#it's about the transphobia and the fact that this place has long ceased to be safe

[patronsaintoffinalgirls]

lies face down on my bed and develops mental illness^2

[ombreblossom]

i am and i am not (what you choose to see)

This is a birthday fic for @rosy-cheekx, but in many ways I wrote it as much for myself as I did for them.

Featuring: a gender-questioning Martin in the safehouse. What better time to explore one’ gender identity than while one is on the run from dangerous eldritch forces?

Content warnings (please let me know if there anything i’ve missed): kissing, very minor internalized transphobia, and a brief discussion of Martin’s mother.

AO3 Link: here~

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“There’s no rush, Martin. Take your time,” Jon raises his voice from the other side of their bedroom door, passing time running his fingers across Daisy’s sparse knick-knacks—just enough of them to present a front of homeyness to any errant visitors but not enough of them to clutter her otherwise spartan living space. Several Archers novels and otherwise miscellaneous reading materials line the single squat bookshelf in the entire cottage, an unbroken coating of dust overlaying everything. Jon picks up a porcelain dog (or a wolf?) and rolls it over in his hands.

“The longer I take, the more likely it is I’m never going to leave this room.” Martin almost-yells back, interrupting the muffled frustrations of someone wrangling an unfamiliar article of clothing.

“And what a shame that’d be. I rather hoped we’d trot down to the village today for a late lunch.”

"Gotta take advantage of the warm weather while we have it," Martin adds.

"Exactly."

"And I'm sure you have no ulterior motives whatsoever."

"Yes, of cour—wait, what?"

“Don’t worry," Martin says with a worrying lilt. "I know what you’re really after.”

Jon pauses and, after a beat, replies, “Oh? And what would that be?”

“Here, I’ll set the scene for you: enter Fiona’s Used Books.” Jon can see (in his mind’s eye, not his eldritch one) Martin preparing his best mock-theatrical pose before continuing. “In the far-right corner, the side of the establishment that faces the setting sun, is a raised platform. Cushions and pillows of all shapes and colors and sizes are strewn about the platform, some left contorted by their previous users before they left the shop to go about their day. Two wide-pane windows allow a full complement of the sun’s rays to gently warm the area. A lone figure lies nestled among several cozy-looking pillows, completely dead to the world but for a purring cat atop the figure’s chest—”

“Yes, yes, all right. You’ve made your point,” Jon grouses. “I hope you know that I consider spending time with you much more important than sunbathing with the bookshop owner’s cat.”

“I know, Jon; don’t worry.” An audible grin carries through the door.

Jon directs his own smile at the door and says, “Yes, well, now that you mention it, I did want to stop at the bookshop if we had time.”

“I think we can make that work. I’d hate to miss seeing you be adorable with Maggie.”

Jon sputters a bit in futile indignation. Martin has made his opinion of Jon's alleged adorableness abundantly clear, and it's not worth challenging him on it. He'd let Martin have this, even though the idea of anyone thinking he's adorable rankles him almost as much as the word spooky does.

(This is less the case coming from Martin, but he’d sooner shuffle off his mortal coil than tell him that.)

The weight of the porcelain wolf—he’s decided—in his hand grabs his attention. In fidgeting with it, he’s managed to rub all the dust off its coat, revealing a delicate blue glaze swirling around the figure. Wiping the excavated dust on his trousers, a concerning realization creeps into Jon's awareness. "Martin?" He calls out.

Martin yells back something questioning, the exact words lost in their reverberations around the inside of their bedroom.

“I know you’re trying to distract me right now,” Jon says matter-of-factly. “If you don’t want to do this anymore, I completely understand.”

All sounds of movement cease on the other side of the door—worryingly quickly.

“Martin?” Jon ventures.

“No. I…want to do this. I want to be more myself.”

Jon nods. “All right. Let’s have a look at you, then.”

It takes several long seconds, but the door creaks open, leaving just enough room for Martin to poke through the gap and reveal dark, furrowed brows set in a face that belies its owner’s vocal confidence just a moment ago. Tension lends Martin’s grip on the door a strength that looks painful from where Jon stands.

“Just gimme a second, gimme a second. Let me…let me get my bearings.” Martin’s visible shoulder, draped in a sheer dark-blue fabric, lifts and sinks with long, deep breaths.

A wave of concern washes over Jon. “What’s wrong, love?”

“I’m-I’m scared, I think. There’s no reason to be scared, but—"

“Who says you need a reason to be scared of something?” Jon interjects, and he immediately regrets the hard edge he hears in them.

Martin exhales sharply and averts his eyes away from Jon, grip tightening on the door, something Jon wouldn’t have thought possible. “Oh, you know, just the fact that we’re on the run from a body-hopping avatar of the Beholding, who can see us through anything even resembling an eye and almost certainly knows exactly where we are.”

“Yes…I know. I’ve been trying not to think about it, if I’m being honest. But even though there’s this uncertainty looming over us, you’re more than justified in feeling afraid of more…mundane things.”

