Every girl like me I know feels like she was born with an expiration date,
like there’s a number stamped on her forehead that says “26 years old”
that says “six months after the money runs out”
that says “when you can’t do this anymore”
that says “as soon as you work up the courage,”
and I’m one of the lucky ones, because that scares me,
Sometimes I think I have an immigrant’s patriotism for this world,
because it took me 20 years to decide that I wanted to live in it.
Maybe that’s what hope is.
But I don’t know how to say that the greatest poet I know and her girlfriend,
who looks so like me she nearly made my mom faint when she opened the door,
are probably not going to last another year.
So everybody told me to vote for Bernie Sanders.
It’s not enough.
Now people are saying this might be the end times,
but I want to remind them that we have already been living in them,
for as long as I can remember,
and I don’t know why it’s so hard to keep in contact with someone I don’t see,
to reach out across that burden of distance with the uncertain arms of exhaustion,
but I know why it’s hard to reassure somebody,
when all you can say is “I’m scared, too.”
How much money do you give somebody,
when money is the thing you don’t have?
For time, same question.
A trans woman I had never met came into my shop one day and pointed me out to her friend,
she said “you are my sister,”
and I said “yes, I am.”
So when I saw one of my sisters out on the street with a slice of cardboard, I brought her
a bottle of water and all the cash I had in my wallet,
because afterward I couldn’t stop crying for six hours,
and I don’t think anybody asked me why.
Maybe this is why there are so few things that feel important to me anymore.
I said “the only things people like me make are cries for help” and I got
128 reblogs.
Apparently, some people find that relatable.
A lot of people have told me that I’m the most optimistic person they know,
and I don’t tell them that I have to be,
I take it as a compliment.
The thing they don’t tell you about hope is that it’s cyclical,
it needs to be refreshed every single day,
Hope is just like every other kind of work you do on your body.
So what does a story mean, to that?
What can a poem mean, to that?
I abhor maintenance.
I don’t want to have to say anything anymore,
I want to walk to the place where all my words are done,
And build a home there.
It’s not enough.
All your pleas and all your promises, your fights and feats and failures, are not and never will be enough.
Not for us.
This world was not made for us.
So let’s build a better one.
Let’s start right here, right now, just us, not with a kiss or a fist but just
you and me
pledging to not let go
no matter what comes, deciding
even when the love is gone
that we’re not gonna let each other drown anymore.
So I want to offer my hand,
to every girl like me who needs it,
and walk with you into a place beyond these empires,
a place that doesn’t exist yet.
And that,
I hope,
is enough.
Because that’s…everything.
That was something a lot of people who knew him as a child seemed to dispute, for some reason or another, but it was simple as that. He did not have a sad childhood.
He didn’t remember much from his early life- he remembered his mother putting him on stages in little dresses and having him dance for her friends, he remembered her lavishing him with praise and affection, giving him anything he wanted, propping him up like a doll and letting everyone pet him and coo over him. He loved it- of course he did, what kind of child didn’t love being treated like a princess?
But then things began to change. He didn’t lose any of his baby fat, didn’t get slimmer. In fact, as he got older, he just got bigger and bigger. Obviously, no one else minded- a fat dwarf was a healthy dwarf- but his mother started to complain. She stopped showing him off, stopped parading him around. She’d put him on diets and workout regimens, talk about how he was starting to look more like a hill dwarf than a mountain dwarf, talk about how he needed some muscle underneath all that padding.
His father never said anything. He was complacent in all of it, a sort of dull, dry, resignation to everything he said. When Brontel ran to him crying because his mother called him a pig for eating too much, he would sigh and run a hand over his braided beard and tell him to grow up.
And then Brontel and his mother started to fight.
Mostly verbal arguments, but they’d often dissolve into his mother bashing at his ear, or folding him over a table to spank him until he stopped talking, or locking him in his room for whole days at a time with no food or water. They’d be over little things too- him wanting a cookie with dinner, her insisting he didn’t need the fattening, or him wanting to visit his Aunt, a tiefling, her insisting he was already strange enough.
That was something Brontel never understood about his mother. She couldn’t stand the tourists, or even the dwarvish immigrants. She complained incessantly about hill dwarves and even mountain dwarf adventurers, and insisted that anyone who chose to leave their city, to mingle with humans and elves, was clearly out of their mind.
For someone who hated elves as much as she did, Brontel always thought it was strange how much she loved elven clothes.
That, at least, was something they could agree on. The elven silks and carefully woven patterns that the adventurers wore were stunning, and some of Brontel’s favorite moments were spent sitting in the square with his mother, watching the high elves swirl from booth to booth. Sometimes his mother would scoff and make snide comments about the adventurers, but oftentimes she just sat in silence, only speaking to point out a dress or a tunic she thought Brontel would like.
