#hes so gender for real

[spookberry]

The endo and chika bios have me in such a tizzy, they SHARE CLOTHES, they live together. Chika wears extensions??? And endo pays for them 😭 they really are the messiest couple ever oh my god

[inkskinned]

okay is she being actually immature or is it just a woman over 30 expressing a human experience you find to be immature.

like yeah. at certain ages... let shit go. im not defending the real immature shit. im not defending the karen you're picturing. i worked in retail i hate those people too. (once somebody got mad at me because she didn't like how our winter window decor was a snowman smoking a pipe. i wish i was joking).

but men at 57 will write books about how 17 year old girls are soooo sexy. they will invent worlds where women have to be naked for "armor reasons." they will write songs that treat women as objects. people rush to defend them. meanwhile a woman at 35 will be like "heartbreak is hard, actually" or "i feel betrayed by a friend" or "i am struggling with something emotionally." immediately people will say stuff like this woman is 35 by the way. by the way this woman is SO OLD to be experiencing this. BY THE WAY.

im 31, almost 32. the other day a poet was blasted online because at her "big age", she had written a poem about feeling unloved. top comment was "this woman is 29 by the way." this woman is too old to still be useful, by the way. she has to behave better . maybe if she was a good wife and mother she could stop existing loudly, and the story could continue on without her. this woman has served her purpose, by the way. she's so cringe, by the way. at 29 - so old! - she still hasn't figured out that her existence should be one of shame.

[suksatoru]

if there's one thing sae itoshi knows about you, it's that you are shameless when it comes to his back muscles.

he's used to feeling your curious hands rubbing up and over the slopes and expanse of his back in the early hours of the morning. and you're cheeky—you make him shiver under the duvet whenever you place those feather light kisses all over him.

you start by moving the hair resting at the nape of his neck, pressing a single kiss onto the soft skin before gliding your lips downwards, your path traveling to his shoulder blades. and from there, you move down to his back.

sae is used to it now. the moment he feels your fingers brush against his cheek and move towards his neck—he hides the small, rare smile threatening to break out onto his face by smushing his face into his pillow. today, you start by pressing a soft kiss onto his cheek.

"good morning, handsome," you giggle, eyes gleaming and far too lively for it being six am in the morning as sae hums sleepily, his voice gravely and deep with exhaustion. instinctively, sae rolls onto his stomach for you, folding his arms and resting his head onto his forearms in the process.

you're crawling onto his back moments later, with your thighs pressed flush against his bare skin. the light streaming from the open balcony window shines directly onto sae, and you pause—taking a moment to admire the sight in front of you.

the sunlight makes him appear like he's glowing—pink tufts curl and wrap around his head like a halo, and the particles in the air look like shimmering glitter in sae itoshi's presence.

sae had that effect on things around him. your eyes move down to his back—your favorite part—and you're trying so hard not to sigh at the mere sight. his muscles flex with impatience when he doesn't feel your sweet kisses worshipping his body like they did every morning, and he squints an eye open to glare at you from where he laid.

"y/n," he mumbles, moving a hand backwards to tap your thigh impatiently as you shush him

"shh...let me grab my phone. my 'sae itoshi's wet hair out of the shower' wallpaper is about to be replaced by my 'sae itoshi's back in the morning' wallpaper," you laugh quietly, leaning over to grab your phone off your bedside table as you snap a quick picture—tossing it onto the edge of the bed once you get a good angle.

sae is the perfect muse—he stayed still for you while you took your picture. whether it was out of laziness or the fact that he just didn't care, you were grateful either way. he rolls his shoulders, and you watch his muscles ripple like waves as he lets out a quiet come on now.

and so your sweet assault begins. sae's entire body relaxes, and he feels like butter melting under you as your lips and tongue paint their devotion in the most passionate manner he'd ever have the pleasure of knowing. no one does it like you do—loves him, that is. those words are muffled by the pillow he's smushed his face into as he speaks them, and sae wonders how he ever woke up peacefully before you came into his life.

your lips transverse sae's back longingly—and you're peppering kisses onto his milky white skin, creating your very own constellation of stars. and sae thinks nothing, absolutely nothing in the world could bring him out of this moment of pure serenity with you.

well, that is until you bite him.

