#they sure as hell aren't properly minimizing all other risks to others

[the-hybrid-lua]

I commented once before about how we should be banning work dress codes that required things like heels instead of getting rid of certsin shies comoletely, and holy shit this has spun off the rails since then.

I'm sorry, banning binders and bras because they can hurt women and children? You know what else hurts children? Forcing them to go through the incorrect puberty for their gender without something that can help. Legitimately, that can be traumatizing, especially if those young boys (who you obviously do not respect considering you keep calling them "confused girls") develope a larger chest. I'd rather make sure any of those boys has access to a binder that they can wear safely than have them resort to tape and ace bandages and things that can kill them because there is no safe way to use those materials to bind. Binders have safety guidelines and as @autisticexpression has said, if the binder is used properly, something much more likely when teens children and teens have support than if theydon't, the risk is minimal. And someone who wants to use a binder typically doesn't doesn't that on a whim, so making sure they understand safety, what is going on, warning signs, and what to expect then they hold be fine. Teens can be easily influenced but they are not stupid.

Going back to the actual girls though, bras aren't shown to be harmful or not at this point in time. Historically, women and girls have had ways of keeping titties under control for a long time. Like, 1st century AD is one of the first references for chest support in women. Because titties hurt sometimes, they need support sometimes, and sometimes they don't. That tends to depend on the person, what they are doing, and the size of said titties. All of my siblings could get away without bras when we wore formal dresses; I have never had that ability/luxury. Can wearing a bra that is too small hurt you? Absolutely, for similar reasons as a binder that is too small, even if one is to support and possibly display (depending on bra style), and the other is support and compression to hide.

And, whether we are talking about young girls, young boys, or those with multiple or no gender, anyone who grows gigantic titties like I did is going to want support. Especially if they're in school and having to do PE. There is no way in hell I would have participated without at least a bra during middle and high school. I was in a C cup by the time I was in middle school, and a G before finishing high school. I'm at an H now. At my smaller sizes, I needed bras or the movement of my chest alone would make me sit out. At my larger sizes, my sports bras were basically binders. They fit like binders to the point that I let a trans friend borrow one because he needed a new binder, his dysphoria was going crazy during the multi week wait for it, and I was the only person he knew with titties his size or larger and a compression style sports bra. Now I can't even find a good sports bra for my size.

Focusing back on the debate instead of a long anecdote, bras are relatively new as far as boob support goes. Are they the best? Eh, idk. They are easier to put on then corsets, so progress there. Bras have their problems - they are stupid expensive, when you get to larger sizes you can't find fun or cute ones, underwires will pop out, ones with no underwaire tend to focus on smaller sizes, having to reach behind yourself to put one on sucks (and I can't always manage because of disability), front clasp ones don't always stay clasped like they should, and I'm sure people have other gripes. Is it nice to not have my boobs just swinging around freely? Yes. It's less painful and stressful for my body, even if I can't always wear bras all day because of other things.

I think it's more compassionate to have clothing items that can and do help children and teens. There is no data to support that bras are harmful, and the data on properly worn binders shows that the risk is minimal to nonexistent. And you know when are teens are more likely to bind properly? When the information is easily available, when the clothing items they need are easily accessible, and when society normalizes the fact that some people bind and at times need to take the binder off so you may see them with boobs when you don't expect it.

And instead of taking away the child and teens input, get after the shitty adults who encourage or enforce specific things that make a kid feel worse and more like conforming.

They’re so fucking close to getting it but too fucking stupid to ever actually get it.

This was a man btw.

[razrbladekiss]

Tyrants | Chapter One - Disclosure

A/N: This was supposed to be a Jax x Fem!OC fanfic, but it took a little turn as I started to write more of it. So, it’ll be Tig x Fem!OC, but Jax does play a very important role in this.

SUMMARY: A sick turn of events sees Isla Telford thrown in at the deep end, battling to govern the sudden pressures of all that her father's club decidedly bestow upon her.

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

WARNINGS: Brief mentions of murder, the guy that got his ass shit is in this one. Jax and Tig get their own warnings, too, for obvious reasons.

The older I get, the more I realize that age doesn't bring wisdom. It only brings weary.

John Teller was always so astute.

His judicious character befell his son, too. Jax had that same perceptive nature as his old man--everyone would comment on that.

