#how do they come to these conclusions

[vinecoveredgarden]

I try to understand the viewpoints of people different to me, because I think it's very important to know how bigotry works so I don't accidentally fall into it myself.

I understand, on some level, how a lot of bigotry works. Racism, sexism, homophbia...but one I can't quite understand is Trans-Inclusive Radical Feminism.

RadFem beliefs are built on the idea that "Man = Bad, Woman = Good", right? And, by extension, TERF (Trans-Exclusive RadFem) is a stance where a Trans Woman is "just a predatory man trying to invade women's spaces". (We're not gonna mention the way they treat trans men because 1: I don't have as much experience learning about that one and 2: It isn't as relevant here).

That's a pretty simple conclusion to make, right? Incorrect, definitely, but simple. If "men are all evil and abusive" is your belief, then "trans women are just men trying to prey on women" is a pretty easy conclusion to come to, I feel.

But TIRF ideology seems a little less simple. To a TIRF, anyone with a penis is evil and predatory and abusive...UNLESS they claim to be trans? Like, if you believe men are all those horrible things, wouldn't you be a little suspicious when a biologically male individual comes up to you and says "But I'm actually a woman, you can trust me!"

Is it like with transmeds and shit where you have to be the "right" kind of trans? Do I have some misunderstanding of the ideology? I don't get where it comes from tbh.

[danandfuckingjonlmao]

cheers lads, you managed to create the WORST first frame of a video in the history of the moving picture 🥳🍾

[zan0tix]

CAN U PLZ DRAW A WEREWOLF JAKE N A VAMPIRE DIRK IF ITS NOT DIFFICULT🙏🙏🙏

BACK TO THE REGULARLY SCHEDULED DIRKJAKE POSTING 🫡

I DONT DO REQUESTS HERE but this was an actually good prompt and something i had ideas for previously anyway :) TY FOR THE ASK

I WILL COME BACK TO THEM. I HAVE ALOT MORE I WANT TO DRAW WITH THIS IDEA THERES SO MUCH COMEDIC POTENTIAL. and my comment from twitter

Thats their meet cute

[knifearo]

i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as a binary i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as a sliding scale of "less" to "more" i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as the only two options i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as significantly different things i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as all encompassing i hate the concept of platonic and romantic as the two halves of a shallow concept of love that doesn't actually encompass anything at all i think we need to overhaul every popular conception about "types" of love so we can talk about things that are real and true for once

[molinaesque]

"Go away. You're too late." "Oh, it's a hell of a place. It says something about the late Marcus that he found imprisoning your sister to be a greater mercy than killing her." "Killing isn't mercy." Silco chuckles. " A spark of rebellion still burns inside that husk, I see. No... killing is a cycle. One that started long before Vander and me. And it will continue long after the two of you." "I'm done running in circles." "We build our own prisons. Bars forged of oaths, codes, commitments. Walls of self-doubt and accepted limitation. We inhabit these cells, these identities, and call them "us." I thought I could break free by eliminating those I deemed my jailors. But... Jinx... I think the cycle only ends when you find the will to walk away."

[dukeofthomas]

"Jason just needs to see things from his family's perspective and understand how much they love him (despite them never actually communicating or showing him through their actions)" is out. "The batfamily putting a single bit of effort into understanding Jason and reconciling with him on his own terms" is in.

[eddiediazenjoyer]

everything else ASIDE it is truly so so . strange. that the way that an arc about buck being so jealous and fast to get upset at the notion of being left behind that he reacts with violence against somebody that he loves . is wrapped up by. him getting a boyfriend. like it’s wrapped up by him getting a boyfriend who was the third person in that situation that served only as a catalyst for bucks jealousy. and the conclusion to this arc is him dating this person. instead of meaningfully addressing his issues with rejection and the danger of them to those around him. instead of apologizing to the person he hurt. it’s resolved by. he had a crush the whole time. STRANGEEEEEEE

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

come get yer Laughin'stock! get it hot off the press! free Laughin'stock right here!

