#like i never want to see him do this again but i also really do? #it’s just so conflicting wanting to protect a character who suffers very well #i might be terrible (via andavs)

teen wolf season five | expectations vs reality

Make me choose — Wickedscorch : Scott McCall or Stiles Stilinski?

Scott: Allison, Allison, Allison, Allison…

Stiles: Stop.

Jackson: This fire is still not as hot as me.

Derek: My family died in a fire.

 #teen wolf #a summary

'four years of this shit. four years of trying to create a compelling character out of nothing and all i'm asked is about the character's love life or who has the best abs for the zillionth time. i should have jumped ship with crystal.'

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Stiles getting angry at Derek and unwittingly texting him “omg go diaf”

Derek not responding

Stiles confused because they usually extend their hateful banter for longer than this

Derek texting back “sometimes i wish i had”

diaf???

what does that- 

oh.

I started having sex with adult men when I was 13 years old.

Neglected at home and ostracized at school, I found comfort in the sexual attentions of older men. Unlike boys my own age, who cruelly taunted me, older men were nice to me. Unlike my emotionally distant father, older men paid attention to me. They were grooming me, but to that chubby, attention-starved teenage girl, their attentions felt a lot like love.

And so I created Prodigy chat rooms with names like “13yo girl home alone” and spent hours chatting and having phone sex with the men who would find me there. I “dated” men in their 20s and 30s that I met at the movie theater, online or hanging around local college town with my other underage girlfriends. I pursued these relationships with with Lolita-like abandon. The terrifying thing is how few adult men ever said no.

I was not coerced. I consented to all these sexual encounters in the basest sense of the world. But I was making choices that I wasn’t emotionally equipped to make. Legally, that’s why statutory rape laws exist. Because like an intoxicated person, an underage person is not truly capable of informed consent.

And yet, on Monday, Stacey Rambold, a Senior High teacher convicted of raping 14-year-old Cherice Morales, who later committed suicide, was sentenced to spend just 30 days in jail. The judge justified his decision in part by saying he listened to recorded statements given by Morales before her death and believes that while she was a troubled youth, she was “as much in control of the situation” as Rambold.

The judge also said Morales was “older than her chronological age.”

Yep, you read that right. A 14-year-old ” troubled youth” who eventually committed suicide (as a direct result of the sexual assault and its aftermath, according to her mother) had “control over the situation” with a 49-year-old rapist. But don’t worry, this wasn’t “the kind of rape most people think about,” according to Judge G. Todd Baugh. “It was not a violent, forcible, beat-the-victim rape, like you see in the movies.” He generously added that “It was nonetheless a rape…and this should not have occurred.”

After the sentencing, the victim’s mother shouted “You people suck!” repeatedly before storming out of the court, and later told news cameras, “My faith in the justice system is gone.”

While researching this article, I read many comments supporting the judge’s decision, all predicated on the idea that the 14-year-old victim had consented to sex with her 49-year-old teacher.

"There is little to no information given about what the nature of the relationship was, how it started, how long it lasted, how the girl felt about the relationship or perceived it, how much consent … she gave in regards to it all, but all signs point to the fact that this was an ongoing relationship where they engaged in sex on at least 3 occasions, which strongly brings to question just how much actual victimization took place here," wrote one commenter.

The fact is, a 14-year-old girl may be capable of agreeing to sex with a 49-year-old man, but she doesn’t have the emotional and mental maturity to consent.  I was 25 before I realized that every man I’d slept with as a teenager was a pedophile. It seemed to me that since I’d courted the attention, that I was fully culpable. What teenager believes she is not mentally or emotionally capable of full consent? I thought I was an adult, although when I look at the picture of myself from the time period above, I see a child.

I thought I was the exception for these men, the girl so precocious and advanced that it superseded social norms. I thought that I was “older than my chronological age.”

It never occurred to me as a young sexually active teen that the adult men I had relationships with may have been manipulating me, that they had designs and motives I couldn’t see from my limited child’s perspective. 

Once, I met a 28-year-old man online and went to his house for a “date.” He began to undress me almost immediately — I went along with it because I wanted him to like me, and our sexual encounter culminated with him holding my head down and ejaculating into my throat while I sputtered and struggled to pull away. Later, I couldn’t understand why he never called me again, why he didn’t want to be my boyfriend.

Because I was a child, I was missing large pieces of the perspective required to understand adult situations. Children can be sexual. Children can pursue. Girl children in particular may have already learned how to manipulate and bargain with their sexuality at a very young age. They are still children. Like all children, they test boundaries, boundaries that adults must set and maintain.

If Cherice Morales was indeed a “troubled youth,” like I was, if she came from a dysfunctional home or had a trauma background or had been previously abused, then not only may she have been lacking in protection at home, she may have been especially incapable of protecting herself. And that’s why statutory rape laws exist — to protect children who need protecting, not just from those who will prey upon them, but from themselves.

The defense argued that Rambold had suffered enough by losing his career, his marriage and his home and suffering a “scarlet letter of the Internet” as a result of publicity about the case.

