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The first pride was a riot, more specifically a riot against police violence. Trans women of colour like Marsha P. Johnson paved the way for the celebration of pride today. You cannot celebrate your pride this month, or any month if you aren’t also supporting Black Lives Matter and the riots going on against police violence right now. Us white LGBTQ+ need to stand up for our black siblings and their rights, their struggles. We need to amplify their voices and show any support we can.
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Just finished The Letter for The King and...
I liked it. A lot. Except for the dead bisexual.
Stop burying your gays just after their reveal. Its not compelling. Its sad. LGBT+ characters diserve happiness, too. Find some other way to make me cry.
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my feed is pure bees
minecraft bees
rwby bees
actual bees
they’re all so cute
all bees are cute
send me bees
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Nine things about being brought back from the dead
You will be cold
You will wake up screaming, you all do.
Your entire body will throb, the pain will eventually subside; being brought back is never a painless task.
Do not get up immediately, you will be nauseous and your body will need time to readjust to this realm.
Ask for more blankets, you will feel very cold.
You will not remember how you died, do not ask.
Do not ask the practitioner how they performed the ritual, this is considered bad luck and you will not last long.
Your loved ones will be ecstatic to have you back, consider this a blessing.
Thank the practitioner and let them be on their way, if they do not look you in the eye consider this a bad omen.
More guides
How to feel again
If you wake up in a pitch black room
If you are a researcher or adventurer and want to share a guide, join our subreddit!
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“I’ve remembered you since the sun and dust, since before the moon itself, tomb of a loving dream.”
— Miguel Hernández, tr. by Robert Bly, from The Selected Poems; “After Love,”
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The Signs and Legends:
Aries: The first pilgrims to cross the great sea, lost under the light of unfamiliar stars. A song to the churning waves. The first and only of the leviathans to speak to mankind. A glowing lure in the dark, guiding the caravan of ships to their new home.
Taurus: A white mare, standing taller than any war-horse. A shepherd to the dead, hooves falling on the sodden earth like thunderclaps, war drums across the void to the ghosts of ancestral warrior khans. Unshakable steeds that fear neither death nor pain.
Gemini: A captured girl in the court of a warrior king. A shattered elbow. A vengeful spirit, marred by pollution and war. Living armor made from the bones of a god.
Cancer: Settlers and exiles driven to the south. Exposure and starvation, lost in the mountains. Refuge from the summer storms found in a cave. Something ancient and forgotten and hungry, eight legs and eight eyes, invisible in the dark. A mother in mourning finds a new brood and teaches them to weave as generations of her mothers did.
Leo: An evil sorcerer king, and the nine queens that rose to overthrow him. A javelin enchanted with sealing curse piercing an evil heart. A capital city built at the center of a lake where nine rivers converge, impossible to besiege. Unholy remains guarded by the mummies of the old warrior queens.
Virgo: A crumbling temple at the heart of the jungle. A lone adventurer who met the slumbering feathered serpent at its heart. A game of riddles, an offering of blood, ancient secrets revealed.
Libra: An empire built in concord with an old goddess of the sea. Treachery. Heartbreak. Entire cities swallowed by the waves, save for a single young boy, bestowed with gills.
Scorpio: A well dug too deep. Voices from the dark, offers of power to an orphan prince. A treacherous bargain struck. A sacrifice made. Fertile valleys rent by frigid winds into lifeless tundra. Warnings from mournful spirits in the endless blizzard to stay away.
Ophiuchus: Dreams of flight. An old monk that lives in an inaccessible monastery atop a mountain shrouded in fog. Dreams of flight. Release from the cycle of frailty and death. Dreams of flight.
Sagittarius: A masterless knight from across the sea. Imitations of foreign armor and weapons. A kingdom built on the works of a land none of them had ever seen. A strange familiarity, when travelers met centuries later. Tales of crimes and a single exile.
Capricorn: A primitive land ripe for conquer. A colony fort, stocked full of soldiers. Insult, atrocity, rivers running red. There shouldn’t be storms this time of year. There can’t be storms this time of year. Something perched on the watchtower blotting out the light of the moon, feathers large as swords.
Aquarius: A grove of old oak trees. Fresh, clear water flows from knots in the trunks, pooling in the center of the clearing. Naturally occurring holy water not tied to any divine power.
Pisces: The palace on the hill, now empty. The mad sister of the king, living in seclusion. Secret vaults full of cruel experiments. Iron gates sealed shut by fire. A vengeful monster that still roams the halls.
