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thylaseraph · 3 months

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JANUARY, 1995

It’s a shooting day and Dean’s ears are ringing with the pop of the .22 that’s growing heavy in his hands. At Bobby’s house he always has to wear earmuffs when he shoots; usually Dean complains because they look stupid, but right now his ears are so frozen he’s wishing he had a pair of his own.

He points the muzzle at the ground and shakes his head out, cupping a stiff hand to his cheek. There’s exactly zero blood flow happening in his face, and the cold makes each shot ring out so loudly he has to try not to flinch. And his socks are wet. Pretty miserable shit.

John’s on his way back from replacing the target, face grim.

“How’d I do?” Dean calls. Too loud, judging from the way his dad scowls.

“You’re blowing through ammo and you only got six on the page.”

Dean slumps. “Crap.”

“Yeah, it is. You need to get your shit together, I can tell your heart isn’t in this. You reload yet?”

Dean sniffles, even though he can’t feel his nose, either. “No.”

“No?”

“No, sir.”

“So get going. Show me you can do better.”

Dean’s fingers feel like ten useless icicles. He slides the chamber open and clink-clink-clinks ten bullets inside, then carefully closes the action. The Beretta is a testy bitch that jams constantly. Dad only trusts it for training and seems likely to chuck it soon.

He barely seems affected by the chill. Mostly he looks bored. “Go on and take a few steps forward. Ladies’ tee until you get ‘em all on the page, and then we’ll think about moving you back again.”

Dean’s skin crawls with embarrassment and he wants to protest—he could do better if it were warmer and if he weren’t so tired already—but obediently he moves closer to the target.

“Alright.”

He raises the gun and clicks the safety off. He’s probably more cautious with it than John cares, but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

The target is a sheet of paper with orange circles pinned to a stump surrounded by casings. He lines the center up in his sight and then aims a little lower to compensate because the Beretta shoots high. God, if Dean could get his hands on that ivory-grip Colt, he’d die happy.

He empties her out, gets about nine bullets on the page. Four of them land tight in the center. The stray shot is only because he overcorrected his aim at first.

He turns back to his dad with a grin on his face, feeling pretty proud. There’s a pleasant buzz of warm feeling in his nose and eartips along with the ringing in his ears as he traipses back to the ammo box. “Not so crappy, huh?”

John shakes his head. “Dunno where you learned to be such a brag.”

“What am I supposed to be, humble? Pass.” He squats by the box, breathing on his numb hands before delicately picking up the bullets. “Hard pass.”

“Being humble is what keeps you alive. Nine out of ten only seems good on a target that doesn’t move. It isn’t your best—or it shouldn’t be.” John’s silence is as unforgiving as his voice. Dean watches his words sink through the winter air like smoke.“We stay here until you can actually hit what you’re aiming at.”

Through no fault of his own, Dean’s mouth is suddenly letting loose the complaint he’s been trying to hold in. “Come on, give me a break, Dad. It’s freezing, and I’m tired, and I’m about to have frostbite on my carpal tunnel. I feel like I can barely pull the damn trigger!”

His father’s boots crush against the frozen ground louder than a gun. He looks up quickly, stomach dropping. Dad and his rifle make a stark silhouette against the cold white sky above.

“You don’t ever speak to me like that again. You sound like your brother, like some insolent child, not a man I’d trust with my weapon. I know I taught you better than this. When lives depend on you, are you still gonna be making excuses? Are you gonna be whining about the weather when it’s your bad aim that gets somebody killed? Is it gonna be the trigger’s fault when you get yourself killed?”

“No, sir,” Dean replies, heart beating in his throat.

“You’re laughing, you’re fucking around, I can see you’re not taking this seriously. You still don’t understand the stakes. Think about Sam—you know whose fault it’ll be if you can’t take care of him or the lives you say you want to protect?”

“My fault, sir. Dad, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry. Don’t be begging for respect when you haven’t earned it. The only reason we’re still out here is you. You being cold and tired right now is on you. This is all in your control. Your life is in your own hands, nobody else’s. Do you understand that?”

