#custom gender

[closedcaskets]

discordcharic, sombracharic, chrysalischaric, and nightmarecharic ☆₊ ⁺﹒⋆

discordcharic is a gender related to lord discord from my little pony: friendship is magic. this gender feels chaotic and unpredictable, wild and free. this gender feels like walking into a maze of mirrors with an optical illusion as the floor and ceiling. it feels dizzy and uncertain.

sombracharic is a gender related to king sombra from my little pony: friendship is magic. this gender feels powerful and dark, controlling and spiteful. this gender feels like dark crystals overtaking a throne room, claiming it as yours.

chrysalischaric is a gender related to queen chrysalis from my little pony: friendship is magic. this gender feels hungry and determined, fierce and resentful. this gender feels like walking through an abandoned throne room after being banished by your subjects.

nightmarecharic is a gender related to nightmare moon from my little pony: friendship is magic. this gender feels harsh and resentful, abandoned and cruel. this gender feels like seeing the ruins of a place you once called home and knowing you are the one who destroyed it.

coined by me. requested by no-one.

[sapphire-heart-tippy]

Creaturessent!

Creaturessent: A person who is usually trans masculine (but they don't necessarily have to be!), who doesn't feel like they fit in the binary. They feel mischievous and creature-like and their gender feels more like a playful impish/fairyish type being. Though they may have a main gender, there's definitely something else underneath/alongside that aspect! So think of this gender as kind of a bag of holding. The container is there, but the inside of this gender holds a plethora of different types of genders and feelings! Either that or this gender could be all there is to the individual. It is up to how they feel about it.

Meanings of the colors:

Black: mischievous nature, representing the playfulness yet mysteriousness of this gender

Heliotrope And Teal: queerness and togetherness and sense of community and finding yourself, being comfortable in your own skin

Azure: the feeling of boldness and the feeling of freedom to present however you want

White: nonbinary and any other feelings of being outside of the binary

Purple: the feeling of androgyny and gender neutrality regardless of how you present outwardly

[alexa-santi-author]

My tiny contribution to the gender discourse On Here…

I’m setting up a new Gmail account and I kind of love their gender options.

- Female

- Male

- Rather not say

- Custom

So congratulations to my friends and acquaintances who have chosen to customize their gender. 😂

[switchylilguy]

[mushroomgazette]

Upload custom gender

I'm sorry, your gender is over 10MB

Please try again

[oodlenoodleroodle]

I just saw a gender stat thing where the segments were "man", "woman" and "custom"

[lorynna]

y'all know Miriam from TikTok? She's a jewish woman dedicated to giving people insight into her and her family's personal life, specifically around her religion, Judaism, and educating people about their customs.

No shade against her - she seems to be a lovely woman and I love the energy she gives off but even here, no matter how positively she tries to portray her religion, I again can't help noticing mysogynistic patterns.

To name a few: not being allowed to touch other men except immediate family members and her husband, not being allowed to touch her husband at all during her menstruation, having to dress modestly and having to cover elbows, collarbones and knees, not being allowed to show her hair to other men outside of the family (the picture on top shows her going to get fitted for a custom made wig and you can guess how expensive it must be to pay for all of those wigs).

Especially the last thing... I just cannot understand how it is forbidden to show your natural hair to non related men, but then to wear wigs and aim for them to look as natural and unnoticeable as possible?

There are other things about their customs that are just so impractical for day to day life and i cannot fathom having to deal with all of these things.

You have yet to convince me that religion and feminism are compatible.

[reshinless]

Hi hi! Ive read some of ur work and literally salvating rn for kinich stuff GAUGH!

So im here to post in a request for gn (or fem) afab reader x Kinich

Basically kinks you think kinich would have and asking reader to let him indulge in those kinks of his <333 (pls let it end with reader being fucked outta their mind)

If ur not comfortable / not open for request feel free to ignore this!

Much love,

Kichi

──── take your shirt off!!

⠀ ۪ ⠀✧ synopsis. honestly, he himself can't decide what he likes more.. fucking your hole more, or lapping up what he can from it!

⠀ ۪ ⠀✧ pairings. kinich x gn!afab!reader/fem!reader (i use a lot of fem terms here, so sorry :(

⠀ ۪ ⠀✧ director's notice. millionares <3333

in a sense, he didn't really have a favorite. i mean he liked whatever you did. he just observed while you both fucked and experimented to see what you liked the most.. but it seems like you don't really know yourself. you arch your back all the same, doesn't seem like you have a favorite either!

oh but in all honesty, you could say his kink was you. he never thought about making love with anyone else, and you're the only one he's ever thought of getting dumb on his dick. so much for that!

kinich is and has always been a straightforward man. if there's something he wants- he'll take it. and that attitude didn't change even in intimate times. in times where he thinks you're about to cream on his fingers, something tells him to slow the tempo of his fingers.

"m- mmf ffuck, kin i'm g'na-" or maybe he favored the sounds you made when he ate you out. entangling the taste of your cunt on his tongue to mix with his saliva, you could feel the grasp on your thighs tighten more. rolling his tongue into your folds, he could hear the way you'd whimper, and groan, pushing his head further into the junction of your thighs.

kinich loves giving nicknames, and having them. hearing you call him 'kin' on its own was already one of his biggest turn-ons. please keep calling him that!!

loving the way his tongue dipped into your sex, you could feel your body instinctively arching your back. you tried to close your legs, but he just as easily pried them back open again, his gloved palm kept your inner thighs squished against his face.

