#gendered descriptions

[siarven]

Saw this post by @doppelnatur how dandelions are pretty good trans symbols and got inspired! Happy pride everyone 🏳️‍⚧️

[taliabhattwrites]

Imo, If AMAB folks can be women, then AFAB folks can definitely be trans women too. And yes, AMAB people can also be cis women, like those who live stealth—though I wouldn’t say that’s the only way to think about it. When it comes to how people treat you, there’s no difference between ''being a trans or cis woman'' and ''being seen as a trans or cis woman.'"

"when it comes to how people treat you"

Do you see where you went wrong?

Do you see how you've artificially limited the scope of the conversation purely to the interpersonal?

Do you see how things might be different if we also accounted for the medico-legal, structural impacts of being trans?

My birth assignment and my current sex being in conflict is the source of a lot of structural issues, compounded by my status as an immigrant, that wouldn't affect someone whose legal designation and sex aligned.

It's really that simple, but I've realized this website has a tendency to only consider social systems and regimes in terms of interactions with others, when that's really the most superficial aspect of oppression.

[eldritch-ace]

I love both of these nerds so much, they are unhinged sillies. I feel like they have a love/hate friendship.

[soup-mother]

i wish i had the words to put this properly because it's incredibly emotional for me but I really wish i could show up to every repressed trans woman who's freaking out because she's scared wanting to be a woman makes her gay and explain to her what's going on. it's so beaten into people that a "guy" wanting to be a woman = gay/drag queen/both and i wish so so much that i could do something to tell them it's ok. I'm sorry people have taught you that way but there's nothing wrong with you and it'll be alright

[sentient-forest]

#cecilsweep and Welcome to Night Vale trending #1 in 2023

[bumblinfool]

[prolibytherium]

Just in general I think trying to look to pre-late modern period history for validation of LGBT+ identities is an absolutely useless venture. Every single underlying human experience defined through the lens and framework of LGBT identity has always existed, but it's impossible to pin down Exactly who and what a figure might have been if they existed in this contemporary context and decided to self identify via these labels.

It's also a wildly reductive lens that flattens the complexity and variety of how sex and gender has been constructed across time in different cultures, how sexual norms have varied, etc. This is not a constructive approach to learn about history and you're never going to be able to fit historical figures neatly into little identity categories.

[usedtobecooler]

something about edging eddie until he's crying <3

tw: dom/sub undertones, orgasm denial, cumming without permission, handjobs, dacryphilia, scratching, one singular slap to the leg.

"please, please, baby — need it, baby. fuckin' hurts— aah, aah, nngh,"

eddie's gasps of pleasure send ripples of goosepimples up your spine, your hazy eyes glancing up from where they were glued to the almost purple tip of his cock. it kicks up slightly, a blurt of precum spilling from the slit as you squeeze just ever so slightly harder around his balls and the base of his length, clamping your thumb and middle finger like a makeshift cock ring, squeezing the soft flesh until he's wailing.

"one more?" you coo, using your other hand to stroke up the fuzz of his inner thigh until the muscles spasm under your tender grip, his leg kicking out, "one more, i promise. then you can cum, okay?"

you watch with morbid fascination as eddie's neck strains, his wild hair fanning out over the pillows and matting to his forehead with sweat, clinging to his temples as the tears begin to roll. the tendons in his neck pop as he grits his teeth, struggling to hold it — panting and gasping when you release the tight hold, once you know he's coming down from the impending orgasm you just cruelly denied him.

"colour?" you ask, just to make sure as your pre and lube slick hand wraps around the thick, neglected head of his cock again, startling a growl from deep in eddie's chest as you do. he hisses, arches into the touch, spine curving up from the mattress.

"green," eddie grits out, bitchy and annoyed as he bucks his hips up, tries to get you to just move your fucking hand, "so fucking green, i promise."

you hum contentedly, your hand that was once soothing his thigh coming down to crack lightly across the sensitive skin, shocking a yelp from him, "hips down, stop being a brat. let that be a warning."

your dominant hand slowly starts to pump up and down eddie's shaft, eliciting soft little whines and cries from him as your pace quickens, squeezing the hardened flesh the way you know he likes.