His eyes are so heavy.

Dean nods and looks down, unable to speak. He is so stupid.

The dry air is hurting his head; he won’t be surprised if they get back to the cabin and find Sam with a bloody nose. Kid’s got a fragile sinus. The sooner Dean makes this, the sooner they can get back. He loads fast.

“Sam told me that you went hunting,” John says, tone slipping back to conversational.

“Yeah,” Dean says, grateful as he slides the clip home. “Bobby showed us how to do animal calls.”

“Being able to hunt and eat what you’ve killed is important. For when you have to keep yourself fed, but for building character, too. A hunter should be able to hunt.”

“And fish,” Dean adds. “Hey, we should go again soon.”

John nods, the barest hint of warmth. “My point is, everything you need to survive should be in your power. Your gun is your second most important tool after grit. Even when you won’t know if you will survive, you have to know that you can survive.”

Dean nods, and after a few seconds of silence, he supplies, “Bobby makes good venison chili.” He doesn’t mention that Bobby specifically said John was not invited to any of his suppers.

“You get one?” John asks. “A deer?”

Dean stands slowly, thumbing the safety. He doesn’t click it off, yet, and he keeps it pointed at the ground. Like Bobby keeps cussing him out about. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

Dean’s mouth is sour, the pit in his stomach is growing again, and somehow he’s sweating. John sounds like he knows the answer why.

Dean clicks the safety off and Dad doesn’t even look twice, just waits. Dean walks back to his spot and gets into position. Behind him, John sighs. He sounds so tired.

“If you can’t even kill a deer, how do you think you’re gonna be able to shoot things that look human?”

Dean aims at the target and tries to breathe. The freeze is in his lungs, now, January’s teeth seizing his insides so every inhale is sharp. The target wavers in his sight as he tries to keep his hands still. It’s just an orange circle. Just a tree stump. Just practice, so he’s fine.

He exhales slowly, finger curling around the trigger. He’s fine and he’s got this.

“I mean, what am I supposed to think, Deanna,” John says lowly, voice pinched with disappointment, “you tell me you want me to treat you like a man, but you can’t even—”

Dean fires, ten rounds in steady, thundering succession until the ringing in his ears drowns out the sound of the chamber clicking empty.

The target is in tatters. He thinks they all landed.

His chest is still tight, and raw, and like maybe something has shaken loose or broken free. With shaking hands, he zips up his jacket, and then he turns and walks to his father’s side.

“It’s Dean,” he says thinly. He clears his throat and adds, “Sir.”

John’s looking at him and Dean can’t make out what’s going on behind his eyes. After a moment he nods, and then jerks his head toward their gear. “Pack up.”

As Dean’s cleaning up—collecting fallen casings and discarded targets, and making sure every gun is unloaded and every safety is on because Sam always pokes around even when they tell him not to—John claps him on the shoulder. His voice is soft again.

“I’m just worried about you, I need you to know that. I want you to be able to take care of yourself and Sammy when I’m not around. This world is mean, and cold, and it’ll tear you apart. I can be hard on you kids…I push you too hard, I know it, and it still won’t be enough to keep you safe. And that kills me.”

John cups the back of his head. Dean meets his eyes and sees a world in there that he can’t begin to fathom. “You did good today, Dean, really good. I don’t want you to think I have any doubts—about how strong you are, and how brave. And I trust I can depend on you, son.”

Somewhere inside Dean, a knot loosens, like he’s finally been allowed to breathe a little. It’s good.

