubborn left one out of it's invert with a probing, flickering tongue.
He loves to pinch the stiff, hardened peaks through your top when you're chilly to make you giggle and squirm against him. Feels closest to you when you sit together watching a rubbish film on Sunday evenings in his lap, and he casually has his hand up your shirt holding onto your breast like he would your hand.
It’s a comfort you both enjoy; a big, reassuring warmth holding onto you. He likes feeling the weight of them as they fill his palms, watching the bounce of them, mesmerized, as you ride on his cock vigorously.
Joel’s all up in your marvellous chest at any chance he can get. Sucking the pebbled teats between his lips, swirling his tongue around and around as you fist through his wavy locks and groan when he brings you to orgasm just by lavishing your breasts with his mouth - he loves how sensitive they are.
Especially the right one, it's almost as sensitive as your clit.
Just a few licks over it on this lazy weekend morning, has you panting and almost tearing the roots from his scalp as he squeezes the left one inside his deft fingers; flicking the nipple with his rough index pad and groping a lavish handful.
He’s rutting into you, on the cusp of just pulling his cock out of his boxers - that have seen better days - and slipping into his beautiful wife writhing underneath him; he can feel you seeping through the thin cotton against him.
Joel squeezes your breast again as he sucks at the other, humming at your moans. You croak out his name; each vowel rolling off your tongue with abject need.
Opening and closing his fist around the mound, grunting in rapture, he brushes his thumb along the underside, when he stops. Shiny nipple popping out of his wet mouth, with that furrowed brow pulling his face into a tight knot.
“Darlin’,” he says, with a pursed mouth; his heavy eyes falling to your breast, and his stubby thumb running under the obvious hardness of a lump. “Ya feel that?” He questions, gently.
You look down at him realising his pause.
“Why are you stopping?” You gasp, your hips still moving, slit making a sticky mess against his cottoned length.
You stop grinding, sitting up as you take your breast from him and squeeze all around it, slightly irritated at the interruption, until you find it for yourself.
You feel an unwelcome visitor nestled within the soft curve under your breast, inviting itself bluntly into yours and Joel’s lovemaking.
“God,” you say, his concerned eyes meeting yours.
A lump, no larger than a pea, yet heavy with the weight of uncertainty, that suddenly makes your blood run icy. Your heart pounds a frantic rhythm against your rib cage.
Fear, cold and unyielding, spreads poisoned rust through your veins as you trace its contours; your fingers lingering over the unfamiliar bobble of its terrain.
“It’s probably nothin’,” he reassures with a nod, with eyes so deep you could fall into them and never see light again.
"Yeah," you nod too, but your own eyes convey your trepidation.
And it’s enough to halt any chance of morning sex with your burly husband in its tracks, as you disappear quickly into the bathroom for a thorough inspection.
Disbelief, a fleeting hope that what your fingers trace is merely a figment of your imagination, or a cyst at best.
All weekend you fret and worry until you can call the doctor's office on Monday morning.
You can't count the number of times you touch it, prod at it. You tell yourself out loud that it’s probably nothing, like Joel suggests.
Yet, as reality sinks its claws into your rational thinking, fear takes root, gnawing away at the fragile threads of your composure.
Yeah. Probably a cyst.
Your breasts change all the time; lumpy and bumpy; they’re not as perky as they once were. Your monthly cycle sees them ache and weight heavy like granite blocks sometimes.
It’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about. You tell your weary reflection, but she has a hard time believing you as she stares back with unblinking eyes.
When Joel doesn't put his hand up your shirt as you nestle into him during your Sunday night film ritual, that's when the tears kick in.
Excusing yourself to the bathroom, you don’t cry in front of Joel, but he’s not so easy to convince that everything's fine, and it’s just allergies making your eyes red, when he knows it’s not allergy season. Or that you have any allergies.
“S’alright to be worried, darlin’. But ya gon’ be okay.” He tells you he’s coming to the doctor with you.
You argue that it’s fine, but he's insistent with his brooding frown and pursed lips like he’s constantly chewing on a wasp. He tells you he loves you no matter what, and you’ll be fine and that’s that, as he squeezes your hand.
He pulls you close as you watch the film together spread out on the sofa. Still no hand up your shirt. You see the colour moving on the screen, hear the dialogue and music, but none of it sinks in. You’re staring at the TV completely blank.
He excels at making you think clearly, challenges your fears and helps you confront them with simple questions and words to get you to think differently. It’s one of the main reasons you married him. He has a level head.
And you don’t realise how tense you are until Joel rubs your back and you melt fully into his chest.
With more soothing words and reassurances, eventually you believe him that you’re probably being irrational and panicking over nothing, because Joel has this knack of waving a magic wand and making everything okay.
But it isn’t okay, not this time.
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Within two weeks you have a mammogram and a biopsy after the doctor murmurs hmms and huhs at you.
You’re told not to worry as there’s only a two per cent chance that it’ll be cancer, as you’re stripped bare before the prying eyes of medical professionals and the cold embrace of diagnostic tests.
The loss of control over your own physicality is so fast, leaving you feeling exposed and deprived of the autonomy you'd once taken for granted.
Unfamiliar hands groping and prodding on your breasts replace Joel’s warm, tender ones, and you try to hold it together inside the sterile walls.
You break the moment he has you in his arms outside in the long, lonely corridor of the hospital and asks you how it went.
Joel throws himself into work on the construction site, and you throw yourself into a sinking depression, clouded with worry and worst case scenarios.
You’re sent home with stitches and painkillers after the biopsy, and all you can do is wait.
The invasion of a hostile takeover of your once jaunty mood hovers thickly in the air between you both at home during that time.
You do the one thing you shouldn’t and Google fucking everything. Survival rates, post-op images, types of cancer and all the dread that your eyes can take in until you can take in no more.
You then switch tactics and try to stay occupied and distracted. You play Joel’s old country rock playlist full blast, deciding to turn the house upside down and clean and bleach the shit out of every nook and cranny of it, until Joel comes home, eyes stinging with the fumes, and asks if you’ve lost your damned mind.
You smell bleach on your fingers for days after and it reminds you bleakly of the smell in the hospital corridors.
You lay in bed side-by-side at night, awkwardly staring at the ceiling, recalling how most nights you can hardly get enough of one another. But Joel rolls over and mumbles an exhausted goodnight to you, and you try your hardest not to cry; but the tears slip silently out the creases of your eyes anyway.
You’re called to come in for your biopsy results almost a week later, and the car journey there is deathly silent as Joel and you stare out the windshield and don’t say anything the whole way there.
Joel glances at you and you feel the weight of his ginormous hand on your thigh, squeezing it, and you barely register the sensation at first, turning to him as he squints in the sunlight as he turns the wheel.