Martin can’t help but scoff at that. “Yeah. Right."

“Do you…do you want to talk about what’s going on?” Jon asks, softness smothering any nascent trace of compulsion. The Beholding doesn’t get to have this, not if Jon has anything to do with it.

“I don’t….” Martin exhales again. “I’ve never tried to be this before,” he says, staring at the neat rows of hardwood planks to Jon’s left. “So much of my life has been just letting other people see me how they wanted to see me because it…I don’t know, helped me be someone specific to them when they needed it. I’ve been someone who won’t stir up a fuss; someone to project their frustrations onto; someone who cares for others for the sake of it; and, definitely most frequently, someone who presents as a man.

“There never seemed a point in saying, no, there’s more here than what I’m letting you see, you know? Sometimes it’s simpler to reduce myself to a single quality, even if it’s never helped me be close to people.

“But if I leave this cottage now, people are going to try to categorize me, try to match me up with some image they have preconceived in their minds, and they won’t be able to. And I’m not sure I should want that anymore, either. I guess the main thing is….” He pauses, collecting his thoughts. “It’s terrifying to try to be something other than what the world sees you to be.”

Jon can’t let that go unanswered. Jon needs Martin’s attention for this, so he brings his hands to rest on each of his cheeks, not so much holding him in place but gently suggesting that’s his intention. Jon wouldn’t begrudge Martin his space if he needed it.

“You’re right. It is terrifying letting people see past the outward veneer we put up.” Jon says, concern still present but receding. “It’s not really my place to tell you how to work through that terror, but I am here for you—all of you, not just the parts of you you’re used to showing the world—and I’ll support you however I can.”

“God, Jon, how can you just say things like that?”

Jon makes a sound that’s something just shy of a laugh. “Because they’re true, Martin.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Come on out, Martin; it’s just us, and I want to see all of you, if you’ll let me.”

Still mostly hidden by the door, Martin stares at Jon, Jon with his myriad marks and scars; his long, unbound gray-streaked hair; and an extra ten years perpetually set in his shoulders. He’s pinned by the intensity of the affection in Martin’s eyes.

“Can I kiss you first?” Martin asks, voice terribly quiet.

The request shakes Jon to his core, but he recovers quickly, nodding his assent. “Please do.”

Martin steps out from behind the door and kisses Jon, Jon’s eyes closing on reflex before he can get a good look at him. The romance novels Jon used to pick up when the ache for a happy ending of his own became too painful to ignore any longer would have him feeling light and airy, almost senseless, as if suspended in space and time as he and Martin exchanged breath. Jon has never felt more grounded. He’s never felt more aware of every sensation within and without his body; the sensations of Martin’s hot breath on his face and his chapped lips pressing against his own keep him firmly tethered to the here and now. Jon’s heart hammers in his chest—so much so he’s sure Martin can feel it, too, their chests pressed together as they are.

When they break apart, Jon opens his eyes and says breathlessly, “Let’s get a good look at you. The mirror’s just over here.” Jon takes his hands back to make the journey easier but feels his heart drop when Martin looks back at the door left ajar in their haste to come together. He looks bereft. Bereft of what, Jon’s can’t be entirely sure, but Jon makes a judgment call and grabs one of Martin’s hands and pulls him along toward the far end of the room, their fingers interlaced.

It had seemed a bit odd for Daisy to have such a vanity piece, but Jon's thankful for it and thankful it wasn't as firmly affixed to the wall in their bedroom as it at first seemed. It would have made for cramped space indeed to have them both crowding around it, and Jon doesn’t want Martin to be alone for this.

They stop just in front of the mirror, Jon off to the side and Martin situated front and center. He gives Jon’s hand a grateful squeeze and looks at his reflection.

“What do you see when you look at yourself, love?” Jon prompts, squeezing Martin’s hand right back.

“I see myself wearing this dress we found rather miraculously in this northern Scottish village of three hundred whole people.”

“And?”

“And it’s…fwooshy.”

“Fwooshy.”

Martin nods with all the sage wisdom of a learned poet. “Yes. It’s light and it moves when I move. It feels like it’s barely touching me at all times, which is so different from how my normal trousers and jumpers feel.”

“Ah, I see what you mean.”

“Mm-hmm. And it’s just pretty, don’t you think?

“Indeed.” Jon debates drawing attention to the question Martin is dancing around, but he trusts Martin to get there in time. “I thought so the moment we found it.”

Martin makes a non-committal sound. “You know, this is a lovely color on me.”

“Come to think of it, I’ve never really seen you wear darker colors before now. You always wore jumpers with a lot of bright colors around the Archives.”

“Yeah. It was, um. My mum, she used to say stuff like, ‘Why do you want to look so dreary all the time? Bright colors look so much better on you,’ and I guess that stuck.” Martin’s voice takes on an affect somewhere between disappointed and exhausted as he imitates his mother, and Jon struggles not to form opinions about that until they’ve had time to talk about her more. “I think she liked looking at the brighter colors I’d wear, especially once she couldn’t really leave our flat very often. I want to think they reminded her of the outside. She never said that, though. I don’t know.

