#and man you can see that shit in the statistics | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

catboybiologist · 25 days ago

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Today I just found out that the woman who's been the most supportive of me in my transition believes that trans women shouldn't be able to compete against cis women in sports. Do you happen to have any good peer reviewed resources on the effects of estrogenizing HRT on someone's athletic abilities. Said woman in question doesn't seem to believe there's been any research done, which I deeply doubt. Thank you so much for your continued advocacy for us transfems.

I know you're turning to me for scientific guidance, but I'm just so fucking done with this issue overall. To quote contrapoints: I have nothing left but rage.

I've been on this road before. I could give you some. In most ways, trans women match cis women of their height and weight. But there aren't a lot. Yeah, its a problem. But fucking NOBODY will even study it because of how hot this issue is right now.

But more importantly: There will never, EVER be a study that meets their standards. There's always SOME physical metric that has differences between trans women and cis women. It's become essentially an iteration of the multiple testing problem- if you keep on doing statistical tests, eventually something is going to land.

I don't fucking want to provide studies. I don't want to cut myself down. I don't want my defense of myself to be "oohhh look at me I'm just as weak and pathetic and infantile as cis women"

Is this fucking feminism? Really?

I'm fucking done. Call me the evil hysterical woman, but this entire conversation reeks of misogyny to its fucking core. Organized sports as we know them are made by men, for men, to celebrate male accomplishments and excellence. Cis women can and do equal or excel men in many, MANY physical metrics. But the arbitrary set of rules, the arbitrary set of bouncing balls and scoring systems, are all made to reward the physical abilities of men. We create spin offs and systems of score tracking and variations of the same things over, and over, and over again, to give the fragile little male ego more and more reasons to stroke itself.

Let's take a look at some whiny as piss men not being able to handle the thought that women could EVER be physically notable.

Olympic target shooting used to be mixed gender. A woman won one year. The next year, it was segregated. Not only was it segregated, but the scoring system changed so that the scores of men and women could never be directly compared again.

Last year, Donald Trump sat on stage with Riley Gaines, the transphobic swimmer who whipped up the vitriol about Lia Thomas, and bragged about how it wasn't fair she lost her competition because he, Donald Trump, a 78 year old out of shape wax sculpture of a man, was male. And that he could beat Riley. A trained D1 swimmer. And Riley took it, because it advanced her grift.

There's a now infamous poll that 1 in 8 men think they could beat Serena Williams in a tennis match. Its pretty old at this point, but I'm guessing that number is even higher now.

This entire conversation centers around "trans people crushing the dreams of female athletes" but oh my fucking god, are we not doing that as a society already? This entire fucking "debate" is just an excuse for more and more cis men to sit their, stroking their fucking egos on live television about how big and strong and powerful and fucking WHATEVER men are, and even the trace of maleness in trans women is enough to permanently make them some kind of ubermensch that destroys cis women by every metric imagineable.

I don't give two shits about saving sports, one way or another. I detested organized sports long before I transitioned. Ya wanna talk natural advantage, and how sports rewards exactly the kind of physical ability that a certain brand of cis man pushes themselves to? I have a very mild ankle deformity that means jogging for long periods of time is painful. My best mile time is over 11 minutes. And yet I don't see any of the fuckers that are "better" than me out there in the ocean, clinging to the bottom on a single breath for minutes, or up there with me on top of Whitney. Only one of those skills is celebrated.

Fuck me that was a tangent. My point is, I've long since realized that sports are a self propagating system for the egos of people with a very particular kind of physical prowess. The only exception to this is when its exploitative of people with that kind of extremely specific physical prowess, and leaves those it exploits in the fucking gutter. I don't need to start bringing up CTE, I know y'all know exactly what my take would be on that.

but what is sending me over the fucking edge is how I'm supposed to be the crazy one. I'm the delusional tranny for pointing out that we have lost the fucking plot entirely. This is recreation. Its entertainment. And we are using it to punish people. Fuck this.

I'm so sorry OP, but just don't engage in that game. If you need a calm, measured argument, try attacking the misogyny of it all. The only way to "fix" sports is to create more events that reward and celebrate the physical abilities of cis women: flexibility, extreme long term endurance, and fuck I'm not a sports person nor do I want to waste brainspace on more than that. We need a system for cis women, one that doesn't tell them "here, have this shittier, less viewed, less supported, less encouraged, less celebrated version of something a man is good at". Trans people would find some place in that and in theory, there would be nothing to complain about.

Jesus fucking christ, if I see one more male news pundit start talking about trans women in sports I'm going to straight up devolve into a misandrist.

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edenspoem · 1 month ago

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𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝: 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. (𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞)

summary. | next chapter (tba). you're expecting—and ellie is sick in love. one thing inhibits her: she thinks it isn't requited.

reader discretion is advised. mdni. fluff. a punch of angst: one instance of abuse. mentions of previous. pregnant!reader. jackson!loser!ellie. damaged relationship with a man explicit (for the plot.) the pining creeps in. strangers to lovers (in the future). requited but assumed unrequited love. cheesy romance scenes. evident undertones of addiction: substance mention, cannabis, strained relationships (ellie and joel common occurence. reader and their scumbag bf too). a realistic motherhood. depression. apprehension. you get it. wc: 4.3k. series masterlist.

note.

based on this anon i got. shoutout to @serqphites fr. art in header creds to @nramv. thanks to @s-4pphics for proofreading this one for me! join the discord to see content such as this in creation.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬

It is the thought that stomachs you.

“Shit,” you curse and bite the mouth that does. Mindless thing. “He’s gonna murder you, damn idiot.”

Control is contraception. You kneel your head to the faucet, its trickle the thing that embraces your ears; if you could crawl out of one, you would. Here is said to be simple. Here is an embellished free port. These people, neighbours and founders—elders, to be exacting for spiteful whims, sold the idea that you would have support and homes to crash in outside your own if it did ever crumble to the ground. Bandages to bleed in. But the shameful wound is open, unclosing. No one wants to account for a burden that isn’t their consequence.

You had a dream in the palm of your hand.

But what is wanted—is not for sale. You just assume control over disorder. It happens to a girl at least once, right? That dreadful blue in the sound once you learn for sure that you lost to it: to nature.

You wash the vacant spot.

Fucking pregnant.

It felt possible the first run to the toilet. Then, too terrible to be a lie the third roundabout. Vomit litters the porcelain basin.

Cat figured something was up before you caught this nauseous spell. She mentioned and argued that your constant trips to the bathroom were irregular, and you made light and nodded in a sunlit direction. Capering under its false pretense. “Yeah, what about it?” you segued, but not without heel-stumbling. Frou-frou foxes in Midsummer fires, your all-differentiating, all-time repeat from the Cocteau Twins; the radio thrummed with its rounding lulls and ethereals around a crowded living room, a whirling concoction for your hapless intoxication. Bird without its wings.

So is it the alcohol, or the condition—hurling you over the toilet bowl?

Either consequence creeps up from intestinal serpentining, as you pull apart your own single-headed carelessness. Who to blame, other than the carrier, right? Shit, well, a condom was used. You made with that precaution. So, are you the luckless one percent, or is the old-world hiding something important about fucking contraception? Can one girl be—ill-fated to this? You cocoon against the cupboards, slipping down the hinges, the knobs and indents. “Shit,” repeats your stunned mouth, quieter this time.

The walls seem to listen; a disagreeing wind quivers the window.

Even if you weren’t a statistic: the abandoned alcohol, now advantaged and emptied, returned to its fine-china neighbors in your father’s parlor, is evidence. Chastisement waiting to scream. He hates parties—and with much less than a tolerant grunt, hates girls who attend them. It seems sensible; Cat is a regular host, and he chastises your friendship.

Not her. You, being her friend.

Cat sighed, mashing the butt of her cig into a bisected can. The nutritions label was faded. “You’re a damn wreck,” within amusement, she scolded. But it was not without a heartstopper. She laughed, “If you end up pregnant, ‘m not watching the little shit. Get enougha’ that out of daycare to take it home with me as well. Damn it.” and it tore your stomach open; the organ pummeled into your serpentine guts, and the deafening throb frightened itself higher. You could taste what wanted to come up.

You swallowed. “Pregnant?” Concentrated on the purple under sienna-brown eyes. Distraction meant the world, in that moment.

She nodded—and shrugged, an unsure note. “Just a hypothetical.”

Fuck you, psychic.

The guilt was beginning to make itself felt. You relapsed, in a heartfelt confession, to a state of adolescence this evening. “You’re so goddamn selfish!” It is one thing to be treated as innocent; Mateo could be condescending at times, but to be spoken at like a cruel, bird-brained and intentioned child, and with innocence, crushed you. He argued that wanting to keep this pregnancy—after you gave him the boot—was not your moral to preach while consequences were afoot. “Do you really think you have it in you to be a mother?”

Fetal termination exists, still, in the apocalypse. At life-threatening costs. That was reason enough to let nature take its pathological course.

One tremble. “Yes.” You are a child again.

You can see it in his lineaments. He flinches his person in disgust, hundred somethings held under his tongue. “If you want to believe that.” The air is too pure for him. He rifles the cartridges on his wardrobe for a lighter, joint in the opposite hand. He takes a drag, hides his face with the pungent result, and espies the resentment shining your under-eyes with less care than before; these are just crocodile tears to him. “Sure,” he shrugs.

Then his attention drops a little lower than your chest, a brief change of heart. You feel the need to crawl inside your arms. More than ever.

He points with the smoldering dog-end. Silence snaps. “Not mine.” Flicking it to enunciate himself. The discarded state of him, and his disclaim, leaves a bitter taste in your mouth—if not the entire esophageal hole. Your lungs: filled with his exhaust. “Go find some other dude to blame. M’sure you had a couple who..” The joint finds its purpose again. “Might happen to look a little more identical,” he accuses.

You left before the air became his.

Time does not bring relief; the emptiness in your bed does anything but suffer silence. The growing hours are loud, and Jackson is still a paradise to some who are convinced it has its comforts.

You all have lied.

𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡

“Of course he went and narced on her to her father!”

Jackson is outside the rest of America. Yes, it craters in national alpines, but it was a roadside seedling at the end of the last generation. Wood rotted to cordyceps in its neighbors; this place was given a second life. The standing tables here in the one and alone bar—the famous, aliased Bison—are so red, so wood-strong, so anointed with caring hands, you can catch a glimpse of yourself in it.

Cat treats it with the same purpose as if it were decades ago, and nothing ever happens here; she slams her lighter and pint glass down on it—pissed to express the least of the most. “Who else does shit like that?”

Despite the fact that Cat is virtually your sister from another mother, you went to Jesse about the argument first. He isn't a volatile pipe bomb with ears and earful intentions that create more harm, not good; she absolutely fucking is. One mention, and her fingertips are spitting fire. Cast iron doesn't even get near hot enough as the hands that share a piece of her trouble-starved mind.

But, she found out regardless. Not that you should ever stop her from; on some occasions, she has the right.

Jesse left your big news out of it, though. Not his right to tell.