There’s no casual flirting, no animated discussions about supper; no singing along to Bennie And The Jets together on Rock FM.
You watch the town pass you by out the window like it’s a stranger, equal parts numb and terrified.
The specialist takes a seat opposite you both, their gaze never wavering as they speak in a soft voice laced delicate with empathy, and you immediately know from the look on their face.
“It’s gon’ be alright, darlin’.” He says.
Although you’re unsure if it’s for your benefit or his, as his eyes remain focused on the road and glaze over in their emptiness somehow.
"I wish there was an easier way to say this, but the results of your biopsy came back, and I'm afraid it's cancer..."
Your breath catches in your throat, your world dangerously spinning out of control as the weight of those words settle over you like a suffocating shroud.
"Cancer? Two per cent…" You whisper, your voice barely audible above the rush of blood in your ears.
The medical speak jumbles your brain. Triple-Negative. Faulty BRCA1. Aggressive…
The words fade out and so do you.
But when you come back, you're looking at Joel; at his profile as he speaks. Mouth moving at the specialist with questions fired behind stunned snarls.
You're not sure where you go, or for how long, it’s just all muffled and quiet. Like being underwater, it fills your ears completely as you sink. Peaceful in a way.
The first time in weeks you’ve had any peace inside the tornado of your mind. It all stills.
He’s so beautiful.
You think it’s odd how a man can be deemed beautiful, like it emasculates him somehow, but it's the right word, you think. Beautiful, with heavy features etched with concern, yet softened by an unwavering love that radiates from his soulful brown eyes.
In the opaque light filtering through the window, you notice the creases at the corners of his eyes, the remnants of countless laughter-filled moments you’ve shared; your mind reliving through all of them in a handmade scrapbook decorated with glitter glue.
You can hear that little breathy snuffle he makes as he chuckles at something you say, whether it’s genuinely funny or moronic. His eyes, once bright with hope and joy, now glisten with unshed tears filling round shiny scleras, reflecting the tumult of emotions churning within him.
He talks, asks all the right questions you can't even form into comprehensible words. And somewhere through the falling, the tumbling, you love him even more for it.
You spend a quiet moment tracing the prominent curve of his nose with your eyes down into the way his lips will quirk upwards in a playful, crooked grin that never fails to warm your heart.
Yet now, they’re drawn down into a thin pout of worry; a silent plea for reassurance amidst the uncertainty that looms over you both.
Joel's a practical man, hands on. He needs to know. He needs to have all the facts and weigh up all the options presented to him like a gloomy spread of cards on the desk before him.
You can’t help yourself, reaching your fingers out and tangling them in the soft tendrils of his hair as you brush them behind his ear.
But you're fixating on his hair, once a riot of chestnut curls that framed his face with youthful exuberance, now bear the distinguished marks of time - strands of silver threaded through the greying curls that fall in gentle waves around his temples.
It’s almost like they’re greying further in front of you as you watch him now.
When was the last time he got a haircut?
Your fingers brush against the fuzzy, silken stubble that adorns his jawline and top lip, a tactile reminder of the physicality of your love, recalling the way he rubs it against your face, your inner thighs...
His jaw clenches slightly, a reflexive response to the weight of your shared anguish, yet his grip on your hand remains steadfast.
Your eyes drop to the calloused knot of thick, squeezing tendons and bone crushing around your own.
The look in his coffee bean eyes as you advanced towards him, stacked chest puffed out; filled with love and pride that you were his. You remember his speech, how he choked around carefully thought out words relishing that he’ll get to spend every waking moment with his best friend.
The gleam of his wedding ring and the feel of the warm metal is no longer perfect in its circumference as you trace your finger over the tarnish of it. It’s flecked with tiny scratches from his work.
You remember how handsome he looked in his snug-fitting tux as he waited for you at the end of the aisle scattered with rose petals.
You squeeze your eyes shut as you picture him looking down into your coffin, wearing the same tux; red eyes and snot falling from his nose as he collapses, wailing your name in haunted howls, and it’s enough to have you fleeing from your chair, with a spine-chilling scrape against the floor, in search of the nearest bathroom as your stomach lurches.
You barely make it, spilling your insides into the toilet bowl uncontrollably.
No. No, no, no…
The harsh fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting eerie shadows against the cold, tiled wall with you pressed up against it; your breaths coming in ragged gasps that echo in the hollow confines of the tiny bathroom.
Tears stream down your cheeks, hot and relentless, as the weight of the diagnosis presses down upon you like a suffocating lead blanket, threatening to engulf you in its darkness.
Panic claws at your chest, its icy fingers tightening with each heartbeat, squeezing the air from your lungs until you feel as though you’ll suffocate beneath its crushing weight.
You can't breathe as you fumble at your buttons on your shirt trying to loosen them.
"I got ya, darlin'. I got ya." He soothes. "It's okay. I got ya. Sssh. Just breathe. I got ya..."
It doesn’t take Joel long to find you at all. All tiny and cowering in the cubicle; sobbing wildly as you reach for him, and he pulls you to him and lets you shatter against his broad shoulders.
His voice is your anchor, pulling you back slowly.
It's not fair. You can’t leave him.
You slur something about fucking it all, you’re going to die anyway, right? Might as well go down swinging, before he takes the bottle from you, muttering fucks of his own, as he prods you back up to bed and wraps band-aids around your bleeding toes.
You don’t remember him picking you up and taking you home, or holding you all night.
You don’t remember him finding you in the kitchen at around two AM, drinking yourself stupid with broken glass around your feet, and his concerned tone asking you what the hell you’re doing.
You eventually fall asleep encased inside of his arms and inhaling the spiced scent of his skin, breathing it in deeply so you don’t forget it.
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He makes you breakfast in the morning that you don’t eat, irons clothes for you that you don’t wear.
Buys you brightly coloured flowers, that he knows you love, to cheer you up. But you simply let them wilt and die on the counter top, not bothering to get a vase out for them.
You just sit and watch them die; their velvety petals shrivelling and curling before your eyes over the course of days.
Cancer just doesn't affect you, it affects the people closest to you, too.
That’s what the website says that you’ve been directed to. You realise this when you notice Joel and you haven't had sex since the day he discovered the lump.
You haven’t kissed either, not passionately anyway. Your breasts have been unloved and untouched by him, for what feels like weeks, when the man usually can’t bear to not grope or pinch them playfully when he holds onto you. Or sneaks up behind you when you're washing up the dishes, making you splash bubbles in his face.
In a bout of feverish desperation, you climb into his lap whilst he’s watching a game and nursing a bottle of beer on his day off, kissing him with wanton bites on his neck making him frown, as you push your chest towards his face.
It only kills you further when he shakes his head and tells you not like this, darlin’ before he lifts you off of him.
It creates an argument. You accuse him of not finding you attractive anymore, and he growls at you that you’re being ridiculous, before you yell even louder.
