#there are absolutely differences in our treatment and our needs but a lot of it boils down to the same shit.

[spitblaze]

gnc and butch women (cis AND trans) and transmascs are punished for performing masculinity past certain thresholds of arbitrary attractiveness because people that cishet society categorizes or clocks as 'women' are not supposed to perform masculinity. hope this helps 👍

[sizzlingsandwichperfection-blog]

A Big TB Announcement

Greetings from Washington D.C., where I spent the morning meeting with senators before joining a panel that included TB survivor Shaka Brown, Dr. Phil LoBue of the CDC, and Dr. Atul Gawande of USAID. Dr. Gawande announced a major new project to bring truly comprehensive tuberculosis care to regions in Ethiopia and the Philippines. Over the next four years, this project can bring over $80,000,000 in new money to fight TB in these two high-burden countries.

Our family is committing an additional $1,000,000 a year to help fund the project in the Philippines, which has the fourth highest burden of tuberculosis globally.

Here’s how it breaks down: The Department of Health in the Philippines has made TB reduction a major priority and has provided $11,000,0000 per year in matching funds to go alongside $10,000,000 contributed by USAID and an additional $1,000,000 donated by us. This $22,000,000 per year will fund everything from X-Ray machines, medications, and GeneXpert tests to training and employing a huge surge of community health workers, nurses, and doctors who are calling themselves TB Warriors. In an area that includes nearly 3,000,000 people, these TB Warriors will screen for TB, identify cases, provide curative treatment, and offer preventative therapy to close contacts of the ill. We know this Search-Treat-Prevent model is the key to ending tuberculosis, but we hope this project will be both a beacon and a blueprint to show that It’s possible to radically reduce the burden of TB in communities quickly and permanently. It will also, we believe, save many, many lives.

—

I believe we can’t end TB without these kinds of public/private partnerships. After all, that’s how we ended smallpox and radically reduced the global burden of polio. It’s also how we’ve driven down death from malaria and HIV. For too long, TB hasn’t had the kind of government or private support needed to accelerate the fight against the disease, but I really hope that’s starting to change. I’m grateful to USAID for spearheading this project, and also to the Philippine Ministry of Health for showing such commitment and prioritizing TB.

—

One reason this project is even possible: Both the cost of diagnosis (through GeneXpert tests) and the cost of treatment with bedaquiline are far lower than they were a year ago, and that is due to public pressure campaigns, many of which were organized by nerdfighteria. I’m not asking you for money (yet); Hank and I will be funding this in partnership with a few people in nerdfighteria who are making major gifts. But I am asking you to continue pressuring the corporations that profit from the world’s poorest people to lower their prices. I’ve seen some of the budgets, and it’s absolutely jaw-dropping how many more tests and pills are available because of what you’ve done as a community.

—

I don’t yet have the details on which region of the Philippines we’ll be working in, but it will be an area that includes millions of people–perhaps as many as 3 million. And it will include urban, suburban, and rural areas to see the different responses needed to provide comprehensive care in different communities. This will not (to start!) be a nationwide campaign, because even though $80,000,000 is a lot of money, it’s not enough to fund comprehensive care in a nation as large as the Philippines. But we hope that it will serve as a model–to the nation, to the region, and to the world–of what’s possible. 

—

I’m really excited (and grateful) that our community gets to have a front-row seat to see the challenges and hopefully the successes of implementing comprehensive care. Just in the planning, this project has involved so many contributors–NGOs in the Philippines, global organizations like the Partners in Health community, USAID, the national Ministry of Health in the Philippines, and regional health authorities as well. There are a lot of partners here, but they’ve been working together extremely well over the last few months to plan for this project, which will start more or less immediately thanks to their incredibly hard work.

[darkcircles4lyfe]

it's a story about hands (reprise)

Yeah, okay, today's the day.

I gave my blog that title for a reason, you know, and it has loomed over me for years because the hand motif is absolutely everywhere and you could go on about it forever.

Maybe that's something I'll never actually attempt to do, but this chapter, we reached a breaking point.

Before I continue, I need to give a big, big disclaimer: I do not have a physical disability, so I'm not able to speak about that from the standpoint of representation as a first-hand perspective. I have at least listened to enough disabled people to know that fictional characters who become amputees only to miraculously gain their limbs back is, um, a trope. Disabled people in general being "healed" is a conception we would really prefer to avoid here. Not to call people out, but I don't think we're giving enough space to acknowledge that.

I don’t feel comfortable making the judgement call about what should happen. I’m leaving that open. I also don't want to downplay people's emotional reactions. Honestly, I don't know if I can accurately define the line between acknowledging real pain vs. ableist pity. But I’d like to talk about the possibilities of what could happen. Other characters have definitely gotten permanent disabilities as a result of their hero work, or even just the side effects of their quirk. But, for better or worse, I don't think this case is really about representation. Not that Horikoshi won't do that justice. He might. What I'm saying is that's not his purpose for having Izuku lose his arms. It's meant to be symbolic, so we can explore what it means. The other thing I’m keeping in mind here is that Horikoshi is notorious for playing with our expectations, like, alllllll the time. I mean, just take a few chapters ago for a classic example. Eri appeared at the end, and we all assumed she was about to take some sort of action to save someone with her quirk. Then, immediately following, we were given an explanation for why that wouldn’t be happening. And now it’s clear he wanted to do that “fake out” not just as a silly cliffhanger prank, but specifically so we would know not to suspect that Eri could be the miraculous solution to Izuku’s loss of his arms. Rest assured, there is no easy way out of this.

The expectation at play in this particular instance is an old one. It’s very understated, but its subtext has burned so brightly, you’d be a fool not to notice it. It sits with anticipation like one half of a call and response. Man, I was so certain. Lots of people still are. I was really looking forward to printing the panel where it happened onto a t shirt and wearing it proudly. All the hand motifs in this story radiate thematically from a single moment, the one that started it all for Izuku.

It raises all kinds of questions about the act of saving, who needs saving, why, what does it mean, what are the dynamics of power, politics, honesty, exploitation, compassion, pity, disdain, sacrifice. Katsuki has dealt with many of these since he first rejected Izuku’s hand. While Izuku was the one who was convinced Katsuki would keep on rejecting him…

…Katsuki was the one who kept that moment in his mind all these years and eventually came to regret it.

Katsuki is the one yearning for that hand-hold, the one who has imbued it with so much more weight than it ever originally had. Izuku, in contrast, does not allow himself to dwell on what he wants. To illustrate this difference, we need to look at another piece of foreshadowing:

Ugh, do y'all remember when lots of folks were complaining about how there never seemed to be actual consequences for Izuku's destructive treatment of his own body? I don't blame them, I was concerned and confused about it too. There were several "fixes" along the way. Recovery Girl healed him, but left a physical reminder. Then he started training to fight with his legs… sometimes. Then he got support items. All of these were unsatisfying non-conclusions because they didn't present Izuku with a lasting enough impression to change in a meaningful way. They didn't address his core, his origin.

Of course, that all changed this chapter. Now it looks like our frustration was inflicted intentionally. With the current context in mind, all of these moments look more sinister, like this day was always gonna come because they kept putting bandaids on a deep emotional and psychological wound. The problem is pretty much spelled out for us here:

As Katsuki put it, he just doesn’t take himself into account, ya know? He doesn’t care what happens to him. And he lies about it, to keep others from worrying, to keep them safe. To keep them from returning the favor and putting themselves in harm’s way for his sake. His motivations are noble,

…but what about the little boy inside Izuku? Who saves him?

This is all about Izuku giving himself up to the point that he literally has no more to give. The thing is, I bet he saw this coming. He knew his limits and decided to keep going anyway, because his personal safety and wellbeing are not important. Now that way of thinking has come back to bite him because the fight isn’t over yet, and he’s already made his sacrifice. So now we know who will be more distraught over this. Not Izuku—Katsuki.

It’s not about Izuku becoming disabled, it’s about how Katsuki wanted to use the intertwining of their fingers to communicate that he would never let go. Never stop valuing him most. Never let himself make the mistake of rejecting him again. Never let Izuku be so reckless with his life. To say: “we are in this together.”…if only Katsuki believed he deserved to be able to say such things. To reach out his hand would have been the ultimate way to simply imply them and let Izuku be the one to decide. Then, to feel their hands clasped together would be more than either of them dared hope for, but so beautiful, so right. A moment they’ve waited their whole lives for.

Yeah. That’s what we were expecting. We’ve been so comfortable. Horikoshi gave us all the signs. He tempted and teased us over and over. BUT. You know he does this thing were he gives us a desirable, completely plausible and simple thing to look forward to, and then he snatches it away. And THEN he replaces it with something much better, something we were not expecting at all because it seemed too good to be true. That’s exactly what happened when Himiko snatched Izuku away, and we were robbed of the chance to see him and Katsuki fight together. In hindsight, though, I’m glad things went a different way because now there’s so much more depth and angst on display. Likewise, in the present moment, we may consider how, as one door closes, another opens.

As wonderfully meaningful as the hand-hold would have been, perhaps it is still too simple a resolution for Izuku, for his and Katsuki’s relationship. Tbh, it could have been done like 100 chapter ago. At this point, there’s so much more potential. There are a couple of ways it could go. If Izuku stays armless, Katsuki will be forced to use other methods to get his point across. He’ll have to do something else, or say what he means, or both. Yes, I’m talking about what you think I’m talking about. If I say it, I just might jinx it (lol), but I mean it. I’m being serious. Either way, if Izuku did get his arms back in the end, I’m sure that it wouldn’t be an easy fix. It would be hard-won against Izuku’s self-destructive mindset, and/or by Katsuki’s conviction. Again, I say this knowing it is not meant so much as a representation of disability, but as a representation of Izuku’s greatest character flaw taken to the extreme. I know this might sound harsh, like, hasn’t he been through enough? I get that, but… I’ve said it before and I say it again: Izuku is stubborn as hell.