“Wearing a color like this makes me happy, though. Wearing delicate clothes like this that don’t hide me away makes me happy. I want to say I feel….” Martin trails off.

“I feel beautiful, Jon. I really, really do.”

Jon tugs Martin’s hand, still joined with his own, up to his lips and places a kiss on his knuckles, at once affirming you’re beautiful, love and urging Martin to continue.

Visibly reorienting himself, Martin continues: “I see a Martin I’ve never let myself be before. A Martin not at odds with himself. With the rest of the world, maybe, but not with himself. I want to be him, Jon.”

“Then be him.”

“What, just like that?”

“Well, not ‘just like that.’ It’ll take time to feel comfortable presenting your whole self to other people, and that’s okay. The time and effort will be worth it; the world is better for having you, all of you, in it.”

Martin nods shakily, looking for all the world like he’s adrift in the middle of the ocean with sliver of land visible in any direction.

Jon waits for Martin to gather his thoughts. It's the least he can do, lend Martin his patience, patience he's long deserved and nary gotten from Jon for most of their relationship. Plus, it gives Jon some time to look, to really look at this beloved person standing next to him.

Jon's never given much weight to a person's looks as a part of his attraction to them. More often than not, Jon would start to find someone pleasing to look at only after becoming attracted to them in other ways. Otherwise, people were people and what they looked like mattered little in the face of their ideas, their arguments, and their kindnesses (or lack thereof).

Things progressed much the same way with Martin, and now? Well, Jon would like to never stop looking at Martin, thank you very much, and the universe would do well to cooperate with him on that.

Jon looks and looks and looks as Martin twists from side to side, watching as the dress billows out around him. The dress is elegant, made more so by the person wearing it. It's long, the navy chiffon wrap falling down around Martin’s ankles in gentle fluttering waves. A more opaque under-layer provides him some coverage from his chest to his mid-thighs but by no means diminishes his silhouette: soft and sturdy in equal measures. The dress cinches together an inch or so below his pecs, highlighting the generous curve of his hips. Shoulders Jon knows teem with freckles are enveloped in wide navy chiffon sleeves. The wrap-around style of the dress creates a deep V-shaped neckline, revealing more lovely freckles spread across his ample chest.

Martin is gorgeous—full stop. He fills out the dress beautifully, fabric flush with his skin in all the right places. Jon has to keep himself from flying apart with fondness for the man. The dress suits him; there was no way Jon could have anticipated how much it would after observing its shape uninhabited.

Martin cuts through Jon’s musing with a whisper: “Thank you, Jon.”

“For what?”

“For…for being here with me. Throughout all this.”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be, Martin,” Jon says in a tone that brooks no argument.

“Right. Cool,” he says airily, earning a light chuckle from Jon. He’s not at all surprised when he finds himself at the receiving end of a playful nudge.

“If you’re up to it, I’d still love to go into the village and share a meal with you, show you off to our lovely neighbors.” Jon stops for a moment before continuing, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “That is to say, I’m not trying to imply you’re my possession or that I get to parade you around as I please. I just mean that….” Jon looks deep into earthy brown eyes and presses on. “I just mean that I want everyone to know and see how much of a privilege it is to be with you, to be able to bear witness to you putting more of yourself out into the world—if you’re ready.”

“We’re already the novel English couple from out of town staying in the infamous nigh-abandoned cottage on a mysterious holiday—what’s another oddity for the list, eh?”

“Hey! I won’t have anyone talking about my—oh.” Jon makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. “It occurs to me that you might prefer different terminology for yourself. Is it still all right for me to refer to you as my boyfriend’? Or would you prefer something without a gender connotation like ‘partner’?”

“Jon, I spent the last two and a half years wanting to be your boyfriend, and that hasn’t changed. Having you call me that doesn’t bother me and is, in fact, one of my dreams come true.” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand and wraps him up in his arms; Jon’s follow suit. “Thanks for asking, though. I’ll let you know if anything doesn’t feel quite right.”

Jon buries his face in the crook of Martin’s neck, savoring the warmth and gentle scent of something vaguely herbal permeating through the chiffon dress. They’ll return to Martin’s comment later, he’s sure. “All right. I like ‘boyfriend,’ too, just for the record.”

“I’m glad,” he says, leaning his head on Jon’s.

“So,” Jon starts, pouring all the comfort he can manage into his embrace, “how about it? A late lunch at the pub, and then we can go see Maggie if there's time?”

Martin pulls away from Jon and smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’m good. Let’s get going,” he says.

“Yes, let’s.” Jon moves toward their makeshift mudroom, which is nothing more than a sorry shoe rack leaned against the wall next to the front door and a couple of wooden pegs designed to hang heavy coats.

“And, Jon?”

Jon turns part of the way back around, cocking his head to the side in mild confusion. “Yes?”