To Isla, it was admirable. For Jackson Teller to be a man of such stature--to hold such a reputation--and to remain somewhat level-headed through it all, was only something she could commend.

She'd seen many of her father's friends crumble under the pressure of Samcro, unable to balance the weight of living with the responsibility and commitment to the club, and meet their unfortunate demise--in some not-so extreme cases.

But Jax was different. He'd always been different.

Maybe that wasn't so great, however.

"You're fucking insane, Isla."

"Not insane." She mumbled, sifting through the box of shitty medical supplies that Gemma had left atop the pool table last night.

"Just trying to patch this shit up so Hayes doesn't kick the fucking bucket before Jax gets back here."

Tig snarled. "But it might be infected, and the bullet is still in this dude's ass--"

Isla whipped her head to glare at the man, her eyes wide, forehead slick with sweat--and a little blood, too.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Isla--"

"Tig, with all due respect, unless you're gonna help, please get the fuck outta here."

"That's not gonna suffice," he pointed out, referring to the medical tape, ignoring her scolding.

She wanted to throttle him. Truly, Isla was willing to wrap her crimson-coated fingertips around Tig's neck and squeeze the absolute life out of that man.

"I know." Her lips kneaded together in frustration, watching her father dab an alcohol-infused pad on the wound. "But unless you've got any better ideas, then we're just gonna have to keep reapplying this shit."

"But the infection, Isla."

"But the lack of medical equipment, Tig."

He slapped his palm against the table and glared at her, pointedly. "Why've you gotta be such a bitch all the time, huh?"

"Watch it, Trager." Piqued, Chibs growled.

"I'm not a bitch all the time," she dismissed her father, wiping at her palm with a wet rag. "I'm actually able to control the way I act around other people."

"Oh, fuck you--"

"Christ!"

The Scot's yell was muffled by the cap of his whiskey bottle, his hand pressing against Cameron's skin as the man screamed into the cloth Isla had placed underneath his head.

"God, for fucks sake, both of you just pack it in."

"Chibs--"

"Shut the fuck up. You're a fucking geriatric and you're spending your morning bickering with an almost thirty-year-old. Grow up, Tig."

Despite laughing at his comment, and enjoying the irritation wash over the other man's face, she felt bad.

For riling her father up--who was simply trying to help the innocent Irishman caught in the literal crossfire--she felt fucking awful. Especially because he never seemed to get mad at her all too often.

Tig, though...That was a different story entirely.

"I'm gonna go see if Clay has any more shit lying 'round here." She declared, throwing a damp towel onto the table, backing out of the room.

Her heart was in her throat, stomach in damn knots. Isla wasn't confident that Cameron was going to make it--not with such a deep wound.

And in his ass, too? Jesus. She wasn't confident at all.

Of course, she'd seen men get shot. Her own father, for one. But she hadn't seen somebody have to go so long without actual medical attention.

Chibs was ex-army med, but there was only so much a man could've done with a bottle of liquor, gauze, and a towel.

She was relieved that the bullet hit Cameron and not Clay, though. As sick as it sounded, she was so fucking glad that he'd managed to dodge the line of fire--initially intended for his own skull--and come out completely unscathed.

But for every ounce of relief she'd felt, an even more fervid sense of anger prevailed at the thought of Jax taking so damn long with those medical supplies he'd sought to get last night.

Gemma mentioned something about heading to the hospital--or a friend's house, or something--but Isla wasn't paying any mind to the woman as she, and Chibs, were trying all ways to stop the bleeding coming from Cameron's ass cheek.

It was the most bizarre turn of events she'd ever experienced.

One minute, Isla was sipping on a glass of wine while she eagerly awaited the spirited ping of her tiny microwave oven, ready to spend a rare--though well fucking deserved--night alone.

However, things took a drastic turn when she received a call from Tig--on behalf of a very busy Chibs--casually requesting her assistance because the Mayans had tried to assassinate Clay.

But Tig failed to mention that the man was completely fine.

She'd spent fifteen minutes on the way over mentally preparing herself, wondering what hell she'd walk into when she set foot into the clubhouse. But it was normal--strangely so.

Isla wasn't a professional, she didn't exactly know how to handle such a trauma, but she trusted her father and she just wanted to make sure he had a helping hand.