"fucking—ow!"

"oops! sorry baby!"

blue lock masterlist! :P

[dreamerdrop]

My issue with writing Julian POV is that I don’t think Julian is actually self-aware enough to realise how mind-blowingly attracted to Garak he actually is, no.

I think he would be in denial about it conciously, because Garak is a dangerous Cardassian who may or may not be a spy. Julian would filter his attraction through whatever justifications he can for why he’s not ~really~ attracted to him. (While blushing and being flustered by Garak’s overt attraction and flirting back like his life depends on it for reasons he will conveniently brush over in his head.)

But you see, I cannot conceive that anyone could ever, ever look at Garak and not immediately be overcome with lust that makes them dizzy. I can’t imagine having someone who looks like that approach so blatantly flirty and not just immediately following them back to their store to do whatever the fuck they tell you for as long as they want.

So it’s very hard for me to write Julian not being immediately on his knees for Garak because it baffles me that he didn’t just throw himself at Garak over the table in that replimat to begin with.

Maybe it’s my bizarre taste in men talking but how did this scene not end with Julian following him back to his store and being like “Yes, sir, what do you want to do with me, sir”.

[giddlygoat]

mario + peach is such a good ship istg they’re so good. straight ship so good it feels gay

[m1d-45]

room 11-13

summary: albedo is weird. no, not just weird- disgustingly strange.

word count: ~2.5k

-> warnings: implied stalking [him -> you] ; he is a weird creep!! brief + non described mentioned nudity (of reader, within a drawing)

-> gn reader (you/yours) in a modern au !

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

your roommate was… interesting, to say the least. not that you really had many expectations���unlike apparently everyone else, you didn’t come to university with a plethora of friends packed in your bag. you had no names to list on your housing contract, no familiar faces to look forward to when you came home, just you, a handful of cardboard boxes and a lingering sense that you’d forgotten something.

there was nothing you could pin about him. nothing in specific, no one catalyst you could point to. sure, you don’t see him often, but that isn’t inherently a bad thing. there’s nothing wrong with not going out much, there’s nothing wrong with being a quiet person when you’re living with a stranger. the common room is clean, the sink is (relatively) empty, and none of your things in the fridge have been eaten. he really, by all standards, should be a perfectly fine roommate, but…

albedo was a quiet man. you first met him when you moved in, delicately pouring exact amounts of water into a small tins over the sink without a single sound or stray droplet. he looked up, you exchanged names, and that was that. the rest of your day was spent unpacking in your room, barely hearing the click of his door closing.

you never quite asked what he was doing that first day, but you could put two and two together. he had a habit of leaving pencils or erasers or other supplies on the coffee table, and you often ran into him when he came out of his room to fetch them. you’re not quite sure how you never see him in the living room when you never told him your schedule, but… well, whatever. it didn’t take a genius to know that the guy with charcoal smears across his hands was an artist. and, if you’d somehow missed those, you sometimes ran into half-used palette in the fridge, beads of paint in a myriad of colors sealed neatly in plastic containers, changing every time you checked.

you weren’t sure why they were always there, as you’d definitely seen one when he was in the dorm, but… well, it’s not really your business, is it? maybe he’s busy, maybe he doesn’t want to paint, maybe he’s taking a nap, who cares. you grab what you need and go back to your room; there’s more important things to worry about than a stranger’s hobbies. honestly, you shouldn’t spend so much time thinking about him. you could hardly claim to know someone you never saw.

well, except when you did see him.

you grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge as you came back from your chemistry lab, not minding the usual palette of paint beside it. also as usual, you heard his door open as he remembered some random item, not minding the sound of his footsteps as you receded into your own room-

“wait! ah- please…”

you forgotten what his voice sounded like. it’s mostly out of shock, not recognition, that you turn around, seeing him lingering in the entrance to his half of the dorm. his hair is loose around his shoulders, catching the light from the window and glowing gold. his apron is stained with a rainbow of paint, matching the perpetual lines across his hands, and he seems a bit too nervous to be talking with someone he’s been living with for a few months now.

