My Least Favorite Trope (and this post will include spoilers for The Lego Movie, Guardians of the Galaxy, The Matrix, Western Civilization, and—cod help me—Bulletproof Monk*.) is the thing where there’s an awesome, smart, wonderful, powerful female character who by all rights ought to be the Chosen One and the hero of the movie, who is tasked with taking care of some generally ineffectual male character who is, for reasons of wish fulfillment, actually the person the film focuses on. She mentors him, she teaches him, and she inevitably becomes his girlfriend… and he gets the job she wanted: he gets to be the Chosen One even though she’s obviously far more qualified. And all he has to do to get it and deserve it is Man Up and Take Responsibility.

And that’s it. Every god-damned time. The mere fact of naming the films above and naming the trope gives away the entire plot and character arc of every single movie.


— Elizabeth Bear - My Least Favorite Trope (via saltbreaker)



Rethinking my latest Emelan ‘verse read and- Daja.

black and a woman and gay

tall and broad shouldered and flat chested

ridiculed and scolded by her family for her interest in smithing

cast out and denied acknowledgement of her existence by her people after her whole…

One of the secret doors of the Stift Admont library, Austria.


He waited until the train was in motion to make his move—a true sign of someone who knows how to make the environment work to their advantage. Then he leaned forward. “Hi.” “How you doing?” “What are you reading?” “What’s your name?” “I really like your hair.” “That’s a really nice skirt.” “You must work out.”

It was painful to watch. She clearly wanted nothing to do with him, and he clearly wasn’t going to take the hint. Her rebukes got firmer. “I’d like to read my book.” And he pulled out the social pressure. “Hey, I’m just asking you a question. You don’t have to be so rude.” She started to look around for outs. Her head swiveled from one exit to another.

The thing was, I had already heard this story, many many times. I knew how it would play out. I knew all the tropes. I probably could have quoted the lines before they said them. I wanted a new narrative. Time to mix it up.

So I moved seats until I was sitting behind him. I leaned forward with my head on the back of his seat.

"Hi," I said with a little smile.

He looked at me like I was a little crazy—which isn’t exactly untrue—and turned back to her.

"How are you doing?" I asked.

"I’m fine," he said flatly without ever looking back.

"I really like your hair," I said. “It looks soft."

That’s about when it got…..weird.

He sort of half turned and glared back me, and I could tell I was pissing him off. His eyes told me to back the hell away, and his lips were pressed together tightly enough to drain the color from them completely.

But no good story ever ends with the conflict just defusing. He started to turn back to her.

"Wait, don’t be like that," I said. “Lemmie just ask you one question…"

"What!" he said in that you-have-clearly-gone-too-far voice that is part of the freshmen year finals at the school of machismo.

And I’m not exactly a hundred percent sure why I didn’t call it a day at that point, but…..maybe I just love turning the screw to see what happens. I gave him the bedroomy-est eyes I could muster. “What’s your name?”

Right now I’m sitting here typing out this story, and I’m still not entirely sure why I’m not nursing a fat lip or a black eye. Because that obviously made him so mad that I still am not sure why it didn’t come to blows. There are cliches about eyes flaring and rage behind someones eyes and shit like that that are so overdone. But it really does look like that. When someone gets violent, their eyes just kind of “pop” with intention—pupils dilate, eyelids widen. And his did. Even sitting down he was clearly bigger than me and I was pretty sure he was kind of muscular too, so at that moment I was figuring I was probably going to need an ice pack and sympathy sex from my girlfriend by day’s end.

"DUDE," he shouted. “I’M NOT GAY."

That’s when I dropped the bedroom eyes and switched to a normal voice. “Oh well I could see not being interested didn’t matter to you when you were hitting on her, so I just thought that’s how you rolled.”


Writing About Writing (And Occasionally Some Writing): Changing The Creepy Guy Narrative (via veruca-assault)

instant reblog

(via koi-ms)

never hit that reblog so fast in my life. 

(via trikcst3r)

Mere - Just adding - if this is a true story, you are my hero! Seriously. If guys could just do this - point out to other guys in ways they can’t laugh off, how what they’re doing isn’t acceptable - then maybe things will change.

Thank you.

(via mere-dyth)

We got us a real life Steve Rogers here.

(via lamardeuse)


The unsung heroes.





Fuck all the assholes that cruised past this on my blog and didn’t reblog, then went ahead and reblogged every fucking porn gif on my tumblr.

Do you people get that I am a sex worker and so are the people in those gifs? Fucking hypocritical fucks.

I’m not reblogging porn gifs.  I am reblogging this for the decriminalization of sex work.  I am reblogging for the right of sex workers to medical insurance, licensing, police protection, the right to pay taxes, the right to maintain clean, safe places of work, and the right not to be preyed upon by pimps and drug dealers.  I am reblogging this for the right of sex workers to live the same lives as dancers and card dealers in casinos, free of fear. 

The American approach to sex work is hypocritical in the max.  We force girls, women, and lgbt people who have been kicked out of their homes into it, then raise out hands and cry blameless when they are forced into sex work to make enough money for food, rent, and child care, while the men who kicked them out pay them for their services, sell them drugs, and beat them up.  We sniff and say, “What did you expect?” when they are found beaten, knifed, or strangled to death in some dreadful place when it is our fault they have been forced to work there, forced to take drugs and buy from dealers to tolerate that kind of work, and treated like beasts by the people who dumped them. 

Some people will still end up in the dark, but if sex work is legalized, they will have many more protections, and well-lit, protected places to work, and people who will care about them.  We will reduce the risks to them in so many ways.  They are our sisters and brothers.  We owe them the safeties we have.


Faces at the A Détacher SS15 Show for Oyster by Rebekah Campbell







i’m feeling emotional about this post

Sep 21   370,571 notes   # pugs!