#Solidarity Knows No Borders | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

astrxq · 2 months ago

Text

jacaerys velaryon x wife!reader — prompt list 9.3.8 and 9.3.9 from my autumn party!

words: 3.4k

notes: “When their partner comes from a hunt, all injured, with a smile because they won. But they are not happy, because what the actual heck?” and “I told you not to go, love! Now look what happened!” requested

You stood by the window, watching the dragon keepers below as they readied the dragons for flight, their movements precise and practiced. The sky was clear, the wind gentle – the perfect day for a hunt. Yet, even as you stood there, excitement buzzing beneath your skin, you felt the tension simmering in the room behind you.

"I don't want you to go," Jacaerys' voice broke through the quiet, soft yet firm, as though he had repeated the words more than once.

You turned from the window to face him, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a mix of concern and frustration. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stood near the hearth, arms crossed over his chest. The firelight flickered across his face, accentuating the strong lines of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze.

"You've made your point," you said calmly, moving closer to him. "But I've made mine. This is important, Jace."

He shook his head, letting out a low sigh as he turned away from the fire to face you fully. "No alliance is worth your safety. You know that as well as I do."

His protectiveness wasn't new, nor was the tension that seemed to surface every time you discussed something risky. Jacaerys Velaryon, the eldest son of Princess Rhaenyra, was many things – stubborn among them. His sense of duty ran deep, forged in fire and tempered by the weight of his heritage. But so was yours.

"It's not just an alliance," you insisted, taking a step closer to him. The space between you felt charged, the air heavy with unspoken words. "Lord Rosby's support could turn the tide in the Riverlands, and you know that. A show of solidarity, something as simple as attending his hunt, could be enough to sway him."

"And what if something happens to you out there?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes dark with concern. "You think I could live with that? Knowing I could've stopped it?"

You sighed, exasperated, though his concern wasn't unwelcome. You loved Jace for this, for the way he cared so deeply, for the way he always thought of you first. But sometimes, that concern bordered on overprotectiveness, and it gnawed at you, especially when it came to matters like this – matters of duty.

"I'm not a delicate flower, Jace," you said, your tone gentler this time, trying to ease the tension. "I can handle myself. Besides, I'll have guards, riders, and we'll be on the lord's land. It's a hunt, not a battlefield."

Jace's jaw tightened, his gaze unwavering. "A hunt can be just as dangerous, especially for someone with little experience."

The heat rose in your chest at his words. You were no stranger to these kinds of debates, and while you respected Jace's wisdom, it didn't mean you always agreed. "I have experience," you countered, lifting your chin. "More than enough to handle this."

He shook his head again, taking a step forward until the space between you all but disappeared. His hand came up to gently cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a familiar, tender gesture. "I'm not questioning your abilities, love. I just don't want to see you hurt."

The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, softening the edges of your frustration. His dark eyes held yours, full of worry, full of love. It was hard to argue when he looked at you like that, as though you were the most precious thing in his world. And to him, you were.

"I told you not to go," he murmured, quieter now, the words thick with the weight of his worry. "Please. Let someone else handle the hunt."

But there was a fire in you, one that couldn't be easily doused by gentle touches or soft words. You had fought too hard to earn your place in these matters, and you weren't about to let fear – either his or your own – stand in the way. You leaned into his touch, but your resolve didn't waver.

"I need to do this, Jace. For the good of the realm, for us."

He closed his eyes for a moment, his hand slipping from your face as he turned away, running a hand through his dark curls in frustration. "You're as stubborn as a dragon," he muttered, but there was no anger in his voice, only resignation.

You smiled faintly, stepping forward to place your hand on his arm. "You married me knowing that."

A long silence stretched between you, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of the dragons outside. When Jace turned back to you, his expression had hardened, a spark of anger flashing in his eyes.

"And you married me knowing I would protect you," he said, his voice low and intense. "Even if it means protecting you from yourself."

Your own anger flared at his words. "Protect me from myself? I'm not some reckless child, Jace. I'm your wife, your partner. I thought we were equals in this."

"Equals, yes," he said, his voice rising slightly. "But that doesn't mean we can't look out for each other. And right now, I'm telling you this is a mistake."

You took a step back, crossing your arms. "And I'm telling you it's not. I've made my decision, Jace. I'm going on this hunt."

His fists clenched at his sides, frustration evident in every line of his body. "Why can't you see reason? This isn't just about you anymore. We have responsibilities, a future to think about."

"That's exactly why I'm doing this," you countered, your voice sharp. "For our future, for the realm's future. Sometimes that means taking risks."

"Not unnecessary ones," he shot back. "Send someone else. Anyone else."

You shook your head, your resolve strengthening with each passing moment. "No. It has to be me. Lord Rosby needs to see that we're willing to engage personally, not just send envoys."

Jace's eyes flashed dangerously. "And what if something happens to you? Have you thought about what that would do to me? To us?"

His words hit you like a physical blow, and for a moment, you faltered. The pain in his voice was palpable, and you could see the genuine fear behind his anger. You softened slightly, reaching out to touch his arm.

"Jace," you said, your voice gentler now. "I understand your fear. I do. But we can't let it control us. We have responsibilities that extend beyond these walls."

He didn't pull away from your touch, but neither did he relax. "Is it so wrong to want to keep you safe? To protect what we have?"

You could see the battle raging behind Jacaerys’ eyes. His need to protect you clashed with the reality that you were not someone who needed constant safeguarding. You weren’t just his wife; you were his equal, capable of holding your own in the political landscape that surrounded you both.

His hand moved to grip your fingers, his touch firm but trembling slightly. “It’s not wrong, Jace,” you murmured, your voice softening as you stepped closer. “But you can’t protect me from everything. I can’t stay hidden in this keep, waiting for the world to turn without me. We both have to face the dangers that come with our duties.”

He exhaled sharply, his brow furrowing as he searched your face, looking for something – perhaps an argument strong enough to sway you, or maybe the comfort that you would be safe. But you saw the resignation there too, the deep understanding that no matter how much he wanted to wrap you in his protection, you wouldn’t let fear guide your choices.

The room was thick with tension, and the air between you hummed with the weight of your words. You didn’t want to fight with him, didn’t want this to be a rift between you. But it was clear that Jace’s concern wasn’t something that could be easily placated. He would carry it with him, just as you carried your own burdens.

“I do not wish for your hurt,” he whispered, and the vulnerability in his voice tugged at your heart.

Your fingers tightened around his.

There was a long, quiet moment where you both stood, the fire crackling softly in the background, casting shadows across the stone walls. Jacaerys looked down at your entwined hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly, as though trying to memorize the feel of your skin beneath his.

Finally, he nodded, though the tension never fully left his expression. “If you must go, promise me you’ll be careful. Stay with the guards. Don’t take unnecessary risks.” His voice cracked slightly at the end, betraying the fear he still carried.

You smiled, lifting a hand to cup his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I promise.”

Jace leaned into your touch, closing his eyes briefly as though seeking solace in the warmth of your hand. Then, with a deep breath, he opened his eyes and straightened, his hand slipping to the small of your back as he pulled you close. His forehead rested against yours, and for a brief moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you – no titles, no duties, no looming threats – just the love you shared, solid and unwavering.

* * *

You burst through the doors, breathless and triumphant, your heart still racing from the thrill of the hunt. A wide smile spread across your face as you hurried towards Jace, eager to share your victory. The hunt had been more successful than you’d hoped – an impressive stag taken down, Lord Rosby clearly impressed by your skill.

But before you could even utter a word, Jace's face shifted, the joy he might have felt clouded by something darker. His eyes, usually warm when they landed on you, were now hard, focused on something beyond the excitement in your expression.

"Gods," he breathed, his voice tight with alarm as he crossed the room in quick strides. "You're hurt."

You blinked, the rush of the day suddenly shifting under his worried gaze. “What?” The confusion in your voice was evident. But then you followed his eyes down to your gown, and reality hit you like a cold wind. Your dress, once a rich shade of deep burgundy, was now stained with dark, drying blood. You reached up instinctively, fingers grazing your cheek, where the sharp sting of a gash reminded you of the near-miss you'd had in the thick of the hunt.

"It’s nothing," you said, waving it off, but the concern etched in Jace’s expression deepened. He was already close, his hands hovering over you as if unsure where to touch without causing you more pain.

"Nothing?" he echoed, incredulous, his fingers gently brushing over the fresh cuts on your face. His touch was featherlight, but the worry in his eyes felt heavy, like a storm gathering just beneath the surface. "You’re bleeding. Your gown–" His voice faltered as his gaze flicked down again, a muscle in his jaw tightening.

“I’m fine, Jace,” you assured him, even as the adrenaline started to wear off and the dull ache of the wounds made itself known. “The hunt was a success. Lord Rosby–”

“Damn Rosby!” His words came out sharper than intended, the flare of his anger catching you both by surprise. He took a breath, his grip tightening on your arms as if to ground himself. His dark eyes searched yours, the fear lurking there impossible to miss. “I told you not to go. I begged you.”

The guilt hit you harder than the pain of the wounds ever could. You’d promised him, but in the heat of the moment, in your determination to prove yourself, you’d taken risks. “It wasn’t as bad as it looks,” you murmured, trying to soothe him, though you knew the words would do little to calm the storm brewing inside him.