God knows that Tig wouldn't have been very much use, and Juice was a little nervous--though, he was doing incredibly well throughout the ordeal regardless of his internal apprehension.

"How's it looking?" Gemma threw at Isla, getting to her feet.

"Bloody."

She quickly scanned the room, taking in the uncomfortably sparse bar. It wasn't usually so empty, so quiet.

Clay, Gemma, and Juice. That was it. Not even Piney--not even Epps.

"Is he doing okay?"

It was still early in the day, though. She guessed that they'd pop in once they properly came around.

"He's better than he was last night." The brunette nodded. "Dad is certain the laceration is gonna get infected if we leave it any longer without trying to get the bullet out--"

"You've gotta wait 'til Jax gets back here, Isla, we can't risk Hayes dying on us."

"I know, Clay. He's just fucking tired--he's been up all night. We need a real medic on the scene before something bad happens. It's only a matter of time."

He mumbled something to himself that only Gemma seemed to catch, but Isla didn't particularly give a damn at that point. Like Chibs, she was exhausted.

The tattered and torn plaid shirt she had thrown over a random tank top--now smeared with another man's blood--was wrenched between her fingers as she pulled it off, folding it not-so-neatly.

She hadn't dealt with such a bloody wound in a while. Not since her mother's palm, decorated with shards of glass, was in dire need of stitches and her father was across the country, unable to offer his medical assistance.

"I'll grab one of Jax's shirts for you--"

"No, Gemma, it's okay," she smiled, taking a seat on one of the couches opposite her.

The older woman pinched her eyebrows together skeptically, watching Isla shift. "I insist."

"It's fine." Isla was adamant. "I'm gonna head home as soon as Jax gets back here--if he gets back here--so, really, it's fine."

A minimal amount of already dried blood was spread over her wrists and fingers, and the excess had been rubbed off on her crimson flannel, so she didn't particularly feel bad about making any mess.

Though, she shouldn't have felt bad. Not after she'd been coerced into helping and eventually receiving that shitty reception from Tig.

"Aren't you cold?" She questioned, waiting for Isla to capitulate, but she never did.

The thought of wearing one of Jax's shirts--after it being given to her by his fucking mother--didn't sit right with her for some reason. Plus, she didn't particularly feel like walking out of that building wearing the damn reaper on her back.

She didn't want to flaunt their patch. Not any more than she already had been for the last ten years.

"Where the fuck is he?"

Clay glared at the clock on the wall, realizing they'd been without the Vice President for hours. In an attempt to put him at ease, Gemma ran a hand along his shoulder.

Isla could only watch them--admire, perhaps.

"He told us he was gonna swing by Tara's place for the equipment. But that was last night, man." Juice shrugged, circling the lip of his beer bottle with his thumb.

She felt her throat thicken with a sick sense of trepidation. She hadn't heard that name in years.

"Tara?" She stuttered, feeling Gemma's piercing glare.

The woman hated Jax's first love, though she never said it aloud. Isla knew her perception of her, however, and she'd started to feel the exact same as the years went on.

Bitch.

"Yeah, y'know, Tara Knowles--"

Her heart sank--fuck that, it dove straight to the deep caverns of her chest, throbbing away into nothing. Until she felt completely void of all emotion. Completely fucking numb.

"I know her, Juice." Her response came hastily, snappy. "I'm sorry. I just didn't expect you to say that."

He shrugged it off. "It's alright. I wasn't expecting her to be back in town, either. I thought you already knew."

Suddenly uncomfortable, Isla's head shook.

The crow situated at the bottom of her spine began to smolder, blistering away at her skin until she physically flinched.

It was a brilliant idea at the time, getting a matching tattoo with Jax's old lady--the one woman she truly adored and trusted, never once feeling an ounce of malice toward.

Because that was a rare thing for Isla, and she wanted their friendship--and relation to Samcro--to prevail for eternity, she supposed.

But as time went on and Tara decided to distance, and eventually alienate, herself from the club, an ample sense of regret persisted for fucking months.

Isla loathed her ink. She hated the negative connotation of the crow she once lauded, and the mere idea of that thing being slapped above her ass forever churned her stomach.

