#so FUCKING LONG

[johnwickb1tsch]

john wick x model!reader imagine pt 3

masterlist

trois

-It is a regrettable side effect of your career that the paparazzi are always curious about what you’re up to. For once you’re able to use this to your advantage. The actor Derek Prince has been asking you out for ages. For once you say yes, and take no pains to keep it a secret. You’re photographed going into Nobu, and leaving together to return to the New York Hilton. You don’t accept his invitation for a nightcap, saying adieu politely without even offering a goodnight kiss. You can tell the famously handsome actor is utterly shocked by this treatment. He’s used to having women throw themselves at his feet.

You almost feel bad about it.

-You go on three more casual dates over the next few months with Derek, and the media loses their goddamn minds. The tabloids have you hiding a baby bump, and TMZ claims you are secretly engaged. It really should be illegal, to print such trash. They think you’re the perfect Hollywood power couple.

You are merely biding your time.

You are walking down a tree-lined street in New York when a rider geared in black on an ARCH motorcycle pulls up beside you. Your heart swells, and you just know.

He flips up the visor of his full helmet. “Need a ride?”

“You have no idea.”

You can tell by the crinkle of his eyes that he is smirking at you. You take the helmet he offers you and climb on, so glad you’re wearing jeans, some long-clenched anxiety releasing as you wrap your arms around his waist. You’ve been on a Vespa before, but never a proper motorcycle. It growls like a beast of the jungle beneath you as he pulls away, giving you a thrill from head to toe. Traveling like this with John is a revelation, the curve of his perfect little ass snug between your thighs, your arms around his trim waist. You trust him implicitly, driving this wonderfully dangerous machine through the mean streets of New York.

Maybe it’s ridiculous, but you feel invincible.  

He takes you to a cemetery, of all places, but it’s secluded and shaded by old trees, and has a stunning view of the city below. He sits sidesaddle on the bike with you cradled on his lap between his long legs, his leather-clad arms around you. He looks at your left hand, and you do not miss his sigh of relief.

“So, you’re not engaged…”

It’s not elegant, but you snort at the idea. Maybe you’re feeling a little reckless, after your diabolical plan actually worked to bring him out of the woodwork, and back to you. And maybe you’re a little annoyed that it had to come to this. “Not unless you’re asking, Mr. Wick.”

Fuck. You did not just say that out loud.

You feel him stiffen behind you, and your heart goes into a freefall, certain you’ve ruined everything with your big mouth.

But then his arms tighten around you, and he buries his face in your hair. “There is nothing I would like more,” he grumbles into the bend of your neck.  

Suddenly, your heart has wings. Is this is? The moment you’ve longed for, for what feels like a lifetime?

“Yeah?”

“But I can’t do that to you, y/n.”

Again, that poor muscle in your chest takes a dive, and you’re certain there’s nothing but sharp rocks below to catch it.

“What do you mean?”

“I know you must have an inkling of what I do.”

“You’re not a spy?”

“’Fraid not.”

“You work for the mob.”

“Not the Italians, but something like that.” A long silence draws on before he actually speaks again. “There are bad people, who if they knew about you, and what you mean to me…”

You’ve seen enough movies to fill in the blanks.

The problem is, you don’t care. You’ve reached the end of your rope.

“I don’t need a ring, John. Or a picket fence. I don’t even really want children. All I want is you. All I’ve ever really wanted is you.”

“You have me, baby.”

This only appeases you slightly.

“You don’t have a lover in every big city across the globe?”

He actually chuckles at that, a sound from deep in his chest you feel rumbling against your back. “No.” A long silence ensues, filled only with the sounds of birds singing. It’s miraculously quiet up on the hill with the dead. His next words make your own heart sing. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved, y/n.”

You lean back on his shoulder, offering your lips. This kiss is slow, and deep, and so precious. All your time with him is so precious. “I love you too, by the way,” you say when you finally part, resting your forehead against the scruff of his cheek.

You feel him smile.

-You return to your apartment, the one rented in a different name that the paps haven’t found yet. Unfortunately, it seems that Derek has. You’re sure your agent is to blame for that. He’s loved all the extra publicity of your association with the actor, completely unaware of your ruse.