“His corner of the town,” Jesse adds, his soft fingers around his glass, and up to his splitting mouth. He glances round the booth in search of all attention. Sure of it, he piled on. “Got a lotta assholes with the same notions in mind.” Chuting a sip of wine—a drink which lost its romantic significance to casual consumption, on par with beer—down his gullet.

Slow, agreeing nods pass around until another lip chips in. “Fucking dick.” Ellie, with the fullest glass, and untethered fingers tapping about the rim, has her head resting low on one fist, doubled over the curl-leaf surface.

Jesse scoffed. “Tell me about it.” Sardonic sort of response—to her short, but symptomatic one. He leans in his corner and trains the attention on her, a question in his squint. “Say, Ellie, you dealt with him on occasion, right? When he collaborated with Eugene. All that weed?”

She hates to hear it. “Just one time.” In her head—her head when it escapes out here into social wilderness—she was a good girl. Clean, rectified, an adolescent state of mind, and it has the whole world to do with Joel and learning to forgive. It is the least bit detectable on the outside, but she really is doing better than before. Rough-faced or not. “What about it?” She looks up, at last, the perfect shrug to her cross-question.

“Was she even there?”

Ellie crumpled up having to account for that one time; wrinkles in the brows, a snagged or yawning mouth, post-insomniac ripples and redness in her optic profile. Imagine an irate basset hound.“Reno?” She means your given alias: Reno, or Nevada, your origins. And she is Boston, or Massachusetts. “No, not at all.”

“See, he makes that shit up all the time,” Cat interludes. “First it was Justice, then it was me who he ratted out to Maria. Stopped trading with him after.”

Jesse has not traded once, or thought to smoke pot once, but he agrees. “Mhm.” A man of no judgement—when it comes to friends.

Sunset is climbing and pushing to stoop in the apertures of the table. The lithe, gold tadpole-ends creeping in, beating over faces, and so the restaurant had its lights switched on to make up for those recalcitrant pockets; soft, water-black mottles in the deeper corners. Ellie laced fists, cupping one around the other, and a particular string of light dug for this vulnerable formation. She has a heap to process in her own head; the sudden silence, deafening.

Shifting to his elbows, Jesse rests his well-slept eyes on her—a sore sight. “Gonna finish that?” He points, withheld fingers stretching for his own glass.

She clicks her tongue to her teeth. “Nah,” responding with whatever is left in her, a breath or a reaching-more. The glass grates as she hardly straightens her fingers to push it aside. “Tastes different.”

The claim draws out the doubt from their faces. “Tastes the same as before,” Jesse professes as he rolls the last droplets of his wine past his lips and along the columns of his throat, replacing his grip with the full glass of scotch, sunlight streaming through the liquid with blonde lines against nectar-gold. Her choice of spirits. “I best be joinin’ Seth in the kitchen. Have fun, ladies.” He crawls knee-first from the booth.

Cat shoots an astonished sneer, one he cannot see or sense in his bones as his legs were haste to vault the counter.

Ellie does, though. And she is too low-spirited to guess what for and laugh; a strange demeanor. “Hmm?”

“He'll be drunk on the job,” she clarifies. “But, I guess it's up to who cares. Not enough for me to keep watch.” And she, too, sidles out from the cornered booth, leather brushing against denim. Watching Jesse vanish behind the crowded bar made her suppose it's that time; the fading sun calls you home, and when it does, you go home. Nothing more to it in Jackson. “See ya, geek.”

She waves with an unprepared hand. “Yup. See you too..”

The jog home was not without its usual discomforts. Paths, loved still by a residual winter, were hard not to slip on. The unhesitating side-eyes were too common to dash out of their sight. Ellie is aware of what has them wringing their necks just to look at her, but as it continued, she just accepted it.

Her hoodie is half-sufficient. “Fuckin’ warm up already,” she curses, digging both fists into her pockets for warmth outside the steeple church. She notices three distinct paraphernalia in her pocket when her knuckles hit the seam: the larger, thicker one is obvious—Joel's watch. She inherited it on her own terms when he wasn't there. “Ow! Shit!” The cracked dial case nicks her for her mindlessness.

Second one is a mechanical lighter. Last time she wore this hoodie, she was squinting back the tears after telling Joel she didn't need his fucking help.

Ellie pinches the thinner, paper-textured item, and pulls it out with no clue to what it might be. This should be a simple guess.

Old feelings rush when she sees it in-between her fingers.

“Fuck.”

The word goes quiet in the night. Surrounding sycamores rustle, listening, and they respond with the eerie wind that rouses through their crown-shying bough. Invisible hands dislodge the strand from behind her ear.

Something shifts in her to listen in return.

She raises her chin. Gazes into pitch-blackness with a racing heart; her trees are there somewhere. Under the hole of light up there.

Ellie believed, from a very naive and insignificant age, that she was born and fell from the bough of a tree. The idea has some flesh and blood to it; her mother is unknown to her. She has the head of hair of the autumn sycamores, burning oranges, and delightful greens. Too green yet; left without the hour to decide what living meant and what her reason was to begin doing so—to live. She was given a gun before she was given a purpose. At least to her, matured and ripened, that is how it seems. Little bit careless considering her important condition; did Marlene think it through? Looking up into the same blanket of nothingness, she ponders whether reigniting this bad habit would still get her to the moon or not—if the world ever returned to pre-apocalypse.

From the hour you're born, you begin to die.

Simone de Beauvoir.

“Make it seven?” quoting herself, she slots the pointed end of the joint in-between her fresh-licked, rose-kissed lips and hopes she suffers no bite from it in the future. “Fuck it.” The watch becomes the last thing in her pocket. Flick, flick.

Her lungs fill with nostalgia.

“Ah..”

And puff.

She purses her mouth into an open ring, the somber, but lit against its will, night stolen from her sight in a cloud of white. It ebbs the stress in her she had not noticed was beginning to pulse again, searching for her heart with a pair of circling fingers. She palms her chest down. Maybe this is what the wind was telling her.

Ellie is nowhere near stoned, but swears she can feel it slowing. Easing her into something good, this time around. It feels good to have faith in something true.

Silence bends, not snaps. It fits in the gentle start of sobs, a dreadful blue sound, enough to interrupt her star-watching. She pierces around the grassplot for a source and sees the woman of the hour.

Guitar strums pick up in the wind.

She recognises who it is.

The sniffles reel her over. You see a pair of slow-strolling converse, scratching the ground upon steps, before you see the person. She stands an illuminated silhouette under stelliform, globe-string lanterns, the same ones from the winter dance a week ago that no one has thought to disassemble, several feet from your place on this bench.

Her heart has no reason to be thumping.

Strange, the smoke coming from her mouth, like a gun, is not unsettling—it should be. It parts when it clears. “Hey.” Her hesitant voice pricks your skin with goosebumps. Thinned-out, mint eyes at first glance harsh, but gentle at the second; the tired under-beds of purple is a prevalent stigma, but the shining pupil crawling over her iris struck this overwhelming sense of being understood. The soft structure of her face clasps them.

She looks at you like she has no clue what you are, but in the same glance has been raptured with an idea of what you could be. Creature to creature.

Watching, for a long time.

You wipe the cold under your nose onto your sleeve. Hesitant as she is. “Oh, have I taken your spot?” The first thing that comes to mind rolls from your tongue. You begin to collect yourself without an answer.

She stutters, her mouth ahead of her thoughts. “No, n-no! You're totally fine.” Hand freeing from her pocket to pause you.

She seems sweet.

Her curious eyes drop to where your arms are tangled—sheathed around yourself. You haven't moved them since.

Ellie cannot handle these lingering pre-spring conditions, even in her getup. The white avenues are gone but the winds have fought abating, the worst of the weather at night. In your case, a thin cardigan, she can only imagine.

She thumbs her hem. “Are you cold?”

You register that it might seem that way shooting a once-over glimpse of her collar—blue plaid poking through. To be honest, the cool air slipping under and around the hemlines hasn't occurred to you until she made a scene of it.

“Here,” she quietens, rustling in her layers. The slate-grey hoodie is folded outside-in and being offered before you can protest your independence. Nothing but misunderstandings have come between you and her. Charitable ones. “Keep it. I need to clean out my wardrobe, as others would say, anyway.”

It is a small, nothing-much distraction, but you wonder who others are to her. Good, or damaged too?

Someone once said: it's more trouble to refuse help where it is cost-free. You decide to trust that sentiment and crawl from your arms, reluctant to reply. “Too many hoodies?” Letting a glint of light peek through, you let something slip identical to a laugh. It sounds so unfamiliar.

Hers sounds perfect. “No, uh—sneakers, actually. Been told I have too many pairs.” She laughs again. You adjust the hoodie around your waist.

Your ears ride on the grace of that laugh. Replay, replay, and replay it in your head to the point your eyes are staring absent-minded and the colors on her person begin to remind you of a sycamore in autumn. Her deep-auburn burns with the lantern glow, the collected bundle of mane under the hind of her head an incurious shadow still. You wonder if it comes from her mother, or her father: the fire. “Yeah, been there.” Your answer has no substance to it either; you have nothing but a couple worn-out pairs. Your mouth is just saying things—the mindless thing.

Her mouth line shrinks from its last laugh. She now smiles small, with a feature she can't wipe off curling. “Yeah.” She catches your timid voice and echoes it, glancing down before she releases the joint in her fingers to the ground, squashing it under her sneaker. She twists it around, a mix of earth and ash scraping.

It blows a kiss of smoke.

Reminds you of those stump puffballs—mushrooms, bubbling in the depressions of dead or decaying wood, that puff green when puttered at by an early curiousness. One enveloped the tip of your shoe with it when you were little: stretching your underdeveloped leg that managed to reach once through a metal fence peeled at the sides, making squeamish cries when the thing of nature fumed. Memories do return full circle.

She leans an inch on her toes, still absorbed with the ground. The orange roots of her lashes catch that same fire.

Who is she?

For a small town, you should know; there are a few hundred faces in Jackson. But hers is not one you can remember. It seems misplaced. Her brown freckles are symptomatic of the sun. She lets quiet drapings of stress hang from her tear corners to her anti-brows, not so conventional for her age, but unafraid. Her stares are soft, and don't make you feel like a gullible child or a faithless woman.

She looks like she was born in the springtime, but made for October.

“Thanks, again.” You tire restless from that word. Said too often, heard too often. When will there be more?

You notice her half-arm tattoo right as it gets concealed, the strange comfort pulling her ruched, blue sleeves to her wrists. She pins the hems into her palms with her fingers. “It's nothin’,” she humbles. Her lips and nostrils are redder when she abandons her focus from the ground. No doubt she burns without trying in the summer. “Uh, I should be going—now.” She sidles in a direction and you feel urged to follow with your eyes. She uses her arm in a nervous toss to demonstrate where she is headed. “Do me a favor and get home safe, yeah?”

“Of course.” You watch with a farewell smile, a sweet shape creeping on your lips you can't stop. Maybe, you don't want to. Then, remembering one thing important to you, the so-called sweet mouth curses again. “Fuck, her name!”

You hope the two of you stumble into each other again, on some distant morning or near night. And learn her name, just not at your lowest.