"ahhn- kin' don' stop pleasef.." you felt yourself shriek to the man in between your legs. maybe he liked it better when you begged him to overstimulate your hole while he licked your clit.

your hands were buried in the messy locks of his hair. chasing your high as you felt it pool in your stomach, building up faster than you expect.

you arch your back against his digits, letting it curl against your velvety walls. huh, you looked so pretty like that. a little too pretty for his own liking. wonder what caused the tent in his pants..

flopping you onto your chest against the mattress, he blindfolds you with his headband from earlier, rough palms scatter to the opposite sides of your hips, bringing it up to his shaft.

you could only imagine from the feeling, his tip pressing against your folds. pushing himself faster than usual nights, it felt like he was ramming into you.

oh it was that necklace he bought you with his initial on it. you could even see it from behind, his chest presses against yours as he leans down to fit his head in the crook of your neck just to watch it bounce on your chest.

gosh you were so adorable like this, your eyebrows forever furrowed as he plunged it deep inside you. "npmh- kin- ahhn- wan' haah- more!"

kinich who gladly obliges, each time he penetrates you, he makes sure to really grind into your cunt. make sure you feel everything you want to. he just wants you to feel good; his orgasm is a bonus!

it could be the cute little look you gave him, pleading with your eyes as he took off the blindfold away from your view. now instead- tying your hands together, and gently flipping you over onto your back- putting you in some kind of.. mating press?!

he pinned your tied hands above your head, merciless thrusts, even deeper penetration from earlier. damn how big was it really?! it almost felt like you were getting impaled with the way he hit your g-spot so well.

kinich who loved to make eye contact with you during moments like this. even if you can't keep up the consistency; he knows he can, as long as he gets to observe such a pretty face. getting soo corrupted from his cock <33

"that's right baby, moan as much as you want.. tell the neighbors how much you love this cock inside you." he cooed into your ear, only hurrying his thrusts inside you. before you can feel it, you've already creamed onto his base. making it all the more easier for kinich to penetrate you better!

kinich loves to praise! loves praising how well you take his dick, cuz he knows how big it really is. and seeing your hole swallow it hole in one go? if that isn't deserving of his words of acknowledgement, what is?

he grunted through his words, working through each thrust surprisingly rough. continuously switches paces unconsciously, accidently goes really fast then slow to grind into your precious spot. "s'good.. taking me like royalty.." praise whispered from a low raspy voice from your lover's throat exits as he leans in to get a better angle of your pretty face.

"ah.. uh.. ffuck.. s'tight.. this pussy's mine right?" you felt yourself cumming again, squirting. to kinich though; this was his own sign to continue till he came (asked you for consent first cuz this is all for you anyway.)

"f- fuuuckk g'na cum inside you, sweetheart- ahh sshit..!!"

kinich loves getting to know the fact that you're his, and he's yours. he'll say it as many times as you want; his cock was for your pleasure!

but kinich's aftercare game is insanely good, not something you'd expect if this was a hookup- but it wasn't. he made sure you were okay afterwards, asking you if you ever felt uncomfortable throughout any of it.

let him know if you didn't like some of the stuff he did; this was your first time with him after all, and only the best should come if ever after you'll make love again (which will most likely happen.)

he'll clean you up himself, and make sure you're well rested for the next day. will not accept any argument, will cuddle with you all night- hugging you from behind, and scattering plentiful of kisses every now and then on your shoulders.

[leosims4]

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[smolmoss]

gender + species euphoria emotes !!

[flame-shadow]

The Gender Fluids have been unleashed upon the Soul Sanctum

I recolored all the mistake and folly sprites to resemble six gender pride flags. Add them to the game by downloading which ones you want and using the Custom Knight mod to swap their appearances in the game. The follies and mistakes don't have to match, so you can have two different gender reps visible at once!

Click here to go to the google drive with all the recolored sprite sheets.

Have fun!

[closedcaskets]

censoredgender ☆₊ ⁺﹒⋆

a gender that feels like it has been censored by a big, black bar. this gender feels secretive and unknown.

coined by me. requested by anon.

[id : two versions of a seven-striped flag. the flag is dark grey-red, grey-red, light grey-red, black, light grey-red, grey-red, and dark grey-red. the second version has an icon of a person with a censor bar over their face. end id.]

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

in asoiaf, what is the order of succession for nobles and for the throne (as i’ve read they are different)?

They are indeed different. In most of Westeros, they use traditional Andal succession, known in our world as male-preference primogeniture. This puts women at the back of the line, so to speak, but does not exclude them. A lord's eldest son inherits, even if he has older daughters, followed by the remainder of his sons by age, and then his daughters, and then would move up to the previous generations with his brothers and then his sisters. "A daughter comes before an uncle," as they say. For example, with the Starks, Ned's succession is Robb-Bran-Rickon-Sansa-Arya. (Benjen is excluded for being a man of the Night's Watch; Jon is excluded by being a bastard and a man of the Night's Watch. But of course there's complications.) This succession also includes the heirs of the heirs, so for example Hoster Tully's succession is Edmure-Catelyn-Robb-Bran-Rickon-Sansa-Arya-Lysa-Robert-Brynden.

Note there are exceptions to this, even after King Jaehaerys I Targaryen codified the laws across Westeros. Sometimes these exceptions appear to be cultural. For example, somehow House Stark has never had a ruling lady in all its reported 8000 years of existence, and the time we know they should have, Cregan Stark's eldest (and late lamented) son Rickon's eldest daughter Sansa was (forcefully?) married to Cregan's eldest son from his third marriage, her half-uncle Jonnel, who became the lord instead. Another example - after Balon Greyjoy dies, a maester insists that "By rights the Seastone Chair belongs to Theon, or Asha if the prince is dead. That is the law", and Aeron Greyjoy dismisses it contemptuously as "green land law", and thinks the Iron Islands will never follow a woman.