#repost from my old blog #trans dean winchester #transphobia #misgendering #deadnaming #parental abuse #verbal abuse #forced masculinzation emotional stunting meow meow meow #bound for the floor by local h released 1996 changing nothing in deans life but becoming a soundtrack #dean: i earned respect! john: if i push him hard enough he will kill so good :3 #ficlet #supernatural #trans dean #cw misgendering #tw misgendering #deadname #tw gun mention #tw gun use #mine

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underestimated-heroine · 2 months

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sure this has been said before and said better, but we get into dicey territory talking about romantic/sexual preferences--or "types"--a lot of the time because...well firstly, the subject is obviously intensely personal, but also because quite frequently what's happening isn't:

someone has a preference/type

they are hated for it.

but instead:

someone has a preference/type

they go around talking about it in inappropriate settings and in ways that are hurtful; badgering people and even "testing" them (ex. demanding to know if they're "bad" for not liking [x])

people are disgusted, hurt by them, wary of them...and well, yeah, maybe hate them (especially when systemic oppression plays such a significant role in influencing one's "type.")

to me the most revealing element of this is the power dynamics that are almost always at play; people only get away with it safely if they're "type"-badgering one way...and it ain't up. it reminds me of a well-spotted maxim i read about here the other day:

I’m especially interested in how people police each other’s reactions, and how the accumulation of that policing at the individual and societal level leads us to start policing our own, with disastrous results. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: The “national pastime” in the USA isn’t baseball, it’s debating exactly how much other people are allowed to react to something that hurts and upsets them. There’s almost a formula in play, where, the more power I have (or assume I have) relative to you, the more I expect you to keep your reactions to the things I do to you to a decorous mumble that I can safely ignore without having to change anything about myself (but also, the louder I will yell about how “dramatic” and “over-sensitive” you are).

women can tell you they absolutely don't safely get away with saying they prefer certain things in men. no matter how carefully or how long they avoid hurting anyone, giving the truth demanded of them will very likely lead to anger, manipulation tactics, and quite possibly abuse and violence.

trans women not being considered "allowed" to be "picky" is a major vehicle of transmisogynistic abuse. this is how and why so many trans women are preyed on by violent men. "they're just grateful for anything, "they'll do anything to please", "nothing's off limits"...these are common fallback lines of the transmysoginistic predator. a trans woman who defies this by rejecting someone for not being her type, no matter how nicely, is in a very scary position.

we hear white people say they're "not into black people" all the time. not only is it much more commonly said and accepted than when black folks say they don't want to date white people, but white people are incredibly eager to condemn black preferences overall, barging in on discussions which are really intracommunal.

and radfems use "type"-badgering to "prove" the "men" (trans women) who get angry and upset at them for doing this are "violent misogynists", that "maleness" is violence, and to indoctrinate each other. stories of the angry reactions their "type"-badgering got, screenshots from lgbtq+ spaces where people "ganged up on them" for saying they don't date trans women (usually they also said something along the lines of "i can tell when they're trans") are passed around in radfem spaces as Evidence that the Shadow of Maleness is infiltrating womanhood and preying on them...

...yet they're the ones invoking the maxim.

and sure enough, they are not going to cishet male-dominated spaces to do so. they are "type"-badgering specifically in queer/trans-inclusive spaces. functionally, it is nothing more than reactionary maintenance of a power structure which benefits them, and a bid to provide depth to the sense/fear of victimhood they've externalized and phenomenalized (this is a big part of why we say just don't engage.)

these are just a few examples, obviously. the last one is a good chunk of the reason i really made this post. because despite the fact that i'm sure most of us feel all this should go without saying, or can be shortened to "don't be an asshole", i really think it's relevant enough to the conversation about transphobia and exclusionism in leftist & queer spaces that it does need to be addressed, and probably more often.

#posts i actually wrote #tw transphobia #cw radical feminism #tw transmisogyny #tw abuse #tw manipulation #cw racism #cw misogyny #long post #cw misgendering

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sleepsentry · 1 year

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[Misunderstandings]

#gravity falls #stanford pines #stanley pines #teen ford #teen stan #gravity falls fanart #digital art #my art #trans stans #teen stans #cw misgendering

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xieliansbignaturals · 4 months

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I like this tag of mine. Like, who knows what Hua Cheng's birth sex was? Not me, the author!