There’s a subtle tension in Martin’s stance when Jon looks back at him, but he’s standing up noticeably straight and puffing himself up. This is familiar to him; he imagines he looks the same way when he’s about to go into a situation that involves delicate social interactions.

However, this is unfamiliar to him as something Martin does in the face of imminent discomfort. Martin isn’t a lip-worrier. Nor is he a fidgeter. Too much practice maintaining a guise of false cheer. No, what Martin does is shrink. He hunches over imperceptibly and draws his arms into himself, and makes the space he’s in feel that little bit bigger, that little bit lonelier, for his diminished presence in it.

Resolve blooms on Martin’s face. It’s a fragile thing, Jon can tell, but it’s there. Jon hopes this is just one instance of many of Martin deciding to take up his due space and filling the world with his presence. “Would you start also using ‘they’ and ‘them’ for me sometimes?” Martin starts, in a rush. He continues, slower and more hesitant, “I just want to try them out; see how they feel and all that. Might not be a permanent thing.”

“It would be my utmost honor and pleasure to use whatever language my boyfriend feels most comfortable with me using for them.” Jon says primly, bent slightly at the waist and arms swept to one side.

In a second, Martin closes the distance between them, hooking one arm under Jon’s legs and behind his back and twirling him around, both of them giggling all the while. Jon gets the impression Martin’s taking it easy (in consideration of the abundance of fabric flowing free around their ankles, if he had to guess), but it’s perfect anyway.

For his part, Jon is taking this opportunity to admire his boyfriend between giggles: the sepia highlights in their hair, brought out by the (no doubt by now) sinking sun; the double chin Jon likes tucking his head under when he wants to feel at home; the strength in all of Martin’s body but especially their arms, arms that hold him close as they spin around the room, never showing signs of faltering. Mingling with admiration for Martin’s physical form is an enduring respect for Martin’s courage and his life-long compassion. This is a person Jon would trust with his life and his heart.

Eventually, Martin returns Jon to solid ground. Jon would say it was too soon, but they’re both slightly out of breath, and time is moving ever forward. Jon practically falls into Martin, pressing their foreheads together. The smooth chiffon slides against Jon’s skin as they shift into comfortable positions. He closes his eyes and isn’t aware of much else that isn’t Martin.

“Hey there, handsome,” Martin says after more time passes. “What’s someone like me got to do to get someone like you out that front door so we can actually go on our date sometime this century?”

Jon’s eyes crinkle in the corners, deeply amused. “You might have to carry me over the threshold at this point. Just make sure to grab our shoes—wouldn’t want leave without completing your ensemble, after all.”

[serahlink]

Knight in Orc Armor // F!Orc x FtM!Reader

Summary : After being harassed by some transphobic goblins, an unexpected hero swoops in to save the day.

Word Count : 2,675

TW : transphobia (including slurs and misgendering)

The weaved basket filled to the brim with fresh fruit and various vegetables weighed down in your arms. The market you were leaving behind was always a lively sight to say the least. Goblins, humans and orcs alike ran about, hashing out meats and services to one another. It was the one thing you liked about being in a close knit village. People were brought together in a way. That same gesture wasn’t given or taken by just everyone though. Being one of the only humans in the village usually warranted you relentless bullying and if that wasn’t enough, the fact that you are a trans man was a thing that some people didn’t take kindly of.

Being trans has always been a journey for you, you’ve seen and faced countless discrimination and rejection. While it never ceased being an unrelenting pain, you’ve learned to let things like that roll off of you. You built yourself out of cold stone and you were proud of that. So when you spotted two mischievous goblins in your periphery, you were ready to ignore them and be on with your day. Then their squeaky voices began to taunt you.

“Why, if it isn’t ol’ (Deadname).” One cackled out on your left, easily keeping up with your patient steps. The question was an innocent one enough if you completely disregarded respect of your gender and how menacing their intent was. “Still an errand girl for your parents, are ya?”

The other one chimed in. “That’s how girls are, y'know? Maidens who don’t stray far from home~.”

Their voices didn’t fail to make you nauseous. Their raspy strained tones felt like daggers on glass and the urge to wring out their scrawny little necks only intensified. As if their transphobic taunts weren’t enough, one suddenly jumped in front of your way. Your once unfazed gaze was now bothered and stared daggers down at the creature, who wore a look you could only describe as sadistic.

“You’re no fun at all.” The goblin opposing your side pouted, yet held the same expression as the other one.

With papery hands folded over each other mischievously, the goblin blocking your path grinned a gross smile, baring his yellowing blocky teeth. His knobby hand outstretched to the food kept relatively safe in the basket and you caught a determined glint in his bulging eye. “Now, why don’t you be a good village girl and hand over a fruit or two.”

“Like hell.” You bit back, hugging the basket protectively close. Your response only brought an inquisitive look back from him.

“Really?” The goblin feigned shock, his curling smirk on his lips. “I wouldn’t take that a hero’s daughter would get that kind of attitude.”

“Son.” You corrected firmly, biting back the harshness in that statement. “Hero’s son.”

