jackoquako

Latest Posts by jackoquako

it simply must be stated that trans men who present femininely on purpose have such a vibe about them

maybe it’s the confidence that requires, especially since I’ve seen a lot of men talking about how it still gives them dysphoria, but they just radiate this undefined swagger. Like.. rock on dude, I am in awe of your strength and dedication to your choice.

IᑎTᖇO ᑭOᔕT? YOᑌ ᔕᕼOᑌᒪᗪᑎ'T ᕼᗩᐯE!

Hello! My names here are Jack, Vari, and Bucky! My pronouns are he/him only

I’m an asexual trans man who has an unhealthy attachment to Jason Todd, Bucky Barnes (Who would’ve guessed?) and any character played by Robert Pattinson.

Currently no plans to open requests.

DNI (only applies to my fanfics):

Blogs who only use she/her or have “cis female”/"cis girl" in bio

I don’t care if you identify as a woman or not, if you use she/her it makes me uncomfortable to have you interacting with my writing when it's made for men and masculine people in fandom.

I do actively check the blogs of people who interact with my fics and block people who fit my dni. It’s my blog and I choose who I open the door for.

🔥Burning From the Inside Masterlist.

ғᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴊᴇᴄᴛs

(No release date for these because it entirely depends on how busy I am and if I still want to do it by the time I get the opportunity)

Migrating my fic from Wattpad (Haikyuu x My hero anyone..?)

Possible Avengers x Batfam fic with a transman reader

Potentially a fic based on my Ripple AU

Resources I use:

(Please be aware that some of these are old sites and you should use discretion when downloading anything.)

Blinkies.cafe - the cutesy animated banners AnimatedImages.org - my line dividers in BFTI Glitter-Graphics.com - early 2000's gifs, page dolls, etc GifCities.org - old random gifs (the ufo and mystery machine) Ezgif.com - making old gifs transparent, MP4 to Gif conversion Canva.com - resizing gifs and making the PNG graphics for BFTI FontGen.net - title font

If you consume fanfic on ao3 and are 18+ and American I need you to lock in and call your senators saying you oppose a federal porn ban. This would effectively ban ao3 and being queer in public, among many other things, due to the intentionally vague language of the bill. I’m counting on queer tumblr and fandom tumblr to help me get the word out that you have to call your senators

it’s so bizarre to me how quickly the acc and the scc (creators and consumers alike) will just switch the topic to someone else? Like, in Chuuli’s video about Kayden Monroe where they’re opening up about all the harm that man did, there’s comments saying that Chuuli needs to “get away” from Lio Convoy, ss if it doesn’t derail the conversation. Like yes yes, Lio Convoy has done terrible things, but you couldn’t wait to speak your piece on a different video? You had to dictate a creator’s relationship whilst they’re talking about how they were victimized? And in the video by Cope and Seethe that goes over the call between Mali-malware and Just A Robot, there’s fairly well known creators derailing the conversation to talk about someone else who happened to be in the call. Okay sure, let’s not talk about how the woman in the call was belittled and shouted over, let’s talk about The Unrelated Third Party who barely spoke three words in the hour long call. It’s just so bizarre how people insist that the people they dislike have to be at the center of the discourse, they can’t ever be second hand to the real issue. I guess this is prevalent in all communities but it seems rather prominent in art communities.

Burning from the inside - Masterlist

Prologue

Summary: A look back in your memories of a simpler time, and how it stopped being so simple.

Chapter One

Summary: The first few months of living in the manor and your impressions of the inhabitants.

Chapter Two

Working on it!

Burning from the Inside

Yan! Batfamily x neglected! male! meta! Reader

Chapter one: Enter the Manor

Summary: The first few months of living in the manor and your impressions of the inhabitants. Word Count: 2805 Reading Time: 11:14 (mins:secs) Notes: Uh yeah this was meant to be maybe like 1000 words max. Oopsies 😬. I thought I’d do an honorable mention of @sitepathos and their series Gold to Mold bc while the influence may not be obvious, that story was one of my main influences to finally write the story in my head. Also any OOC behavior can be chalked up to the characters being emotionally inept (Bruce), not fully capable of raising a child that’s not Robin (Bruce again), or deal with their own emotional baggage of not being Robin anymore (dick). Also it’s important to note that I do look through the interactions with my fic and block profiles that only use she/her or say “cis girl”. The idea of being used as a tool for someone else’s gratification makes me uncomfortable and this is my blog, I do what I want. No current release date for the second chapter, it’ll get done when it gets done I guess.. 🤷‍♂️😓 Warnings: written in first person, talks of a young child (11) dealing with depression but the word isn’t used. Aggressive behavior from an adult to a child, and neglect from a parental figure.