Hua Cheng during the 800 years: If Dianxia somehow was interested in me as a man, he would probably want me to have a cock, so I'll go with that. I'll make it huge and impressive.

Xie Lian, sometime post-canon: Finally, I have gotten to the point where I can go through San Lang's porn books without instantly combusting. Ooh, what's this? Women can take Fantasy Hormones to look like men? I didn't know there was an option like that for mortals. What an interesting diagram...

Hua Cheng, reading over his shoulder: Exactly how interesting?

#tgcf #hualian #trans hua cheng #or maybe not #cw misgendering #<- since i'm implying the 'women' are trans men

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deadeyedfae · 2 months

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Okay announcement time! Here is part 4 of Dead Eyed Ivy AND….a link to read the whole story so far on Webtoons 💜 shoot out to that one person who found my profile before I’d finished setting it up 😅💜💜💜

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shyjusticewarrior · 1 year

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DC Comics Incorrect Quotes Pt 15

Tim: Once Damian got into a fist fight with a trans guy and when he got sent to the principals' office the principal kept going like "how DARE you hit a WOMAN," and he got so offended on the trans guys' behalf that he got into a fight with the principal too.

Tim: This will forever be my favorite story about him. Just to clarify, it was only a verbal fight with the principal.

Tim: Update: I was wrong, he did in fact try to punch the principal, they just stopped him.

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i-like-words · 8 months

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Checking In (MTaP)

Dusting off this ancient account to post a bit of the My Time At Portia Arlo/Builder!self ficlets that have been absolutely dumping out of me lately. seriously it's just been like. non stop writing for two weeks straight, this video game man has done unspeakable things to my brain and I love it

some lore and context: Adri was discovered frozen within a massive ruin, thawed out, reawoken after a stupid amount of years and whoops - turns out they have Trauma™ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ luckily our favorite good guy redheaded captain takes it upon himself to keep them out of trouble :)

this particular bit takes place like a week after Adri is introduced as the new Builder - they go MIA, leading Arlo and Merlin to swing by the old workshop

(As an aside, my Builder!self is non-binary. By this point no one within the canon knows this, so characters will refer to them with she/her while the narrative uses they/them, just to assuage any confusion or cw people beforehand of misgendering - it's intentional but temporary)

ANYWAY

cw for swearing and aforementioned misgendering

Arlo stepped through the gate and looked around. The yard had become quite overgrown and the workbench was strewn with stray leaves. It looked as though none of the equipment there had even been touched. There was no sign of Adri. Merlin peered over the scene and began jotting down notes.

Approaching the door to the little shack, Arlo noticed the lights were off.

"Do you suppose Adri is out for the day?" he asked.

"Mm, unlikely," Merlin replied, not looking up from her notebook. "Considering no one has really seen nor heard from her since the fireside chat. Not even the farm girl or her grandmother across the way."

Slowly, Arlo reached out and rapped on the wooden door with his knuckles. "Hello?" he called out.

Silence.

He knocked again.

"Anyone home? It's Arlo, from the Civil Corp. I'm here with Director Merlin from the Research Center. I'm sure you remember us from... before."

More silence.

"Uhh, listen. Mayor Gale asked us to check in on you, since no one has really, er, seen or heard from you in a handful of days. You... um, don't have to open the door, but give us a sign that you're alive...?"

"Though opening the door would be the preferable option," Merlin interjected.

Still no answer. Arlo chewed his lip. He wondered if maybe Adri was simply sleeping... understandable that someone who'd been reawakened after being frozen for a few hundred years would probably want to nap off that whole ordeal. But, still, as the one put in charge--self-appointed, yes, but in charge--of making sure Adri was safely acclimating to life in Portia, Arlo hoped that his first check-in with the new Builder wouldn't end with him breaking down the door.

Before he could contemplate that scenario further, said door suddenly parted, ever so slightly, from the door frame; Adri's pale face was barely visible through the open crack. Dark eyes glowered at Arlo, then at Merlin.