Just then, the small creature slowly made his way to you until you nearly fell backwards on yourself. He then swiftly hopped up on the basket and dug his chipped nails under your collar, bringing you in a distance that’s too close for comfort. “You will never be a hero’s son. All you are is a pathetic excuse for a daughter, you hear?” With each venom in his statement, he inched closer to where you could feel the musk of his breath. It was nearly suffocating.

Nothing was more suffocating than the heat from your building anger. You could tolerate most things, but slandering you under your own father’s name is something you would not ignore. With one shakingingly angry hand, you slammed down the goblin to the dusty floor and didn’t hesitate to get in its face.

“Listen here, you ugly fiend. You have some nerve to put anyone’s name in your mouth, let alone bring my fathers profession into this.” You spat. “You will not tell me what I will or won’t amount to because of my father going off and making himself a hero, you got that!”

Surprisingly to you, the goblin actually had a bit of fear in his eyes and you pulled up, a smirk on your face. “I think you need to get out of here.”

The goblin under you scrambled to its feet and ran past you, back into the direction of the village market. You then looked to the goblin, who was looking in a direction that wasn’t you. It’s wide eyes fixed on something tall that towered above you both and it was merely then that you realized a heavy shadow was covering your own. Whatever scared the goblins clearly wasn’t you but something much bigger.

Behind you, a muscled arm that appeared to have the bicep the size of your face reached past to pick up the sneaky small being, who yelped as the towering being picked it up. Immediately, you knew what kind of creature this was. An orc. If it wasn’t by the animal skins and steel armor you picked up on that told you it was an orc, it’s size sure did.

Slowly, you turned around. Your expectations told you that you’d be face to face with a savage beast who would rip out the spine of the goblin right in front of you, as if to send a message. You thought this was where you had to be prepared to fight all the fear pulsing through your veins and slay this monster but all that subsided like a cool storm when you saw her.

Instead of meeting a snarling beast, you found a beauty in its place. The toned body of a female orc was plated by armor and draped with various skins, a bow resting behind her back. The strap of it hugged around her torso.. Angular features were broad and tense under dark hair that shaped her face. Her concentrated features glared down at the stammering goblin she held tensely under her strong grip.

All the goblin could spit out was excuses and frankly, the female orc wasn’t buying it. “Tell it to my bow,” She snarled, “or get out of here.”

She only gave a flick of her wrist at most yet the goblin ate dirt at the velocity he was thrown. Quickly, he was on his feet and sped back into the village without sparing a word.

In the sudden quiet, you could hear the quick beating of your heart rattling in your rib cage. It only occurred to you just then that she saved you. This random orc was literally your hero.

Suddenly, before you could even think, you were enveloped in strong arms and being swaddled by the orc bridal style. Her eyes looked everywhere, examining you as if to check for any marks or bruising. You flinched a little, hands scrambling to cling onto anything as to not fall; that very place being her chest and neck. “-! Uh, excuse me!”

Under you, the woven basket fell to the ground with some spare fruit catching dirt ground. “Dammit.” You cursed under your breath.

She looked down at you curiously, her eyes being all you could see.

“Can you, yknow, put me down?” You cleared your throat, fighting back your raging heart beat and flush in your cheeks.

“Oh. Oh! I’m sorry,” To your surprise, she was sheepishly apologetic. “It’s just, you humans are so fragile so I just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.”

Fragile? Since when were humans treated as a baby species?

Essentially, she let you down and joined you as you began to assist you in picking up the fallen goods.

“Thank you.”

The orc peered up when you spoke and you found yourself stammering slightly. “But you really didn’t have to do that.” You sheepishly rubbed the back of your neck, picking up the basket once more.

She grinned. “What for? They were giving you trouble and I couldn’t let them do that. It’s common courtesy. Besides, I don’t really like goblins anyway. Pests are all they are.”

She had a bit of an accent, you noticed, but you couldn’t place what kind. Her own was pretty thick but it was easy to make out what she was saying.

“How long were you standing there?” You asked.

It was her turn to become all sheepish. She shrugged, a soft frown began to befall her face. “Long enough to see most of it.”

You weren’t sure why, but something about that frown sort of made you feel guilty. After all, it was enough to be discriminated against. You didn’t want to be pitied.

Then, you cleared your throat. “Right, well, I guess I’ll be going now.”

She stopped you before you could go, practically snabbed the basket out of your reach by its handle. Just as you went to curse her, her cheeky smile stopped you. “Let me carry this for you. You’ve gone through enough trouble today, besides, I’m heading this way anyhow.”

In a way you did curse her. In your head, your voice mumbled curse after curse of her smile and how persuasive it was. Even worse, she acted all innocent, as if she had no clue that a dumb grin like that could make you fall to your knees. Either way, you couldn’t refuse her and against all odds you were walking home with an orc by your side.

“So, tell me about yourself.” The orc suddenly said and she was smiling when you looked up at her.

