love-lace-and-everything-ace - Tumblr blog

[love-lace-and-everything-ace]

Hey friends, have you taken your medication? 💖

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Honestly, the amount of assumptions that other trans people make about trans people's bodies based on whether they're transmasc or transfem is a large part of why I don't identify with those terms currently. I don't want people to make assumptions about my body and how it functions, my birth sex, how I was socially raised, my lived experiences, or anything else based on what gender identity I currently identify with. I remember a time when the trans community felt very united on the idea that nobody ever needs to know what's in your pants, and that it's fucking weird to ask - but nowdays, with all the discourse surrounding labels, it feels like everyone is much too comfortable pressing for details about what genitals you were born with and what your original birth certificate says.

Another part of it is, as an intersex person, I feel completely excluded from these terms. Every definition, every discourse, every discussion of transfemininity and transmasculinity is completely perisex-centered. It feels like there's no place for me at all with regards to these terms, and it makes me feel like I can't really use either label, even though sometimes I wish to. Even when intersex people are brought up, it always turns into debates about how close an intersex person has to be to a binary sex to be able to appropriately claim transfemininity or transmasculinity; we are still being violently forced into perisex ideas of transness for the sake of upholding a binary.

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Caption: [A stitch with user @/sapphicyuji. The text on screen reads, " "you can't misgender cis people!", you have never had your gender questioned outside of your transness and it shows. sincerely, a trans poc".

I'm actually super glad we're having a conversation about this. The masculinization of black and brown women, because for years I felt like I endured this unique form of trauma until I realized other people went through the same thing too. And if there's one thing that I'd like to add to the conversation, there seems to be this misconception that this is something that starts at puberty. Like boys tell you you look like a man to hurt your feeling when that's so far from the case.

The first time I was purposefully misgendered was in kindergarten. I was constantly referred to by the masculine variant of my name, I was chased out of the women's restroom, and I had grown adults questioning what my biological sex was before I even knew what the difference was. And those behaviors persisted into adulthood because now if I present as anything less than 100% feminine, people will either compare me to men or animals.

And for myself and for many other brown and black women this is a life long act deliberately intended to humiliate, shame, and other us for the features we were naturally born with and I'm glad we're having a discussion on how harmful it actually is.]

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Fat men

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“I inherited my moms anger” “i inherited my dads coldness” well i inherited my grandmas spooky glowing red skull amulet and my towns has seen nothing but locusts swarms and floods since

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No. 8

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Mono people completely unprompted: "I've never seen an attractive polyamorous person, I hate them, they're so gross, they're just cheaters, why do they all look like that, poly relationships never last, they're ugly and gross, they just want an excuse to cheat, they're emotionally immature, have I mentioned how ugly I think they are?"

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a hypothetical d&d party

The bard is mute.

It’s not the first thing people notice about her, usually.  The first thing is generally that she’s young, and female, and lovely–the first thing people notice about their entire party is that they’re all young, and female, and lovely, and that’s gotten more than one would-be thief or mugger in far over their head when they haven’t noticed the the paladin’s hammer or the ranger’s axe.  It comes up rather quickly though, often enough.  Whoever heard of a bard who can’t sing?

She plays a lute, mostly, or a lap-harp made of shell and sinew, string instruments she can pluck while she smiles in secret and watches everyone around her.  She dances quick, except when she’s tired, when she’s scared, when she forgets to remember the feet at the ends of her legs.

She doesn’t tell her story to strangers, but enough of the other girls have learned to sign by now, and it’s easy enough to sketch out the outlines of the old bargain: the voice, the prince, the witch, the thousand shards of glass she walked upon on her way up the beach, the look in her sea-green eyes when they travel too near water.  The thousand shards of glass she walked upon when she left the palace, and turned back towards the sea to throw herself upon the rocks, and then made her way up the road inland, and kept walking.

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The warlock is beautiful and mild and self-effacing and shy, is tidy and generous and charming.  She’s small with herself in exactly the right way to shout abuse to the half of her party who knows how to recognize that same look in the mirror in the morning.  The bird on her shoulder is too small, too bright, too sweet for a real warlock’s familiar.  The knife at her belt is sharp enough for anything that needs doing, though, cooking or otherwise.