"There. I'm alive. Now go away," they said flatly, and with that, the door was shut once more.

Arlo stood there awkwardly, startled, but relieved he wouldn't, in fact, have to resort to property damage. At least not today. "Oh. Ah, that's... good. Um. I... we were hoping to maybe speak with you, see if there was perhaps anything you might need...?"

"What I need is for you to leave me alone," came the muffled, yet terse reply from behind the closed door. Merlin scribbled into her notebook.

"Hmm. Specimen... displaying... antisocial tendencies..."

"You're not helping," Arlo sighed to Merlin, before addressing the door again. "Uh, can we at least ask you a few questions?"

Silence.

"I promise once we're done we'll both leave you be. You have my word."

Silence.

"Do these so-called 'wellness visits' of yours always go this poorly?" Merlin asked, shouldering Arlo aside. She then knocked on the door. And hard. "Ms. Adri, while I understand you're going through a rather difficult period of adjustment, this an important matter, and neither myself nor Mr. Arnold will be vacating the premises until we can speak with you face-to-face."

Silence.

"You were saying?" asked Arlo pointedly, moving himself back in front of the door.

Merlin folded her arms indignantly. "Hmph..."

"Um... sorry about that, Adri," Arlo continued. "Just ignore what she said. Anyway, we're glad to see that you're, in fact, not dead, and it's, uh... pretty clear that you're not exactly in the mood to be social right now, which is totally fine, so we'll... just come back later."

He was about to turn to leave, when the door reopened and swung out slowly with a long creak. Adri stood there in the turnstile, squinting against the sunlight. Their clothes were disheveled, their shoulder-length hair was a tangled mess, and they had dark bags under their eyes. They looked like they hadn't gotten any sleep in days.

The Builder looked between the researcher and the Captain with intense disdain, then turned away and trudged into the dark, unlit void of the house. Merlin followed, notebook in hand. Tentatively, Arlo stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him.

There wasn't much to the little ramshackle house--four walls, a roof, and a modest wooden bed topped with moth-eaten sheets sat in the corner, nestled beneath a cracked window. The floor groaned under Arlo's boots, and he noticed some floorboards were missing. What little belongings Adri had had been unceremoniously dumped around; even the Builder's clothes that were given to them as a welcoming gift were laying in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed.

Adri slumped onto the edge of the mattress, crossing their arms over their chest, shoulders hunched as if they were trying to fold into themselves.

"Make this quick," they muttered. Their gaze fell into middle distance, and their expression was blank, unfeeling.

Merlin looked up from her notes. "Yes, well," she began, leafing through some pages. "I'll be asking you a series of questions, you answer as honestly and as thoroughly as you can. Don't spare any details, even if you think they aren't important."

"Okay."

"All right... How are you feeling?"

"Terrible." The answer came out before the question had bothered to finish being asked.

Merlin blinked in mild surprise. "Erm, can you... perhaps be a little more specific? Try to refrain from single-word answers."

At this, Adri's head--and eyes--lolled back, and they heaved an irritated sigh. "Oh, my god, fine--I'm 'fucking terrible'. Is that better?"

Merlin did not look amused. She clicked her tongue. "Right. Moving on, then... Have you been experiencing any unusual physical or mental phenomena? Any short-term memory loss, disassociation, or particularly strange dreams or visions?"

"Oh, yeah... I've definitely been having strange visions lately."

Merlin perked up at this. "Have you? Can you describe these visions?"

"Let's see: some blue-haired bozo in dumb glasses shows up and asks me a bunch of stupid ass questions," Adri replied in a flat monotone, their expression unchanging. "I'm having one right now, in fact."

It took a great deal of effort from Arlo to stifle a chuckle. He was always so used to Merlin being the dry and sarcastic one; it was kind of a nice change of pace watching her get a taste of her own medicine. He could see the researcher's jaw jut forward angrily as she wrote something into her notebook before snapping it shut.

