#y'all made it worse

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

@wallycaine

So obvious follow up: who's the worst case for developing this as a condition? My votes for Jake, as it gives the tantalizing option of morphing Tom to get something close to his old life back, but at a horrifying distance.

@kamkong

I agree, Jake would likely take it the worst, losing his original body forever.  I could see him trying desperately to do the DNA blending thing Ax does with both his parents, trying to land that lucky dice roll of combining their genetics in the way his body originally was, getting close but never quite hitting it, his human life a constant dysphoria.

@wolfziedraws

There's an argument to made for Ax too, since that whole andalite pride would mean that not only does he lose *his* form, but what he thinks is objectively the *best* form to be in. He'd lose a symbol of his culture. And he'd have to grapple with so much internalized shame around nothlits and morphing disabilities and losing his tail etc

What if there was another morphing "condition" (like Rachel's crocodile allergy) wherein the morpher can only morph "forward," with all forms being able to acquire DNA and morph. So you can go from human to hawk, but you can't go back to human unless you acquire fresh DNA as a hawk. Benefits, can't become a nothlit. Negatives, no stored forms, and unless you shave off some hair beforehand, you may lose your original shape.

I love this fairy-tale-body-horror-Tam-Lin idea. It fits so well with the original series' emphasis on your "real body" being whatevertheheck you say it is, but with this permanent sense of loss to accompany it.

Because even shaving hair wouldn't work; you have to acquire DNA from living cells. You only get to be your original human self once, and then your body will change forever. You can be that one hawk, but you'll never be that particular hawk again. You're a koala, for as long as you choose to be, you eat and sleep and live as a koala, until you rest your koala hand upon a marmoset and now that marmoset is your entire life. So on, infinitely. No going back, no recovery, no reset button.

We live in bodes that change permanently from the moment we're born to the moment we die, bones stretching and then skin wrinkling and then telomeres shortening. If Animorphs makes that literal, then it's got the most unforgiving metaphor for growing up that I've yet seen.

[potatoesandsunshine]

Karna should've shown up to the meeting with Deli wearing Gemelli's perfume like if we're gonna make things complicated let's make them complicated

[rubyvroom]

we can all agree this is unacceptable, right?

“I don’t care that abuse and harassment, stalking is a normal thing to do to people who are famous,” [Chappell Roan] says in the aforementioned TikTok, which has since gone viral. “I don’t care that it’s normal. I don’t care that this crazy type of behavior comes along with the career field I’ve chosen. That does not make it OK. That doesn’t make it normal. It doesn’t mean I want it. It doesn’t mean that I like it. I don’t want whatever the fuck you think you’re supposed to be entitled to whenever you see a celebrity.” [...] Roan is far from the first artist to push back on these expectations. She’s the latest in a string of young, mostly female pop stars, like Eilish, Doja Cat, and Reneé Rapp, who have expressed their discomfort at the parasocial expectations that come with being in the spotlight. It’s a risky sentiment to share in a world where one of the worst things a woman can be is rude. But at this point, it can’t possibly be shocking. In her 2022 documentary, the actor and singer Selena Gomez said, “Everything I’ve ever wished for, I’ve had and done all of it. But it has killed me.” That sums up everything that’s wrong with the current fan–artist dynamic. We are asking too much, and we are chasing a level of intimacy that simply isn’t sustainable. In the process, we reward the stars who try to give us every piece of themselves, and we find reasons to villainize the ones who make an effort to protect themselves.

We're overdue for an internet Come-To-Jesus moment about this

[keyh0use]

shitpost number I have 2927829272 of these saved and need to free up space

[gardenofnoah]

darling i loved you, i long to become you -

part one - simon "ghost" riley x reader; 2.8k words. tags: stalking, obsessive behavior, breaking and entering, bodily fluids, masturbation, misuse of prescriptions and alcohol, it’s going to get a lot worse

There's something sick inside of him. That's the only conclusion he's arrived at, because nothing else comes to him at three in the morning but the blistering silence and that single observation—that there is something wholly necrotic crawling underneath his skin. It's beginning to scare him.

Simon draws a hand up over his pulse and he thinks he feels that something, too—dark and writhing and waiting, just like him. The longer he is awake, the more he begins to believe that the thing he fears is merely his own shadow. That there is no something else at all—only another side of himself shook looser with every passing minute. But sleep doesn't come—not in anything more than fits and spurts, and just long enough to drive him half insane every time he opens his eyes and finds the dark is not yet done with him.