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if you die in the rwby lgbt pride awards you die in real life
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fun niche crew memes:
the tightness of one’s jib furl determines one’s moral righteousness
everything even slightly damp is ‘juicy’
assuring passengers we are ‘schooning real good’ (born after several failed attempts to explain that ‘schooner’ isn’t actually a verb)
‘get her up on a plaaaaaaane’
she’s a lady by tom jones, specifically the ‘OOOOHHooooHoooooHHHH’ bit shouted between the boats in passing, but occassionally the whole thing if the boats are passing really slowly
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a hypothetical d&d party
The bard is mute.
It’s not the first thing people notice about her, usually. The first thing is generally that she’s young, and female, and lovely–the first thing people notice about their entire party is that they’re all young, and female, and lovely, and that’s gotten more than one would-be thief or mugger in far over their head when they haven’t noticed the the paladin’s hammer or the ranger’s axe. It comes up rather quickly though, often enough. Whoever heard of a bard who can’t sing?
She plays a lute, mostly, or a lap-harp made of shell and sinew, string instruments she can pluck while she smiles in secret and watches everyone around her. She dances quick, except when she’s tired, when she’s scared, when she forgets to remember the feet at the ends of her legs.
She doesn’t tell her story to strangers, but enough of the other girls have learned to sign by now, and it’s easy enough to sketch out the outlines of the old bargain: the voice, the prince, the witch, the thousand shards of glass she walked upon on her way up the beach, the look in her sea-green eyes when they travel too near water. The thousand shards of glass she walked upon when she left the palace, and turned back towards the sea to throw herself upon the rocks, and then made her way up the road inland, and kept walking.
.
The warlock is beautiful and mild and self-effacing and shy, is tidy and generous and charming. She’s small with herself in exactly the right way to shout abuse to the half of her party who knows how to recognize that same look in the mirror in the morning. The bird on her shoulder is too small, too bright, too sweet for a real warlock’s familiar. The knife at her belt is sharp enough for anything that needs doing, though, cooking or otherwise.
Her fae patron visits sometimes, in the quiet hours between dusk and midnight, a sweetly old godmother made of moonlight and shadow. She’s kind to the whole lot of them in her own chaotic way, free-handed with transmutations and illusions that break halfway through the evening, for better or worse. She once spent three hours around their campfire drinking brandy and gossipping outrageously about the Feywild and teasing the wizard into fits of laughter.
She’s never told the story of how she met the warlock’s mother, or what debt was owed there, and the warlock doesn’t know herself. It was never meant to be a debt paid in power and violence and the deft will-sapping enchantments the warlock weaves now, but, well. The prince wasn’t meant to be cruel, the warlock says. The palace was meant to be warmer than the fireplace cinders in her stepmother’s house. The faerie was meant to be saving her from her lot, not throwing her into something worse. The power’s an apology of sorts.
.
The wizard is awkward and joyful and nervous. She has no fear of heights or small places, which just stands to be expected, she says, after all those years in that little tower, and she’s got no skill at lying or even edging around the truth at all, which is why she isn’t in the tower any more in the first place. She says too much or too little or the wrong thing entirely, always, but the most well-socialized member of the whole party is the ranger who walks around with a dire wolf at her hip, or maybe their mute bard, so who are any of them to judge.
There was nothing to do in that tower but read, and brush her hair, and sort through the witch’s endless stockpile of dried herbs and potions ingredients, and watch out the window as woodcutters and hunters and princes rode by, and dream. The reading was more interesting than the dreaming, most of the time, and the witch didn’t mind it as much when she talked about it. She never bothered to actually use any of the magic in the witch’s books until the thing with the prince and the haircut and the desert, which she’s told them all about in all the detail they could ever ask for, but most of the girls get uncomfortable when she starts talking about princes. It’s a little easier if she just starts rambling about conjuration and abjuration and illusion theory, about the 400-year-old history of a city that doesn’t exist any more, about the proper grammatical structure of Celestial, until maybe one of the quiet ones finally answers back.
Her hair is too short. She keeps an illusion up over it whenever she can, while it grows back slowly, tickling the side of her face and the back of her neck and leaving her head too light and unbalanced.
.
The ranger doesn’t care about princes, which makes one of them at least. Then again, the ranger doesn’t trust anyone, really, prince or no, not wolves or monsters or the men who kill them. She more or less trusts the rest of them by now, mostly, when the wind blows in the right direction.
She wears bright red in the middle of the woods and it shouldn’t help her slip into the shadows half as easily as it does, but most beasts can’t see color and red’s just another shade of gray if the light’s low enough. She never uses her axe against trees. She doesn’t need to. She can find a path through any brush without it. She picks flowers when she finds them, and tucks them into the other girls’ hair.
