I’m not leaving Tumblr, though I will be looking into another platform and updating info as I go. I’m not going to disappear, I’m on Discord and AO3, and as soon as I’ve figured out some details, I’ll reblog this with the updates.
Delegates at their convention just passed a resolution which says Gender Identity is not real and “an Ontario PC government will remove the teaching and promotion of “Gender Identity Theory” from schools and its curriculum”
UPDATE: Now they’re backpeddling a bit saying they will only debate it at their next convention.
Hey, Ontarians? Now would be a fantastic time to descend on your Conservative MPPs offices in an angry horde. Call them. Email them. Make appointments in person, if you can–make them look you in the eye and explain how they’re gonna sleep at night while enabling the deaths and discrimination of queer youth.
Teens, this means you, too. These are your lives and futures on the line, and you have every right to speak to your representatives, to organize protests and school walkouts, to decide that you deserve better than this. Because you absolutely fucking do.
Listen. Listen. I just took a double dose of cold medicine and I’m ready to ride this angst train into the jaws of hell.
Because Peter didn’t expect Stiles to take care of him. No one has taken care of him before, he’s always been perfectly self sufficient. Even as a child, his parents supplied his material needs and then left him to his own devices for everything else.
Peter doesn’t need anyone else to care for him, to care about him. If you ask him whether or not he wants someone to care for him, he’ll scoff and look down his nose at you… but he won’t answer.
And Stiles never wanted to be in this position again. After his dad got clean/Stiles left home/whatever, he was done. When he’s out with friends, Stiles stays for two drinks and leaves, every time. He’s never around when people get sloppy drunk because he knows he would feel obligated to help, and he’s done doing that.
So part of the reason Stiles turned the water on Peter was because he was angry. Angry at Peter for getting this drunk, angry at himself for seeking out Peter when he knew he would be this drunk- kind of hoping that the shock of water will sober him up enough that he’ll get up and take care of himself.
Instead, Peter just says “thanks” and then passes out in the shower.
And Stiles considers leaving him there. He really does, but he’s worried, and frustrated, and every of the other ten thousand feelings that come with caring about Peter Hale, and all of those feelings combined outweigh Stiles’ determination to never be put back in the same caretaker situation he was in with his dad as a child.
So he takes Peter home.
Cleans him up.
Puts him in recovery position.
And waits for him to wake up.
Peter’s hangover muddles his brain enough that it takes him a few minutes in the morning. When he finally realizes that he’s at Stiles’, that Stiles must have taken care of him last night, a part of him is thrilled. He feels loved in a way he’s not used to experiencing.
Stiles, on the other hand, upon seeing Peter awake and no longer in danger of choking to death on his own vomit, is furious.
He tears into Peter (loudly, with zero regard for Peter’s hangover) yelling about how irresponsible that was, and how Stiles isn’t a babysitter, and how Peter needs to start taking care of himself-
And that’s when Peter starts to cut back with words, because like hell is anyone going to accuse him of not taking care of himself when that’s all he’s ever done.
They’re both frustrated and confused and full of all those deep emotions that are so, so terrifying when you’ve had a childhood filled with coping rather than growing.
In the end, it comes down to Peter yelling (hangover be damned), “I didn’t ask you to come take care of me!”
And Stiles of course yells back, “You didn’t have to ask me to take care of you, that’s just what you do when you love someone!”
Peter is stunned into silence, but Stiles isn’t done yelling. He keeps going.
“I just never wanted to love someone who would put me that position again!”
And now they’re both silent, staring at each other.
Because where do you go from there?
JFC, @twothumbsandnostakeincanon , get your germ-encrusted fingers off the keyboard and go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done. I need to fix this shit before you make me bawl like a baby at almost-2am.
Peter’s stunned like he almost never is, and Stiles is silent, won’t look him in the eyes as he starts to move around the apartment angrily, slamming around the kitchen as he makes breakfast and tortures Peter’s poor booze-soaked brain at the same time. It’s efficient, he’ll give the boy that.