"so fuckin' desperate, please, please," he's a squirming, begging mess, clinging onto the bedsheets with bitten, polish chipped nails. he buries his face into the pillow, biting down on it and moaning into the fluffy lining when your palm swipes over the head.

you're working eddie over in a way that you know will send him spiraling, a small smirk gracing your features, knowing you'll be snatching it away from him soon, just as he reaches his high.

his hips jerk uncontrollably into the slickness of your hand, the squeaking bedsprings adding to the loud slap of flesh on flesh that bounces around the walls of your bedroom — rhythmic, dirty, filthy, even.

you watch under hooded eyelids as eddie's arms strain, veins protruding from the backs of his hands up to his elbows. a red flush of colour spattering all over his chest, back arched like a bitch in heat. he's ethereal, a fucking siren beckoning you and luring you in, making you lose all inhibition without even realising it.

you know it's going to happen before even he does, he's too slow to tell you he's close, and you're so dazed and hazy from watching his pretty face contort in pleasure that your reaction time isn't quick enough. you're not able to snatch your hand away before his cock is pulsing in your grip and the first shot of cum lands in his curly bush of pubes.

"sorry, sorry—nggh," eddie's whining, whimpering and crying as his load coats your hand, spurting up his stomach and making a fucking mess. his back arches and straightens up just as quickly, like a bow once the arrows been shot, as he tries to wriggle away from your tight grip.

you can't look away from his soft tummy as it twitches and quivers from the sheer force of his orgasm, ropes of cum splashing his pale skin and marking him up, painting the pretty purple bruises you'd left behind with a harsh mouth earlier.

it's stunning, almost painful to watch and listen to as your insides burn with arousal. your hand works him over as if on autopilot, your ears only just catching his wet gasps, his pleading for you to stop or keep going, you're not sure.

"baby, baby," he babbles, arching away from your touch and crying wetly when you thumb up over his sensitive tip, rubbing over the glans until he's thrashing his legs, "m'so sorry, baby. didn't- didn't mean to—"

"you didn't warn me," you cut him off, words coming out a bit more choked and soft than they usually would've when he disobeyed you, "so now, i'm going to work you over until you're hard again, okay? and we'll start from the top. colour?"

eddie sobs wetly, wincing as he stares at you with big, glassy orbs. your own eyes soften as your gazes lock, and he whimpers, breathy and desperate when your other hand ghosts down his thigh, nails bluntly scraping the skin in a scratching motion;

"green."

[dollarstoreartsupplies]

make it sapphic masterpost @femslashfortnight

(paulkins) (lexthan) (lautski) (... ted)

[spaghetti-machete]

just finished fantasy high junior year. relate to mary ann skuttle painfully as someone who had no sense of fashion a hyperfixation and a flat affect as a teenager. you can't tell me she isn't three years away from having a gender crisis

[queerslurheritageposts]

as a trans masc/man who doesn’t @ at all feel like his attraction to women is hetero normative (as my gender isn’t fully or solidly a man & i was raised a woman) would referring to myself as a dyke be like, evil or wtvr tf?? like, i know you’re not some slur expert but i wanted some kind of insight. i know slur discourse is stupid as shit & if you feel you identify with a slur it should be fine, but would i as a man be able to reclaim it?

taps the sign

[ID: toastpotent post that says "you can do whatever you want forever". unfortunately the screenshot is like 4 pixels total. end ID]

[azen13]

I'd love to inquire about the Starlight Pawnshop. While the chess piece intrigues me, can I have the double sided coin? (Hoping for Aventurine, you see!)

King of Hearts, Ace of Spades

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Double-Sided Coin: A coin where both sides show the same pattern, allowing its desperate holder to not need to rely on luck to win this bet and secure their prize.

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Description: You live on a dying planet, making just enough money playing poker to get by. One day, you meet a new player, Aventurine of the IPC, who has come to your world as a part of the IPC's plan to take your planet over. While he wasn't planning to make any big gambles himself, the thought of you being his might change his mind.