Her fae patron visits sometimes, in the quiet hours between dusk and midnight, a sweetly old godmother made of moonlight and shadow.  She’s kind to the whole lot of them in her own chaotic way, free-handed with transmutations and illusions that break halfway through the evening, for better or worse.  She once spent three hours around their campfire drinking brandy and gossipping outrageously about the Feywild and teasing the wizard into fits of laughter.

She’s never told the story of how she met the warlock’s mother, or what debt was owed there, and the warlock doesn’t know herself.  It was never meant to be a debt paid in power and violence and the deft will-sapping enchantments the warlock weaves now, but, well.  The prince wasn’t meant to be cruel, the warlock says.  The palace was meant to be warmer than the fireplace cinders in her stepmother’s house.  The faerie was meant to be saving her from her lot, not throwing her into something worse.  The power’s an apology of sorts.

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The wizard is awkward and joyful and nervous.  She has no fear of heights or small places, which just stands to be expected, she says, after all those years in that little tower, and she’s got no skill at lying or even edging around the truth at all, which is why she isn’t in the tower any more in the first place.  She says too much or too little or the wrong thing entirely, always, but the most well-socialized member of the whole party is the ranger who walks around with a dire wolf at her hip, or maybe their mute bard, so who are any of them to judge.

There was nothing to do in that tower but read, and brush her hair, and sort through the witch’s endless stockpile of dried herbs and potions ingredients, and watch out the window as woodcutters and hunters and princes rode by, and dream.  The reading was more interesting than the dreaming, most of the time, and the witch didn’t mind it as much when she talked about it.  She never bothered to actually use any of the magic in the witch’s books until the thing with the prince and the haircut and the desert, which she’s told them all about in all the detail they could ever ask for, but most of the girls get uncomfortable when she starts talking about princes.  It’s a little easier if she just starts rambling about conjuration and abjuration and illusion theory, about the 400-year-old history of a city that doesn’t exist any more, about the proper grammatical structure of Celestial, until maybe one of the quiet ones finally answers back.

Her hair is too short.  She keeps an illusion up over it whenever she can, while it grows back slowly, tickling the side of her face and the back of her neck and leaving her head too light and unbalanced.  

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The ranger doesn’t care about princes, which makes one of them at least.  Then again, the ranger doesn’t trust anyone, really, prince or no, not wolves or monsters or the men who kill them.  She more or less trusts the rest of them by now, mostly, when the wind blows in the right direction.

She wears bright red in the middle of the woods and it shouldn’t help her slip into the shadows half as easily as it does, but most beasts can’t see color and red’s just another shade of gray if the light’s low enough.  She never uses her axe against trees.  She doesn’t need to.  She can find a path through any brush without it.  She picks flowers when she finds them, and tucks them into the other girls’ hair.

Her wolf’s mother killed the man who taught her to use the axe, and the man who taught her to use the axe killed that wolf’s mate before that, and the mate had an old woman’s blood on his teeth when it happened.  The ranger’s blade found the wolf’s mother’s throat.  The ranger’s mother sent her out into the woods in the first place.  It’s not as though anywhere is really safe, cottage or forest, axe or teeth.  One of these days maybe her wolf will turn and go for her in return, and maybe one of these days her axe will be faster and maybe it won’t.  In the mean time, there’s flowers and berries and pastries and enough game to keep everyone sated, for a little while.

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The paladin’s hair is raven black and her skin is chalky as a corpse.  She’s not undead, mostly.  The undead are her job.  She knows that much.

She was sweet, once (they were all sweet, once) but apples are bitter now and so is she, and there’s judgment to lay out in the world.  Her grip on her warhammer’s all wrong–she holds it like a mining hammer, but it hits as hard as it needs to.  Her armor’s all dwarven make, and her shield’s black and red and white like snow.