Tonight is no different. The medication makes him sweat, makes him nauseous, makes him anything but what it should; all of his feeble attempts at sleep, and concentration, and peace—all out of reach and replaced with something filled with so much numbness. That is the darkness—the hole left behind and filled with a nothing that is so much heavier than he’d ever imagined it’d be.

He'd sent you away. It had only made sense at the time—your need and his own like locked cervids, both of you too blind with blazon adrenaline to realize there could be a way to fit around each other—to come apart with both your lives and pride intact. He'd believed he'd known better—that his indifference to your tears and your rage could only have meant that there truly was no room inside himself for the home you'd tried to carve within him. It was him that caused the fracture, but he'd shown you it was you. He saw the final sever when his words landed—the parts of you he'd sloughed off, knowing immediately he'd taken too much. Regretting it, if only for a fleeting moment.

But either way—it was over. You were gone, and he, free to continue to pursue some vague and ever-distorting end goal that he'd put on a pedestal for himself. He'd been younger, once—chasing tail and money and some odd sort of notoriety for the things that were easy to him: brutality, efficiency. Rage as mechanical as it was innate to him. He'd never been too sure what that holy grail of his life would be, but he'd been certain that whatever finality awaited him would be truly worthy of something as wicked as he. What pride he'd felt at that—at the magnificent monster he'd painstakingly reared up from, and in spite of, some terrified child huddled in fear at the unfortunate end of a perpetually smoking gun. Never again in his life would he feel that way.

But while the progression into his 30s brought him a renewed sense of vitality, of urgency, of greed—it gave you claws to grab hold of him. While the itch to go became unbearable to him, your need—to love him, to have him, to keep him—pinned him to the floor. He got away the only way he knew how—with the swift cruelty he'd inherited and whittled to a fine point.

He'd taken from you to get out—but not without a cost. An unfathomable one, at that. He's no idea what switched—what took him from apathy to obsession overnight. He's not lost so much of the plot that he believes it's love; but no matter what it is, it pushes him forward, toward you. He can't stop—couldn't, even if he wanted to.

The air, hanging and oppressive enough to be sentient, keeps Simon affixed to the soaked-through sheets like they're a part of him. This is his new routine: dreamless sleep to waking nightmare. He feels, with some irony, that his current state has nothing to do with the years of blood on his hands, and everything to do with the heart or the sense you seemed to have gored from him on your way out. He knows this, because it is 3:30 in the morning, and after 32 minutes of staring at the silent, slow rotation of his ceiling fan, he'll swing both legs over the edge of his bed and summon some sort of reserved strength to drag himself up and over to the window. An island, no more than a wooden counter top on bricks, separates point A from point B—he'll approach it and give himself a choice: to grab a handful of pills that he's scattered across its surface, or to forgo this new odd game of roulette all together.

And from 4:02 until the sun rises, he will watch you sleep from that window.

It was easy enough to find where you ended up—you'd blocked him on your socials, but it took all of a moment to create a new version of himself, with a generic name and a different face. He'd almost been disappointed at how easy it was to follow you with the new him—at how easy it would be to shatter this illusion of safety you somehow still had, even after he'd shown you what he was.

He'd just been curious, at first—but he'd recognized the buildings outside of the window of your flat in your pictures, and suddenly he was signing a lease for a studio with a direct line of sight into that window. His stomach had turned delightfully when he'd realized that you'd forgone curtains for your bedroom. He was sure you'd believed you were far enough from the first floor not to need them. Poor dove. Stupid thing.

His intentions had been pure, even as he hauled the last of his belongings into his building under the cover of night. Someone had to keep an eye on you, he'd reasoned, if only because you clearly had no sense of how to do it yourself. But the months passed and he left his place less and he drank more. He became a little less regimented about the sleep aids, the psychotropics, the pain killers—dumped them out of their safety-locked bottles and mixed them around, needing to feel something like a thrill and knowing that no matter how lax he was about what he took, he would remain right here. At his window, in this body, only for a glimpse of you.

And here he is—chewing down what he thinks could be a chlorpromazine, chasing it with what's left of the handle of gin before he has the chance to gag. From his perch, there's no movement in your dark apartment, but he knows you're in there. The light of your TV flashes dimly to him like a flare—illuminating the back wall of your bedroom. If he squints, he can make out the frames nailed to the drywall, the houseplant that refuses to die despite your neglect next to your bed, and the wooden slats of your headboard. As if just for him, a particularly bright advert reveals your sleeping form to him—just the outline of you, under the mound of blankets you insist on sleeping with. How grateful he feels that you've given him a front row seat, down to the placement of your bedroom furniture.