Navigation

Masterlist

Prologue | Chapter 1 (you are here) | Next Chapter ->

The first week in the manor was actually rather.. nice. The car Alfred had taken you to the manor in was a shiny black, the interior coated in an oil-like black leather that made noise when you moved on it. There’d been a bag of fast food waiting for you in the back seat of the car when Alfred ushered you in. You’d devoured the meal hastily- not out of any sort of food deprivation or malnutrition, but because it never seemed like you could sate your appetite. No matter what, you were always a little hungry, a little more ravenous than the other boys your age. He’d talked sparingly as he drove, rarely talking his eyes off the road. It seemed like he understood. Unlike the cops and the foster families and the social workers, Alfred didn’t say “I’m sorry” or “that must hurt”. He didn’t really say anything about it at all. 

He’d asked you what your favorite color was, what style of decoration you’d want for your room, if you enjoyed your current clothes and style or if you’d rather have something else, and other similar questions. It was slow going, moving your mouth to form answers. Since the house fire, you’d grown to be unlike your past self, retracting into your shell like a snail, and barely speaking unless absolutely necessary. He didn’t seem to mind silence, though. It made a knot in your shoulders, that you never noticed, come loose.

The ride wasn’t very long, or maybe it was, you didn’t pay much attention to the time. It didn’t feel like a long ride. You’d spent the majority of it resting your head on the car door and staring out the window, watching buildings and trees pass by. The squat, brick buildings of mom-and-pop businesses of the town you’d been moved to gradually gave way to towering skyscrapers and bustling streets, although that eventually fell away to a thinned forest and big houses that stood proud among manicured lawns. The houses faded away too, leaving miles of sprawling woods the only thing to look at. Watching the trees pass by was a rather calming experience, your heartbeat slow and steady in your chest. You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling that ever-present heat under your skin settle, like a cat laying in the sun. It never left, like a permanent fever, but it could calm down, it could go dormant for the moment. 

The car rolled to a stop and you opened your eyes. A mansion stood alone in the middle of the woods, a driveway leading up to it and ending in a roundabout with a fountain in the middle. The front of the house was framed by well-loved hedges and flower beds which bloomed with brilliant white and red flowers. The house- mansion- itself was a deep red brick, the stone worn by weather, and framed by snow-white columns of marble. It was imposing, looming over the surrounding trees. Alfred stepped out of the car and moved around to the side, opening the door for you.

“Master yn, we have arrived.” He said with that same kind, elegant manner he’d greeted you with, back at the social worker’s office. 

As you climbed out of the car, Alfred moved back to the trunk and opened it, grabbing your singular bag of belongings before closing the trunk. He walked to the pristine marble stairs that led up to the tall mahogany  doors, the gravel crunching under his shiny black shoes. You followed loosely behind him, looking around at the outside of the house. The thought hadn’t quite managed to break through the fog that always seemed to cloud your mind nowadays, but it suddenly dawned on you that this isn’t exactly a normal foster family. You hurried to the door when Alfred held it open for you, stopping only for a moment to glance down at the outdoor mat resting outside the door. It was black with a gold logo printed onto it; the logo looked like a highly stylized W with an E beside it. An unsettled feeling rested in your stomach at the sight of it and you couldn’t quite grasp why. 

Entering the mansion, you were struck with the smell of cleaner and, very faintly, cologne. It smelled like an expensive store, the kind of place you and your mom would walk past on the way to your usual shopping area. The entryway had an open doorway that offered a small glimpse into the rest of the manor. A grand staircase ran down the side of the wall, the room entirely lit by a chandelier hanging from the high vaulted ceiling. Alfred moves past you, closing the door behind you both, and talks while gesturing for you to follow him up the grand staircase.

He’d taken you down a long hall that was lined with closed doors, explaining where everything was located whilst walking.

“Now, Master Bruce’s bedroom is.. further down the hall.”

You must’ve given him a curious look as you both arrived at your new room. Alfred opened the door for you, allowing you to enter in front of him.

“He wishes to give you space during this time.”

Your stomach churned at those words. They were perfectly designed, like what a PR team would tell their talent to say after screwing up massively. It left a sour taste in your mouth and you couldn’t quite meet Alfred’s gaze after hearing that. You looked around the room as Alfred set down your bag on the bed. It was much larger than anywhere you’d lived before, considering both foster homes and your real home. 