For my part, I spent the next decade of my life wrestling with demons borne partly of sexual trauma. I became addicted to drugs, risky sex, and alcohol. I still struggle to learn that there are better ways to get attention than with my body, that my sexuality isn’t the only thing that makes me worthy of love and attention.

Still, I made it out of my teen years alive; Cherice Morales wasn’t so lucky.

What I needed, and what she needed, were strong male role models in my life who knew how the fuck to say “No thanks” to a little girl’s come-ons. Because it doesn’t matter if a young girl is saying yes, it’s an adult man’s job to say no.

You can sign a petition to unseat Judge G. Todd Baugh here. For Billings residents, a protest will take place outside the courthouse tomorrow at noon.

TW: Sexual abuse,  pedophila

He manages to convince himself that it’s the right thing to do. Three years to the day since the death of London’s greatest mind, since the death of the world’s only consulting detective, since the death of the great Sherlock Holmes. Three years to the day since the death of John Watson’s best friend, and the pain of it has not been dulled by a single passing moment. He is tired. So, so tired. He looks out over the rooftops, out over London. Below him, the world moves on, takes no notice of the small figure standing on the ledge of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital. Three years, to the day. It’s oddly poetic, if he were inclined to such sentiments. He tells himself that he’s doing what’s best – he hasn’t been the same since Sherlock died, hasn’t laughed and hardly ever smiles. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson tried, at first. He’d invite John out for a pint, she’d bring him tea in the mornings. Nothing helped. Eventually they got the message. John moved out of Baker Street two months later. Found himself a small flat he was able to afford on his army pension and whatever money he managed to make at the surgery, on the days he decided to show up. Sarah was understanding. She put up with him longer than he could have asked for. Now he’s jobless. Nearly homeless. Living off of tea and crap telly to numb his mind. No one to miss him because he’s pushed everyone away and the only person who really mattered, John buried three years before. He tells himself it’s the right thing to do. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted him to, but Sherlock’s not there to tell him so. That’s the problem. On the street below, no one takes notice of the man on the roof who spreads his arms wide, feeling the breeze telling of distant rain whisper against his exposed skin. He looks down – it doesn’t seem so far, I wonder if this is what he felt like, maybe I can ask him soon – takes a deep breath. John Watson closes his eyes. Leans forward. Feels himself begin to fall- -is violently snatched from behind, strong arms curling around his chest, yanking him back. His savior doesn’t let go when they tumble backwards, landing hard on the building below them. John breathes deeply, evenly through his nose, does not open his eyes. The feel of those arms around his chest is oddly comforting, the scratch of wool on his cheek distracting, the scent of tea and unidentifiable chemicals familiar… John opens his eyes, sees nothing but the sky thinly veiled by clouds. The arms around him remove themselves. His savior shifts. Suddenly the sky is replaced by two pale eyes, half-lidded and grieving. “You were going to jump after me,” Sherlock says. It’s the first time John can remember hearing the great detective say something so obvious.

I detest this more than I can possibly say ; ;

HEADCANON ACCEPTED.

I really would love to see that crossover, repeatedly, in every possible position. Even if it would end in tears because let’s be real, everything the Winchesters touch ends in tears. Poor little shits.

“Look kid,” Sam says. It’s the third time he’s tried the good cop routine and Dean can hear it wearing thin. “We know you had nothing to do with the murders. But we also know you’re not the only werewolf in town.”

The kid tips his head and sucks on his lips, the total absence of fucks glaringly obvious. Dean is both frustrated as hell and grudgingly impressed because, hell, they’ve dealt with demons less sassy than this.

Sam sighs, and Dean has to cough into his hand to keep from laughing because that particular brand of exasperation is usually reserved for him. “Just be straight with us.”

For some reason, that’s hilarious. It takes a second before Dean remembers the dude they’d seen the kid with before they’d picked him up. Big, serial killer looking guy, sporting leather and a possessive hand on kid-snark’s back. Oh man.

Dean snorts and gives Sam patented ‘what? it’s funny’ shoulders when it earns him a glare.

“Trust me, dude,” the kid says. “I’m being as straight with you as…well, I was gonna say humanly possible but…”

A flash of canines has Sam rolling his eyes and sue him, Dean sorta wants to high-five the kid. You know you’ve been hunting for too long when you start rooting for your mark.

“You’re driving a stolen car,” Sam says. “You’re carrying a fake ID. Every word out of your mouth so far has been bullshit-”

“Says the hunter posing as an FBI agent,” the kid says, tapping a nonchalant beat on his water bottle.

Sam pulls out bitch-face number eleven. “Is anything about you real?”

The kid grins and bobs his head. “My boobs.”

Dean laughs so hard he almost pulls something.

O____O it’s back on my dash. The universe is obviously reminding me to start working on my Big Bang…

This is the post that is making me (try to) watch Teen Wolf

A crossover between the shows that Tumblr is the sole reason I'll have started watching? Yes please

Mary Pipher, Clinical Psychologist and Author, Reviving Ophelia  (via sunshine-machine)

Feeling suicidal? Can't talk on phones?

https://www.imalive.org/

Holy shit this is brilliant

Reblogging for those who need it.

Because I know a lot of people in my age-group feel uncomfortable on phone.