He pushes the bottom pane of his window away, out into the night as he crouches to light a cigarette out of the opening. He watches the smoke curl away from his fingers and he wonders if you'd know him by the acrid smell of it alone, if he got close enough. He feels the absent tug of a scar as his lip curls at the memory of your disdain for it. It'd be easy enough for him to scale the side of your building, to get right up under your balcony—would you think him a haunting?

He flicks ash and watches your comforter move with your tossing and turning—knowing acutely that you've no idea the ways you haunt him.

He stands there, watching for flickers of you in the dark until the light begins to reveal his hiding place. At 7:16 he moves, if only out of the desire to drag this out—to see how long he can make himself wait until he inevitably needs more. Until that slithering thing inside him tells him to get a little closer.

Until then, indeed.

-

The weather gets colder as the year drags on—and you push him a little nearer to whatever edge he's approaching when you put up curtains in your bedroom.

To keep the cold out, surely—but not him. You couldn't have known about his early morning routine, but to Simon, it's personal. It's a challenge—a subtle provocation from you to try a little harder.

So he does.

"Evening, mate," he gruffs to the concierge of your building—making a big show of brushing the snow off of his coat. He didn't own a coat until tonight—there was no reason to, with how infrequently he'd left his place recently—but it was easy enough to snag it off the back off a stroller off the subway. "Bloody blizzard out there."

The doorman cocks an eyebrow at him, not bothering to hide the suspicion at the way he's come trudging through the lobby at two in the morning on a Wednesday. "Bit late for walk, no?"

Simon grins at him, entirely conscious of his face for what might be the first time in his life. Wonders what the man might think of the scar that pulls white with the flash of his teeth. Winks for good measure. "Ah, girlfriend lives on the 3rd floor—dropped her off by curfew, but seems'm a bit whipped—" He leans forward, squinting at the nametag. "—Percy. M'sure you know about that, yeah?"

You don't—live on the 3rd floor, that is. You live on the 6th. But he's no idiot, and he won't assist this squatty, red-faced bastard in drawing the conclusions he's clearly already trying to piece together.

"Say, Percy—" Simon jabs at him, ignoring the way the man not-so-subtly steps back from his best attempt at a friendly advance, "—'ve got a bone to pick with you, actually. She says you've been starin' at her somethin' horrid." He does his best to toe the line between a tease between co-conspirators and his usual threat, eyebrow cocked with mirth. "I know she's a catch, mate, but maybe take it easy on 'er."

He's pulling it out of his ass, but Simon knows he's won this standoff the second he sees the concierge's face turn a darker shade of red. It doesn't matter who he's talking about. He's certain this asshole ogles every woman that walks through the door.

"Apologies, sir," the doorman doesn't raise his eyes from the countertop when he hands Simon the little red plastic card he'd been waiting for, "this will get you up there."

Simon raises two fingers in a little mock salute and turns on his heel, seeking out the elevators like he's been here before. It feels like he has, with all of the time he's spent carding through virtual tours of all of the vacant flats in the building. He thinks he could find the main elevators—placed on the far back wall, around the corner from the utility closet—with his eyes closed. He feels himself slip into a headspace that's far more tactile than this requires, but he supposes he shouldn't be too careful. Two in the morning or not, he has the sense to know he shouldn't be here.

It excites him, though, to watch the button for the sixth floor light up under his fingertip. The car rises and so does his stomach, fuzzy and writhing with anticipation. He's not been this close to you in months. He’s nearly sick with it—the unbridled need slicking his palms and wetting the inside of his mouth.

It’s not that he wants you. It’s more that you’re his, and he’ll play the long game if it means he gets to keep you. Simon doesn't consider himself a bad guy—even now, as he keeps his footsteps light on the carpet leading him to what will inevitably be your door—it's just that he's been dealt so much shit that he feels he deserves something good. It's that he realized too late that you could be that something good—but he can still have it, have you, if he's careful about this.

He finds it easy enough—when he spots the one door decorated top to fucking bottom with winter festivities, he is certain that he's in front of your door. It almost makes him angry—how easy you've made this for him. What if it had been someone else? Someone who wasn't him, rooting around in what he's already claimed?

Before he knows it, he's shoved a pin into your lock and gotten the door open. With all of the stealth imparted on him by his career, it swings open without a sound, leading the way into your dark home.