Despite the size, though, the room was bare of any decoration. A single twin bed laid under the brightness of the single window in the room, only blinds blocking the sunlight. Along the far right wall stood a sturdy wooden dresser and mirror. The walls were a blank white wallpaper and the floor was the same shiny deep-colored wood as the hallway outside. There was no side table for the bed, no carpet despite how cold the floor would definitely get, no posters or paintings, just the bare necessities. It was the picture of utilitarian. Alfred spoke up, clearing his throat as if he was embarrassed.

“Unfortunately, we were unable to source more furniture before your arrival.” He said with the same elegance as everything else he’d said, despite his expression figuratively shouting how upset he was about what he was saying. 

It intrigued you more than it should’ve. You shrugged and went to the window, pulling down one of the blinds to look outside.

“It’s fine.”

It’s not. You didn’t turn to look back at Alfred as you spoke, nor did you look back when you heard his fancy dress shoes shuffle against the floor. You heard the door creak.

“I’ll let you settle in, sir.”

You heard the door shut behind Alfred as he left. The minute you were alone, you fell back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling. 

The first few weeks had been rather boring, admittedly. You’d often stay in your room for days at a time, only wandering out to explore the house when you got bored of staring at the ceiling. You’d stroll up and down the halls, discovering the library, the private study that Bruce Wayne used, the various staff quarters, and more guest bedrooms than you thought was possible. None of it really excited you, though. A numbness had invaded your mind and made you into a living ghost, something human in name only. You no longer looked in mirrors and spoke very little, if at all. Not like there were very many people to talk to.

Bruce Wayne was as elusive as rain in the desert. He flitted about the manor, only ever coming home very late at night and leaving in the morning. You didn’t really want to know what he was doing so late in the evening, but you figured you’d find out about it someday. Secrets between you and your mom didn’t last very long, so most family secrets should be the same. 

The very few times you interacted with Bruce Wayne, he seemed distracted or discomforted by your presence, like he was seeing your mother, not you. If you happened to be in the kitchen when he came in, he’d stare at you for a long moment before attempting some sort of small talk. When you didn’t respond, he’d just leave. After the first three days, he avoided you completely. Maybe it was because you were both orphans or maybe there was just something unsettling about you, but Bruce Wayne didn’t want you in his house. Maybe he saw the same in-humanness that the foster families saw. Whatever was wrong with you was palpable, apparently.

Bruce Wayne wasn’t the only person in the manor who avoided you. 

Richard Grayson was, according to google, an orphan Bruce Wayne took in. Grayson didn’t care for your presence either. He was eighteen and seemed to be genuinely disgusted by you. Maybe he saw something too. Or maybe he was just a dick. The first incident with Grayson happened not too long after you moved in. You’d been wandering towards the direction of the kitchen when the front door burst open. He’d stood in the doorway, framed by the light around him, like an action figure in a commercial, all stoic and proud. You stopped to look at him and he looked back, like two animals spooked by the other’s existence. He’d scowled and glared down at you, crossing his arms as he approached. The rude dick left the door open behind him. 

“What are you, another one of Bruce’s new bratty orphans?” His words dripped with anger and annoyance, like you were ruining something just by the virtue of being here. He scoffed before you could even respond and stomped off. 

Luckily for you, though, Grayson didn’t live in the manor. He had his own apartment he’d disappear to for weeks. It was bliss, not having him around constantly. Living with Bruce Wayne already had your blood pressure high and your fuse short, but having someone as outright about their dislike of you- over something that you didn’t even understand- that made your blood boil. You had to physically stop yourself from launching yourself at Grayson every time he looked at you like you were a cockroach. 

But there were redeeming inhabitants in the manor. One of which was Alfred. He never forced you to talk if you didn’t feel like it, which you often didn’t. When you crawled out of your room for food once a day, he’d prepare a meal for you whilst telling you a story. You enjoyed his stories; the stories reminded you of your mother.

“Once, when I was in the SAS,” He’d begin, chopping vegetables into fine little cubes and tossing them into a pan. He’d grab fresh herbs from somewhere and begin chopping those as well.

“There were two new recruits.” He focused on what he was doing as you rested your head on your palm and stood leaning on the dinner table. “And they thought they were just the sneakiest men in the platoon.”

Once the herbs were diced, he’d add them to the sizzling pan, and stir the concoction. The action sent a flurry of floral scents in the air, filling the kitchen with an inviting aroma. 