Jace’s hands cupped your face now, careful to avoid the cuts, his touch as gentle as ever, despite the frustration simmering beneath. His brow furrowed, and he shook his head, his voice low, almost trembling.

“I told you not to go, love” his voice low and sharp as he reached for you, his hands hovering over your injury as though he didn’t know whether to touch you or pull away. “Now look what’s happened.”

You winced slightly, more from the weight of his worry than the actual pain. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” you tried to assure him, though your voice wavered.

Jace’s eyes flashed with frustration. “Not as bad as it looks? You’re bleeding.”

“I won,” you said, a weak attempt at lightening the mood, but the smile you offered didn’t quite reach your eyes.

He didn’t smile back.

“What were you thinking?” His voice cracked, full of fear and anger and everything in between. “I told you – begged you – not to go. And now you’re hurt.”

His hands finally found your shoulders, gripping you gently as he studied your face, his gaze softening just enough to reveal the fear lurking beneath his anger.

His hands trembled as they rested on your shoulders, the weight of his frustration pressing down on both of you. Jace's eyes, usually so full of warmth, flickered with something sharper now, his anger held tight beneath the surface. His grip was gentle but firm, his touch like an anchor, tethering you to this moment and everything unsaid between you.

"You promised you'd be careful," he whispered, his voice barely louder than the crackle of the fire, though it carried the weight of his emotions. His gaze never left yours, dark and intense, as though he was searching for some explanation that could soothe the storm raging inside him. "And now you're standing here, bleeding, trying to tell me it's fine."

The guilt clawed at you, sharp and unrelenting. You had been so focused on the hunt, on proving your worth, that you hadn’t fully considered what it would do to him if something went wrong. You tried to offer a soft smile, hoping it might ease his worry, but Jace wasn’t ready to let go of his anger just yet.

Before you could say anything, he was already moving, leading you towards the bed, his movements brisk but careful. He gestured for you to sit, then grabbed a cloth from the basin near the hearth, dipping it into the cool water. His hands were steady as he wrung it out, though you could see the tension in his shoulders, the set of his jaw.

Jace's touch softened as he continued to clean the wounds, the cloth gentle against your skin. He worked in silence, the steady rhythm of his hands soothing despite the sting of the cold water. Every movement was careful, his brow furrowed in concentration as he wiped away the blood, dabbing at each cut with an almost reverent tenderness.

His fingers brushed against your temple, where a small gash marred your skin, and you winced slightly, though more from the look in his eyes than the actual pain. Jace’s gaze flickered up to meet yours, concern flashing across his face as if apologizing for causing you discomfort.

“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath, his thumb brushing along the edge of the wound. The cool cloth followed, gentle and precise, as if he could erase the injury with a single stroke.

You shook your head, your lips curving into a small smile despite the ache. “It’s fine. Really. You don’t have to be so careful.”

But Jace just gave you a look – a familiar one, full of that mix of protectiveness and quiet stubbornness that you’d grown to love. “I do,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, as though the weight of his worry needed no louder declaration.

The fire crackled quietly in the hearth, casting warm shadows across the room, but the space between you felt closer, more intimate. His fingers lingered longer now, the cloth abandoned as he gently touched your cheek, tracing the path of a now-cleaned cut with the pad of his thumb. His touch was warm, soft in a way that made your heart ache with affection.

"I hate seeing you hurt," he whispered, his voice thick with the emotion he had been holding back. His dark eyes, always so steady and certain, shimmered now with the vulnerability he rarely let surface. "I can’t stand it."

You reached up and took his hand, your fingers wrapping around his, warm and familiar. “I’m okay,” you murmured, pulling his hand down between you.

He let out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he squeezed your hand. There was a stillness to the moment, a quiet tenderness as you both just sat there, your knees nearly touching, the firelight flickering gently against the stone walls.

Jace’s other hand lifted to cradle your face, his fingers threading through your hair as he rested his forehead against yours. The closeness, the warmth of him surrounding you, made the tension from earlier seem so far away. His breath was soft against your skin, his fingers slipping down to your jaw, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek in that slow, comforting way that made your heart flutter.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly, his voice barely a murmur. "I didn’t mean to lash out earlier. I was just so scared."

You tilted your head slightly, pressing your lips softly against his forehead. “I know. I understand.”

The weight of his fear, the depth of his love, was palpable in the way he held you now, as though he could protect you by sheer force of will. You could feel it in every gentle touch, in the way his hands never left you, in the way his breath hitched when he spoke.

"Just… promise me next time, you’ll be more careful," he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple as his thumb traced your cheek one more time.

“I promise,” you said, leaning into his touch, letting the warmth of him soothe the last of the ache.

For a moment, there was no need for more words. The silence between you was filled with the quiet assurance of your presence, the unspoken comfort of being here, together, in the soft glow of the fire. His hands lingered, tracing over your skin as if committing every inch of you to memory, as if this small moment of peace could stretch on forever.

Jace’s thumb traced the curve of your jaw one last time, lingering as if to memorize the sensation. His breath brushed your skin, warm and unsteady, and for a moment, he was utterly still – caught between his worry and the urge to simply hold you, as if that alone could erase the danger that had come too close today.

Then, slowly, he leaned forward, and the space between you dissolved. His lips found yours in a kiss that was soft, hesitant at first, a tentative brush of affection. But as his hand cradled the back of your neck, threading gently through your hair, the kiss deepened, a quiet promise of his love and fear tangled together. You could feel the weight of his emotions, the unspoken apology for the anger and the silent relief that you were here, in his arms, safe.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his breath came in shallow, quiet gasps. His hand remained against your cheek, fingers soft but firm, as if grounding himself in the closeness of you.

“I’m going to run you a bath,” he murmured, his voice still thick with concern. “You need to rest.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak as the warmth of his words washed over you. There was something comforting in his need to care for you, in the way he was so determined to ease the aches you hadn’t even realized were settling in.

With a gentle kiss to your forehead, Jace stood, moving towards the basin and reaching for a fresh towel. You watched him in the soft light of the fire, his movements deliberate, shoulders still tense but easing as he busied himself with the simple task of preparing the bath.

And for now, that was enough – this quiet, tender moment shared between you, where the world outside could wait.

#luna’s autumn writing #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #prince jacaerys #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #hotd jacaerys #jace targaryen #jace velaryon #harry collett

664 notes · View notes

screamingfromuz · 1 year ago

Note

Hi there! I am reaching out because someone sent me a question about how to help Gazan civilians without accidentally helping Hamas or spreading more hate against Israelis. I honestly feel lost on this myself, but as far as I can tell you are someone who has done real activism in Israel. Do you have suggestions for diaspora Jews who want to help fight for peace?

So a small disclaimer to the Gaza problem. We have 2 main problems with getting aid into Gaza, the first is the limited amount of aid that is allowed in, sending more money cannot make it go in faster. Problem number 2 is that much of the physical aid ends in Hamas's hands or in the black market and there is nothing we can do with that. I have heard recommendations to wait and see who opens a field hospital on the Rafah border crossing, and donate to them. Despite that, here are some charities to help Palestinians both in and out of Gaza.

I will admit, most of my activism is focused on deradicalization on the Israeli side and solidarity work, so I had to ask around for some of those charities. Some of the groups I know of do not currently have an international donation link, so if I get more good ones, I'll make another post.

Gaza:

Medical aid for Palestinians-

Anera-

Doctors without borders-

Palestinians outside of Gaza and Peace movements:

Palestinian red Crescent- they also work in Gaza, but as the main source for Palestinian ambulances in the WB, I put them here.

mistaclim (Looking the occupation the the eye)- this group is helping to protect Palestinians from the illegal settlers

Keshet- this is a big one. they support Bedouin communities in normal times, and now they are working on getting bomb shelters to the unrecognized villages, and providing a mental health first aid line.

standing together- totally biased, as I am a member of this organization.

Women wage peace- a feminist based solidarity group

Haqel- they represents Palestinians in cases related to land ownership and access. there work is still ongoing even during the war

Center for Jewish non Violence - a diaspora org that also does a lot of work in the South Hebron Hills.

#israel #palestine #donation links #ask uz #i/p

1K notes · View notes

fairuzfan · 10 months ago

Note

Hello. I just got in contact with a group in Seattle making "solidarity" art and I wanted to know what that means to you. Is acknowledging the horrors in Gaza the most effective way to make Palestinians feel seen? Or is there more value in incorporating symbols of resilience, like olive trees, watermelons, and spoons?

By acknowledging, I mean create something enraging, like depicting the drastically different living conditions on the Palestinian and Israeli sides of the border wall. Healthy people in open farmland on one side and a warzone on the other. Or is it better to include a little hope? One idea I've been mulling over is painting a Palestinian child and IDF solider in a way that suggests David and Goliath (I found out the most common charge against Palestinian youths is throwing rocks). Another is Gaza as a torn tapestry with Mother Palestine sewing over and repairing the rips with tatreez.

I guess the real question is: Do you think most Palestinians would appreciate an attempt at comfort, or is it better to simply grieve with them?