You don’t even know why you’re yelling or how you even got to this point. Nothing makes sense anymore.
And yet now, for the first time, you don’t know what he’s thinking behind that knot of muscles pulling his face taught; what he’s feeling, and it fucking terrifies you as you plead for him to talk to you.
You and Joel never fight like this. You always talk about things that bother you both. You've never heard Joel raise his voice in the whole entire time you've known him.
Honesty and open communication has always driven your relationship and come naturally between you both.
But instead, he leaves to let you cool off. You don’t know that he doesn’t go far at all. He just drives his truck round the corner and sits there in it, sobbing helplessly into his thick palms until it gets dark and he goes to a bar in town to drown his sorrows further.
You don't know that it kills him not being able to touch you; he wants to. Fuck, he wants nothing more than to ravish you, but he’s terrified he’ll hurt you, or will do something dumb that only his own mounting panic convinces him he’ll do.
For the first time in his life, Joel feels completely helpless.
It’s not fair. He can’t lose you.
“Let me see,” you prompt, and he drops the ice-pack to reveal a nasty black eye in the early stages of birth.
You find him in the kitchen late when he eventually comes back home, and making no effort to hide the fact he’s had a heavy drink.
He looks up at you, holding an ice-pack to his face and waiting for the tirade from you.
Red grazes orbit around his fist too, knuckle skin missing, you note. His eye is almost sealed shut with the swelling that’s a mix between blue and purple, in stark contrast to his golden face. Broken blood vessels litter the area, and he sniffs deeply before he speaks again.
“Ya should see the other guy,” Joel assures with a tight mouth.
He has a large dimple on the left side of his face when he smiles; an almost perfect, crescent like the moon in its waxing phase. But it’s hard to coax a smile out of him for it to be fully revealed these days; his mouth constantly twitches into a downward arch most of the time.
As you look at him, there’s an old man somewhere inside of his face; a burdened man, exhausted and on the verge of giving up entirely.
Cancer just doesn't affect you, it affects the people closest to you, too.
“What happened?” You query, tentatively as you dab at his knuckles.
“I lost my shit.” He replies stoically, as you tend and fuss over him whilst sighing.
You look up at him and as much as you want to be mad with him, you can’t - he’s hurting too.
Comprehension is a difficult task to begin to tackle. You ask so many whys - why me? Why is this happening? But fail to find an answer to any them.
Everything has been spun one-eighty and you’re still dizzy from the shock of your diagnosis.
Hours and soon days disappear from your life, like sand falling in an hourglass, as you try to fully understand what’s happening around you.
You feel as though meandering through a blur, your body robotically doing the things you're supposed to, but your mind not being fully coherent. Get up, eat, work, go to bed and so on. It ticks continuously whilst your limbs belong to that of a zombie.
Questions, thoughts and images... all blinking through you trying to piece it all together whilst you move stagnantly. But eventually the anxiety begins to chip into your mentality and inserts thoughts that you daren’t venture down.
The exact truth is staring you in the face, but try as you might to refute it, it’s plainly obvious and it begins to terrify you in ways that are new.
You have cancer.
It invades your dreams and deprives you of sleep. Tears make themselves acknowledged, at the most inconvenient of times too, like shopping in the grocery store, or typing at your computer at your desk at work, and trying to hide them from the prying world is a task in itself.
And you don’t realise it at the time, but Joel’s going through the same. Questioning, worrying, just as paranoid and stressed as you are.
And you both need to talk about it, you know you do, but yet neither of you can quite summon the courage to do so.
“M’sorry,” he says into your hair, as he pulls you in for a crushing cuddle against him.
“It’s okay,” you murmur, as quiet tears absorb into the plaid flannel pulled tight over his chest from your eyes.
But it's not okay. You have cancer.
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Over the course of your discussions with the doctors, specialists and oncologists - and other medical professionals, whose names, faces and titles get lost in the swampy fog of your brain - the words ‘bilateral mastectomy’ are tossed around.
It’s clear the risks aren’t worth you keeping both of your breasts when they tell you you’re at high risk of it potentially coming back. To add another punch to the blow, they suggest removing your ovaries too, mumbling the words just in case.
Just in case…
You look at Joel, devastated. You’d both agreed that children were something you weren't both keen on having years ago, but it still feels like that choice of having an open dialogue about it is ripped from you.
When you agree it’s the best way forward, and he agrees too with a face that looks like he’s just had a lobotomy and doesn’t know where he is, a date is put in the diary for the surgeries and treatments, and it’s sooner than you think it will be.
There’s hardly any time to breathe and take it all in.
A day before the surgery and you’re sitting at the kitchen table with a face on as Joel comes in from work, sawdust caked in his hair and boots.
Your voice cracks as you explain that perhaps you should just call it time. Let him find someone else. You won’t be upset, you want him to be happy as you mutter incoherently about death and divorce, and death again, until he shakes his head defiantly and huffs loudly.
He reaches into the fridge for a cool beer and offers you one, but you don’t reply. He looks down at your face.
At the face that Joel affectionately calls butt face.
The beer fizzes over the top in a foamy eruption as he slams it down on the counter top.
“Ya really are an idiot, ain’t ya?” He says, slumping down heavily into the chair beside you.
“But,” you begin and he makes the butt face at you, with pushed out lips and squinted eyes. “You won’t want me anymore.” You whisper.
His face pulls serious as he drags your hand into his blistered ones. “I ain’t fuckin’ goin’ anywhere.” He grits. “And neither are you.”
“But-”
“Quit with the butt face, darlin’. In sickness and in health. Ain’t that what we promised?”
“Yeah, but-”
He shakes his head again, his stubby fingers finding their home on your face, catching renegade tears in the whorls of his fingerprints.
“What, ya think m’gonna not love ya anymore because ya ain’t gonna have any breasts, is that it?”
That’s exactly it, hit the nail on the head, and although you don’t say it, he knows. Damn it, he knows.
“Ya really think m’that shallow?” He clicks his tongue around his teeth.
“No, of course I don’t,” you shake your head. “I’m just… I’m scared, Joel. I'm really fucking scared.” You gulp.
“I know.” He says, pulling you into his lap and wrapping those big, strong arms around you. “M’gonna be right there, when ya wake up, okay? M’gonna bring ya home and we’ll get through this, together. You n’ me. One day at a time. Okay, butt face?”
It’s the first time in weeks you smile and the first time in weeks you kiss; a soft, but tentative peck against your lips, that still holds back somewhat.
Pushing your foreheads together you sigh out, unable to think about anything else.
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Two operations, four and a half months of chemotherapy and three weeks of radiotherapy, and it takes months for your hair to grow back.
You remember recoiling in horror as it fell out in clumps a few weeks after the chemo started, until you decided to just be done with it, and had Joel shave it off for you.