Alfred continued whilst stirring the contents of the pan. “So the rest of us had dared them; said ‘if you’re really that good at sneaking around, then sneak up to one of the rabbits on base and put a ribbon on it.’”

“And by god, they did.” Alfred chuckled to himself as he turned off the burner and continued to stir, reaching over to the spice rack and picking out multiple bottles and sprinkling the contents into the pan. “They snuck out of the barracks that night and went out into the woods without any of us knowing.”

He gestured for you to sit at the bar and grabbed a plate from a cabinet, snatching a fork from an adjacent drawer. “By the time we all woke up and began our own duties, there were about twelve rabbits running around the base with little ribbon bow ties tied around their necks!”

Laughing softly to himself, Alfred scooped out the cooked vegetable stir-fry onto the plate and brought it over to you along with the fork. He’d sat with you as you ate, talking about other stories from his time in the SAS and his time working for Martha and Thomas Wayne. His genuine kindness made it almost worth it to be living in the manor.

The other inhabitant who didn't mind you being in the manor- and even seemed to like you being around- was Jason Todd. You’d met him while wandering around the manor like you often did. You’d just found the library for the first time when he popped up out of nowhere, appearing from behind a plush seat like a character from a horror movie. He’d bounded over to you like an excited puppy and began speaking a mile a minute. At first he’d put on this hyper-masculine deep voice that didn’t match his face or his age at all.

“Hey! Who are you?” He’d looked down his nose at you and you quickly realized that he, despite already being the same height as you, had stood on his tiptoes specifically so he could look down his nose at you. 

Fixing him with the same blank stare you’d used on everyone, you answered simply. That numbness you’d grown accustomed to made it hard to put energy into your voice. “(Y/N).”

He blinked once, then twice, and then the facade broke. His voice softened into what you assumed was its normal state and he slowly lowered himself to his usual height. Tilting this way and that, he examined you with an almost-suspicious expression. 

“Oh.” He suddenly light up with recognition. “You must be the other kid B took in. I’m Jason.” He pointed to himself with a prideful smile. “How come I haven’t seen you around?” The question was innocently curious, only prying on accident. 

You stared blankly, no response leaving your lips as you stood still. He tilted his head and frowned, shrugging as he looked away, feigning disinterest.

“Strong and silent type, huh?” He nodded to himself as he said the words, still looking at some random book on the bookshelf. “I can work with that.”

And he did.

Jason’s friendship was unlike your relationship with Alfred. In the fogginess of apathy- depression, you realized- he cut through the clouds like a lighthouse. He’d follow you around when you left your room, finding you every time like he had a compass implanted in his head or something, and it exclusively led to you. You’d be just wandering, sometimes taking paths you already walked before, sometimes carving completely new wear patterns in the carpet, and he’d sidle right up next to you and begin talking.

Just like Alfred, he did the talking for the two of you, but he was different. Jason would pause occasionally after cracking a joke, glancing at you to see if you laughed, smiling if he saw you reacted at all. It was like he understood you in a way Alfred didn’t, like he’d been in your shoes before. Sometimes while walking through the halls of the manor, he’d take your hand and lead you to some unspecified place. Occasionally it was the library, but most of the time it was places you’d never gone before, like the rooftop, the garden, and the theater room. 

Eventually, you learned through his one-sided conversations that Jason was only two years older than you at 13, and that he’d lived in crime alley. You didn’t really know where that was, but it sounded like a rough place to live. After a few months of being Jason’s unofficial sidekick, you began talking again. He never made a big deal out of it, but you could see his eyes light up when he finally got a response, even if they were one-worded at best. He’d cracked the hardened shell of emptiness that formed around your heart. The constant rejection by Wayne and Grayson didn’t help, neither did the gentle approach from Alfred, if you were being honest, but Jason had cracked it. He’d pulled you out of a ship you didn’t know had already sunk. And the first embers of happiness began to spark up again once more, even if it was faint. For the first time in a really long time, you had a friend.

And you had all the time in the world to get to know each other better. 

I feel I must inflict this insanity on other people because I’m genuinely so baffled by it,

I keep seeing this one woman on Pinterest claiming that any man using the words “pussy” or “cunt” in ANY way is sexist. And specifically she harps on trans men and non-binary people for using them. And I just-

Why must cis women police the language trans men use for their bodies? Multiple people have confronted her about how trans men use it to refer to their own bodies and it’s still somehow sexist?