Sometimes these exceptions appear to be just plain misogyny - like when Big and Little Walder Frey discuss the succession of the Twins, they don't count the women in the line. Mind you the Walders are children and may not know true details; but time will tell if Edwyn's daughter Walda will inherit or if her uncle Black Walder will seize the Twins. (Probably the latter.) Of course little Walda also has the problem of being a child heiress, but child heiresses have become ruling ladies before -- like Jeyne Arryn, whose inheritance was contested multiple times by her male cousins -- or like Cerelle Lannister, who inherited at the age of 3 and ruled for a year before dying suddenly and her uncle Gerold became lord. Um. It's hard out there for a girl. 😭

And in Dorne, they use a different form of succession entirely -- Rhoynar tradition, what we call absolute primogeniture. Much simpler, there the eldest child inherits regardless of sex. So Doran's heirs are Arianne-Quentyn-Trystane-{Elia}-{Rhaenys}-{Aegon}-Oberyn. Of course, Dorne has its own exceptions: per GRRM, a few houses in the mountains, least affected by the Rhoynar, may sometimes follow Andal tradition instead, which is likely the reason why Cletus Yronwood was considered the heir instead of his older sister Ynys. (Mind you, Cletus is dead now, and Anders Yronwood only has daughters left, so sucks to be a man compared to Criston Cole, doesn't it?) And Arianne was worried that Doran was going to have Quentyn inherit instead of her, but she didn't know that Doran was actually planning to make her queen of Westeros, which would take her out of the Sunspear succession (in the same way that Myriah Martell married Daeron II Targaryen and her younger brother Maron became Prince of Dorne).

Now. The Targaryen succession to the throne is a different matter. For them, they've had the competing issues of tradition, king's choice, sexist lords voting sexism, even more tradition, and politics. (Sooo much politics.) Putting the rest of this behind a cut because it was already a long post but it got longer:

From the start, as far as we know the pre-Conquest Targaryens in Westeros used traditional Andal succession. (It's unknown how succession was handled in Valyria, or if there was a difference between the dragonrider families and any others.) There is a brief mention that Aenar the Exile's grandchildren, Aegon and Elaena, ruled together, but every other Lord of Dragonstone was indeed a lord, and hardly any daughters are even referred to. By the time we get to the Conquest trio, we know that Visenya was the eldest child, and yet her younger brother Aegon was Lord of Dragonstone. And later, Aegon was the king, with his sister-wives as his queens (though unlike later queens, they sat the Iron Throne and handled day-to-day governance of the realm).

The first time we see an issue with this succession tradition was when King Aenys died and his half-brother Maegor usurped (and later killed) Aenys's eldest son Aegon. By Andal tradition, Aegon and his sister-wife Rhaena's eldest daughter Aerea should have succeeded after Maegor died (he considered her his heir until he had children of his own), but instead Aegon's younger brother Jaehaerys became king. Political issues there: Jaehaerys actually successfully contested Maegor's rule, he was a strong teen boy with a sword and a dragon where Aerea was a girl of six who'd been in hiding most of her life, her mother Rhaena had been forcefully married to Maegor and had few supporters, Aerea had been named heir by Maegor specifically to cut out Jaehaerys, etc. Though note Aerea was considered Jaehaerys's heir... until he had children of his own. And as for Rhaena (Aenys's eldest child), she never actually vied for the throne after Maegor's death, but later in her life she bitterly told Jaehaerys "you have my throne, content yourself with that."

As for Jaehaerys and his children, from the start there were problems, when Queen Alysanne expected their eldest child Daenerys to be queen one day (why Alysanne expected the throne to follow absolute primogeniture at this point is unknown), and Jae was like, sure, our second child Aemon will be king and she'll be his wife! But Daenerys died as a child, and as for Aemon, he died too, albeit as a father of a grown daughter with a child of her own on the way. And there you have Jae sexism part 2, instead of naming Rhaenys as his heir, he instead named his second living son, Baelon, as his heir. So here's the precedent where the throne deliberately denied Andal succession tradition, and instead went with king's choice.

Then 9 years after Aemon's death, Baelon also died, and Jaehaerys held the Great Council of 101 AC, for all the lords of Westeros to decide between all of Jaehaerys's potential heirs. In the end, the final choice was between Aemon's daughter Rhaenys's son Laenor (Rhaenys herself was also in competition, though her claim was dismissed early) and Baelon's son Viserys. By a large percentage, the lords chose Viserys. According to maesters,

In the eyes of many, the Great Council of 101 AC thereby established an iron precedent on matters of succession: regardless of seniority, the Iron Throne of Westeros could not pass to a woman, nor through a woman to her male descendants.

This female-exclusive tradition is known in our world as agnatic primogeniture, or Salic law. However, this "iron precedent" was not that iron even from the beginning. Viserys and his wife Aemma only had one living child, Rhaenyra, so Viserys's brother Daemon was considered his heir until a son was born. And, well, if you've seen the first episode of HOTD you know what happened, because of Daemon's fuckup Viserys deliberately dismissed him, "disregarding the precedents set by [...] the Great Council in 101", but used the precedent of king's choice to name Rhaenyra as his heir and make all the lord of Westeros vow to obey that decision. Again, you've seen what happened next -- Viserys then remarried and had sons, whose grandfather used the Andal tradition to try to make Viserys name as heirs, but he refused to bypass Rhaenyra. In the end, though, when the Green Council formed after Viserys's death,

Ser Tyland pointed out that many of the lords who had sworn to defend the succession of Princess Rhaenyra were long dead. “It has been twenty-four years,” he said. “I myself swore no such oath. I was a child at the time.” Ironrod, the master of laws, cited the Great Council of 101 and the Old King’s choice of Baelon rather than Rhaenys in 92, then discoursed at length about Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, and the hallowed Andal tradition wherein the rights of a trueborn son always came before the rights of a mere daughter.