He offered to do his own in solidarity with you, until you snatched the clippers from him.
“Don’t you dare!” You almost shrieked as you ran your fingers through his tufty curls, smiling. “You’re never getting a haircut ever again.” And he smirked at that.
“Yes, ma’am.” He'd said as he put them away.
You had woken, groggy and aching, to Joel's face smiling at you and pushing a water beaker to your lips. You looked down to see your chest covered in bandages and drains under your hospital issue nightgown.
It was an odd feeling, you didn't feel much of a difference in those first few, post-op days; weighted down by the drains and dressings, and in and out with the pain meds.
They shifted you out of hospital the next day to recover at home, and Joel took up the role of carer, doctor and home cook as he fussed and got you comfy on the couch in a suffocating fort of pillows and blankets.
After the ovarian surgery, you started taking aromatase inhibitors, which were an added nightmare as these treatments bring on an almost immediate menopause with your ovaries now gone.
No gradual decline - a full push over the fucking cliff, face first. You can’t bear for Joel to touch you when you’re burning up and sweating; soaking the sheets through completely that you fear you’ve wet the bed.
When you’re sick from the radiotherapy, he feels useless hearing you heave behind a locked door. All you can do is lay in bed for days, struggling to keep food down and sleep it off.
You're too weak and exhausted to climb the stairs sometimes, so Joel carries you in his arms up them, even though it kills his knees and makes him groan silently when it pulls on his back. But he still does it anyway.
There are more discussions as the treatments carry on. More options, more pills, more chemicals. More time spent feeling like sludge.
Your bandages and dressings finally come off and you see yourself for the first time in front of a mirror, and there are a few moments when you can’t feel anything. Like there’s no water left in your body to cry anymore.
You just stare at your reflection with the nurse hovering by your side.
They warned you you’d be left with scarring. The scars from the mastectomy extend across the skin of your chest either side and into your armpits where you had lymph nodes removed too. They’ll fade over time, but will never completely disappear.
They warned you they’ll also feel permanently numb. And they’re right, as you touch your mutilated body with shaky fingers, you feel… nothing.
It’s another loss to mourn, the loss of your femininity, of yourself.
And that’s the worst feeling of all as you stare at the mess of your chest that was once curved and bouncy and shapely like a woman ought to be.
Now you’re flat as a board and there’s nothing remotely feminine about your body now, you think.
You can feel the sensation of touch to some degree, but it’s nothing like before. No sensitivity, no prickly feeling that creates goosebumps, just completely numbed out.
And over the course of some weeks, you can feel odd sensations arise, like you’ll touch your chest and you’ll feel it under your armpit. Your body feels all out of sorts as it slowly heals.
You have options; you can have more surgery to build you a pair of breasts if you'd like, but that comes with more pain and recovery and you decide you’re done with that.
You can wear a padded or filled out bra, you can have a tattoo which you briefly consider to cover the scarring.
But you settle on remaining as you are for now. Overwhelmed by the options out there, when you truly believed there was nothing that could make you feel even remotely feminine again.
Maybe something pretty, like flowers…
And Joel nods at all of them as you ask for his input, but ultimately he just wants what you want.
You cover the scars up with layers. You sleep with long sleeved tops and no longer undress in front of Joel. You can't bear him to see you like this, not yet.
Each day you think will be the day when you garner enough bravery to show him, but don't.
It feels weird, like some days they’re still there, akin to a phantom limb. You find yourself checking your chest as you feel the familiar bounce of them as you run down the stairs, or go to grope them with the suds to clean in the shower and the loss devastates you all over again.
He reassures you, telling you that you're beautiful with sincere eyes, and there's nothing that you need to worry about. But it still niggles away.
That lone, renegade thought that he might not be attracted to you anymore when he sees them, suddenly becomes the loudest of all.
They say time is a healer. Patience, understanding. And Joel has been all these things and more.
He’s carried you above the surface of the muddy water when all you’ve wanted to do is drown at times. He’s the one who nudges you awake each morning with a nose in your cheek and reminds you to take your pills.
He’s the one who brought you a beautiful coloured scarf to wear on your head when you lost your hair. A gorgeous floral print that you admired with a smile at the intricate pattern of petals as you ran your fingers over the silk of it.
He’s the one who, despite working all the hours God sends, still comes home and makes you something to eat because he knows you might not have any energy to cook.
He’s the one who still tells you he loves you, no matter what’s going on under your tops and sweaters that swamp you in their bagginess.
It isn’t time that does it at all, it’s him.
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You wake one morning, months after, as the sun pools in the bedroom, and look at Joel on his back, asleep and snoring gently.
Joel’s seen you at your absolute worst; your most vulnerable, and he’s still here. Resilient, strong. A man who puts others to shame.
A man that you still desire, and you want him to desire you, even if you’re not whole anymore.
You reach out and touch him, hand brushing over the swell of his golden belly to convince yourself he’s real. Soft, downy hairs around his belly button tickle your palm gently.
He stirs at your stroking, sleepy eyes looking down at you as he blinks, adjusting to the light.
“Ya alright?” Joel asks, and you nod with a smile.
“I love you.” You say to him and he blushes, like he always does at that. Pink capillaries coming to life in his cheeks.
“I love you, darlin’.” He confirms, clutching your hand and kissing across the knuckles gently.
His hair is a tousled mess, the greys on his chest seem more plentiful and it stirs something within you; something the intense and gruelling treatments haven't fully killed off.
You straddle him and lean over, kissing him, much to his surprise. Your hands roam over his soft belly, squeezing gently as he smirks around your lips, and yelps a little when you pinch a ticklish spot. 
“Hey now,” he warns, as your tongue licks over his lips. 
He hums out as his hands sweep up your back, cupping the back of your head as he slips his tongue inside your mouth.
To taste him again is divine as your body instantly relaxes onto him. He nips gently on your lip and you groan out as you feel how hard he gets underneath you.
You can’t help but subtly grind on him as he groans into your mouth.
You break the kiss to sit upright, heart thrumming in your chest as he looks up at you with those dark, molten eyes.
"I'm ready to show you." You say and he straightens up.
"Okay," he nods, thumbs stroking over your thighs gently.
Without hesitation, you lift up your top revealing the flat, scarred wasteland that is your chest now, that you haven’t had the courage to let him fully see.
For a moment, his face is completely unreadable and you consider reaching for your top to cover up again.
You hold your breath as his eyes wander over the puckered welts; you feel his fingers twitch against your hips.
He sits up on his elbows, eyes locked onto yours, licking over his lips slowly as his peepers follow the lines back and forth.
His eyes dip further down to the two, little dimpled scars from where your ovaries were removed, either side of your tummy.
“Don’t ya dare,” he says, as if able to read your mind.