“Why don’t you tell me about you instead?” You offered. “I mean, you’re the one who swooped in and all. I don’t even know your name.”

“Oh, that’s right. I never introduced myself, did I?” She laughed. “I’m Snatha.”

When she looked at you expectantly, you reluctantly introduced yourself. Snatha looked surprised, yet immensely intrigued. “That’s a nice name.” Her eyes lingered you for a minute longer. “You look a lot like him, your father, I mean.”

Her compliment nearly caused you to stop in your tracks to take it in. You’ve never heard something so heartfelt directed to you before. All your life you shaped yourself to be just like your father and it all usually fell on the hushed ears of people who ridiculed you constantly. Yet this one orc who barely knew you spoke of you as if she believed in you. It meant more to you than any transphobic comments ever did.

By the time you two made it back to your quaint village home, it was getting to be the peak of the afternoon and before you knew it, it was time to part with Snatha. You peered over at the orc herself who gently brought the basket from her shoulder to the ground. “Your house looks empty.” She commented.

“Yeah,” You mumbled. “It’s been just me for a while.”

The orc gave a sympathetic frown, realizing what your silence meant. Before she could give a word of comfort, you walked over and gestured to her to come near, close to your height. She obliged and when she was close enough, you granted her a soft kiss on the cheek. You pulled back and she looked back at you, face flushed and eyes wide; baffled.

“Thank you, for everything.” You smile. You would’ve gone and left straight for your house but instead, you took Snatha by the hand gently. “Actually..would you want to join me for dinner? It’d be nice to have someone to share a meal with.”

Her eyes drifted to your hand that softly squeezed hers and back to your hopeful face, a face she couldn’t have resisted even if she really wanted to. Snatha chuckled, “Of course.”

Instead of bringing the tall orc inside like you would’ve done any other sudden visitor, the two of you took to the back of your village hut where steamed meat was the main course tonight. The fire was blazing, crackling with each lick of flame. It was beautiful, you noticed, the way the light of the fire incandescently lit her features. Even if she was practically shoveling the food down her throat, you found it very endearing.

She only left a cleanly picked bone on her plate, leaning back with a hand over her stomach which was without a doubt full. “I haven’t had a meal like that in ages.” Snatha let out a full groan, smiling contently.

Just as you suspected, she must’ve been off either adventuring or maybe in the war before hand, perhaps both but you didn’t think to ask. Instead, you chuckled. “Really? Well, if you’d like, you can always come by here and get one. I’ll just have to remember to get more meat this time around.”

Snatha looked like she really liked the sound of that. Red glowed under her cheeks and while you told yourself it was because of the fire, some part of you suspected that it was more than that. “I’ll just have to take you up on your offer then, but don’t complain once I get stuck to you.” She teased.

You quirked a grin, then chuckled. “What makes you think I will?”

You could only smirk more and laugh as that red color you saw grew brighter and brighter and all she could do is sputter, struggling with what to say to you unexpectedly teasing her back.

After that, the conversation headed in the next direction. Next thing you knew, you were hearing Snatha’s war stories, stories she claimed to be from her own father which you learned died in a war years ago when she was merely a child. Across from you, she was animated on that log of hers as she practically reenacted the stories like it were theater. She was basking in the bravery and bravado of her warrior father, and it only immersed you in. It was easy to imagine the tall brooding orc dawned in warrior clothing atop a stone ledge, blood hungry eyes narrowed before leaping into battle, throwing no caution into the wind.

It was just like how you saw your father.

Slowly the warm hues of the afternoon were replaced by the cool blues and purples of sunset. It surprised you to realize you’ve spent the whole day with this orc and that’s when it disappointed you to realize it was now ending so soon. The two of you stood at the end of the trail where Snatha would depart from you. Before she did, she paused to say something.

Her eyes averted your gaze and she smiled, arm sheepishly rubbing her neck. “Before we say our farewells, I wanted to thank you for a great dinner. It’s one of the best ones I’ve had.”

“Same here.” You agree, also smiling.

Before she could turn to fully walk away, she paused and turned back to you. She looked a little reluctant and sounded a bit nervous. “By the way..I was wondering that, if you aren’t busy, if we could..I don’t know, go out somewhere sometime?” Although nervous, she indeed looked hopeful.

Her proposal surprised you a little. You knew the two of you took to each other well but to have her also feel the same way was surprising but also, you were relieved. Of course you’d love to spend more time with her. With a soft smile, you nodded. “Of course.”

Snatha lit up from her nervous demeanor, also relieved. “Oh! Oh– that, that’s great!” Her tone told you that she was surprised you’d even take up that offer even when you thought you made it clear you liked her. After a silent shared moment, she cleared her throat. “I suppose I will see you in the ‘morrow then, Sir (L/N).” Snatha forced a formal warrior voice that made you laugh.

“See you too, Warrior Snatha.” You gave your best impression of her back, failing at the orc accent you tried to maintain. Afterwards, you again took her by the hand and stood on your tippy toes to jump up and kiss her cheek.