So the law cited to name Aegon II king was one king's choice vs another king's choice, as well as Andal tradition and the "iron precedent" of the Great Council. And thus we got the Dance of the Dragons, Rhaenyra vs Aegon II.

But what about afterwards? What does Fire & Blood say about Aegon III, how did the maesters decide he inherited, through Aegon II (as his only living male relative), as Daemon's son, or as Rhaenyra's son? Well, it doesn't actually explain this point! The moment Aegon II died, Corlys Velaryon's men were freeing Aegon the Younger from his hostage prison, and then when the late Rhaenyra's (finally) winning army showed up at the gates of King's Landing, we just have Corlys saying, "The king is dead, long live the king." No maester commentary on the precedent at all, much to the frustration of backseat lawyers and historians in the fandom, who keep arguing one way or the other, or the various fandom teams, who keep arguing which side actually won.* 😅

*The answer is nobody. Nobody won.

And note that because Aegon III had no known living male relatives at the time (his brother Viserys was missing and presumed dead), his half-sisters Baela and Rhaena were considered his heirs, again despite this supposed "iron precedent". Leading to one of my favorite quotes from F&B:

Yet it was Grand Maester Munkun who put an end to the debate when he said, “My lords, it makes no matter. They are both girls. Have we learned so little from the slaughter? We must abide by primogeniture, as the Great Council ruled in 101. The male claim comes before the female.” Yet when Ser Tyland said, “And who is this male claimant, my lord? We seem to have killed them all,” Munkun had no answer but to say he would research the issue.

Though Aegon III's council and regents really wanted Baela to have a proper son, and when she rejected their (fat old guy) intended husband and instead eloped with a legitimized bastard, they wasted no time getting her sister Rhaena married to someone suitable, though she actually chose her husband, an older knight she'd become friends with in the Vale. And then Unwin Peake killed off Aegon II's daughter Jaehaera in order to marry Aegon III to his own daughter, and Baela and Rhaena did an end run with a new wife for their brother, a very young girl he didn't touch for 10 years... Of course, all this plotting came to nothing when Viserys did show up alive, so the lords could be satisfied with no need for an icky girl queen, the very idea.

The next time we see any competing issues of precedent for the succession to the throne was after Aegon III's second son, Baelor the Blessed, died without any children. By rights, per Andal tradition, his successor should have been his sister (and ex-wife) Daena. However, because Baelor had imprisoned Daena and her sisters in the Maidenvault for 10 years, they had few supporters, complicated by the fact that Daena had also recently had a bastard and refused to name the father. And of course, the Dance was still on everyone's mind as it had ended only 40 years before. So,

The precedents of the Great Council of 101 and the Dance of the Dragons were therefore cited, and the claims of Baelor's sisters were set aside. Instead the crown passed to his uncle, the King's Hand, Prince Viserys.

And Viserys II was followed by his son Aegon IV and so on. After this point, we do not have any real questions about gender and succession for a while. (Though some wonder, when Daemon Blackfyre vied for the throne, if he ever cited his mother Daena's stolen claim, in addition to being the unstated choice of his father Aegon IV. Also Aerys I named his niece Aelora as his heir after her brother-husband Aelor died, but she also died before Aerys did.) By the time of the Great Council of 233 AC, the claim of Vaella, only child of Maekar's eldest son Daeron, was dismissed immediately, though note she was also considered "simple", and Maekar's fourth son came to the throne as Aegon V.

And then in 283 AC, Robert Baratheon took the throne from the Targaryens. While many believe he took the throne by conquest (killing King Aerys II Targaryen's heir Rhaegar, while Aerys was killed by Jaime Lannister), maesters cite the fact that Robert was the grandson of Rhaelle Targaryen, daughter of Aegon V! So where is that "iron precedent" now, with Robert as the descendant of a Targaryen woman? And Robert's brother Stannis considers his daughter Shireen to be his heir, and people in Westeros in general consider Robert's daughter Myrcella to be his heir (after her brothers Joffrey and Tommen). Not to mention the fact that (claimant king in exile) Viserys considered Dany his heir, naming her Princess of Dragonstone.

So. Theoretically by the time of the main books, this "no women allowed ever" precedent for royal succession is still out there. In practice, however, the throne currently either follows Andal tradition of sons before daughters (but yes, including daughters), or the "whoever has the larger army" tradition of old. And that will be what truly decides the question of Aegon (or Jon) vs Daenerys, whether Rhaegar's line was disinherited by Aerys II or whether any maesters pop up to say "but iron precedent!" or what. Fire and blood, as always.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

THE GREEN IN YOUR EYES MAKES ME FEEL WARM INSIDE ; MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

synopsis; in the comfort of a familiar bookstore, you find a boy. a pretty boy, who’s always reading, who doesn’t speak unless he has to. you’d like to get to know him — and maybe you will.

word count; 4.6k

contents; megumi fushiguro/reader, gn!reader, fluffy!!, lots of pining from afar, bookstore au, no curses au, reader is an overworked student bc uni is beating my ass, gumi is kind of awkward but hes cute <3, gojo mentioned twice (stay safe), can u tell im excited for christmas … :'3

a/n; bookstore employee gumi who hates every single customer except for you is so real to me

(@riaki its here …🙇‍♂️)

he’s there again. 

with a decisive step forward, you drag the door open, and the flutter of a bell resounds throughout the bookstore. a precious little jingle, alerting him of your presence. 

the boy at the counter gives you a glance. his navy eyes settle on your bundled up figure, and a flicker of familiarity blooms in the scope of his iris, a kind of recognition. something that makes your heart feel like a clumped up little ball of snow. 