So, no, Brontel did not have a bad life. Even with the arguments, even with the constant shame and embarrassment, his mother was not cruel. She’d buy him things, and they’d go out for lunch, and they would laugh together.
He had a younger cousin on his father’s side, Gortimer, a half dwarf, half orc, who his mother forbade him from seeing. Of course, he did anyway, visiting her any time he could and talking to her about everything, up until his mother heard about it and threatened to never let him leave the house without her present. Then and only then, he stopped.
When he was twenty-five, she started throwing parties. It was mostly for friends and family, but every once in a while, some stranger would find their way in, and she’d spend the evening by Brontel’s ear, picking them apart. Brontel didn’t mind- it was amusing, and he himself was not immune to gossip.
And then, one day, at a party, when Brontel was 34, still so young in dwarf years, he met Expen. Expen was one of those strangers who found their way in, and, to Brontel’s mother’s disgust, she was half elf, half dwarf.
And she was beautiful.
She had the height and beard of a dwarf, but with the ears and face of an elf. She was lean and muscular, and had a little scar on her eyebrow.
Brontel smuggled her up to his bedroom, where they spent the night silencing themselves for fear of Brontel’s mother hearing. The next morning, Expen snuck out a window, and Brontel never saw her again.
That was not the last time Brontel snuck off with the strangers of the party. Some were older than him, sometimes by a lot. Some were dwarven, some were not. Perhaps it was an act of rebellion, perhaps it was just a desperate plea to get the attention his mother no longer gave him from anyone who he could get it from. Either way, every single person he propositioned agreed passionately, and, slowly, Brontel came to realize a few things.
First, he was desirable. Clearly, everyone wanted him. He was well proportioned, despite what his mother said, and he had really nice hair and shining eyes. He was beautiful.
Secondly, he still cared what his mother thought. He couldn’t bear to let her even know he was talking to these strangers, much less taking them to bed.
And lastly, his father was right. He needed to grow up. Dwarves reach maturity at 50. Brontel decided he was mature at 40. He certainly looked like a proper adult, and no one would argue with him if he said he was.
When he was 43, he met Liren.
Liren was yet another stranger, yet another handsome face- full mountain dwarf, for once- but this time, he insisted on sneaking out with Brontel, taking him down to his apartment in the poorer side of town, which he shared with his younger brother.
The next morning, when Brontel stepped out of the bedroom to get breakfast, he came face to face with that brother.
It was love at first sight, he’d say later.
He was wearing a bonnet, his crooked, splotchy, pimpled face set in a scowl, wearing a baggy tunic and loose silk pants, his feet bare against the cold floor. When he saw Brontel, he paused, scowled deeper, and said, “You guys were loud.”
Brontel giggled- he couldn’t help it, he was head over heels, and everything he could have said would have been the most charming thing in the world.
Onim was two years older, he discovered, and him and Liren were from another city- Luurianrogh, around a hundred miles away. They’d moved here to be closer to their aging adventurer parents, and set up their own lives- Liren as a stone cutter, Onim as a jeweler.
Brontel kept visiting. Liren was kind, and took pity on the younger boy, letting him hang around their apartment all he wanted in a desperate attempt to stay closer to Onim.
Onim didn’t care about Brontel, it was pretty clear, and that was something that ate Brontel alive. He needed to be seen, be praised, be appreciated, and Onim didn’t do that for him. He would visit Onim’s little jewelry store to preen over the necklaces, putting them on and trying to get Onim to give him a compliment. It never worked.
And then one day, when he was 51, after nearly a decade of failing to win Onim over, he walked in on Onim laying on the floor of the living room, staring at the ceiling.
“Hey cutie, whatcha doin’ down there?” Brontel asked, curiously.
“I’m trying to decide something.”
“What?”
“If I’m going crazy.”
“Oh,” Brontel sat down on a chair, leaning over so his head was in Onim’s way. The man’s dark brown eyes landed on him, and he thought the pupils expanded ever so slightly. He wasn’t sure what that meant. “Well, lay it on me.”
“I think I’m in love with someone, but they’re the most irritating person I know, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
Brontel squealed. “Oh! Oh my god, you’re in love?! Who is it, is it someone I know?”
“You could say that.”
“Is it a shop regular?”
“Yes.”
Brontel giggled, excitedly. As much as he loved Onim, he loved gossip ever so slightly more. “Oh my god, you should ask them out, duh!”
“I don’t know about that,” Onim said, rolling over and pushing himself up on his elbows, peering up at Brontel. “Like I said, they’re the worst person I know.”
“But you love them?”
“...Yeah, I guess I do.”
“So, walk up to them, kiss them dramatically, and announce your love.”
“Really?”
“Really really.”
“In that order?”
“Of course!” Brontel clapped. “That’s how it’s done.”
Onim hummed, before standing up. He towered over Brontel, now that he was standing, so Brontel stood too. For a second, they stared at each other, Brontel smiling, Onim scowling contemplatively.