"Ms. Adri," she said, the patience dropping from her voice. She removed her goggles and eyed her interviewee as a parent does when lecturing an unruly child. "I am trying to help you. The very least you could do is take this seriously."

"'Help'...?"

In an instant, Adri's cold, indifferent expression changed. Their eyebrows shot up, disappearing into a thick curtain of dark hair. Merlin and Arlo both were taken aback as they suddenly began laughing--a short, bitter bark of a laugh.

"You're trying to 'help' me?" they sneered, rising from the bed and slowly walking forward. Their fists were clenched so hard they were trembling. "Just like you fucking 'helped' me by dragging my half-dead body back into consciousness, in a completely foreign world, separating me from everything I've ever known and loved by HUNDREDS OF YEARS!? THAT kind of 'help'...?!"

Adri was stopped short by a long arm extending in front of them, shielding Merlin, and they glared daggers up at its owner.

"That's enough," Arlo said, his thick brows furrowed. "I don't want to use force on you, but I will if I have to." Beyond his outstretched arm, Merlin was bracing herself behind her notebook and was staring at Adri with fear and anger in her eyes. Adri scowled.

"Tch. Unbelievable... Treated like a damned experiment and I'm expected to be grateful," they mumbled, looking away. Arlo caught a glimpse of a tear sliding down their face, glinting in the dim light of the window. They crawled back onto the bed and curled up into a ball, facing away from their visitors. "Just leave me alone already."

Arlo sighed, running a hand through his tousled red hair. He looked to Merlin. "We should probably go," he said, quietly. Merlin opened her mouth to interject, but, to Arlo's great relief, decided against it.

"...Very well."

They both turned to leave and Arlo opened the door to allow Merlin through. She strode outside, making a beeline for the front gate without another word, no doubt mentally cursing to herself for having to go back to the Research Center strapped for new data. Once she was far enough away, Arlo looked over his shoulder at the small, vulnerable figure laying there, alone, in the dark. Guilt tugged at the inside of his chest.

Adri heard the front door close with a soft click. A brief pause, and then:

"I know she isn't the best at dealing with people, but you mustn't blame Merlin," Arlo said quietly, his gaze fixed on the wood grain of the door. "It wasn't her idea to bring you back. It was mine."

Silence.

"I was the one who found you in the ice," he explained. "And I was the one who insisted that we help you. If you resent me for that, then that's okay. I accept that. You're well within your right to be angry, and... if you're going to be angry at anyone, you can be angry at me."

More silence. Arlo placed his hand on the door's handle. Just as he opened his mouth to apologize for the trouble and make his leave, he was cut off by the nearly inaudible--but unmistakable--sound of sniffling.

"Why did you have to bring me back...?" Adri whimpered, their voice thick and cracking. "Why didn't you just leave me there...?"

Arlo froze. The statement hung heavily like a yoke on his shoulders, pinning him to the spot. He turned and looked over at Adri helplessly as their body shuddered with silent sobs, unsure of what to do. He wanted so badly to comfort them, but he didn't know if he could... or if he even should. Shit. He knew today's visit probably wouldn't go smoothly, but... he had not been prepared for this.

"I... I felt like I had to," he said, crestfallen. Hesitantly, he walked over and sat at the foot of the bed, allowing as much space between himself and Adri as he could manage. "But... I am sorry. Hate me all you want, but please know that I only ever wanted to give you a chance."

"I never asked for your help," Adri mumbled into their pillow. "I never asked for any of this."

"I know." Arlo rubbed at the back of his neck as his gaze fell to the dusty wooden floor.

Another sniffle. "But... I don't hate you."

Arlo looked up again.

"You don't...?" he asked gently, mild surprise in his voice.

"No," Adri responded, heaving a shaky sigh. "I don't even hate that blue-haired bozo, or really, anybody here. I understand why you went out of your way to help me, but I was probably better off being frozen..."

"What makes you say that?"