I fear certain cis woman feminists have lost the plot slightly

I know it’s just a fandom thing but it’s still weird to see a post explicitly about seeing characters as siblings or seeing them as aroace or whatnot and you choosing to derail it and go “BUT I SHIP THEM!!!! DONT PERSECUTE ME UwU!!!” Like bud you’re walking into a club whilst proclaiming you’re against clubs, what are you expecting? Of course we’re going to tell you to leave.

And when you ask anyone to just be a little more inclusive it's suddenly "WE WEREN'T TALKING ABOUT TRANS MEN WHEN WE SAID ALL MEN!!!!" like they didn't just out themselves as not seeing trans men as men.

im actually so tired of trans men being so completely left out if the convo abt reproductive rights

at this point we should just babygirlify the joker

10 year old Dick: "Bruce, when you get married, can I be the best man?"

Bruce: "Of course, chum."

---

12 year old Dick: "Hey Clark, do you think when you get married, I can be your best man?"

Clark: "I don't see why not."

---

25 year old Dick: "In my defence, I had no way of knowing you'd end up marrying each other."

Achilles is trans masc coded bc he had to pretend to be a teenage girl for years for his own safety send post

Burning from the Inside

Yan! Batfamily x neglected! male! meta! Reader

Prologue: House Fire

Summary: A look back in your memories of a simpler time, and how it stopped being so simple. Word Count: 1463 Reading Time: 6:09 (mins:secs) Notes: I've wanted to write a batfam fic for a while but couldn't think of an interesting spin for the reader, that is until I read a oneshot about an Ice! meta reader that I can't seem to find again (😞) and my third eye opened. This reader is low-key inspired by an oc of mine, who I actually have a pinterest board for, but I've done my best to keep y/n fairly blank for people to project onto. It may or may not come up later in the story (haven't decided) but I'm imagining y/n as a trans man and as an unreliable narrator with memory issues so. First chapter is queued to go up in a week! Warnings: written in first person, anger issues (on reader's side), descriptions of a parent dying, lots of mentions of fire, reader being tossed around in the foster system. Please comment if you think I've missed a warning!

Navigation

Masterlist

Prologue (you are here) | Next Chapter ->

Rage burned under your skin constantly. When you were young, still kind and innocent, it was easier to control, it didn’t burn quite as hot. You still had a temper- your mother would end up dragging you home from school after many arguments on the playground getting too loud, but it never felt so much like drowning before. 

You were never certain of where your rage came from until an event when you were seven. The memory, clear as glass, would replay every night for that week. Whilst playing  in the front yard, you had noticed a car pull up. It was shiny and silver, that you remembered. But the woman who exited the car was more blurred by time degrading the memory. She’d smiled at you as she walked up to the front door, knocking politely without acknowledging you any more. She’d excitedly talked to your mother, giving your mom a piece of paper before your mother blew up. You’d never seen her so angry before. She’d screamed at the woman, scaring her into running back to her shiny car. 

The woman had driven off in a frenzy, the wheels kicking up dead leaves which showered over you in a confetti spray of autumn colors. Your mom had walked over and scooped you into a tight hug before pulling you inside. You didn’t play outside alone much after that. Your childhood had been normal beyond the odd moments like that.

You used to get ice cream with your mom after a particularly hard day at school, walking in the park as you shared a styrofoam bowl of slowly melting ice cream with her. You held onto that memory with an iron grip. She’d also take you to various garage sales and thrift stores, allowing you to buy the occasional toy or plushie every once in a while. It was only when you were older that you realized how tight of a budget you two had been on. You don’t worry about money much anymore. Maybe to someone who’d grown up richer your childhood sounded awful, but to you it was the golden years of your life. You’d never realized how much you valued your life in your small city with your mom, living in your tiny house at the edge of the city limits, until it was suddenly ripped away.

You’d been sitting in class, scribbling away at the margins of your notebook as the teacher droned on and on. Math was your least favorite subject since the teacher had the most monotonous voice ever. You’d only glanced out the window for a moment, staring at the birds in the trees, when the teacher was interrupted by a knock at the door. You watched as your math teacher walked to the door and opened it for an officer. Something like this would usually become the talk of the lunch period, concerned hushed voices slowly graduating into whispery gossiping over the course of a meal. So you’d watched intently as the officer spoke in a low, almost inaudible, tone to the teacher, who turned and locked eyes with you specifically. Your heart began to race as your teacher gestured for you- not another student, not anyone else- to come over. Your heartbeat had pounded in your ears as you got up, already hearing the concerned “what’s going on”s and “is everything okay”s from your classmates. Your teacher had an expression on their face that you couldn’t quite grasp in the moment. Later on, however, you’d later categorize it as something between sorrow and despair. It wasn’t the last time you saw that expression that day.