He hauls his sorry carcass up and into the shower, and is too busy trying to wake up and put together the pieces of Stiles’s explosive cocktail of love and fury to snoop through the medicine cabinet while he’s in there. By the time he’s puttering back out in borrowed sweats and an old hoodie that has Stiles’s scent engrained in the fabric, he thinks he has the general shape of things–which is enough to make him push down his own resentment and bitterness, because he can indulge those later, but this, what Stiles said, that can’t be put off.
He waits until they’re both seated in front of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. “Why would you say you love me?” He asks it like it’s not important, like the answer he gets isn’t going to be the single deciding factor in where his life goes from here. Like this isn’t a fork in the road.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Gee, Peter, I don’t know. Why do you think I said it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I think your father is a functioning alcoholic, and that he had a non-functioning phase you had to steer him out of. I also think that you’re projecting your daddy issues onto a man old enough to be your father who happens to enjoy bickering as a hobby.” He smirks, and if it has more of an edge than usual, no one will know. “But, if it’s closure you’re after, kiddo, by all means, consider me at your service.”
Listen. Listen. I just took a double dose of cold medicine and I’m ready to ride this angst train into the jaws of hell.
Because Peter didn’t expect Stiles to take care of him. No one has taken care of him before, he’s always been perfectly self sufficient. Even as a child, his parents supplied his material needs and then left him to his own devices for everything else.
Peter doesn’t need anyone else to care for him, to care about him. If you ask him whether or not he wants someone to care for him, he’ll scoff and look down his nose at you… but he won’t answer.
And Stiles never wanted to be in this position again. After his dad got clean/Stiles left home/whatever, he was done. When he’s out with friends, Stiles stays for two drinks and leaves, every time. He’s never around when people get sloppy drunk because he knows he would feel obligated to help, and he’s done doing that.
So part of the reason Stiles turned the water on Peter was because he was angry. Angry at Peter for getting this drunk, angry at himself for seeking out Peter when he knew he would be this drunk- kind of hoping that the shock of water will sober him up enough that he’ll get up and take care of himself.
Instead, Peter just says “thanks” and then passes out in the shower.
And Stiles considers leaving him there. He really does, but he’s worried, and frustrated, and every of the other ten thousand feelings that come with caring about Peter Hale, and all of those feelings combined outweigh Stiles’ determination to never be put back in the same caretaker situation he was in with his dad as a child.
So he takes Peter home.
Cleans him up.
Puts him in recovery position.
And waits for him to wake up.
Peter’s hangover muddles his brain enough that it takes him a few minutes in the morning. When he finally realizes that he’s at Stiles’, that Stiles must have taken care of him last night, a part of him is thrilled. He feels loved in a way he’s not used to experiencing.
Stiles, on the other hand, upon seeing Peter awake and no longer in danger of choking to death on his own vomit, is furious.
He tears into Peter (loudly, with zero regard for Peter’s hangover) yelling about how irresponsible that was, and how Stiles isn’t a babysitter, and how Peter needs to start taking care of himself-
And that’s when Peter starts to cut back with words, because like hell is anyone going to accuse him of not taking care of himself when that’s all he’s ever done.
They’re both frustrated and confused and full of all those deep emotions that are so, so terrifying when you’ve had a childhood filled with coping rather than growing.
In the end, it comes down to Peter yelling (hangover be damned), “I didn’t ask you to come take care of me!”
And Stiles of course yells back, “You didn’t have to ask me to take care of you, that’s just what you do when you love someone!”
Peter is stunned into silence, but Stiles isn’t done yelling. He keeps going.
“I just never wanted to love someone who would put me that position again!”
And now they’re both silent, staring at each other.
Because where do you go from there?
JFC, @twothumbsandnostakeincanon , get your germ-encrusted fingers off the keyboard and go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done. I need to fix this shit before you make me bawl like a baby at almost-2am.
Peter’s stunned like he almost never is, and Stiles is silent, won’t look him in the eyes as he starts to move around the apartment angrily, slamming around the kitchen as he makes breakfast and tortures Peter’s poor booze-soaked brain at the same time. It’s efficient, he’ll give the boy that.
