I see a bunch of posts saying if your asexuality or aromanticism is caused or influenced by trauma or mental illness or neurodiversity or something, it’s still valid.
I see a lot of posts saying asexuality isn’t something that needs to be cured, that a-spec people aren’t broken and don’t need to be fixed. That people are naturally born this way.
I also see a ton of posts telling everyone it’s ok if their labels change, that sexuality is fluid and identifying as something different before or after or now doesn’t invalidate the person’s orientation at any point. That if it’s useful for the person now, they can use it.
But I don’t see a lot of posts, actually basically none, that actually address the point where those things intersect.
If your asexuality or aromanticism is caused or influenced by something, your orientation is valid, and it doesn’t mean you couldn’t have been a-spec without it. Maybe you were born this way, maybe you were made this way, but no matter how you got here, you are still a wonderful valid person.
You are not broken if you do not feel you are.
It is also completely OK for you to feel like you are.
If you feel your orientation is something that is only temporary, because of mental illness or trauma, and you had labels you identified as before and want to identify as them again, you are so valid.
It is ok for you to think something broke and for you to want to repair or mend it. If you have a bowl because the top part of a clay vase broke, it’s ok to want a vase again. Kintsukuroi creates beautiful art out of broken pottery people mended.
It is also so ok for you to feel like some part of you is broken, and to want to let it remain that way. You don’t have to fix it. People make mosaics out of broken glass, and they are far more beautiful than the beer bottles they came from.
It’s also ok to not know how you feel about it. To feel like some days there is nothing wrong with you and other days to feel that part of you is just shattered shards of something else.
No matter what, you are valid and your experiences and feelings about your orientation are valid.
Hi my name is Wanda Maximoff and I have long, curly chestnut hair that reaches my mid back and all-knowing, penetrating green eyes like the limestone of Christ’s tomb and a lot of people tell me I look like that white girl Elizabeth Olsen (AN: if u don’t know who they are get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to Wanda Sykes but I wish I was because they’re a major fucking hottie. I have bronzed olive skin. I’m also a sorceress, and I unravel the fabric of the universe in New York where I’m a fucking delight (I’m 32). I’m a mutant goddess (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly blood-orange. I love the runway and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a a cerise fitted corset top with obsidian detailing) and fitted black pants, a sweeping scarlet cape and black knee-high boots. I was wearing a deep merlot colored lipstick and had the blood of god on my face. I was walking outside outside the mansion. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of humans stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them. “Hey Wanda Maximoff!” shouted a voice. I looked up. It was… Jean Grey!
Based on the infamous “my immortal” bad if of Harry Potter fandom. Put your character in the generator then paste the description. Tag 5 or more people on whomever you wanna see be ‘My Immortalized’. B)
Can we get an all the colors preview?? This shoot is giving me so many feels it's crazy
IT IS HITTING ME SO HARD TOO, LOOK I CAN’T FOCUS IN CLASS UGH, but here a preview is, lol:
Harry scratches his temple with one hand, runs his fingers up and into the loose and floppy bun he’s got his hair in, while the other brings his beet bottle up to his lips; he takes a swig, a big swing, and it’s all lime-flavored liquor that flows down his throat, that settles in his tummy and leaves him warm and fuzzy, fuzzy, fuzzy.
“This is nice, don’t you think?” Niall says, asks; he throws his arm out, the one that isn’t holding his own bottle of beer, and motions to the stillness, to the blackness of the green and brown trees and the brightness of the full moon and flickering stars above. So peaceful, so beautiful, so calm and serene and worthwhile. Harry feels the way the stars make him think. “Just me, you and the moon.”
“And three six packs.”
Niall laughs, chuckles and nods. “And three six packs,” he repeats around his pitched high giggles, nudges his shoulder into Harry’s lazily, sloppily. “We can’t forget about the three six packs, can we?”
“‘Course not. It’s history ― it’s tradition.”