CW: Yandere Themes, Drinking, Mentions of Death, Non-Sexual Intimacy

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The scent of smoke and spirits is heavy and acrid, looming over your favorite poker table like a thunderstorm as the dealer shuffles a deck of cards. They’re red and black waterfalls in his weathered hands, rippling from left to right, right to left. Left to right, right to left, and again, and again. After you and the dealer, there are four empty wooden chairs, once occupied by players earlier in the night, now long gone after losing all their money. That left you and the strange man.

In your eyes, he looks rather gaudy in his well-pressed suit, practically shimmering from head-to-toe due to all the jewelry he wears. Unlike you and your rigid, controlled posture, he seems perfectly relaxed, draping himself over his chair, a king on his throne, overlooking his kingdom with a smile that seems to shine in his neon-colored eyes like diamonds. When the dealer passes out cards, dealing two to you and two to him, he glances at them without so much as a change in expression before he has settled back into his original position. His cards are so close to you that if you craned your neck just a little to the right, you might be able to know how to play this upcoming round. You know better, though. This is an impossibly important match, and if you lose it, you wouldn’t be able to pay your electric bill.

Still, the thought is tantalizing. Unlike the people you usually played against, who had easy tells and rarely won–unless you were having an off day–he was clearly well-versed in the game of poker, and had the luck to go with it: pocket aces, straights, a royal flush, even. You were certainly no novice either, but he had slowly been chipping away at you, taking high risk after high risk, to which you always folded, even when you had the cards to win.

Looking at your cards, you have to bite back a smile. In your hands lie the ace of diamonds and the ace of hearts: pocket aces. It was as though the stars–however invisible they were in the sky on your planet–had aligned in a serendipitous syzygy. This was the moment you needed. The moment your hard work would pay off. If all went well, you could pay your electric bill, as well as buy some bread. If you were really lucky, you could purchase a ticket off this planet, a world of decay and death, to go somewhere brighter and better, and start a new life.

Of course, that was all just wistful thinking, you remind yourself. Snapping yourself from your momentary reverie, you place your cards on the table, glancing over to the blonde stranger opposite to you. His eyes gaze at you with such unceasing focus, it almost feels like you’re being lasered straight through. You squirm in your seat a little, concentrating on the curve of his lip and the calm emanating from his posture, hoping to find some clues as to what your opponent might be thinking. Despite your best attempts, you come up with a blank.

“Why the long face, friend?” His voice snaps your attention like a toothpick, the words as thick and syrupy as honey as they pour over your ears. You do your best to force his voice out of your head, instead watching as the dealer lays out five cards in the center of the table and flips three over: king of hearts, jack of clubs, ten of diamonds. Just the sight of each card makes your heart thrum with excitement.

With shaky hands, you throw caution as far away as you can, and push your meager stack of chips into the pot. “All in,” you whisper. You have not prayed to the Aeons in many years, but in this moment, you send a silent prayer out to the cosmos, hoping for a response.

The stranger raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. Suddenly, you feel very small and insignificant, like an ant beneath a shoe. Perhaps this wasn’t a good decision, not when you’re on your last leg in this match, and you need this money. But playing it safe wasn’t working, and you’re almost out of money, so might as well go out with a bang, right? “All right,” he chuckles, leaning forward and using his free hand to push all his chips into the center of the table, “I suppose I’ll do the same.” 

After a moment, the dealer flips over the remaining two cards: a queen of clubs and a ten of clubs.

Shuddering, you lay down your cards.

Your heart shatters so violently and thoroughly, nothing remains but a pit in your stomach.

He has pocket aces too, but unlike you, he has the ace of clubs, giving him a straight flush.

For several minutes, you watch yourself sit listless, as the dealer gives your opponent the winnings and heads off for the night. Now, in this part of the gambling den, only you and the winner remain. The man picks up a red and white chip, running a gloved finger across its damaged edge. “A good game. Excellent, even,” he remarks, flipping the coin in the air and catching it in his palm. He looks at you again, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “How about a drink? I’ll pay.” 