I wish I had a resounding final note to end this on, but I kinda don’t. I’m not sure what’s best. Now we just have to wait and see what Horikoshi has in mind.

[atimeofyourlife]

Cats know best

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt: meet cute at work | rated: g | wc: 930 | cw: mention of animal injury and amputation | tags: pre steddie Steve is a vet tech, Eddie brings in his injured cat, who instantly falls in love with Steve.

Steve had always loved his job as a vet tech. Sure, there were the hard times when there was nothing else to be done to help an animal. But it always felt so rewarding when he knew he had made a difference in an animals life, and in the families lives. And everyday was so different, it always kept him on his toes.

He could hear the cat yowling long before he'd even walked into the room. He'd been asked to take this cat, Sabbath, for x-rays on a suspected broken leg, and the vet had warned him that the cat had hissed and swiped at her repeatedly during her examination. He entered the examination room, and on the table was a tiny, but incredibly fluffy black cat.

"This is Steve, one of our vet techs, he's just going to take Sabbath along to get those x-rays done." The vet said to Sabbath's owner.

"Hi," Steve nodded to the man, before slowly approaching the cat, with his hand outstretched for her to sniff and get used to him before he took her away. "Hi, Sabbath. Are you going to let me take you for the x-rays?"

Sabbath sniffed Steve's fingers, then, surprising everyone, rubbed against them, a loud purr filling the room. Steve scratched her ears a little. "Aren't you just the sweetest thing?"

"She never lets most people touch her. She just screams and hisses at them. And I think she's only purred for me once." Her owner, a man with long dark hair, said, sounding surprised.

"Some cats are like that. They only like very few people." The vet replied as Steve loaded Sabbath into a carrier and left the room.

Taking the x-rays was much easier than with most cats. Sabbath didn't wriggle or squirm on the table, staying exactly in the position Steve put her in, and purring every time Steve moved her. While he worked, he thought about what the owner had said. If she was really that bad with most people, he knew he would end up doing a lot of her care, but he didn't mind because she was so cute. After he was done, he popped her back in the carrier, and headed back to the room so the vet could decide the right treatment.

Sabbath's leg was broken, and pretty badly at that. So, it was agreed that amputation was the best route to take, and would be performed first thing the following morning. And, it didn't take long for her to prove that her owner's words were true. In just a few minutes, Steve saw her hiss and swipe at five other members of staff, managing to scratch one. He tried to stay close, so he could comfort or distract her as others continued to work.

"I think she needs a note on her kennel to leave all her care for you." Another tech said as Steve moved Sabbath into a kennel after administering the prescribed pain meds.

"I guess she's chosen me." Steve replied as he placed her in the bed and rubbed her ears, getting a soft purr in return.

Over the several days Sabbath had to stay in for observations, Steve ended up being pretty much her sole carer, as she would hiss at anyone else that got near her kennel. At day two after her amputation, she was making little hops so she could rub her head against Steve's face any time he opened the door. At day four, she was trying to climb onto his shoulder. Purring and chirping at him the entire time while he was trying to feed her, or clean the litter box, or administer the next dose of medication.

"I'm gonna miss you when you're gone." He said as he lifted her out of the kennel, her snuggling into his arms instantly. He was at the end of his shift, and she was scheduled to go home the next afternoon. He never normally got so attached to patients, but he had absolutely fallen in love with Sabbath. If she didn't have an owner, he would have looked into adopting her. He stroked her back and kissed her head before putting her back in her bed.

The day had come for Sabbath to go home. The vet had already gone into the consultation room, giving the owner the instructions for the care. Steve had the task of taking her through. He tried to put her in a carrier, but she struggled to stay in his arms, so he gave up and held her close, carrying the carrier with his free hand. He went to place her on the table, but she dragged herself up to his shoulder and purred in his ear.

"Uh, as you can see, she has really taken to Steve." The vet said.

"She's got good taste." The owner replied. "I- uh."

"I. It's fine." Steve said, moving closer to him, crouching down to try and get the cat off his shoulder. "Come on, don't you want to see your dad?"

Sabbath finally hopped down into her owners lap, but when Steve tried to move away, she stuck her claws into his scrub pants, holding on so he couldn't move.

"I think she's trying to tell us something. I'm Eddie." The owner- Eddie- said, trying to unhook Sabbath's paw.

"Steve. And I would definitely agree with that."

By the time Sabbath had to come back in for a check up and to have her stitches removed, Steve had become much more acquainted with her. And with her handsome owner.

[kairiscorner]

I'm the anon talking about that silent treatment. Yeah, it's for our Miguelito. Lol sorry that I forgot to mention him. I'm so sleepy when I put that ask haha.

SLAY !!! as a talkative little shit i LOVE this idea OEKSNSJLAKFIFKWNDNS

not another peep. — miguel o'hara x talkative!reader

original request: Anway, I am thinking about him getting a silent treatment from his talkative and slightly annoying s/o because he lashes out on them and told them to 'shut the fuck up' and they instantly went silent for the whole three days and it's killing him that he doesn't hear their excited voice for couple of days now.

you couldn't help that your pretty little mouth had a lot to say and ramble about–it wasn't your fault that you had so much to say and had a lot of excitement in you that made you want to share everything with everybody–especially your closest friend, miguel o'hara. though, miguel... is not the most patient friend you have–and it showed when he told you in a low whisper, "shut the shock up," and clenched his fist. a small vein popped up on his right temple, and he didn't even look at you when he said that. you knew miguel wasn't the best with words and that, underneath the mean, cold words he says–he doesn't mean most of them in the way you'd initially think; but to hear miguel, your closest friend for... ever, it stung. it stung badly.

you left his office without another word, you were good at leaving without a trace when you understood the point that you weren't needed, that nobody wanted to hear you blab on and on and on. after a few hours, miguel's head cooled down–he was just being overworked again and needed some alone time. now, he craved to be close to you again, but he would never out himself like that for feeling so fond about you, hence, he waited for you all day to come into his office to chat with him about the exciting, boring, ordinary and exemplary parts of your day all at once to him. but... you never came, you never stopped by to have dinner with him, and you never called him to talk all throughout the night like you two usually do. it... didn't feel right, but miguel figured that you needed space like he did, earlier–unaware about the words he muttered earlier being heard by you, not thinking that was the reason why you were suddenly silent all day and never uttered a peep to him.

miguel woke up the next morning to an eerily quiet room, usually, his alarm would be his phone's notifications going off with texts or calls from you greeting him a good morning and just hearing your voice first thing in the morning. though today, the only notifications he got were about the weather and the temperature today, absolutely nothing–not a word–from you. it was a bit unnerving for miguel that, for the rest of the day, everything felt so... quiet, too quiet. he'd constantly ask lyla randomly to check on you, and she'd report you'd be absolutely fine, physically, but he couldn't know for himself because whenever he'd glance at you from across where he was standing, you always felt so out of it. you were a lot less expressive, cheery, and just overall dull in a way; your shine and brightness was replaced with a monotonous and monochromatic aura that rivaled that of spider noir—who was also extremely concerned for you and tried to talk to you, but you didn't quite feel nor act like you, you felt so... different, and miguel was aching to figure out what was wrong and help you in any way he could.

a few hours of your silence and not visiting his office nor him personally to just be with him and talk soon turned into days of not talking to nor seeing him—and it made miguel grow fearful and worried over what was wrong. he'd ask your friends and fellow coworkers around if something was up, but they'd all say you were okay for the most part, it's just whenever miguel was around, you'd suddenly shut up and shy away as if you were hesitant to talk or speak anymore. this stung miguel involuntarily because he feared... he was the reason you were like this, and he desperately wanted to hear your lovely voice fill in the deafening silence he couldn't stand hearing anymore. you and your voice were the only ones keeping him grounded, sane, and happy; and he missed you, so, so much–he couldn't stand another day without hearing you speak another word to him.

miguel assigned himself to be your partner for every mission, and unlike the usual dynamic between you two, he was the talkative one that tried to get you to cheer up and apologize to you, while you were the quiet, emotionless one that merely listened to him and let him talk. everyone else found it quite strange, even asking miguel if he was okay, which he'd snap at and claim he was 'just peachy' and run off to you and try to apologize and treat you to the stuff and food you liked to try and show just how much he was sorry, that he missed and love you dearly. but no matter what he tried... you wouldn't utter a word to him. miguel didn't know what to do at this point, he was yearning to hear your lovely voice speak to him, at least one more time–just one more time, and he wouldn't ask for anything anymore.

but when he was about to tell you just that, that he loved you, he was sorry, that he missed hearing your voice for the final time before resigning himself to a lifetime of silence and solitude–away from you and your delightful, excited voice–you handed him a batch of cookies you made. "for... you." you uttered, and for the first time in what seemed like three whole days without talking to him, you finally spoke to him, to him–to miguel himself, nobody else, just him. miguel felt his knees get all shaky and his eyes growing wide, his lower lip quivering as he looked at you looking away from him and handing him the cookies. "...what?" "cookies, for you." you uttered again, and with that, miguel wrapped his arms around you and muttered in spanish just how much he missed you, loved you and hearing you speak, hoping that you'd never stop talking to him ever again because... oh, he'd go insane without you. "mi vida... i'm sorry, i'm so, so sorry! please, never shut up around me, do that and i... oh, mi cielo, never, ever, ever leave me alone in silence ever again..." he pleaded with you as he hugged you tightly, forgetting the cookies and just absorbing the fact that you finally spoke to him. you sighed and hugged him back softly, leaning into the crook of his neck. "you're so dramatic..." "...sorry, i just... i really missed you..." "...i mean, maybe i was, too, but... i don't want you to be burdened with my mouth that never shuts up." "it's never a burden to hear you talk, mi amor, it's a damn gift; i'm honored to be the first person every morning to hear you speak, and the last person you speak to at night–please, never, ever stop talking around me, i love... i love you." he muttered as you ran your hand through his hair, feeling your face heat up at his words as he hugged you even tighter.

you two ate the cookies you made for him together and just... talked, talked about any and everything, the little stuff, the big stuff, the in-between stuff that not everyone notices–the everyday things that you and miguel never realized you both missed from each other until you two didn't get to properly spend time together nor speak to each other. miguel knows for sure now that your voice and words keep him going, keep him motivated keep him... happy. and as long as you're here with him, as long as you're speaking your mind and heart out to him, he can't care about anything else in the multiverse; you're all that's right with the multiverse, and miguel couldn't ask for anything more or less than just all of you and your talkative, imaginative, excited self.