He hauls his sorry carcass up and into the shower, and is too busy trying to wake up and put together the pieces of Stiles’s explosive cocktail of love and fury to snoop through the medicine cabinet while he’s in there. By the time he’s puttering back out in borrowed sweats and an old hoodie that has Stiles’s scent engrained in the fabric, he thinks he has the general shape of things–which is enough to make him push down his own resentment and bitterness, because he can indulge those later, but this, what Stiles said, that can’t be put off.
He waits until they’re both seated in front of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. “Why would you say you love me?” He asks it like it’s not important, like the answer he gets isn’t going to be the single deciding factor in where his life goes from here. Like this isn’t a fork in the road.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Gee, Peter, I don’t know. Why do you think I said it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I think your father is a functioning alcoholic, and that he had a non-functioning phase you had to steer him out of. I also think that you’re projecting your daddy issues onto a man old enough to be your father who happens to enjoy bickering as a hobby.” He smirks, and if it has more of an edge than usual, no one will know. “But, if it’s closure you’re after, kiddo, by all means, consider me at your service.”
Listen. Listen. I just took a double dose of cold medicine and I’m ready to ride this angst train into the jaws of hell.
Because Peter didn’t expect Stiles to take care of him. No one has taken care of him before, he’s always been perfectly self sufficient. Even as a child, his parents supplied his material needs and then left him to his own devices for everything else.
Peter doesn’t need anyone else to care for him, to care about him. If you ask him whether or not he wants someone to care for him, he’ll scoff and look down his nose at you… but he won’t answer.
And Stiles never wanted to be in this position again. After his dad got clean/Stiles left home/whatever, he was done. When he’s out with friends, Stiles stays for two drinks and leaves, every time. He’s never around when people get sloppy drunk because he knows he would feel obligated to help, and he’s done doing that.
So part of the reason Stiles turned the water on Peter was because he was angry. Angry at Peter for getting this drunk, angry at himself for seeking out Peter when he knew he would be this drunk- kind of hoping that the shock of water will sober him up enough that he’ll get up and take care of himself.
Instead, Peter just says “thanks” and then passes out in the shower.
And Stiles considers leaving him there. He really does, but he’s worried, and frustrated, and every of the other ten thousand feelings that come with caring about Peter Hale, and all of those feelings combined outweigh Stiles’ determination to never be put back in the same caretaker situation he was in with his dad as a child.
So he takes Peter home.
Cleans him up.
Puts him in recovery position.
And waits for him to wake up.
Peter’s hangover muddles his brain enough that it takes him a few minutes in the morning. When he finally realizes that he’s at Stiles’, that Stiles must have taken care of him last night, a part of him is thrilled. He feels loved in a way he’s not used to experiencing.
Stiles, on the other hand, upon seeing Peter awake and no longer in danger of choking to death on his own vomit, is furious.
He tears into Peter (loudly, with zero regard for Peter’s hangover) yelling about how irresponsible that was, and how Stiles isn’t a babysitter, and how Peter needs to start taking care of himself-
And that’s when Peter starts to cut back with words, because like hell is anyone going to accuse him of not taking care of himself when that’s all he’s ever done.
They’re both frustrated and confused and full of all those deep emotions that are so, so terrifying when you’ve had a childhood filled with coping rather than growing.
In the end, it comes down to Peter yelling (hangover be damned), “I didn’t ask you to come take care of me!”
And Stiles of course yells back, “You didn’t have to ask me to take care of you, that’s just what you do when you love someone!”
Peter is stunned into silence, but Stiles isn’t done yelling. He keeps going.
“I just never wanted to love someone who would put me that position again!”
And now they’re both silent, staring at each other.
Because where do you go from there?
JFC, @twothumbsandnostakeincanon , get your germ-encrusted fingers off the keyboard and go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done. I need to fix this shit before you make me bawl like a baby at almost-2am.
Peter’s stunned like he almost never is, and Stiles is silent, won’t look him in the eyes as he starts to move around the apartment angrily, slamming around the kitchen as he makes breakfast and tortures Peter’s poor booze-soaked brain at the same time. It’s efficient, he’ll give the boy that.