“Well? What’re you waiting for?” Brontel nodded at the door. “Go get them.”
And then Onim surged forward, grabbed Brontel’s face, and pulled him into a kiss.
Onim still didn’t show Brontel quite the affection he craved, even while they dated, and it wasn’t until Brontel begged him for it that he asked why he wanted it so badly.
And that’s when Brontel told him about his youth, about being dressed up and paraded around, about his mother’s harsh punishments, about sneaking off with strangers. He even explained his conception, how it was an attempt for his mother to get his father’s attention. His whole purpose in this world was to be praised and loved and cherished, and if he didn’t have that, he had nothing.
Onim stared at him for a long time, a sad look in his eyes, and then he nodded. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
Brontel never quite figured out what he’d meant by that. None of what had happened was anyone’s fault but Brontel’s. None of it happened to him, it just happened. Life happened. That was how it was. And it wasn't even all that bad, either, it's not like he was ever scared for his life, or even uncomfortable for more than a day.
At least Onim finally started paying attention to him. He’d pull him into his lap while they cuddled, and would compliment him and praise him for the little things.
And Brontel got worse.
Suddenly, not having Onim around felt like a suffocating emptiness, felt like he’d die without Onim’s hand in his. When he went home from Onim’s place, his house felt too big and too cold and too empty, not having praise at every second made him feel worthless.
So he introduced him to his parents.
His father seemed to like him, calling him a smart young man, and his mother was at least polite- at least up until Onim mentioned being an immigrant. Suddenly she was cold, distant, and when Onim left she grabbed Brontel by the hair and dragged him to his room.
“Never marry a wanderer,” She spat. “Or you’ll be just another thing they leave.”
A decade later, Brontel and Onim stood at an altar while her seat sat empty in the congregation.
Life with Onim was easier that anything Brontel could have imagined. He was smart and kind and courteous and took care of Brontel, and most importantly, he never had to fight for compliments or praise. It came as easily as breathing to the other man, he thought.
Before he met Onim, Brontel felt vain, felt that all his pride was undeserved. Now, though, he knew it was all correct. He was really as beautiful as Onim said, was really as smart and strong and wonderful.
They lived in an apartment over the tailor shop that Brontel worked in, and would eventually own, and every night, they'd hold each other and whisper plans for the future.
There were little bumps in the road, like when someone asked for Brontel’s pronouns and he froze like a deer in the headlights until Onim stepped in and told them. And he was right, of course, Brontel used he/him. So why was he disappointed to hear it? He never told Onim about this, and he never hesitated again.
There was an ever present emptiness, though, a sort of lingering question he didn't know the answer to.
And then The Revelation happened.
Another thing about Brontel was that every once in a while he’d have a conviction- something he believed with his whole heart to be true, only to years later look back and realize it was ridiculous. As a small child, he believed his neighbors would watch him change, no matter where he was or whether his curtains were drawn. As a young adult, he believed for a period that he was unkillable. After him and Onim got married, he didn’t really have one of these episodes for a while.
And then, one day, someone brought in a silk gown to his tailor shop.
It was beautiful, beautiful in a way nothing else he’d ever seen was beautiful.
Rion, the tiefling who brought it in, told him they’d gotten it from a trader who described a land of True Beauty.
And just like that, Brontel had a mission.
The Revelation was not a conviction. It was not a misguided belief in something made up. It was real.
It’s not like he hadn’t thought of going on adventures, it’s not like he hadn’t fantasized about traveling the world, but this was something else. He had to find True Beauty and bring it home.
Onim gave him all the jewelry he had, to sell on the road, and then, late one night, almost morning, Brontel left.
He traveled with Rion’s group, and then a group led by a man named Pavis, and then another, and then another. He learned to fight, learned to survive, and through it all, he wrote letters every single day, and kept his wedding ring on a chain around his neck.
He gained weight, his hair and beard got longer, he got a slight limp. It was hard to live without Onim's compliments, especially on the road where he couldn't get letters, but he made do with flirting with strangers until they fed him praise, and then he'd move on.
Adventure didn't fill the void, didn't fix things, but it helped distract him.
And then he met the last party, and something told him he was even closer to Beauty, he was almost there.
It was in Maya’s hair, so soft and long and shiny, and Sunny’s eyes, all fierce and kind and passionate, and Tearn’s stance, all proud and regal.
Even when he got scarred, and Tearn abandoned them, and Sunny’s little boytoy started to get irritating, Brontel could feel in the pit of his stomach that they were getting there, that they were figuring it out, that any second now, he’d find True Beauty.
When Maya was caught in the barn, for a second, he forgot about it. For a second, he didn't care about his own safety, about Beauty, about anything. All he wanted was to get her out.