It wasn't one of her finest moments, she had to admit. But she was young and extremely fucking dumb. She'd bet top dollar that Tara felt the same--if she hadn't gotten the crow covered up already.

"Jesus, Jax, where were you?!"

Her eyes flicked upward, attention on the blonde as he sauntered across the wooden floor of the bar.

She hadn't even noticed his presence until Clay spoke, but she soon started to heed how Jax was trembling a bit with every step that he took.

It wasn't obvious. To most people, the slight shake of his wrist would've gone completely unnoticed. But to Isla--to the most observant woman in Charming--his discomfort was striking.

Jax ignored him, stomping his way toward the back room. His line of sight never satisfied Isla's. It didn't even come close to it, either.

Something had happened. It was obvious that, in the time he had been with Tara, he'd encountered something grizzly enough to chill him to the bone.

Which was saying something, what with the horrific shit that he'd already seen in his time.

"Jax!" Clay yelled, following closely behind him. "Hey, asshole, where the fuck did you put the bag--"

"I've got it."

If she had the option, Isla would've allowed the floor to swallow her fucking whole.

"Tara." Pissed, Gemma acknowledged. "You're here because?"

"I asked her to help, mom."

"But Chibs had it covered. He just needed some actual instruments--"

"Gemma, quit it."

She simply nodded at her son, not wanting to cause another problem that she'd have to fix later--which, honestly, Isla was shocked to see.

"He's in there--"

"I know." Jax cut her short, ushering Tara to the back of the clubhouse--striving to get her into the room before she heeded Isla.

But she did.

The first person she clocked--aside from Clay--was Isla Telford, the woman she had purposely alienated herself from ten fucking years ago.

It wasn't anything that she'd particularly done to Tara, more like the crowd she ran with--and the way her loyalties never seemed to lay very closely to her friends, or anything outside of the club.

Isla wasn't a part of Samcro--she didn't want to be a part of Samcro--but her coalition was strong enough to convince anybody that she was more than merely a daughter of a Sgt. at Arms.

She had been brought up around the Sons--her father's choice, of course--and when her mother passed, she had no choice but to dive a little bit deeper into that world. But, as expected, it was constantly under the watchful eye of her old man.

She was dedicated to them. They were, essentially, family, and she was an honorary member.

"Isla." Jax mumbled, nodding his head toward the entrance of the clubhouse as he closed the back-door. "Outside."

He pulled a carton of cigarettes out of his leather vest, shaking the box as he strived to seem a little less suspicious to Clay and his mother.

The blonde wobbled to her feet--knees weak after hours of standing--while simultaneously pulling her bloodied flannel back onto svelte, freckled arms, recognizing that the chill was to hit her the second she stepped onto the gravel.

Jax was casual while he strutted ahead, taking long strides that Isla found fucking impossible to keep up with.

He pushed the door to close behind her, offering a cigarette that she hastily declined.

"What's she doing here?" Was how she decided to break the silence, her eyes searching for a hint of something written on his face.

But there was nothing. Not an ounce of emotion--scarily so.

"She's fixing Cameron up--"

"Not at the clubhouse, Jax. I meant back in Charming."

He ran a thumb across his lower lip, trying to soften his gaze on Isla, but it was futile. He looked discomposed--unsettled.

"She's uh--she's workin' at the hospital now." She started to nod, waiting for his elaboration. It never came, however.

"Oh, that's nice. I wonder what happened in Chicago...Do you know why she's back here? Or how long she's gonna be staying in town--"

"You sound like my fucking mother--give it a break with the thirty-seven questions about Tara, damnit."

He snarled, heeding the distaste of his words the second she glowered at him.

"Excuse you?"

"I didn't call you out here for a sweet little conversation, Isla, I called you 'cause I need your help--"

"With what?"

Jax's hand hooked onto the back of his neck while he tilted his head to look upward, thinking of a way--any fucking way--to explain just what damn mess he'd found himself entwined with over the course of the last twenty-four hours.

He didn't know what to say or how to say it--if he should've fucking said it. He trusted Isla with his life--always had--but sometimes he appreciated that she mightn't have appreciated finding herself tangled within Jax's boisterous, at times frightening, life.

But it was too late for that. She'd been dragged through the deepest shit and wasn't crumbling that easily.