Those guitar strings stop with no one around.

𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

Late night dislodges from the space ahead and is punctured with light. Slipping through the door, closing it behind, a home of damaged goods that should feel familiar and smell of floral nothings repulses you at the entrance. You catch it as soon as it hits—alcohol, marijuana.

Mateo.

Your throat burns from the scent.

His presence becomes known through a sharp shout. “Fuck took you so long?” It stabs through the house, the walls thin enough to not be considered in this, or his, material world.

His rage begins to beat, one foot after the other, on the hardwood floors, and your hand returns to where it felt it was needed. Hoodie fabric—that smells nothing like here, or him—is palmed in-between. Your heart pumps with fear and knowing; God is not restless to punish, but a darker, closer, corporeal counterpart is and he steals you from this life on earth, and he tells you that you have not suffered enough. The stranger in this hoodie is your tether.

But, after that fleeting conversation with the girl in the common acres, you feel you have known her for ages—and you're dating a stranger.

Swallow your pride and knowledge. He will smite you for it. “Um, Cat.” Quick, quick, the lump goes. But slow, slow, the lie creeps and is hesitant to be heard, afraid of its flaws. You turn to the kitchen before his ugly, three-headed emergence, running a hand over the budding holes of flowers. Jesse cut them from his garden, a secret congratulations from him and his mother. “She went to Bison and called me along. Time gotta-'head of us in there. Sorry, baby,” you stall, trembling.

The drunken stench gets worse. You cough but the air is all the same.

His footsteps take a pause at what you sense to be the fridge, a thimble distance. The kitchen, entrance, and couch are all subsided into one long room and aren't interrupted with inessential walls. Trailer gradient. It is not so glamorous as it is discreet; months into the relationship you noticed its perfect usage for taboo practice. The earth tries to return to itself as paint peels from the walls.

He converges with the eerie silence.

It is his discontinuation that turns you around. Otherwise, his hands fallow and large would be and in each press would be apologies you have heard in timeless befores. This time—out of all times—he just stares at you, head to toe, without one. Checking, like, to see if you're all there.

No. He is looking at you like you have done something wrong.

Scrunching up, you blurt. “What?” Quiet. Weak. But you regret your tone as it leaves your throat. The gestures blow your cover wide open.

He knows. “Somethin’ up?” And that is his cue to creep with inertia, his unwillingness to confront a potential problem, his face you cannot read. His alcohol kisses are disguises and his blows to your soul are the realest emotions he has stirred in you, post-beginning. Your nights begin with expectation.

He will either be enraged or lethargic.

But he stops crawling too close to the sun and reaches the rest with his hand, pinching the sleeve of the hoodie, rolling it together. His face shifts and unfortunately—you can read it.

Fuck.

He has his idea. “Where did you get this shit from?” You wish he drank himself to bed; his breath is hot, biting and in your senses and he does his part to fill each nerve. He has your arm, but he could very well have your heart, too. In his grasp. “No, better question—who did you get it from?”

Cold sweat. You answer on high alert.

“Cat!”

He chews it up. “No.” Shakes his head, pins the sun closer in on itself. The counter pinches your lower-spine. “She doesn’t do weed no fuckin’ more. This smells of it. Who does it belong to, huh! One of mine?”

Yelling is nothing compared to his gaping volume.

Your eardrums wobble. “No,” refuting, you open yourself to him. Open to his open-ended judgement. He out-reprimands—until it clicks. “Are you sure it isn't just you?”

He is just projecting.

Where did that come from?

Mateo fumes. His seams come apart. “Yeah, is it just me?” His rhetorical disturbs the somehow sound of nothing, but the hope that it would be yelling and nothing else—bangs against the cupboards. He holds your head in the side of it.

The impact disorients you from this kitchen.

You expect to meet a floor next.

As soon as the sharp pain leaves, it returns. He uses the lightheaded silence he created as a second reason to wrangle you a sweep over, aiming your head—or the whole, his anger is extensive—into the fridge. “Stupid bitch!” The door handle gets you in the stomach before he can.

It escapes your throat with a bubble of nothing to come out.

“Hope that solves your morning issue.” And it stops there. On the cold, slate tile. You have been here before.

Made swollen sounds.

You clutch for the floor. The floor that exists in your mind; too flat for any percievable grasp, your fingers find themselves in your palms, indenting. You press and tighten, searching for pain, but her sweatshirt is long and loved enough to protect those parts of your hands.

You regret having a mouth.

Small room, big conniption. You feel a little too seen retrieving your tears through these wordless-oath, congested inhales. Being in here is suffocating. Outside was bigger; omnipresent, not so wall-to-wall, not so focused on your problems.

But you catch her scent. Not the thing he smelled. Her scent.

Unnostalgic.

Wearing a little bit of some-stranger-else does have a coalescing effect. Some chemical change. Rewiring.

Does she?

fic taglist: @sabrinathewitchh982 @baptismbaby @acidblum @naomqq @mariesmagix @azteriarizz @violetszn @morticeras @angitial @futac00chi3 @raid-ar @monki-nat

perm taglist: @whore4abby @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @maleelee @seraphicsentences @ravyaryn @sunnsh1ne

comment to be on either!

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bi-writes · 1 month ago

Note

For the horny thoughts: do you think any of the guys have a breeding kink?

ohhh ho ho (18+, f!reader)

gaz — mehhhh. not that he doesn't like coming inside of his girl, but it's more for the act of claiming than for the purpose of having a baby. for him, coming inside his girl is branding her as his. take it, take it take it—fucking loves it when she drools, pussy leaking when he pulls out and bends low to inspect her. he's a little young, and maybe that's why he hasn't thought about it any further than that, but with time, i could see him getting more into it.

soap — give this man a baby 😭 he wants a barn full of babies, so be prepared for it. any chance he gets, he's coming inside of you. when you first started dating, you were a little hesitant, but johnny's got moves. he's so big and burly, knows exactly what to do with that girthy thing between his thighs, and you are spineless when he comes inside of you for the first time. he's 100% the kind of guy to try and beat the statistics for how well your birth control can work, although he can wait a few years before really trying.

price — be so fucking FR, this man sees a condom and acts like it burned him. smacks those things away like "get that shit out of here," cause how dare you think he's going to waste his cum by tying it up in a fucking latex bag and throwing it away? you best be out of your mind. with john, it's all or nothing, so you better get used to the way he holds your hips up after he's come, plugging you up and keeping your hips upright just to make sure it takes. even when you're pregnant, even when he's done what he knew he could do, he still tries—he knows it's not possible, but thinks about giving you twins, thinks about the agonizing weeks he will have to spend without fucking you once you have his baby and how many more he'll put into you afterwards. insane. deranged.

ghost — well, he's had a vasectomy, so good luck with that. :D

#gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #price x reader #john price x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon thoughts #price thoughts #kyle thoughts #soap thoughts

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iceunhie · 10 months ago

Text

— phaethetically in love !

premise. belle thinks her brother is the most oblivious person in sixth street. the reason? one: because his (super obvious) crush on you is practically the worst kept secret in new eridu, and two: because he can't even see that said crush is reciprocated! good thing he has one (1) amazing, wonderful, nosy sister to help him out, yeah?

or, belle thinks the two of you are a prime example of an s tier romance movie; and she really wants to skip to the final arc already.

pairing. wise x gn!reader.

warnings: kinda ooc wise (i just started the game), wise is a loser (lovingly), belle is an instigator (proudly), comedy, facepalm moments.

a/n: for @vxnuslogy and @milksnake-tea bc yes wise kissers yes

MY (rlly cool btw 🥺) MASTERLIST || INBOX !

“you're in love with [name], aren't you?”

like all siblings in the world—or what's left of it, belle schemes.

(against wise, of course. obviously.)

her brother bursts into a mess immediately, nearly spilling his cup ramen all over his new shirt, chopsticks sticking out. laughing nervously. general chop would not be proud. “who told you that? i mean— haha, who said that, belle?”

his sister rolls her eyes. “me, myself. i.” she emphasizes, leaning her elbows against the table and putting her palms together; the grin she wears right now is so serene, but not in the angelic, nice way. belle smiles and wise finally thinks, oh. my sister may need to book herself to the closest self-help guru in new eridu.

“i have reason to believe that you, my dearest brother, are in love with [name].”

her voice goes up an octave at the last bit, leading wise to stuff her mouth with potato chips. already, heads have turned. “mff.”

“keep your voice down! and stop broadcasting it to everyone here-”

“what, i am right, aren't i? they clearly like you back, so why haven't you confessed yet?”

“keep. your. voice. down.” wise says, and belle's shit eating grin only widens as she sees her brother's ears tinged with pink. “and... how did you even know that?” he asks, mortified.

“well, one: because it's obvious—like, have you seen how obvious you are?” belle huffs, taking a bite of the potato chip with force (personal grudges are involved). “and two, because they like you back, dummy!”

because when belle sees the two of you together, it's like wise focuses on no one else. you are the center of his world—and he is just being pulled to bask in your light. his eyes soften like they melt only for you, and wise looks like all he is is, all he wants to be, is to belong with you.

(and, wise likes to stare at you for ungodly amounts of time. belle even caught him staring when you were petting a cat by the street and decided to name the stray ‘wise’; courtesy of him, apparently. the cat literally just had grey fur.

“wise.”

“hm?”

“you're practically spawning heart eyes now.”)

it's sickening. (in a oh my god my brother is in love kind of way, mind you.)

“so!” belle says, a devilish sparkle in her eyes. “allow your dearest sister to help you out, 'kay?”

wise nearly coughs up blood.

“what?!”

so at present, belle compiles her (hastily written) list of romantic moments you and wise have shared. she's not surprised—the number can be counted on one hand. diabolical, disappointing, world-ending! she resists the urge to cough up blood.

first, a coff cafe date with tin man's help: a fail. tin man's wingman capabilities were very superb, but she never heard the end of it when wise was lecturing her about how tin man kept sending over heart shaped desserts and little fortune cookies. the fortune cookies in question which said ‘you can do it!’ and a latte with art of caricature tin man making a heart. (you were very confused). belle thought it was motivating. wise thought it was mortifying.

next, even instilling help from fairy to calculate statistics about what event would you two be likely to be together. fairy said, and belle quotes: “probably never. that kind of pining's for the long run, with the other master's current experience. give it a year or six, master.”

so, she's currently face-palming.

did her brother really have zero game? why were the two of you just dancing around each other?! she's tried everything—from letting you two spend more time with each other in commissions, her inviting you over more to leave you to chat with her brother, and even the entirety of sixth street has lent their aid! how were you two not dating yet?!

“didn't they go on an arcade date at random play yesterday?” belle mutters. “that should've increased your progress by a long mile, bro! even general chop said you two were really, really close in the noodle shop....”

just what was she going to do now? at this rate, her brother would be relationshipless in no time! in fairy's words again, it would be phaethetic. and that would be a phaethal blow on her pride.

“...master, i said no such thing.”

“well, now you did.”

“The Ethereal Reckoning,” there's a pep in your step, the boxes full of movie DVDs in your arms as you walk back to the movie store. it was heavy, but at least you got to walk with the grey-haired proxy beside you. “That movie was great! Thanks for recommending it to me.”

