Hot take: there is no valid reason that official government ID should have either a sec or gender marker on it. First name, last name, dob + up to date image will suffice. Address, if relevant.
I'm always confused by why people seem to think that there is some sort of Penis Emergency that will kill you if paramedics perform the Vagina Procedure on your fully clothed body.
Hospital spoilers btw: blood isn't sorted by sex, it's sorted by type. The sex of the blood donor doesn't factor in at all when receiving a transfusion, and you will not be harmed by receiving blood from a donor whose sex is different than yours. Saying this because it's another misconception that I've heard.
if you're unconscious at the hospital and they need to operate and insert a catheter in your urethra, don't worry! they'll figure out if you have a penis or a vagina without having to look at a laminated card in your wallet
I think this is one of those things where folks are so used to it that they just sort of assume there must be a good reason for it. But the only reason for your sex to be on your ID is if your legal rights differ based on your sex. Like, it would be important for your ID to say F or M if, for instance, one of those categories was allowed to open a bank account but the other one wasn't. But as far as I can tell, we have mostly decided that legal rights should pertain to everyone. Which means that sex documentation really is just a throwback to a time when women were not considered full legal persons and therefore their legal status had to be officially displayed on their ID in order to maintain that distinction.
Honestly, the only major thing I can think of that still strictly legally requires sex distinction is the military draft. Which, A) still doesn't require sex be recorded on your drivers license, B) could be made sex-neutral, or C) could be abolished instead.
sexism in medicine kills people. racism in medicine kills people. fatphobia in medicine kills people. queerphobia in medicine kills people. classism in medicine kills people. ableism in medicine kills people.
do not downplay people’s fears about being mistreated because they are a part of a marginalised group. it is a matter of life and death and you should be angry about it.
simply the fact that different body types for women go in and out of style throughout the decades should be enough to tell you that women’s bodies are considered consumable goods under capitalism
A/N: This request comes from @scarletwolfxox and anon. The story starts just before the incident in the original part one and diverges from there
Warnings: Blood, slight gore, poor self image (reader is delulu) the father is his own warning - Never Proof Read
The meeting at the Great Sept had run longer than anyone wished.
Your sister had begun the morning flushed with delight and ended it with impatience, her smile only brightening when at last the last septon bowed and withdrew.
As you walked down the steps back to your carriage, your sister flushed with excitement “The market is just beyond the square” she said, pointing eagerly in that direction “We should go, even if only for a moment”
“We do not have the escort for wandering” you warned quietly. Refusing to ask Baelor who you assumed had returned to his horse. Till his voice rang out.
“A short walk” Bealor agreed from behind you, seeming too close.
You blinked, still refusing to meet his gaze. Your sister beamed as though he had gifted her a crown.
Baelor’s expression remained mild, but his gaze flicked briefly to you “Remain close to me and my men” he said.
The words were directed at your sister, but somehow they felt aimed toward you.
You watched your sister take Baelor’s arm, two Kingsguard followed at a discreet distance as you descended the broad white steps of the Sept and crossed into the press of King’s Landing.
The market was alive with sound. Sellers shouted over one another, fabrics snapped in the breeze, and the smell of spice and fish and hot stone pressed in from every side. Your sister delighted in everything at once, laughing as she darted from one stall to the next, holding up ribbons and scented oils and little carved trinkets for Baelor’s approval.
He answered her kindly enough, though his attention seemed divided. You stayed quiet, your hands folded tightly before you, careful to keep pace with them.
You were aware of him beside you more than you wished to be. Aware, too, that he had spoken little to you since Balerion’s skull. It still stung more than it should have.
Your sister stopped before a stall draped in dyed silks, gasping over some pale gold fabric that would no doubt suit her beautifully. One of the Kingsguard shifted closer to her, no doubt charmed by her giggles.
You lingered half a pace back, eyes skimming the crowd without thought, wondering if there were any book stalls. You absolute refused to acknowledge the prince who stopped beside you.
You let your eyes drift over the crowded stalls. But then you felt it.
A wrongness in the flow of bodies. A tightening in the air.
Baelor felt it too. You knew it from the way he went still beside you, like he was suddenly on alert.
His hand dropped, not to his sword, but nearer to it. His gaze moved once across the square, quick and sharp beneath that calm, princely expression.
“Your Grace?” you asked softly as he took your elbow and pulled you closer to him.
“Stay close” was all he said in response.
The words had barely left him when the first man lunged.
Not at you. At him.
Steel flashed in the sunlight. Baelor moved first, quicker than seemed possible for a man of his size, his sword half drawn before the attacker’s blade had fully descended. The clash rang out hard enough to split the market into screams.