Thank you so much for sending this in. My personal take is the most inspiring imagery are symbols of resistance. For example, this poster is embedded in many Palestinians' minds (click) as a prime example of resistance. I love images of olives and flowers not because they're soft, but because they represent life to me. Something I also adore is Rafeef Ziadah's poem "We Teach Life, Sir" and Samah Fadil's "Then, A Palestinian was Born," as words that speak to me as core parts of Palestinian resistance.

I think you can definitely mix strength and grief, or comfort and grief together when talking about Palestine. Refaat said it best: "the most dangerous thing I have is an expo marker but if an Israeli soldier were to come to my house I would use that expo marker and throw it at them." To us, the idea that we have to resist is grief and the grief moves us to resist. I personally really love the david and golaith imagery because it reminds me of the poster below.

I guess this is all to say that you can mix them together, the grief of seeing people dying and the strength of resistance against the oppression. What's the most effective thing is portraying the truth: Israel kills and Palestine resists.

Here is the image. I highly encourage everyone to print out this poster and post it around town if you're able. Or even post it around social media if you can, and link back to palarchive so that people can see there's so much palestinian art and history that they can explore.

#palestine #gaza

782 notes · View notes

goldfades · 5 days ago

Text

honeymoon! | JOE BURROW⁹ [006]

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference! FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.1k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | based on a request -> maybe a smutty blurb for the joe series from their honeymoon 😍 night the baby was conceived

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | plot w/ NSFW under the cut, mdni! pretty soft, honeymoon fucking, we all know how it goes. unprotected sex! (oops... that's how our little accident baby was made, ig) p in v, a whole lotta praise, maybe a little too much foreplay, dry humping? SO MUCH EFFING KISSING IT'S ACTUALLY INSANE,

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 began with sunlight slipping through the white linen curtains of their beachfront villa, casting warm, golden streaks across the bed. The sound of gentle waves crashing against the shore replaced the usual hum of alarm clocks and city noise. It was peaceful, a slow and languid awakening to the soft melody of Barbados.

You stirred first, the warm breeze from the open balcony brushing against your skin. The air smelled like salt and hibiscus, mingled with the faintest trace of sunscreen from the night before. Stretching out, your arm brushed against Joe’s chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing letting you know he was still fast asleep.

For a moment, you just watched him. His lashes rested on his cheeks, his hair an unruly mess from a restless sleep on the crisp sheets. His sun-kissed skin glowed faintly in the morning light, a preview of what the week ahead would bring. He looked peaceful, his usual intensity softened in this quiet morning moment.

Eventually, the tantalizing aroma of breakfast—sweet coconut, warm banana bread, and freshly brewed coffee—wafted into the room, urging you to move. You leaned over, pressing a kiss to Joe’s shoulder.

“Joe,” you whispered softly, your voice barely above the ocean breeze.

He groaned in response, his eyes still closed. “Five more minutes,” he muttered, pulling the sheet higher over his shoulder.

You laughed, tugging at the blanket. “If you don’t get up, I’m starting this honeymoon without you.”

His eyes cracked open at that, one brow arching lazily. “You wouldn’t dare.”

With a playful roll of your eyes, you slipped out of bed, grabbing the silky robe from the back of the door and tying it loosely around your waist. The cool tile floor under your bare feet was a sharp contrast to the warmth of the Caribbean morning. Joe watched you from the bed, his lips twitching into a soft smile as you peeked out onto the balcony.

The view stole your breath. A turquoise sea stretched endlessly toward the horizon, dotted with white sailboats that glided lazily across the water. The beach was a postcard come to life: soft, white sand scattered with seashells and bordered by swaying palm trees.

“Okay, now I’m up,” Joe announced, his voice gravelly from sleep as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Breakfast was served on the villa’s private terrace, a table set for two with fresh tropical fruits, flaky pastries, and omelets stuffed with local spices. Joe poured you a glass of orange juice, and you returned the favor by slicing up pieces of mango to share.

The morning passed in the kind of leisurely bliss you could only find on an island vacation. After breakfast, you walked down to the beach, your fingers intertwined as the sun climbed higher into the sky. The sand was warm beneath your feet, and the occasional cool splash of the ocean sent shivers up your spine.

Joe insisted on carrying you over a shallow tidepool when you hesitated, laughing at your squeal as the water splashed higher than you expected. “Can’t have you chickening out now,” he teased, setting you down just as the next wave brushed against your calves.

By midday, you found yourselves sprawled out on two lounge chairs under a palm tree. Joe had traded his usual serious demeanor for something more relaxed, leaning back with a contented sigh as you read aloud from a cheesy romance novel you’d brought along. His teasing interruptions—“People actually say that?!”—had you both laughing until your cheeks hurt.

As the day unfolded, everything seemed perfect in its simplicity. The quiet moments between you, the way Joe’s hand lingered on your back when you walked past, or the way he absentmindedly kissed your forehead when you handed him a drink—it was all the kind of effortless love you’d dreamed of.

┈┈┈

The soft hum of the ceiling fan swirled with the salt-tinged breeze that swept through the villa, carrying with it the promise of a balmy Barbados night. Outside, the waves lapped lazily against the shore, their rhythmic song mingling with the distant chirping of tree frogs. The day had melted into evening seamlessly, the sky now painted in inky blues and dotted with stars.

You stood on the balcony, wrapped in one of Joe’s oversized button-ups, the hem brushing mid-thigh as you leaned against the railing. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, a dark expanse glimmering under the moonlight. Behind you, Joe emerged from the shower, his steps quiet on the cool tiles.

“You always steal my shirts,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

Without turning, you smirked. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his arms slipped around your waist from behind, his damp skin cool against your back as he pulled you close. His hands splayed over your stomach, his thumbs brushing small, deliberate circles against the fabric.

“You looked good out there today,” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

Your breath hitched at the soft intimacy of it. “You mean when I almost face-planted in the tidepool?”

Joe chuckled, the sound reverberating through his chest. “Even then. You make clumsiness look cute.”

You tilted your head to glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

His grin was boyish, disarming. “Depends. Did it work?”

You rolled your eyes but leaned into him anyway, your body softening under his touch. His hands didn’t stop their exploration, sliding along your sides, his fingers brushing the edges of bare skin where the shirt didn’t quite meet your thighs.

“Joey,” you started, your voice dipping slightly as you tried to maintain composure.

“Hmm?” His lips found your neck, his movements slow and deliberate.

“You’re being distracting.”

“That’s kind of the point.” His words were muffled against your skin, but the grin in his voice was unmistakable.

He turned you around, his hands settling on your hips as he pressed you gently against the railing. His gaze was heavy-lidded, the playful glint in his blue eyes softened by something deeper, something intimate. He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply, the teasing gone now. His thumb brushed your cheek as if committing the moment to memory.

The vulnerability in his voice made your breath catch. You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and familiar. “You’re terrible at taking compliments.”

“Maybe you’re just too good at giving them.”

Joe’s hands tightened on your hips, tugging you closer. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips twitching into a smirk. “Oh? Just ‘like’ me?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his lips met yours, slow and unhurried, as though you had all the time in the world. His kiss was soft, yet his hands were firm, grounding you as they slipped under the hem of the shirt, warm against your skin.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his chin on the top of your head, holding you close. “For the record,” he murmured, “I more than like you.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “I would hope so. You did marry me.”

His laughter rumbled through his chest as he leaned down to kiss you again. This time, the kiss was different—more hurried, more insistent. Before you could catch your breath or process the shift in his mood, Joe’s arms slid under your thighs, lifting you with ease. A startled laugh escaped your lips, quickly muffled as he kissed you again, walking the two of you back into the villa without breaking contact.

“Joe!” you managed between kisses, your fingers instinctively tangling in the damp strands of his hair. “You’re going to trip.”

He smirked against your lips, his confidence unwavering. “I’m a quarterback. I don’t trip.”

You wanted to argue, but the warmth of his lips and the steady strength of his hold on you left little room for coherent thought. His stride was purposeful, his hands secure on your thighs as he carried you through the open patio doors and into the softly lit living room. The sea breeze followed, carrying the scent of salt and hibiscus, but the cool air was no match for the heat radiating between the two of you.

By the time he reached the bedroom, you were breathless, your heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the journey. He set you down carefully on the edge of the bed, his hands lingering on your waist, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for something.

“What?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joe shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nothing. Just... you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile you tried to suppress gave you away. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.” His voice was lower now, a teasing edge to it as he leaned in, his hands framing your face. “You gonna keep arguing, or can I kiss you again?”

Your response was immediate, pulling him down to meet you halfway. This kiss was no longer hurried but deliberate, the weight of the moment sinking in as his hands moved with purpose, sliding under the fabric of the shirt you wore.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the room, and the sound of the waves outside became a distant murmur. For a while, the world shrank to just the two of you—Joe’s hands, his lips, his warmth surrounding you entirely.

The teasing was still there in the way he nipped at your bottom lip or murmured something smug when you let out a quiet gasp. But beneath it all was something deeper, something unspoken yet understood between you both.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you catching your breath, he grinned that boyish grin that always disarmed you. “So,” he said, his voice thick with amusement and affection, “still think I’m going to trip?”

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns along the back of his neck. “No. But I might.”