He hauls his sorry carcass up and into the shower, and is too busy trying to wake up and put together the pieces of Stiles’s explosive cocktail of love and fury to snoop through the medicine cabinet while he’s in there. By the time he’s puttering back out in borrowed sweats and an old hoodie that has Stiles’s scent engrained in the fabric, he thinks he has the general shape of things–which is enough to make him push down his own resentment and bitterness, because he can indulge those later, but this, what Stiles said, that can’t be put off.
He waits until they’re both seated in front of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. “Why would you say you love me?” He asks it like it’s not important, like the answer he gets isn’t going to be the single deciding factor in where his life goes from here. Like this isn’t a fork in the road.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Gee, Peter, I don’t know. Why do you think I said it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I think your father is a functioning alcoholic, and that he had a non-functioning phase you had to steer him out of. I also think that you’re projecting your daddy issues onto a man old enough to be your father who happens to enjoy bickering as a hobby.” He smirks, and if it has more of an edge than usual, no one will know. “But, if it’s closure you’re after, kiddo, by all means, consider me at your service.”
Stiles drops his face into his hands, muttering, “You monumental fucking asshole,” before he lifts his head back up to glare. “Look, fuckface, you don’t get to tell me how I do or don’t feel about you, because last time I checked, your degree was in environmental engineering, and not clinical psychology, so clear the shit out of your ears, and listen carefully to my heartbeat.” He leans forward, jaw clenched and still furious, but his heart doesn’t stutter as he deliberately enunciates each word. “I love you, you fucking prick.”
“Oh.” That’s–Peter needs a moment.
Of course, he doesn’t get one, because Stiles throws his hands up in the air. “’Oh’, he says! Yeah, fucking ‘oh’!” He stops and rubs his eyes. “You know, I was never going to tell you. It was just, going to be this thing that existed quietly until it didn’t and that we never verbally acknowledged.”
“And why’s that?” Peter asks, whisper-soft.
Stiles’s eyes are sad, even as one side of his mouth quirks into a gentle half-smile. “Because, this? Us? This can’t work, Peter. No matter how much I want it to.”
And oh, but the threat of having it taken away before he ever got the chance to hold it, to try, to fuck it up, feels like claws in the gut. “Why can’t it? If we both want it, why not try?”
Stiles gives an incredulous huff. “Jesus, what do you mean ‘why’? As evidenced by this morning, we’ve both got a bunch of fucking issues–and don’t even try to deny you have them, okay, you would not have gotten blackout drunk if you didn’t–and that’s.” He huffs again, but it’s wet this time, and Peter wants to say no, please don’t cry, but Stiles goes on before he can. “And just. This? This morning? That is not what I want my life to be, okay? I’m in a place where I get to choose what I want it to be, and it’s not–it’s not this.”
He ducks his head, but it doesn’t do jack for the salt-scent of gathering tears. Peter slips from his chair, crouching on the floor beside him. “You are allowed to decide, sweetheart. But I still think we deserve to give this a shot. You want it, and I want it, and if get to choose, why not try?”
Stiles laughs, even as he covers his face to hide the tears rolling down his face. “Therapy. We are getting so, so much therapy. I’ll drag you there at gunpoint if I have to.”
Peter stands and wraps an arm around the young man’s shoulders, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. “No weapons necessary, darling. I have the numbers of a few who know about all this. We can call and set up meetings, see if there’s anyone we click with.”
Stiles drags in a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay. God, this–this is absolutely, off-the-reservation crazy, but. Okay. Just,” he looks up, and his gorgeous face is raw and tired and Peter’s never quite wanted to kiss him this badly, “don’t–don’t do that to me again.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. “I won’t,” Peter promises, and he means it, too. The look on Stiles’s face says he’s not convinced, but he’s got time, now, to convince Stiles that he means it.
He’s surprised when he’s gently pushed away. “Now sit down and finish your breakfast.”