A second attacker came from the side. Then a third.
One of the Kingsguard shouted, shoving your sister bodily behind a fruit cart as he met the next blow with his shield.
The other drew steel and stepped before you and Bealor at once “Back!”
You stumbled as the crowd surged in every direction, stalls toppling, baskets of figs and eels and bolts of cloth spilling across the stones, as people screamed and ran.
They were not thieves. They were not drunkards. They moved with purpose. Ten men, perhaps more, rough dressed but coordinated enough to be deadly.
Then you caught sight of it, the tattoo on the man’s arm. The black dragon.
‘Blackfyre supporters’ your mind supplied in one clear, cold flash. Men who wanted the king and his family dead. And it seemed a lightly guarded prince was an opportune target.
Baelor cut one down before the thought had fully formed. His sword moved brutally, efficiently, no wasted motion, the polished gentleness of court gone from him entirely. He looked like the title men gave him. Breakspear, The Hammer.
You pushed yourself back further. The market had become a cage of overturned stalls and screaming civilians. The Kingsguard were separated now, one holding the alley mouth, the other battling near the silk stall where your sister cried out in terror.
You were pushed hard against a butcher’s table, nearly losing your footing.
“Stay down!” one of the white cloaks barked at you.
As though you could do anything else.
Baelor fought toward you without seeming to mean to. Or perhaps he did mean to. You could not tell. One man fell at his feet, another caught him across the arm with a slicing blow that tore dark through black fabric.
Your breath caught. He did not seem to feel it, his eyes instead searching for something.
Taking advantage of his distraction one of them came from behind the broken spice cart, slamming into him with enough force to drive him backward into the side of a merchant’s stall.
Baelor struck him once in the throat with the hilt of his sword, but a second man was already there, pinning his sword arm against the splintered post while the first recovered.
For one sick heartbeat the whole market narrowed to that single image.
Baelor trapped against the stall wall. One attacker holding him. The other drawing a long knife. You saw the blade lift.
You did not think.
Your hand closed around the nearest thing at hand, an oil jar heavy enough that it nearly slipped from your grasp.
The attacker drew back his arm to drive the knife down.
You swung with everything you had. The jar shattered against the side of his skull. Oil and clay and blood sprayed across the stall as the man dropped without so much as a cry.
For a moment no one moved. Not even you.
The second attacker turned toward you in shock, and that was all Baelor needed. He tore his sword arm free and drove steel clean through the man’s belly.
The body sagged at once.
Bealor’s breath was harsh now, his face streaked with sweat and blood and dust. He turned to you at once.
You still held the broken neck of the oil jar in your hand. Your fingers were shaking. So was the rest of you.
For one suspended, impossible moment, the noise of the market seemed very far away.
Baelor looked at you as though he had never seen you before.
Then he crossed the distance between you and took hold of your face “Are you hurt?” He asked his eyes frantically searching you.
You could only stare at him.
He repeated it, lower this time, more urgent. “Are you hurt?”
“No” you said, though the word came strangely. “No, I only……”You trialed off, looking down at the shards of clay still clutched in your hand as though they belonged to someone else.
A little oil and blood streaked your sleeve.
Baelor’s grip tightened fractionally around your face. His eyes dropped to the mess on your hand, then rose slowly back to your face “You struck him”
You swallowed. “He was about to stab you.”
As though that explained everything. To you, perhaps it did.
Behind him, the Kingsguard had regained control of the square. Two attackers fled into the alleys, three more lay dead, and one was being held facedown in the mud with a white cloak’s boot at his spine. Your sister, white as milk, stared at you from where she had been shielded against the silk stall.
His hands left your face, moving down to your shaking hands taking the shards from your fingers one by one, carefully, as though afraid you might cut yourself. Then he said, very quietly “You saved my life”
For the first time since Balerion’s skull, since his silence, since all the confusion of the days between, you heard something in his voice that left no room at all for misunderstanding.
Heat rushed to your face despite the blood and chaos and terror still pounding through you.
———————————————
The carriage was brought forward quickly.
Your sister did not make it to the step. She had gone pale the moment the fighting ended, her gaze fixed on the blood soaking into the stones.
She made a small, strangled sound “I cannot” she said faintly, pressing a hand to her mouth “I cannot ride in that carriage”
One of the Kingsguard stepped forward at once “My lady, you may ride with me”
She nodded quickly, already turning away “Yes. Yes, I need air”
She did not look at you or even Baelor as she mounted behind the white cloak, her attention fixed firmly anywhere but the aftermath of violence.