You want to say no. All you want to do is go home and cry and scream and figure out how you’re going to sustain yourself for the next week or so. You want to eviscerate this stranger for taking your money when he hardly needs it. He isn’t struggling to pay bills, or afford food and water. But you are. Even though you want to do these things, a free drink is a free drink, and with how tight money will be in the upcoming weeks, it’s not like you can decline the offer. “Sure.” You let him guide you away from the poker table, past strangers clad in shadows betting their miniscule fortunes and drunkards drowning in fleeting moments of hedonism to a small bar.

Lit by flickering neon lights and pungent with the smell of cheap liquor, it reminds you of everywhere on your home planet: trashy. There are no patrons by this time of night; all the reckless people have already spent their money, and those smart enough to not give into temptation know the price is far too much for just one pleasant night.

The man sits on a stool, lounging just as comfortably as he did at the poker table. “Well, what do you want?” He asks, propping up his chin with a hand. You search the bar, trying to find a menu, but come up with nothing. Not knowing what to do or say, you shift on your feet, chewing on your lip as your eyes flit over the room again.

Noticing your unease, your former opponent simply chuckles, sidestepping you to walk up to the counter. “Two glasses of sparkling water please,” he says, pulling out a black and gold credit card and sliding it over to the bartender. After a moment, he’s already handing you a fluted glass full of a pale, effervescent liquid. “By the way, I’m Aventurine,” the man says, offering his free hand to you. 

In return, you muster up a weak smile, though bitterness leaks through the cracks. “I’m Y/N,” you respond. You clasp his hand and shake it once or twice, before letting go. After a moment, you take a sip of your drink. “Thank you for buying me this,” you add.

Aventurine waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he says, “it’s not every day I get to play against someone so talented.” Even with how horrible you feel, the compliment is enough to brighten your expression a little.

A momentary silence settles over the two of you, and you feel the urge to say something. To do something. But before you can ask a question, something stops you in your tracks.

Your stomach growls.

You feel your face warm a little, embarrassed at how loud the sound is in the quiet. Aventurine tilts his head a little, an eyebrow raised. “Hungry?” he asks.

You give a curt nod. “Food is hard to come by nowadays. I make it by with gambling, but…” your voice falters into a sigh. This man isn’t family, a lover, or even a friend. Just an acquaintance you met only hours ago. You shouldn’t be sharing your life problems with him. “With everything getting worse, it’s only getting harder and harder,” you explain. 

Aventurine’s eyes are intense. You never noticed how strikingly beautiful they are, as luminescent as the lights overhead. They gaze at you with a certain understanding, a solidarity even, as though he is silently saying ‘I have been hungry, too.’ Then you watch the light in them shifts, darkening like clouds covering the sun. “I could help you,” the blonde gambler offers, a smirk dancing on his lips, “for a price.”

At the sight of your confused expression, Aventurine continues. “I could give you anything you might want. Food. Water. Shelter. Luxury. I can show you the universe,” he says, gesturing to a cracked window showing the expansive, empty night sky. You have a distant memory of seeing the stars as a young child, but they are long gone, obscured by decades of pollution. 

“What’s the price?” You ask, immediately thinking of an old saying your parents used to tell you as a child: nothing in life comes for free. For such a bargain, surely there must be a price to pay?

With the flick of his wrist, Aventurine procures a poker chip in his hand, tossing it up and catching it; unlike the warped, dingy ones the gambling den owned, the one he held is in mint condition, colored green and gold. “Oh, nothing too costly,” he chuckles, leaning in. “Just you,” he murmurs. 

While the air feels electrified, you feel frozen in place. “I don’t understand,” you respond, the words moving past your lips like a drunk man hobbling home. Perhaps you are drunk with how your mind is spinning in every direction like a tornado. You check your glass. Still practically full.

Aventurine’s smile widens. “And you don’t have to.” His eyes bore into yours; for a moment, you feel like you’re being hypnotized by how the kaleidoscopic hues in them seem to swirl and shift. You want to move, but you’re still frozen where you stand. “To be honest, I myself hardly understand what I see in you,” he adds, “but I know I need it. I need you.” 