[claitea]

i've had these scenarios written down since volo's debut in pokemon masters and i just really wanted to scribble them down and finally release them

[dailyloopdeloop]

DAY 71: shy

[curufiin]

Okay i am pissed enough about this:

MIRIEL WANTS TO BE LEFT THE FUCK ALONE IN MANDOS.

edit: read my bloody reblogs and comments before you make an opinion bc i am not repeating “how is any of this Indis’ fault actually” again

NOTHING Finwë could’ve said and done would’ve changed her mind. and to people who say “he should’ve waited for her”, HE FUCKING DID.

But in the bearing of her son Míriel was consumed in spirit and body; and after his birth she yearned for release from the labour of living. (all of the following are from Of Fëanor and the Unchaining of Melkor)

Then Finwë was grieved, for the Noldor were in the youth of their days, and he desired to bring forth many children into the bliss of Aman; and he said: ‘Surely there is healing in Aman? Here all weariness can find rest.’

Manwë delivered her to the care of Irmo in Lórien. At their parting (for a little while as he thought) Finwë was sad, for it seemed an unhappy chance that the mother should depart and miss the beginning at least of the childhood days of her son.

The maidens of Estë tended the body of Míriel, and it remained unwithered; but she did not return. Then Finwë lived in sorrow; and he went often to the gardens of Lórien, and sitting beneath the silver willows beside the body of his wife he called her by her names. But it was unavailing; and alone in all the Blessed Realm he was deprived of joy. After a while he went to Lórien no more.

Now it came to pass that Finwë took as his second wife Indis the Fair. She was a Vanya, close kin of Ingwë the High King, golden-haired and tall, and in all ways unlike Míriel. Finwë loved her greatly, and was glad again. But the shadow of Míriel did not depart from the house of Finwë, nor from his heart.

But the children of Indis were great and glorious, and their children also; and if they had not lived the history of the Eldar would have been diminished.

From Peoples of Middle Earth:

points that may explain the conduct of Feanor are here recalled. Miriel's death was of free will: she forsook her body and her fea went to the Halls of Waiting, while her body lay as if asleep in a garden. She said that she was weary in body and spirit and desired peace.

Her weariness she had endured until he was full grown, but she could endure it no longer. (If you want to come at me with some drafts quote bs, right back at you. Here she raised Feanor to adulthood.)

But Miriel was reluctant, and to all the pleas of her husband and her kin that were reported to her, and to the solemn counsels of the Valar, she would say no more than 'not yet'. Each time that she was approached she became more fixed in her determination, until at last she would listen no more, saying only: 'I desire peace. Leave me in peace here! I will not return. That is my will.'

When it became clear at last that Miriel would never of her own will return to life in the body within any span of time that could give him hope, Finwe's sorrow became embittered.

It was judged that Finwe's bereavement was unjust, and by persisting in her refusal to return Miriel had forfeited all rights that she had in the case; for either she was now capable of accepting the healing of her body by the Valar, or else her fea was mortally sick and beyond their power, and she was indeed 'dead', no longer capable of becoming again a living member of the kindred of the Eldar.

Death by free will, such as Miriel's, was beyond his thought. Death by violence he thought impossible in Aman; though as is recorded in The Silmarillion this proved otherwise.

From Morgoth’s ring:

But since it is not to be thought that the living shall, by his or her will alone, confine the spirit of the other to Mandos, this disunion shall come to pass only by the consent of both. And after the giving of the consent ten years of the Valar shall pass ere Mandos confirms it. Within that time either party may revoke this consent; but when Mandos has confirmed it, and the living spouse has wedded another, it shall be irrevocable until the end of Arda. This is the doom of Namo in this matter.'

It is said that Miriel answered Mandos saying: 'I came hither to escape from the body, and I do not desire ever to return to it'; and after ten years the doom of disunion was spoken.

It is said that Miriel answered Mandos, saying: 'I came hither to escape from the body, and I do not desire ever to return to it. My life is gone out into Feanaro, my son. This gift I have given to him whom I loved, and I can give no more. Beyond Arda this may be healed, but not within it.'