Derek is waiting in the lobby, and frowns when he sees you walking up hand in hand with some devilishly handsome rogue in a motorcycle jacket. John is already a large man, but the way the jacket pads out his shoulders and chest does things to you. It probably intimidates Derek too, so he puts some extra steel in his tone, lowering his voice in an attempt to sound hard. You just barely repress a laugh, because you have already been cruel enough.

“Who the fuck is this?”

Derek has been in a few action movies, and he fancies himself a tough guy. He starts to square up. You feel the change in John, the tension singing in his frame. Suddenly, he is a loaded spring, a gun ready to fire, and your hand tightens on his, praying you can avoid a scene. Even though Derek’s taller than John, somehow you just know that your real boyfriend would wipe the floor with the actor.

You feel like its serendipity when one of the elevators opens beside you, and fabulous old Mrs. Ginsberg steps out with her yippy little powderpuff of a dog. You pull John into the elevator as the doors are closing. “Sorry Derek. It’s not you, it’s me.” You get to see a split second of his stupidly handsome face turn totally gob smacked before the doors close, and you are heading up. You cackle to yourself, which is sharply interrupted by John’s mouth crashing onto yours.

“Please don’t tell me you actually let that idiot touch you?”

“It would serve you right if I did,” you grumble, still so annoyed by his disappearing act.

He actually growls, and you realize that he really was well and truly jealous. You’re not sure what it says about you, but you fucking love it. He presses you into the wall of the elevator, that intense dark stare locked with yours. Even when the elevator reaches the your floor, he does not move.

“You little minx. Did you orchestrate this whole thing just to get me to find you?”

You lift one eyebrow in answer with a smirk, and you have a split second to anticipate your doom in the clenched line of his jaw before he falls on you, devouring your mouth in another merciless kiss. Then, he honest to god hauls you over his shoulder, exiting the elevator.

“Oh my god, put me down!” you shout, half laughing, half alarmed.

“I don’t think I will.”

“You don’t know where we’re going.”

“Then you’d better tell me.”

You give him the number, and he has to put you down so you can get out your keys. But once the door is open he grabs you up again, and he doesn’t let go until much, much later.

-In the quiet of the night you stir in John’s arms, realizing he is wide awake, stroking light circles on your shoulder as he stares up at the ceiling. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“There might…be a way.”

Your sleep addled brain doesn’t compute at first. But then it dawns on you, and you pop up on your elbows. “Really?” You know you sound desperate. You don’t care. You would risk anything. You are so miserable without him.

He nods, his eyes shining like obsidian in the dark. He traces the curve of your cheek, and you close your eyes, realizing that tears are streaming down. “John…”

You would give anything, you realize, to actually have this man by your side. The relief you feel inside at hearing there is even just a possibility is palpable. Like a muscle long clenched finally released. You narrowly clamp down on the urge to weep. A small, strangled sound escapes you, and he holds you harder, as though he knows. He knows your every tell. He knows the agony of possibility and uncertainty. 

“Would they really let you go?” You hate how small your voice sounds. You don’t know who they are, exactly, and you know better than to ask by now. But you do know that you hate them. You hate them, because this man belongs to you. He is the other half of your soul. By cosmic rights, he should be yours at night, and in the day too. Every hour, by your side, in your arms. 

“I’m going to try.”

“Will it…be dangerous?” You are so afraid of the answer, which you are already certain is yes.

“Maybe.” He is hedging. He doesn’t want to scare you. You appreciate the lengths he’s gone to, to protect you. You really do. You also know that you don’t really truly understand. How could you?

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

The smile he pays you is so tender, without a drop of condescension. He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear. “I don’t think so.”

“What will you have to do?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Will you have to…kill people?” His hand against your skin freezes, and you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

“Wow. I really haven’t fooled you at all, have I?” he marvels.

You press your lips. “That night in London, at the Ritz? You had blood on your shirt.”

He closes his eyes.

“You knew all this time?”

“Maybe.”

“And still you wanted me?”

“I’ll always want you, John.” It’s simply the truth.

He looks at you with wonder and reverence in those soulful brown eyes. 

“Baby girl.”. He kisses you softly, and you can feel the love in it. He presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes. He does this for a long time. “I’m not a good man, you know.”