(oh. it’s you.

you can almost hear the silent words fall past his lips.)

it only lasts for a second, barely even that, your gazes overlapping — then he’s back to reading. 

today, you recognize the book in his hands. the hardcover looks just a tiny bit worn, but still well taken care of. well-loved. and it’s a pretty rendition; a butterfly just above the title, snakes crawling on either side, vines stretching out across the scope of the image. there’s a kind of mystique to it. pretty.

wuthering heights, you read off the cover.

a little odd, in hindsight. you’ve only ever seen him read nonfiction. maybe he decided to broaden his horizons?

after a brief moment’s contemplation, your feet begin to move. taking another small step forward, inching closer, while the door falls shut behind you. blocking out the snowfall and colourful lights illuminating the street. 

mitten-clad hands go to brush stray snowflakes off your shoulders, as you shift from foot to foot, halfheartedly attempting to warm up your numbed toes. wallowing in the atmosphere of the cozy little bookstore; breathing in the smell of peppermint, the hint of freshly brewed coffee. from the boy, you assume — he’s got his usual mug on standby, a cute little black dog etched into the ceramic. steam rises from it, floating up into the air, and a fragrance of espresso wafts throughout the store.

low christmas music plays from the speakers, barely audible. pleasing to your sensitive ears and tired mind. it’s the usual mix of well-loved songs, for the most part, but then some you haven’t heard before. you can only assume he picked them out himself; pretty instrumentals, or low, gravelly voices, adding to that particular atmosphere simmering around you. nostalgic, a little melancholic.

the boy behind the counter looks angelic. 

he always does, when he’s reading — and he usually is. gentle, in the way he turns the pages, awfully delicate, keeping them still between his thumb and forefinger. lips pursed, brows just a tiny bit furrowed. concentrated, immersed. dark eyes trailing over the tiny letters, scanning the ink of the paper, twisting the syllables inside his mind. almost tasting them on his tongue, with the way he wets his lips. they look a little chapped.

for some reason, the sight seems to render you sort of speechless. frozen. like he’s a pretty bluebird seated on your windowsill, chirping softly in the wake of morning, and you’re afraid of scaring him away.

— his eyes meet yours, and you visibly stiffen.

it’s smooth, the motion of his hands. how swiftly he flicks the book shut, placing it face down on the counter with a twitch of his lithe fingers. not before slipping a pretty bookmark in between the pages, lilac-coloured, with flowers embroidered into the silky texture. you wonder if he made it himself. 

his voice spills out into the air, a little raspy. deep, but velvety, sending shivers down your spine. he clears his throat, and you watch his adam’s apple bob. ”do you need anything?”

a second passes. 

it catches you off guard, the mellow sound of his voice. when you’re so unaccustomed to hearing it. excluding the brief words you’ve exchanged paying for your novels, you’ve only heard it a select few times — mostly from afar, not-so-sneakily listening in on his conversations with the pink haired boy and pretty girl who sometimes come in and never look at any of the books. 

(there’s the tall guy with the not-so-seasonal sunglasses, too. but when he enters the store, all you pick up on are usually grumbles and threatening hand gestures.)

but now, that low, low voice is directed at you. 

it can’t be good for your physical health. or mental, for that matter. you’re not sure you remember to properly breathe, and you’re almost certain hearts aren’t supposed to flail the way yours is right now. 

when the boy behind the counter tilts his head, just by a hair, you’re finally snapped out of your little trance. stumbling for something to say, stuttering out a response, your hands grip at the insides of your pockets.

”well, um — i’m looking for a book.”

a moment passes. the song coming from the speakers changes into an instrumental, kind of jazzy. it’s nice.

”… a specific book,” you elaborate, under your breath. gnawing at your bottom lip, feeling a bit of heat on your ears. clearing your throat, as you step forward, tearing your mittens off with your teeth.

searching for a certain image, your numbed fingertips begin to tap at the cold screen of your phone. the warm air of the bookstore envelops your chilled knuckles, and a shiver runs through them.

the boy watches, silently, as you get closer. 

you don’t notice him glancing at your reddened hands, and when you look up to see a glimmer of something displeased in his eyes, you only assume it’s because you’re taking too long. speeding up slightly, you hear a low click of his tongue. his back straightens.

when he gets up from his chair, you notice that he's tall. you don’t think you’ve ever seen him do anything but sit behind the counter with a book in hand, either reading his own or scanning a customer’s. 

and, upon closer inspection — he’s maybe just a little bit too pretty for words. smooth, pale skin, a sharp jaw and defined cheekbones, dark eyes that hide a subtle kind of softness. pierced ears, a glimmer of silver on his earlobes, same as the rings on his bony fingers. his nails are painted black, a little chipped. and he’s wearing a big, bright green christmas sweater; one you really can’t imagine him picking out on his own, if his previous all-black turtlenecks and gray sweaters are anything to go by. 

while you fumble with the phone in your grasp, the pads of his fingers go to silently tap at the edge of the counter. a rhythmic motion; forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, over and over again.

it’s a little bit distracting. when he moves his hand a certain way, his big sweater sleeve rides up just a tiny bit, showing off the blue veins of his inner wrist. you think you catch a glimpse of a mole or two on his pale skin, and you swallow down a gulp, feeling a little like a victorian man seeing a girl’s ankle.

and then finally, you locate the image in question. swiftly showing him the cover of the book you were assigned to read. he squints a little, blinking drowsily, a flutter of his pretty eyelashes that has your heart skipping a beat. 

you clear your throat.