And you realise that he can, in his own way. He’s always been able to see you even though you try to hide sometimes. He just has the patience to wait until you're ready.
He never pushes, he just waits, because he knows that eventually, you’ll crawl out from whatever hole you need to hide in for a while to deal, to process - whatever it is you need to do. Then you’ll come back to him.
And he’ll always be there aith open arms when you do.
Joel takes you in his arms, twists you so you’re laying on your back and he kisses you there without hesitation. Kisses gently where your breasts once were in the same way that he used to.
Runs his mouth delicately over the numbed skin, dragging lips and leaving wet tracks with open mouthed kisses.
You gasp out as your eyes fill with water, your fingers finding their rightful place, raking through his curls as he glides his tongue over every creased line of your scars.
“Joel,” you whimper, cradling him as you feel his hardness press up against your centre.
You can feel a tingle of the warmth from his lips on your skin kissing gently as your eyes pool. He looks up to see you crying.
“Baby, baby. Does it hurt?” He asks, worried.
You shake your head. “No. No, I can feel you.” You gasp, shaking. “It’s weird, but I can.”
“Where?” He asks.
“There, kind of,” you say, as he brushes his lips over the spot where your right nipple used to be.
He kisses you there and runs his tongue gently over the area making you shudder, and you feel the tingles again, strangely in your armpit.
It makes you giggle at how your nerves have patched themselves up all wonky, and he smiles at you, chuckling as he licks and tests all places that might have an ebb of feeling, with little kisses and watching your reaction to each one.
All the tension leaves your body, muscles relaxing beneath his gentle ministrations; breath steadying as you surrender to the intimacy of this moment.
Reaching down, you cup his swollen cock over his boxers, with the fraying elastic tickling your wrist.
“We really need to get you some new underwear,” you titter at the state of them.
He simply shrugs with a smirk. “I could just simply take ‘em off.”
You nod eagerly and he pushes them down over his hips as you stroke him; your palm sticky with him as he leaks undeniably into it.
“Ya sure?” He queries gently as you swipe him against your folds.
"Mmm, Joel." You groan at the feel of him as you pump him. "God, I want you."
It feels so good to have him touching you, so close. The weight of his body pressed into yours, crushing you again. How warm he feels against your skin. 
“I fucking want you, Joel.” You plead, as you clutch his face in your other hand. His warm breath breathes life into your tired bones. “I don’t want you to be gentle either. I need you to fuck me, hard.”
“Ya so fuckin’ beautiful, darlin’,” he grunts as he pushes his thick cock head against your drenched hole.
You both groan out as he fills you, stretching you wide around him and pumping into you gently as you acclimatise to his girth - it's been a while.
You wrap your legs around his waist as he mouths at your neck; tongue trailing down to your chest and finding that spot again.
“Snug as a bug in a rug... damn.” Joel quips, his tongue running over his teeth and then shaking his hips from side-to-side, making you feel all those little movements as he furrows up so tightly in there.
He flexes his groin and begins moving back and forth inside of you, pressing on that sweetly, pinchy spot deep inside; slightly uncomfy and yet incredibly good at the same time.
“Fuck me, Joel,” you plead, gripping onto his arm skin, “fuck me hard, please…” You whine as he sets to ploughing you like you command and demand of him.
You’re so wet that the sounds coming out of your pussy are almost farcical, making you giggle and him grunt as they squeak and soak him. He slips out a few times trying to gain his momentum - it’s like a damn slip n’ slide.
Joel presses down on your knee, bearing his weight on it so you can’t shut your legs. Making you endure it - to ride that full gigantic wave smashing into your pussy and rising up through your body.
“Ya so fuckin’ wet, ya drenched.” He’s panting, beside himself with the state you're in. “Gushing for me already, huh, darlin’?”
Your eyes roll back into your head and he smirks as he fucks hard into you like you want.
“Like this? This how ya want it?” 
“Yeah, Joel. Don’t stop!” You wail. 
“Ain’t gon’ stop til’ ya come for me, baby.” 
He only slows to lean in and kiss you as he pistons in deeper, winding those hips of his into you further.
“Joel…” you drone. It feels so good as he grinds, so deep.
“Darlin’ ya feel too good. Fuck, m’not gon’ last like this…” he whines with a panting smirk.
“Slow it down,” you moan as he grips a hold of your thighs and brings you back onto him slower, deeper.
He licks over your mouth clumsily, tongue swiping across your nostrils, grunting out loud as your pussy clenches around him as you shudder underneath him.
He watches with a smile, lighting up the contours of his heavy set brow as you come around him.
And it’s like staring at the sun for too long; his smile brands itself into the back of your eyelids - a permanent scorch that you never want to forget.  
And you feel every inch of him like this. He fucks into you slowly; your breaths hitching and falling from your chest quicker as you both work to build you up again.
“Joel!”
He reaches forward, stroking his thick fingers over the marred scars; feeling the smoothness of healing skin juxtaposed with the slight roughness of the scar tissue.
He strokes up to your neck, pulling you upright gently as you cry out when his cock hits so deep. 
“Like that, darlin’...” he croons, as he winds further into you. “Mmm, fuck!”
You tremble and shake uncontrollably as he brings you to another orgasm.
“There ya are, baby. There ya are…” Joel smiles, kissing over your nose and cheeks. "So fuckin' beautiful, ain't ya?"
And he’s right there with you, head pressed into yours, watching; feeling as you squeeze and contract. Feeling you tremble and shake.
Watching as your eyes water and you gasp; your hands squeeze around his biceps, nails digging in. 
You claw at him. Pulling him closer as he whimpers. A ragged cry escapes from his throat as he drives his hips deeper and struggles to contain himself.
You feel his teeth on your shoulder, grazing and desperate to bite down through the flesh. Your nails rake through his scalp, twisting and pulling as you pant and groan.
He watches in awe at you shaking on the end of his thick cock, rattling about as he turns you out and finally has his way with his gorgeous wife again.
His eyes fall over your chest and he looks at you adoringly, tongue weaving across the scars again without hesitation. Planting kisses and mouthing over the scars.
“Oh God! Oh Fuck!” You holler.
Making you feel every thick, beastly inch of him, as he pounds up into your insides like a boxer taking his fury out on the bag.
Joel pulls you by the hips upright, as he rolls onto his back, so you’re now on top of him. Everything’s fluid, swift and in a blur.
He anchors you down by your waist, making you sit on him; making you unable to escape him.
“Holy shit, oh shit-shit! Joel!” You exclaim as you gasp and struggle to swallow as the frantic intakes of breath choke you. “Oh my God!”
“Ya can take it… ya can do it, that’s it. Ride it.” Joel encourages. “So fuckin’ beautiful when ya take my cock like this, darlin’. God damn."
