#mourn's labels

[mourningmogaicrew]

-fluiere

A suffix that indicates that an identity is fluid, fluctuating, changing in essence, and vast.

This suffix is different from -fluid and describes more complex shifting labels. Instead of fluidity, the quality of -fluiere orientations is fluienity. (Pronounced flee-N-it-ee or flew-N-it-ee)

It was originally designed for orientations but someone could also be genderfluiere, label/pronounfluiere, etc.

These identities may seem to ebb and flow like bodies of water, and feel like they're almost constantly changing (quickly or slowly). The base identity remains the same while everything about it shifts and moves. These orientations work like lava lamps in that they are moving and changing colors (feelings) while still having the same container (label). They are impossibly large but also small.

These identities may feel difficult to describe using traditional concepts and may rely on metaphors or hyper-specific scenarios instead: they are like a planet in the vastness of space, constantly moving and spinning while staying in the same orbit. They are a moth's wings fluttering, the colors and patterns of a kaleidoscope shifting, plasma moving, a flower growing and blooming, everything and nothing at once, the cycle of the tides and the phases of the moon, a 3d shape rotating, etc.

(Sorry for getting so metaphorical. But I guess it kind of shows what I mean about this being hard to describe)

Some people may feel that they’ve given up on describing themself because every time they find a label their identity seems to slightly change again. I’m not forcing anyone to identify as -fluiere but I think this term may be helpful for people with similar struggles!

Flag IDs in alt text. I also made flags for bi, pan, poly, nonbinary, trans, agender, catgender, genderfluid, spiritine/kenochoric, androgyne, demigender, aro, ace, aroace, polyam, and pronoun- fluiere and hopefully I'll get around to posting them!

[advernia]

The man asked, who are you. I am death, and I make all equal.

The day Jamil turned seventeen, he received a herb.

The herb was as long as his hand, its sheen a dark green, its leaves broad and scent something fresh. It was just a herb, and yet Jamil held it in between his fingers earlier with such a furrow on his brow and a frown on his lips.

"Oh, don't make that face," Najma says. "C'mon, if you don't know what it is or what it does we can just boil it or sell it."

Jamil sighs. "No need. I already know what it does."

"Huh. Then what's the problem? Who gave it you, anyway?"

"... My godfather."

"... You had a godfather?"

"Najma."

She dabs away at her eyes with a cloth, but she does not face him. Jamil crosses his arms across his chest and leans on the doorframe.

"... What do you want."

"... Your friend. Where does she live?"

Najma turns around, eyes red and glaring. Jamil does not flinch or move from where he stood, his figure ominous under the dim light.

"Why do you need to know?"

"What did you do!?"

Jamil pries Najma's shaking hands off his forearms, steps a few paces away from her. Stray strands of her hair are sticking to her sweaty face, her nose was red and running a bit. Her voice rasps with both exhaustion and shortness of breath.

"But... but... they all said... only three... three... three days left... but how...?"

Jamil looks past his sister, to the hut behind them. Through the open window one could see a family of three huddled together in a tight embrace - two adults and one healthy child in the center, all smiling and tears streaming down their faces.

"She's alive now," Jamil says, reaching out to rest a hand on top of Najma's head. "Isn't that enough?"

One day when Jamil was about to step out of the hut with a satchel strapped to his waist, Najma drops her half-woven blanket to run after her brother and tug at his sleeve.

"I'm coming with you," she says.

Jamil narrows his eyes. "You don't need to - get back to work."

"I'm going, whether you like it or not," she huffs.

They just stand there for a moment, glaring at each other until Najma pushes past Jamil and walks out of the hut.

"So where are we going?"

Light clinking sounds rung out from Jamil's satchel each step he took; no doubt coming from the pouch inside that held enough thaumarks that would feed them well for the rest of the month and then some. The sound was akin to little bells, one that Najma had her herself whistling along to as they walked their way back home.

"So its like a cure-all," Najma says. "like magic in fairy tales."

Jamil snorts at her comment.

"But both those things don't exist," he replies, moving onward.

"Hey."

"What."

"So what kind of person is your godfather, then?"