"Under any other circumstances I'd be happy to have a second chance," Adri said, wiping tears away from their eyes. "I can't even say that my old life was super fucking great anyway, but... it was mine. Knowing that everything that made my life what it was is just... gone, it--" They trailed off, their voice wavering before letting out another sob.

Arlo said nothing, and he sat there, solemnly, as Adri grieved. After a few minutes, they went quiet again.

"Sorry..." they said, sniffling.

"What for...?"

"For making everyone worry, I guess..." Adri rolled over and sat upright. Their eyes were puffy and red, and their cheeks and nose were shiny with tears and mucus. "After Gale introduced me during the meeting thing, everyone was just so... nice. It was a lot. I didn't know how to deal with that, so I've just been holing up in here all week and feeling sorry for myself... I'm sure they all must think I'm an asshole."

"You're not an arsehole; you're going through a lot," said Arlo. "More than anyone in town could possibly know or even imagine. Yes, Gale is a bit of a worrywort, that's just how he is, but I doubt he's expecting you to seamlessly integrate into society overnight."

"Maybe... but he sure seems to believe that I can just pick up a hammer and magically become a Builder..."

Ah, yes. That. Gale had suggested, in the interest of keeping their origins a secret, that Adri be introduced to the townsfolk as a new Builder to avoid any unnecessary panic or conflict. If word of the truth got out, it could spell all sorts of trouble, not just for Adri, but for Portia, perhaps even for all of the Free Cities.

"I understand that it's probably a lot to ask of you, especially when you're already dealing with so much," Arlo said. "But, unfortunately, it's a necessary evil, to keep you safe. At least for now."

Adri sighed, running a hand through their long curls. "I know, I know... I'm just having a hard time understanding why you're going through the trouble of doing all of... this in the first place." They gestured vaguely around at the house. "What do you get out of protecting me?"

Arlo blinked, looking visibly confused. "What... do you mean...?"

Adri gave him an incredulous look. "Seriously...? C'mon, man. There are obviously people out there who'd stand to benefit a great deal by me being here, whether, like, academically or monetarily or whatever. ...So what's stopping you from just handing me over to some science lab? Or the government? Why even concern yourselves at all with what happens to me? What am I to you?"

They folded their arms over their knees and looked sullenly out the cracked pane of the window. The cynicism in their voice had left Arlo stunned. He stared, his expression wavering between shock and disbelief before it finally settled on pity.

"You're someone who deserves to live," he said, his voice saddened. "Even if you... believe otherwise."

Adri sighed again, heavily, their gaze still fixed out the window. Silhouetted by the light outside, their face appeared even more tired and weary than before.

"I'm just some random idiot you found in the ice," they mumbled into their knees, hugging them tighter. "You can tell Gale I'll play along with the Builder shit eventually. Right now, I... just want to be left alone."

Arlo nodded; he knew a hint when he heard one. "Okay," he said, patiently, standing up from the bed, and he turned to leave. Boots thudded across the creaky floor, stopping just before Arlo reached the doorway. He looked over his shoulder.

"Would you... be all right with me coming back tomorrow? To check in on you?" he asked cautiously. "If you'd rather I not, then I understand."

Adri quietly considered this for a moment.

"Yeah... okay."

The Captain gave a confirmatory nod. "I'll see you tomorrow, then," he said, gripping the door's handle. After a beat, he added, "and, uh, I'll make sure not to let the blue-haired bozo tag along this time."

At this, the faintest of smirks flashed across Adri's face as they let out an amused chuff, the closest thing to a genuine laugh Arlo had yet heard from them--and he was more than happy with that. He smiled, said goodbye, and left.

He went to sleep that night feeling... strangely optimistic.

#my time at portia #mtap #mtap arlo #mtap merlin #arlo x builder #nb!Builder #builder!self #arlo x adri #arlo x nb!Builder #arlo x builder!self #self ship #some angst #fluff on the bottom #selfshipping #fictional other #italics abuse #ellipses abuse #cw swearing #cw misgendering

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moongothic · 4 months

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Question, why do you dislike the haki detransition theory for Crocodile? I think it would be interesting to see how he worked around not using haki and what kind of techniques he cooked up that way. Or maybe he only has to avoid using a certain type of haki?