Sporting a dopey, lovesick grin in response, wise nods at that, content to listen to your voice. it was actually belle's idea to let you lend movies you like over so the two of you could talk about it back and forth. wise would need to (begrudgingly) treat her to a bowl of ramen later on.... she saved him—he probably wouldn't even be talking to you for this long at this point, let alone hang out with you without her. for someone so nosy, he guesses his sister was a pretty good wingwoman.

“the main character was pretty similar to billy, you know?” you ramble on as wise listens. “i mean, because they were an android too, and...”

he finds that he's content to listen to anything you say, really. (right now he doesn't really know what you're saying, something about a horror ethereal movie, but you could just tell him anything and he would listen).

“i feel like the heroine's death was unnecessary, though.” you sigh, “too much tension just for it to end like that? how anticlimactic.”

your voice was so nice, so warm and easy to listen to, and wise can't even say anything to retort, simply staring with a growing (lovesick) smile on his face. talking to people was hard work, and talking to you? it might just make him combust.

“...ise? wise?”

“ah, huh?” he snaps out of his trance, only to find you mere inches away from his face, the only thing keeping you apart the boxes full of movies he's carrying. “...!”

“are you listening?” you furrow, and someone really might be out to get him right now because in that moment, wise flinches from the proximity, bumping into you.

then, because the universe thinks his life couldn't get more dramatic than it already was—you stagger, about to fall forward.

he moves before he thinks. “watch out!”

and wise.... practically astral-projects to another plane when he feels you fall into his arms, his hands on your waist. he can feel the warmth of your skin on his, the flustered look on your face. (he feels like he's going to die).

the two of you lock eyes for a moment, and wise feels like he's about to so something very stupid and his hands are still on your waist—

“....”

“.....”

someone save him.

“ah...”

“sorry!” you recover first, hurriedly letting yourself pull away from him (much to his disappointment). “i wasn't looking, and i- are you okay, wise?”

“no, no, it's fine.... i-i'm fine....” he hopes his voice isn't as small as it is, he couldn't be smooth to save his life; and wise helps you gather your bearings, his hands brushing against yours, blood rushing to his ears. sheepishly rubbing at his nape. “sorry, i was distracted.”

perhaps in the mood to lift the atmosphere, you sputter out, “no worries! it's fine! besides, you listened to me all this time.... i really enjoyed the movie, really.”

“of course i'll listen.” and before wise can think to stop his traitor of a mouth, the words spill out of his lips like it always wanted to be.

“you're worth paying attention to.”

it's automatic—your face heats up, warming like the sun on a hot day in new eridu, and god, he is such an idiot-

“you think so?” wise gulps. you looked bashful, and were way too adorable right now, and his face felt like it was on fire.... wait, that's not the point! he has to answer you, at least. this is a chance to make progress!

“y-yeah. definitely. i enjoyed... watching the movie with you.” he says. did his voice just crack just now? “we can hang out more often too, even without belle.”

he feels bad for throwing his sister under the bus like that, but—wait, did he just ask you out on a date? (accidentally)

well, it didn't matter because wise feels like he won the lottery right now, because you brighten up immediately. “really?”

then you cough and compose yourself. “i mean, sure! i'm sure it'll be fun, haha...”

awkward silence ensues. uh oh, did he say something wrong? was he too forward? he wants to say something, but something is lodged in his throat, and wise can't bring up a response. (his heart was beating like crazy right now, though).

“uh...”

“....”

then, something soft brushes against the side of his cheek. as fast as it was felt, wise felt the sensation leave just as easily. did you just-?

you just kissed him. on the cheek.

“thanks for hanging out with me, wise.”

“you're welcome- wha- huh?!” he nearly drops the stack of dvd's he was holding. you pull away, an enigmatic smile on your face. face flushed.

before he can even respond, the two of you finally arrive at the movie store. damn it, gods of the world. why did his luck run out now?

“i guess this is your stop.” he blinks, your voice coming back to him. “and, wise?”

“ah, uh, yeah?”

“it's a date, then?” your eyes sparkle and shine a light through his heart. super effective!

is this really happening? is he really going on a date with you—oh, he's so thrilled he could actually burst into song and kick his feet, but belle would tease him ruthlessly after. nosy sisters were so much work....

“yes!” he almost yells it out, but because he didn't want to look uncool in front of you, wise composes himself. play it cool, play it cool. don't mess up this chance! “yes, definitely. it's... it's a date.”

you put down the other stack of dvd's down the table, flashing him a dizzying, lovely smile smile. wise swears he falls even harder for you.

“then it's a date.”

BONUS.

“seriously?! you're going on a date with them?!” belle shouts, so unceremoniously that wise slaps a hand on her mouth.

“not so loud! but, yeah.” he says, face heating up. “your plan worked, sis.”

“yes! yes! finally!” his sister practically cheers, “i can finally be free of your sickening heart eyes... and finally, our street's most anticipated couple is here!”

wise can't help but sigh in fond exasperation. he guesses he'll let her have this one today.

“also, belle?”

“what?”

“you didn't tell anyone about this, did you?”

...

“uhh....”

(on the day of the date, wise receives an abnormal amount of good luck posters. he also gets a disturbing amount of thumbs up from the neighbors.

the last straw? tin man, giving him a baked cake with the words ‘rooting for you!’ covered in pink heart sprinkles.

he facepalms. belle...!)

a/n: d d do you guys get it..... phaethetically...... phaethon..... wise is phaethon and he's awkward in love lol hahahahaha (💀)

@ ICEUNHIE: do not repost translate or plagiarize my works.

#mhie's spirals #—stellaronhvnters #zzz x reader #zenless zone zero x reader #wise x reader #zenless zone zero wise x reader #zzz wise x reader #zenless zone zero #zzzero #zzz #self insert #x yn #copied illu's tags for this i love u user milksnake-tea (milk 😼)

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jayktoralldaylong · 4 months ago

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One of my favourite things about Arcane is that all the couples can be read as toxic, which is GREAT.

I'm tired of people bringing morality debates into dark media. Let dark media be fucking dark. You guys wouldn't survive a day in the TMA fandom, needing everyone to be as good as gold. How are they going to make for enjoyable complex characters if they're not morally grey. In fact, I wish there'd been more expansion on just how morally black they can become!

"CaitVi is so toxic" According to lesbian statistics, that sounds just about accurate. 💀 Heck, I wish Caitlyn had done more (Not really, but it would have been nice to further explore the darkness in her heart). Isn't it adorable how she immediately folded as soon as Vi called her cupcake? Caitlyn's like one of those villains that will consistently do the most....until it comes to someone else hurting her girlfriend. The only one allowed to hurt her girlfriend is her. 💀

Then let's talk about Vi. Someone pointed out how Vi never cared about Zaun's independence in the first place and many people yelled that they were wrong. But actually, they were right. Vi never wanted Zaun. Zaun was Silco's dream, and Jinx inherited that dream cause Silco would never shut up about it. Vi wanted Piltover to take responsibility for all the shit they allowed to happen in the Undercity. That's a part of the reason she joined up with Caitlyn in the first place. Let's not forget she wasn't dissuaded when she dragged Jayce down to fight with her and he killed a child. Children been dying, it's been her whole life. Someone needed to do something about it, and Zaun would have just isolated the people from all the privileges that Piltover SHOULD have been providing for them. Some people just can't accept that Independence cannot in fact solve every problem, and sometimes independence is colonisers running away from the responsibility of fixing the mess that they started in the first place.

Besides, we all know Vi joined up with the Enforcers because "I feel like I am worthless if I can't be of service." She'd already run out of family members to serve, Caitlyn was the next best thing. She's just like Jayce.

And speaking of Jayce, let's talk about his violent levels of codependency with anyone who'll give him attention. People LOOOOVE to talk about Mel, but it's there with Viktor too. When bro wasn't basing his worth on his inventions, he was centering it around Viktor.

Viktor who decided at some point in his life that he would not LIVE without Jayce. He was fine dying without him, but living without him was unacceptable. Oh how healthy. 🙄😂 Viktor be the kind of toxic ex to threaten divorce 500 times over, then burn the world when you actually leave him. Jayce is no better cause he's the kind of guy to keep going back to his toxic Ex.

Yes, Mel is manipulative. That's what I love about her. How are you guys failing to give this woman the praise of being an outsider in Piltover, but running their entire council. 💀 Girl raises her hand once and the whole government starts spinning. She was the best sugar mummy Jayce and Viktor could ever ask for. She kept the whole city running. Literally the entire of Piltover dancing on her palm. And yes she manipulated Jayce but let's not forget she thought that was a love language. 💀 You wanna be mad at someone, be mad at Ambessa for raising her that way.

I also don't think it's fair to blame her for the Undercity situation, she's not native. Monkey see, monkey do, and not a single one of those Council members actually cared about the situation down there, it was deplorable. 💀 Jayce did way more in his two weeks as Councillor than any of those drug pushing, money laundering, Piltovian heads of government.

And that just covers MelJayVik, we don't even need to get fully into TimeBomb, cause we know what's wrong there. 💀 Surely we have not forgotten the many teammates Jinx has killed, but making sure to never kill Ekko cause that's her man. Ekko has a lot to unpack, like how his consistent and unwavering love for Jinx is an indication of a lot of doors he might not be ready to open. I know they dynamics go crazy and I love to see it.

Ambessa and Sevika are a crack ship but I'm sure we all know bedroom dynamics go crazy with Mrs. Warlord and Miss Liberation. I love it when characters clash in a toxic heap. It's insane and should be explored.

Quit saintifying my toxic ships with your woke morality debates. If you want everyone to be sunshine and rainbows then you should be watching literally anything else. 💀 "It's not healthy." GOOD, I like it that way. 💀 Angst, spice and trauma are the recipe for a plethora of explorative fanfiction. Any of their dynamics can be taken in any toxic direction and I want that EXPLORED.

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autisticrosewilson · 21 days ago

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"Oh Steph wouldn't like Jason just because they have similar backgrounds because he kills people/is a criminal/fights the bats!!"

This is in the 90's BEFORE he even tortured her. She doesn't go through with it, but she sees the evil he's capable of and its enough for her to justify it. She only doesn't because it "goes against what Batman taught her" but well.

That's the same man who would let her dad's friends infest her house for MONTHS until BLACK CANARY came to Gotham and handled it

A grown man who would go on to verbally degrade her, withhold the tools he gave everyone else, keep her intentionally isolated and then use her lack of resources against her.

So yeah. I'm sure Steph's faith in Batman and his teachings have wavered plenty. Just because DC casually discarded the way she was treated so she could play happy family with the boys, but she has NO REASON TO. Before she was aged down there was definite tension between her and Tim, and while Babs worked to get that relationship back, Bruce did no such thing. "Oh I'm just as proud of you as I was with the boys" when he thought she was dying doesn't fucking change how he treated her.

And of course, there's her own forray into betraying the family and being a criminal in The Next Batman series.

That's without getting into how she was compared to Jason, the way she watched a murdered east end kid be toted as another violent, reckless, idiot who didn't think and got himself killed.