"Jax--"

"Kohn." He stated simply, waiting for the cogs of her brain to begin turning.

"What about him? You got in trouble with the ATF or something? Because we can handle that--"

"I already did." Jax laughed humorlessly, finally meeting Isla's line of sight.

The skin underneath his eyes was red raw, blotchy and irritated after he had used the sleeve of his hoodie to scrub away the tears he'd shed.

The tears he hadn't wanted to shed, but had fallen freely--uncontrollably--from those cerulean hues Isla never tired of looking at.

"What do you mean by that?" Nervously, she quizzed.

He didn't even have to say anything. She fucking knew. She knew exactly what he meant by that, but there was a tiny morsel of something within her that hoped and prayed that he'd declare that her gut feeling was wrong.

But he couldn't. Because it was right. Like always, Isla's intuition didn't fail her.

"Jax, honey, what did you do--"

"I killed Kohn."

[xadnem]

Horoscopes for July 5 - July 11

Aires (March 21 - April 19): Order and chaos are not so much governing forces of the universe as they are ways of thinking about the emergent properties of it as it functions. That's one less grand cosmic force for you to blame as your life crumbles around you. You are both the captain of your fate and the architect of your destruction.

Taurus (April 20 - May 20): Keep your friends close and your enemies out of traditional melee range by learning how to properly weild a polearm of your choice. While I'm partial to the glaive, there are many to choose from, each with a name sillier than the last.

Gemini (May 21 - June 20): Try as you might, you cannot steer from the back seat. Not without those long grabby robot arms, anyway, and even then your control is incredibly bad. Take the wheel or crash.

Cancer (June 21 - July 22): Beware solipsists. They pose you no threat, but they are incredibly annoying.

Leo (July 23 - August 22): Sometimes hard work, grit, and determination aren't enough. In such cases, I recommend the swift and impassioned application of a blunt instrument, such as a baseball bat or your sense of humor.

Virgo (August 23 - September 22): Your hour has come. The time of reckoning is upon us. You have a narrow window of time to bring to fruition your grand designs. Make haste, for the sands of time flow ever-downward.

Libra (September 23 - October 20): They say you can drown in just a teaspoon of water. Not the general collective you, but the specific individual you. Swimming lessons are a bit out of the question at the moment, so try not to interact with more than 4 mL of water at once for the next week.

Scorpio (October 21 - November 21): Your power grows with each passing week, and your actions have largely gone unnoticed. In time, you will subsume all else, your unending hunger proving too great for even the arbitrary divisions of the stars to satisfy. Also, be sure to welcome the new arrivals, they're probably very confused.

Sagittarius (November 22 - December 21): Don't let anyone shame you for laughing at your own jokes. You fill an important sociological niche, filling a silence which would otherwise punctuate the other, more unpleasant flaws in your personality.

Capricorn (December 22 - January 19): If discretion is the better part of valor, then you must be the bravest person alive.

Aquarius (January 20 - February 18): Revisit the music you listened to in middle school. Remember when life was simple, conveniently forgetting all of the anguish you felt on a near daily basis. One day, you will look back on this period of your life with similar selective amnesia. Or maybe not, this has been a hell of a year.

Pisces (February 19 - March 20): A bolt of inspiration will strike you directly in the base of the skull. If you're not going to pursue your creative interests this week, and you don't own a crossbow, wear a helmet to minimize risk of concussion.

[awkward-teabag]

This is especially true in BC. Washington state has had a lot of outbreaks with Seattle being hit the worst, yet there’s not one but two direct ferries between Seattle and downtown Victoria that are still allowed to run. I’ve even heard that there’s been an influx of American tourists who cite the closure of so many things in Washington state as the reason why they decided to cross the border into Canada.

I can’t speak for other provinces, but neither Trudeau nor companies shutting down travel with a hotspot just south of the border and where anti-vaxxers congregate does not inspire confidence and is getting more worrisome. Especially given the age of the population in Victoria and on Vancouver Island in general, and how all the deaths in BC thus far were in a care home in Vancouver. You can’t shut down all travel between Victoria and Vancouver, so if one city starts having an outbreak, the other one will get it, too.

Why is Trudeau still letting Americans come into the country when that’s where most of the cases are coming from? Is there any good reason for him to? Cause to me it seems like a dumb move.

~~~~