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @hearts4gabri @hisachuu @wreakingmarveloushavok @fictarian @yuridopted0 @simsrandomstuff @luvstarrstruck @popeheywardssecretgf @meeom @arachnoia @melovetitties @fable-library @ophanimgold @smokeywhalee @capnshtfce

[nozunhinged]

I finally managed to put my overall thoughts about Playboyy into words and hoooooo boy do I have a lot to say.

I watched the mdl ratings go down, the blatant hate towards the plot, the actors, the scenes, the sex. There was nothing that wasn't torn apart about this series and yet I wasn't phased for a second and I kept wondering why because usually get very passionate about defending the things I love.

And then I realized that this series is the cinematic embodiment of a very lonely path that I've been walking for decades and I am already very, very used to the shame around it.

Sex is not just my special interest, I also had the privilege to grow up with excellent sex education (thanks parents) and on top of that I never struggled with my (pan)sexual identity. Sex plays a significant role in my life. But I learned VERY quickly that I should keep this to myself if I don't want to be ostracized or bullied.

"You're autistic AND you like sex? You like porn? What the fuck is wrong with you??? That's impossible."

And all the comments I read about playboyy are exactly the same just in different fonts. Ew sex. Ew kink. Ew porn. Ew sex work. Sex can't have storytelling, plot, it's just for shock value. We all read it.

And sadly it's a very accurate representation of the role sex plays in our society. Which - ironically - playboyy exactly is about.

Playboyy is a visual collection of all the experiences of lives and people in which sex plays a significant role - even the lack thereof (looking at you zouey and all you lovely aces).

It's a collection of very important social commentary, with all the characters, sets, plots and visuals as a medium. Because this way, the points they make come across even stronger and draw out all the emotions they want us to feel - which is in the rarest cases, pure arousal. Because this is, in fact, storytelling. Even if many don't want to hear it.

Telling stories about sex is so stigmatized and shunned, it only has the tiniest place to exist freely. Just like sex itself. Every sex worker, sex educator, sex therapist, everyone who has a profession that deals with sex will tell you about it. The shame. The misunderstanding. Look at the state of sex work and porn in the world. It tells you everything you need to know.

And it's happening in the middle of the "modern" western society - Yes I'm talking about you, UK and I can't not plug this here:

*btw I am not a sex worker I'm just very passionate about letting people not just live their lives but giving them a CHOICE to do what they want or don't want to do

I existed in this tiny place for decades now and I got really comfortable in my tiny lil corner, but to see a show like this go "mainstream" talking about all the topics that tickle all the knowledge I collected over the years feels so amazing. And I can tell you, all you lil smartass purists, everyone involved in this show doesn't care an inch what you think, just like me. We're used to it, believe me.

I could go on for ages about how carefully all these topics of the show are treated but what I actually want to say is that I find it incredibly ironic that a show that depicts the struggles and stigmas about sex, exactly draws out the reactions and treatments it criticises.

If you don't want to join in on the fun, that's totally fine. I get that it's not for everyone (just like sex, he). But treating it as a piece of trash just because it's a thing you personally find icky is exactly the reason the issues Playboyy talks about exist in the first place. Hence you can thank your stuck-up ass yourself that debauched individuals like me get a gem like this to enjoy.

And the fact that it didn't just find a crew, but also the funding and the mainstream distribution proves that I'm not alone in this.

It's not my lonely little corner anymore and I'm absolutely thriving on that. Cry about it.

[daydreamgoddess14]

Red Card

MASTERLIST

Roy Kent x F!Reader

It's the first time in 135 years that the Premier League has allowed a female referee to official a match... Remaining neutral is absolutely key. Plenty of fluff and smut and flirting 😏

The anticipation was at a whole different level. For the first time in history, a woman would referee a Premier League football game. The FA had played a blinder from a marketing perspective - a local girl from Richmond itself - refereeing a Richmond vs. Man City match - the top two finishing teams of the previous season. Sky Sports, BT Sport, Match of the Day, ESPN… every single football broadcaster or news outlet was on site. It couldn’t get any more high profile. It had been all anyone had talked about for weeks on end. Roy was sick of hearing about it, talking about it, and reading about it.

“New Trent?”

“What do you think about a woma-”

“Reffing the next match? It’s about fucking time. Should have been done years ago. The league might be saying all the right things and making a big deal out of it, but it’s only disguising the fact that they haven’t bothered utilising female referees until now.”

“And what do you think of the referee chosen for the match?”

“Did I offer you a fucking follow up, New Trent? She’s a fantastic ref, and has a great eye. I’ve seen her run some lower league matches and it’s high time she had a role in the Prem.” He looked around for his next victim, “You with the… bald spot?”

“And will you be saying the same thing if she books one of the lads next week or a decision doesn’t go your way?”

“Course I fucking will. I don’t suddenly change my opinion of any of the other refs? We’ve all got jobs to do and roles to play. I don’t think we can ask for anything more than for any of the referees to be fair and equal. I don’t give a shit who we’re on about, that applies to all of them.” He looks around for any other burning questions, “Right, fuck off then you lot. I’m done for the day.” He rose from the desk and left the bustle of the press conference. In the office, Beard and Nate were looking over plans for the next week while the team milled around the gym and treatment rooms.

“Tough presser?” Beard asked.

“No more than fucking usual. All anyone is talking about is the new-”

“Female ref? The news is everywhere. As if the match wasn’t high profile enough as it is.” Nate filled in, a bundle of nervous energy.

“Yeah, well we’ll be fine. Just gotta make sure the boys keep their heads down. The new ref isn’t their problem, they don’t need to even be thinking about that.”

“But they will, because that’s all they’re hearing about. We haven’t had this much press coverage for ages, the match sold out months ago. They may not have to think about her, but the whole situation does impact their whole build up to the game.” Beard declared.

“Right, get ‘em in here.” Roy grimaced. Nate dashed off to assemble the team. “Alright lads?” There were a few murmurs and replies. “I know there’s a lot of noise around this one - some of it is to do with us and the City game, some of it is none of our business. I suggest you steer clear of the news for a few fucking days. There’s no need to watch it at all. No Twatter or whatever you fucking use. Just stay off that shit for the rest of the week, yeah? Any news you need, you hear from us. I want to keep the positivity we’ve got for the new ref, so if you’re asked about it by the paps on the car park, be fucking nice. Otherwise, you don’t watch or listen to all of the fucking fuss about the weekend, alright?”