You're not here. He knows you're not—blinds up or not, he's been observing you long enough to know your patterns. Now, thinking of where you would be at 2am on a week night has his heartbeat thundering in his ears, but right now that's not important.

He allows himself the luxury of a tour around your flat—smaller than his, it seems, but with all of the character you have a habit of inflicting on your living spaces. There are pieces of you everywhere—pictures stuck to the fridge, dirty laundry in the corner of your bedroom. He helps himself to the latter—rooting around until his fingers catch something lace. In the dark, he can make out the shade, not the color; the stain he feels piques his interest. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the gusset of your panties, presses into it—still a little tacky, like you'd worn them earlier in the day. He knows it's from you—Simon tells himself he's only confirming that you're being safe, and not letting some neanderthal spill his load inside you. He's only concern for you, he rationalizes—depositing your underwear into the band of his own. Your discharge sticks to his skin, and he suppresses a shiver. It flares to life inside him—the need to have every part of you again.

He forces himself to move on. He's not really sure why he's here, but feels he belongs there all the same—in your dark apartment, standing over your bed, where you ought to be sleeping.

He's drawn to the window—he pulls back the corner of your new linen curtain just to be sure, and feels a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. There's not a chance in hell you'd ever be able to see him looking down at you.

He allows his boot to scuff along the hardwood—some small part of him hoping the rubber sole leaves behind a mark. He's overwhelmed by the weight of it—of the feeling that he has to leave something behind, but knowing he can't—not yet.

So he makes a compromise with himself—he arrives by your bedside again and stays there this time, fingers reaching to the zipper of his jeans. He pulls himself out clumsily—soft, but swelling quickly at the idea of you beneath him, breathing softly and blissfully unaware.

He pictures you in his mind. Blankets tangled around your legs, hair tangled in a nest by your pillows—he wonders how long he'd be able to get away with brushing the crown of him against your open, drool-slicked bottom lip before you'd stir.

He feels a flush of pleasure lick up his spine at the thought of you, bleary-eyed and confused—how your eyes would widen when you finally registered him towering over you. Would you know it was him right away? Would you scream? Would you soil yourself?

The image of your fright forces a low groan from him, and he tugs at his cock brutally—dry and fast, but no less effective right now. With his free hand, he pulls your panties from his waistband and pushes them between his teeth—the fabric and the taste of you muffling his whining and making his eyes roll back in his head. He imagines you coming back to the sight of him—panties in his mouth and cock hanging out of his jeans. Maybe you'd understand, finally, what you've done to him.

His release is a short one, but it knocks the breath of him nonetheless—hot spend coating his knuckles and his jeans. The urge to mark you in some way seems to transfer to your belongings, because before he can even register that he's done it, his hand is inside your pillowcase—wiping the remnants of his pleasure across the underside of the bare pillow. You'll never find it, but he'll know—and for now, that's enough.

He looks down at his watch, and knows he's out of time. He shoves himself back into his jeans and retraces his steps, back out of your door—he doesn't bother locking it behind him. Let you feel a little fear, if only for a moment. Teach you a lesson in comfort—the fallacy of safety he's always known, and you've never felt.

He doesn't look back once the door shuts behind him—he finds a fire stairway and clears the six floors to the street in no time at all. He doesn't look back, not once—not until he's back in his place. He pulls the pack of cigarettes from his bedside drawer, and taps the carton against the wooden finish of it. He checks the time again.

3am. Only a half an hour until you get home.

[the--firevenus]

God forbid when aang has emotions and act like his age, like seriously I can't with people. Like I'm sorry, a lot of you assume people that defend aang thought he's perfect that could never do anything wrong, like no bitch I love him DESPITE his flaw, because guess what?? When he act childish, and or do anything wrong in the show, his ACTION HAS CONSEQUENCES. and ya know what else?? DESPITE EVERYTHING HE'S STILL A VERY COMPASSIONATE CHARACTER WITH HEARTS AND LOVE SO BIG FOR THE WORLD THAT DONE NOTHING BUT GAVE HIM SO MUCH PAIN AND SUFFERING.

You people keep nick picking every single thing he had done as if it's the crime against humanity, it's not him who commit genocide and colonialism in the show now isn't!? I'm sick and tired many of y'all act like he's one dimensional as well. HE HAS DEPTH, WE LITERALLY WATCH THE SAME SHOW!?