”i’m supposed to read it before christmas break, but i couldn’t find it at our library…” you tilt your head, a little sheepish. ”do you have it here?”

he stares at the screen for just a second more. then he’s angling his head to the left, finger pointing towards a corner of the store. ”it should be over there,” he hums. monotone.

a tentative smile forms on your lips. you thank him, and his eyes find yours.

all he does is shake his head, softly, brushing you off — a silent don’t worry about it. maybe a tad gruff, but you sense an acute gentleness to it. something tender, kind of. or maybe you’d just like to believe the kindness you sense in his eyes is real, more than just a delusion. 

but you don’t have time to dwell on it. the boy behind the counter goes back to reading, cradling the spine with his pretty hands. when he tries to grab the handle of his mug, one of the rings on his fingers knock against the ceramic, and he clicks his tongue in annoyance. 

you go to hunt down your own book, still thinking about his voice, how it trickled like honey from out his lips. 

the bookstore is entirely empty, tonight. no loud noises drilling into your groggy brain, no people to chatter amongst themselves and disrupt the illusion of peace you gain when you spend time here. a tiny respite, from your studies, from the stress and fatigue that you’ve come to associate with winter. hunting for christmas gifts, finishing late assignments, trudging through the snow. pretending that you have it all together.

but here, none of that matters. 

a sense of calm washes over you, as your eyes trail over the books by the science fiction section, and a soft sigh tumbles from your throat. gradually, your hands begin to warm up, and you look out the window.

outside, the world is blanketed by a veil of snow and frost, pure whites and murky grays as far as the eye can see. falling down to earth, smothering everything in a bitter chill. a cold, cold embrace. but when looking at it like this, from inside a cozy bookstore, with a pretty boy by the counter…

it's a breathtaking sight. 

little snowflakes descending, dancing in the wind. desaturating your world. if you close your eyes and focus, you think you can almost feel the wind nip at your fingertips, almost taste the fragrance of dried tea leaves and caramel fudge from the tiny shop across the street. almost bask in the green and red of the decorative lights in the skeletal trees, illuminating the city, buzzing with artificial warmth.

(your heart feels light.)

it doesn’t take long for you to find the book you need. keeping it safe and warm between your arm and torso, you walk back to the counter, gaze still lingering on the windowpane. the little snowflakes fluttering about, the glimpses you catch of passerby and their knit scarves in the darkness of the winter evening.

the boy behind the counter is as efficient as ever. he takes the book, fingertips resting exactly where yours just were, and scans it in a matter of seconds. you pay, and he puts it in a plastic bag, handing it to you — all while his copy of wuthering heights sits on the counter, pointedly, as if beckoning you to mention it.

before you can think to stop yourself, you’ve parted your lips. 

”is it good?” you ask. finger pointing at his book.

the boy blinks. eyelashes fluttering. once, then twice. he seems a little caught off guard, but still speaks within a split second. almost like he doesn’t even think about the answer. ”yeah.”

a hum buzzes in your throat. you shift a little, from foot to foot, plastic bag in hand. ”i’ve been meaning to read it,” you say, desperate to prolong the conversation, ”but i haven't had much time lately.”

a chuckle slips from your lips. it comes out sounding just a little exhausted. 

(he glances at the dark bags beneath your eyes, but you don’t notice.)

”i think i might buy it in time for christmas break, though…” you lift your gaze to meet his own. showing the briefest glimpse of a smile, polite. 

he doesn’t return it. lips pursed, silent, gazing at you with slightly lidded eyes. a navy blue, little splotches of a murky green blooming in the corners of his iris. they only appear when you’re this close. soothing, somehow. they’re pretty.

he isn’t saying anything, not a single word, and some part of your heart clogs up like a clump of wet snow. subconsciously, you trap your bottom lip between your teeth, digging into the soft flesh before letting go. cowering a little under his intense gaze.

did you annoy him? 

(he probably doesn’t want to talk to you. maybe he thinks you’re hitting on him, or something. are you hitting on him? that doesn’t matter. he must be stressed — it’s holiday season, after all. the last thing he needs is some annoying customer taking up his precious reading time. 

gosh, what were you even thinking?)

you’re just about to excuse yourself, mentally berating yourself for forcibly striking up a conversation with an obvious introvert — 

when the sound of something sliding against wooden material catches your attention.

you blink.

the boy behind the counter does a little cough. under his breath, clearing his throat. he wets his lips, in what you immediately recognize as nervosity — absentmindedly fidgeting with the rings on his fingers. 

”here.”

when you look down, a certain book is placed on the edge of the counter, right in front of you. wuthering heights.

another blink. you look down at the hardcover, and then back up at him, but he’s not meeting your gaze. if you look closely, you think you see a slight flush to his neck, red like a candy cane. 

”you can borrow it,” he says. a pause. then he continues, clearing his throat again, a hint of hesitance in his raspy voice. ”… if you want to, i mean.”

”… ah.” is all you can answer. barely a word, more of a weak little hum. an absent tremble of your voice.

outside the comfort and warmth of the bookstore, the wind whistles, digging its claws into the city. tiny whirlwinds of snowflakes dance from street to street, fluttering about joyously. you vaguely pick up on the song from the speakers changing, into a poppy christmas-themed kpop song.

a moment passes.

your muddled mind finally reacts. on instinct, sending little instructions to your frozen limbs. to your heart, face down on the floor, completely useless.