You stood for half a heartbeat, the world still ringing faintly in your ears.
“My lady” Baelor’s voice, lower now.
You turned. He was already at the carriage door. Waiting for you.
You hesitated only a fraction before stepping forward, gathering your skirts with hands that were still not entirely steady. He offered his hand, and you took it, missing how his grip briefly tightened on your shaking fingers.
He followed immediately after. The door shut behind you with a solid, final sound.
The world outside dimmed.
You became acutely aware of him opposite you. Of the blood at his sleeve. Of the tear in the dark fabric where the blade had caught him.
“You are hurt” you say softly.
“It is nothing” he said automatically.
“It is not nothing” you returned, sharper than you intended. You shifted forward without waiting for permission, reaching for his arm. He did not stop you.
You pushed the torn fabric back carefully. The cut was not deep, but it was clean, and still bleeding steadily.
“It will need binding” you said, your voice quieter now “Hold still”
A faint huff of something that might have been amusement left him “You give orders easily”
“I have had practice” you replied, not looking at him.
You tore a strip from the inner lining of your sleeve without hesitation. The fabric gave with a soft rip. You pressed the cloth to his arm. He did not flinch, if anything he leaned into your touch.
The carriage rocked into motion. You focused on the task. On the steady wrap of fabric. On keeping your hands from trembling. Not on the fact that his gaze had not left your face.
“You should have stayed back” he said at last.
You tied the bandage off firmly “He was about to kill you”
“That does not make it a sensible choice” His tone was controlled, but there was something beneath it you did not recognise.
“It was not meant to be sensible” you said, glancing up despite yourself “It was meant to be effective”
Silence settled between you, his eyes locked with yours.
His eyes darkened slightly “You could have been hurt or worse” he said.
Before you could pull back, his fingers closed around your wrist.
Your pulse betrayed you immediately beneath his touch. You swallowed. His thumb shifted slightly, just enough to brush the inside of your wrist where your pulse fluttered.
You felt it all the way up your arm.
“You placed yourself in danger” he continued, his voice quieter now, but no less intense “Without thought. Without fear”
“I was afraid” you said, before you could stop yourself.
His gaze sharpened.
“Of losing…..” you trialled off, but you did not get to finish as the carriage rolled to a stop and the door was opened.
——————————
Your father sent for you before supper.
He stood at the window, hands clasped tightly behind his back, shoulders rigid with restrained fury “You will explain to me” he said without turning, “what possessed you to involve yourself in a street brawl in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms”
You closed the door quietly behind you, your hands folding before you out of habit.
“You have already drawn attention” he continued, voice lowering into something more dangerous “Whispers and now this!” His hand cut sharply through the air.
You knew what he meant, you being noticed was the real crime.
“I prevented harm coming to the prince” you said, quietly but no less firm.
“That was not your responsibility!” he snapped.
You were about to respond when the door opened without warning.
Both of you turned. The Kingsguard at the threshold bowed deeply “His Grace, King Daeron”
Your father straightened at once, all irritation buried beneath court formality. You dropped into a curtsy automatically, your pulse quickening.
King Daeron II entered without ceremony, His gaze moved first to your father, then to you.
“So this is the daughter” he said, almost to himself.
You blinked, uncertain.
Your father inclined his head. “Your Grace honors my house”
Daeron waved the courtesy aside lightly, his attention still on you. “I am told” he said, stepping closer, “that you struck down a man who meant to kill my son”
Heat rushed to your face “I only acted as anyone would, your grace”
“Not everyone would have been as brave, my lady” he corrected gently.
You fell silent, knowing better than to argue with a king.
His expression shifted then, something deeply human beneath the crown “Baelor is many things” he continued “but he does not easily fall. For him to have been placed in such a position……” His gaze sharpened slightly “You changed the outcome of that moment and I thank you for that ”
He reached for your hand.
Your father stiffened.
The King of the Seven Kingdoms took your hand and kissed it “House Targaryen is in your debt”
It took everything in you not to faint right there and then.
Instead you gulped and replied “You honour me, your grace” meeting his violet eyes.
He smiled and bid you a good day “I will no doubt see more of you in the future, my lady”
You watched him go, too much in shock to take in the meaning of his words.
—————————
The library was quiet.
It always was at this hour, the court occupied with supper and gossip, the Maester long since retired. Only the soft flicker of candlelight and the turning of pages broke the stillness.
Your father’s words still lingered, the King’s even more so. The weight of it sat strangely in your chest, something too large to properly name ‘House Targaryen is in your debt’
You exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the text before you, though you had not read a single line in several minutes.