“You are, to me.”

- Before he disappears into the darkness again, hopefully for the last time, you ask him how he got into doing what he does. He admits that he was taken as an orphan, and moulded into a weapon for their own ends. 

“You mean you were...a child soldier?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

“Jesus Christ, baby...”

Your heart breaks for him, and you pull him close. At first he is tense, resisting your sympathy, but then you feel him relax, resting his head on your breast with a heavy sigh.

“How...” How the hell did he turn out the way he did, you wonder silently. Kind, and sane. And yet, you have seen glimpses of the darkness that lurks below. He has never offered it to you, but perhaps there is a savagery he saves for others in the world. You believe to the marrow of your bones though, that he does not hurt anyone who does not already deserve it.

You do not judge him. You are no angel either, and the resilience of this man’s soul is a marvel to you. You don’t know how its possible, but you love him even more.  

-When you say goodbye in the wee hours of the morning, John looks at you with an intensity that gives you chills, as though he's memorizing your every molecule. You have no way of knowing, but he is thinking to himself that there are only two ways this can go: he’ll come back to you, or he’ll be dead.

He can’t live without you anymore either.

He kisses you with toe-curling tenderness, his big hand cupping your jaw. He has learned over the years that there is such a thing as the self-fulfilling prophesy. So he pushes thoughts of his doom aside, and makes you both a promise.

“I'll see you soon, y/n.” 

“Very soon,” you amend. He smiles at that. 

“My greedy girl.” 

“Only for you, John.”

He releases a shuddering sigh as he presses his forehead to yours again, as though you are the altar he prays upon. “I meant that I am not a good man, y/n. But know that I loved you with my whole heart.” 

“Do not speak of yourself in past tense to me.”

He pays you a grim smile that squeezes your heart like a merciless fist.

“Promise me you'll come back to me,” you insist, your fingers curling in his jacket. 

He nods. 

“I'll be seeing you.”

It had to be true. The alternative…is unspeakable.

--------------------

masterlist <<PART 2 PART 4>>

#john wick #john wick x you #john wick x reader #john wick x y/n #john wick x helen #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves x reader #ahhhrgh ok ok one more part to go #so fucking long #im losing my mind

[error-in-errors]

listened to ding dong the wicked witch is dead for 30 minutes straight earlier to commemorate the death of Henry Kissinger

May he rest in piss and rot while his millions of victims rest peacefully 🙏🙏

#henry kissinger #us politics #ding dong the witch is dead #best day of my life #i’ve been waiting for so long #so fucking long #🙏🙏 #erroneous

[kkyaka]

FINALLY TWENTY-ONE (not that anyone cares lmfao 💀)

#IT TOOK SO LONG 😭😭😭 #SO FUCKING LONG #and so far i havent cried! #🥝.rambles

[thegoblinwitch]

[tw: talk about death, suicide attempts, mental health issues and general unpleasantness therein]

i've been thinking about suicide a lot lately. which sounds a lot more dramatic than it actually is, i promise. thinking about the act itself and my 'relationship' to it, rather than than actually about killing myself. my past's been haunting me much more than usual for some reason this past month and a bit, and putting thoughts to paper (so to speak) and casting it into the void that is this hellhole site seemed like the best idea.

when i say i have a relationship with suicide, i don't so much mean myself as the people around me and how it 'influenced' my life.

the defining factor, the cornerstone, the act that started it all, was the suicide of my maternal grandmother when mother was 16. and the added 'insult to injury' that she tried to convince mother to kill herself with her. i don't remember when i was informed of this, but as far back as i can remember, i've always known about it. it was thrown about regularly both as an accusation and as a justification my whole life. for those of you wondering about a parent or relatives mentioning this to very young kids, i would say that 'age appropriate' has never, ever, been a consideration and i have other examples i could give, but those are a different kettle of fish.

back on track. the death of gramma marguerite kinda set the tone for her kids and their kids, though her husband, the poophead, def had a heavy hand in it too and in additional trauma, but again, different story. mother is the youngest of 3 and was the only one still living at home at the time, and obviously having to be there and having to deal with a mother that wants to take you with her in death is it's own additional trauma on top of a parent killing themselves. that's not to say that it didn't impact her siblings.