Joe chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple before easing you back against the pillows, the teasing glint in his eyes softening into something more tender. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, his voice a promise. “I’ll catch you.”

Joe’s lips grazed yours again, soft and deliberate, the teasing smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. His hands settled at your waist, fingers brushing the hem of the oversized shirt you’d thrown on after your shower. It was technically his, the fabric worn and loose, but he didn’t seem to mind—especially as he slowly started to lift it, his knuckles ghosting over your bare thighs.

“I think this belongs to me,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. His baby blues flicked up to meet yours, daring you to argue.

“Does it?” you challenged softly, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his muscled skin under your palms.

Joe grinned, leaning in so his nose brushed against yours. “It does. But I’m willing to share—if you ask nicely.”

The laugh that bubbled out of you was cut short when his lips trailed along your jaw, his hands continuing their slow ascent, sending little shocks of heat through your skin. “You’re ridiculous,” you managed, though your breath hitched when his thumbs brushed the curve of your hips.

“And yet, here you are,” he teased, his voice a quiet rumble against your neck. His lips moved with deliberate slowness, leaving a trail of kisses that had you melting into his touch.

Your hands found their way into his blonde hair, tugging lightly in retaliation, which only made him chuckle. The sound vibrated against your skin, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten slightly.

“Careful,” he warned playfully, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were darker now, filled with a heat that sent a shiver down your spine. “You keep doing that, and I won’t be able to stop.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice steady. “Who says I want you to?”

That was all the encouragement Joe needed. His smile turned wicked, and before you could say another word, he was easing you back onto the bed, his hands bracketing your face as he kissed you again—deeper this time, less teasing, more intent.

His weight settled above you, one hand slipping beneath the shirt to trace the curve of your ribs while the other tangled in your hair. The kisses grew slower but no less consuming, each one leaving you breathless and wanting more.

“God, you’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice almost reverent as he pulled back slightly to look at you. His thumb brushed over your cheek, his gaze softening despite the heat between you.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, though the words came out shaky, your heart racing under his touch.

Joe laughed softly, his breath warm against your lips. “Not so bad? I think I can do better than that.”

Joe’s teasing edge melted away, replaced by a deeper intensity. His lips pressed to yours with a hunger that left no room for playful quips or lingering hesitation. His hands moved with purpose, slipping under the thin fabric of the shirt as if it had always been in his way before unbuttoning it slowly, slipping it off of you, his blue eyes never leaving yours. You were only left in your bra and underwear, your whole body felt like it was on fire.

Your breath caught as his hands mapped every inch of bare skin they could find, the roughness of his palms contrasting with the softness of his touch. His fingers splayed against your waist, pulling you closer, like even the smallest gap between you was too much before he pulled you toward his crotch. You felt his bulge against your warmth, the feeling too dizzying, you just had to let out a small whimper, your head falling back into the plush pillow.

“You like that?” he murmured, the word barely audible as he leaned forward, his mouth trailed down your neck, each kiss leaving a warm flush in its wake as he began pushing his bulge against you, rougher this time.

“Joey,” you whimpered, your voice trembling as your fingers skimmed over his shoulders and down his back, feeling the taut muscle beneath.

He hummed in response, his lips finding the hollow of your throat, lingering there for a moment before moving lower. He slowly began moving his hips against your covered pussy, eliciting small noises from you. He was rock-hard, you could feel his excitement through the thin material of his gray sweats.

For a moment, he stilled, his eyes roving over you as if committing every detail to memory. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice low and thick, his words sinking into your skin like a promise.

Heat bloomed in your chest, and before you could respond, his lips found yours again, firmer, deeper, his hand sliding up your side to cup your cheek. The world outside the villa ceased to exist; all that mattered was the way his touch sent a current through you, grounding you and setting you alight all at once.

You tugged at his shirt in response, your fingers fumbling slightly in your urgency. He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your lips, before leaning back just enough to help you. The fabric joined yours on the floor, and then he was back, his skin warm against yours, every inch of contact electric.

His hands skimmed over your thighs, hooking behind your knees to draw you closer. The air felt charged, the only sounds filling the room your uneven breaths and the gentle crash of waves outside. He began rocking his hips against yours, letting out a needy groan of his own.

“Please, Joe,” you moaned, breathless and oh so wet, your hand slipping to his chest to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

“Please, what?” He challenged, his forehead leaning to rest against yours. His lips were curved, a cocky smiling gracing his features. Yeah, he wasn't giving in so easily—even if he was rock-hard and just as needy as you.

You rolled your eyes, your chest rising and falling as your eyes found his again. His baby blues were dilated and dark, the familiar lustful gaze glazing his eyes. But somehow, there was still that warmth and love you knew he felt for you.

“Just, please fuck me.”

That was all he needed.

His lips found yours again, harder this time, more insistent, as if the words you’d exchanged weren’t enough to convey the depth of his feelings. His hands slid to your hips, pulling you closer with a quiet, desperate kind of urgency that left no space between you, his body practically trembling with restraint.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispered against your lips, his voice low, his breath hot.

You tried to reply, but your words were swallowed by the kiss that followed, deeper, more fervent. His hands roamed, fingers splayed wide as they moved over the curves of your back, memorizing every inch. There was no hesitation now, no pretense—just raw affection and the kind of vulnerability that came from letting someone see all of you, heart and soul.

He broke away only briefly, his forehead pressed to yours, his blue eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you,” he admitted, his voice uneven, like the words cost him something.

The weight of his gaze and the sincerity in his voice sent a shiver through you. “I don’t think I’d ever want you to,” you murmured back, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently to anchor yourself.

That was all it took for his restraint to falter. His lips were back on yours, hungrier this time, his hands tightening their grip as if he was afraid you might slip away. His desperation wasn’t rushed or clumsy; it was reverent, like he was determined to make every moment count, to leave no part of you untouched by the depth of his adoration.

Finally, his hands began pulling off his sweatpants, his lips never leaving yours. He tugged them off swiftly, throwing them on the floor as he pulled away for a second, gripping your hips and pulling you impossibly closer. Joe's eyes never left yours as he slowly took off his briefs, your breath hitching. As soon as his briefs were off, his large fingers hooked on your panties and slipped them off.

His lips found yours again, moving forward slowly as he led himself toward your folds. You felt his breath hitch before he slowly pushed into you, broken moans leaving your lips. You already felt so full and he wasn't even a quarter inside yet.

You were sopping wet at that point, he could easily slip into you quickly—but he took his time, as if he was trying to memorize the way your cunt squeezed him so perfectly, how perfect you felt around his cock and how he swore your pussy was made for him. Joe was huge, that was never a secret—the whole “Big Dick Joe” hat was never really a joke.

You felt him fill you up slowly but surely, until he completely bottomed you out. Your hands were gripping his broad shoulders as your eyebrows furrowed in concentration, focusing on the feeling of Joe's cock stretching you out.

And you swore, no matter how many times you fuck—the feeling will never, ever get old.

“Oh God, yes,” you practically cried out as you squeezed his shoulders tighter, your nails digging into his warm skin. He groaned at the stinging feeling, the pleasure coursing through his body.

He let you adjust to his size as he began kissing you again, slower this time. The kiss grew more intense, trailing down your jawline and across your neck, each one carrying a weight that left you breathless. His hands remained steady on your hips as he let you adjust to his size, and yet there was an unmistakable tremor in the way his fingers pressed into your skin, like he was holding on for dear life.

Slowly, he began thrusting out of you, before crashing into you rougher. His patience was wavering, you could see it in his expression.

“Harder, Joe,” you moaned breathlessly as you squeezed his shoulder harder, gazing up at him through your lashes.

That was all he needed. Joe began rocking into you, the bed moving along with each of his hard thrusts. His hands gripped your thighs before lifting your legs onto his shoulders, your hands falling back on the bed as he began fucking you even deeper. The new angle made you cry out in utter pleasure, gripping the sheets as he groaned at the feeling of your walls tightening around him.

“Say you’re mine,” he murmured against the hollow of your throat as he leaned in, his voice rough with need, the words barely audible over the sound of the bed creaking beneath the two of you.

“I’m yours,” you answered without hesitation, your voice trembling but sure. The words seemed to undo him further, a shiver running through his frame as his hips began moving at an almost impossible speed, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.

“You don’t know what that does to me,” he whispered breathlessly, his breath hot against your skin. His hands gripped your hips firmly as if to ground himself, but his lips never stopped their journey—brushing along your collarbone, lingering where he could feel the rapid beat of your pulse.

His kisses became softer for a moment, almost trembling with the intensity of what he was trying to say without words. The movements of his hips were a perfect blend of desperation and purpose—like every thrust, every kiss, was a vow, a promise of just how much you meant to him.

But the desperation was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting to bubble over again.

You felt that familiar tightening in your lower stomach, and your walls tightened around his cock. He was close, too—you could feel it in the way his hips rocked against yours, harder and more frantic than the last and the way he let out his groans freely.

Time seemed to dissolve, measured only by the gentle rhythm of the waves outside and the warmth of Joe’s touch. Every movement between you was deliberate, filled with a perfect mix of care and roughness that made the world outside feel irrelevant.

His hands never strayed far, always returning to cradle your face or trace patterns along your thighs as though grounding himself in the moment.