He just keeps coming at you; powering and thundering through you, without any hesitation in letting up anytime soon. He’s a powerhouse of sweat and grunts, breathing like he’s dying; small, quick rasps and wheezes gurgle in the back of his throat.
You find your pace, pressing palms into his broad chest and letting your hips bounce, and it feels so damn good as the curve of his cock rubs in all the sweet spots deep inside.
You reach down and stroke your clit, groaning at the feel of it tingling wildly under your fingertips.
“Stroke that pretty clit for me,” Joel croons, hammering up into you.
You stroke and rub the sticky nub, and then bring your digits up towards your mouth, sucking and teasing your lips with your fingers, and he watches enthralled.
“Suck those fingers, darlin’.” Joel hisses. “Tell me how good ya taste.”
“So good,” you smirk. You push your fingers to his lips, and he sucks them too.
"Yeah, ya do. Taste so fuckin' good."
You feel his thumb circle over your clit bringing you closer and closer with each swish of his pad against it.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes. YES!” You pant, as he grips around your waist tighter.
“Ya want me to fill ya up, hmm?”
“I want all of you, Joel.” You whine, desperate for him.
“That’s it, grind on my cock. Just like that.” He coos; his lip caught between his teeth as he cranks you around, holding onto your hips.
Your head flops onto his shoulder, your hand gripping onto the other as your lower half powers through.
“Mmm, Joel... please!” You groan, feeling your body tighten and clench again.
“Ya close again, baby?” He wheezes in your ear. "Gonna come for me?"
“Mhm… so close.”
“Come all over my cock.” He encourages. “Soak it, I want it all.”
“Oh God!” You whine.
“So damn good, fuck,” he grunts as you move around and around, your back tensing. He rubs it fondly with his big hands. “Right there, that’s it. Oh fuck, that’s so sweet, darlin’.” He groans. “M’gonna come so deep inside of ya.”
You cry out; your body shuddering and trembling on top of him, and you feel him tense and grunt out on a long, satisfied sigh.
You come, your head expanding and your body floating; your cunt clenching around him as you milk him completely dry. Tingles flood your body, your back arches and you can see the sun burning behind your eyes again.
Unable to think or say anything, Joel kisses you; silencing you before you have the chance to ruin this moment by shrinking back or wrapping yourself back up and hiding your body away from him.
For one millisecond, he’s weak; just a sweaty mess of bewildered man meat beneath you. Joel loses himself inside the holistic spiral of your irises for a moment, unable to get out or find his way through the maze of them.
And part of him wants to stay lost in them forever.
He trembles as he rocks slowly, feeling himself empty and deflate with a final grunt of your name, and his shoulders sag in unison into the mattress.
You wrap your arms around him and finally collapse upon him and lay there for a few minutes, listening to nothing but his heartbeat thrumming in your ears, eventually slowing its pace back to its normal rhythm.
Joel looks down at you as you run your fingers across his scalp and it makes him shiver; goosebumps travelling down his spine at breakneck speeds.
You stop winding the curls, shifting and resting your head up against his as you catch your breath.
He holds you, kissing you gently over your eyelashes and cheeks.
“Ya more fuckin’ beautiful to me than you’ve ever been, ya know that?” He murmurs into your face.
"They made 'em neater than I thought they'd be." He says.
You feel his knuckles sweep over your chest gently, unafraid to touch you at all, and you feel like a weight as been lifted as he does it.
You watch as he traces the ridge of the scars delicately.
"Yeah." You nod. You lift your arm up so he can see them run into your pit.
"Do ya feel much pain still? I didn't hurt ya, did I?"
You smile and shake your head. "No. It's just mostly numb. Just feels different. I'm really happy that I could feel something when you kissed me. Even if it was in my armpit," you chuckle.
"Ya still fuckin' beautiful," he smiles, and kisses inside your armpit.
You smile bashfully, headbutting his chin gently as you try not to let the tears water your eyes.
“Look at me, darlin’.” His fingers tip your chin up to him. Thumbs smearing away any tears. “I mean it. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Fuckin’ balls on ya are bigger than mine.”
“I don’t know about that,” you say, reaching down to cup and stroke the soft swell of his between your fingers.
He groans, biting on his lip before his mouth finds yours again. "Ya tryin' to kill me?" He slips his tongue inside and tastes you all over again, his hands slipping down your back and groping your ass. “Ya so fuckin' sexy."
"You think so?" You smile.
"Oh, I know so. Ya always have been. Don't hide from me anymore, okay?"
"Okay." You breathe.
"Want ya sleepin' naked next to me again." He thinks for a moment. "Why don't I take ya out to dinner tonight? Anywhere ya want. If ya feelin' up for it?"
"You taking me out on a date, hmm?"
"Yeah. I am. Maybe put one of them nice dresses ya got on. I'll put on that shirt ya like. The green plaid one. Spruce myself up for ya."
"That's my favourite." You agree.
"Ya deserve to feel good, darlin'. Wanna take ya out. Show the world how fuckin' lucky I am."
You smile into his face. "What did I do to deserve you, Mr Miller?"
He kisses you again. Soft lips brushing against yours. "M’gonna keep loving ya. You n’ ya stupid butt face. Ya hear me, Mrs Miller?”
You nod, chuckling, safe in his arms; a place where you can feel safe and heal, and begin to feel like yourself again.
“I hear you.” You smile, as he pelts your face with swamping kisses in the warm sunlit bedroom. "I love you."
He smiles and he's never looked more beautiful.
“I love ya too, butt face.” Joel hums, as he crushes you to his chest and never lets you go.
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I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Joel, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤
BODIES MASTERLIST
MAIN MASTERLIST
JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST
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caassette · 10 months
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been on tumblr less than a week and already Trans Discourse is on my timeline front page dash...
idk i kind of just feel like...there are actual real threats right now in the world to all trans people, and like. trying to create in-groups and out-groups within the community is the most braindead thing you can do
they are killing us. they want us dead. any time you try to segregate one fraction of the queer community from another, their job gets a little easier. let me give you an example that happened recently in Texas while I was living there:
June 2022: Log Cabin Republican Praises Trump, "Don't Say Gay", Trans Hate
Also June 2022: Texas GOP's New Platform calls gay people "abnormal"
Log Cabin Republicans are essentially gay conservatives. And as part of trying to be accepted, under Trump, they decided trans people were the out-group and that gay people (specifically, white cisgender gay men) were the in-group.
If I had to guess, they probably figured so long as they also pointed the finger at us and called us groomers and said we were fetishists, they would be more accepted in the republican party.
Guess what happened? Not that! Instead, the Texas GOP, in 2022 (Two Thousand And Twenty Two) decided that being gay was once again Not Okay!
This is what I'm getting at: in queer spaces, always, always, there must be solidarity. There is no such thing as someone who is "not gay enough", or "not really trans", or "just looking for attention."