”oh — no, there’s no need!” you blurt out, putting your hands up hastily. waving him off. ”it’s fine, i can just buy my own copy!” 

but the boy only clicks his tongue, with that signature furrow of his brows. ”you’re a student,” he states, just a little gruff. but then there’s that kindness. ”you shouldn’t waste your money.”

you’re just about to protest, when he continues. ”besides,” he sighs. ”i’ve already read it. you can just bring it back whenever you’re done.”

and again, your instinctual desire is to protest. unsure of what to say, somehow exasperated by his trust. that’s what it is, isn’t it? trust. trusting a stranger, a customer he’s barely even spoken to, not to just take his book and then never return. trusting you to be a decent person. a good person.

isn’t that naive?

something sprouts like a snowdrop in a ridge between your ribs, though, and you know that it’s happiness of some kind. you’re glad, that he has something even vaguely similar to trust in you. 

glad that he’s acknowledging you, in a way. your presence, the sneaky glances shared between you. the comfortable feeling that sleeps inside your veins when it's just you and him, silently passing each other by, in a quiet bookstore that feels a little like heaven on earth. a safe haven, of sorts, with no incompetent professors, tight deadlines or numb fingers.

it’s just him, and cozy christmas music, and a pitter patter rhythm of your heartbeat that sounds a little like jingle bells to your muddled mind.

a lump forms in the back of your throat. you gulp it back down, and part your lips. an unsure question spills into the open air. 

”are… you really sure?”

”yeah.” he doesn’t even skip a beat. fingers tapping at the edge of the counter, over and over again. another slow moment passes. ”we can… talk. about it.” he coughs into his closed fist. ”once you've read it.” 

with a soft furrow of his brows, he averts his gaze. his voice comes out sounding soft, albeit a little rough around the edges. ”if you want,” he adds.

you’re so distracted by the flutter of his long eyelashes that you barely even feel your lips stretch into a smile. your hearts skips around happily within the confines of your ribcage, and you’re worried that you might look a little too excited — but how could you ever hide your joy, when he’s acting so dangerously, uncharacteristically cute?

”yeah!” you blurt, teeth peeking out when you flash him a bright smile. and finally, he meets your gaze. pretty eyes fixed entirely on you.

at your evident enthusiasm, his shoulders seem to relax. the rapid tapping of his fingers ceases, and he opts to simply bite down on his lip — attempting to obscure his own smile. but you see it, anyway; a tiny, tiny smile. the softest little curl of his lips. you’re entirely mesmerized, all the same. 

a hand goes to rub at the back of his neck, and he does that cute little cough again, and you wonder if the warmth sprouting in your chest will be enough to protect you from the snowfall on your way back home.

angelic; that’s the impression he always seems to leave you with. you wonder if he has any idea just how pretty he is. if he has the slightest clue. you wonder if you’ll ever be able to tell him, yourself.

you wonder if you’ll get to know him, someday. if you’ll ever get to know the pretty, quiet boy behind the counter of your go-to bookstore, who radiates a softness so palpable you wish you could stay there until spring blooms beyond the windows and melts the frosted glass. 

with tentative hands, a little shaky — not from the cold, but the anxious and excited tingle of your bloodstream — you reach for the book on the counter. taking it into your arms, cradling it gently, like it’s so fragile the pages could scatter away if you aren’t careful. with a steady hand on its spine, you begin to flip through the pages, until three little words on the first blank page catch your attention. 

without thinking, you repeat the little scribbled down sentence under your breath. hoping for something. more lulls of his voice, maybe, mumbling to yourself but hoping he’ll hear.

”happy birthday, tsumiki…”

the boy stiffens. 

a silent beat. then he clears his throat. ”my sister,” he explains, and you hum.

so he has a sister. a tiny fragment of his existence, now known to you, a little piece of trivia. you want to collect them, want to put them all in your pockets and carry them around, like little precious bells. 

”megumi,” he blurts out, sudden, and you look up from the book to meet his gaze. ”my name,” he elaborates. and then a pause. ”i work here.”

…

in a matter of seconds, his face reddens. ears and neck slathered over with that sweet cherry hue, blooming across his pale skin. a soft giggle slips from your lips, before you can think to bite it back, and that red hue exacerbates. 

”mm,” you hum, an amused smile on your face. eyes crinkling as you look at him, book safe and secure in your arms. ”i've seen you.”

megumi looks a bit like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. squirming slightly, shifting from foot to foot, tugging a little at the sleeve of his sweater. looking into your eyes, and then back at the counter.

it’s sweet. it makes you feel closer to him, somehow. like you aren’t the only nervous one here. like you aren’t the only person in this city who’s a little bit of a mess. 

(it makes the sludge piling up inside your brain feel just a little more bearable.)

”… thank you.” you smile. ”i’ll take good care of it. and i’ll bring it right back when i finish it.”

a low hum. megumi brings a hand up to fix his bangs, nimble fingers running through dark locks. absentminded — a nervous habit, maybe? ”don’t worry about it,” is all he says. 

again, that sweet dichotomy; a hint of something gruff, hiding an unmistakable softness. a little like snow. cold to the touch, enough to make you want to stay away, but then it melts on the skin of your palm. turns soft and warm beneath your touch.

unable to fully hide the smile still lingering on your lips, you allow yourself one final inhale — letting that scent of peppermint and espresso invade your mind, soothing every frazzled nerve inside your brain. then you put wuthering heights in your bag, protected and snug, and get ready to leave. 

it’s still snowing. if anything, it seems to have gotten worse, enough that all you see when you glance towards the frosted windows are little clumps of snowflakes. obscuring everything else.

just when you’re about to speak, say a little goodbye, a voice spills out into the air.

”… the snow’s supposed to get worse. apparently.”

his navy eyes carry a gentle hue, as they look into yours. maybe a little worried, like a protective mother wolf towards her cub. you blink, and megumi sees it as his cue to continue.

