lot of terfs have been reblogging this so I may as well publicly state that the woman on the right is modeled with permission after my transfemme friend. if you relate to it as strongly as many of you claim in the tags I urge you to reflect upon that with empathy and compassion about the depth of experiences you truly do share with trans women.
otherwise fuck off I guess. my art is not fuel for your hatred.
recently saw a comment section full of people, primarily women, talking about loving living with their best friend and being sad about having to live separately one day. some people talking about missing living with their best friend, some talking about “getting” to live with their best friend “until” they find partners. saw one person mention that moving out to move in with a partner felt like a divorce. it makes me so genuinely sad… all these people recognizing the joy they can find living outside the norm, letting themself live with a friend instead of a romantic partner, but still feeling like they have to live with a spouse eventually. like it’s not even a decision, just an inevitability.
similarly, it makes me sad when someone shares their happiness from living with a friend with others and the biggest response is people insisting/assuming they must have a secret unrecognized romantic connection. just taking over a moment of joy to insist they’re wrong about their own life and feelings; all to reinforce the lifestyle everyone is already expected to conform to eventually…
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
Look if a garment is like. Wool or silk. And it’s like, don’t put me in the fucking wash. I’m like yeah of course ma’am I shall lightly dab you with a damp cloth and air you out so you don’t get stinky. But when a polyester garment is like “hand wash only” I’m like who the FUCK do you think you are. You’re plastic. Get in the drum.
actually that’s why they’ve helpfully dropped a big-ass cement block with a bridge surrounding it in the middle of the lake: for the express purpose of doing what OP aspires to do
This Pride Month, we’re celebrating the beauty of diversity above and below the surface. The ocean is full of vibrant life in every color imaginable. It reminds us that nature thrives when everyone has space to belong.
Environmental advocacy and the LGBTQ+ rights movement share a common purpose: protecting vulnerable communities, caring for the spaces we all call home, and creating a world where we all can flourish.
Our world is brightest when people can live authentically, love freely, and be embraced for who they are. From rainbow reefs to shimmering tides, diversity makes our blue planet stronger, healthier, and more inspiring.
Here’s to protecting our ocean, uplifting every voice, and honoring the colorful communities that make this world so wonderful.
Remember when joining fandom as a younger person meant lurking for a bit and figuring out the vibe and etiquette instead of coming in on day one and calling people weirdos for liking weirdo shit in the weirdo factory.
The alpha at the counter doesn’t really speak to you.
It’s not abnormal. You get plenty of folks, all ranges of them in here. It’s a pass through town. People pulling off the interstate to get gas and a bite to eat, a revolving door of stranger’s faces.
So, he doesn’t really say much, but it doesn’t really bother you. He orders coffee with milk and a standard breakfast, eggs scrambled, toast, sausage, the usual. And then after that, he’s quiet. Either lost in his thoughts or he doesn’t care to share them, and you don’t care either way.
You’re here regardless. In this diner, waiting tables, gritting your teeth, faking smiles, just like you have been for the last six months.
Since them.
They haunt you like a phantom. A cold you can’t shake. Their proximity triggered your basal instincts, your buried need, and put you into heat. A miserable, painful one that you spent alone. One you almost died from, and once the smoke cleared, you were left with the sickness, the very kind you didn’t even believe existed.
Bond corrosion.
Poisoned.
Since then, it’s been non stop suppressants, scent blockers and whatever you can get your hands on for pain relief. Every day, for six months. Cleaning out your checking account, your savings account, everything just to buy medication.
The over load of pills can’t be good for your health, but neither is the alternative.
But does it matter?
You’re nothing, after all.
The man clears his throat. You realize you’ve zoned out and he’s watching you, waiting.
“Can I get a refill?” He motions to his empty mug. There’s something wrong with his face, something off. A serrated blade of foreboding, something sinister in his eyes.
A shiver runs down your spine.
“Of course, sorry.” You lean over with the pot, careful to pour slowly, and at the same time, he drifts forward, close enough you register his breathing.
His sniff.
He’s smelling you.
You pull back, startled. Alphas don’t smell you, not anymore. Not with the blockers.
“Thought you’d smell different.” He drawls, eyes sweeping your body, hips to face. “Sweet, or somethin’.”