I, myself, am a binary trans woman. My current partner is a genderfluid transmasculine nonbinary person. Do I spend hours talking with them about how they do or don't face certain forms of oppression, or about how their identity is less valid than mine?
Of course not! We kiss and hold hands and fuck and have empathy for each other.
As a queer person it is YOUR RESPONSIBILITY to be one hundred percent accepting, validating, and encouraging of ALL QUEERNESS, because the second you decide to draw the line, the oppressor wins.
Maybe you're not a Log Cabin Republican. Maybe you're not advocating for trans genocide while being in a same-sex relationship. Maybe you just, idk, use the word "theyfab." Or you think pansexuals should "just call themselves bi."
It doesn't matter that the line you've drawn is farther left, or smaller, or excludes less of the community.
What matters is that you've drawn it at all.
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I love how inclusivity is handled in The Dragon Prince, here's why.
In most shows, as much as it bothers me to admit so, some people are right, inclusivity does feel forced sometimes. But it's not the characters' fault, it's not because of them being part of the lgbtq+ community, or being disabled, or being POC, or being strong women who do not conform to patriarchal standards.
It's not that.
It's that the show they are part of is a straight, white, abled parade - and notice, most of said shows won't even pass the Bechdel test.
So yes, in a show written by and aimed to straight, white, abled people, even I, a gay, non-binary, chronically ill person feel weird seeing charcters that are there just for the sake of inclusivity, albeit 'inorganic'.
In a show with the premise of "straight, white, abled men are the indiscussed MCs", seeing that one side-character that stands out and is often ridiculed and/or reduced to a single trait of their 'personality', such as 'the gay one', 'the asian one', 'the disabled one' (etc) is upsetting and feels uncomfortable as hell.
But TDP is different.
They immediately introduced powerful women, people of color, characters that are openly part of the lgbtq+ community, disabled characters etc. And not one of them per 'category', no. For the lgbtq+ community we have Amaya, Janai, Runaan, Ethari, Terry, Kazi. For the disabled community, we have Amaya again, Villads, and even a disabled wolf Ava. For the POC community, we have literally half of the cast, starting from King Harrow, then Ezran, every sunfire elf, Terry as well, etc. Same goes for women, who take up on roles that are rarely considered 'for women', like Opeli being the main member of the High Council, Amaya being the General, Rayla being the main Dragon Guard, Claudia being one of the main antagonists, etc.
Both main and side-characters are part of the communities, everything is so much more organic, enjoyable, thrilling.
We do not come in 'minor quantity'.
We are everywhere, among others, living our lives, doing our best, existing, thriving, proud. It's not just one or two of us among thousands. Surprise, 'categories' can mix! Just like I, a real human being, can be gay, enby as well as chronically ill, we can have characters like that as well! Amaya being lesbian and disabled, Terry being black and trans, Janai being black and lesbian, etc. And, another surprise, 'categories' don't define us. We don't 'shove it' in anyone's face like they say we do, we're just being us and cishets are upset because we don't conform to their sick standards.
Inclusivity is organic in TDP because nobody in that universe questions anyone else's color, gender, orientation, etc. And it's organic because we didn't have to wait half a season to see a black character, or a disabled character, or a gay character.
The key to inclusivity is to realise that we aren't just 'bonuses'. Fill shows and comics with lgbtq+, POC, disabled, and female characters. Not just one every 15, 20 characters. Everywhere.
We are everywhere! We are proud! We deserve to be seen! We deserve to be depicted as the normal people we are, without diminishing our traits but without making them our whole personality either. Treat us like human beings, be considerate like you should be with everyone on the planet of course, but treat us like humans.
Antagonising people who are 'different' (in the mind of straight, white, abled people) will not suppress us. We will keep insisting until you hear us. It's literally one of the main messages, one of the main teachings of TDP and it's so damn important.
Every single person on Earth should watch it. Every single kid should be introduced to TDP at an early age. Every old bigot should watch it, as well. Everybody. Even if it's considered a y7 (y10 for s4 and s5 apparently) show, everyone, no matter their age, should give it a try and watch it thoroughly.
Lots of love to the creators and everyone, literelly everyone involved in the production of one the best, most entertaining, most exciting, most formative shows ever. Please, keep it up! And thank you so much!
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liberalsarecool · 7 months
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No one exluded. No one marginalized.
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mogai-flaggot · 2 months
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BUTCHBEAR ; for those who identify with both the butch and bear labels. this can be self-described however the identifier pleases, and represents queerness in masculinity and self-love.
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flightlessangelwings · 6 months
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While we’re in Latino Heritage Month, let’s stop assuming your reader doesn’t know/speak Spanish in your reader insert fics. Especially if you’re writing for Pedro’s, Oscar’s or other Latino characters please.
EDIT: After some criticism of how this was originally phrased, let me change it into a question/request instead- Can we as writers please try to be more inclusive with our reader insert fics so poc and others can feel represented and see themselves too? Including taking out a quick throwaway line about reader not understanding Spanish. (Keeping the original phrasing above so anyone who missed the post to begin with can still see how I originally phrased it)
If you have a throwaway line of “he said in Spanish that you didn’t understand” or something similar, just take it out. Have something like “you didn’t hear” instead and let the reader interpret how they want. Or use italics to indicate Spanish. Or have the translation right there without mention of anyone translating for them. Simple. Or if you don’t want to/feel you cannot change it, then please have something in with your warnings so Latinos/poc can skip it if they choose.
And let me tell you why this is so frustrating (even for me as someone who is not a fluent speaker). It’s because Latinos look to these characters and actors for representation. We see ourselves in them. And when you clearly do not have a Latino person in mind when writing, you’re saying we don’t belong here. In a space where we should feel welcomed and celebrated. Representation matters. Inclusivity matters. Please try to be more inclusive with reader fics so we can all enjoy and immerse ourselves in your writing.
ALSO EDITING TO ADD MORE FROM A REBLOG SO EVERYONE CAN SEE MY CLARIFICATION: (under a cut for length)
This is nothing new, poc have been asking for years now to be inclusive in fics and yet it’s still a battle. We’re not asking for a lot, and certainly not asking anyone to change their style or creativity or anything like that. Literally simple edits: take out the word “blush” don’t mention hair, don’t mention not understanding Spanish, not making reader blood related to a white character, etc. Literally tiny things that would not change the story at all but make a world of difference.
Here’s an example too: a few years ago it was not common for writers to label the gender of their reader as it was usually assumed the reader would be a woman. But, people advocated to label readers as f/m/gn/whatever to be more inclusive and asked writers to strive for gender neutral readers when possible so that more readers felt seen and welcome. Now it’s a common thing to do. Why is making the readers race ambiguous any different?