And right as you were about to go over the edge, Joe’s hand slipped to yours, his fingers threading through yours in a gesture so tender it brought an ache to your chest. The knot in your stomach snapped violently, your orgasm hitting you like a truck, rippling through you harshly.

You cried out loudly in pleasure, the sound echoing in the empty villa. A few more frantic thrusts and Joe was spilling into you, his groans heavenly and loud. You both caught your breathes, slow and heavy all at once. The villa was quiet except for the shared sounds of your breathing, the ocean breeze filtered in through the slightly open windows, cool and refreshing against the heat you shared, carrying the faint scent of salt and hibiscus.

After a moment, his lips brushed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, as if he couldn’t get enough, as if memorizing you was his life’s work.

“You okay?” he murmured again, his voice softer now, almost reverent, his forehead pressed lightly against yours.

“Yes,” you replied, breathless but certain, your hand slipping to his chest to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “Perfect, actually.”

The night stretched on in a haze of soft laughter, quiet reassurances, and the feeling of being utterly cherished. By the time you lay tangled together beneath the linen sheets, exhaustion pulled at your limbs, but your heart was light. Joe’s arm was slung protectively around your waist, his breath warm against your shoulder.

“Love you,” he murmured, the words slurred with sleep but no less sincere.

You smiled, your fingers tracing lazy circles on the back of his hand. “I love you, too.”

The moonlight poured through the open window, silver light painting your intertwined forms as the waves provided a lullaby. With Joe’s steady presence beside you, you felt more at peace than ever—like the rest of the world could wait, because here, in this moment, you had everything you could ever need.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#nfl imagine #nfl players #nfl football #joe burrow bengals #bengals #cincinnati bengals #joeyb #who dey #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc #joe burrow x y/n

329 notes · View notes

save-mohamed-family · 5 months ago

Text

Thank you for documenting my campaign from the following accounts:

@ibtisams @soon-palestine @sar-soor @90-ghost @fairuzfan @ibtisams @fallahifag @northgazaupdates

I am Mohammed Almanasra, 32 years old, married, and a father of three children: Abdulrahman, 6 years old, Sarah, 4 years old, and Lina, 3 years old.

My story began with the loss of my parents and four of my sisters who were bombed and lost their lives along with their children after the events of October 7 and the severe war on Gaza. Now, my wife, children, and I are displaced, without parents or siblings, living with our little cat that we embrace among us.

Recently, I moved to the south of the Gaza Strip, fearing for the lives of my children. We left behind our memories and our new home, for which we had not finished paying the installments, in addition to losing my job. Currently, I live in a tent that does not protect me from the heat of summer or the cold of winter, and without the minimum necessary livinng basics including water, food medical care, clothe and even bedding .

I suffer from a chronic asthma and severe attacks from tightness and an extreme allergy in the ear and I need medicine that are not available, or very expensive .

Under these difficult circumstances, after five attempts at displacement and narrowly escaping death from the bombing, I am trying with all my might to protect my family, the most precious thing I have.

My dreams were shattered, and my house was destroyed, and I found myself living in a tent no larger than 4 square metres. My work turned from a tailor to a street vendor in order to barely buy a few crumbs of bread to feed my children.

My main goal with this donation is to protect my children, my wife, and our scaredy cat and evacuate them to a safe place away from the ongoing wars. The funds will be used to cross the Egyptian border and bring basic needs and treatments to create a more stable conditions for my family. Approximately $18,000 will be allocated for travel expenses, and around $6,000 for securing suitable housing for a couple of months.

As for the medical treatment costs, the exact figure will be determined after undergoing examinations in hospitals in the Arab Republic of Egypt & it gonna be in average $8,000. The remaining amount ($8,000) will be used to establish a small project to sustain our daily living, enabling me to provide for my children and wife.

Look at what happened to my children because of the intense heat and the insects that thrive in the summer season. Every day, I take them to the hospital to treat them due to poisonous insect bites. I implore every kind-hearted soul to help me protect my children.

My son, Abdul Rahman, has a deep passion for playing football and is a devoted fan of Real Madrid. He always dreamed of playing football at his school, but the war prevented this dream from coming true.

Where are you, Real Madrid fans ?

Help Abdul Rahman achieve his dream.

I feel very sad and embarrassed to ask for help, but I have no other options left. I know that this request is difficult, but I also know that there is still humanity and living consciences and I believe in miracles.

If you have any inquiries or questions, feel free to ask me, please!

"I urgently appeal to you for moral and financial assistance to cover the necessary costs to escape to a safe environment, where we can build a secure future for our children and ensure the safety of our family. We thank you for your concern and support, and we hope that you can help us in these difficult circumstances."

Sincere greetings & thanks

Mohammed & the family

#gofundme #free gaza 🇵🇸#palestinian genocide #free gaza #gaza genocide #gaza #gazaunderattack #gaza strip #filistin 🇵🇸#i stand with palestine 🇵🇸#from the river to the sea 🇵🇸#free palestine 🇵🇸

355 notes · View notes

novaursa · 1 month ago

Text

To Win a Princess

- Summary: Once you come of age, the realm seeks to curry the king's favor once more by seeking a hand of his younger daughter. You.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: the dance

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: Consider this to be a serious version of A Lion's Leap. I'm not sure where it will fit into my posting schedule. It depends on how well the story is recived.

The quiet of the evening is your only companion as you find yourself wrapped in the warmth of Tyland Lannister’s arms, his breath a whispered heat against your neck. Your pulse is still racing from the sweetness of his kiss, one that lingers with the faint taste of Arbor red wine and the spice of his desire. His hands move over your skin with a certainty, his touch igniting in you a need you hadn’t realized until you found him at the periphery of courtly life. Hidden away from the glare of prying eyes, Tyland is your haven, one of indulgence and escape in a world filled with duty and restraint.

There’s an urgency to his touch tonight, his body pressed against yours as if he can’t bear any distance between you. He captures your face between his hands, his blue-green eyes watching you with that flicker of intensity that only comes when he’s this close.

“You shouldn’t tempt a lion, princess,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr that has you sinking further into him, into this space that is all your own.

“I’ve never known fear,” you reply, your voice a breathless whisper, fingers sliding through his golden hair, the softness of it like silk against your skin.

Just as his mouth descends to capture yours once more, the door creaks open.

“Y/N?”

Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the charged air, her familiar tones suddenly a sharp and shocking reminder of the world beyond this room. You freeze, eyes widening as the unmistakable figure of your sister stands there, her expression a mix of disbelief and something akin to amusement.

Tyland pulls back, releasing you with an urgency that borders on panicked, though he composes himself as he turns, straightening his disheveled tunic. You, however, find yourself momentarily rooted in place, unsure if this is a dream or a waking nightmare.

“Rhaenyra—” you start, scrambling to find words, but your sister only raises an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest as she observes the two of you with an unmistakable glimmer of surprise.

“Of all men in Westeros…” she says, a hint of laughter in her tone. “Tyland Lannister?”

Her eyes sweep over Tyland, who’s doing his best to look as composed as any nobleman caught in a compromising position could. He manages a polite, if slightly sheepish, nod.

“Princess,” he greets her formally, though you can see the tension in his jaw as he fights to keep his composure under Rhaenyra’s unwavering gaze.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker between the two of you, an unexpected curiosity lighting her expression. “I thought you’d have chosen someone younger,” she remarks with a slight smile. “Perhaps a knight… or a squire. But a Lannister?”

You feel your cheeks burn, heat flooding your face at the implication. “He’s more than just a Lannister, Rhaenyra,” you reply, stepping forward as you gather your courage. “He… he understands me.”

Tyland’s hand reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours in a silent show of solidarity, but his eyes are trained on Rhaenyra, calculating the depths of her reaction. He is used to navigating treacherous waters, and he knows that, in this moment, every word counts.

Rhaenyra’s expression softens, her curiosity morphing into something gentler, though her tone remains teasing. “It seems you’ve found yourself an unusual ally, sister.” She pauses, a slight smirk touching her lips. “I suppose there are worse Lannisters than Tyland.”

At this, Tyland inclines his head, his voice as smooth as ever. “High praise from the future queen,” he replies, his eyes meeting Rhaenyra’s without hesitation. “Your sister is…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully, “remarkable.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifts to you, a hint of approval glinting in her eyes. “I’m surprised by the choice, but perhaps I shouldn’t be,” she muses, her voice softening as she takes in the way Tyland’s hand rests protectively over yours.

She sighs, her expression growing more thoughtful. “I always knew you’d find someone who saw you for who you are. Even if he’s… well…” She waves her hand in Tyland’s direction, her smile widening. “A lion.”

Your heart aches with the realization that she does, in some way, approve. Rhaenyra, always the fierce, protective sister, has a flicker of understanding in her gaze that you hadn’t expected.

“I’ll leave you two to… whatever it is that brought you here tonight,” she says finally, smirking as she turns toward the door. She glances back, adding in a tone laced with mischief, “Do try to be discreet. Rumors travel fast in the Red Keep.”

With a final, amused glance over her shoulder, Rhaenyra slips out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

For a moment, you and Tyland stand in stunned silence, her words echoing in the quiet. Finally, Tyland lets out a low, relieved chuckle, his shoulders relaxing as he pulls you into his arms once more, his lips finding your forehead in a lingering kiss.