The officer had gently guided you into the hall where an administrator was waiting. Your worry shapeshifted into nervousness. You couldn’t remember doing anything horrible that’d warrant a police officer being there. Nervous that you’d be expelled over something you couldn’t remember, you began rambling apologies to the administrator, grasping at every single wrong thing you could remember doing. The man had just smiled and looked down at you with something akin to pity- the memory of that pitying expression made your skin crawl- and stopped your rambling with a single gesture. Then, the cop spoke. And the world you’d known shattered into bits.

The words came in bits and pieces as your brain struggled to adjust to this new reality you’d been thrown into. 

Your mother. House fire. The cop was sorry.

That was the thing that always stuck out to you. The apologies from people; as if they’d been the ones to start the fire. It still felt like molten sugar on a burn wound when people responded with “I’m so sorry for your loss”, even so many years later. It seemed like this one tragedy had suddenly changed everyone’s perception of you, reshaping you into the poor boy who was orphaned at the age of 11. 

That week (maybe it was a month, the specifics were hazy) turned into a blur as the world seemed to spin faster and faster around you. Suddenly, you were pulled from school and talking to social workers who had their own shiny cars, you were passed from adult to adult in a frantic bid for control over the situation your small city’s government found itself in. You remembered dizzy days in a guidance counselor’s office, then being rushed to a group home, then to a foster family, then another foster family further away, and again and again. Each time you were re-homed like a bad gift, you found yourself further and further from your little home town you’d loved. You don’t remember anything beyond the crushing weight of your mother being gone.

The only clear memory you have of that time was when a foster family took pity on you and drove you back home, to town. They brought you to the burnt-out remains of your old home. Neither member of the couple could hold you back when you ran towards the charred skeleton of the house. You remember crying and sobbing as hands pulled you away from the remains of the house, your own hands tightly grasping the one thing you’d managed to grab- a small book. You’d been shoved back into the car whilst hugging the book to your chest. Later, when you’d managed the courage to read that plain black book, you’d found that it was your mother’s journal. 

Maybe it was the fact that things had slowed to a more comprehensible speed, or maybe it was because you had something of your mother’s now, but you remembered more from this time period. In fact, you even remembered the foster family you’d been staying with when it happened. They were a sweet couple with a daughter not much younger than you. They’d given you your space, acting unsure and awkward whenever they interacted with you. They’d almost seemed relieved when the social worker came to retrieve you once again, as if having a grieving little boy in their house was equivalent to living with a nuclear bomb. The social worker didn’t need to prompt you at all to gather up your very few belongings and get in her car. You’d leaned your head against the window as she talked about your new home, barely paying attention. She’d talked about how “they” (you didn’t remember who “they” were. Maybe it was the police) had tried to find your father but had been unable, until he came forward himself. That deep anger flared up, flames licking at the bones of your rib cage as you kept it in. So he waltzes out of your life before you’re even born, ignores your existence for 11 whole years, and then struts back in as if nothing happened? The thought made you want to hit something. Someone. It made you want to hurt him. You’d clenched your fist and gritted your teeth as you tuned out the rest of the social worker’s speech.

Then, sooner than you’d wanted, you were in a hallway in one of the many community centers you’d been in, standing across from an elderly man wearing a suit. The fire that made you want to scream and bite and claw like a feral dog was quenched for a minute. Surely this couldn’t be your father, he was far too old. You couldn’t punch him- he’d fall over and die! You simply stood still as the man walked forward and gave a little bow. His voice was posh and his accent was clearly British, not unlike the period dramas your mom used to watch. 

“You, young man, must be (Y/N). Pleasure to meet you, my name is Alfred Pennyworth.”

He’d never know, but with that simple introduction, Alfred Pennyworth changed your world a second time.

Yall suck

tumblr staff really like pictures of grass

should we be concerned?

it's always "aros and aces can still date and fuck" and never "staying single and/or celibate is a valid life choice and people who do so are deserving of respect"

I work in a theater. The men I meet have always been the kindest people in the building. Shoutout to the lead male actor who asked me what I’d done for the day and, when I told him it was my birthday, quietly notified the stage manager so I could get a birthday shout out. Acknowledgment to the man who came and found me after my mom gave him flowers so he could thank me personally for even suggesting the idea to my mom and then hug me. And extra love to the male directors who have only ever kindly corrected my mistakes and guided me. All the love to my guy friends who are the goofiest goobers known to man

painting an entire population as evil inherently (whether it’s because of trauma or not) with make you a lonely, empty, person.

