The Unholy Trinity Of Piss-poor Caretakers, Tag Yourself:

As one of these people I find this Very heartwarming and inspiring

You know what I love?

silent rebellions.

I mean don’t get me wrong the loud ones are great too but there is something so poetic about the quiet ones.

Like when a kid hides a pride flag in their room or paints their stuff the colors because they know if its not rainbow their parents won’t know what it means.

or when someone hides a binder in their backpack to change into and out of at school, “plus school takes up most of the time I can bind anyway”

The kids that are never deadnamed at school but in front of their family their classmates will never betray them.

The kids that have secret blogs

the kids that have secret lives

because you simply cant live in a world without some of you in it.

Kids that all flock to the one with supportive parents

the kids that sneak out to pride festivals with their friends

the kids that are secretly themselves

the kids that are secretly heroes

and those secret silent rebellions

are fantastic.

So please

Please

keep it up.

The world is so much better with you in it.

going on testosterone is so exciting im so glad to finally go through my himboification

whoever first decided that talking to yourself is weird was literally just a hater

Wwyd if you woke up to this

in love with how martin says “basira, jon can’t go through helen’s doors. we couldn’t come with you”. like because jon can’t go, martin can’t either. period. it’s such a casual assurance that martin will not leave jon behind or go where he can’t follow. now i’m wondering if (in a future episode) jon might have to go somewhere that martin can’t follow and how he’ll deal with that...

your parents headcanon you as cishet

girl in a horror movie: vomits up black liquid or blood, screams at the top of her lungs and tries to hurt anyone that goes near her

me: it be like that sometimes

Graffiti painted during a #StopCopCity demonstration in Minneapolis on Saturday night, in response to the police murder of Manuel Teran aka Tortuguita, an Atlanta Forest defender who was shot and killed by cops on Wednesday.

The Atlanta city council plans to clear the forest to build a massive police training facility dubbed "Cop City".

If Jon has to die alongside Jonah at the end just so that Jonny "I make a pun at every chance" Sims can call the episode "An eye for an eye" I'm gonna scream.

On a rainy night sometime in October, Martin had a nightmare about killing his husband. Something about the top of a tower Martin didn't recognize, and a dead body on the floor, and a crumbling building. Jon was saying a lot of things he didn't understand, and Martin was shouting a little. They both were crying. Jon handed him the knife, closed his hands around it and guided it towards his chest. 

Martin thought he wouldn't do it, at first. He thought he wouldn't do it. He tried not to do it, his arms stiffening with the motion. And then, as he pushed the knife into Jon's chest, he started begging desperately, silently, to wake up. 

He didn't. He felt every inch of that knife as it pushed into Jon's chest, felt the weight of Jon's punched-out gasp, felt the weight of Jon crumpling in his arms. Felt the tears sliding down his face as he didn't wake up. 

And then he was awake, and he was crying, like it had been real instead of just a horrible dream, intrusive thoughts at their finest making a home in his head. It wasn't real; he knew that. But that didn't stop him from sliding across the mattress, from leaning towards Jon and pressing his face against Jon's shoulder, biting his lip so Jon wouldn't hear him sob. 

Jon woke up. Of course he did. He stirred slowly, shifting against Martin and groping back for his hand until Martin tangled their fingers together, Jon's ring cool between his fingers. "M'rtin?" Jon mumbled sleepily, turning towards him. "What… what's wrong? Are you crying?"

Martin swallowed hard, wiped his eyes with his free hand and said, "Bad… bad dream."

"Oh." Jon pulled his hand up and kissed the back of it, his eyes still mostly closed. "It… it was just a dream, Martin. It's okay."

It's not, Martin wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come. It felt silly to say. It was just a dream. He'd never seen that place in his life; he'd looked different in the dream, and so had Jon, unfamiliar versions of themselves somehow. 

He pressed a free hand over Jon's chest, the place where the scar would've been, if the dream had been real. He said instead, "I hurt you," in a faltering voice, the words almost too awful to say. He kept feeling it, the phantom motion of stabbing Jon. He couldn't get the picture out of his head. The tears welled up again; Martin held his breath to try and hold back a sob.

"Martin," Jon mumbled, sleepily, his eyes still mostly closed. He reached up for Martin, put his arm around Martin's shoulders and pulled him down into his chest. Pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead. "You would never hurt me."

Martin pressed his wet face into Jon's neck and tried with everything in him to believe that, tried to banish the images from his mind. He mumbled I love you, and Jon said it back, and they fell back asleep tangled up on Jon's side of the bed. 

When Martin woke back up in the morning, there was an unfamiliar sound echoing in his mind—something like the whir of a tape recorder.