“Your sister has a way of surprising people,” he murmurs, his voice laced with admiration.

“She’s always had a knack for the unexpected,” you reply, leaning into him, feeling the warmth of his embrace as a balm against the shock.

His thumb brushes your cheek, his voice soft. “Then let’s give them something else to talk about, shall we?”

And as he kisses you once more, the world outside fades, leaving only the two of you in a moment that feels like it belongs to no one else but you.

Tyland Lannister sits quietly, his eyes assessing each of the faces present as the King’s Small Council convenes. Viserys, resplendent yet weary, presides at the head of the table, his fingers idly tapping against the polished wood. Otto Hightower sits beside him, his sharp gaze flickering with purpose as he waits for the council to settle.

Clearing his throat, Otto finally leans forward, voice carrying the deliberate calm of a man who measures each word for impact. “Your Grace,” he begins, glancing pointedly at Viserys, “I bring before you a matter of some… importance. As you know, your youngest daughter has now reached an age where the question of marriage becomes both pertinent and pressing.”

Tyland’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, and he shifts in his seat, the motion subtle but enough to catch Otto’s eye. The words ignite an unwelcome heat in his chest, but Tyland maintains his silence, allowing the Lord Hand to continue as he carefully considers his next move.

“Many houses have sent petitions for the Princess’s hand, Your Grace,” Otto goes on, his tone professional but carrying a faint undercurrent of ambition. “The opportunity for a marriage alliance is ripe. And House Hightower, already bound in loyalty to the Crown, would be honored to strengthen that bond.”

Tyland clenches his jaw, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee. Otto’s words are too familiar, too practiced, as if rehearsed. Of course, the Hightowers would press for another foothold in the Targaryen family. Alicent was already Queen, and now Otto had the gall to suggest another marriage to his kin.

The silence in the room stretches for a moment, broken only by the slight creak of leather as Lord Beesbury shifts uncomfortably, clearly weighing the implications of Otto’s proposal.

Tyland seizes the pause to lean forward, his golden hair catching the light as he speaks. “Your Grace,” he begins, his voice smooth and calm, carefully measured, “while House Hightower’s loyalty is unquestioned, it would be wise to consider the value in expanding alliances beyond what is already secured.” He pauses, letting his gaze sweep across the council, landing on Viserys with a look of respectful counsel. “There are other noble houses, some with ties yet to be strengthened, who could offer their fealty through a marriage bond. The Princess, after all, is a precious jewel to the realm.”

Viserys nods, seeming to take in Tyland’s words, though his weariness is evident. But before he can respond, Otto speaks again, his tone calm but unmistakably forceful.

“With all due respect, Lord Tyland,” Otto interjects, “House Hightower is not simply any house. It is a trusted pillar of the realm, deeply invested in the Crown’s prosperity. My son, Ser Gwayne, holds the princess in high regard, as he has demonstrated with unfailing respect and admiration. Such a match would ensure not only the Princess’s happiness but the Crown’s continued stability.”

Tyland’s mouth sets into a line, his irritation sparking to life at Otto’s boldness. The Hightowers already held the Reach and the Queen herself—did Otto truly believe the Crown needed more from Oldtown?

Clearing his throat, Tyland leans forward again, speaking with an air of practiced calm. “Your Grace,” he says, directing his words pointedly at Viserys, “Otto’s suggestion has merit, yet the needs of the realm go beyond what House Hightower alone can provide. House Lannister is well-known for its loyalty and wealth, resources that could serve the Crown in countless ways.” He lets his words linger, letting the subtle hint of his own interest shine through as he meets Viserys’s gaze. “A match that unites the Princess with a house of the Westerlands might open new avenues of support and loyalty.”

Lord Jasper Wylde’s deep voice cuts through the tension, surprising everyone as he joins the discussion. “Lord Tyland has a point, Your Grace. House Lannister is an influential ally. Expanding alliances to the Westerlands would create a balance among the great houses, preventing any one house from holding undue influence over the Crown.”

Otto’s gaze hardens, his fingers steepling as he speaks again, his voice low and steady. “The King knows the loyalty of House Hightower, and what could be better than family to ensure trust?” He leans forward, his eyes fixed intently on Viserys. “Gwayne is a devoted knight, one who would honor the Princess and protect her with his life.”

The room falls silent as Viserys considers the weight of each suggestion, his brow furrowed. The aged Maester Mellos clears his throat, his ancient, gravelly voice adding a cautious note to the conversation. “Your Grace, while the idea of strengthening alliances is sound, one must consider the Princess’s own wishes in such a matter. She is not without her own mind, and a union should serve her interests as well.”

Tyland nods in agreement, glancing briefly at Mellos before speaking again. “Precisely, Your Grace. The Princess should be given a choice that does not bind her exclusively to those who already wield power within the realm. A broader reach, a different alliance…” He allows the words to hang, his gaze settling firmly on Viserys, silently pressing his case.

Otto remains unyielding, but there is a flicker of tension beneath his composure. “The Crown should value loyalty that is proven, not loyalty yet to be tested,” he insists, glancing briefly at Tyland, a thinly veiled challenge in his gaze.

King Viserys shifts, his fingers rubbing at his temple. “Enough,” he says, raising a hand, his voice weary but firm. “Otto, Tyland… you both have made your points. The decision will not be made lightly.”

Tyland bows his head, the flicker of frustration barely visible beneath his polite expression. He had not anticipated Otto would be so relentless, but he wouldn’t give up so easily. As the council disperses, he lingers, waiting until the others have exited before catching Viserys’s gaze once more.

“Your Grace,” he murmurs softly, “my only wish is that your daughter’s choice brings her happiness and serves the realm.”

Viserys offers him a faint, tired smile. “I know, Tyland. But these matters… they are never simple.”

As Tyland takes his leave, a fire burns within him, one fueled by the prospect of having to contend with the relentless ambition of the Hightowers. But he is a lion of the Westerlands, and he will not yield his pursuit so easily.

The corridor is cool as Tyland makes his way from the council chamber, his thoughts swirling with a mix of frustration and resolve. The weight of Otto's persistence hangs in the air like a heavy mist, lingering and clinging as he mentally reviews their exchange. He is only halfway down the hall when he hears footsteps approaching—a purposeful, measured cadence he recognizes without needing to turn.

"Lord Tyland," Otto’s voice, calm and composed, cuts through the quiet. Tyland pauses, inclining his head politely as he turns to face the Hand. Otto’s expression is unreadable, his sharp, calculating eyes studying Tyland with the intensity of a man who does not often find his decisions challenged.

“Lord Hand,” Tyland replies, his tone cordial but cool. “I gather you have words left unsaid?”

Otto steps closer, his expression calm but firm, hands clasped behind his back. “Only that I find it curious, Lord Tyland,” he begins, voice smooth, almost conversational, “that you seem so… invested in the matter of the princess’s marriage.”

Tyland raises a brow, masking his irritation with a faint smile. “And why shouldn’t I be? She is the King’s daughter and a Targaryen princess. Whoever she marries will wield significant influence over the realm.” He allows his words to sink in before adding, “Surely, it benefits the Crown to consider all its options, rather than binding itself to the Reach alone.”

Otto’s lips curve slightly, though the smile does not reach his eyes. “The Crown has always valued the proven loyalty of House Hightower,” he says evenly, “and a marriage between my son and the princess would only strengthen those bonds. My son, Ser Gwayne, is an honorable man who would care for her deeply.”

“Indeed,” Tyland replies, his tone deceptively mild. “But House Lannister has long been a stalwart of the Crown as well, with a reach that extends far beyond the walls of Oldtown. We bring not only loyalty, but wealth, resources, and alliances across the Westerlands.” He pauses, letting his words settle, before adding, “Surely, even you can see the wisdom in that.”

Otto’s expression remains unmoved, though his gaze sharpens, a flicker of irritation betraying his controlled demeanor. “And yet, Lord Tyland, you speak as though it is the Crown’s duty to court Lannister favor. I assure you, we are quite capable of holding the realm’s loyalty without undue dependence on the Westerlands.”

Tyland’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice steady. “Perhaps, Lord Otto,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “but it would be unwise to dismiss the value of broadening alliances. Overreliance on a single house… can leave one vulnerable.”

Otto’s eyes narrow slightly, a glint of something cold flashing within them. “Are you implying, Lord Tyland, that the Crown is vulnerable with House Hightower at its side?”

“I imply nothing of the sort,” Tyland replies smoothly, though he meets Otto’s gaze with a steely look of his own. “Only that diversifying one’s alliances strengthens a kingdom. Surely, that is something a man of your experience can appreciate.”

Otto regards him in silence for a moment, and Tyland can almost feel the calculations turning behind his gaze, assessing, weighing. Finally, Otto speaks, his voice cool but edged with warning.

“Be mindful, Lord Tyland. Ambition is a potent force, but so is loyalty. My family has served the Targaryens with unwavering dedication, while others… have not always shown the same consistency.” His tone carries a subtle, implicit threat, as if reminding Tyland that House Hightower’s position within the Crown’s inner circle is not one easily challenged.