my uncle, the eldest, i never knew him well, and i've no idea if he ever tried to kill himself at some point afterwards. from what i knew of him, he was more the type to try and convince other people to kill themselves for their own good, cult leader style (won't go into details, not the point of this post).

my aunt, i knew her better than my uncle, but not that well, we rarely lived in the same country at the same time and then she ended on the other side of the world. i've always known her sad. even when i was a small kid, she never seemed happy. i know for a fact she tried to kill herself several times after the death of her mother and it escalated to the point where she tried again, only this time she tried to emulate her mother and tried to take her son (a couple years younger than me) with her. she didn't manage it, but it resulted in her being permanently drugged up to the gills and all her legal rights removed. it never sat right with me, but that was her husbands prerogative and my thoughts on the matter (and her husband in general) aren't the point.

that leaves mother. i also know for a fact she tried several times to kill herself after her mother's death. i grew up expecting to get to visit her at the hospital, even though i personally knew of only a few before i realised the steps and my grandparents had tried more or less successfully to hide a lot of them in the guise of impromptu stays with family. i grew up to father saying he didn't push for custody because mother threatened to kill herself if he did. which, while a case of he-said-she-said, is plausible, knowing both of them, even if it makes my eyes twitch thinking about a parent not actually fighting harder if in father's place. i grew up knowing mother didn't love me enough to care about how her actions affected anyone but her. i grew up to see a disturbing pattern to her suicide attempts and her brandying about her mother's death. her mother's death was always mentioned when someone would negatively wonder about her mental health. it would always be used by her as a justification for how she was now. which, while not intrinsically wrong, comes off as a useless excuse when it's been more than 20 years and she's done nothing about it except throw it in everyones face when it suits her. the suicide attempts in themselves have always happened when either there was a conflict that she wasn't gonna win or people where looking at her in anything less than shinning innocence or didn't see her as the poor little victim that must be protected at all cost. i still remember vividly my 3rd year of secondary school, where the bullying got so bad i refused to go to school and ended up having to go to see a psychologist every week to approve my absences and the talk of child protective services not being happy with mother and all our acquaintances whispering about bad parenting and weak willed single mothers. then bam. mother tries to kill herself. and all of a sudden it's 'poor dear, having to deal with such a difficult child', 'it's not her fault, maybe the kid is just a bad seed and needs to be in an institution'. she came out smelling of roses and me as the villain of the story, again, and more surprisingly in my opinion, no more talk of cps. i heavily suspect step#2 having had a hand in that tbh.

as i got older, every time i had a notification mother was in the hospital i just got angrier at her and wanting for her to actually manage it for good so i'd be done with the back and forth. the last time it happened while i was still living with her, her friend that let me know was outraged that i wouldn't come visit her. didn't matter that i had been there and done that to no difference or that i had to awkwardly ask grocery money to my then bf's parents, or that i had to make an excuse for her missing a parent-teacher conference and hope they accepted it, it didn't matter, it never did.