Come on man, it's almost two decades of this same thing, I'm so tired, leave my boy alone for fuck sake oh my god

[stabbyfoxandrew]

I am proceeding orderly to your askbox, totally not running and stumbling over myself, humbly requesting the light of my life, Angel Neil. Or Mer AU, if Angel Neil isn't behaving and needs quiet time in the corner. (I haven't been paying much attention to Tumblr lately, I hope you're doing well!)

WIP Wednesday (9/25) | Guardian Angel Neil AU (Part 239)

"Her name was Lacey,” Bee says finally. “She said she saw ghosts."

"Past tense?"

"Past tense." Betsy repeats, looking solemn. "But there are no similarities between you and Lacey. You describe Neil as an angel, a being who would not hurt you. Her case was... Very different. I just wanted to be sure. And now I am. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, I have plenty to worry about. Neil is not on the list.”

“If that ever changes, if Neil ever threatens you, I need you to tell me."

"He won't." 

"But if he does."

"Then I swear on hot chocolate and reality television that I will come to you first." Andrew says, holding up his hand as if he's testifying in court. Bee seems pleased by that. And amused. Andrew puts his hand down. “So… You're still of the mind that Neil's my imaginary friend, correct?"

"Or a harmless side effect of your medication."

Andrew sits there for a moment, pushes his tongue into his cheek. "What if he's not?"

"What if he's not harmless?" Bee asks, looking the slightest bit alarmed.

"No." Andrew gestures with his hand, trying to communicate without having to come up with words. "What if he isn't a side effect?"

"Are you suggesting that he is actually an angel here to protect you?"

"What I am suggesting, Betsy, is that it's a bit strange for him to only have shown up a few months ago when I have been taking these things for years."

"I…” Betsy closes her mouth. “That's a good point."

"So, what if the drugs have nothing to do with him? What if I'm just plain ol' psychotic?"

"I'm not sure that's a possibility, Andrew," Betsy says, flipping through his paperwork. "You have no family history of psychosis—"

"Oh Betsy, you forget who you're speaking to. I have no family history, period. If you recall, I only have two living relatives and they're both my age. My sperm donor could be tied down in a psych ward anywhere in the country and I would never know."

"Okay. You're right. It is possible. But I think the chances are pretty slim.”

“How slim?”

“Nearly non-existent.” Bee says. After a moment, she continues, “I have patients who are psychotic, Andrew. I’ve had patients who were schizophrenic. You do not exhibit the same symptoms as they do. I promise.”

"So I don't need to get fitted for a straight jacket."

"Exactly. Andrew, I'll reassure you as many times as you need me to. But I think you're fine. After June, we'll know if Neil was a side effect. If he sticks around after you're off your meds, we'll talk about it more. Okay?"

“I don’t think he’s a side effect, Betsy.” Andrew says. “I’ve seen him without them.”

“Without them?”

“At night when I come off them to sleep. Early in the morning before I’ve taken them.”

“Ah. Then, like I’ve been telling you, he’s a coping mechanism.” Betsy says. But she's wrong. Andrew has seen Neil eat and drink and hold things. He’s felt the angel’s warmth when they sat side by side. If Andrew has seen him sober, Neil is not a side effect. If Andrew is not psychotic, Neil is not a hallucination. That means he’s real. 

Boo hoo for Lacey, but Andrew's got an angel.

"I think you'd like Neil," Andrew says randomly.

“Of course I do. He’s good for you." Bee says, taking Andrew by surprise. She's said as much before, but not in so many words. As if answering an unasked question, she continues with, "You've told me that Neil encourages you to take care of yourself, to spend time with your family, to catch up on school work, and to take exy more seriously. These are positive things." 

“The rest I’ll give you. But exy will never be a positive.”

[artistformerlyknownasbutttrumpet]

Your election post was the most holier-than-thou, performative, bullshit I’ve ever read. Get a grip and get some self awareness.

i will take "missed the entire point" for 500, alex

[impishtubist]

When I say that the Wolfstar fandom hates Sirius, it’s because I see shit like “Sirius at his worst doesn’t deserve to be loved by Remus” circulating on my dash 😂 Love isn’t a one-way street, babes! If Sirius loves Remus at his worst, Remus needs to love Sirius at his worst. And no, Remus at his worst isn’t him being a werewolf, it’s him believing Sirius could ever betray James. And also leaving him in prison for twelve years without so much as a note. 

Why do you all afford Remus grace and forgiveness for his crimes but don’t extend the same to Sirius (and his non-crimes)?

