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I miss her hole (the headphone jack on the cell phone)

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someone got really mad at me for being pro-pornography so i'd like to be annoying for a little longer:

-there are enormous problems with exploitation in the porn industry that harm and endanger the people within it, and that harm is carried out mostly against women and minorities

-this is Bad

-however the last century of passing laws against pornography hasn't actually helped any of those problems, and what sex workers tend to advocate for is the legitimization of their labor, so that they can then access the same protections and regulations that people in other industries can access

-for instance football players, miners, roofers, and warehouse workers are also exploited and endangered by their professions, have to work long hours, and can end up traumatized and disabled by unregulated and unsafe working conditions. these people are used up and thrown away by powerful bosses they can't individually challenge.

-however because these industries are not de facto illegal to participate in, when these people form unions and demand better working conditions, they can at least fight for their rights.

-sex workers, who engage in heavily stigmatized work that's also often illegal, have little recourse to demand better treatment.

-even if you don't like porn, and especially if you don't like porn, if you care about the women who are exploited in pornography, you need to advocate for the legality of pornography.

-the more illegal the porn industry is, the less safe and fair it is, and people will still be working in it, no matter how illegal it is.

-again: the porn industry should be regulated like any other industry and subject to laws guaranteeing fair compensation for labor, safe working conditions, and legal resources for workers suffering exploitation and abuse.

-once it is legal to do sex work, then women can bring charges against the men who have broken their contracts and abused them.

-and that is why i push back against posts saying that pornography is evil. it is an entertainment product, made by people, to meet an ongoing demand. criminalizing the consumption and production of it may slightly lessen the demand at the incredible cost of endangering everyone involved. and i think that is what's evil.

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Wwx doesn’t care that much about cleaning his image

BUT there’s one little thing he can’t overlook.

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Don’t try and tell me Lavender and Parvati weren’t those 90’s “It Girls”, I will only disagree with you..

For Femslash February

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lan zhan, lan zhan! hi!

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reblog to give writers the power to write 10k words of porn without plot

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Going back to my roots 👀

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for @drarrymicrofic prompt wound - red string of fate silliness, 700 words.

***

The first time Harry felt his string was in the dusty aftermath of the Battle. Most of him hurt, and the rest felt numb, and so it was a few days before he registered the tugging, or discovered the length of scarlet thread wound around his little finger. A soulmate, he thought, with no small degree of bitterness. Something new to worry about.

There was no time for worrying that summer, though. That summer was already spoken for: first Scotland for the rebuild, then back home for the trials, and by the time the wind turned autumn-sharp, Harry’s string had disappeared.

It came back at Christmas.

“It’s nothing,” Harry insisted, as Ginny scrambled off the bed, pale-faced. “Whoever she is, she’s probably in Australia or something. Who cares?”

Ginny did, as it turned out.

She wasn’t the only one, either. Most people pretended it didn’t matter at first, but amid the dying gasps of each failed relationship, there it was again: something sour, something rotten. “I’m not your soulmate, anyway,” they’d mutter, as though they’d been tricked. As though Harry had tricked them.

He began to hide it: wearing gloves over the holidays, tucking his hand beneath long sleeves for those same two weeks every June. He’d feel the pull starting and make his excuses, Apparating home or disappearing upstairs. Alone, though, strangely, he found he didn’t mind it. He rarely saw the red of the string, which disappeared off into nothing; usually the only sign was a bloodless indent, just below the nail bed. He’d run his finger over and over the notch and picture a formless someone doing the same at the other end.

But who? And where?

“I mean, it’s got to be worth checking out, right?” he said to Ron, tugging on his rucksack outside the Portkey station. “Maybe it’s why I have such shit luck in love.”

But she – or he, as Harry increasingly suspected – wasn’t in Australia, after all. No matter; surely, with this, there was no rush. His instincts took him to the great gardens of Japan, the white sands of Bali, the bazaars of Jaipur. Then, frustrated, he continued west: northern Africa, southern Europe, where he paused in Rome for a brief, unsatisfying affair, then up through Germany; still, there was no sign of the thread.