then there's me. i was 16 and my morbid curiosity got the better of me. i've always been curious of the occult and the morbid, mother used to say it was because i was a scorpio. obviously death was an ever present subject and mother and her brother were always into new age-y stuff and reincarnations and part lives and near death experiences. we had priests and shamans coming to the house at all hours to perform exorcisms and purifications, etc.. my imaginary friend for years was the ghost of a napoleonic soldier named bartholomew. and my last year of high school i did my final year dissertation on death and how it's treated in different religious traditions with side notes about near death experiences and the taboo of suicide. so i was 16 and decided that i really wanted to see what it was like, to die or be near death. i didn't want to die, it was actually a pretty good period all things considered at the time, but i was ready to accept the consequence. and i always thought i'd die young, so why not see of 16 was it. so i wrote letters to those that mattered in case i died, i packed a bag for the hospital in case i didn't. i made sure the flat was tidy so mother didn't have to worry about that on top of anything else, made sure there was enough left overs to last a few days, dressed nicely so it wouldn't look too bad for mother, then raided her pharmacy box. she's a hypochondriac that had both over the counter and prescriptions pills for everything under the sun, i had ample options to choose from. i took a dozen boxes of different meds and filled a cereal bowl with them. lined the boxes near the head of the bed so that emt could see what meds i took, then proceeded to swallow every last one, no matter how hard it got, before lying down on my bed and waiting. i was ready to withstand the effects of the meds, but then out of nowhere a big push to get up and get the landline to phone for an ambulance. after that, i started to lose time. i just remember some flashes: the emt banging at the door, them trying to get me down the stairs to the ambulance, managing to give them mother's mobile number when asked, the tetanus jab due to the cuts they saw on my arm, the pain of the tube being jammed down my nose to my throat and stomach, waking up vomiting black goo with the beeping machines in the background and the blood pressure cuff pumping intermittently. when i woke up it was to very judgemental nurses and being told that apparently i'd spent the night in the icu and that cps was waiting to talk with mother and me. i was lucky, the doctors said, the cocktail i took should've killed me. in my opinion, i was lucky that i hadn't actually been suicidal at the time, because the experience at the hospital and then after with the police and the mandated psychologist, would have made me want to just try harder asap. so i got to live past my curiosity with only an aversion to swallowing pills that took me years to overcome, though i still have trouble with some of them. and i was of the opinion that 'i came, i saw, i conquered'. and my answer to questions about it was generally always a shrug and an 'it wasn't my time'. i've been lucky that i've never really been suicidal and wanted to actively kill myself. that's not to say i haven't thought about being dead, or dying or simply not existing anymore, but those are more passive suicide ideation.

it took me years to work on my views of suicide and people that try to kill themself and to see it as the last resort and cry for help it is rather than the selfish act my childish expectations saw it as. but in mother case, i can't seem to be able to apply that perspective. suicide attempts where just another weapon in mother's arsenal of manipulations. her attempts are in the (high) double digits, always with medication. statistically, what are the odds that not once would she actually take enough that it would kill her or at least send her to the icu? her lengthy stays were never because of her physical health but because she needed to spend a week or two in the psychiatric ward, since it was a suicide attempt. and though she sometimes had to have her stomach pumped, she was never as bad as i got that one time. but then she's never managed well with pain. it just all seems awfully convenient. maybe i'm just being particularly judgemental and unkind, most probably i'm biased and influenced by all the other shit she put me through, but although i reserve judgment for those attempts when she was younger, in my mind the ones from at least after my birth were all calculated 'risks' rather than genuine call for help. especially considering she never accepted help afterwards and was always at her happiest in the few months after.

i don't know why all this has been plaguing me recently. i haven't spoken to her in nearly a decade and took steps to make sure i didn't get an unexpected email like i used to. maybe because i feel like i'll never be free of her until she's finally 6 feet under, regardless of the distance. i dunno. i'm annoyed at myself even if i can't really control my thoughts. with any luck casting this in the aether will somewhat calm the deluge.

#hopefully this will cast it out #and it will stop plaguing my thoughts #sorry that my 'return' is with this #but i need it out #and not in my head anymore #long post #so fucking long #i apologise if i don't make much sense #this has not been a happy month & 1/2 #i could do without the cliche of being #haunted by my past #please and thank you #kit is exhausted #and i just want to burrow in someone #and not come out for a while #bleh #tw sui talk #kit's #diary

[hampop]

Well after literal weeks of sewing on lace trim by hand. Here we are.

#cosplay #Cinderella #this took #so fucking long #Disney

[gnusnoteunuchs]

armageddon (1998) was not a very good movie

#SO FUCKING LONG

[priestfrommidnightmass]

i’ve been trying to watch this shitty paul dano movie for like two hours but i keep getting distracted watching clips of jason mewes dancing around

#WHY FOES THIS VERSION HAVE SO MANY ADS EJSUS CHRIST #im switching to a no ad version but jesus this is #so long #so fucking long #it’s 90 minutes #but it’s four years

[paperconsumption]

iharu my boy he’s finally getting his moment

#kaiju no. 8 #we’ve seen the build up ive been waiting so long #so fucking long

[hamletthedane]

I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

#shut up e #long post #Saturday thoughts #this has been in my drafts for a week haha #also this is the heart of why AI art feels so wrong #forget the discussion of copyright and theft etc - even if models were only trained on public domain they would still feel very wrong #because they’re not art. art is the labor of creation #even commercial art and art commissioned by the popes and kings of history: there is humanity in the labor of it #unrelated: I did not know living in the Bronx was now something to brag about. How the fuck do y’all New Yorkers afford this city???