“Coach.” Isaac nodded in agreement, the other players followed his lead.

~~~~~~~

The noise was deafening, the stadium packed to the rafters. You hovered at the side of the pitch with the other officials, warming up until it was time for the meet and greet of the team managers. The two managers were like fucking titans of football royalty. You were about to meet Pep Guardiola for god sake. And if you even think for one second about meeting Roy Kent, you might just pee your pants. Pep is great, wonderful - the boss! But you grew up not twenty minutes down the road, so Roy is firstly, the literal definition of local hero, and secondly, the big crush of your early 20s. You spent many Euro Championships and World Cups in the pub singing his chant and ogling his legs. Fortunately when the Premier League and media ask about your neutrality, they don’t ask whether you’ve experienced sexual fantasies about any of the players or managers. At least you’d only be admitting that about one person and not, like, a whole team. And you would never admit it publicly. The home crowd roars as the Richmond team is announced, you make your way to the space between the two dugouts ready to greet the players. They all shake your hand as they pass you, with a few nods of encouragement and words of support. The same applies to the Man City team, you’re determined not to be starstruck in front of Pep Guardiola so you shake his hand with a big smile and wish his team luck. You turn to Roy Kent and his large hang engulfs yours. You whack on your big smile and offer the same affirmation as you did to Pep. On the pitch, you speak momentarily with the two captains and blow your whistle for go time. 

The trouble with Premier League football is just that, it's Premier League. Top flight. The best of the best. Keeping pace with these players was a job in itself, being in the action without impacting it or getting in the way was another, and being the all seeing, all knowing one was… yet another. Your mind (and body) are pulled from goalpost to goalpost, and it's really no surprise that the referee is often blamed for poor decisions. It's impossible to see every single thing that happens on the pitch. You're making good decisions so far, nothing out of the ordinary. Shortly before halftime, one of the Richmond defenders nearly dislocates his shoulder, going in hard on Haaland. It feels cruel to punish him, but it's part of the job, so you have to award Man City the free kick. From the other side of the pitch, you can hear Roy Kent over the sound of 60,000 people screaming the same thing. Haaland scores, of course. You hang back while the teams leave the pitch at halftime, but he's waiting for you in the tunnel. 

"The fuck did you give a free kick for?!"

"You shouldn't be collaring me out here, but to answer your question, the tackle was too much."

"Bullshit, it was a fair tackle and McAdoo would have hurt himself more than Haaland."

"Bullshit. Haaland has got about 5 inches and half a stone on McAdoo."

"5 inches is fucking nothing." He smirks.

"Really?” You arch an eyebrow at him, “did you seriously choose today to make a dick joke?" Utter disbelief is written all over your face, you shake your head and leave him cursing himself in the tunnel. Halftime was supposed to be a moment to catch your breath, not waste it on fighting with Roy Kent. You knew better than to get into it with managers. They saw the action from the sidelines and only had so much impact and influence. They took their lack of control out on officials all the time, it was supposed to be your job to stay calm and walk away, not engage. You ignore him on your way back to the pitch, he's just inside the exit of the tunnel and he could be there to apologise but he could very much be there to shout at you some more. The second half is just as eventful, Richmond are pushing hard for at least an equaliser, and Man City are loath to let them get it. When Obisanya has a shot on goal, which goes wide, City are pleading for a goal kick, but it's not. You award the corner, and Rojas sweeps a beautiful pass into Tartt, who sends the ball straight into the corner of the net. City scores again shortly afterwards, and you have to keep your head to make sure no one is deliberately trying to cause injury to anyone else. When Tartt goes down just outside the area, you request VAR footage to aid your decision before calling for a free kick. He scores, but it's an immediate offside and Roy Kent looks like he might explode. When play resumes, Colin Hughes gets a goal straight away. The game ends in a 2-2 draw, but the fans and teams both seem appeased. 

~~~~~

By the time the press conferences are over, Roy's had more than enough. He (respectfully) disagreed with your first free kick decision, but praised your other choices and overall declared you "No better or worse than the other pricks." The stadium is starting to clear, and the Man City bus has just left. Richmond players make plans to get food at Ola’s. When Roy sees two of the officials only just leaving, he sends the others ahead and makes his way down to the away team and visitors facilities.

“I hope you’re here to apologise.” She states dryly as he approaches.

“Yeah,” he looks bashful, “the dick joke was a dick move. Sorry.” She looks so serious, he’s not sure the apology is accepted until he spies a tiny smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“Was pretty funny. In alternative circumstances.”

“Noted. Congratulations anyway, noise from the press has all been good so far.”

“Nice to know my performance will be scrutinised forever while every mediocre male referee gets a pass for another week.”

“I’m sure your performance will only improve.” He inwardly groaned. She was going to laugh in his face. A dick joke and then godawful flirting? It was only what he deserved.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll pass that direct quote on to The Sun.” 

“They’ll have a fucking field day. Richmond manager does shit job at flirting with the only female ref in the league? They’ll probably go and interview the poor woman I called my girlfriend when we were in year 6.”

“Flirting?” 

“No,” he scoffed, “no, course not. I didn’t mean that. Just a joke.” You cocked your head at him,

“Should we start again? Hi, you must be Roy Kent, I’m the first female referee in a Premier League game in 31 years. Well, actually it’s more like 135 years but the FA are trying to make themselves look marginally better.”

“Nice to meet you. Great job on the match, I respectfully, completely, disagree with that fucking free kick in the first half but other than that… no complaints.” He steps closer, you’re showered and changed but he can still smell the fresh grass mingling with the citrus and spice of the products you use. The combination is incredible - like summer and sunshine.

“I wouldn’t give a shit if you did have any complaints. Looking after your feelings isn’t in my job description.” You take in his height, broad shoulders and dark eyes and the long dormant crush rises to the surface immediately. You hadn’t taken much notice since you stopped having posters on your walls all those years ago, you’d only caught a few of his appearances as a pundit. He’s gorgeous, despite his surly appearance there’s an unmistakable twinkle of mischief in his eyes. Like he’s having fun with whatever this tension is that bubbles between you. And when he does smile at your commitment to fairness, it takes your breath away.

“Good to know the FA can rely on you staying neutral then.” He says quietly. Anticipation crackles in the air and fizzes in your stomach. You match his playfulness in your response, and step into his personal space,

“I don’t think there’s anything here that could sway me to any team in particular.” You smile, “not yet, anyway.” He waits until you’ve definitely left the room before he lets go of the breath he’s been holding. 

~~~~~

You’re dragged out by your friends to celebrate that night, even though your legs ache like you’ve done a 10km run. It wasn’t so much the running, you specifically trained for that, it’s the constant change in direction and the intensity of having your attention focused on so many things at once. If the FA thought they could throw you under a bus by giving you such a high profile game, you’re pleased you proved them wrong. The bar is crowded and noisy and you’ve already spotted a couple of the Richmond players - it was bound to happen in a relatively small town if they couldn’t be bothered to go right into the city. You’re at the bar ordering when you feel a hand on your hip and someone standing very closely behind you, a hand raises above you holding a credit card, and gestures to the barman. You’re about to lose your shit when you hear his voice rumble behind you,

“I’ve got these, mate.” He steps to your side when the person next to you moves, but his hand lingers, “I hope buying you a drink doesn’t make you question your bias?”

“Not at all, I’m afraid you’d have to work much harder than that.” He looks even better than he did a few hours ago, desire coils inside you and you instinctively draw your thighs together. It doesn’t help when he noticeably looks at your mouth, red lipstick is your ‘go to’ for a night out.

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Your drink is put on the bar next to you and you lick your lips before taking a sip. Neither of you has broken eye contact. You hear your name from a few feet away at the edge of the dance floor.

“Excuse me,” you raise your glass to him, “thank you for the drink.” 

“Bruv, is that the ref from today?” Isaac steps up beside him.

“Yeah, yeah that’s her.”

“She’s fit. You gonna ask her out?”

“Dunno Isaac, bit fucking old for that shit now.”

“Nah man, I just seen the way she looked at you-” he shakes Roy’s shoulder, “ooooh! Get it boy!” Roy rolls his eyes and smirks, watching you get dragged to the dance floor. He knows he must be old because he’s only been standing pitchside for the match and wouldn’t be caught dancing. You’ve run your legs off and then still managed to get them into that sequined mini skirt and up dancing. You can feel his eyes on you but you’d rather keep your back to him and try and carry on as casually as you can, if you turn around you know you won’t be able to stop staring. At least with your back to him, you can ignore him. Plus you know your arse looks great in this skirt, it was literally the sole reason for buying it in the first place. With all the running and training you do, you’re conscious of your strong thighs and hips but sometimes, just sometimes, they make you feel powerful. Eventually, you have to duck out of the dancing - mimicking a timeout to your friends. Roy is exactly where you left him at the bar and the alcohol makes you bold. You squeeze back in next to him and take a sip of his drink, yours is long finished. 

“Help yourself.” He smirks, his hand moving to your hip again, hidden by the darkness of the bar. You put a hand on his thigh and lean in slightly, taking some of the pressure off your feet. You’re close enough that he can see your breath hitch as his thumb finds a patch of exposed skin at the waistband of your skirt. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” You ask quickly, pushing your nerves down. He nods and finishes most of his drink, offering the last of it to you. Outside, word has gotten out that half a football team is at the bar and everyone is out for a glimpse of Jamie Tartt. You push past the photographers with Roy’s hand at the small of your back and into a nearby taxi.

~~~~~

“Please tell me there aren’t any fucking rules about this,” Roy mumbles somewhere in the valley between your breasts.

“I have no fucking clue, and I don’t really care right now.” You gasp, breathless as he leaves a mark on your soft skin.

“No? No danger of a red card?” You laugh and it’s musical and magical and neither of you have had this much fun in ages.

“No red cards for Roy Kent. Probably makes a fucking change.”

“Oi, cheeky. I never got that many.” He’s moved down again, unzipped your skirt and thrown it behind him somewhere.

“Fucking liar. They literally use you as an example of trouble players. Oh, fuck-” he bites your thigh.

“A good example or bad example?” His tongue sweeps over your clit and you nearly rocket off the bed until he hooks his arms over your thighs and pulls you back down to him.

“Oh god, bad example,” You feel him hum against you as he works you to your peak,

“Shame, I’m a changed man.” 

“Uhuh, ok,” you whisper, unable to think or speak any more coherently.

“How's your neutrality holding up?” Your hands tangle in his hair,

“Fuckkk, sooo good.”

“I’ll have to fucking try harder then,” he chuckles. You’re about to beg for mercy when he pushes two fingers into you and curls them to just the right angle that has you seeing stars. When he comes back up to kiss you, you rock your hips against his and he helps roll you both over, sitting up so he can still kiss you. His kisses are rough and needy, making you grind down against him. When you nip his neck, he pulls gently at your loose hair, whimpering and god, you’d do anything, anything to have him make that sound again. It only makes you rock harder against him, desperate to feel him inside you. When he finally pushes into you, your body clenches. You rise and fall onto him over and over, grateful for those powerful thighs he can’t keep his hands off. When he brings a hand between you both and circles your clit, you drop your head into the crook of his neck and bite down to stifle your moan. You feel his hips stutter under you as you both come, making you drop your own rhythm. You collapse in a tangle of limbs and sheets against him. 