This was not your place. None of it was. You would leave soon. Things would return to how they had always been.
The door opened. You did not look up at first “The Maester has already retired” you spoke to whoever had come.
Silence answered you. You looked up to find Baelor stood in the doorway.
He closed the door behind him. The sound echoed far louder than it should have.
“Your Grace” you said quickly, rising at once, your book forgotten “You should be resting, you were injured”
“I am not here about the wound” he replied, an odd sort of certainly in his tone.
Your words faltered.
He crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until the distance between you felt insufficient. You resisted the instinct to step back.
“You avoided me today” he said.
It was not an accusation. It was a fact.
You swallowed “I did not wish to intrude” knowing he would have been with his family or your sister.
His gaze sharpened slightly “You believe your presence an intrusion?”
“Yes” you said, too quickly “This is not my place. None of this is”
“Enough” The word was not loud. But it stopped you completely.
You stared at him.
His expression did not soften. If anything, it grew more intent “You will stop diminishing yourself in my presence” he said, voice low and controlled.
Your breath caugh. “I” you began, but the words failed you.
He took another step closer “You stood in a market filled with armed men” he continued, each word measured, deliberate “You saw a blade meant for me. And you chose to act”
Your pulse began to race.
“That is not inconsequential” he said.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze “It was instinct. Nothing more”
His jaw tightened “And that is precisely why I am here” he said.
Your breath faltered again “To reprimand me?”
He reached for you then “To correct you” His hand closed around your wrist, steady, grounding. You felt it immediately, the warmth of his skin, the weight of him.
Your pulse betrayed you at once “Correct me?”
His gaze dropped briefly to where your heart beat beneath his touch.
Then returned to your face “You have been wrong about yourself since the moment you arrived in this city” he started
Your throat tightened
“I watched you, in the library. In the council chamber” His grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor you in place “You see what others miss. You act when others hesitate. You think beyond what is placed before you”
You stared at him, unable to speak. You swallowed hard “You are mistaking usefulness for”
“I am not mistaking anything” The interruption was immediate.
Silence fell between you, heavy and charged.
Your thoughts scrambled, searching for something solid to hold onto You searched his face desperately for hesitation. For doubt. For anything that would make this make sense.
“I know that you believe yourself unworthy of anything beyond duty” his voice softer “And I know” his voice lowering “that I will not permit you to spend the rest of your life believing that lie”
His hand lifted from your wrist to your face. You should have stepped back.
And then he kissed you. It was not rushed. It was certain.
His lips met yours with a steadiness that stole the breath from your lungs more effectively than panic ever had. One hand at your face, the other settling at your waist, holding you there as though you might disappear if he did not.
You froze for half a heartbeat. Your hand lifted without thought, catching at his shoulder grounding yourself against something that felt far too real.
His grip tightened slightly in response.
When he pulled back, it was only enough to look at you. Close enough that you could still feel his breath.
“I have wanted to do that for weeks” he said quietly “And I am done pretending otherwise”
Your heart was racing. Your lips still tingling. And for the first time, you were no longer certain you could disappear quietly from his world.
Hawaiʻi is currently in the midst of a natural disaster if you didnt know
Apparently there isn’t much news coverage of this outside of the islands
Towns are flooded, homes destroyed and collapsed, roads collapsed, lives at risk, gas leaks from the flood damage
Haleiwa and Waialua are currently evacuated because the 120 year old dam is at risk of bursting
Mind you that damn is owned by Dole. Theyve known about it needing to be fixed for years and years and years. Despite having more than enough money they refuse
The state has been trying to buy it out from them for years so they can fix it, but the sale hasn’t gone through
Keep in mind that the Dole family were the ones who illegally imprisoned Queen Liliuʻokalani and illegally overthrew the monarchy.
If I see another goddamn person say how sad this is for the tourists whose “trips were ruined” and compare a messed up vacation to people losing their homes, belongings, and livelihoods, I’m going to lose my mind
I am so lucky that my family or friend’s are safe and the few whose houses flooded didnt have it too bad, but so so so many were not as fortunate
If you haven’t heard anything about this until now, I suggest looking into it
The sirens didn’t go off until the flood had been going on for hours. Our state government is spending so much money on a fucking monorail we don’t need rather than fixing the infrastructure.
It’s been the locals and Kanaka doing the most to help get people to safety from the start
The Germans really cooked making "Hobbyless behaviour" an insult. It is both devastating, applicable to a wide range of people and behaviours, and doesn't resort to swearing.