“Safe travels.” You said, leaving Snatha to place a hand to the kissed spot on her cheek and smile.

“You too.”

[thedeadflag]

So, I'm reading this fic, a HP AU of The 100, and I'm not that far into it, but so far it's been very good, and then there's a fight between Raven, a muggle born, and Fox, a pure blood, because Raven keeps ranting about the purebloods awfulness, which I totally agree with her, in a general way, as if every pureblood is like that and it hurts Fox, because she is a pureblood and she's not like that, and Raven knows that she isn't, but she still talks in general terms about purebloods and (1/?)

like, I understand and agree with what she means, but, being myself a white man who sees a lot of generalization on tumblr about things white men do, I understand how it can hurt your feelings to be lumped together with people you disagree with, and so I don’t think Fox is wrong on this matter, but then Raven gets angry, because it’s not like Fox suffers any restrictions or reproaches from society, while Raven, because she is muggleborn has to deal with a lot of shit from purebloods and (2/?)

and Raven says a lot of hurtful, mean things, saying that purebloods are a bunch o inbreds and that, basically, Fox should just suck it up, because there are people, the muggleborns, that are persecuted just because they weren’t bred, and like, I understand Raven, I do, some purebloods can be downright disgusting, but like, saying this thing to your friend just because she is a pureblood just, to me, feels a little too much like being discriminated for being muggleborn, and I guess (¾)

what I’m asking is, what do you think on this matter, seeing that it can be translated to current issues, issues of color, religion, sexuality, gender. (4/4)

Okay, so this is going to be long, because there’s some important lessons here on interacting with marginalized people.

Muggle-born folks are, within the context of the magical world in the Harry Potter Universe, an oppressed group. That’s just facts. There’s purebloods, halfbloods, and then muggle-born. Only thing deemed worse in some ways is a Squib, due to being from magical parents but lacking magical prowess, who are considered traitors to their blood, the purity of their people. Squibs put the ‘natural superiority’ of their people (or, at least, the argument of superiority) at risk by not being magical, and thus not carrying their people’s power that’s used to prop up their standing in society as superior to halfbloods and especially muggle-born folks

This sets up a pretty easy race/ethnicity allegory (that is also inherently infused with classism) from what I’ve seen, heard, and read in the books (I made it partway through the books, watched all the films, have a large number of HP fanatic friends).

Which means Raven can talk shit about purebloods all she wants if she’s muggle-born in that story. Maybe it might be a little mean of her sometimes depending on her word choice if she’s directing it at Fox, but honestly, marginalized people need to be able to vent their hurt and anger and frustration in order to be healthy. It’s a legitimate need that’s backed up by decades of science. Our friends and allies need to understand this and not take it personally.

Like, even remarks like “They’re all inbred!”, which might seem to be an insult against purebloods, would really just be a commentary on how purebloods aggressively discriminate and wield their power to the point where even in their relationships, only other purebloods are good enough, pure enough, valuable enough, worthy enough to be their partners (or sometimes even just their friends). It’s letting out anger that you and your people are so thoroughly deemed worthless and lesser-than. it’s turning the discrimination she faces into an attack to try and reclaim the violence done to her people. 

Marginalized groups tend to discuss their oppression at a social level, not an individual level, since discussing things like racism, homophobia, transphobia, etc. at an individual level basically never accomplishes anything except maybe, at best, a good venting session about a single person who upset them. These are social processes. They attack whole groups of people, not individuals, and by default, conversations and material about them will be on a social level unless explicitly noted otherwise.

When someone says, for instance (and to make this simple and easy for me to explain from my pov), that all cis people are transphobic, we’re saying intent does not matter, because society weaponizes cis people against trans people whether you’re aware of it or not, and usually promotes you being unaware of it (on top of all the largely invisible privileges that status offers). It doesn’t matter if someone wanted to hurt us, it just matters that we were hurt. Everyone’s raised in a thoroughly transphobic society, one cis people benefit from by being cis, and one where any inactivity or indifference or neutral stance on transphobia is, in effect, helping the reproduction of that oppression, because we do not live in a neutral society…we live in a society that actively oppresses large amounts of people in varying ways, and so any decision not to fight that oppression, not to attack the benefits cis folks gain from that oppression, is essentially a decision to permit that oppression. The marginalized, after all, are not responsible for overcoming their oppression…that’s the oppressing class’ responsibility, to work with the marginalized to dismantle those structures.

Society conditions us with thoughts and beliefs about marginalized peoples and buries them in our ‘common sense’ to be used via gut reactions, and unchallenged ‘truths’. Everyone, everyone needs to put in the work to unlearn these. It’s more visible for marginalized folks, since our oppressions tend to stand out when they’re directed at us, but it’s more important for those in power to put in the work to unlearn. That can be hard if they might not actually see themselves reproducing harm, or clearly recognize what is or isn’t harmful.