Her wolf’s mother killed the man who taught her to use the axe, and the man who taught her to use the axe killed that wolf’s mate before that, and the mate had an old woman’s blood on his teeth when it happened. The ranger’s blade found the wolf’s mother’s throat. The ranger’s mother sent her out into the woods in the first place. It’s not as though anywhere is really safe, cottage or forest, axe or teeth. One of these days maybe her wolf will turn and go for her in return, and maybe one of these days her axe will be faster and maybe it won’t. In the mean time, there’s flowers and berries and pastries and enough game to keep everyone sated, for a little while.
.
The paladin’s hair is raven black and her skin is chalky as a corpse. She’s not undead, mostly. The undead are her job. She knows that much.
She was sweet, once (they were all sweet, once) but apples are bitter now and so is she, and there’s judgment to lay out in the world. Her grip on her warhammer’s all wrong–she holds it like a mining hammer, but it hits as hard as it needs to. Her armor’s all dwarven make, and her shield’s black and red and white like snow.
She was sweet once, and frightened, and when she says it quietly around the campfire in the night when none of them can quite make out the glimmer of understanding on each others’ faces, everyone still nods. She took a bite of poison and somebody left her a full year in a glass coffin of Gentle Repose, dangling on the edge of the Raven Queen’s domain while all the other newly-arrived dead passed by and faded away. She woke up to somebody’s lips and hands and skin on her lips and her hands and her skin. She doesn’t like princes. She doesn’t like necromancers.
She likes sunlight, and summer, and colors that aren’t black and white and red. She likes the way the bard grins when she whirls into a dance, and the look in the warlock’s eye when she sets her feet to say no, and the wizard’s laughter on high with a Fly spell, and the ranger’s gentle fingers braiding flowers into everything she can touch.
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BREAKING NEWS: Huge fire reported at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, France
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ok so this is gonna ba a kind of controversial question, I'm pretty supportive of trans people etc but I don't see myself dating a trans girl who just asked me out and turned her down because, well, she still has the "male part" down here, and actually wants to use it during sex (she talked about it before). I'm 200% lesbian and I don't know if I should feel bad for not being interested in this part even though she's a woman, I'm just not into d*cks. Am I being transphobic?
imo, the thing that makes this ask kind of tricky is the fact that she expressed interest in using her penis during sex. i am fully of the belief that you should never feel coerced into sex with a sexual organ you are not attracted to/repulsed by, and you should not be shamed for being attracted to a different one. that in itself shouldn’t be a controversial take at all - sexual organs do play a part in both sexuality and sexual activity.
what’s important is that we don’t reduce transpeople to their genitals, as surgery is often expensive and comes with many risks, and it’s also important that both parties are getting what they want out of a relationship. but if she actively wants to use her penis in sexual situations which is her personal preference, you have every right to say no because you’ve realized that neither of you are going to be sexually fulfilled in your relationship.
if you wouldn’t date a transwoman who didn’t want to use her penis and was open to working around it, i personally would find a certain stigma to that as it suggests that she’ll never be able to overcome just having a penis to you - that something about that means she isn’t woman. what i think a lot of this relies on is how much value you place on sex and sexual organs in the first place. for instance, there are plenty of lesbians who are penis-repulsed (this is honestly so nuanced of a topic i don’t feel comfortable getting into it - but as an example, lesbians who have been sexually abused by men with penises and do not want anything to do with them, and in situations like that, i’d suggest open communication and understanding) - and they may place a higher value on those things than other lesbians who aren’t.
ultimately, i think that everybody has a right to their sex lives and their bodies, and you shouldn’t feel shamed or guilty about not wanting a penis in yours. that’s my perspective as a lesbian, and i did consult @katiethetransbian before publishing this to see if there’s anything i missed, but if any transpeople would like to add their perspectives please do!
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A message to all Adventure Time fans upset that the show is over
Do you want more adventures with your favorite boy and his dog, sentient game console, their formerly icy friend, and the candy/vampire power couple?
Then please buy the Adventure Time Season 11 comic books by Kaboom!
They’re a direct continuation of the series from the people that brought us the rest of the AT comics.
More importantly, buying and reading them will show CN that there’s still an audience for Adventure Time which means more comics, graphic novels, books, games, and stories. And maybe someday even a return of the series to animation (in one form or another)
Season 11 comes out on October 24th, and the Marcy & Simon mini-series (which is in the same continuation continuity) comes out in January.
Please consider buying them if you love this show and want to see it live on.
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