Yes sometimes posts like this come across harsh, but know that they’re not meant to be. Poc aren’t trying to demand anything, we just ask to broaden your langauge when writing reader insert so more can see themselves in your work. It’s incredibly frustrating to ask for inclusivity and be met with hostility and rudeness in return and a refusal to think about poc so yes sometimes the wording gets harsh out of that frustration. But I encourage y’all to focus on the message more and maybe think about why poc in fandom get snippy like this. We do need to have an open conversation, yes. Just look in the comments at the Latinos and poc who are upset by the exclusion and feel hurt by it. How you you white fans feel if roles were reversed and none of the fics included you? Not fun, right?
And to those who say write it yourself: I do. I’ve been a x reader writer for years now and I do strive for inclusivity in my work. But I’m only one person and this is bigger than any one person. This isn’t about what I personally find acceptable or what I personally what. It should be a collective effort among writers as a whole to strive to include as many as possible in their works and not white code your readers. It’s not about demanding writers write it a certain way, it’s about asking writers to consider others who don’t look like them who also want the immersion and the escape that your fic brings.
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audhd-space · 7 months
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Screenshot of tweet from user @/hi_its_annaleah here :
less telling marginalized ppl to "Find your community"
more telling society in general to "Cultivate safe spaces"
less telling struggling ppl to "Reach out for help/support"
more telling society in general to "Provide meaningful, affordable, informed, accessible help/support"
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tanuki-kimono · 2 years
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Hakama like pants (skirt?) made to retain its bottom pleats when sitting in a wheelchair thanks to a mesh insertion, once again a great inclusive design work by Kei Hirabayashi for Tottolink/Bottomall. About this work; OP states:
Last year, when I consulted with a wheelchair user about clothes that look beautiful when sitting, "It would be interesting to have bottoms that fold at right angles, assuming that you can put on and take off while sitting.”
It was an interesting idea, so when I actually made it, it was very popular as "functional and cooler than I expected."  Listening is important. 
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burntheedges · 1 month
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Notes on inclusivity in x reader fic
I’ve seen a lot of posts about this this week so I wanted to share the things I think about when I write and how I try to be more inclusive. I’m not saying I invented these – I definitely did not. This is also not an exhaustive list. I’m just good at organizing information (thanks, grad school) so I thought it might be helpful for others to list out what I'm thinking about while writing. I’m completely open to feedback on these! And I’ll add to the list as I learn and think of more. 
Notes on hair, skin tone, body type/size (and clothes), language, and gender below the cut.
Hair
The main thing to avoid here is having fingers run through reader’s hair. That’s not possible or desirable for a variety of hair types. Things I like to do instead:
Hand on the back of the neck
Hand on jaw, side of neck, or cheek (especially hand on side of neck with thumb caressing cheek)
Fingers tracing face, cheekbones, lips
Kisses at the hairline
Skin tone
I think we all know about avoiding blushing at this point. I like to use:
Cheeks heated
Felt heat rise in your cheeks
Face felt hot
Your cheeks were warm to the touch
You could feel the heat in your cheeks
But there’s also other considerations, like wind chafing (which can cause redness, but only on some skin) and effects of actions like clenching your fists or what happens when you’re feeling faint:
Windburn, raw skin, dryness, chafing, peeling instead of redness
Not using “white knuckles” to emphasize clenched fists or a tight grip on something
Not having the reader “turn white” or pale when they’re shocked, feeling faint, sick, etc.
Instead, try: looks sick, ill, shaky, weak, trembling
Body type & size
Clothing
I try to only specify clothing, footwear, and/or makeup when plot relevant:
Going out on a date? Try “your favorite outfit” or “the new outfit you bought” which allows the reader to fill in something they would want to wear in that situation.
If I need reader to have a pocket, I might specify jeans, but not what type.
If I need reader to be comfortable, I might say they’re wearing their most comfortable clothes, but not what they are.
If I need reader to be wearing a top and pants, I’ll just say that without adding details.
Another note here - it’s possible to add descriptors that can be relatable and add to the vibe without adding specifics. For example:
“You were wearing your favorite jeans that fit you just the way you liked.”
"You were already uncomfortable because your only clean pants were the ones you hated, with the broken fly."
“You slipped on your most comfortable clothes that you liked to wear around the house.”
“You found a top in your closet that you hadn’t worn in ages, and felt perfect for the moment.”
If needed, specify without over specifying:
In Maintenance Request, there’s an important, plot-relevant scene where reader spills coffee on her white blouse. So I said she was wearing a white blouse, but nothing else about her outfit. That allows you to picture whatever you want (and whatever type of blouse) with just that one detail.
You can say, for example, that reader is wearing lingerie and it has lace, without adding so much information that the reader can't picture themselves in it.
Body size and weight
In terms of reader’s size, one thing to think about is writing that the other person lifts the reader or carries them anywhere. That’s not inclusive of plus-size bodies (like mine). But it’s possible to include similar physicality without that particular detail:
Throwing a leg over a shoulder
Tugging on hips (on the bed)
Pushing into a wall and crowding in
Pulling someone down on top of you
Height
Not everyone is shorter than these love interests we’re writing about. Try:
Leaned in for a kiss (instead of up)
Brought your lips to theirs 
Angled your head for a kiss
Reached for them (instead of reached up)
Language
You don’t have to speak a language to imagine that your reader might. Instead of implying that dialogue in another language is “incomprehensible” or saying reader doesn’t understand, try:
You didn’t hear what he said (let’s the reader decide if they understood)
Include the dialogue but mark it as being in the other language (possibly in italics?)
Talk to one of the many fans on here who speak that language! 
Check out and bookmark helpful posts like this one about sexy talk in Spanish from ali @urmomsgnocchi
Gender
Label whether it’s f!reader, gn!reader, m!reader, nb!reader, etc.
Note about tagging
But like anything else, the most important thing to do is tag! If you want to have someone lift the reader, for example, you can do that – just tag for it, or specify that you’re not tagging for everything. That allows people to choose how to engage. ETA: It’s not possible to be inclusive of every reader’s experience in every fic, but tagging allows everyone to know what’s going on.
I like to add a note on the main fic post about any details I’ve added to reader’s backstory, see this one as an example.
Note about learning
Like anything else, we do better when we learn more. I learned a lot of this from reading fic and reading others’ helpful guidance and suggestions way before I ever started writing. But I also learned some from editing myself, which gets easier the more I practice. For example, I originally had a detail in to know the light about reader's skin turning red and irritated from cold wind – but I caught it, and changed it to be more inclusive. I caught it because I’ve been purposefully editing and monitoring my own writing for inclusivity. It gets easier with practice.
I hope this is helpful and I’m also happy to add any other suggestions or link to anyone’s posts. Also happy to have feedback. <3
Here are some posts that helped me learn and do better: About inclusivity and language from @flightlessangelwings
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