Harry blinks, takes his eyes off the stars and turns his head, meets Niall’s blue gaze head on. “To get drunk off our asses,” he replies, smiles, “and say all the words we don’t when we’re sober.”
“What don’t you say?”
Harry shrugs, sighs, turns away and focuses back on the sky, on the stars, on the stretch of uncultivated oblivion that leads to universes, far and wide and bigger, brighter than anything he’s capable of imagining. “I just mean that ―” he hiccups, hard, and it hurts, tastes like soured fruit; he sets his beer down on the ground, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans over, leans in, “― that beer and liquor give you courage, give you all sorts of strength and bravery that you didn’t have before. It’s a good thing, but it’s also a bad thing, too.”
“Why?” Niall asks, soft and gentle; one of his hands comes up, travels into Harry’s hair, and he pulls the elastic band out, combs his fingers through the wispy curls and corded waves. “Why do you think that?”
Harry looks at Niall again ― really looks at Niall, wonders when Niall started being the center of his universe. “What makes you not think that?”
Niall smiles, smirks, and it’s a pretty sort of grin that’s lopsided, that’s perfect because it’s imperfect. “I’m not that drunk, Harry,” he says, whispers, and his words are flower petals floating on the wind, light and ready to go, ready to be.
“I’m not, either.” Harry blinks, and his gaze falls, lands on Niall’s lips, and they’re wet and pink and thick and red and so ready, so welcoming and so inviting and so much fun. “You’re a lot happier than you used to be.”
Niall huffs. “You make me happy,” he replies, shrugs, acts as if it’s simple, so simple, but it isn’t and Harry’s exploding like supernovas, like hungry black holes. “I can’t promise you that it’s always going to be good with me because it won’t, and you know that. You’ve always known that. But I can promise I’ll try to make you as happy as you make me.”
“Oh.” Harry gulps, taken aback, awestruck and mystified and vulnerably raw. “I really want to kiss you right now.”
Niall uses the leverage he has on the back of Harry’s head to pull him in, to slot their mouths together; he parts his lips, coaxes Harry’s open, too, and delves his tongue inside, finds Harry’s, and they twist and curl and turn and swirl and tangle like the two of them did in the supermarket, dancing off-key and out of control to the Runaways, and Harry makes a noise in the back of his throat, a harsh sound of deliverance, and he lurches forward, wraps his arms around Niall’s neck and scoots in, scoots close, settles himself in Niall’s lap as if it’s his throne, his perch.
And it’s just that for a moment: hands and teeth and fingers and tongue and lips and tasting, touching, trying all the things he’s always wanted to, and Harry’s breathing hard, breathing fast, and Niall’s panting as his spit, as Harry’s spit falls out of the corners of his mouth and down his face and along his throat and across his chest, oh God, and Harry catches the saliva with the pad of his thumb, uses it as paint to mark artwork on the plains of Niall’s body because Niall’s so beautiful, too beautiful, and Harry’s in love, all hot and cold and calm and unfettered.
Niall pulls back, sucks at the string of saliva that connects them. “Wanna get in the van?” he asks, heavy-lidded and raspy, hoarse and rough, and Harry nods, whimpers, tries to think of a way to get himself back now that he’s just too far gone and discovers that he doesn’t care. He just doesn’t care. “Come on, then. I want to do some things with you.”
You guys, I have a very important announcement to make.
On August 25th, A Bridge of Silver Wings went from being a vague idea in my head to 2,000 words, to 8,000, to 40,000, and then I began thinking even bigger than that.
Today, on September 29th, A Bridge of Silver Wings has been finally and completely finished.
Final word count is 158,234. Final page count (on my laptop) is 285. This is officially the longest single project I’ve ever finished, not to mention the first long project I’ve seen to completion since the Shirlan story, last January. And y’know what? I have so many people that helped make it happen.