I see the radfems out there saying that every man who's ever been born is a psychopath who's constantly looking for an opportunity to commit a felony and then I remember this one time I was really struggling to get a shopping cart out of another shopping cart and a dude came over to help me, but he couldn't do it, and then another dude came over to help him, and then another came over because it was a challenge he wanted in on, and then I had 3 guys all tearing at a stuck shopping cart, and literally none of them even needed a cart.

And when they got it out, they fist pumped and I said thanks so much and one of them said "easy." And then they left.

And it's like.

I don't think radfems go outside.

I truly do not care if it "ruins your immersion". YOU NEED TO TAG UNREALITY PROJECTS. Sure, some people are able to discern that it's not true, but you are still presenting (oftentimes horrific) concepts to a wide audience as truth. presenting the idea of "This creature will hunt you down if it knows that you're think about it" to a child or someone who already struggles with discerning what is reality without properly allowing them to brace themselves is CRUEL. It's the same idea of knocking someone who has mobility issues over without warning just because "well my other friends who don't have mobility issues can just get back up"

Having a stroke sounds like a euphemism for jerking off

Bo Swan and his freaky little boyfriend

The worms were caused by this specific drawing. I meant for it to be normal fanart but halfway through the idea struck of "what if Bella were actually trans" and then this was birthed.

Made using Krita, with a pencil brush for line art, and chalk brush for that delicious chunky lighting I've grown so fond of. I wanted to try and make this a really easy piece by being a little more cartoonish in my proportions (bigger eyes, fluffy hair, cutesy poses) and it worked really well. While my Ripple AU captain took about a week working on it a little at a time while constantly referencing pictures of Chris Evans, this took only a day. From start to finish it was maybe only five hours?

Versions without rain and filter below cut

Trans man Bella Swan

trans boy swan who still wears a lot of his old clothes because he doesn’t really know what other style he’d like

tboy swan wearing his skinny jeans with one of Charlie’s shirts because his dad noticed how the form-fitting Pinterest girl clothes make him uncomfortable. Then later him wearing Edward’s hoodies on a regular basis.

tboy swan who gets along with Jacob because Jacob had a gender crisis a while back before understanding that he’s most comfortable as a man. The two are inseparable, literally “brother from another mother” behavior. Edward is forced to get along with Jacob despite the fact that Jacob behaves like a feral little brother when Edward comes around.

Tboy Swan who gets along the best with his female friends simply because they don’t see him as “the trans classmate” and only see him as their boy swan. Sure, he likes his male friends, but they’re more interested in getting him to join the basketball team and he doesn’t vibe with sports.

Tboy swan who takes a good while to figure out what he wants to be called. Sure he knows the basics: he/him, boy, but he couldn’t for the life of him pick a name so he just goes by “swan” in school. It takes him being in a relationship with Edward for him to finally decide on a name.

Bowen Swan who decides on a name and then nonchalantly brings it up to Charlie that night as if it’s no big deal (like father like son) and then Charlie buys Bo a cake to celebrate (maybe he even invites Edward over with the condition that they keep the door open, the same rule Charlie applies to all of Bo’s friends)

Bo Swan who buys his first binder with Alice’s help (she needs this boy to stop wearing the most middle-aged man clothes ever) and then they go shopping afterwards for new clothes, which, to Alice’s utter dismay, match Charlie’s style still.

The brainworms struck. Trans man! Bella swan.

He probably figures it out before moving back to Forks and has a moment where he chops off all his hair in a mental break down and his mom (parentification Queen over here omg) doesn’t know how to handle being the one doing the comforting for a change, so that’s part of the reason she sends him away. She’s supportive, but only from a distance.