At dinner that night, he kept glancing at her, as if expecting her to go transparent, like Saphra, or disappear altogether. She didn't. She was still there.
That was something he realized a bit late- he did really like Maya. She was new, nothing like any adventurer he'd come by before. Secretly, Brontel wished he was more like her, in ways he couldn't quite put his finger on.
And it's not that he didn't also like Sunny- he found the tiefling fascinating and wild, an exciting change from anything before, but Maya was different in some strange way.
(Brontel wasn't sure what it was until later. The word he was looking for was envy.)
That first night in the canyon, he had a dream- yet another one he’d never remember.
All he remembered was that in his dream, he was a woman, and she was with Onim and his party, all together, and True Beauty didn’t exist. And she was happy- happier than he’d ever been. And then he woke up.
For a moment, he stared at the sky, at the budding daylight, and then abruptly, he realized what the hole was. He realized what he'd been missing.
today may be a weird day for this bc i'm HOPING there won't be much of a trash fire in the tag, comparatively, but if discourse, neg, or server happenings get you stressed, pro tip!! THAT MEANS IT'S DUOLINGO TIME!!!!! channel your gamer rage and viewer stress into SICK NASTY LANGUAGE LEARNING
ugh seeing dsmp fans next to literal nazis in dnis pisses me off. I am not. Evil. For the Minecraft Youtube series I watched. These people don’t even know enough about it to know that it’s dream fans that are the ones they want in their dni, they’re only doing this because of the things they’ve heard about it.
Which. Are mostly true but they’re majorly overgeneralizing millions of people who watch any combination of over 30 people just cause one guy and his close friends are dickheads.
I’m so tired of this. I’m not a doxxer. I’m not a groomer apologist. I’m not a victim blaming abuse apologist. I watched a couple kids play Minecraft 2 years ago and it became my whole personality and yeah I’m a little annoying but I don’t deserve to go next to nazis and terfs in your dni any more than any autistic kid with a special interest does.
I’m going to close this out with what you all mean when you say dsmp fans, because that can mean any one of the insane amount of creators on that server, including Vikkstar, lil naz x, corpse, and Mr beast. Okay okay but Eryn fans don’t deserve this shit and seepeakay fans don’t deserve this shit, and techno fans don’t deserve this shit. There’s just one bitch that ruined this for everyone.
Send me an ask with a symbol + Name to find out more about my troll characters! Feel free to reblog this as well if you like the questions.
🌅- Do you have a certain routine for starting your night?
👽- What is your stance on aliens? Should they be treated just like mutants?
🌞- Have you ever gone out or gotten caught out of your hive during daylight? What happened?
💀- Are you strong enough to face shadow droppers on your own if faced with them?
🛌- Do you sleep in a recuperacoon or do you rest in other accommodations?
🤳- Do you use trollian? If so, what is your handle? If not, do you use any messaging system?
💅- Do you have time or resources for self care or small luxuries?
🌌- Have you ever wanted to travel intergalactically? What would you look for in a place to visit off planet?
🍳- What sort of cuisine do you normally eat? Are you openly okay with items labelled only as grubsauce or grubloaf?
🚌- How do you normally get around/travel? Would they ever be able to afford their own scuttlebuggy?
🌃- Do you prefer to live in a rural area or more populated places with communal hive stems?
🎭- How do you access entertainment? What is available to you to do for fun?
🩺- How do you access healthcare? Do you have access to doctors or do you have to rely on other forms of medicine?
🔮- Do you believe those who claim to be gifted with the ability to see ghosts or talk to lusii telepathically? Or do you think they are lying?
🧿- Do you believe in horrorterrors? Or do you believe they're just scary stories?
🤖- How do you feel about drones? Do you try to avoid them when they come around?
♥️- Do you think that pity should still be considered the normal feelings for a red or would you say love is a more common practice to look for in a mate?
♦️- Do you think it's dangerous for lowvbloods to be pale with highbloods?
♣️- Do you have any interest in an ashen, or do you see it as obsolete in current day?
♠️- Do you think pitches should only be based on hate, or do you believe they should also be based on a strong rivalry as well?
🔱- How different do you think Alternia would be if the planet wasnt ruled as a tyranny? Would it be better or worse?
🪦- Do you believe everyone should be given a proper burial or is it a waste of time to have gravediggers?
🪖- How do you feel about the ever looming threat of being put into the fleet if called upon by the empress to do so?
⚖️- Do you believe the justice system works, or do you feel justice has to be taken into your own hands?
🃏- What are your thoughts on organized religion?
🎄- Do you celebrate holidays of any sort? If so, what ones?
🐚- Are you afraid of the beach or ocean? If so, what reasons?
🐾- What is your lusus like? Are/were they around often or do/did they normally leave you all by yourself?
🔥- Have you ever done something (outside of murder) that most likely should be considered a criminal act, but either wasn't or was just swept under the rug due to your status?