"Oh but he tried to kill Tim!" First of all, you didn't read that comic. Jason was TESTING him, they were 2 years apart MAXIMUM, and Tim FOUGHT BACK. Jason gave him a little cut and a nose bleed that he slapped a bandage on and was fine. Damian also started his first meeting with Tim antagonistically and even though he was actively hostile to her, Steph still formed a close sibling bond. Her first meeting with Tim she threw a brick at him. He spent a not significant amount of time belittling her and telling her she wasn't cut out for hero work when she came back. This is the same guy who hallucinated Jason just so Jason could be like "Oh I got myself killed don't be like me!" Can we be real she doesn't give a shit. I guess you could count Hush but. I know they retconned it so that was Jason but when the fuck would he have had the time to do that between death, catanoia, the All-caste, and his murder tour.

Stephanie understands better than anyone that desperate circumstances lead to desperate people who do bad things. Stephanie understands being belittled and compared to a rich white boy who never had to fight to survive like you did. She understands being isolated from the hero community. She understands the evil that exists and the ways the system is corrupt, and that the bad guy never STAYS caught. And it's not like she has any big problem with people who kill, Babs said in 90's she would fucking LOVE Joker to drop dead and Dinah has killed multiple times. She literally switched places with Lady Shiva? These are both women Steph looks up to. You don't think Steph would feel any admiration at all for someone who gave Bruce a taste of what it feels like to be shown up? Someone who made Roman's life hell? Someone who made Tim put action behind his shit talking? An alley kid who came back and refused to be another statistic, who showed everyone who spent the last decade calling him stupid and reckless EXACTLY how cunning he can be? None? At all?

I just find it a little hard to believe.

#You can hate Jason if you REALLY want to but that doesn't mean you can sand down Steph so she will too #“but he kills people” “okay. and?”#“he beat up your ex boyfriend?” “oh cool me too.”#“um. he was mean to Bruce?” “lmao I hope he cried”#If anything she's mad he HASN'T killed black mask yet #dc #jason todd #stephanie brown #hmm #I need to make a panel by panel comparison #because they mirror each other SO MUCH #like I really do think you guys undersell that they are narrative foils #they are meant to parallel each other #and yeah obviously similar stories don't mean they'll like each other.#but. literally why the fuck wouldn't they #you just hate to see two bad bitches win I'm convinced #Jaysteph #saw someone say that the ship only uplifts Jason??#your honor. only if you treat her like a prop that passively reacts to everything the boys do #kind of like Timsteph funnily enough #anti tim drake #bruce wayne critical

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kiyomitakada · 7 months ago

Text

i know its a classic. possibly cliche already. but i do wonder about Tumblr In The Death Note Universe probably more than i should

2 notes

💅 toxicbff Follow

if i see one more post attributing kira's powers to ~supernatural powers~ instead of the obvious fact that the cia is doing a coup I'm going to start giving You the heart attacks

💅 toxicbff

of course i saw the news how does that not prove my point further

the idea that all the police around the world could be mobilized by one single person is ridiculous (just look at this list of how many civilian militia there are globally)

heart attack victims don't seize the way "lind l tailor" did

i don't know how to tell you that You Can't Kill People Just By Knowing Their Name And Face because this is Real Life and not the newest grimdark marvel villain

people need to stop being scared of the ~bogeyman in the closet~ and wake up to the fact that usamerica is trying to take over the goddamned world

💅 toxicbff

im going to kill you all and nuke this website

#sayonara you weeaboo shits

2,925 notes

👾 lets-go-geeks Follow

DO TRUMP NEXT

🕵🏾‍♀️ penny-penelope Follow

LIKES TO CHARGE REBLOGS TO CAST

16,375 notes

❤️‍🔥 lovesickened Follow

i know its stupid but im so fucking scared for my brother i heard that seven people died this week at the prison he's in and iinjust dont kenow what to do ihate him for ehat he did to mom but i never wanted him to die

#vent tw #delete later

0 notes

🏎 fastandyurious Follow

if i get a single more comment about why i don't tag "genderbend" on my kiratective fics i'm going to blow up the entire building. we don't know EITHER of their genders. why don't YOU tag your mediocre yaoi genderbend instead

🔆 sparkling-world Follow

…OP, you realize the news reports all consistently use "he," right?

🏎 fastandyurious

of course i do???? just because you see something on the news doesn't mean you have to believe it?????? they don't have any information on kira yet but i'm supposed to believe the fbi knows their gender already??????? also kira is literally a fucking girl's name my classmate in elementary school was called kira

🔆 sparkling-world

Kira comes from the Japanese romanization for "killer," it isn't gendered whatsoever.

Also, evidence shows the majority of serial killers are male, so I'd argue that the statistics favor the fujoshis here.

🏎 fastandyurious

well evidence shows that female serial killers are just more fun to write about and I'd argue that you're ignoring my fucking POINT which is that we DON'T KNOW KIRA'S GENDER and if people don't want to read lesbian kiratective they can FUCK OFF MY BLOG

🥚 i-offer-eggman Follow

I offer you an Eggman in these trying times.

🔮 I-stands-for-le-gay Follow

@lashitpostcalligrapher yo can i get "the statistics favor the fujoshis" on my tombstone

#fandom: kira rpf #ship: kiral #never heard it called kiratective before… #also uh. prayer circle for op's classmate lmaoooo

2,107 notes

💃🏻 modelingmadness Follow

BOYCOTT EIGHTEEN MAGAZINE

THEY ALLOW KIRA-SUPPORTING MODELS AND ARE COMPLICIT IN THIS MASSACRE

SOURCES HERE AND HERE (TRIGGER WARNING: KIRA DISCUSSION)

PUSH BACK AGAINST HEART ATTACKS

🧚🏽‍♂️ harubaru Follow

golly gee ^_^ suddenly i feel like taking to the high seas in a way that the eighteen company cant get profit from. oh no ! who left this link here

🐦‍⬛ kuro--misa Follow

thanks for the link but jesus fucking christ man what happened to free speech. misa-misa's parents were killed by a burglar who kira punished. did you all expect her to just sit there, look pretty, and say nothing about it?

you people only like models when they're nice pictures for you to consume. you only like them two-dimensional and smiling and hot. the second a woman actually speaks her mind she's thrown to the wolves

💃🏻 modelingmadness

DID YOU NOT SEE MY BANNER YOU PIECE OF SHIT

#BLOCKED

140 notes

🐦‍⬛ kuro--misa Follow

lol. lmao even

#they blocked me but whatever #official eighteen site just said misamisa wont be in the next issue #(eighteen sucks but i kind of want to use it more out of spite now) #so much for apologism huh? #god. i feel sick. #hasn't she been through enough.

1 note

🥷🏻 kira-imagines Follow

Imagine you're going home after a long day. Suddenly there's a sound. "Huh? Whose there" you ask, dropping your keys on the floor. Then you feel it. A knife pressing in your neck.

"Don't move kitten" Kira purrs behind you. "You're all mine now…"

#kiraxreader #kiraxoc #kira #kira rpf #kira investigation #kira fucker #kira fudger #kira lover #kira haters dont touch #kira haters please touch #kira supporters please touch #l

5,733 notes

asahi-the-student-deactivated201

Hello, everyone! My little sister told me about this microblogging platform (I admit, I'm a Twitter refugee) and that many of you are discussing the Kira investigation on here. I'm really interested in hearing what your thoughts are!

💋 sunny-sayu Follow

let the record show he lasted like. a day

#i think it was the imagines that did him in #bro is so sensitive :p

15 notes

kiyomitakada

the world could be beautiful

[ @deathnotetober day 14: trigger ]

#death note #light yagami #sayu yagami #misa amane #lawlight #by uh. technicality.#does 'trigger warning' fit the prompt i hope it does…#also there are two (2) rickrolls in this post #the other links are all to actual fun stuff :3 #good luck #deathnotetober #edit: fixed the FUCKIGN reblog dividers GOD DAMN IT #unreality #caps #edit 2: fixed the reblog dividers again theyre transparent now #…………wow i really just. spent four hours on this huh.#maybe i am experiencing slight mania #only slight #death note tumblr

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comicaurora · 1 year ago

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I'm sorry that the terfs made their way onto your blog but it does feel good to see you support trans people. Thank you for that

Always.

I think, charitably, that the discourse going down on that post is an extrapolation and over-focus on one element of the point I was making: that for me, determining with certainty that I was cis was a rather fraught process. I was presented with many alternatives, but underlying their imposition on me was the oddly regressive idea that the things I liked, the principles I valued, the parts of myself I was proud of were not permitted of women. My whole life I got smacked with the background radiation that I couldn't like being strong because women aren't allowed to be stronger than men. I couldn't like being loud and boistrous because women aren't allowed to take up space. I couldn't be a math geek because women aren't smart. It was all deeply regressive misogyny from day one, but I started getting hit with it slathered in a fresh coat of paint - all those assumptions still held to be true, but now there was the out that I could do all those things if I just wasn't a woman.

Concluding that the underlying bioessentialist premise was wrong was very important. Absolutely none of those statements were true, and were only ever maintained by cultural saturation, goalpost-readjustment when they were actively disproven, and the occasional bout of lying with statistics to pretend they weren't just Shit All The Way Down. The core premise that certain things were only permitted of or possible for men was bullshit, and I didn't need to surrender the gender I liked best in order to play in the spaces I wanted to. I could simply exist the way I was already existing. I didn't need anything else.

The misinterpretation is the assumption that this being true of me means this is everybody's relationship with gender. I turned out to be cis, so for me, feeling that holding onto my assigned gender wasn't allowed was distressing - just another invocation of the same bioessentialist bullshit I'd been dealing with since the preschool playground. This is because misgendering is fundamentally denying that a person has the right to express themself the way they want. When aimed at me, it says I'm not performing traditional femininity well enough to deserve my pronouns. The same disrespect is the root of misgendering when aimed at trans people. "Perform your gender to my satisfaction or I will confiscate it."

The problem is, bioessentialism is 100% ingrained into the terf playbook, which is why, for instance, all their shitty talking points about trans athletes eventually boil down to "no woman can ever defeat a man in any contest because we are simply naturally weak and stupid and there is nothing we can do about it" and quite frankly nothing disgusts me more than the defeatist acceptance of the very lie that feminism is dedicated to overcoming. Instead of accepting that the paradigm of bioessentialism is a false dichotomy right from the jump, they embrace and weaponize it against the people whose existence proves the dichotomy is a lie. If gender essentialism is fundamentally false, then it is nobody's fucking business what anybody does with their gender. If the lines don't exist, nobody needs to enforce them. And yet there the terfs go, hunting down people whose lives are none of their business and trying to argue that they represent some great and terrible evil, some downfall of society made flesh, something that makes it totally correct and normal for them to spend so much time thinking about strangers' genitalia. They want this to be a noble crusade so badly they won't even examine what flag they're flying.