But Tyland is not so easily cowed. He straightens, his own expression hardening as he meets Otto’s gaze directly. “Loyalty is indeed a powerful thing, Lord Otto. But loyalty should not come at the cost of wisdom. And it would be unwise to assume the King’s daughter would prefer a match simply because it pleases you.”

Otto’s mouth tightens, his facade slipping just enough to reveal a hint of irritation. “The King knows the worth of House Hightower. And Gwayne is a respectable choice—far more appropriate than other… options.”

Tyland inclines his head, offering a slight smile that does not reach his eyes. “And yet, the choice remains the King’s… not yours, Lord Otto.”

The silence between them thickens, charged with a subtle animosity. Finally, Otto’s face smooths, his expression carefully neutral once more as he steps back, as if dismissing Tyland’s challenge. “Indeed,” he says quietly, though there’s a steely edge to his voice. “The choice is the King’s.”

With a curt nod, Otto turns, his robes swishing as he strides down the corridor, leaving Tyland standing alone in the dim light. Tyland watches him go, his fingers curling into a fist as he steels himself. He would not allow Otto to dictate the fate of the woman he cared for.

Tyland continues down the corridor, the distant echoes of his footsteps mingling with the faint whispers of the castle walls. He feels the lingering bite of Otto’s words, flicking like embers. His mind turns toward Y/N, the thought of her lifting the weight of his frustrations, though the path to her chambers is already proving more circuitous than anticipated.

As he rounds the corner, he nearly collides with a tall figure—none other than Ser Gwayne Hightower, resplendent in his polished armor, his posture as upright as his father’s ambition. Gwayne’s brows knit together momentarily before a polite, if strained, smile forms on his face.

“Lord Tyland,” Gwayne greets him, his tone courteous but carrying a faint edge. “A fortunate encounter. I’d hoped to find the princess and offer her my company this afternoon, should she wish it.”

Tyland’s expression remains calm, though a flicker of annoyance rises within him. He bows his head slightly, maintaining the polite veneer expected in the corridors of the Red Keep. “Ser Gwayne,” he replies, his voice smooth. “The Princess has not been one to lack for company, as I understand it.”

Gwayne’s eyes narrow slightly, his head tilting as he regards Tyland with an air of subtle scrutiny. “Perhaps,” he says, his voice laced with a hint of defensiveness. “Yet, as one who holds her in high regard, I believe she deserves companionship suited to her station.” There’s a faint emphasis on the last word, his gaze assessing as though to imply that Tyland’s attentions may fall short of that standard.

Tyland’s jaw clenches, though he forces a polite smile. “Indeed,” he responds, his tone even. “I’m certain she values the company of those who see her as more than a stepping stone toward ambition.”

Gwayne’s expression cools, his own smile thinning. “I assure you, my interest in the Princess is nothing less than sincere. She is, after all, a Targaryen—a rare jewel, worthy of reverence.” He hesitates, his eyes flickering as he chooses his words carefully. “Not all who approach her can say the same.”

Tyland raises an eyebrow, a glint of amusement barely masking his irritation. “The Princess’s worth is evident to anyone who possesses a mind,” he replies smoothly. “Yet, unlike some, I do not seek her company for the approval of others.”

The slight barb does not go unnoticed, and Gwayne’s eyes harden, his polite facade slipping just enough to reveal a hint of irritation. “I wonder, then,” he says slowly, his tone almost thoughtful, “whether your intentions are as noble as you claim. The Princess may find herself the subject of… unwanted scrutiny if certain alliances are encouraged.”

Tyland’s patience wears thin, though he keeps his voice calm. “The only ‘unwanted scrutiny’ the Princess might face would be due to those who believe they have the right to decide her future. She is not a pawn, Ser Gwayne. And if your intentions are as noble as you say, you would know that she deserves respect beyond what can be claimed through marriage.”

Gwayne’s lips press into a thin line, a flash of offense coloring his face. “You speak as if you alone hold her respect, Lord Tyland,” he counters. “Perhaps it is you who misunderstands her station. A Targaryen princess deserves more than whispered conversations and stolen glances.”

Tyland steps closer, his gaze unyielding as he meets Gwayne’s stare. “And yet, I am not the one using her as a bid to curry favor with her father and his council. My respect for the Princess does not hinge on how close it brings me to the throne.”

A tense silence hangs between them, the air thick with unspoken challenges. Gwayne’s hands clench at his sides, though he forces a calm expression, his eyes darkening with a restrained intensity. “Remember, Lord Tyland,” he says quietly, his voice a warning, “the loyalty of House Hightower is not a force to be taken lightly. My father’s position is one earned through unwavering commitment to the Crown.”

Tyland holds his ground, his voice steady as steel. “As is the loyalty of House Lannister. But unlike some, my house does not rely on proximity to the Crown for validation.” His tone hardens, his words pointed. “The Princess deserves a choice, not an obligation.”

Gwayne’s composure falters for a brief moment, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. He takes a step back, offering a curt nod, though the tension remains clear in his stance. “Then let the Princess make her choice,” he replies, his tone sharp. “And may it be one worthy of her name.”

Without another word, Gwayne steps past Tyland, his shoulders tense as he disappears down the corridor. Tyland watches him go, a sense of satisfaction tempered by lingering annoyance.

With renewed purpose, Tyland resumes his path toward Y/N’s chambers, his steps quickening. He would ensure that Otto Hightower and his son did not shape her future. And, if he could help it, he would be the one at her side, proving his devotion beyond the words of a council chamber.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd tyland #fire and blood #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #game of thrones #tyland lannister #tyland x reader #tyland x you #tyland x y/n #house lannister #house hightower #house targaryen #to win a princess

141 notes · View notes

intersex-support · 3 months ago

Text

Intersex Support FAQ

1. What is intersex?

Intersex is an umbrella term that describes people who have variations in sex characteristics that fall outside of the sex binary. This includes variations in genitals, internal reproductive organs like testes and ovaries, chromosomes, secondary sex characteristics, and/or the way that your body produces or responds to hormones. Some examples of intersex variations include AIS, CAH, PCOS, Klinefelters, hypospadias, and more.

The three main factors that define intersex variations are:

Variation in sex characteristics

The variation falls outside of the sex binary and is different from what is considered typical “male” or “female” development. These variations in traits might often be stigmatized and discriminated against for being outside of the sex binary.

This variation is either present from birth or develops spontaneously later in life. It is not caused by transitioning or by something temporary like a medication side effect, tumor, or other medical diagnosis.

(This definition is inspired by InterACT).

2. Does ____ count as intersex?

There are around 40 different intersex variations that are currently known. InterACT”s intersex variation glossary lists out those intersex variations and gives a brief description of each one.

However, we know that isn’t a complete list. People have intersex variations that haven’t been medically researched yet, or might have a rare variation that the intersex community isn’t aware of yet.

There are also some variations that might seem on the border between perisex and intersex. Some types of hormonal or reproductive diagnoses might not have a clear answer on whether they’re intersex or not.

Ultimately, intersex is a social/political identity rather than a strictly medical one. Increased research and changing social attitudes can cause the definition of intersex to expand over time. Regardless of whether someone has a confirmed intersex variation or an “intersex adjacent” diagnosis, if intersex resources are helpful to you, we hope that you continue to use them and act in solidarity with the intersex community.

On this blog, we do include PCOS with hyperandrogenism as part of the intersex community. Check out our PCOS tag for more posts about our reasoning, and PCOS specific resources.

3. Am I intersex?

We cannot diagnose you with an intersex variation over the internet. We can share resources such as the intersex variations glossary, share tips for navigating the medical system, and share information on other non-clinical signs of being intersex.

Some questions to ask yourself that can help you start the process of intersex discovery:

What do my sex traits (genitalia, secondary sex characteristics, hormone levels, etc) look like? Does this seem like it lines up with the “typical” descriptions of those sex traits?

Do I have any information about my birth? Were there any complications? Did doctors do extra testing at birth? Did doctors take me away from my parents for long periods of time? Did it take me longer to have my sex assigned at birth?

What was puberty like for me? Did I have early or late puberty? Did I have to go on hormones to start puberty? Did I have any variations in puberty, such as unexpected breast growth, irregular periods, or other changes? Did I go through puberty at all?

If you’ve tried to have children, are you infertile or struggling with fertility?

Did I have any unexplained surgeries or medical procedures as a child? Was I ever told I had to have organs removed and was told it was because of a cancer risk? Did I have to be on specific medications or hormones throughout my childhood? Did I have to go see a doctor more frequently? Did I go to an endocrinologist or pediatric urologist as a child?

Do I have surgery scars or scar tissue? Do I have more frequent UTIs than typical?

Do I have access to my medical records? Is there records of hormone panels, ultrasounds, physical exams, surgeries, or other medical procedures?

This kind of information can help you start to piece together if you think you might have an intersex variation, or if you think your intersex variation was hidden from you.

If you’re sending in an ask trying to figure out if your symptoms line up with a specific intersex variation, please share as much information as you’re comfortable with so that we can answer with the most helpful resources.

4. Can I self diagnose as intersex?

It’s complicated! Intersex is different from other LGBTQIA identities, in that it’s not only about self determination, but also about our embodied experience in a very specific way. In order to be intersex, you have to have an intersex variation. And there are many intersex variations that can only be confirmed through medical testing, so it’s not something that is easy to self-diagnose.