@baetarian, @saberwitch, @selkieblues, @sulobruh, and whoever else offered me encouragement during this month, where the only writing thing I’ve been yelling about is this project (you guys are so gosh darn patient geez), it’s safe to say the story could not have been finished without you.
Now that it’s done, I’ll be taking a short break from writing in general, and try to get some thoughts together for NaNoWriMo, since an ABoSW sequel is definitely a strong possibility.
This is gonna sound weird, but humor me... Are you a straight girl?
Sorry for the delay, been away from computer.
I will humor you, though, I gotta say, answering this question feels like I am walking into something judgmental lol, unless you are doing a scientific poll lol. But, I hate ignoring an ask unless it’s offensive, and I love my Tumblr friends, so, whatevs. I am indeed, female, though I think I aged out of the term “girl” a few decades ago lol. And yes, so far, I would identify as straight.
My fic for the @nbchannibalbigbang! Which, honestly, I really really wanted to post on ao3 first, but ao3 is straight up not working for me, and I want to meet the deadline, so I’m giving my fic its own tumblr post here!
Summary: Will learns what happened to his & Margot’s baby. Alana learns she is pregnant. Years after the fall, Will & Hannibal welcome home a newborn, and learn to navigate the ups and downs of having children of their own.
It was warm that morning. Warmer than yesterday, than the weeks, the months before. Spring settled quiet atop Wolf Trap, gradual enough to be missed if you didn’t pay attention. Sky regaining a bluish hue, tinting the gray. Bright. Cool winds. The birds had migrated back, settling into the trees around Will’s property. Buster darted after one, paws splashing through wet patches of melting snow, muddying his fur. Winston followed, then the others, a mad pursuit, some with their paws braced against the tree, barking up at a sparrow.
It didn’t feel as good as it should have, having his dogs back. Will sat on the stairs of his porch, elbows on knees, head in tired hands. Eyelids heavy from too much sleep. A fevered chill stuck to his skin. He squinted up towards the sky, estimating that he had slept until about noon. A tiny pang of guilt that his dogs had to wait so long. Winston had tried to wake him a few times, an eager lick at the side of his face. Each time he’d rolled over, faced the other direction.
Alana wasn’t coming today, Will decided, nodding once to himself. Bones cracking as he stood. It was probably for the best.
She had taken to coming to his house every other Friday morning. Busy work schedule, she claimed, otherwise she’d come more often. She was up for Chilton’s old position and had a lot of “board meetings to attend.” The words sounded flat and awkward coming out of her mouth. Both she & Will knew it, but neither said anything. Will couldn’t complain. Her visits were, admittedly, needed. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since the end of the trial, and as good as they were, his dogs were hardly a substitute for human interaction.
The visits were sweet, at first. She’d show up in the early morning, sometimes with coffee, breakfast. Walk for a while with him, his dogs. She’d ask about his visits with Jack, insisting to Will ‘He shouldn’t make you talk about him if you don’t want to.’
Alana never said his name. Will often found himself amused by the way she danced around it, as if it might set him off.
tagged by: no one but i wasnt going to pass this shit up but i did steal it from @vilecrown
Hi my name is Hiyoko Saionji and I have long golden yellow that reaches my shoulders and golden yellow eyes like the sun and a lot of people tell me I look like Willow Shields (AN: if u don’t know who they are get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to the actual devil Junko Enoshima but I wish I was because they’re a major fucking hottie. I have pale white skin. I’m also a Remnant of Despair, and I go to a school in hope’s peak academy where I’m in class 77 (I’m 17). I’m a loli (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly silk and yellow. I love Rocketpunch Market and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a a blinding yellow kimono ) and obi tied by koizumi-onee, cat ribbons to tie my hair and traditional wooden sandals. I was wearing no makeup because pURITY. I was walking outside hope’s peak academy. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of weeaboos stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them. “Hey Hiyoko Saionji!” shouted a voice. I looked up. It was… Mahiru Koizumi!