“…i couldn’t make it to the lab today,” he starts, words measured and not at all like his original call, practiced instead of panicked. “could i borrow your notes?”

…you’re in the same chemistry class? you’d never noticed. then again, you’re not sure you could pick him out of a crowd—it’s not like you two were exactly close… but giving him your data was honestly a non-issue. normally you wouldn’t think twice about it, except if he was in your lab section then he should know the rules about missing them.

“you’re going to have to retake the lab anyway, aren’t you? my report won’t help you at all.”

he blinks, like he’d forgotten that fact, and you half hope that’ll be the end of it. you still have your own work to get to, after all.

“still… it would give me something to reference, so when i do it i’ll know if my results are reasonable.” his brows are drawn, genuinely worried, crystal blue carrying a surprising amount of emotion despite the careful cadence of his words. “i’d greatly appreciate your assistance on this matter… i don’t have a reliable way to contact anyone else in the class.”

it only takes you a few moments to weigh the pros and cons. at worst, your partner can back you up if he tries to steal your work. at best, nothing happens and you’ve earned a bit of goodwill.

you shrug, taking off your bag and setting it on the counter, unzipping the main pocket and digging for your lab manual. you find it and flip to today’s lab, mentally wondering what an artist would think of the irritated scribbles down the side of the page. whatever the case, you hold it out toward the hallway he was before, only to find him barely a foot away. he’s stood over your shoulder, letting your manual bump into his chest without a flinch, without an ounce of the worry from before.

without an ounce of anything at all, really. his face is flat, empty, just staring down at the words in front of him without seeming to read them at all.

“…sorry,” you start, “i didn’t hear you-”

“don’t be sorry.” with a blink, he’s back, taking the manual with a gentle smile. “thank you for your help. i’ll return it by tonight.”

“…yeah, take your time.”

you’re not going to question what or why whatever happened did. it’s.. just easier if you don’t. you grab your bag and go to your room, focused on anything else.

you don’t find it in the common area, on the coffee table or by the sink or in any reasonable area. he doesn’t knock on your door to return it. no, instead, you trip over it the next day as you leave your room, squinting in the dark to see it laying on the carpet, a note taped to the front.

yeah, you’re not reading that. not now, at least. you’re certain albedo is a nice guy, if socially awkward, but… you can give him the benefit of the doubt later. you shove the note in a drawer and forget about it, going to class. if you just ignore it, you won’t have to deal with it.

it must not have been anything important, because he doesn’t ever bring it up again. it’s almost as if nothing happened. there’s a new pencil on the common room whenever you walk by, he ducks his head and smiles sheepishly when grabbing it, and nothing is new. you try to look for him in the lab, if only to be courteous, but never find him. it’s not a big class… but whatever, you’re not too familiar with his face anyway. after a week or two, you stop trying.

it’s wishful thinking, really.

you have to do a double take when opening the fridge one day, the paint on the palette looking, from the corner of your eye, like a human hand. it’s just skin-toned paints, delicately mixed into a color that somewhat looks like yours.. by the looks of it, he must have fussed with the tint for a while. normally there’s only small bubbles of paint, but this is excessively fine refinement.. he must just be a perfectionist.

you can’t leave your room without running into him. not just like before, with brief intersections as he grabs what he’s forgotten, but actual interactions. he sits on the couch, drawing in a small notebook, asking you about your classes like he’s not supposed to be in his own classes. sure, he could be taking some online, but it’s like he never leaves the dorm.