It's less about the theory itself and more the potential story scenarios the theory could lead to that I dislike

Because if it was revealed in the story that Crocodile could use Haki but has actively been choosing not to because it would detransition him, then it could very likely lead to a scenario where Crocodile is forced to use Haki for some reason or another, thus he'd end up detransitioned. And I personally don't want to see that. I don't want to see Crocodile detransitioned against his will, nor put into a situation where he has to sacrifice his own comfort for any reason.

Like I don't know how to really explain it... For me it'd just rub me the wrong way the same way when ablebodied people celebrate it when disabled people in wheelchairs force themselves up to walk (say, to walk down the aisle) as if putting themselves into excruciating pain for a moment to appear """normal""" was a good thing Like obviously these are not the same thing and not actually comparable, I just can't think of anything else to compare it to explain why I don't want to see Croc detransitioned.

'Cause I can imagine, if Crocodile was forced to use Haki to, say, protect Luffy or some shit, there would be so many cishets who would celebrate it and treat it like it was a good thing. There'd be so many people saying shit like "Crocomom reveals her true form to heroicly save Luffy" or some shit (just going 1000% on the misgendering), and people would treat that kind of scene "a beautiful moment" instead of something that would (/should) be painful, humiliating and deeply uncomfortable for Crocodile. And I would fucking hate that. I would hate all of that so much. Not to mention, a scene like that could easily end up becoming the most memorable Crocodile moment in the series, and I don't want the trans man to end up being remembered as a woman. Not to mention Crocodile would then be STUCK detransitioned. Like the only way to retransition would be if he got another HRT shot from Ivankov, and between Iva-chan being on the other side of the Red Line (aka not accessible as of now), and them having zero obligation to help Sir Mass Murdering War Criminal retransition. Yeah. I don't want to watch him get humiliated and mocked for being trans. And the likelyhood he could be is absolutely mortifying.

And I know. Yes, even if the theory was true, it doesn't mean Crocodile would have to end up detransitioned in the story, it could just be there to explain why he can't use Haki and be left at that. I will argue that if you were going to make a plot point out of it, then it would be pointless if there weren't concequences for it. Like, it should lead to something. That's Writing 101. And the only other option then would be Crocodile refusing to use Haki for something and dying. Or him allowing someone else to end up hurt and/or die because he wouldn't be willing to sacrifice his comfort for their sake. Needless to say, both moves would end up being demonized to hell and back. The former for "being stupid and weak", the latter for being "selfish and evil". There would be no winning here. So in other words; Crocodile staying transitioned would end up as a selfish/evil action that would be looked down upon, while if he stopped being trans, that would be seen as a good thing to be celebrated. Need I explain why this would be fucked up.

So again, it's less the theory itself. It's where the theory could lead to (the Turbo Transphobia) that I dislike.

And the best way to avoid those horrible scenarios would be if the theory that allows them wasn't actually canon. If Crocodile can't be detransitioned permanently (without Iva-chan), then there's nothing to worry about.

#Moon posting #OP Meta #Sir Crocodile #CW Discussions of transphobia #CW Misgendering #Not a particularly long post. Figured the subject matter could be upsetting enough for people to read so. Read More be upon ye #Also yes. Technically if Crocodile did sacrifice his gender affirmation to save someone else- that would be a ''heroic sacrifice''#T e c h n i c a l l y #But ***I don't want him to have to sacrifice that***#For the record yes Doc Q could use his Becoming A Woman Disease on Crocodile etc #That shit just wouldn't be *permanent*. Anybody could use Haki and that would be resolved #Then there's other shit like powerscaling and how some DF abilities are supposed to be non-reversible even with Haki #So it'd make no sense to me if Iva-chan's HRT was reversible with Haki #But I've posted about those things before

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