Then Mandos adjudged her innocent, deeming that she had died under a necessity too great for her to withstand. Therefore her choice was permitted, and she was left in peace.

Ulmo actually says that had Finwë waited longer, Miriel mightve returned, to which Vairë literally immediately responds with

'Nay!' said Vaire suddenly. 'The fea of Miriel is with me. I know it well, for it is small. But it is strong; proud and obdurate. It is of that sort who having said: this I will do, make their words a doom irrevocable unto themselves. She will not return to life, or to Finwe, even if he waiteth until the ageing of the world. Of this he is aware, I deem, as his words show. For he did not found his claim on his desire for children only, but he said to the King: my heart warns me that Miriel will not return while Arda lasts…

I can’t be bothered to find more but seriously. This isn’t even about Finwë or Míriel or Indis anymore, is it. This is about all of you demonizing and chastising a woman for daring not to be the perfect mother, blaming another person’s FREE DECISION on her, and then turning around and getting defensive when people call you misogynist.

And the way you guys talk about Míriel too borders on involuntary confinement as well. Míriel was absolutely miserable on Arda, and she found peace again in death (which cannot be compared to human death because we cease to exist when we commit suicide. Elves do not. So elven death is more akin to returning to some faraway home where you are still existing in the world than poof, gone.), but you guys seem to so want her to be forced to stay in a place that she hates because… oh no! Her child would be affected! That’s fucking ridiculous. Míriel should be allowed to choose what she believes is best for her, and y’all need to stop blaming it on Indis or Finwë because this is not the moral high ground you think it is.

Stop demonizing women in media because they dare do something that your favorite blorbo dislikes. You are part of the problem.

[papakhan]

little thing about Sun, advice he's had from other people in his life about other things, and his conflict about Lanius

[chappellrroan]

"Good Luck, Babe!"

Catchy melody, but holy biphobia and narcissism, batman, you don't get to decide the sexuality of your ex lovers.

is this the first song of your life?

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.

[caeslxys]

I’ve mentioned this elsewhere but it feels relevant again in light of the most recent episode. Something that’s really fascinating to me about Orym’s grief in comparison to the rest of the hells’ grief is that his is the youngest/most fresh and because of that tends to be the most volatile when it is triggered (aside from FCG, who was two and obviously The Most volatile when triggered.)

As in: prior to the attack on Zephrah, Orym was leading a normal, happy, casual life! with family who loved him and still do! Grief was something that was inflicted upon him via Ludinus’ machinations, whereas with characters like Imogen or Ashton, grief has been the background tapestry of their entire lives. And I think that shows in how the rest of them are largely able to, if not see past completely (Imogen/Laudna/Chetney) then at least temper/direct their vitriol or grief (Ashton/Fearne/Chetney again) to where it is most effective. (There is a glaring reason, for example, that Imogen scolded Orym for the way he reacted to Liliana and not Ashton. Because Ashton’s anger was directed in a way that was ultimately protective of Imogen—most effective—and Orym’s was founded solely in his personal grief.)

He wants Imogen to have her mom and he wants Lilliana to be salvageable for Imogen because he loves Imogen. But his love for the people in his present actively and consistently tend to conflict with the love he has for the people in his past. They are in a constant battle and Orym—he cannot fathom losing either of them.

(Or, to that point, recognize that allowing empathy to take root in him for the enemy isn't losing one of them.)

It is deeply poignant, then, that Orym’s grief is symbolized by both a sword and shield. It is something he wields as a blade when he feels his philosophy being threatened by certain conversational threads (as he believes it is one of the only things he has left of Will and Derrig, and is therefore desperately clinging onto with both bloody hands even if it makes him, occasionally, a hypocrite), but also something he can use in defense of the people he presently loves—if that provocative, blade-grief side of him does not push them—or himself—away first.

(it won’t—he is as loved by the hells as he loves them. he just needs to—as laudna so beautifully said—say and hear it more often.)

[mean-scarlet-deceiver]

"The Deputation" is a stupid title. It shoulda been called "Percy Has To Do Bloody Everything Around Here."