“If you ask me again if you’ve swayed me yet, I’ll bite you.”

“You’ve already fucking done that,” he laughs. “Still need to try harder?” 

“Hmm, there’s no harm in trying again. You might win me over.”

“And over and over?” He kisses you again, so slowly it’s intoxicating. 

When you wake in the morning, it’s to the sound of his phone ringing. He tears himself away from where he’s curled behind you, the length of his legs against yours, his chest against your back and his arms around you.

“Yeah,” his voice is low and rough with sleep and it’s enough to have you roll over and press your body back into his. You can’t hear the other person, but he hangs up quickly and opens a link they’ve sent. It’s a picture on Twitter of the two of you leaving the bar together with his hand on your lower back with the headline “RED CARD FOR KENT?”

“Told you you were fucking trouble.” You laugh.

FIN

[spiderfreedom]

my suffering is profound and legitimate, yours is frivolous nonsense

Just reading a blogger I like but I had to laugh because she was talking about how beauty practices are bad for women's mental health, and she left a note saying "unlike gender affirming care! gender affirming care improves people's mental health and it's nothing at all like cosmetic practices."

TIL, when an older woman gets botox to remove her wrinkles and avoid facing the inevitability of decline and death, her problem is spiritual/structural and she needs to Do The Work to deprogram her ageism, unlike people with dysphoria, who of course have legitimate claims to cosmetic alteration.

And it is cosmetic - no part of the body that is altered by HRT or SRS or any of the feminization/masculinization surgeries is failing to function or functioning poorly. The problem is with the brain, which perceives the body parts as foreign or undesirable. We may sympathize with someone struggling with such a condition, but that does not change that the body parts being altered were already healthy and the alterations are cosmetic, and the relief being brought about is mental.

But plenty of trans people openly admit that separating body dysmorphia and gender dysphoria is a losing game. Contrapoints's video on "Beauty" (transcript) has the observation that she feels least dysphoric when she is meeting feminine beauty norms:

But I also think that trans people often talk like gender dysphoria is this intrinsic, personal experience that's always 100% valid and never has anything at all to do with the external pressure of beauty standards. But in fact, gender dysphoria is not sealed away in a vacuum away from the influence of societal ideals and norms.  [...] When I try to psychoanalyze myself, I find that my desires to look female, to look feminine, and to look beautiful are not exactly the same, but they're woven together so tightly that it's kind of difficult to untangle them. And the opposite is also true, that for me feeling mannish or dysphoric usually goes along with feeling ugly. I don't have a lot of days where I walk out the house thinking "well, I'm giving femme queen realness, but apart from that I look like absolute shit". 

Max Robinson's book "Detransition," from an FTM perspective, points out how the prospective trans man views his suffering as unique from and distinct from women's, even as the surgeries they seek are not especially different:

The stereotypical cosmetic surgery patient is seeking to become closer to being perfectly feminine - she wants to be beautiful. Transitional cosmetic surgery, on the other hand, is widely understood to mark the patient as ex-female and therefore unfemale; this is part of the meaning FTMs seek to create through surgery. FTM desire for cosmetic surgery is positioned as something totally different than the stereotype of a woman who 'merely' seeks beauty at her frivolous leisure. FTMs are deemed to have a rare affliction that needs urgent, life-saving treatment. Conversely, there is nothing more common than for a woman to become obsessed with her socially-deemed 'unsatisfactory' looks and desperately seek to change them, believing that such a change is the only thing that can restore her quality of life. This comparison will feel like an insult to the FTM. It will feel that way because we believe other women's suffering doesn't matter, and recognize how much ours does. Women's suffering is ordinary but ours is extraordinary. For us to matter, we must be differentiated from the silly little woman who wants to be pretty so badly she'll pay thousands of dollars (now billable to credit cards and loan programs designed to pay for elective surgeries!) to risk her life and health. These women don't need to be fixed; we do. FTMs know that we don't deserve a woman's fate but have not yet realized that no woman does.

I have more to write on the topic of the relationship between gender identity and beauty culture, but I'll end this one here. It makes sense that somebody who is identified with the opposite sex would also be affected by the standards of beauty expected of that sex. (Non-binary identification is more complicated and requires separate treatment.)

[beatrixstonehill2]

"Hey guys, your favorite E-girl here, Melody, here with some downer news..... or good news for the haters. My mom and dad found my OnlyFans. Gee, I wonder who told them about it? Anyway.... they said nothing until our annual family reunion, where they proceeded to bring up my vids on the Roku in the living room. My tits bouncing, spraying milk, me getting gangbanged in public, all of my pregnancy vids--I always had to hide that I was pregnant and only be one or two months along like I am now for the reunion. So they showed me getting mercilessly fucked while pregnant with quintuplets, my huge tits bouncing and slapping together, hitting me in the face.

My family scolded me and asked many babies I've had. I told the truth, I've had seventeen kids. Triplets as soon as I got to college, which inspired me to start my OF, quadruplets, then two sets of quintuplets. They asked me where their grandchildren were and I said I was a surrogate, that other couples raised the kids. They were livid, showing the family more videos. Vids of me doing anal and taking three cocks in my ass at once, vids of me puking on huge cocks all over my tits and belly, me hooking for video content and offering my body at a super low cost, vids of my pregnant belly and tits getting whipped and paddled and beaten, vids of me straight up getting beaten up by men for content, left bloody and bruised in the street, vids of me excitedly showing my blood results that I'm positive for all these different STDs. Guys, I had to not only explain to my whole family what a bug chaser is, but that I'm one, and get turned on by all the STDs I have.

I've never been so humiliated in my life, all the messed up degrading porn I've done was nothing. And I have a huge humiliation fetish, so almost on cue I got incredibly horny. As they insulted me, calling me everything from mentally ill to a whore, I started playing with my breasts with one hand and rubbing my sex with the other. In front of everyone. This was the last straw. They strapped me to my bed and brought in the family doctor, who had some very harsh recommendations for how to treat my clinical nymphomania. I don't know when I'll be doing content next but I'll try the best I can. Until then you will get a few exciting, ummm...... surgery videos, if you're into that. And I know a lot of you sickos are. What's better than seeing the girl of your dreams who you've jacked off to a thousand times get humiliated and mutilated, am I right? Men are so gross.....

So, I'm about to drive to the Brookdale Asylum for Girls. My prescribed treatment is..... hoo boy, for my breasts to be removed as well as my clit, and shortly after I'm stable from that, my arms and legs will be amputated so I can't go out and fuck or film videos. These surgeries and the aftermath recovery will be uploaded as the final content for my OnlyFans. Yes, I'll be numbed and kept awake, watching as the team of surgeons operate on me. So I'm about to be helpless, breastless, no clit to rub or play with, unable to masturbate or do anything, my family taking care of me. I'm still pregnant with who knows how many kids. It'll be absolute torture having a giant belly and not being able to fuck! But my brain might be jelly anyway because I think they give girls electroshock for nymphomania here.... Kind of excited for that, not gonna lie. Having my brains scrambled is sorta hot.

Don't worry, I'll find a way to keep making more content. I'll get that ocular software and do everything with my eyes, then I'll just need to go on dating sites, request a bunch of one-night stands and have my front door open, watch all these horny, fucked up dudes line up at my door to fuck a helpless, limbless girl with no tits. My family thinks this'll destroy my OF career but honestly it might be the best thing that will ever happened to me, career-wise. People are going to be flocking to my page to see the nympho asylum girl who had her body mutilated to stop her from being a total sex freak turn around and keep going, being filthier than ever! I'll be on the front page of OnlyFans for even longer than when I did that vid of me ten months pregnant with quints getting beat up naked in an alleyway, only for actual homeless men to start forcing themselves and my bruised, bloodied body. I guess I should thank them.... With any luck my parents will start a trend and more OG girls like me will wind up as limbless sex dolls. I bet you all would love that...."

[thanksjro]

Transformers Holiday Special (2015) — Wishing You and Yours a Delightfully Secular Wintertime, Containing Absolutely Zero References to the Birth of Christ

Despite what some might like to think, Christmas isn’t for everyone; even with all the commercialization, at its heart, it’s still about the Baby Jesus. You can tell that we haven’t shaken the Christian connection, because the cover for this special issue has the father, the son, and the holy spirit, which is hidden behind the company logo.

And if Rodimus doesn’t stop screwing around, his resurrection’s gonna have to happen a lot sooner than Easter.

Because this is a comic special, things are going to be a little different. Instead of one standard-size issue, we’re getting three mini-stories, each with their own writer (from each of the comic runs that were publishing at the time) and artist. Our stories are listed here:

Don’t worry about what Ultra Magnus is up to behind that text.

Now, you may ask, why on earth am I covering this issue, which is a specifically Christmassy one, now, when it’s not currently Christmas? Well, according to Roberts, the story “Silent Light” takes place after MTMTE #49, and #50 is when the crew manifest for the Lost Light gets shaved down some, so realistically, this is when “Silent Light” happens in continuity. So I want you to keep in mind that Getaway’s Christmas isn’t going so great.

I won’t be going back to catch up on the other runs’ plots, as the Christmas stories are stand-alone.

Getting into it, our first story is:

Penned by Mairghread Scott and drawn by Corin Howell. We open up on a cityscape featuring a happy sun and some eye-searing narration boxes.

I went to Howell’s Twitter to see what her deal was, and was greeted with a banner consisting of a sexy succubus lady with her boobies out, so I’m going to assume she simplified her style for this issue, since mecha are hella difficult to draw.