”you can stay until it gets better.” 

a brief pause. his signature cough reaches your ears, and it’s enough to have you smiling, even before he adds a tiny if you feel like it. nonchalant, or at least you think that’s what he’s going for. he mostly just sounds like an awfully caring person trying awfully hard to appear uncaring.

and again, a little smile slips itself into the curl of your lips. all giddy and nervous, a little flustered. but happy. now you won’t have to walk through the relentless snowfall outside, feel the wind chew at your reddened cheekbones. now you can spend just a bit more time with him, bask in those quiet, drawn out moments of pure peace, browsing through books while he sits and reads behind the counter.

”thanks,” you breathe. adjusting your knitted scarf. ”i think i'll look at the books a little more, then.”

megumi’s eyes soften. relieved, you think. hope. it’s a subtle shift, but still enough to notice, enough to see. little splotches of a mossy green sinking into that sea of ink blue.

you think he must feel a little embarrassed, though. like he’s gotten too close to broaching the line he’s set up between the two of you. because he quickly fixes his gaze entirely on a book in his hands, a new one — was it just waiting beneath the counter? 

you don't think much of it, but you note that he's back to his usual nonfiction. something on astronomy, you think.

and with one final glance at his tousled hair, you begin to stroll through the store. languidly, walking to whatever spine captures your attention. savouring the tiny words on the back of the books, wallowing in the peppermint and espresso that wafts through the air, only growing heavier while you’re busy admiring the white opaque frosting of the windows’ glass. 

at some point, the low whirring of a coffee machine buzzes from afar, and when you turn to the counter megumi isn’t there. 

a little later, when he comes back, he’ll be carrying two mugs — matching dogs etched into the ceramic, one black and one white. he’ll put one of them on the edge of the counter, closest to you, and then meet your eyes. give a vague nod towards it, but nothing else. you’ll notice the red tint to his ears, though.

and when you do, a warmth will blossom in your chest, enough to chase away the phantom ache of the winter chill soon to envelop you.

when the little bell of the bookstore jingles its jolly tune, and the door shuts itself as you cross the threshold to leave, megumi lets out a barely audible sigh.

he thinks his heart may be beating just a smidge faster than usual, a little out of rhythm. palms against the counter, he allows his eyes to flutter shut — trying not to acknowledge the heat he feels on his face when he finally begins to process your interaction. 

he smooths a hand over his face, skin just a little sweaty. chewing at his bottom lip with two sharp teeth.

god.

really, it was no more than a stupid twist of luck. that you happened to come in just when he started reading it, that you noticed and didn’t question him on any of the contents. that you believed him when he said he’d already finished it.

and, sure, maybe he was secretly really hoping you’d come in. really hoping you’d notice it, that it’d be enough to make you strike up a conversation with him, something, anything. 

he happened to see you eyeing it once, that’s all. twice, and then thrice, each on different occasions. tsumiki’s old collection came in handy, rotting on the dusty shelves of her room — although he has no memory of her ever reading it.

(he remembers some, though. remembers her reading a few of them to him, on nights he couldn’t sleep. remembers the soft lull of her voice, how the whole world seemed blanketed by a wool of safety.

he wonders if he’ll ever get to hear it again.)

megumi’s heart feels warm. despite everything. 

even though he didn’t even get past the first half of wuthering heights, and has no idea what the hell he’s going to be able to talk to you about. even though he thinks heathcliff is a dick and catherine is a brat, and wishes they could save everyone else the trouble and just talk to a psychiatrist.

even with the cold baring its fangs outside, and the cup of espresso sitting right in front of him, still untouched, made with the store’s shitty coffee machine. even in the ugly sweater gojo forced him into. even though he doesn’t even really know you, not even at all, and still somehow feels certain that you’ll come back with tsumiki’s book in tow.

trust. 

megumi thinks it’s a little weird, how just that single overlapping of your gazes when you first stepped in seemed to solidify such an abstract notion. he’s always had a sense of it, though — a sense of goodness. an ability to seek them out, those good people, bubbly and cheerful and so tragically hard not to love. 

no matter where he goes, he ends up finding them. like tiny sunflower seeds persisting beneath the winter snow. blooming when spring comes around, in a burst of golden vermillion.

resting his jaw on the heel of his palm, megumi allows himself to wallow in the solitude of the bookstore. tired eyes soaking up the words on the pages he flips through, slowly, utterly at ease. drinking his shitty coffee, trying to ignore the itchy feeling of the sweater on his skin, unable to forget the memory of your stupidly pretty smile. 

so pretty he thinks it might just keep him warm, all throughout winter, until you return once more. bringing with you the glimmer of snowflakes on soft skin, and a pleasant fragrance of tea leaves from the cozy shop across the street.

a single sunflower, persisting even through the cold. 

megumi smiles. a tiny curl of his chapped lips, while he flips the pages of his book. content in the knowledge that this won’t be the last time he speaks to you.

(now he just needs to read up on some good papers on wuthering heights.)

[emile-hides]

The year is 2024, 8 years post release, and Pokemon Go not only finally gives trainers the ability to have more than just the default hair style and one of four eye and skin colors, but decided while they were there to completely blast every other Pokemon Game in the world out of existence by removing Gender entirely and giving the player customizable body types complete with separate sliders for Weight, Muscle, Shoulders, Chest, and Waist

[notaluckypup]

It’s so easy to get puppies worked up. A simple tone shift. Eye contact held for just too long. A small touch here and there. Watch your puppy get frustrated so quickly as they become a writhing mess at your feet. Mutts are so quick to beg over basically nothing, with their breathy whining and hips that can’t help but buck, so demanding you might just have to remind them who’s in charge~