He salutes sarcastically, but there’s a warm little glow in his stomach, at being fed, provided for. He doesn’t say anything about it, not now, not this soon, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t savour it.
the man who for once, in the entire history of movie boyfriends, does not give a shit that his girlfriend is within 100 yards of her ex, only that her ex is very ill and needs some tender loving care because wtf is that black space blob
THIS! And even at some point when Anne started to launch into explanations of ‘I swtg nothing is going on between me and Eddie’ he was quick to be like ‘that’s not even an issue. the issue is that he’s about to die and we need to find him????’ At no point was he ever jealous or possessive and he was always very kind and nice to Eddie because he feels secure in his relationship with Anne and trusts her.
Also important: Eddie doesn’t talk shit about Dan. Most of his interactions with his ex’s new boyfriend feature the phrase “Thanks, Dan”, uttered without sarcasm. Eddie doesn’t treat Dan like crap, and he doesn’t try to convince Annie that Dan’s a bad guy. Instead, there’s just a lot of respectful boundaries and genuine concern from everyone for everyone else.
(Except the symbiote because, really, a ravenous parasitic alien that reverse-Stockholm bonds to its host does not understand what boundaries are, much less how to respect them.)
Oh wow. I’m so sorry honey–it’s always hard, to lose a family member, even if your relationship with them was complicated. I’m glad you reached out.
In terms of advice, a lot of this is going to be very broad, because I don’t know what your specific situation is, but I hope it helps you.
1) Be kind to yourself. Grieving is hard, on both your brain and body. Make sure to do self-care as often as you can (if you’re not sure what self-care is/what counts, message me again and we’ll talk about it). And, along that same vein, don’t be hard on yourself for how you’re feeling, or if you struggle. Try to forgive yourself, if you find that you’re feeling guilty.
2) Ignore “should”. You might feel like you should feel a particular way about your aunt, or that there’s a specific way you should be grieving, but grief is individual, because every relationship is unique. No one else had the exact same relationship with your aunt that you did, so no one else gets to tell you how you should feel or grieve. Not only that, but there is no perfect way to process grief–everyone does it in their own way and at their own pace.
3) Don’t run from it. I know from experience that grieving is painful. It’s hard. There are a lot of emotions involved, sometimes there’s what-ifs?, and there are a lot of “firsts” (ex: first birthday without the person who’s gone), so it will probably come in waves. You’ll spend some time being okay, and then it’ll hit you again. I know that life doesn’t stop while you grieve, but if you can take some time for yourself–if you can take a semester off school, time off work, or even just talk to your teachers/managers and push some deadlines forward–it’ll probably help. But when I say “don’t run from it”, I mean don’t ignore it, push it off indefinitely, bottle it up, or refuse to work through it. Because while it’s painful and at times overwhelming, it doesn’t get better unless and until you work through it. You have to let yourself feel whatever you’re feeling, have to process those emotions in whatever way is best for you–through journalling or talking about it with friends, letting yourself cry, listening to music, going to gym/for a walk, talking to family members who knew her, going to counselling, making art. Once you start working through it, it starts getting better, gets easier to breathe. You’ll start spending more time being okay with it than being hit by waves of grief.
4) Reach out if you need help. Like I said, I don’t know what your particular situation is, but please, if you feel like you’re drowning, reach out. Call a helpline, get some counselling if you can (I know that it’s often included in university/college students’ benefit plans, and there are some jobs where you can get access as an employee–ask around, you won’t know what’s available to you if you don’t ask), get in touch with friends or a family member who’s in a place to support you, post about it on Tumblr, message me again. Just don’t suffer through alone, if it starts getting really bad, if you feel like you can’t cope.
I’m sending you good thoughts, honey. Hope this helps.
Ford is… Such a piece of shit. A project that would save families $17,000 a year will in no way be made up for with tax cuts.
He’s driving Ontario into the ground; I didn’t love Wynne but the social programs she fought to implement would have lifted so many families from the paycheque-to-paycheque struggle to some kind of meaningful life.
What do we do? What CAN we do? I’m so afraid other provinces will follow us to hell.
–
Anonymous submission
Also, just to recap the article for those scrolling who don’t want to click:
Cuts that have already been made include prescription and dental coverage, three planned university campuses, increases to welfare and disability programs, funding for domestic violence victims, and mental health programs.