“I’m sorry?” What the fuck? He just shakes his head.
“Never mind,” he lifts his mug in a salute. “Thanks for the top off.”
“Uh, sure.” You try to calm the uneasy feeling that’s now swirling in the pit of your stomach, the off kilter axis you’ve been thrown into. You chance another look at him, but he’s gone back to ignoring you, reading something on his phone, and you take the opportunity to slip away, mentioning to your coworker that you’re going on break, before stepping out into the back parking lot and cool crisp air.
Gravel crunches under your feet.
Don’t think about it.
Your mates’ rejection has become a living, breathing thing inside of you. A tumor taken up residence in your brain, something that white and grey matter grows around, accommodates, changes shape for like it’s a part of you now. Permanently altered down to your DNA. Every morning feels like it only happened the day before, even though it’s been almost seven months, but your designation, your biology, the crux of who you are, makes it impossible to move on. Time ticks forward, but you stay stuck, frozen in place with empty bonds that grow heavier and sicker inside your soul, poisoning you from the inside out. Trapped in a moment where your scent matches throw battered bills at your feet and turn their backs on you. Leave you.
Pathetic.
Desperate.
You didn’t think it was possible, biologically, for mates to leave one another, to want to be separated. Rejections are so rare, they’re like ghost stories told in the night to scare little children.
But here you are, alone with rot in your soul where two bonds should be.
Dogs bark in the distance. Somewhere past the parking lot, the trees, a trio of howls start up, loud enough that it startles you. They don’t stop, not after a few seconds, or a minute. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, that unsettling feeling turning to wariness, discomfort.
It’s enough to force you back inside, locking door and double checking it.
When you make back into the dining room, intending to check on your sole customer, you discover he’s gone. Mug emptied, cash left next to the napkin, empty sugar packets wedged under the saucer.
His absence lightens a load, loosens your shoulders, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
He’s gone, and that’s one good thing at least.
You keep checking your rear view mirror on your drive home. The sky is starting to purple, bloom like a bruise, and while there are no other calls on the road, you can’t shake your discomfort, the unease that’s crawling up your spine. Something was off with that alpha. Something was wrong. You can’t shake it.
And why does it feel like he was there for you?
The light in the hallway is out, naturally.
It never gets changed. Just another shitty part of this shithole building that houses your even shittier apartment. The one with uneven floors and drafty windows and water stains all over the ceiling, ones that gradually grow larger and larger, leaving you to wonder when it’s all going to come crashing down on your head.
Some place to call home, even though that’s what it is. Your home, the only place you have, in this backwoods town that caught you in its snare.
You rub your chest with your knuckles as you fiddle with the lock, jimmying the key just right, getting it to the point where it finally pops and lets you turn the handle.
The door swings open, to a dark apartment.
You frown.
You always keep the hallway light on. Always. You hate coming home to pitch black apartment, hate the way it makes you feel, like nothing is waiting for you, no one. You’ve thought about getting a dog or a cat, more than once. Just so there’s someone to welcome you home, snuggle with you at night.
For a brief second, a split moment in time, your brain breaks. It goes blank.
And then-
You smell it.
Cardamom.
Tobacco.
Sea salted leather.
Honey black tea.
It’s muffled. Covered by what you suspect is blockers, but for you, for their mate, it’s clear as day.
Your hand flies to the wall, slapping against plaster, looking for the light switch in a panic as your heart pounds in your ears, but as your fingers graze it, something moves in the dark. A mountain cuts through shadow, faster than you can even blink, and then your mouth is covered.
“Don’t scream.” The rough voice says in your ear. A voice you recognize. A voice who called you desperate and pathetic, a voice belonging to the man, the alpha, that left you behind in a gravel parking lot.
Your body knows him immediately. Instinctively. You hate yourself for it. Your omega hindbrain lights up like a jackpot has been won, trying to drag you under, soften you, turn you into some starved, pathetic thing, reduce you to nothing but everything they think you are.
Alpha.
Mate.
Safe.
No.
You bite. Hard. Jerk back and then unhinge your jaw, bringing your top teeth down onto what you’re assuming is his gloved palm, as hard as you can.
He doesn’t even flinch.