Then there’s Charlie. He probably feels so guilty at first for being so happy he finally has a son that he doesn’t really know how to interact with his newly-minted son, without even beginning to address the fact that this child has grown so much since he’s last seen him. Like there’s already so much going on in the way of “oh we don’t really know each other as parent and child” that Charlie takes maybe about two to three weeks to even begin to address his son’s very obvious mental issues caused by his ex-wife, let alone the way his son’s life crumbled and re-built itself when he realized he was trans. I think it’d culminate in Charlie taking his son fishing, only for both of them to accept that this is not a good bonding activity and for them to spend the time having an impromptu picnic instead

oh and you know Carlisle had him clocked the minute he walked in. Like sure Forks is a small town but Carlisle’s been a doctor long enough for him to write prescriptions for HRT like. He knew. And he was fully ready to just.. give him a prescription for testosterone if he asked. I get the feeling that Esme would be one of those allies who just.. straight up don’t see trans people as anything other than what they identify as. Like, as in, she doesn’t think about the fact that t-boy swan here would still have periods and have to bind. She overhears swan asking for a pad from Alice and for a full day she gushes about how sweet the swan boy is, that he looks out for his female friends by getting them tampons, then it hits her in the middle of like doing the dishes.

Edward is a curious case. I feel like on one hand he’d be a little confused (sheltered white boy from the 1800s) but then on the other I just don’t think he’d like.. ask? Like he fully accepts his boyfriend as a man but the first time they have sex he just pauses for a split second after they get their clothes off and then immediately resumes. Like he would probably just accept that the discrepancy between swan’s presentation and genitals is just something that happens to modern people now. Like with “oops all berries” cereal or the happy accident that made a lot of modern baked goods so good. Idk I just… t-boy swan…

"when i say girlie, i'm also including nonbinary people, you're honorary girlies"

this is exorsexism.

being misgendered isn't the honour you think it is.

“oh it’s so misogynistic to headcanon female characters are transmasc”

wrong! more trans men and mascs in fiction, and every time you complain i forcemasc another fictional girl. i’m taking Sakura from Naruto next.

lamb

I've had this idea for a post-endgame au where, instead of living with Peggy and abandoning both Bucky and Sam, Steve goes back in time, has a long talk with her where she allows him to open up about everything emotionally and then convinces him that him living out the life he does have in the future is worth it, and that she's happy. This causes Steve to still quit being captain america and still give the shield to Sam, but now he fakes his death to get completely out of the radar of whatever HYDRA agents are left, plus the government, and operate as the new director Fury-type figure for the new age of avengers.

Since the Sam!CA suit has primarily white as the base color, I decided to keep the blue for Steve. It's meant to look like he took the suit he wore in IW (the Nomad suit) and stripped the armor, the stars and stripes, and adopted golden yellow as an accent color. I tried to make a lot of tie-ins to other characters who would definitely be important to Steve (like the stars on his collar representing people he's lost, almost like he's carrying them with him.) since he seems like the type of person to do that, especially now that he's no longer being the representative of patriotism and isn't isolated solely to the classic costume due to other people deciding what he's be wearing.

The gloves are both a reference to the original "The Captain" suit

And a reference to the HYDRA Arm Bucky used in Winter Soldier and Civil War, with the dark red star only on one had while the other glove only has an embossed star in the leather.

The pattern on the back is low-key a nod to Steve "turning his back" on the old ideals of Captain America, since he's been burned by the US government enough to fully distrust them and believe their way of working is wrong (sokovia accords, anyone?), but its also a nod to Sam "having his back" (I love puns in character design)

The thigh holster was purely fanservice (for me, i am my biggest fan, that's why i highlighted his chest with the faux-corset design and highlighted his massive cake) and in-universe i think Bucky would've fought for that to be a part of Steve's costume.

I'll probably do more with this au in the future but i'm a little tied-up with doing sound mixing for Newsies JR right now and also balancing writing my own batfam x reader for the first time.

FUUUUCK....... i sure could go for a Nice, Cold, and Refreshing glass of

Ice Water

right about now.......

That’s chill

bwaaaah

I had to break this to a close friend of mine recently but I worry that this sort of information needs to be more widespread, especially since we’re still coming off the popularity of “Don’t ever trauma dump on me! If you say anything about what you’re going through ever it’s trauma dumping!!!” And it’s equal and opposite reaction of “actually you must be there for your friends no matter what or you’re a bad friend and trauma cannot ever be weaponized that never happens you’re lying.”

You are not your friend’s therapist. You can be there for them, provide support, be a shoulder to cry on, but you are not and should not attempt to be a friend’s sole source of healing their mental health issues. Bad advice often does more harm than good, and you are not a licensed professional who is equipped with the knowledge of how to help.

I’m not saying abandon your friends, I’m speaking from the position of someone whose bad, damaging, habits were enabled by a friend who thought that watching psych101 videos meant they were qualified to heal me.