One could say that like anybody else, Jamil was a creature of habit. He was one whose mornings started with the bow and arrow at the crack of dawn, one whose afternoons were spent bargaining with the merchants of the markets and one whose evenings were knit deep with wool or thread until he had burned his midnight oil. His routine ran as steady like water and like clockwork was his every toil; but that was how he had lived the ten years of his life with his younger sister under his wing.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

Najma asks him this halfway through her meal, eyes round and blinking. Jamil had not touched his own portions yet, but both were warm and fragrant under his nose.

A loaf of freshly baked white bread. Stew with generous portions of meat and vegetables.

Removing the weight tied to his waist, he sets the satchel on one end of the table then picks up a slice of bread.

"The chief was looking for you."

"It's about his son, isn't it."

"Yeah. You going?"

"You're the one halfway through the door, though."

One could say that like anybody else, Najma had read fairytales. She was one who had read about wide kingdoms and kind rulers, one who had dreamed of knights and princesses and witches, and one who had wondered about magic and miracles. These are the worlds she had traveled to when she was still a small child wrapped in the warmth of her parents' embrace, but now that she was older and able to stand up on her own, she grew wise enough to learn that her world was vastly different from those in fairytales.

Maybe that is why she gives the old lady her shawl - it is perhaps too colorful, too long, too thin; but it is received carefully and with whispers of tearful thanks.

"Let's go," Jamil tells Najma.

A nod, but Najma's eyes still linger to the old lady - the shawl that Najma gave was now being wrapped around someone else's shoulders; around a young noble boy who was too pale, too small, too frail for such a large bed.

"Can I buy some cloth? One bolt of whatever material would do. Nothing colorful either."

"What are you making?"

"Gonna try making shrouds."

Three months.

It had been three months since they had left the comfort of their hut, their village.

Three months since they have gone around the country, visiting the ill or the ill finding them.

Three months since they have been sought after by kings, queens, nobles, commoners.

Three months since Najma had been making shrouds.

Three months since Jamil had met his godfather.

Three months.

The herb was as long as his hand, its sheen a dark green, its leaves broad and scent something fresh. It was just a herb, and yet Jamil held it inside his fist with such a furrow on his brow and a frown on his lips.

"Oh, don't make that face," Najma says as she draws her hand out from under the covers to swat at her brother's arm. When Jamil would not raise his head to face her, his head still so close to lowering itself on her mattress; Najma closes her eyes and her voice becomes something small.

"Ah... Has your godfather come to visit me, too?"

— godfather death. | 1812

2: going grimm's fairytales!au ft. twst cast for this month's ficathon! the indented text above is an excerpt the actual fairytale + a link to the full tale. there's also a link tied to the fairytale's title at the end of the fic - it shows the different translations/renditions of the tale in other languages. 3: a tl;dr version: godfather death is a story about a poor man with twelve children - when he had his thirteenth child, he immediately sought out a godfather. he meets two people: god then the devil, but he makes neither of them a godfather. instead the man chooses death as his child's godfather, and when the child had grown older death gives his godchild a herb as a present. death says he will make his godchild a celebrated physician. whenever there would be a patient, death would be there too: if death stands by the patient's head, then the godchild would say that the patient could be cured with the herb death had given. however, if death would stand by the patient's feet, the godchild must say that the patient cannot be cured - the patient would be taken by death, so the godchild must not interfere. 4: and since i don't want to clutter this space anymore or flood my tags, each story comes with post-reading notes!

[scorpiusmalfoylovesoscarwilde]

I love 😍😘😆 being dead 🪦🥀 named 🏷 by my mother 👩‍🍼👩‍🍼👩‍👦👩‍👦in front of ‼️‼️ people 🧍🏻‍♂️🧍🏻‍♂️who previously only knew my chosen name 😍😍🥳🥳😆😆🤩🤩😝😝🤗🤗

[ghoul-butch]

.

[oflgtfol]

i love new york so much. separated by hundreds and hundreds of miles, no matter where i go, i can always be guaranteed to see a random "I ❤️ NY" decal on the side of a major highway

[divinekangaroo]

dreams that never come true - pettiot - Peaky Blinders (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

At some point during the S6-E1 four year timeskip, a small slice of life.