So then you scream. You let your lungs loose behind his hand, thrashing in his hold at the same time, causing enough of a disturbance that he loses his grip for a nanosecond, enough time for you to pull far enough away, far enough to reach the light switch and flick it on.
He lets you go.
The living room light floods your surroundings, illuminating him in all his cruel glory.
Dressed in black from head to toe. Combat boots. Black hoodie pulled up over his head.
Skull mask covering his face. Skeleton gloves on his hands.
It’s terrifying. He’s terrifying. He looks like the grim reaper.
He’s larger than life in your apartment, towering inside it like a monster in a doll house, dark eyes focused on you with such brutal intensity you have to look away.
“What… what are you doing in my apartment?” The words are rusted metal scraping up your throat and out of your mouth. Metal and bitter and painful. His jaw flexes under the mask.
“You need to come with us.” Us?
Johnny appears over his shoulder in the hallway at the exact right time, a zipped up black duffel in his hands.
He looks the same. Brilliant blue eyes, impossibly handsome face. Only the mohawk is different, longer.
He offers you a small smile. It shocks you. Getting hit by a truck would be less surprising.
“You can’t… You can’t be here. What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to take ye.” Johnny says, taking a slow, careful step towards you, palms flat and non threatening at his side, duffel still slung over his shoulder.
“Take me?”
“Aye. Take ye somewhere safe.” It’s at that moment you realize there’s something strapped to Johnny’s thigh.
“Is that a gun?” You squeak, the already loud pounding of your heart now vibrating in your ears, your blood turning to ice as fear churns in your belly. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen a gun in your life. At least, not up close. “Wh-why do you have a gun?” Johnny’s smile disappears, his face turning severe. Serious. His eyes flick to the window, then to Simon with a nod, a silent conversation unfolding in the room, one you’re not a part of.
You should run. Flee. Try to make it around the blockade that is Simon’s body and make a break for the door. But you can’t, you’re stranded, a ship run aground, lost in the fog. Your body is already shutting down, at war with your instincts and your brain, an impossible fight unfolding inside your tissues, a battle all the way down to the molecular level.
“Get yer shoes.” Johnny motions to the pair of sneakers next to the door, the best pair of shoes you have, better than your worn out work non-slips. You shake your head.
“No, what? My shoes? I don’t… I don’t know what you’re d-doing here, or what’s going on, but-”
“What’s going on is you’re comin’ with us.” Simon nods to the duffel Johnny is still holding. “Got everything?” It’s your duffel, you realize with dawning horror, the one that lives in the back of your closet, unused and mostly forgotten.
Now, it’s stuffed full.
“Why do you have that?” Why, why, why. All these questions in a room full of deaf ears.
“We had to pack your stuff. Now get your shoes.”
“Pack my stuff?” You ask weakly, because it’s all you can do. You’re a parrot, repeating everything, trying to make sense of it.
“I got everything I think ye’ll need.” Johnny says gently, face soft. “Some clothes an’ yer toothbrush. Yer meds.” Your face heats with shame. Your meds. The suppressants, the blockers, the pain killers, all on display on your nightstand. You imagine them, in your room, in your space, going through your things, cataloging them, studying them. Seeing them. Seeing your pain, your destroyed nest, the one you built meticulously and then tore apart after they came and went. “Anythin’ else ye need we’ll-” he stops dead, face turning towards the living room window.
Simon kills the lights. You open your mouth to ask, again, what is going on, but words die on your lips when a small red dot appears in the room, it’s trajectory lined up right next to your head.
The rest of it happens very fast. Too fast.
There’s a crack, like a whip, and then the window explodes, spraying glass everywhere. You’re suddenly in someone’s arms, Simon’s, his body curved over yours, a shield that takes you down to the floor and keeps you there with an impossible weight.
There’s more cracking, popping, Johnny and that gun, firing into the shattered glass, your frightened screams covered by the gloved hand on your mouth, and then you’re being pulled onto your feet.
“Move.” Simon barks in your ear, and your body automatically responds, a puppet played by a master. He’s half dragging, half pushing you through your apartment’s front door and then down the hall, thundering towards the emergency exit. Everything is happening so fast, too fast, and you can’t process it, can’t even begin to put the pieces all together as the door opens and the three of you spill out into the night.