The declaration hangs over your head like a thunderstorm, ready to strike you down in all its passion. Before it can, though, you manage to stand up on shaky limbs. “I refuse,” you mutter, storming out of the gambling den, leaving Aventurine sitting alone.

An easy smile rests on his face, his mind assured that this won’t be the last time he sees you.

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You return to the gambling den the next evening, intent on one thing: winning. Your electric bill payment might be late, but if you manage to eke out a victory, you can pay for both that and your upcoming water bill. Your dreams are immediately halted by the sight of Aventurine, lounging at your table as though it’s his, eyes glittering with what you now recognize as greed. It only takes a moment for you to put the pieces together: how precarious your finances are; how you make most of your money through gambling; how much he needs you.

He’s trying to crush any chance you might have at earning money, so that you willingly walk into his arms.

His expression is unceasing. He knows you’ll give in eventually, you have to. But you aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of winning. Not yet. So, with fire in your heart and daggers in your eyes, you stalk over to your table, and sit yourself down.

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It’s only a matter of days before you lose everything. Electricity. Water. Heat. Sewage. Waste. You don’t try to scrounge around for food or water, and don’t even bother looking for a job. You haven’t heard of an open one for weeks, especially with unemployment rising steadily. Most of all, you don’t bother going to the gambling den. You don’t want to see Aventurine’s smug expression.. Your home, a small, drab concrete box, will be your tomb. You’re sure of it. 

That is, until you see those neon eyes glowing in the darkness of your room. 

Immediately, you attempt to stand up, but your body protests, your vision growing blurry from vertigo. “What are you doing here?” You mumble. You try to channel fury in your voice, but you can’t find any fire in yourself, only weak, meaningless sparks.

Aventurine only laughs. “I’m here to offer you another deal.” With the flourish of a hand, he pulls out a small poker chip, the same one he held that fateful night you first met him. “If you accept, I’ll uphold my end of the bargain, and give you anything you want. But if you win a coin flip, then you don’t have to uphold your end,” he explains. “And let’s be honest: you don’t exactly have any more options, do you?” he asks, that smug smirk easily settling on his face. You scowl at him, but say nothing.

Finally, after a few seconds, you mutter a half-hearted ‘fine’. With the way Aventurine’s eyes light up, it’s like he’s already won. You suppose he has. After all, he has an extraordinary ability to get lucky when necessary.

“Hearts or spades?” he asks, though you hardly pay attention. You grunt out the former, watching as the coin flies high into the air, a blur of motion, before settling back down into Aventurine’s palm. 

You see the symbol of a spade, but instead of fear, you feel relieved, oddly so. You slump into yourself a little more, sinking back down to the floor. After a moment, you feel Aventurine’s presence by your side. “Hey, love, it’s okay,” he murmurs, tenderly brushing some of your messy hair out of your face. Then he starts working his hands against your scalp, gently attempting to detangle the knots in your matted hair. “I know how hard this must be, but it’s going to be alright,” he whispers. “I’m going to take good care of you, I promise.”

To your worn-down mind, that sounds divine.

[anghraine]

My Rings of Power re-watch is continuing slowly now that I have more time (though not always more attention span for anything except games, thanks dissertation -> my mother nearly dying -> getting COVID). But one of the things I'm really enjoying about Galadriel in ROP is that it doesn't always frame her as the wisest and most insightful person in every interaction she has, and in fact it is clear that she's fucking up in very significant ways because of how hard and relentless she's become through her eons of suffering and her determination to exact a price for it. She is not well!

However, she is nevertheless right about some very important matters that most people don't want to see, and she's being condescended to by men of her people who are much younger, less experienced, and less correct than she is, and it's continually emphasized that she is the most individually powerful and competent Elf around regardless of any of this and that her fuck-ups, while disastrous, are cool and sexy of her also.

So many male action heroes are troubled men haunted by whatever their particular tragic pasts are, but these men are also super impressive and badass (often to a degree far beyond all probability) in a harsh, capable way founded on never giving up ever, so while they are permitted to make major errors, it's in a cool and sexy way that just makes them more appealing.