Ada Thorne Presents: the Suppressed Desire Ball.

(Tommy might've preferred to be abroad, too. In the absence of drink, the thought of navigating the far-reaching territories of those taffeta skirts might get him through.)

.

Tommy Shelby/Lizzie Stark, Ruby Shelby, Charles Shelby, Various Shelby Household Maids | Fluff (or the Appearance of Fluff), Fancy Dress Party, Family Dynamics, Family Bonding, Domesticity, Foreshadowing, Gendered Dynamics, Class Issues, References to Sigmund Freud, Bittersweet, 1500 Word Flash Fiction

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[georgianadarcies]

went to salem yesterday and we were dicking around in the witch shops and while I don’t believe that witchcraft is actually real or anything they sell actually does anything I discovered that none of the crystals they sell have negative results. they’re all supposed to improve lives. there are no revenge crystals. but any crystal is a revenge crystal if you throw it hard enough so I should’ve bought some clear communication ones to chuck at that boy

[hauntedbythenarrative]

.

(a lot of tmi in the tags, just saying)

[casiavium]

cut my hair short like I've wanted to for years and instead of the gender euphoria I thought I'd have I'm sitting in the dark, sobbing in my room. So I'm just going to ramble my thoughts

I love my haircut. I've wanted this haircut since I was 12, before probably, when I saw Thalia Grace join the Hunters of Artemis and forsake men. (At the time the idea that hunter/hunter relationships could happen was something I clung onto so bad, and I still do. Mythology backs me up, RR) It took me nearly 10 years to actually get someone to cut it for me. It's always been a struggle of oh we can't go too short :) you'll look like a boy :) :) I don't regret getting my haircut. I love it so much, it feels nice.

But it doesn't feel the way I thought it would.

I had long pinkish brown hair before this summer (dyed it pink without bleaching, let it fade) I cut it off in May, but again the stylist who was so nice and so sweet and my sister's friend's mother left it a little too long so I could still style it. So I could still look like a girl. With my "they/them is plural" and "why are there so many trans/gay kids in this tiny rural county" mother in the room (until I yelled at her in the car once because singular they is grammatically correct and is used in every day life, and she's smart enough to know that. she did agree with me then, at least) I couldn't ask for shorter.

They were gossiping about the ballet studio I used to dance at. I never fit in with those girls. I never looked pretty or was flexible or danced very well. I felt my best dancing my senior year as the Beast/Prince in Beauty and the Beast when we had no guys at the studio, but I was so jealous of all the rest of them in pretty tutus and pointe shoes I had paid so much time and blood and money for that I never got to dance in.

It's been four years since then. I still mourn who I could have been, who I can never be again because my body stopped working that way. As if my chronic illness is what's keeping me from being one of them, not everything else.

I don't know what snapped in me that I wanted to finally cut my hair now. I bleached it the night before, and it came out surprisingly well. Bleach blond(e), but the semi permanent pink had been soaked into my hair so long that even with the bleach, it turned pink in places. It turned a beautiful, feminine, ballet slipper pink that I couldn't have gotten if I tried. I was going to dye the rest of it pink again, this time on bleached hair so it would be more vibrant. Mostly bleach blond(e), though.

And yet, after washing away the chemicals that hurt my lungs and burnt my skin, it wasn't what I wanted. I joked that it looked like Draco Malfoy, but really, it scared me. I looked into the mirror that night and I didn't see a girl. I saw a boy, the kind of boy I very much did not want to be. The kind of boy that scared me and hurt me and bullied me in high school without even really knowing or caring that I existed. The kind of boy that all my straight and bi friends would date and get abused by and his impact on their lives still comes in the form of therapy appointments and fucks up their current relationships.

I looked into the mirror and knew I didn't want to be a boy, ever, and I never want people to think of me as a boy.

Expect for that person that called me he/him in a Link cosplay. Or the little kids from the dance studio that only knew me as the prince from beauty and the beast.