I love and support the trans people in my life and will always, always stand on the side of your right to exist, but alongside that, terf rhetoric especially disgusts and infuriates me because it is, at its heart, utter cowardice. The world told them they were weak and stupid and inferior and they fucking believed it. And now they think Fighting The Good Fight For Women means turning around and using the same paradigmatic weapon that hurt them to hurt the people whose existence outside the binary proves the weapon is a lie. They're the same shithead schoolyard bullies who made me believe my entire existence was foundationally wrong for years of my life and I will never, ever side with them or the shitty, cowardly rhetoric that contributed to the loneliest years of my life.

Figure out who you are and do it on purpose. Find the real source of the misery in your life and try fighting that instead of the other crabs in the bucket. Trans rights.

#asks #not aurora

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parfaitblogs · 9 months ago

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loml ❀ s. reid x reader

in which even six years apart isn’t too much time for spencer to come see you.

pairing: ex!spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst/comfort sort of tags: that freaky shit (soul crushing angst). a lot of nothing. approximately the time morgan left the bau (it's mentioned). spoilers for 5x9 (‘100’) if you haven't watched it yet... fade to black. word count: 1.2k a/n: heyyyy… enjoy my the contents of my sad brain lol. this can kinda be a waiting room pt. 2 if you squint. i’m super sick right now so here’s a draft i wasn’t going to post until august (although it’s july 31 so is it technically august?) because i have no energy to write rn. whoops. enjoyy

Your mother once told you she doesn't think you can be just friends with some people.

They're either there to be in your life forever, souls so deeply woven together that you have to be more than friends. Or they're fleeting, and your lives will line up for a short enough period of time that they'll impact you, and then you'll never see them again.

You wished Spencer Reid was the latter.

Not at first. No, at first he was the man you were going to marry. You were certain of it. Discussing your wedding with your friends because it was going to happen, and you were picturing him at the altar. You had fantasised what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life so many times, dedicating so many hours to the concept of it, that when you lost it, you mourned the loss of it as much as you mourned the relationship.

But Spencer Reid was the former. Unfortunately so. Losing so many years to a man you didn't even speak to anymore, because you just can't get over it. Can't get over how you could give someone so much of you, and they will still throw it all away for a narrative they've made up in their mind. Can't get over the narrative he made up of you.

It was justifiable, you supposed. His boss had just lost his (ex) wife because of the job. It was tough for everyone on the team. You didn't think it was so bad he would freak out as much as he did, though.

Because in his mind you were next. He was going to lose you as well. And even that stupidly large brain of his couldn't see how ridiculous that sounded. He refused to listen to you when all he could hear was the screaming in his head of you being next, and the statistics of female abductions. Statistics that were no different between the day before the incident, and the day he broke up with you. They were just louder to him.

An achingly long amount of time had passed from the last time you spoke to him. A pathetic meeting you had requested two months after the breakup, because your life was falling apart and maybe seeing him would make it better.

It didn't.

You wondered if you'd still be shedding tears over him if you hadn't met him that night.

You heard your name, and so your head lifted from your lap. Right, you thought, bitterly. He was here. In your apartment. The same one he used to sleep at, for days on end.

You knew triggers like the back of your hand. They were usually things that made sense. Loud noises, blood, anniversaries. Could you justify your trigger being a whole person?

You hadn't known he was a trigger until that evening, when he had showed up at your apartment door with a bouquet of flowers that you didn't really want, and an insultingly pretty smile. You had broken down, right there in your doorway, crumpling to the floor in a hyperventilating, miserable heap.

He had held you, and frustratingly so, it helped. He didn't speak when he had done it, until you were calmer and were muttering apologies to him, embarrassment replacing the upset.

At which he shushed you. You listened.

"Why are you here?" you broke the silence that followed his calling of your name, voice shaky.

He exhaled audibly. "I wanted to see you."

"No, Spencer," you sniffled. "You don't get to come over with flowers just because you wanted to see me. Why are you here?"

He fell silent, and you wished you could crawl into his brain to see what he was thinking. You presumed a million things.

"Morgan left," he said, quietly, and you felt your mouth go dry.

"Oh."

Then; your eyebrows furrowed. Because did he really have no one to go to? You stared back at him for a few seconds, and for a moment, you let yourself forget about the weight between you two. Staring into his eyes was an easy way to forget that, apparently. It was comforting for you, but perhaps uncomfortable for him.

Because he cleared his throat, and adjusted his position on the couch. "I didn't know where to go. And you said if I needed anything, you would be there and—"

"—People say that as a courtesy, Spencer," you breathed out.

"I know," he said, quickly. "But I really needed someone, and I genuinely didn't know where else to go."

You couldn't slam the door in his face even if you wanted to. Because now you were registering more than just your own emotions. The red rimming his eyes, the dusting of pink on his nose and above his lips.

So, you nodded your head. "Okay. Come here," you said, opening your arms, and took him in between them. Albeit hesitantly. On both ends.

This time he broke down, and you let him. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, your fingers entangled in his curls, scratching at his scalp in the best soothing motion you could.

He cried until he had dehydrated his body, and your arms had begun to cramp from the position they were in. When he pulled back, your heart cracked a little more at the sight, his face wet with tears that stuck his hair to his cheeks, that you cleaned up.

"I miss you."

You froze. He did as well, but for an entirely different reason. At the idea that he had said it. Not you. Him. The words decorated the air and hung there for minutes as you fell silent.

Finally; "You don't mean that."

"Yes I do," his response was quick, as if expecting you to deny him of his own feelings.

"You're upset, and I'm comforting you. You miss Morgan. Not me. Transference," you mumbled, hands dropping from his face.

"This isn't transference."

"Spencer."

You were right. You knew it in the way his shoulders sagged in defeat, and his lips parted as if to say something, only to clamp shut in mental defiance.

"Maybe," he finally said, quietly. "But I do still miss you."

"It's been five years," you answered. He nodded his head in agreement. You exhaled. "I miss you too, Spencer."

He lips twitched, but never reached a smile. "You aren't seeing anyone, then?" he asked.

"You can deduce that, I'm sure."

You were right, he could, and he nodded his head, lips reaching a smile, albeit sadly. "Yeah. Me neither."

"I also figured," you said. "You would've gone to your girlfriend if you had one."

"I would've," he nodded his head, laughing a breathy, awkward laugh. "Instead I went to my ex-girlfriend."

"You did." More uncomfortable silence, before you let out a sigh. Again. "Movie?"

"What?"

"Do you want to watch a movie?" you say the full sentence, a little slower than what was probably necessary. You knew him well enough to know that he hated talking about his feelings, he was an awful communicator. Had been, your brain screams at you. He could've changed.

It seemed he hadn't, because he nodded his head, a smaller, more genuine smile painted his lips. "Yeah. Okay."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

#lia’s fics ♡#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid hurt/comfort

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inkskinned · 1 year ago

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there's a video on instagram of a man kicking his partner's door in. the top comment is (with over 4 thousand likes): "how about you tell us what you did to make him that angry?"

barring emergency, nobody should be kicking anybody's door in. many of us lived in houses where it was always, somehow, an emergency. there is a strange, almost hysterical calm that comes over you in that moment - everything feels muted, and you almost feel, however incongruently, like you should be laughing. you are living inside of "the emergency." oh my god, you think. i am now a fucking statistic.

there is another comment with 2.8 thousand likes: "if this was a woman doing it to a man, nobody would give a shit."

do people give a shit now, though?

barring emergency, the door should remain standing. the emergency should be panicked, desperate - "i'm coming in there to protect you." many of us know what it feels like when the emergency is instead "i'm coming in there to get you."

1.5k likes: "and yet you post this for notes. glad to see being the victim has become your whole personality."

hysteria is a word connected to womb, from greek. what you're experiencing is so senseless and inhumane that you (a rational creature) try to find any ground within what is irrational and cannot be explained. one of the most frustrating things about staying in bad situations is that we also lie to ourselves. we also ask ourselves - wow. what did i do?

women can be, and often are, also abusers. abuse is not gendered. abuse is not just a "straight person" problem. abuse does not have a face or figure or sexuality. you cannot pick an abuser out of a crowd. an abuser could be actually anybody.

and then so many people rally behind the man kicking the door in. here is something nobody should be doing, right? you want to ask every person that liked that first comment: do you ask this because you side with him? do you ask this because it helps you feel safe from this ever happening?

in some ways, you're weirdly sympathetic to the top comment, because it is the same logic you see frequently. the idea is that the average, normal, sane person doesn't just break down a door. doesn't just shoot up a school. doesn't stalk and kill women. doesn't threaten sexual assault. doesn't run over protesters. doesn't shoot an unarmed black person. doesn't scream at underpaid walmart employees. doesn't just "lose it". something had to have happened, right? because the default (white. straight. cis.) - that is someone who is always, you know. "sane."

(right?)

on a podcast, you hear a sane, normal, rational person. "if you piss me off, i'm going to need to hit something. sorry but i'm not apologizing. that's just who i am that's how it is." his voice almost sounds like he's laughing.

you think of the door, and how you were almost laughing behind it, too. ironically, every real emergency in your life has almost felt peaceful in comparison. fire, car accident, flash flooding - these felt quiet, covenant to you. you'd stood in all of them, feeling them pass over and up to your chin, never actually overwhelming.

but when the door was coming down, you had felt - is there a word for that? there has to be, a word, right.

surely one of us has figured out the word for that, i mean. it's such a large fucking statistic.

#spilled ink #writeblr #warm up #this is so disorganized #i just saw that video and the comments made me want to vomit #it's actually like. in the way it's funny that you got into a car crash and got the flu within the same 24 hours #it's like.#it's funny #because certain people will blame everything on mental illness #even being transgender.#they will not #however #at any point - even vaguely suggest that a man should maybe get therapy.#like. a guy busting down a door isn't a danger-to-himself-and-others #(you just pushed him too far).#but a young adult looking for top surgery should be institutionalized for even wanting to change their body.

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honeybeedrabble · 2 years ago

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Kinktober Day 13: Size - Tutor!Miguel x AFAB!Reader 🎃

can you tell i hate my math class this sem ?? :D

CW: unspecified age gap (reader is in college miguel is in grad school), trauma inducing stats vocabulary, piv (unprotected don’t be stupid), creampie (don’t be stupid), mean miguel, harsh grabbing, fingering (kinda), finger sucking, general size difference.

18+ MDNI

It was getting late, you and your roommates Machi and Gale having dinner with you. You huffed, slumping in the chair you sat on.

“This is such bullshit, I’ve been stuck on this problem for like half an hour already. Nothing’s clicking.” You pushed your dinner aside and looked at Gale for reassurance. She tilted her head at you with a raised brow.

“Girl, you know damn well I’m not getting it either. Just call it quits for tonight, it's not due for another two days.” She said, sipping a chilled can of coke.

“Oh, come on. Neither of us are understanding this shit. I mean, this symbol looks like a backwards three! I miss when math used to just have numbers,” you complained, squinting at the statistics homework in front of you.

“That looks ridiculous,” Machi laughed. “Never have I been more glad to be an arts major.” She said, getting up to put her dish away.

“If it bothers you that much, why don’t you just visit the tutoring lab? I think they’re still open.” Gale said, grabbing your dish and following Machi to the sink.

