denying trans kids hrt when they're sure of which puberty they want to go through is also an act of oppression. even if puberty blockers are available, we're not protecting kids by denying them the opportunity to go through puberty at the same time as their peers
"what if they go through physical changes that they later regret?" we allow cis kids to take that risk. in fact, most of them are never even given a choice and told they might regret it. just educate trans kids about what hrt will and won't do for them, then let them decide
Iām gonna be so fr rn, yall gotta stop acting like womenās sports only contributions/offerings are 1) that most of the athletes are queer 2) some sort of āmorally pureā version of the sport. you donāt realize that youāre doing it but youāre de-valuing them to a point of queerness + morality meter. which the latter is just insane when there are POSā amongst womenās sports
on my "don't walk to metlife" post I kept seeing people say that drivers would "bergentruck" pedestrians on the turnpike and it turns out that that's a reference to an Undertale meme where a character purposefully runs over people, but the portion of the jersey turnpike that goes to metlife is bergen county, and I had just instantly accepted that there was a term specifically referring to jersey drivers from there. I didn't even question it. Neither would you, if you had ever driven there.
Ilya watches Shane win MVP from the hotel, the image of him in his tux crystal clear on the huge flatscreen adorning the wall of Shaneās penthouse suite. The words penthouse scream luxury anywhere, but in Vegas itās different; the suite is fucking huge, and Ilya figures he could fit about four of his apartment into it. Both his room and Svetaās could fit into the living room of this suite alone, and still have some space left over.
Maybe something is broken in him, that it doesnāt feel weird or wrong. If anything it turns him on, the excess of it all, the beauty of it. Gaudy mock-ups of Grecian statues in the foyer, their own fucking pool. A balcony overlooking the strip, a games room, a fully-fitted kitchen as if either of them can cook. And the way Shane had shrugged it off, like itās normal. Which, Ilya reminds himself, it probably is for him.
Well, Ilya has plans to fuck him in every single room of this too-big suite, and the balcony, too. He could probably get him to hump one of the statues until he comes if he wanted, which he doesnāt. Not right now, anyway; his mind is subject to change, and Ilya knows that Shane will do whatever he asks of him.
And he looks so fucking good in his tux. Custom Calvin Klein, part of the brand deal he has with them, fitted tight at his thick waist and tapering out at his wide shoulders. The second heād stepped out of the bathroom itād taken everything in Ilya not to drop to his fucking knees right there and suck his dick through the silky fabric.
Shane shakes the presenterās hand, plastering on his media smile and looking down at the trophy in his hands. There was once a time that Ilya wouldnāt know the difference between the Shane Hollander smile and his real smile; there was once a time he wouldnāt have had the opportunity to learn. And isnāt that a scary thought, that he couldāve lived a whole life without meeting Shane, without kissing him or teasing him or fucking him. Without counting the freckles on his cheeks, or learning his pre-game routine, or knowing the minutiae behind something as small as a smile.
Lately, Ilya has been getting the feeling that heās fucked. That heās crossing a line, and that once heās fully over it he wonāt be able to go back. Watching Shane lift the trophy and say āIām so grateful to my team, my family, and for the people waiting for me at home,ā feels a lot like a crossing of its own.
The music plays; Shane leaves the stage, joins his teammates in the audience, and for the first time since they left Montreal, Ilya feels something curdle in his stomach. For the people waiting for me at home. Is that supposed to be him? Maybe. Possibly. Likely, even, since he knows good and well that Shane doesnāt have anyone else waiting for him. And itās Ilyaās job to wait for him; he has no right to wish that he was there, sitting next to him, kissing his cheek and applauding embarrassingly loud.
Crossing a line. Moving from we fuck and you pay for dinner, for my apartment, for my skates into calling Shane Hollanderās penthouse apartment in uptown Montreal home. Kissing him on the cheek when he passes in the kitchen, cooking together. Fucking face to face, slow and intimate, kissing his eyelids. Ilya needs to get his fucking feelings under control or heās going to get himself hurt. Heās a professional, this doesnāt happen to him; a good time, an easy fuck, easy money. Thatās what heād said to Shane when he was signing the NDA. Trust me, Mr. Hollander, this isnāt my first time.
When was the last time heād even called him Mr. Hollander? Somewhere between midterms and finals, maybe. Ilya hadnāt even registered the shift, hadnāt realised that even this small show of emotion had permeated his carefully-crafted performance. Not so careful, if he calls him Shane, if he misses him when heās gone, if he wears his t-shirt to bed. Fuck.
trans women and trans men and nonbinary people and everyone else being friends and holding each other close and falling in love and thinking of each other. I'm making this my future. let's all be okay together
long ass car trips are alot like the modern day whaling voyage if you think about it. I think itd really be improved if the passenger seat could launch harpoons at passing pickup trucks though