What is happening?
The alley behind your building is pitch black, and you stumble, tripping as Simon pulls you in tighter to his side, an impenetrable force, pinning your body against his.
Another crack splinters the air and you scream as Johnny swears, his gun coming up from his side.
“Keep your head down.” Simon orders, and you close your eyes, following along numbly as he leads you past your building and around the corner.
This can’t be happening.
Whatever this is, it can’t be real.
Johnny appears on your left. You get a whiff of him, honey black tea steeped in raw fury, the violent edge of it tainting that honey sweetness you smelled before, and he’s so close, close enough you can feel his heat through your shirt.
“Almost there,” he murmurs low, and you hate, loathe, how it sinks into your bones. How it tries to warm you.
There’s a black SUV parked at the end of the alley, engine running, lights off, waiting. Waiting for them, you realize numbly as you’re propelled forward, waiting for you.
You try to dig your heels in.
“I’m not going-” Simon yanks open the back passenger door, grabs you by your arm.
“You are.” There’s no room for an argument, no room for even a single word. Before you know it, you’re being tossed into the back seat, door slammed at your back before Johnny is climbing in up front and Simon is sliding behind the wheel.
The engine turns over.
The locks click.
And then you watch as your apartment building fades into the distance, your life and everything you ever knew slowly disappearing from view.
there's a lot of talk about reading comprehension and one thing i think is the biggest barrier to people on this site getting better at it is simply... rushing. rushing to share something you haven't understood, rushing to have an opinion without taking the time to think about it, rushing to declare that you don't understand something
take these tags, on somebody else's post (condolences pip)
the thing is. this is what i would call an inside thought. nobody would have known you didn't get it if you didn't tell them that. if you recognised that it was important but didn't have the headspace to process it, you can reblog without commentary for others, or to come back to later. or you can save it somewhere and wait until you DO have the capacity to read it over a few more times, ponder it, consider what it might mean, figure out how to understand it, and THEN reblog it
but no. rushing to reblog while it is still opaque. rushing to admit to ignorance rather than spend the time to achieve understanding. perhaps hoping that somebody will break it down for you more simply, though to my mind it was quite simply phrased in the first place. never stopping to take the time first
comprehension is not always instant! sometimes it takes a bit of time for something to percolate after you read it; sometimes you need to read it a few times; sometimes you realise you don't have the context for it and either go and get the context or accept that it's not for you right now
please just simply slow down. you don't always have to respond to everything within a second or two. it is okay if it is not an instantaneous understanding. we all need to get more comfortable with thinking more slowly and more deeply and more carefully, and not letting our instant split second responses drive us all the time, because they are a barrier to genuine reflection
ong thank you. I haven't known how to address this but ... tags like this show up a LOT on my posts. and it makes me feel... pretty bad. like, everything you have said here about how not taking time to try and understand something (or excusing yourself from trying to understand it) is detrimental to personal and communal understanding is totally true and extremely important
AND, on a personal level, as someone who is often trying very hard to articulate subjects that our society tends to not have easily accessible pre-existing concepts for: it FEELS BAD for me to read tags like this. it feels like someone staring at me while i work really hard to articulate something really integral to my existence and then when I'm done pausing and saying "anyway," and changing the subject.
I don't want to be like "let me google that for you" levels of flippant. sometimes a search engine seafch of keywords in a post will help illuminate something and sometimes it won't. checking the other notes in a post is often helpful. going back to the OP's blog and seeing if perhaps they have a tag they use for discussing similar subjects can be helpful. asking polite abd direct clarifying questions can be helpful. these will not only expand your understanding but they will make the person you are trying to understand feel engaged with and respected.
if you want to save a post to read later you can save it as a draft! and also frankly there's a lot of stuff that i read that gets me thinking that i need to sit on and rotate for a bit before i can see how it sort of... fits into things. even if you want to reblog something you are still chewing on, tags like "this post is giving me a lot to think about" feel a lot less dismissive to me personally
anyway. 100% agree. its ok to take time. there's stuff i have read that took me literal years to understand fully (and i still have understanding of some of those things that is as yet unearthed, too)
stormborns
andulkaphoto
izzy806
2087
dededos
jbbartram-illu