She was sweet once, and frightened, and when she says it quietly around the campfire in the night when none of them can quite make out the glimmer of understanding on each others’ faces, everyone still nods.  She took a bite of poison and somebody left her a full year in a glass coffin of Gentle Repose, dangling on the edge of the Raven Queen’s domain while all the other newly-arrived dead passed by and faded away.  She woke up to somebody’s lips and hands and skin on her lips and her hands and her skin.  She doesn’t like princes.  She doesn’t like necromancers.

She likes sunlight, and summer, and colors that aren’t black and white and red.  She likes the way the bard grins when she whirls into a dance, and the look in the warlock’s eye when she sets her feet to say no, and the wizard’s laughter on high with a Fly spell, and the ranger’s gentle fingers braiding flowers into everything she can touch.  

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Hi there! I'm Cassian :)

I go by they/them pronouns and I'm asexual (yay !)

On this acc I post about being aspec and I want it to be generally a nice place where you don't have to see posts upon posts about people being horny on main

That being said, I am still alloromantic, but I will always support aromantic people bcs damn people are dicks about it

I might post about my partner sometimes because I love them and they deserve the world, but it won't be a focus here

Watch me talk about sex and kinks in the annoying technical way when I have the energy to write about it

I try my best to keep an open mind so if I start spewing some stupid shit please tell me

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Okay, so, random dump.

I thought I was aro for a while because relationships always felt really weird and I’d always get uncomfortable and leave immediately. But, with help from my best friend and her uncanny ability to annoy and worm her way into the very core of your being I realized that I actually just have massive commitment issues. Having said that, I made a few aro and ace friends, and I learned some things!

First things first: Allonormativity is harmful.

If I want to sleep with someone, I mean I want to sleep beside them, to curl up into a ball and cuddle because I haven’t cuddled anyone to fall asleep in as long as I can remember. My earliest memory is when I was 18 months old. It shouldn’t automatically mean that I wanna fuck.

Pleasure is not inherently erotic. Sometimes, a pleasurable thing has nothing to do with sex or sexual gratification and it’s another it’s always taken that way.

Two people hanging out, and hanging out often, does not mean that two people are dating. My best friend talks to me almost as much as she talks to her beef, and we’re not dating. We were but that’s beside the point. People can be friends- people of any gender can be friends. It’s also totally cool if you don’t want friends ☺️

Sex doesn’t always mean there are romantic feelings involved. FWB is a thing that works for a lot of people, and it’s totally okay to get sexual gratification without romantic commitment. Those same two people might seem to you like they like each other as something different than friends, but they’re friends, and that’s how they’re happy. Mind your beeswax.

And for the love of all things holy (me) who decided that being romantically involved is more than friends? Why is that above it? Why is that a pedestal? It’s fuckin annoying and needs to stop.

Romantic feelings can be shared between more than two people! My other best friend is ambiamorous, and he is more devoted to its boyfriend than any two people ever be devoted to each other. I’m salty about it but it’s fine lols. You don’t always have to find everything you want in one person- and that’s okay, I promise.

Lemme know if I missed anything, I would love to learn more!

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AROMANTICS

IKEA ACCIDENTALLY MADE PRIDE FLAG BLANKET

(Not sponsored or anything just thought it was a neat coincidence!)

:O!

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did you know: you can dislike sex, you can dislike porn, you can dislike publicized sex and sex in culture without being a “slut shamer”

because not everyone who dislikes those things is saying that people should feel guilty/ashamed for liking them or is  actively against people doing things like that its called personal taste and opinions you should check out what those are sometime

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Being ace in fandoms is so awkward sometimes because yeah the allos like the irredeemably evil villain who has murdered countless innocent people and experiments on children because he's conventionally attractive, what's my excuse? I like this guy for his personality. His personality is a burning truck of chemicals without a driver rolling at 220 km/h down the hill towards the daycare.

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"im lovesick" "im lovesick" uhmm you didnt get the love vaccine?? cmon :/

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fascinated by tumblr's new trend of placing a Mature label on every single post that acknowledges, however obliquely, the existence of sex and sex byproducts