[tinystepsforward]

ngl it makes me want to die a little bit that it's so often trans people who feel that sex is mutable but oppression is always-forever based on asab in ways that allow them to demand that information from other trans people. like it feels fucking bad. it feels bad when it's people holding up someone who posts a lot of selfies as transition goals to a degree they have to clarify what they have or haven't done or what "direction" they're going in, it feels worse when people are out there like "caster semenya is not tma" or whatever the fuck. i am, as always, not a trans woman, but here's a sentiment echoed by many of the trans women around me who log the fuck off, quoted directly from one: "people who draw a clear line where they say that semenya or khelif are tme and then call me tma are just calling me male at this point".

like i get it. i really do. we seek community and shared experiences, and we feel betrayed when people have less in common with us than we thought they did. [*more on this later.] but that's not those people's faults and my god in the case i'm seeing play out on twitter rn this poor person did absolutely nothing to intentionally mislead people, just posted pictures of their actual kid self. who looks a lot like i did, because shockingly enough "we can always tell" doesn't fucking work for trans people either!

on the one hand i move in intersex circles which are unapologetically welcoming in cis "dyadic" people with pcos, because it serves nobody to draw a clear line where mutilation or genetics or some ineffable childhood suffering are what make somebody intersex, especially when most of us (esp in places like nz) have never been karyotyped and are being treated for symptoms without a pinned-down cause anyway. the more of us there are the stronger we are, the more pressure we can exert on a medical profession which doesn't like to consider how common outliers are, how uneasy sex is at all. and then on the other hand there's dyadic trans people on the internet who've yelled me out of spaces because a couple of traumatised incarcerated trans women i worked with as a prison abolitionist assumed i was also a trans woman and i didn't immediately tell them my entire csa-involved history of being sexed in varying ways as an infant and child and/or exactly how big my phallus was at birth or where in my junk config my urethra lives so they could decide i was tme or whatever.

returning to the * for a related but not identical thought: i think presuming shared experiences leads to some fucked shit in general! "oh we all had a radfem phase" or "oh we all were channers" no we fucking weren't and it's particularly obnoxious when me & mine are trying to build trans community locally to organise and resist the growing wave of far-right backlash against our existence, and there's just white people in there on a spectrum from "straight up being antisemitic and trying to get the n-word pass" through "handwringing about how they need to make space for people who aren't politically correct" to "handwringing about how brown people are right to be mad at them but doing shit fuckall". and then the other fucking brown people in the space are on some identity politics shit where they're like "trans joy inherently excludes those of us who could get deported" or "big city white queers are killing us by being visible instead of going stealth bc it stirs up the discourse" or whatever the fuck i've heard pulled out this year. there's a bunch of reasons i primarily organise outside of trans spaces and that's one of them. i've never felt more alone in spaces where people claim we're all the same than being left as the brownest moderator or organiser in a space full of people to whom "this is a safe trans space" apparently means they get to abdicate all other responsibilities not to lapse into presumed shared patterns that are fucking racist or otherwise alienating. i've never felt more alone than surrounded by exclusively trans people who sort people into boxes and assume everyone in those boxes has the transition goals they have. like i was on cypro until it disagreed with me to the point of endocrine crisis and now i'm on t and at both those points people were so fucking presumptive or entitled to my reasons or journey or personal relationship w my body

literally just submitted on (and was invited to consult on) the nz law commission's review of the human rights act and like. it's straight up fucked how many nz trans people fully do not comprehend that any "sex assigned at birth" type definitions fundamentally exclude migrants who have no way of proving it and many intersex people who happen to have been reassigned later or many times or never assigned at all as a baby. we can't make law with this shit and that's why we have to have symmetrical protections for all genders/sexes/expressions/presentations, bc naming and defining a protected class here often leaves the people who already are left out from those shared experiences of marginalisation out in the cold when they face violence

[fromtheseventhhell]

People voting Rhaegar over Balon in a Worst Dad poll cause "at least Balon was good to one kid" and a thousand comments crying cause Rhaegar was mean to his "WOC" wife, I really have to laugh. The way people hate the fanon!Rhaegar they've invented seriously needs to be studied

[wackyaussiegiraffes]

ALEX STOP BEING SO CUTE!!!

[dailykugisaki]

Day 289 | id in alt

Mangled hands and the hands that wants to put her bruised fingers between the others.

[ladyloveandjustice]

This is what matters in this week's I'm in Love with the Villainess.

[mad-hunts]

[copper-skulls]

good morning sunshine; your husband is also (somewhat) awake and might be unwilling to let go until his headache subsides

(...i might color this eventually, but not in the forseeable future I'm afraid)