However, we recognize that the medical system is expensive, discriminatory, and often actively hides information about people’s intersex variations from them. (it wasn’t even until 2006 that the AAP stopped recommending that doctors lie to their patients about intersex status, so many intersex adults were born before that policy change!) Considering all that we know about intersex oppression, curative violence, and medical abuse, it feels incredibly cruel to tell people that they have to force themself through that system in order to seek answers.

So, we understand that there are ways of finding out that you are intersex without having a specific, confirmed, medical diagnosis. Many of us might find out that we’re intersex because we realize that our genitalia visibly looks different, and we can tell that we are intersex, even if we don’t know our specific diagnosis. Others might find out that we’re intersex because of strange discrepancies in our medical record. We might find out through discovering surgery scars on our body. We might go through puberty and realize that we’re developing in an atypical way to our peers. We might do a lot of research into intersex variations and have a pretty good guess into what variation lines up with our experiences. We might have some test results that help us understand we have intersex traits, even if we don’t know our specific diagnosis.

Before self diagnosing, we think it’s important to do thorough research into intersex variations, so that you truly understand what intersex means, what intersex variations exist, and understand how that information applies to yourself. It’s also important to be considerate of how we interact in community spaces, and respect other intersex people's boundaries as you engage in a questioning or diagnosis process.

5. Are intersex people trans?

Some intersex people are trans, and some aren’t. Most intersex people are still assigned a gender at birth, and many intersex people who are raised as one gender and then later identify as another gender identify with the label trans. Intersex people can be cis or trans just like any other group of people.

Many intersex people have complicated relationships with gender, and don’t feel like labels like cis or trans really fit their experiences. For this reason, terms like intergender and ipsogender were coined.

6. Are intersex people LGBTQIA?

It’s complicated! The “I” in LGBTQIA stands for intersex. Intersex history is intertwined with other parts of queer history. For example, the very first protest for intersex people in the United States was organized by Hermaphrodites with Attitude and Transexual Menace. There are intersex inclusive versions of community pride flags. Many intersex people view their intersex identity as a queer identity. Intersex oppression overlaps in many ways with homophobia and transphobia.

However, not all intersex people think that intersex should be included in the LGBTQIA community. Sometimes this is for bigoted reasons, with intersex radfems who use this stance as a way to be transphobic. But there are also intersex people who think that the “I” should only be included in the acronym when intersex people are actually meaningfully being included in queer spaces and resources. Many of us feel frustrated when people put “LGBTQIA” on a resource but then don’t actually have any intersex specific information in those resources.

In general, this is an ongoing intracommunity discussion where we don’t have a consensus.

7. Are intersex people disabled?

It’s complicated! Intersex is an umbrella term for many different experiences, and there is not one universal intersex experience. Some intersex people identify as disabled. Some intersex people do not.

Many intersex variations do cause disabling impacts in our bodies and lives. Some intersex variations are comorbid with other health conditions. Other intersex people become disabled because of violent normalizing interventions we’ve survived, such as forced surgery or other types of medical abuse.

Intersex people are also impacted by many of the same structures of oppression that harm disabled people. Both intersex people and disabled people are harmed by ableism. Both intersex people and disabled people are harmed by pathologization. Both intersex people and disabled people are harmed by curative violence.

In the book Cripping Intersex, Celeste Orr explores all these concepts and creates something called “intersex is/and/as/with disability,” which is a model to think about all these different and sometimes conflicting relationships with disability. Some intersex people might identify directly as disabled. Others might sometimes think about the way that intersex is treated as a disability. Other intersex people might think about intersex and disability as a way to have solidarity. All of these relationships with disability are meaningful parts of the intersex community.

8. What is intersex oppression/intersexism/interphobia/compulsory dyadism?

Intersex people face a lot of oppression in many ways in society. At the core, intersex oppression relies on the idea that the only acceptable sex traits are sex traits that fit into the sex binary. Intersex oppression relies on mythical ideas of the “ideal male or female” body, where someone's chromosomes perfectly line up with their genitalia and internal reproductive organs, with perfectly normal hormone levels and perfect secondary sex characteristics that don’t have any variation. When people don’t fit into that “perfect” sex binary, they are seen as less valuable, abnormal, and threatening. There is then a societal pressure to eradicate any traits and people that fall outside of the sex binary, which causes a lot of targeted discrimination of intersex people. This form of oppression is called “compulsory dyadism,” and was coined by Celeste Orr.

Compulsory dyadism is also rooted in, overlaps with, and is the foundation for many other types of oppression. For example, ableism is another form of oppression that creates ways of harming people whose bodies and minds are labeled as less valuable for societally constructed reasons. Check out Talila Lewis’s definition of ableism for more information. Another example is how racialized people are targeted by sex testing policies in sports--both intersex and perisex women of color are consistently targeted by sex testing policies designed to exclude intersex people from sports. Another example is that homophobia and transphobia contribute to why intersex bodies are seen as threats that need to be eradicated--society views existing with intersex sex traits as a slippery slope to growing up as a gay or trans adult. Compulsory dyadism is also at the root of a lot of transphobic rhetoric about how transitioning “ruins” people’s bodies. All these forms of oppression are connected.

There are a lot of ways that compulsory dyadism causes intersex people to be targeted and discriminated against. A huge issue is nonconsensual surgeries at birth, that attempt to “normalize” ambiguous genitalia, remove intersex people’s gonads, and otherwise alter genitalia or internal structures. These surgeries are often referred to as intersex genital mutilation, or IGM. These surgeries do not have any medical necessity, but doctors lobby to continue to be allowed to perform them anyway. These surgeries can sterilize intersex people, cause lifelong trauma, and also cause many disabling medical complications. Alongside IGM, intersex people also face a lot of different types of medical abuse.

Besides curative violence and medical abuse, intersex people also face discrimination in our schools, jobs, and public places. We face legal discrimination in changing our names and sex markers. We face discrimination from institutions like CPS, which often target parents, especially people of color, that refuse to put their children through intersex genital mutilation. Many intersex people survive targeted sexual violence. We have a widespread lack of resources, visibility, and representation. Many people still have prejudiced ideas about intersex people and call us slurs. These are just a few examples of the many way that interphobia/intersexism show up in our lives.

9. What is intersex justice?

Intersex justice is a framework created by intersex activists through the Intersex Justice Project as a way to fight for intersex liberation.

“Intersex justice is a decolonizing framework that affirms the labor of intersex people of color fighting for change across social justice movements. By definition, intersex justice affirms bodily integrity and bodily autonomy as the practice of liberation. Intersex justice is intrinsically tied to justice movements that center race, ability, gender identity & expression, migrant status, and access to sexual & reproductive healthcare. Intersex justice articulates a commitment to these movements as central to its intersectional analysis and praxis. Intersex justice acknowledges the trauma caused by medically unnecessary and nonconsensual cosmetic genital surgeries and addresses the culture of shame, silence and stigma surrounding intersex variations that perpetuate further harm.

The marginalization of intersex people is rooted in colonization and white supremacy. Colonization created a taxonomy of human bodies that privileged typical white male and female bodies, prescribing a gender binary that would ultimately harm atypical black and indigenous bodies. As part of a liberation movement, intersex activists challenge not only the medical establishment, which is often the initial site of harm, but also governments, institutions, legal structures, and sociocultural norms that exclude intersex people. Intersex people should be allowed complete and uninhibited access to obtaining identity documents, exercising their birth and adoption rights, receiving unbiased healthcare, and securing education and employment opportunities that are free from harm and harassment.” (Source: Dr. Mel Michelle Lewis through the Intersex Justice Project.)

There are seven principles to intersex justice:

Informed consent

Reparations

Legal protections

Accountability

Language

Children's rights

Patient-centered healthcare

10. What is intergender?

Intergender is a gender identity for use by intersex people only. It doesn’t have one specific definition-it is used by intersex people to mean a whole variety of things. It’s used to describe the unique ways our intersex experience intersects with and influences our gender. Some people use it as a modifying term, such as calling themselves an intergender man or woman, as a way to explain the way being intersex affects their identity. Other people identify solely as intergender, and have that be their whole gender.

11. What is dyadic/perisex/endosex?

All are words that mean “not intersex.” Different groups will have different preferences on which one they like to use.

12. Is hermaphrodite an offensive term?

Yes. It is an incredibly offensive slur that perisex people should never say. Many intersex people have a very painful history with the slur. Some of us reclaim the term, which can be an important act of healing and celebration for us.

12. Can perisex people follow?

Feel free, but understand that questions by intersex people are prioritized! Anyone is welcome to follow.

13. I’m writing a character who’s intersex…

Check out this post: https://trans-axolotl.tumblr.com/post/188153640308/intersex-representation. If you’re writing about intersex people for a paid project, you should pay an intersex person to act as a sensitivity reader before publishing.

Check out our Resources and Intersex Organizations pages as well!

#faq #intersex #actually intersex #actuallyintersex #lgbtqia #intersexism #disability #intersex resources #you can also find this post as one of our pages at intersex.support.tumblr.com/faq

224 notes · View notes