he asks as usual, one day, what class you’re going to. when you finally gather your courage and ask why he himself isn’t going to the lab, he startles, like he’d forgotten he was attending. there were plenty of reasons why he wasn’t going—maybe he was in a different section of the class, or he had a car and had reduced travel time, or quite literally anything other than silence. but he sat there, staring at you like you were the one who had mixed up your schedule, with the same painfully empty look as before.

you left soon after that.

if asked to describe albedo in three words or less, you’d fumble for a few moments before landing on “fine, but weird.” if asked to do so with any other level of detail, you’d probably end up saying the exact same thing.

and that’s fine. you didn’t really expect to become best friends with your roommate. but for archons’ sake, he’s just so… uncanny.

you’ve never seen any other food in the fridge but yours. you cannot remember ever seeing or hearing him leave or enter the dorm, or ever remember not seeing some sign of him being there. his door was perpetually closed, the faint sound of scratching coming from behind it, and he’d just… freeze at random. like he recedes into himself, leaving a hollow husk until he returns, eyes left as flat disks set into an unfeeling face. there’s nothing inherently wrong with not showing many expressions, but whatever he’s got going on is far more concerning than that.

so really, who could blame you for being curious? his sketchbook is just there, laying open on the table, only partially masked by the small bag of supplies next to it. the door to the bathroom is closed, you really shouldn’t be invading his privacy like this, but it’s not like he even bothered to close it.

still, it’s wrong.

still, having something solid to point to could really help if you ever need to make a complaint to an RA.

oh archons, this is such a bad idea.

before you can convince yourself not to, you walk over and sit in his usual place on the couch, picking up his sketchbook and gritting your teeth through the fact that there’s no way this is morally justified.

the current spread is plain. it’s entirely in pencil, repeated iterations of different kinds of jewelry. rings, with ornate spirals and diamonds along the sides, leading into a gem of many different cuts. some simple stud earrings, some hoops, a necklace draped around a half-drawn bust, the chain sketched to look like blooming flowers strung together. there’s some notes in another script, but other than that, it’s entirely normal. there’s nothing weird about a guy that draws bracelets in his spare time. but your mind itches to find a justification, searching for proof, and you’re already in too deep. despite your better judgement, you turn the page, doing your best not to drop it when you do.

it’s you.

you, at least six times on two pages alone. smiling, waving, fixing your hair, by the seven you feel faintly sick, fingers digging into the pages as you try to rationalize what you’re seeing.

it could just be a one off. maybe you have a particularly interesting face to draw? except the next page is the same, and so is the next, and you flip through them all with the edge of your thumb and it’s all you.

all of it. every single page that has ink on it has your face. from the very front to the very back, with only a page or two of white left, and it’s clear that the jewelry was an intentional decoy. there’s a spread dedicated to just your hands, one to various outfits he’s seen you in, one- archons, one in various stages of undress, barely granting you the dignity of keeping them from the waist up. the worst part, really, is how accurate they are, clear proof of just how much time he’s spent staring at you.

you recognize his voice now, quiet and measured as he calls your name. that could just be your heart in your ears, though.

he has that same blank expression again, standing in the doorway, looking between you and the book. you’re certain he can see the paled fingertips of your grip on the cover. “do… do you not like them?”

“…what?”

he settles back into himself, sad, shoulders slumping and eyes downturned. “they’re just practices, i promise. the actual painting looks much better…”

bile threatens the back of your throat. “the painting?”

“yes, the painting. the one i mentioned in my note…”

…the note. his note. the one you didn’t read. the one he gave you after a grand total of one significant interactions, before which you all but considered him a ghost. and he decided that making a painting of you was a normal thing to do?