Man ranting on the internet about the Superbowl halftime show or complaining that something is "woke"? Hobbyless Behaviour. Girls mocking another girl for not looking right? Hobbyless Behaviour. Mindless vandalism? Hobbyless Behaviour.
It is more powerful than "get a life" or the English "You're Sad" because it gets to the central point of the matter, and that is wonderful. Danke, Deutsch.
so women are supposed to grin and bear the books, the comics, the movies, the plays, the tv shows, the stories, the sci-fi, the translated ancient poems, the fucking millennia of men writing about their self inserts torturing women and it being declared as High Art by other men, we’re supposed to read it in our free time, study it in classrooms, include their styles in our own writing, accept their cultural influence as natural, watch it in the cinema, write about it, talk about it, accept it, aspire it, but men can’t tolerate three seconds of female wish fulfilment of a woman snapping the wrist of a creep without feeling personally kicked in the balls.
This reminds me of something I observed in college while I was doing my honors thesis on women in modern horror films. I watched a LOT of horror during that time as part of my research, and sometimes that was done with my family around.
And my dad and brothers? Were deeply disturbed by the movie Jennifer’s Body. I was flabbergasted. It’s not scary! It’s not even that gory. But they were horrified by it. These men who grew up on 70s slashers were legitimately shook by 90 minutes of Megan Fox eating a few teenage boys, mostly off-screen.
Similarly, my all-male reading panel for my thesis? Were so disturbed by my synopsis of the film Teeth that they couldn’t even talk about it. One of them said he couldn’t look at his wife for a week after reading it.
Again, grown-ass men who study and teach media for a living. Who definitely watch and enjoy horror movies. One of whom was a huge Tarantino buff. We watched and read worse in his intro to mass media class! But one movie about a girl whose vag could bite was enough to haunt him.
Then of course you have things like the Gone Girl backlash–men yelling that Amy Dunne is evil and women clamoring to assure everyone that they know she is not someone to emulate–the backlash against Carol Danvers, and, more recently, the griping from MRAs against the upcoming film Hustlers, which is about strippers scamming their Wall Street clients.
My conclusion? Most men–at least most straight, cisgender men, who are both my sample population and most of the ones whining that Carol is a “villain”–are perfectly fine with, and desensitized to, media where men do violence to women (horror movies), or men do violence to men (horror and action movies). They’re even sort of fine when women do violence to women (“ooooo cat fight!”).
But they get intensely uncomfortable when women are depicted doing any kind of violence to men, especially in films that tilt the balance of power to the other side of the m/f gender binary beyond a single moment or scene.
So woman as flesh-eating monster with men as her preferred cuisine? Woman who responds to unwanted sexual contact by biting it off? Woman who frames her cheating husband for murder? Woman whose response to harassment–behavior that many of the loudest whiners know is both creepy and reflective of their own thoughts/actions–is to break something?
Too scary. Unacceptable. Disturbing. These men hate being presented with the idea, even in fiction, that their position of power is socially constructed, that it could easily be flipped the other way. It terrifies them.
In feeling that terror, they experience a tiny modicum of what living, existing, moving, being perceived as a woman in the world is like.
I watched an insane amount of TikTok and other short form videos for the story I'm writing right now. I gotta say, afterwards, I found myself picking up my phone and opening the apps, almost unconsciously. I was walking and I thought about watching some vids at the same time. I was on hold to the ATO... maybe some videos.
I also happen to specialise in gambling addiction (although I'm not practicing in that area right now), and all I could fucking think about was how these fucking apps were conditioning me in the same fucking way gambling apps do. To be constantly plugged in, consuming. To not even think about just picking it up and having a look. To feel bored when I wasn't watching them, to think about watching them when I wasn't watching them....
That shit is fucking evil.
I deleted it. I'm not exposing myself to that.
That shit will fry your dopamine/reward system so fucking bad you will never read a book or watching a movie again without it.
Love yourself and your potential enough to put that fucking shit away. Watch longer form things that require focus and engagement. Listen to podcasts and audiobooks. Read books. DO ANYTHING BUT CONSUME SHORT FORM CONTENT IN AN UNSTRUCTURED WAY.
If you MUST consume it (I'm sure people will be like 'but my classmates' or 'but my own channel'.... etc), do it in a siloed and structured way. 30 minutes between x time and x time on x day. Focus on it. Don't eat and do it. Watch each short form video to completion. Engage critically with the content. ANd never watch them first thing in the morning or last thing at night.
PLEASE. From a gambling professional, short form videos ping your SAME circuitry and you will fuck up your life and your brain so badly if you don't put up guardrails for yourself.