This is much larger than individual people. None of this is solely a single individual’s responsibility, but it is the responsibility of categories of people. Like, if you’re white, it’s your responsibility to be active in unlearning racism, and seeking out poc voices to manage that. Same deal for for privileged folks in relation to marginalized folks across just about any axis. If you’re not putting in the work, you’re effectively helping retain the status quo, and it’s important to be mindful of that. It’s important that folks do what they can, not just what they’re comfortable with, not just some notion of ‘if I treat everyone equally, I’m fine’ because that’s a non-solution, and it’s rarely that folks will end up treating everyone equally anyways, since they won’t have assessed the biases and stigmas guiding their common sense and instincts and gut reactions.

Cis folks can be visibly nice and still contribute to our oppression and harm us in ways they may or may not be unaware of. Malicious intent is not required for something to be transphobic, but even if it WAS, it’s very easy to attribute malicious intent to society as a whole, given it’s been operating a genocide against trans people for ages.

Far too often, when we vent about transphobia to our friends and family, we eventually experience hostility and aggression from them, and they experience burnout. Because I know my friends wouldn’t like me complaining a dozen plus times a day about varying instances of transphobia I face. Maybe a small handful every few days, but eventually I get the “Jeez, stop being so negative/sensitive/etc.” or the “well, I’m not like that!” remarks. Or, if I’m venting to coworkers, i could get complaints to my manager. Or my family members would stop picking up the phone when I call them, and/or stop answering when i text them. I, as well as well over a hundred trans folks I’ve known personally, have experienced being cut off from our social supports (whether temporarily or permanently) for trying to get support over the transphobia we face. Generally, people don’t want to hear about it, not on blast, not all the time, not every day for months and months, even though that’s our reality, and we need help managing that reality. Folks don’t want to hear it. And while it’s nice to feel validated by our local, in-person trans friends, sometimes that negativity can be draining on our relations with them. This is why having multiple outlets is good, and why we need good allies who know not to take it personally.

This is because stress is far more dangerous when it’s routine and relentless…major individual stress events like a death in the family can be difficult but there’s usually some form of supports in place to help manage that. But dealing with a dozen instances of minor to moderate stressors daily, ones that generally will not cease? That tends to have a more significantly negative impact on a person’s mental and physical health, especially since there’s rarely any support resources in place to help people deal with those. And those stressors, combined with social stigmas, and high rates of poverty, and high rates of unemployment and homelessness, and high rates of medical discrimination, tends to lead to us attempting suicide. These are the main reasons why 43+% of trans people have attempted suicide at least once (and that’s honestly a very conservative number). Not being permitted to manage our stress and pain without consequence is a huge reason for that. We’re attacked for expressing our pain, constantly, and that hurts.

Because when trans people vent “I fucking hate cis people!” they’re not thinking of each and every individual cis person alive, so it would be wrong to take such a statement personally. They’re likely speaking of the cis people that have harmed them recently, and how they wield transphobia against them. Because let me tell you, as a trans woman who has worked retail in numerous public positions, eventually, you just start to forget their faces. Too exhausting to be angry at each of them, and it’s much easier to just get upset at society for weaponizing cis folks against us, and use ‘cis people’ as shorthand, a form of metonymy, which is commonly used all across society in similar ways. And since the category of cis people is used to wield transphobia against us (remember transphobia exists at the social level first and foremost), it is logical for us to use metonymy. Easier than listing out the gritty details of each instance, each person involved, each form of transphobia, etc. When I’d come home from work and close the door, and loudly vent “UGH! FUCKING CIS PEOPLE I SWEAR TO GOD” my roommate would (if he was home) toss me a gummy worm and nod sagely, asking if the cis were at it again. 

He, a cis dude, knew I wasn’t raging about him. He was well aware I was raging at all the cis people who wielded transphobia against me while I was away. Much in the way that when a friend of mine would slump down beside me after a failed date and complain about how “men are jerks”, I’d understand that she was not, in fact, attacking my best friend, who is a man, and a very good person. She was using hyperbole as a form of emotional expression. Just like someone who says “I hate litterers” does not in fact hate all people in the world who have littered, they are likely upset that littering is such a common, destructive thing that folks don’t really care much about. Hyperbole. Used all the time.

It’s healthy for us to do this. It’s important we have the ability to do this unrestricted, and without being attacked for it. it’s important that our allies jump through trans 101 hoops and recognize that when we vent like this, it’s not a personal attack.

It’s not necessarily actual hatred against cis people. Usually just anger, and we’re allowed to be angry when cis people harm us on the daily and rarely care to change what they’re doing or how they think of us. We’re allowed to express that anger, and we shouldn’t be attacked for it. Allies wouldn’t attack us for it, they’d understand it.

Recognize that this is bigger than your feelings, it’s bigger than you, it’s bigger than any single one of us. Recognize that we can be generally good people but still participate in widespread oppression. Recognize that you have a long way to go, and that’s okay, because so does everyone else.

The Fox in this story should work at understanding this dynamic better and getting past her initial defensive reactions, because no one’s attacking her, and it’s not personal