“…it makes sense you forgot it. i can’t imagine i’ve ever come close to properly capturing your beauty… it doesn't matter the medium, i never seem to get it right...”

he crosses his arms, picking idly at his lips with one hand, like he’s discussing a particularly annoying problem on his homework and not the fact that he has drawings of you topless. after a few moments of mumbling, he shakes his head. “i’ll do better. i promise i will. one day i'll draw something that finds even a fraction of your perfection.”

you don’t care. all you want is to get out of here, to lock your doors and try not to call the cops while he’s in earshot. “it’s fine, albedo”

the lie is a poison that seems to sting him upon arrival, a ripple of shock crossing his impassive expression. “it's not fine, not at all. how can i call myself an artist if i fail to impress my muse? please, give me time, i promise i can do better-”

“it’s fine,” you repeat, setting the sketchbook down and realizing with another stab of disgust that he’s written your name on the front cover. you stand, hands buzzing with the echo of what you’ve witnessed, not caring for the crestfallen look on his face. “…you’re a talented artist,” you grit out.

and you’re going to be sick.

[koifishanonymous]

ok so i've been debating making this post but the new spiderverse fandom needs to relax about shipping.

it's ok to ship characters that are already married or in relationships. it's ok to ship characters with unconfirmed ages. it's ok to ship characters together that have never interacted. your headcanons don't have to be accurate or plausible in canon.

it was never that serious, it's ok to just have fun

[uselessimpulses]

something something plant membranes as clothing so hes n akey

[chiropteracupola]

made a label for my sharps container...

[cactuupng]

Imagine Mumbo Jumbo in a skirt or dress. Mumbo has no gender & he breaks gender norms for enrichment. He gets to enjoy the skirt/dress spin people do, as a treat

i think he's more of a somewhat long skirt guy

[lesbianshadowheart]

I love the way Glinda copies Fiyero…..’our first fight’->’let’s not quarrel’, the flower in hair move, the way she copies his moves in the Dancing Through Life scene. you knowww she wants to find the prettiest girl and give her a whirl

[saucy-mesothelioma]

[lyril]

i can't stop thinking about transfem shuro while working on my analysis.. . it's kind of funny actually. i'll be writing something like "i think subconsciously part of his admiration for falin is how she represents a part of himself he felt like he couldn't have, where he can approach from a safe distance" and you add all the stuff about how at the whims of conformity and social rules he is, and how held back he is in expressing himself at all, and how he's a sensitive person deep down but is something that's covered up under a guise of (masculine, at that) stoic seriousness, and how he explicitly likes falin for being an Unconventional Girl who is Herself, where he likely feels he couldn't be (and where they also have a lot in common) and it's like "Hey. Why are you like... . Transgender"

[casualavocados]

ai di in my brain. 🥰🥰🥰 ima print this out and put it on my door. and in my pocket.

[hughmanbean]

Occasional Visits

Once upon a time, there was a man who had a pit of Lazarus and was the Head of the League of Assassins. Perhaps the Lazarus is rancid ecto, and the death emanating from all of the members around to it is really starting to pull some attention.

And perhaps, one High Queen of the Infinite Realms early on had decided that, "Man, I gotta check this out." Time, of course, decides that "That would be a good precaution. Just be careful." And gives a few time portal visits.

Now, imagine those visits keep going. For the Head of the League, it is a first meeting of suspicion followed by rivalry, before the years churn along into an amicable acquaintance. For the High Queen, it is a FrootLoop who needs to be kept under watch, before years grind down the drive to continue messing with his plans and go back to managing the Realms and allowing for others to take action.

Contemplate the idea that only five years with visits for the High Queen is decades with occasional visits for the Head of the League. Maybe it is an occasion that is now greeted with a bit of celebration, for someone who he can talk too and know from the past who isn't now against him or dead.

And maybe, just maybe, he's about to get another visit. Right in the middle of something important. Who could say?

[lys5ophobia]

just found this and i’m like…where’s the anderperry (kick?)boxing au?