Also, I hope you like the structure of How The Grinch Stole Christmas!, because that’s what we’re getting for the next little while, complete with chunky, white text on painful-to-view red.

Our story opens with all the transformers from the colonies visiting Cybertron and making friends with each other. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, which pisses off President-King Starscream to no end. Being the drama queen that he is, Starscream feels that everyone should be paying attention to him 24/7 and feed him grapes as he reclines on a sofa, because hasn’t he done enough for all these sorry sacks of shit? He hasn’t even caused a war, unlike the last guy who was in charge. Bumblebee (who is a ghost) tells him to just be fucking nice for once in his miserable life, but Starscream wouldn’t be Starscream if he could settle down like that.

Our god-king of the planet calls for his aide, Rattrap, who is going to be in his alt mode for the entirety of this story, to help him set up for a public broadcast addressing his need for attention and adoration.

He sends Rattrap off to deliver the tape to the news, which seems to consist of two very sleep-deprived individuals. Because they’re apparently the only two robots stupid enough to attempt to cover the nightmare hellscape that is Cybertronian current events, the last bit of Starscream’s tape is cut off when one of them falls asleep on the switchboard. This turns Starscream’s personal worship holiday into “For the Love of God Be Nice to Each Other” Day. Everyone takes to it beautifully, getting BFF tattoos, going on vacation with their husbands, hugging in the straightest gay way possible, holding parades, giving each other bombs, and getting absolutely shitfaced.

Starscream, distraught that nobody is giving him the emperor treatment like he had wanted, sulks in his twin bed, then moves to his dinky little throne as the night wears on, making the most miserable faces he can the whole time. Eventually, Chosen One Day ends, and he’s been completely ignored. Very sad.

Then, there’s a knock on his door, and Starscream creeps over to the peephole just in time to be smashed flat by Wheeljack slamming the door open. Last time we saw Wheeljack he was assumed dead by most, and floating in a tank at Starscream’s behest. He’s gotten better since then, clearly.

Wheeljack came with friends— the entirety of the main cast for Windblade/Til All Are One, to be exact— and they’re here to make sure that Starscream isn’t completely alone on this friendship holiday he accidentally invented. Everyone toasts to his good, totally intentional idea, and Starscream decides against killing all of them for at least the next 24 hours.

Now pay attention to this next story, because it’s actually canon-relevant, because of course Roberts would write a holiday special mini-comic that ties into his overarching plot. Fucking nerd.

Our artist for “Silent Light” is Kotteri (or Kotteri!, as it’s been written on some of their other publications) the pen name for Ikumi Fukuda. Kotteri is primarily a manga artist, having created their own works and well as working on other projects. I admittedly can’t find much on this person, not even their preferred pronouns, TFWiki itself using “they”, which I will default to. All of the info they’ve provided themself is, of course, written in Japanese, but even running things through a translator only proves that information to be purely professional. Their personal Twitter is protected, and my follow request was never answered, as far as I know. There’s a fan Twitter account for their art that claims “she”, but I have no way to verify, and I don’t want to assume anything based on art style, because that’s sort of shitty. Let it never be said that I didn’t do my due diligence here— I fucking hate using Twitter.

We open with Rodimus having just returned from Meteorfest, a festival where you surf on meteors and avoid your co-captain and SIC’s calls like the putz you are. He’s greeted by said co-captain and SIC decorating assembling a Christmas tree cloaking machine and finishing each other’s sentences like an old married couple. Rodimus tries to deny the existence of Minimegs, then we get our heavy-handed and lampshaded explanation for the crux of the issue. Megatron handles Minimus like a baby doll as the two of them explain that the Lost Light is about to hit Mauler territory.

Maulers are notorious for wanting the Cybertronians dead, but Megatron is too much of a macho man to pussy out and go around them. So instead, the crew will be hiding in special sleeping pods that will mask their spark signatures, and pray to their pantheon of gods that no one notices the ship the size of Manhattan. Brainstorm has like fifteen new inventions, despite being on house arrest from his lab. Megatron’s autobot badge is wearing a hat. Merry fucking Christmas.

Over at Swerve’s, it would appear that everyone’s favorite television junkie is closed for business, as it’s just him, Nautica, and Whirl, sitting on the floor getting absolutely shit-faced on subspace-filtered engex. This might’ve been an issue, as folks are supposed to be bedding down in their B.E.D.s for the next leg of the trip, but Swerve slipped Magnus some Bing Crosby earlier so they’re cool right now.

There’s a banging at the door, and Whirl decides to answer, even though it’s not his bar, because if it’s trouble come a-knocking, it was probably looking for Whirl anyhow.

When Whirl answers, however, it’s not Magnus having caught wind of Nautica disrespecting the Autobot code, but an entirely different flavor of problem.

Now, I know that thing Whirl’s holding looks like a fucked up Hitachi Wand, but it is, in fact, an entire-ass baby robot. It seems that when Cerebros (Fortress Maximus’s friend, if you’ll recall) sent the engex through the subspace, this infant Cybertronian (Luna One-ian?) got mixed in with the other supplies.

We learn a bit about how baby Cybertronians work before we remember, oh right, this kid is gonna get everyone killed if they catch wind of her spark, since there isn’t a B.E.D. for her. Yes, it’s a girl! Congrats to our three idiots on their Cybertronian gender non-conforming little princess.

They gang decides to shunt her back through the subspace hatch, so they head over to where it’s currently being housed— the office of Ultra Magnus. Nautica, using her wits and all the tools in her arsenal, smashes the window to the office and they break in. The empty Magnus Armor sits in the dark like a grim monument to being married to your job. Whirl informs Nautica how to comfort the baby that he super for-sure doesn’t care about, handing her off while he uses his titty glass to replace the window in the door. Swerve tries to bite through iron chains holding the subspace hatch hostage, only to be stopped by the sound of justice coming down the hall.

The gang, of course, looks suspicious as hell standing stock straight immediately in front of Magnus’s office, but Minimus rather likes the change of pace out of these goofy morons, and is maybe also trying to deflect his embarrassment at being caught performing his own personal karaoke. He sends them off to their B.E.D.s, and it looks like all’s well that ends well until Whirl asks where Sparky is.

Yes, he named the baby.

Don’t worry though, he’s totally not attached or whatever.

Nautica, in her panic to not be caught stealing/vandalizing/using equipment she doesn’t have the clearance for, stuffed Sparky in the Magnus Armor. And also put the helmet portion back on the body, for some reason. Anyway, it looks like our little princess is gonna be a load-bearer when she grows up, because Magnus is up and looking for hugs. Nautica, a paragon of level-headed thinking in times of crisis, handles this in the best way she can.

And that’s a wrap on Minimus Ambus! Let’s give him a hand, folks! And let’s also give a hand to the new Ultra Magnus, Miss Sparky Whirldòttir! Where did that little scamp get to, anyhow?

Swerve nominates himself to be the one to drag Minimus to a B.E.D. to sleep off his concussion, leaving Whirl and Nautica to track down the baby.

The scene changes to Megatron announcing a last call for beddy-bye time on the intercom, just as Ultra Sparky enters the room. She looms over Megatron, putting him in a very compromising position as he hits the intercom button with his arm. Rodimus, climbing into his own B.E.D., wishes that his co-captain and SIC would stop being gay for, like, five minutes, or at least wouldn’t do it where it can be broadcasted throughout the whole ship in audio format.

Whirl and Nautica come save Megatron from the onslaught of physical affection, stating that “Magnus” has had a bit too much to drink. Megatron orders them to bed from his fetal position on the countertop.

It’s bedtime, but we still haven’t figured out how to get the kid back to Luna 1 so the Maulers don’t super-murder the whole crew. Nautica leaves Whirl to figure it out, getting into B.E.D. and wondering who the fuck knocked on the door in the first place. Whirl tells her not to worry about it and to go to sleep, so he can be the one to deal with this mess.

Whirl, notorious for doing all the nastiest jobs— former Wrecker, intended bullet sponge for the time travel situation, attempting suicide via Megatron— is going to add another tally to the list labeled “Reasons My Peers Don’t Really Like Me All That Much”, by throwing an entire baby out the air lock.

However, Whirl is being written by Roberts, who would never allow the number of robot babies to go down, so Sparky’s adorable assimilation of Whirl’s signature physical features gets him right in the soft underbelly he swears doesn’t exist.

Wow, Roberts put a baby in that robot. Surely this is as overt as we’re going to get with this imagery, since we’re in a major publication and not some fan-fiction!

ANYWAY

Whirl wakes up in the Medibay, emptied of infant and freaked the hell out about it. Velocity— who I will remind you is basically the only medical doctor on the Lost Light, since everyone else is too busy getting railed by weeaboos and joining unethical polycules to do their actual jobs—informs him that his daughter is, in actuality, a massive colony of scraplets that combined to look like a newborn.

It turns out that Nautica is a bit of a snitch, having spilled the beans after she woke up. Whether or not she thought Whirl had thrown the baby out the air lock isn’t really addressed, but thank god he didn’t, because then we would have had to send everyone’s favorite gun-addled dipshit to jail for the rest of forever. Checking security footage revealed who the mystery knocker was— it was the scraplets, forming the shape of an arm.

When Nautica asks how the hell they all survived this, seeing as Whirl kept the murder baby, Whirl informs her that he cut off power to his own spark to allow everyone else to live, including his sweet baby princess, winning him a #1 Dad mug, and also several emails from Rung to please make an appointment with him.

Whirl’s miracle Christmas baby lied and stole with the intent to murder everyone on board, and that makes her the ultimate daddy’s girl.