“Really?” You asked, checking your watch. 8 pm.

“Hey, we pay thousands of dollars in tuition, okay? If they can’t stay open or help when students need it what's the point in taking all that money from us?” Gale shrugged. You sighed, standing up from your chair.

“Well, I guess I better get moving if I want to make it to the tutoring center before 10. Let me know if you guys need anything while I’m out.” You grabbed your keys and left the apartment after grabbing your bag and slipping your shoes back on.

_____________________________________________________

You arrived at the building, glass doors sliding open as you walked through them, the cold air conditioning giving you goosebumps. You walked over to the sign in sheet, looking through available tutors for the next hour or so.

“Crap…” You sighed, looking through the sheets. It seemed like you needed an appointment before hand, at least electronically.

There was the sound of laughter down the hall, you turned your head towards the sound. There was a much larger man along with a guy who seemed about your age. You recognized the shorter individual from your statistics class.

“Well, I’m glad we could get your problem figured out.” The tall man said, a big hand patting the younger guy's back heavily.

“Yeah, it only took us all night.” More laughter.

“Hey, if its due in two days all night is nothing.” The tall, tanned man said. He was massive, you could practically see his muscles bulging underneath his white buttoned shirt. His chocolate hair slicked back, a few strands messily framing his face. You were in a trance when his almost red eyes met yours. You felt your face flush.

“U-Uh, Hey! You’re in my statistics class arent you?” You asked the shorter guy, desperately avoiding the older mans gaze. The shorter guy said your name questioningly, you nodded.

“Yeah, thats me.” You said, clutching your bag tighter. “So… you got help with the homework?” You asked, motioning to the taller man.

“Oh yeah, this is Miguel.” He said, patting Miguels back.

“Hi, nice to meet you.” You said, grabbing his large hand and shaking it. You felt your palms become sweatier, his hand practically enveloping yours. “I didn’t see your name under the statistics sign up sheet.” You said, voice almost trembling.

“Well as a grad student my major is scientific research so that's why I’m not under statistics.” He said, a slight smirk across his face, his grip on your hand becoming tighter.

“O-oh,” you said softly.

“But I use statistics in almost everything I do, so I can help out with any problems you’ve got if you need it.”

“Miguel’s not a bad tutor, it only took us so long to finish cause I haven’t shown up to class in weeks.” Your classmate laughed. “I’ve got to get out of here but thanks for your help, man.” He waved before walking out the sliding doors into the dark night.

You and Miguel turned to each other, you suddenly felt very nervous.

“So… Would you… tutor me?” You asked, rubbing your arms for warmth.

“Well, it's not quite 10 yet and I don’t have any other sign-ups, so why not?” He shrugged, walking down the hall with you following after him.

You two walked down the hall, reaching a small study room at the end of it.

“This is the room I reserved for the night, so don’t worry about anyone coming in here super late and trying to steal it from us.” He said, opening it up for you to walk through.

You walked into the room, a table with a few chairs in the center with a whiteboard behind it. It seemed fine to you as you walked in, sitting down on a chair, slightly taken aback when it rolled underneath your weight. You looked down and noticed wheels at the feet of the chair. You looked up again when you heard the door shut, Miguel locking it behind him.

_______________________________________________

“And that's why your z score is going to be 20.99. Does that make sense?” He asked. You were fucked.

The whole time you were supposed to be paying attention you were completely distracted by his being. He sat next to you, his large frame practically caging you in between him and the desk. He was everywhere, and if you weren’t staring directly at the paper, you were scared you were going to faint. You nodded, eyes looking down at the problem, refusing to tear away from the mathematical mess you made.

“Yeah…”

“Then tell me how you got it.” He said, deep voice rumbling in his big chest.

“Well, first you uh…” You circled a random number in the world problem then looked up at him with helpless eyes. He raised a brow.

“You start with the standard deviation?” He asked, clearly unamused.

“Well… You definitely use it somewhere…” You said half joking. Miguel was still unamused. He sighed deeply, throwing his head into his hand.

“I’ll explain it one more time, okay?” He said, grabbing the pencil from your hand. His hand brushed against yours and held your pencil as if it were a toothpick to him. “So, we’ve identified the mew, right?” He asked, underlining the foreign symbol.

“Yeah…” You said, asking yourself what the fuck is a mew?

You were determined to stay focused but that man made it difficult. You turned to look at him while his eyes were fixed onto the paper, scribbling out equations and typing into your calculator- which he also made look puny in his grasp. You watched him as he spoke, the way his soft lips moved as he talked, revealing sharp canines every now and then between words. You felt your face flush, entranced by his presence. You eyed his large shoulders, following them down to his massive arms. You looked back up at his face, admiring his features while he was so deep in thought. He looked down at you.

“So now we just divide and… hey?” he said almost harshly. “Are you paying attention?” He asked in a snarky tone. You felt your face drop.

“I… um…”

“Distracted again?” He tossed the pencil onto the surface of the table, muscular arms crossing as he almost glared at you.

“I’m sorry.” You felt exhausted, covering your face with your hands in defeat. You felt like crying.

“Maybe if you weren’t so focused on undressing me with your eyes and more focused on these problems, you’d understand this shit by now.” He grunted. You stilled, face buried deep into your palms before you peered at him through between your fingertips.

“W…What?” You asked, looking at his almost red eyes.

“I said what I said.” Miguel's voice was low, he grabbed your seat and pulled it towards him, the wheels moving you with ease. You felt your core tighten, as your face continued to burn hot, regardless of the air conditioning.

Miguel's eyes practically violated you, staring deep past your own and into your soul before looking you up and down, clearly enjoying how you cowered.

“That pretty little head not used to thinking this hard?” he asked low in your ear. You shuddered, hairs on the back of your neck standing at attention. “Pathetic.”

He grabbed your waist with his large hands, daring to crush you between his palms. He slowly stood up from his chair, face inches away from yours. You took that as invitation enough and crashed your lips into his, those soft lips felt even better than you imagined, a whimper escaping your lips as his grip increased. He pulled you off of the chair and slammed you onto the table, papers flying and pens scattering around you. You let out a grunt as the air escaped your lungs from the impact.

“I’m taking time out of my night to try and teach you this shit and you can't even meet me halfway and try to learn it?” He huffs yanking down your frumpy sweats to your ankles. You kicked them off, laying on the table in your tight shirt and panties.

“I-I’m sorry, you're just so-” he cut you off with two thick fingers plunging into your mouth, you gagged when they hit the back of your throat. He smirked, watching you drag your tongue around the knuckles of his fingers.

“That ought to shut you up.” He ran a finger from his other hand to your clothed cunt, you moaned around his thick digits when he caressed your clit. Your hips moved on their own accord, grinding against his large hand. “Would you look at that? I didn’t know they accepted whores into this school.” Miguel hummed, voice smooth like honey and deep like an ocean.

His single finger moved to where your pussy and thigh met, yanking aside your black cotton panties to reveal your wet cunt, which clenched around nothing at the sudden cold air.

“Jesus… I bet you were thinking about this all night, huh?” Miguel teased, the calloused tip of his finger just barely grazing along your seeping hole, spreading the warm slick higher and higher up your folds until he could smear it along your sensitive bud, eliciting another moan from behind his drooly fingers.

“Needy, aren’t we?” Miguel withdrew his fingers from your mouth while his other hand unzipped his dress pants, the metal of his belt buckle clanking together as he pulled it out of its loops. The belt hit the floor with a small thud and with his drool-soaked fingers he freed his massive cock and ran the slippery fingers up and down his shaft.

Miguel tore your underwear off of you, as if it was like taking a sticker off a piece of fruit. You felt yourself drip down your thighs, unsure whether or not it was okay to touch yourself while watching this Greek god of a man pleasure himself with your spit, watching your tense cunt beg him to stuff it.

“Like what you see?” He asked, slipping his finger into his mouth and moaning long and deep when he tasted your sweet slick on his tongue. You nodded vigorously, grabbing one of your tits to entice him even further. “Why don’t you take that off while we’re ahead?”

You quickly tossed off your shirt and bra, completely naked on the desk. Miguel softly laughed, watching how nicely you obeyed him.

“You're too easy, y’know that?” With a few more pumps to his shaft, he harshly grabbed one of your thighs and spread your legs even further, admiring your wet pussy.

The moan you two let out when he put his cock inside of you could've been heard by the whole building if it hadn't been well past 10 pm and everyone had gone for the day. His girthy member dared to split you in half, the sheer size of him was far too much to handle, especially all at one. We watched with pleasure as your breathy moans turned into agonized whimpers the further he drove into you. When he had finally gone balls deep inside of you, there was an obvious cock bulge deep inside of you as he stretched out your pussy wonderfully.

“M-Miguel…” You sighed, a bead of sweat rolling down your temple.

“Oh, so this can keep your attention but me slaving away on your homework can’t?” He smugly asked, pulling out before slamming into you with a grunt. You wailed, scratching the hard surface of the desk underneath you, crumpling stray pieces of scratch paper into your palm while arching your back.

Miguel started at a rough pace, making room out of your tight pussy for his intimidating cock, juices slicking the shaft of his member, and sounds of your wet pussy gushing paired with the creaking of the table filled the room, moans, and mewls adding to euphonious music of your fucking.

“So fucking tight… so fucking tiny… I bet I could fold you like a pretzel,” He said amusingly, grabbing the backs of your thighs and pushing the fronts of them against your chest. You cried out loud, new depth being explored by his commanding dick while he used you for his pleasure.

With his massive hands, he spread his fingers out, his thumbs on the backs of your thighs and his four fingers on the small of your back, grabbing onto you so he could bring you up and down on his deep thrusts.

You were seeing stars at this point, scared your arousal would drip onto your homework papers and soil all the progress you’ve made. But it didn’t matter anymore when you threw your head back onto the table and shook in his hands, pussy clenching around his meaty cock and milking him for his own cum.

“Ngh- What did I say? Easy…” He moaned, thrusting inside of you a few more times before he shot a huge load inside of your tiny pussy, cum leaking out between where your sexes met and rolling down your asscheeks.

You lay there on the table, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Miguel watched entranced as your shared cum leaked out of you, finger fucking it back inside of you, wondering if it he could stuff it all back in. He quickly realized your overstimulated cunt couldn’t take it as tears welled in your eyes.

“Sorry,” He said, removing his fingers. “Now uh… where were we?” He picked up the page of work, then his face dropped, looking at the splotch of cum that had spilled out on accident.

“On second thoughts… you might want to turn this in online.”

Tag List: @fuckmachine42069 @pasdasin @alien-girl-violet

Next: Cloning - Kakashi x Reader

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suna-cerely-yours · 6 months ago

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a/n: I also want to be tutored by college!kuroo. And steal that black hoodie (also fun fact this was supposed to be a part of a college series)

warnings: fem!reader

Let’s be honest, you were good but there was no way you were passing this class without extra help. You groan, dropping your head in your friend’s lap, throwing your jean-clad legs over the armrest of the sofa the two of you occupied, in the corner of a very crowded frat house.

“I won’t pass, I’m sure of it. Probability distributions were bad enough, but now that he’s moved onto parameter estimation, I have absolutely zero idea what’s going on.”