[ardri-na-bpiteog]

Also increasingly aware that a LOT of people "manage" getting through the 40+ hour work week by sleeping less than is healthy and relying on stimulants like coffee and energy drinks to keep them going.

For people who are unwilling or unable to do this...work really does just dominate your life. Like we really should not have to rely on unhealthy practices just to have a social life or keep on top of housework or whatever.

I know I post about this a lot but I'm so TIRED all the time and it's just so depressing that this is how we're expected to spend the one life we have.

#i have to get at least 8 hours of sleep a night to even barely function #with sleep #getting ready for work #commute #cooking #and errands #I typically have maybe 2-3 hours to actually do what i want in a day #and I'm usually too tired to actually do the things i want to do #and that's with a very short commute #if i actually had a long commute I'd basically do nothing but work #i see my friends like once every few weeks or months #because we're all so fucking busy with work and have such little time for socialising #and none of us even have kids or anything!!

[endusviolence]

Rowling isn't denying holocaust. She just pointed out that burning of transgender health books is a lie as that form of cosmetic surgery didn't exist. But of course you knew that already, didn't you?

I was thinking I'd probably see one of you! You're wrong :) Let's review the history a bit, shall we?

In this case, what we're talking about is the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft, or in English, The Institute of Sexology. This Institute was founded and headed by a gay Jewish sexologist named Magnus Hirschfeld. It was founded in July of 1919 as the first sexology research clinic in the world, and was run as a private, non-profit clinic. Hirschfeld and the researchers who worked there would give out consultations, medical advice, and even treatments for free to their poorer clientele, as well as give thousands of lectures and build a unique library full of books on gender, sexuality, and eroticism. Of course, being a gay man, Hirschfeld focused a lot on the gay community and proving that homosexuality was natural and could not be "cured".

Hirschfeld was unique in his time because he believed that nobody's gender was either one or the other. Rather, he contended that everyone is a mixture of both male and female, with every individual having their own unique mix of traits.

This leads into the Institute's work with transgender patients. Hirschfeld was actually the one to coin the term "transsexual" in 1923, though this word didn't become popular phrasing until 30 years later when Harry Benjamin began expanding his research (I'll just be shortening it to trans for this brief overview.) For the Institute, their revolutionary work with gay men eventually began to attract other members of the LGBTA+, including of course trans people.

Contrary to what Anon says, sex reassignment surgery was first tested in 1912. It'd already being used on humans throughout Europe during the 1920's by the time a doctor at the Institute named Ludwig Levy-Lenz began performing it on patients in 1931. Hirschfeld was at first opposed, but he came around quickly because it lowered the rate of suicide among their trans patients. Not only was reassignment performed at the Institute, but both facial feminization and facial masculization surgery were also done.

The Institute employed some of these patients, gave them therapy to help with other issues, even gave some of the mentioned surgeries for free to this who could not afford it! They spoke out on their behalf to the public, even getting Berlin police to help them create "transvestite passes" to allow people to dress however they wanted without the threat of being arrested. They worked together to fight the law, including trying to strike down Paragraph 175, which made it illegal to be homosexual. The picture below is from their holiday party, Magnus Hirschfeld being the gentleman on the right with the fabulous mustache. Many of the other people in this photo are transgender.

[Image ID: A black and white photo of a group of people. Some are smiling at the camera, others have serious expressions. Either way, they all seem to be happy. On the right side, an older gentleman in glasses- Magnus Hirschfeld- is sitting. He has short hair and a bushy mustache. He is resting one hand on the shoulder of the person in front of him. His other hand is being held by a person to his left. Another person to his right is holding his shoulder.]

There was always push back against the Institute, especially from conservatives who saw all of this as a bad thing. But conservatism can't stop progress without destroying it. They weren't willing to go that far for a good while. It all ended in March of 1933, when a new Chancellor was elected. The Nazis did not like homosexuals for several reasons. Chief among them, we break the boundaries of "normal" society. Shortly after the election, on May 6th, the book burnings began. The Jewish, gay, and obviously liberal Magnus Hirschfeld and his library of boundary-breaking literature was one of the very first targets. Thankfully, Hirschfeld was spared by virtue of being in Paris at the time (he would die in 1935, before the Nazis were able to invade France). His library wasn't so lucky.