This isn't a condemnation of that; there's a place for that kind of action hero and I tend to enjoy them when it's not copaganda or something. But I like women, and I like women to benefit from a full package of tropes that are often watered down when female characters get any part of them at all, so I enjoy a female character in something that historically has been such a dudefest getting full unhinged brooding hypercompetent action hero treatment.

I even fully support the show prioritizing Galadriel getting the good wig. Her hair flowing dramatically in the wind is actually more important than someone like Celebrimbor getting dramatic impractical action hair (with love, he's an arts and crafts nerd hung up on his academia celebrity grandfather, nothing about this demands good hair).

But I also like it not only in general and not only for a female character, but also for Galadriel specifically. I was just re-reading the description of her in the Shibboleth of Fëanor, and (Teleporno aside) it tracks pretty well. The whole thing about young Galadriel's burning determination to pursue Fëanor to the ends of the earth and thwart him in whatever ways she could seems exactly the sort of thing ROP Galadriel would do, and while ROP is set much later, the Shibboleth suggests that Galadriel was still recognizably that person for long afterwards:

"Pride still moved her when, at the end of the Elder Days after the final overthrow of Morgoth, she refused the pardon of the Valar ... It was not until two long ages more had passed, when at last all that she had desired in her youth came to her hand, the Ring of Power and the dominion of Middle-earth of which she had dreamed, that her wisdom was full grown."

There's a lot of Galadriel material that Tolkien wrote and he continually overhauled, revised, discarded, and amended the Galadriel backstory to such an extent that her history is one of the most chaotic, tangled, and irreconcilable zones of Tolkien lore. I don't think anyone is obligated to prioritize Shibboleth Galadriel if they have a different preferred version. But I really love that version of Galadriel and it does make her seem like probably the best canon female character option of this era for Action Hero Disaster Area (In A Cool and Sexy Way).

[uncanny-tranny]

[eldritch-ace]

I am normal about him

[bearw-me]

Loved the physical affection Lute and the fluff was great, I didn't specify NSFW as I saw that's not something you do much. If you're interested in continuing with our favorite....how about Yandere Lute next?

yes, I've attempted nsfw w/ lute in the 'first time hcs' i wrote! and i've actually never thought about a yandere lute until now: she's absolutely terrifying btw

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐇𝐜𝐬!

𐐒 includes : yandere! lute x gender neutral! reader 𐐒 cw : dark, mentions of death/killing, mentions of manipulation (?), possessiveness, reader's in for it, i swear like once i promise 𐐒 summary : just your run-of-the-mill crazy yandere lute (general hcs) 𐐒 note : our scary angsty gf lute :')

lute is completely, utterly terrifying

but you wouldn't have guessed right?

the signs would probably start from something small: maybe you caught her when she stumbled during a flight, or tried to catch her gaze when she assembles the exorcists . . . something you'd think is small that would catch her attention like nothing else

after that i don't think you'd see a lot of her

matter-of-fact, lute likes to watch you, every moment your not consciously aware there's an angel lurking just outside your window. whenever she gets the chance away from work, she's there.

possessive beyond belief

lute hasn't quite figured out her new found emotions yet

its like a burning rage that has no set objective. . . but she doesn't want to hurt you. more like. . . smother? no that's not the word. . .

so for now, she just watches you

hates when people interact with you or when you're overtly friendly to people.

is/does kill people like that. humans that made it to heaven, sinners. . . maybe she'd even consider slaying an angel just to get to you (at the end of this, I think she would kill god or lucifer if she thought they'd get between you)

she'd fking love killing for you

which is terrifying: the idea of lute turning fallen or straight sinner just because she's obsessed with you- entirety. yes, the heavens would fall for you, she promises.

Lute would probably mess up all her plans to meet you in a picture perfect setting, but gods do you get her adrenaline pumping when you run from her.

Likes to toy with your emotions (if you make her feel this confused, then you can take it too)

but lets be real, the only god she'd ever serve again would be you.

she's loyal beyond belief, she'd lay down her life and anyone else's in fact, if only you asked it of her.

and once you realize that I guess its smooth sailing for you.

unless of course you try to reject her

a twisted, guardian angel