I hope you’ve all enjoyed this canon-important holiday special story about Whirl becoming a father.

In our third and final story, it appears we’ve been transported to Whoville, by the talent of our MTMTE Season 1 colorist, Josh Burcham. Within Whoville resides Anna Log, a human woman who owns two turbofoxes and sleeps in full military body armor on her couch. The wall in her living room suddenly explodes, revealing a late-night visitor.

Motherfucker, you are supposed to be on the ship right now.

Mega-Claus fusion-cannons Anna Log, and we cut to a film noir office where none other than Thundercracker has his feet up on the desk. The art grayscales for this section, as he narrates that he’s a detective. He’s wearing a fedora. It’s January 7th. He has a mysterious past and probably thinks that makes him very sexy.

The phone rings, cueing Buster, Thundercracker’s puggle, to put on her own fedora, and the two go to see the crime scene, where Thundercracker is the same size as a normal human man and wears a trench coat.

It turns out that Anna Log is the director of security for the entirety of planet Earth, which is sort of a big deal. When Thundercracker and the cops look at the security footage, they see who did it— Santa Claus, played by Megatron himself. Fucked up.

Sure, pal.

Thundercracker must now fly to the North Pole and kill Santa, because that’s how the law works. He transforms, flies by Club Penguin and a Coke commercial, reflects on his job, and then gets ready for a fight with Santa’s security measures, as Busters glowing nose warns him of incoming danger. She’s very talented, Buster.

Thundercracker makes quick work of the cybernetic security reindeer with his twin energy katanas and Buster’s jetpack. He kicks down Santa’s door to find the jolly elf himself standing in the dark, potentially rabid. The two start kung-fu beating the shit out of each other. It should be noted that this Santa isn’t the Megatron Santa, who shows up behind the two as they brawl, but rather original-flavor fat man Santa. How Thundercracker didn’t notice this isn’t addressed.

Thundercracker demands to know why Megatron dressed up as Santa Claus to commit a murder— the murder part made sense, Director Log and Megatron would be diametrically opposed— and Megatron reveals the greatest slight against himself he’s ever known.

Framing Santa for murder ain’t exactly gonna turn that coal into a diamond, Meggy baby.

Thundercracker clocks Megatron, he becomes besties with Santa Claus, and they ride a flying tank into the sunset. Thus ends Thundercracker’s most brilliant writing project yet, which he was reading to Marissa Faireborn this entire time.

Marissa isn’t terribly impressed, poking holes in all the little nonsense bits, while also not feeling thrilled about having been killed off in the first two pages of Thundercracker’s book. While the two argue, Buster and Ayana Jones make a Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown! reference together, and the issue closes out with a big ol’ Autobot symbol, even though Thundercracker was a Decepticon, Ayana and Marissa are humans, and Buster is a goddamned dog.

Thus ends the Holiday Special. Up next, more direct story progression!

[20dollarlolita]

Hi friends,

it's absolutely okay to use disability aids if they help you, and you are allowed to be the one who decides if they will help you.

I spent Christmas in a non-weight-bearing cast, and a friend of mine suggested I use her backup wheelchair so that I didn't have to use crutches for the whole time. I was initially resistant, but I'm glad I got over it.

It made a huge difference. It allowed me to work my job with minimal accommodation, and allowed me to be independent outside of work. I was able to go out and shop for holiday presents. I could leave my house and not worry about if I was going to get too tired to move. It was better for my body, because I wasn't putting my entire body weight on one hip or leg. It helped me be treatment compliant, because I didn't have the constant temptation to put my foot down and put a bit of weight on it. It allowed me to carry things and shop on my own. I was able to work at my job, make sales, and earn commission. The only work-related things I needed help with was to have us move our office plant (whose name is Randal) and to get help carrying large or heavy boxes. My doctor had approved return-to-work paperwork that said I had to sit down for 75% of my shift, and with a wheelchair, I was easily able to do this without going on disability or medical leave.

Here's a collection of pictures of me, not being stuck on the couch in my house.

And people, both friends and customers, were so very weird about all of this.

A lot of people questioned if it was some kind of overkill, because many people who can't bear weight on one leg will use crutches or a kneeling scooter. Other people commented on how inconvenient is had to be, and how difficult things had to be when I was using a wheelchair.

And I realized that other people saw me, compared their level of ability to what they thought mine was, and decided that using a wheelchair was difficult and inconvenient. What I saw was what my level of ability would be without the wheelchair, and what it was with it. Carrying a drink wasn't doable via wheelchair, crutches, or kneeling scooter, but I'd be unable to carry a drink in the wheelchair and people would see it as a huge inconvenience. (BTW the answer is just to get boba at a place that seals the lids on, carry it in your lap, and punch the straw through once you're at a place where you can set it down. Boba lids are wheelchair-friendly).

I think people see "wheelchair" as the ultimate in disability, but for me it was freedom to take care of myself. People want to save using a wheelchair for when you absolutely cannot function without it, but you deserve to be happy and not just to function.

And the fact is, if people are unable to judge my disability aids by understanding the options to them, and if they're only able to judge my mobility aids by comparing their personal ability to how they'd feel using my mobility aid, then there's no way whatsoever that someone else can judge if I actually need it, or not. But I deserved to be using the thing that gave me the most freedom, impacted my life the least, and was the least damaging on my body.

Anyway, I've spent the morning trying to convince someone I know who broke their leg that using a wheelchair is better than staying at home on the couch. I'm not making a lot of progress with that, so hopefully I can make some progress with my friends on the internet who might be going through something. You deserve to be comfortable and happy, and not just to exist. If you do things that take care of your body, instead of hurting it by refusing to take the help that you need, you'll be able to function better. Wheelchair isn't a bad or dirty thing, and it doesn't have to be a means of last resort. You can use it if it helps you.

[figs-and-cigs]

Saw a post recently that said if you're not a good communicator you shouldn't be in a poly relationship. My first thought was, "right communication is an absolute MUST!" But thinking about it some more, I think there needs to be more nuance to the idea. What makes good communication? And who's to say who should and shouldn't do polyamory?

I'm an easily overwhelmed, agoraphobic, introvert - and at times communication IS hard. I often seek alone time with very little interaction with the outside world.

I had a girlfriend who HATED texting and wanted lots of in person face to face time. That relationship slowly unravelled and disappeared - without communication. I'm a texter and couldn't fit my schedule or find the spoons to spend more time with her - and she never texted.

I had to explain to a new person I'm dating that I'm not good at asking a lot of questions - which can look like a lack of interest and a failure in gathering information for a good match. The reality is I figure others will tell me what they want me to know over time as they get comfortable, and if it's important it'll come up. Meanwhile, I'm an open book. I communicate with lengthy paragraphs and stories to paint a picture of my world. Which often gets others to share similarly - through text, and more importantly get to know me on a deep level. In person I'm spastic mess, I get emotional about everything and excitement or frustration can jumble words into an incoherent rant.

When I'm upset, I cry... And trying to help someone see my point of view doesn't work well between frustrated sobs I can't control. With my husband we make an effort to take a pause with intense discussions and let me write/text it out. And while he can be a stoic type during emotional discussions - giving him time to process is important. But my anxious attachment will precieve it as if I'm doing all the communication and he's got nothing!

I also unintentionally go into circles and rants as I process which can be overwhelming to the other party. I've been in relationships where we'd talk and talk and talk and talk until we'd exhaust each other and that talking might turn into yelling or unhealthy silent treatments. Neither of us could understand each other or find common ground.

To prevent this with my husband we set timers. 5/5/10. We each get 5 minutes to share our thoughts, and then we'll have 10 minutes to collaborate on a solution - or to bond or support each other.

I have a FWB who I rarely hear from. Maybe every few months when he's in town and able to set a date to meet. He's not the talkative type unless we're alone in a room together - and I realized I'm ok with this. I don't need constant contact to enjoy my time with him.

I think a huge part of healthy relationships is meeting people where they're at and accepting each other exactly as we are. The good, the bad, the messy, and perfectly whole. And it's beautiful and wonderful! But it's also complicated and hard. Not every relationship is going to last. But the experiences together are valuable nonetheless.

When our communication styles and skills are different, what do we do!? Ironically, we communicate about it, and even a "bad communicator" can find work arounds. I think it comes down to boundaries and trying to understand each other. And if it doesn't work out between both of you - it doesn't mean we can't find someone else who it can't work with.

And while we can find total acceptance of each other one would hope each of us is working on personal progress and improvements in areas that we struggle.

Just like there's no one right perfect way to be poly, I don't think there's only one right perfect way to communicate. We each need to find what works best for us and our individual relationships. And it's going to vary and be different almost every single time.

The end.

[yuri-is-online]

This is probably going to be my last big ask for a while, so let’s make it count. What I really wanted to talk about is Yuu and disease. It’s probably just me, but while the cute caretaker sick fics are nice and all, I just sit there worrying about Yuu’s heath.

As a completely different world, realistically Twisted Wonderland would not have the same diseases as Earth. Poor Yuu must have gone down like a sack of bricks the first time they got sick, at the very least. I’m not exactly knowledgeable about the medical field or anything, but even babies have some kind of an immune system thanks to receiving temporary antibodies from their mothers that hold them over until they can receive vaccines. Yuu doesn’t have that.

To make this worse, Ramshackle is well… ramshackle. Before it got rebuilt I guarantee that building was having untold issues even after being cleaned up. I mean, I highly doubt Ramshackle is temperature regulated via magic like the rest of the school due to it being abandoned. Yuu spent all of fall and part of winter in a run-down dorm. And ‘part of winter’ thing is me being generous given the iffy timeline of the game’s story.