It's like, if people see me as a boy without hesitation, that's cool. But if they look at me and think they know I'm trans, that's what I don't want. It's like, they don't see a boy if they see that. They see a girl who hates herself and being a girl so much she's masquerading as someone she's not, and she's not doing it well. I've seen the way they interact with my friends, the oops sorry he's and the let's go guys—wait, can I even say that anymore? They see me as a boy in a girl way, but not in the fun genderqueer fuckery kind of way, but with cisgender sorrow and pity.

I'm not a boy. I want to be a girl. I want to be a girl, but some part of me knows I'm not. I just want to be a girl and I want to love other girls and I don't want to deal with the inherent not-girlness that modern lesbianism has forced upon itself, that's always been there and never been there, I don't want to go into my lesbian literature class anymore because now I'm not just another gay girl in a lesbian English lit class, I'm a ??? and my identities will be questioned by people who have no answers either. I'll tell them I'm a girl, and they'll give me a look like "okay 😏 but when you start falling down the she/her to she/they... to he/him pipeline I'm going to say I told you so with so much condescendence any joy I have for making you 'one of us' is going to feel worthless".

I hate my haircut. I miss my long hair. I want a boyfriend I can brag about choosing despite all the pretty girls in the world. I want to fit in with the girls who I went out to bars with once, who I went to pride with but felt like the token obvious queer so they could validate their own place on the sidelines of the parade while their perfect boyfriends texted them I love yous. I don't want to be their toy model so they can use me to carve out a place in a community they already belong in, when I'm still too scared to hold my girlfriend's hand but I'm fine wearing a flag that I don't even know if it's "problematic" because someone will always find something wrong with me being a girl with a girlfriend, even among people who say they're just like me.

If I'm even a girl (and if my gf is even a girl, which is a whole other issue I've only heard the beginning of)

I love my haircut, because people are going to look at me and think I'm hot now. I stand out. I draw attention. I'm on the exec board of three clubs, I have positions of power and will stand out even more. I'll be recognizable and unforgettable. As I end the so called "trial period" and am getting ready to be a "real adult", I want one last chance before I blend into the real world never to be seen again. I love and hate my haircut because of how other people will see me now.

I had always wanted to cut it for myself. So I thought.

I love my haircut, but people are going to look at me and ask for my pronouns in a way they never did when I had long hair. When I actually felt more attached to being non-binary, when I felt less like a girl. I feel more like a girl than I ever have, and now no one is going to believe me.

[mourningmogaicrew]

Gender-opposing

A label for when you view two of your genders as opposites. For example: being agender and genderfluid and viewing those gender experiences as extremely different or contrary.

This is obviously a self-imposed term because genders (like many concepts) don’t have exact opposites*. What one person experiences as opposites another person may experience as very similar.

Also, this term relates to viewing your personal genders as opposites. It should not be used to claim that genders you don’t use (especially abstract neogenders) are opposites or to go against the coiner’s wishes.

Like I view me being kenic and me being gendersilly as opposites, but there is no universally accepted opposite to either of those genders so I can’t just go around proclaiming that they're opposites for everyone else.

The flag's stripes go in opposite directions and also have 2 different themes (grays and bright colors). The gradient effects are for genders that the user views as "kind of" opposites. Flag ID in alt text.

*Disclaimer: this is different from antigender, and it is not in the leptrois system. Also, not all genders have ANTIN versions (see achiralgender).

[prettytm]

When you ride the dick, Imma choke you out Hit it from the back, blow the vocals out That's the type of shit we on - Vic Menca - Eastside Girl

[infizero]

im thinking about yuu from stars align again

[flashhwing]

fandoms love calling anyone who wears black goth. Batman isn’t goth. Yasha isn’t goth. Vax has a lot of goth aesthetic pieces I’ll give you that I can see why you call him goth but if given the space to argue minutiae I would argue against it.

[stonerzelda]

i wish i had the expendable money to just completely re-swagify my wardrobe man liekk i just want to get some colorful skirts + tripp pants complete w accessories n shit but somehow ive never been able to get to a place where that would be feasible despite cycling thru the same 3 outfits for like 10 years

[cyanidas]

we integrated. 

[facultyloungecosplay]

Yes, I am disappointed about baseball today BUT have you ever ordered a beautiful pair of Chelsea boots marked 75% off and then received them in the wrong color and four sizes too large?