This famous picture of the book burnings was taken after the Institute of Sexology had been raided. That's their books. Literature on so much about sexuality, eroticism, and gender, yes including their new work on trans people. This is the trans community's Alexandria. We're incredibly lucky that enough of it survived for Harry Benjamin and everyone who came after him was able to build on the Institute's work.

[Image ID: A black and white photo of the May Nazi book burning of the Institute of Sexology's library. A soldier, back facing the camera, is throwing a stack of books into the fire. In the background of the right side, a crowd is watching.]

As the Holocaust went on, the homosexuals of Germany became a targeted group. This did include transgender people, no matter what you say. To deny this reality is Holocaust denial. JK Rowling and everyone else who tries to pretend like this isn't reality is participating in that evil. You're agreeing with the Nazis.

But of course, you knew that already, didn't you?

Edit: Added image IDs. I apologize to those using screen readers for forgetting them. Please reblog this version instead.

#transgender #trans history #transsexual #transphobia #Magnus Hirschfeld #holocaust #holocaust denial #book burning #j.k. rowling #jk rowling #just in case you missed what i mean by all this: go fuck yourself anon :) #trans people have always existed #and we will always exist #if you really wanna pick a fight with me over well-documented history then you better bring in some sources to back your shit #queer history #queer #lgbt+ #lgbta+ #lgbt #lgbt history #edit: i finally got around to those damn image IDs. i am so very sorry for totally forgetting that's my bimbo moment of the month #also real quick i thought about adding an image of the actual building but the only one i can find has a Nazi parade in front of it #it was taken the day of the book burning raid and honestly if i were to include it then i'd add it to the first few paragraphs #and i think the story's better told when you uphold the hope Magnus Hirschfeld and all the researchers he worked with had #also keeps being brought up: yes Hirschfeld was a eugenicist. it was a popular belief set that was only discredited after WW2 #Hirschfeld died in 1935. he literally didn't live long enough to see science turn against those beliefs and practices #considering how he changed his mind on transitions i like to think he would've changed his mind on eugenics too if he'd lived

[inkskinned]

what is with men being mad any time a woman raises her voice where did that even come from. someone posted a video of a small electrical explosion, and the top comment was of course the woman screams. the second comment is women try not to scream challenge, level impossible. i had to go back and watch the video again. there is, somewhat fainty, a little gasp emitted off-camera, more of a yelp than a scream. it is mostly lost in the crack of the explosion. afterwards, you hear her voice, shaken, say, are you okay?

i am helping one of my friends train her voice pitch lower, because she wants to be taken seriously at work. she and i do each other's nails and talk about gender roles; and how - due to our appearance - neither of us have ever been able to be "hysterical" in public. we both appear young and sweet and feminine. she is cisgender, and cannot use her natural voice in her profession because people keep saying she appears to be "vapid". we both try to figure out if our purposeful voice lowering is technically sexist. is it promoting something when you are a victim to it?

a storm almost sends a pole through a car window. in the dashcam, you can hear the woman passenger say her partner's name twice, crying out in alarm. she sounds terrified. in the comments, she is lambasted for her lack of calm. how is that even fucking helping?

in high school, i taught myself to have a lower voice. i had been recorded when i was genuinely (and righteously) upset; and i hated how my voice sounded on the phone speakers when it was played back. i was defending my mom, and my voice cracked with emotion. it meant i was no longer winning the argument: i was just shrieking about it.

girls meet each other after a long summer and let out a little joyful scream. this usually stops around 12-14, because people will not tolerate this display of affection (as it has the effect of being passingly annoying). something about the fact that little girls can't ever even be annoying. we are trained to examine each part of our lives (even joy) for anything that could make us upsetting and disgusting. they act like teenage girls are breaking into houses and shrieking you awake at 3 in the morning. speaking as a public school educator: trust me, it's not that bad, you can just roll your eyes and move on. it does not compare to the ways boys end up being annoying: slurs in graffiti, purposefully mocking your body, following you after you said no. you know, just boy things.