I know it’s a running joke to dunk on Crowley for being an irresponsible guardian, but this is a terrifying level of oversight if none of the adults considered this about Yuu’s medical vulnerability. Another strike in favor of Yuu just running away.

- 🦐

I am so sorry I took forever to get around to this my dear Shrimp, I'm also not a medical expert so I had to really think about this. Disease in worlds with magic tends to be an underdeveloped part of most settings world building.

... also if you saw me post this before I was done cooking no you didn't ￢o(￣-￣ﾒ)

I want to start off by saying that I disagree about Ramshackle not being temperature regulated... sort of. Ramshackle is more or less a Victorian era mansion, so if we assume that it has the same general architecture then while it does lack a central heating system, it is more or less capable of maintaining heat in individual rooms. If you look at the in game artwork for the dorm, there are visible fireplaces in both of the main rooms where we spend time, the Lounge:

And our room:

As long as that fire is kept going, those individual rooms will have heat, and while that falls under the purview of the fire faeries that work for the school I can see Yuu being able to take care of themselves enough to keep their dorm warm. There is even a stack of wood next to the lounge fireplace, so we can assume they can get a fire going to heat the place. The real issues (from Grim's complaints) seems to be a lack of hot water and holes in the roof, both of which they would have had to live through most of winter with that could have caused things like a bad cold or pneumonia before we even get to potential magical diseases.

When it comes to magical diseases and vaccines... my understanding of disease is that a lot of them start in animal populations before they make their way into humans. So while Twisted Wonderland is a different world, the animals are more or less the same so I can see them having the same general diseases as our world... but as people use magic to treat the disease that introduces the potential exists for diseases to evolve to combat the magic treatments. I think it's those treatments Yuu would be more vulnerable to than the twst variants of the diseases they have back home; there's a whole host of new potential allergens in the potential cures they haven't been tested for and there is no guarantee using magic on Yuu won't hurt them.

If there are magic based diseases that come from the monster population, then Yuu would absolutely need vaccines for those but I could also see things like that as not being thought of as illnesses but rather a form of a curse, and therefore something that requires a different type of treatment. And I agree this does seem like a terrible level of negligence and oversight from the adults at NRC... but I can also see why it happens. Yuu shows no outward sign of being anything other than a normal, magicless human so I can see them sort of just assuming Yuu would function the same as anyone else and then go from there.

What really got me thinking in this ask was the potential for Yuu to need something like an inhaler, or an ssri, or hell even my iron supplements and how that would get handled. Especially ssris, I have a bit of experience with getting medicated and it can take forever to get on a combo that gives you your life back as opposed to fucking things up further. Getting snapped into another world without those meds and having to go through the process again in a world with a different concept of chemistry would suck so much. Poor neurodivergent Yuu's, as if life didn't suck enough already.

[wheelie-sick]

I really really hate the people who assume that every single chronically ill person wants a cure

and I also really really hate the people who think that wanting a cure is inherently internalized ableism

it's like both of you just forget that other people have experiences that are different from your own

I'm someone in the rare boat of having a disability with an existing cure. I have a limb difference called miserable malalignment syndrome and surgery exists to realign our bones. while cures are theoretical for the rest of you I have the option and I have also seen what that option has done to my community. I, personally, said no to this surgery. I also hold absolutely no judgement towards the people who said yes.

I don't believe that my body is wrong. I believe that people with MMS should continue to exist in the world with our unchanged bones. I also understand that this condition is excruciatingly painful and can be incredibly life limiting. I am often frustrated with the assumption that everyone who has MMS wants or will get surgery- I do not want it and I will not get it. I also believe in bodily autonomy and that my right to say no to the surgery is equal to others right to say yes.

when people assume that everyone with a physical disability, or with chronic pain, wants a cure to their pain it hurts me. it makes me feel invisible and it erases both my existence and all that I had to do to avoid surgery. surgery has been pushed on me and I was constantly pressured by my family, doctors, community, and others around me. it took a lot to fight to avoid having surgery. I do not want a cure. my experience is not like yours, I am happy to live with my symptoms.

simultaneously, my experience with miserable malalignment syndrome is not every disabled person's experience. even within the MMS community there are many people who live in agony because of this condition. pain from MMS is most commonly described as having knives in your leg joints. people lose both the activities they love and their needs (such as sleep) to this condition. there is reason for people to want a cure. when someone is willing to undergo an operation that causes pain that most describe as the worst of their life for relief from their symptoms it shows their desperation. it's unjust to deny them the right to life without pain because I don't personally consider surgery to be my best option.

....and this doesn't even touch on the people whose disabilities have other consequences like death

yet this surgery has left my community so barren. as miserable malalignment syndrome is a rare disease it's a struggle to find others with it as is. it's even harder to find others who don't ever plan on having surgery. it's isolating. I know there are many others who have felt pressured into this surgery, or who have been told that surgery is the only treatment option. this is equally a denial of autonomy.

....but to say that wanting a cure is inherently eugenicist or a byproduct of internalized ableism? that is wrong and dismissive. you have no place to dictate how others are allowed to feel about their bodies. the problem lies with cures being forced upon people not with disabled people wishing they were cured.

[enlitment]

I'd love to hear about your thesis topic (if you're not already sick to death of talking about it 😂)!

Aa, thank you for reaching out, it's so nice of you to ask!!

I'm definitely not sick of talking about it yet! I suspect that it may be the other way around and people around me are starting to get sick of hearing about it 😅

The topic is broadly a mental health disorder which supposedly plagued early 18th century Britain interpreted through a philosophical lens.

More specifically, there was this physician and philosopher called Bernard de Mandeville, who was one of those people who had thoughts on absolutely every topic imaginable, spanning from economical and social theory to medicine (he was also a huge classics nerd but with people in the 1700s, that probably goes without saying).

Supposedly to gain more patients for his practice, he wrote this wonderfully weird medical treatise on how to deal with hypochondria (the name can be misleading, but back then it referred to an unspecified mental health issue close to our current understanding of depression). It is written in a form of a dialogue between a doctor and a patient, and it discusses various symptoms of the disease as well as practical advice on how to treat it (including some great wine recommendations and seemingly endless quotes from Horace and Ovid for some reason).

One thing that particularly fascinates me about the text is that it shows a kind of proto-therapeutic approach to the treatment of mental health issues and it places a lot of emphasis on the developing relationship between the doctor and the patient. The wife of the hypochondriac who suffers from the same illness as her husband is also present, so at times, I'm attempting to go for a slightly feminist angle (Mandeville was not exactly a feminist but some of his ideas about gender were genuinely progressive for a guy writing in the early 1700s).

I'm writing it under the philosophy department, so I sadly had to minimise the historical context in my actual writing. I did research it however! A lot has been said about how hypochondria characterised British people specifically and how an increasingly easy and comfortable life of the upper-middle class may have paradoxically contributed to it. It's also been linked to philosophers/men of letters since it seemed to have affected this group of people in particular (perhaps most famously David Hume who is my supervisor's number one guy).

The result I ended up with is a bit chaotic, but I genuinely had a ton of fun researching the topic! I got a chance to engage in one of my most favourite things in the world, which I guess could be called amateur psychoanalysis of people from the 18th century.

I've also argued by the end that it is useful to study early modern texts (and by extension all historical texts) since it helps us to see which aspects of the human experience remain unchanged over time. (Spoiler: although wine is no longer recommended as a cure, we don't differ that much from people living three centuries ago in all of the important ways. Most notably, we all need positive interactions with others for our mental well-being and to some extent, we all crave others' approval).

Actually getting it printed soon — then it's just anxiously awaiting feedback and then onto the defense.

Hope my answer is not too long or incoherent and thanks again for asking!

[trans-androgyne]

Tired of people acting like TERFs are fine with trans men. As much as it sucks, I think more people who believe that need to read JK Rowling’s essay. Its main message is about how the category of womanhood needs to be protected (with stories of sexual violence & abuse to back this idea up). This leads to claiming cis men will pretend to be trans women to gain access to women’s spaces & other gross rhetoric, and this is disgusting of her. But a massive part of her main point is all about trans men. It’s important to remember here she claims to agree “real” trans people exist, she just thinks the situation should be handled differently (transphobically — she promotes the idea all trans women need surgery to be women and doesn’t seem to think trans men should transition at all)

Some quote highlights:

- "I'm concerned about the huge explosion in young women wishing to transition and also about the increasing numbers who seem to be detransitioning… because they regret taking steps that have, in some cases, altered their bodies irrevocably, and taken away their fertility."

- "Some [young trans men] say... transitioning was partly driven by homophobia"

- "The UK has experienced a 4400% increase in girls being referred for transitioning treatment. Autistic girls are hugely overrepresented in their numbers.”

- "Rapid Onset Gender Dysphoria"/"social contagion and peer influences" as an idea she defends

- "I believe I could have been persuaded to turn myself into the son my father had openly said he'd have preferred." & elaboration on why she thinks many trans men transition because of unrelated mental health issues or misogyny

These quotes evince a lot of the TERF rhetoric around trans men. Yes, they lump us in with women & as such seem to want to keep us “safe.” But it's not trans men they want to keep safe, it's the perceived category of woman, which we're rejecting. The reality is that they don't want trans men, as we are, to exist. They do think we're women & that we need to stay women, promoting the idea of denying us bodily autonomy & restricting our transitions. They aren't openly hostile towards us the way they are towards trans women, but trans men are absolutely not safe around TERFs & they materially harm us as well.

Inspired by the recent post of @poolboyservice