“You’ll be fine,” your friend says, flicking you lightly on your forehead, “don’t be dramatic.”

There’s a series of cheers and noise from the direction of the kitchen, which has your friend craning her neck.

“I think they’re doing body shots over there.”

“I think I need a tutor.”

“The volleyball team is also there.”

“The professor’s such a hard-ass too.”

“I’m going to see if I can get their setter to do a body shot off of me.”

Slipping your head from her lap, she’s off, yelling something about calling you later. Groaning again, you rest your arm against your forehead, wondering if you should be spending your Friday night in the Statistics section of the library rather than the frat party you were currently at. You were about to get up when you feel the sofa sink with weight above your head. Moving your arm, you’re met with a red jacket and the smell of laundry detergent.

“Ah, sorry- I’ll just get out of the way,” you begin, getting up and sitting properly on the couch.

“My friend aced Stat203 last year.”

You look questioningly at the man beside you, his eyes trained on his phone before him. Messily dyed hair tied in a low bun, red track jacket, black ripped jeans and a lip piercing- you were looking at the setter of your university’s volleyball team- Kenma Kozume.

“I- pardon? Are you talking to me?”

“He took the class for fun last year.”

“That’s- that’s great, uh but I don’t think I’m who you think I am. I-”

“You said you needed a tutor.”

You blink, eyes widening. Holy shit did the frat party actually turn out to be the correct place to look for a Statistics tutor?

“I am looking for someone to help me out a little, um, are you sure they would be willing to help me out?”

Kenma looks up from his phone, for the first time since you started talking, you notice. Golden eyes flick down your torso once, before meeting your eyes.

“I’ll give you his number, ask him yourself.”

.....

Setting your books down in the study room, you check your watch again, exactly five minutes before you and Tetsu were scheduled to meet. You still didn’t know who he exactly was, having no actual information about him aside from the nickname and the fact that he was Kenma’s friend. Apart from the initial awkwardness of messaging a stranger, the two of you had exchanged a couple of texts before deciding to meet for a scheduled tutoring session at the library. You’ve only started scrolling on Tumblr when there’s a sharp knock on the door, the person opening it before you can say anything.

Tall, is your first impression.

Red, is your next.

Hair, is your final- before realization sets in.

“Kuroo Tetsurou?”

Hazel eyes blink back as the captain of the volleyball team stands in front of you.

His eyes crinkle, lips curling into a smile as his enters the room, letting the door fall shut behind him as he drops into the seat before you.

" 's not fair that you know who I am and I don't," he says stretching back in his seat. " Kozume only said that a pretty girl needed some help."

Your eyebrow quirks at the pretty girl comment, but you don't say anything of it- opting to introduce yourself instead.

"Pretty name."

"Laying it on a lil' thick, aren't you?"

"All part of the charm m'lady."

You stop fidgeting with your textbook to look up at him and blink.

"M'lady?"

A pained look crosses over his face as he drags a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.

"Yeah, that might have been a little too thick."

Fighting the urge to smile, you press your lips together before murmuring a 'that's what she said', clicking your pen and flipping to a fresh page.

A snort escapes the man in question as he pulls your textbook closer to him.

"So, who's class are you taking this semester? Please tell me it's not Sakusa."

You chew on your lower lip in silence.

Kuroo glances your way once before sighing.

"Of course it's him."

"In my defense I didn't expect a man so pretty to be that much of a hard-ass."

"Hard-ass is putting it nicely."

You scowl, tapping your pen against the table lightly. "He teaches well, it's just- he's so unapproachable and he expects perfection and I have so much piled up this semester and I-"

"Woah, calm down pretty, it's okay. That's what I'm here for aren't I?", he smiles, a dimple popping in his left cheek.

You swallow before smiling back, nodding.

"Good girl, now where should we begin?"

This was going to be a long semester.

#kuroo x reader #haikyuu x reader #kuroo tetsuro fluff #hq fluff #hq x reader #kuroo tetsurou #haikyuu kuroo

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terapsina · 8 months ago

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Let's talk books. Sorted in threes by vibes.

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I Support Women's Wrongs (murder, slaughter and body horror galore).

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How to Become the Dark Lord and Die Trying ⭐⭐⭐⭐½ by Django Wexler - A woman from Earth is dropped into a magical realm, meant to save the Kingdom from the FoRCes of DaRKneSSss... except, unfortunately that might have been a thousand years worth of time loops ago, so it's rather time to lose one's temper and decide to become the Dark Lord herself.

Main character -> basically Deadpool (measured in sanity, humor and levels of bisexual horniness)).

Someone You Can Build a Nest In ⭐⭐⭐⭐ by John Wiswell - Shesheshen, a shapechanging monster who's rudely interrupted during her hibernation by hunters. Manages to to eat one of them, unfortunately she also gets shot by an arrow and falls off a cliff. On the bright side she meets a lovely human woman she might end up falling in love with so much... she'll want to build a nest in her (it's possible there's some Cultural Differences that need to be worked through).

Hench ⭐⭐⭐⭐ by Natalie Zina Walschots - Anna's latest temp job for a villain (because even supervillains need office help) ends with her carelessly injured by a superhero, laid off and with injured mobility for the foreseeable future (because human bodies don't see much difference between getting hit by a truck and getting moved out of way by someone able to pick up a truck). Angry, disillusioned, and looking for some vengeful payback she starts compiling the statistics of exactly how much suffering gets left behind the heroes and in quick order finds a new job working for one of the worst supervillains in the neighborhood.

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Extremely Competent Women Show Up to Fix Everyone's Shit (with a whallop of romance which was actually sweet instead of irritating)

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The Witchwood Knot ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ by Olivia Atwater - Winifred Hall was invited to the Witchwood Manor under the pretense of being the governess for a very bratty kid, but when said boy suddenly turns into a very quiet and perfectly bland boy overnight it's very obvious her charge has been stolen by faeries (and it might have something to do with the actual reason she's there). Rescue however is complicated by some factors, one, there being something terribly dark and wrong about the house (normal houses don't have screaming faces in the walls), another, the faerie man posing as the manor's butler who would very much like to make her run screaming the way so many servants had before her (unfortunately for him, she's not even half as scared of him as she is the eyes of the father of her charge).

This one's about dealing with past trauma, and otherworldly terrors paling in comparison to mundane monsters, set in a very beautiful and dark and shiver-inducing Victorian time world where the Fair Folk are very real.

(Same world as her Regency Faerie Tales trilogy that Started with Half a Soul but it's not necessary to read that one first to enjoy this one)

Keeper of Enchanted Rooms ⭐⭐⭐⭐½ by Charlie N. Holmberg - Merritt Fernsby inherits a house only to be immediately taken hostage by what turns out to be a very stubborn and opinionated magical house. Hulda Larkin of the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms goes there to facilitate the relationship between the house and its new owner.

It's supposed to be a very simple job. Unfortunately there's a third POV character in this book (no, not the Whimbrel House, though I adore that house and *insert here the Rosa Diaz gif about her new puppy and how she would kill everyone in this room and then herself if anything were to happen to that dog*). Anyway, they're a bit... uhhh... let's go with Bad News.

Emily Wilde's Encyclopedia of Faeries ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ by Heather Fawcett - As one might expect from the title, Emily (a Cambridge scholar) wants to write the first ever encyclopedia of faeries. And she's brilliant enough to do it, what she's terrible at is people (*insert autistic character alert here*).

Someone else might then say it's lucky that a fellow scholar with a far easier time at charming people has stuck his toes in her reaserch trip into the Hidden Ones... that person however doesn't understand how irritating, frustrating and maddening her academic rival Wendell Bambleby actually is.

What follows is a story filled with winter snows, some terrible fae, some adorable fae, some not-very-secret fae, the goodest of good dogs, and lots and lots of squabbling. It's the best.

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Dark and Impactful Stories about Children Who Decide on Their Own Paths

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A Skinful of Shadows ⭐⭐⭐⭐½ by Frances Hardinge - Kate, an orphan and the illegitimate daughter of some stuffy (and evil) aristocrats runs away because being a bastard doesn't mean she didn't inherit the family magic that allows her to get possessed by the dead.

A dead bear ghost is one thing, a Get Out situation is something else entirely.

A Sorceress Comes to Call ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ by T. Kingfisher - Cordelia isn't allowed friends or the privacy of closed doors, and whenever she's done something she shouldn't - a category too unpredictable to guard against - she's not allowed power over her own body.

Because her mother is an evil sorceress (think Regina and Cora... except somehow even worse). An evil sorceress that has found herself a Squire to lure into a marriage.

Hester is an old maid living with her brother, a Squire (well look at them coincidences), when said brother acquires a woman clearly set on his fortune. The plan is only to save her brother, except Hester can't help noticing how the woman's daughter keeps flinching in her mother's presence.

In The Lives of Puppets ⭐⭐⭐⭐ by TJ Klune - A family can be an android inventor, his human son (*homoromantic asexual alert*), a sadistic nurse droid, and a very emotional roomba.

And it can be a very happy family. Until one uncovers and wakes up an android that shares a very Skynet past with one's father, said father gets kidnapped, and one has to go on a journey to get him back.

(A book I like to call Sci-fi Reverse Pinocchio)

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Unraveling an Unjust System (and a hero that - on a scale from occasionally to constantly - hears a disembodied voice directly in their heads okay the connection between these three is a bit of a stretch but they're all great books so shut up)

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Hell for Hire ⭐⭐⭐⭐½ by Rachel Aaron - 5000 years ago Gilgamesh conquered the heavens, enslaved the demons and made it so that the only road to magic humanity had access, was through him.

Now, however a mercenary team made up of free demons gets hired by a Blackwood witch to protect him (and his familiar, the talking cat named Boston) while he puts down roots (literally) inside the new forest grove he's about to start so that he can stand up against the warlocks after him.

The witch quickly becomes the best client Bex and her crew have ever had (after all, warlocks under the rule of the Eternal King Gilgamesh are slavers of their kind, they are delighted at the chance to kill some).

Vespertine ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ by Margaret Rogerson - In a world where the veil between the living and the dead has been kinda broken Artemisia (*another autistic character alert*) is training to be a Gray Sister (magic nun).

Until her convent gets attacked by possessed soldiers and she has no choice but to pick up a Saint's Relic containing a malevolent revenant to protect it.

Problem. Only a Vespertine is supposed to do it. Another problem. The only one "alive" who can teach her to be a Vespertine is the revenant. Another another problem. The revenant cannot be trusted and if she loses control to it, the death toll will be counted in cities.

Terminal Alliance ⭐⭐⭐⭐¾ by Jim C. Hines - Post Zombie Apocalypse, where some aliens showed up, sort of cured the zombies and took the (mostly) cured zombies into their military.

Which leads us to Marion Adamopoulos, also known as Mops, the Leutenant in charge of Shipboard Hygene and Sanitation of the Earth Mercenary Corps Ship Pufferfish.

Right up until a bioweapon turns the entire crew except her crew back into zombies. Congratulations, she's the captain now.

(Space Janitors save the universe story).

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