And Ontario already had the lowest program spending per capital to begin with.
This is going to hurt people. This is going to cause SO MUCH pain and misery and deaths– yes, deaths, because you can’t cut access to healthcare and the social safety net and deny DV victims the resources to leave without that resulting in people dying.
So, please, call your MPPs, especially if you have a Conservative rep. Signal boost this post, and others like it. Attend protests if you can. Vote every time you’re eligible to. Call your MPPs. Because this is terrifying and scary, but it’s not going to get better until we decide that our futures, and the lives of everyone we care about matter more than our fear.
When I first arrived in fandom on AO3, I puttered around for a good long while, enjoying fic and figuring out where my niche was. I spent a couple years as a reader before posting anything new (I’d moved over old fanfic from another site, because it was going to go under, but that’s not quite the same thing). And, while I was there, getting the lay of the land and figuring out that holy shit, the Steter ship is where I wanna be!, I wound up a recognized name.
Specifically, for my commenting practises. Because I would sit down and devour a story, and then go full-on English major in the comment section, talking about metaphors and characterization and symbolism, about what I felt and character technique. To be clear, I wasn’t dumping unsolicited concrit on people who didn’t want it, I was genuinely positive and gushy about all the things I loved in the story I’d just read. I’d write whole paragraphs.
But, well. There was an issue with that–namely, that writing that sort of mini-essay takes a lot of time, and effort, and intellectual engagement. And that’s not a bad thing, necessarily, but I didn’t always have that kind of time or the energy it required, especially if I was comfort-reading as self-care on Bad Brain Days. And, since I didn’t want to give a writer less than my best, I tended not to comment.
But after being on Tumblr and hearing about how the AO3 comment culture is so hard to struggle through for so many people, with a dearth of comments and a loss of the sense of community that fandom is for, I realized my approach needed to change. I decided that, even if I couldn’t go on at length, something was better than nothing. Telling an author one (1) thing I loved about their story, or how it made me feel, or that their story was exactly what I needed today, or that I was back for a re-read because I just love this story so damn much, was better than silence. So I started trying to leave comments on at least 75% of what I read, even if it’s short.
I do still leave long, flaily, gushy comments, but I don’t put pressure on myself anymore. If I have the energy that day, or if someone wrote a fic and gifted it to me, or if I’m having a lot of thoughts about what I just read, or if a fan author has indicated that they’re unsure about this fic or their writing (or even having a really hard time of things) then I will go on a ramble in the comment section. But I’m trying to make this a positive place for everyone, and since comments are love, leaving more of them–spreading them around to more people, doing my best to encourage creators and appreciate the gifts they give us–feels like the best way to have a positive impact, while still being kind to myself, too.
In April, Ford said he is “dead against”
safe injection sites, but after a review of the evidence, his
government announced Monday it will fund 21 sites under a new
application process. The number is in line with the total number of
sites already approved in Ontario.
“The evidence clearly demonstrated that these sites were necessary,” Health Minister Christine Elliott said at the announcement.
Elliott told reporters she and Ford made the decision together, and the premier was swayed by the evidence she presented.
“The premier asked for an evidence-based review to be conducted,
which we did. I reviewed the material with the premier and we came to
the same conclusions and made the decision together as a team,” Elliott
said.
Ontario already has 18 sites in operation, and three others were
approved before the new Progressive Conservative government came to
power. Elliott said she hopes those sites will apply under a new process
being rolled out by her department.
In defending the cap on the number of permanent sites, Elliot said
“the need is in the areas where the sites currently are.” And she
maintained that 21 sites “will be sufficient” to provide services during
a growing opioid addiction crisis in Ontario.
Don’t get complacent. Don’t give them credit for this. They are literally doing the bare minimum to make sure that people don’t die from preventable causes. Remember that they wanted to scrap this when they try to take credit, remember that they didn’t approve more sites, that they didn’t approve more funding, that they didn’t want to let the ones currently operating remain in operation.
Remember that it was a mountain of protests and evidence that stopped them from taking us backward.
Queer Fiction Writer 