“You’ve got to come back,” Hermione told him, voice staticky over the international Floo. Harry was in Dinard by then, heart-sick, belly heavy with beer and Breton crêpes. France had been the closest yet, he was sure of it. That first night, in Bordeaux, he’d been pulled abruptly from a dream, could have sworn he’d felt –

“It’s his tenth birthday,” Hermione reminded him. “He’ll be so disappointed if you miss it.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron chimed in, from somewhere in the background. “It’s been months. Face it, you have shit luck in love because you only date arrogant pricks.”

He was still bitter about Ginny, Harry reckoned.

Reluctantly, Harry Apparated in to the party, though it had been so long that he mistimed his jump, and ended up in Andy’s kitchen. He staggered forward, dropping both his suitcase and Teddy’s badly-wrapped present on the tiles.

“Excuse me,” came an affronted voice from somewhere near the fridge.

“Sorry, I–”

Then the man straightened, adjusted his collar and – oh god, it was Malfoy. And oh god, Harry was staring. It was just – he hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected Malfoy at all, and certainly hadn’t expected him to look like this. Malfoy was broader now, tanned, freckled, and he was wearing a linen shirt, open halfway down his chest. He looked like every one of the arrogant pricks Harry had dated. Harry’s mouth watered, and his heart pounded, and his little finger throbbed. Distracted, he flexed it, then when that didn't work he shook his whole hand in annoyance.

Malfoy inhaled sharply as the motion caught his eye. He stilled, almost dazed, then extended his own hand towards Harry.

Harry knew, of course, before he looked down.

“It doesn’t mean–” Malfoy began, cautious, at the same time as Harry said “we don’t have to–”

They both paused, laughing. Looped between the two of them, their red string shook.

Time slowed down. Around them, everything grew bright. Harry stepped forward, wound the thread loosely around his hand, and reeled Malfoy in.

“Hi,” he said.

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"marked, wounded"

@drarrymicrofic I 120 words I Prompt: Wound

There were two instances, years apart.

Both marked by blond hair between his fingers, by grey eyes gazing up.

Once in the grass on a bright afternoon – sweat on his temples, windburn on his cheeks. A youthful indiscretion, never spoken of again. He couldn’t quite remember how it started – a seeker’s match, a sharp-tongued taunt. From time to time, he still dreamt of how it ended.

Any chance of a rekindling was swept up by the shadows of war. But then the clouds parted, and there he was – scarred and scared and slurring apologies in Harry’s ear, blinking slowly in the dim light of the pub.

There was just something irresistible about him with his knees bruised and ego wounded.

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eepy wei ying 😪

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Hurry up - the Tao Countdown has begun!

Watch the full Game Changer episode on Dropout

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Why is this heat so hot 😩

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for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: wound. 50 words <3

"Tell me again all the things you hate about me." Draco tugged Harry into him, close enough to feel hot breath.

"You're stubborn."

A kiss.

"Egotistical."

Another.

"Dramatic."

One more.

"Perfect..."

"Oh, how you wound me, Potter," Draco exhaled desperately, crashing their lips together until they forgot their own names.

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Reading this chapter during pride month was kind of comical...

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I tap the mic. “Most people don’t want to crawl down your chimney and steal your dog.”

the crowd murmurs uncertainly.

“If someone wants to steal your dog,” I continue, “there are easier ways to do that. They don’t have to crawl into a chimney.”

Murmuring intensifies. People stand in their seats and begin to boo.

“People disguising themselves as chimney sweepers and stealing dogs is not a rational fear,” I shout. “Literally anyone could steal your dog. Why make sweeping chimneys illegal?”

“I have a list of chimney sweeps who stole dogs from parks!” Someone yells, throwing a shoe.

“You seriously think no chimney sweepers could possibly ever steal from a home?” Another cries.

“Only a dog thief would even want to crawl into a chimney to begin with!” Says a third.

A single tear rolls down my cheek. They are all so fucking stupid

This is a metaphor

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sobbing and crying at the woman who stole a meth addicted kitten from her dealer and then she and the kitten got clean together