there's another video of a man who is not allowed to yell in the house, so he snaps his fingers when he's excited about soccer. the comments are full of angry men, talking about how their brother is unfairly caged. let him express himself and this is terrible to do to someone. eventually the couple has to address it in a second video: they are married with a newborn baby. he was trying not to wake the infant up. there is no comment on the fact women are not allowed to yell indoors. or the fact that it could have been really alarming or triggering for his wife. sometimes i wonder if straight men even like women, if they even enjoy being in relationships with them.

for the longest time, i hated roller coasters because it always felt inappropriate and uncomfortable for me to scream. one of my friends called me on it, said it was unusual i'm so unwilling. i had to go to my therapist about it. i don't like to scream because i was not raised in a safe situation, and raising my voice would have brought unsafe attention towards me. even when i am supposed to scream, it feels shameful, guilty. i was not treated kindly, so i lack a basic form of self-protection. this is not a natural response. it is not good that in a situation of high adrenaline - i shut up about it.

something very bad is happening, i think. in between all the beauty standards and the stuff i've already discussed - this one feels new and cruel in a way i can't quite express. yes, it's scary and silencing. but there's something about how direct it is - that so many men agree with the sentiment that women should never yell, even in an emergency - it feels different.

is the word shriek gendered automatically? how about shrill or screech? in self defense class, one of the first things they tell you is to yell, as loud and as shrilly as you can. they say it will feel rude. most women will not do this. you need to practice overcoming the social pressure and just scream.

most women do not cry out, even when it's bad. we do not report it. we walk faster. we do not make a scene. what would be the point of doing anything else? no matter what we do, we don't get taken seriously. it is a joke to them. an instagram caption punchline. we have to present ourselves as silent, beautiful, captivating - "valuable."

a woman is outside watching her kids when someone throws a firecracker at them. she screams and runs towards her children. in the comments, grown men flock together in the thousands: god. women are so annoying.

#warm up #writeblr #this one has bothered me for a bit #any time a woman does something even passingly annoying we treat it like a fucking crime #hey man. women are allowed to be annoying. everyone forever is allowed to be passingly annoying #as long as they aren't hurting anyone/thing #like u wanna know something? i find it super annoying that men don't wear seatbelts #why arent there thousands of comments on driving videos thats just like : men try not to die in a car crash challenge #''this briefly annoyed me''. okay??????? AND????????????????? go get ur self a cookie and calm down about it #ur not entitled to control other ppl's experiences and emotions just so u can maintain ur own peace #if being briefly annoyed ruins ur whole day! you! need! therapy!!!! #men try not to become immediately angry about nothing challenge: level impossible #ps author is nonbinary. we didn't even get into the gender presentation thing #the fact men think it's SEXY that my voice is on the lower end....

[ash-and-starlight]

humble contribution

#basic: interpreting mizu’s gender based on what u think fits best #based wired inspired: interpreting mizu’s gender based on the ship so that it’s always a gay relationship #also whoever drew taigen’s nose Like That.. #i am forever thankful i need to kiss them with tongue #ode to taigen’s nose: page 1 of 204737835737493 #did i spend too long on this instead of just simply grabbing screenshots? look away #blue eye samurai #mizu #akemi #taigen #taigen’s top knot before it met its early end teach the angels how to sing baby 😔🙏 #ringo #my art #yuri is when there’s blood and themes yaoi is two blokes who do fuck all

[keepinventory]

#👽 < text tag #FINALLY got polls FUCK YES #ive been so so curious about this for so long. and also i wanted more people to know about :+)'s existence. becayse i like it. #had to redo this because the first time the arrows got turned into code -_-

[callisteios]

Would you like to find out what you would be the god of? Take my new uqiz to find out

#uquiz #have fun with it please #assigning the 30+ results was fucking exhausting #you can get #spins wheel #mascots #emojis #longing #microelectronics #and so many more! #quiz #tag game #etc #mine #callisteios #i will add more answers. when I have inspiration and or energy #muted

[nowayhomebucky]

too early to be awake and at work right now

#today is going to be #so fucking long #s rants