#masculinity. this is true to me.

[vampiiric]

i think skwisgaar experimented with gender but never unlocked cis+. nathan is cis but comfortable in it and willing to call out bullshit. murderface is nonbinary but hasnt realized it yet. pickles and toki are both FTM and only charles knows. neither of them knows the other is.

[forlorngarden]

her most serene highness, crown prince kiriona gaia is such a hot title I keep losing focus. i love a fancy title im sorry fellow communists

[butch-with-a-deep-voice]

Me: Trans masc/trans man butches are sacred and deserve a space in the sapphic community as much as any other butch Also me: Can I please have a single post on this site about butches that refer to me, a butch, as a girl? As a treat? I really don't like being called a boy

[princessefemmelesbian]

Transandrophobia truthers are so damn racist and white oh my fucking god y'all actually piss me the fuck off every time you tokenize Black and brown men for your stupid as fuck "mra but make it trans-inclusive" ideology created by a creepy guy with a corrective rape fetish(something I'll never let up on for as long as I live, btw). If I ever see another one of y'all say "Black and brown men face discrimination because they're seen as overly masculine and that's why masculinity in men is oppressed in this society" I will literally kill myself. Stop using Black and brown men as brownie points for your bullshit arguments about misandry being real when you don't have the slightest idea how racialized oppression works. White boys are so annoying and dumb istfg.

@punkeropercyjackson @punknicodiangelo @pinkpinkstarlet

[lovesickeros]

☆ i dream of embers

{☆} characters arlecchino {☆} notes no au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings none {☆} word count 1.1k

The House of the Hearth is quiet — or, if you really wanted to be precise, the rats scuttling through the walls are working around the bubble you exist in. The children dare not tempt fates hand unless you asked for them by name, a contradiction. An order to the rules — they mustn't approach you with trivialities, but they must listen if you speak. Your words carry more weight than gold in this house, whether you know it or not.

A tenuous position.

You haven't done anything to earn their reverence, their almost acrid fear — but Arlecchino has. She wields her silver tongue with as much ease as her polearm, ensuring your care in her absence. Her devotion, her service, is felt in the warmth of her chambers, the silks she adorns you with, the bed so soft you feel as though you melt into it. A gift, a promise — a gilded cage need not be something undesirable.

You've grown used to the encumbrance of her presence, these days. The deep timbre of her voice, honeyed yet melting into something rougher, quieting into haunting silence as if she seeks not to disturb you. Dim candlelight is all that illuminates her broad frame as she slowly presses the door open and closed behind her, pallid skin streaked with darkening red, her bottom lip smeared with it like lipstick. There is a tension to her shoulders even when she sets aside her polearm, out of sight and out of mind, harsh lines on her face visible in the deep furrow of her thin brows.

Here, she let's the weariness settle deep into her bones — it's just the two of you, even if she hasn't acknowledged you at all. Still, it's a vulnerability she shows no other, even if that vulnerability is hidden behind layers of barbed wire and teeth.

You watch rather idly from the bed as she wets a cloth in a basin of water, the bed creaking beneath you as your feet sink into the plush rug beneath. You know from experience that trying to help her is like trying to soothe a wild dog, but your knuckles brush over the sharp line of her cheek anyway, free hand stealing the soaking cloth from her hands when her jaw flexes and tenses beneath the pads of your fingers.

It is only then that she looks down at you, eyes as sharp as blades yet so indescribably warm — like a flame licking at your skin, burning so deep you feel it linger for weeks after. Arlecchino is not soft, far from it — but she blunts her jagged edges for you anyway, brushes her lips against your knuckles and allows you a moment of adoration. Carves her worship bone deep in the ghost of her touch against your lower back as she leans down, let's you wash away the blood certainly not her own, never blinking as if you'd simply up and leave if she stopped looking at you for even the smallest moment.

You are well aware she is caging you in. You let her.

Though she is still stiff as a board up to the moment you set the washcloth over the side of the basin, her jaw flexing again, a moment of consideration given. She is not used to soft and brittle things, though — not used to touch that does not lead to steel at her throat, in her gut, carving out softness like a butcher carves up meat, section by section.

But this affliction of affection is stronger than the discomfort, at times.

You almost half consider letting her take the room and have a night of proper rest, but she is faster than you — a calloused hand tilts your head back, half lidded eyes glinting beneath the weight of exhaustion, her thumb firm against your bottom lip. She could kill you without even blinking, you are aware, but she is nothing but careful with her touch — not soft, not Arlecchino, but there is adoration in her touch. Like thumbing a locket portrait, trying to imprint their features into memory by touch alone.

Her touch is fleeting, but the warmth lingers long after — you don't need to be touching to feel the weight of her attention. She stokes the flames of the dying fire, has one of the children bring a fresh pot of tea, lingers even when she doesn't have to. You're sure her desk in her office is far more comfortable to work at, but she'd crammed a small desk into the room anyway, stayed even long after you fell asleep most nights. You never did get to stay up long enough to notice her slip in beside you, nor wake up early enough to find her there with you, but the heat lingers — she leaves breakfast at your bedside table, a small note of affection if she's feeling particularly sappy. Even when you don't see her, she makes sure you feel her presence however she can.

Neither of you need to speak to express it. The silence is..oddly comfortable, filled by the shift of paper or scratch of a pen, the clink of a cup or crackle of fire. It's a little too easy to get lost in watching her work, masking a smile whenever she glanced back at you with a question on the tip of her tongue that goes unsaid.

It's better that way, you both think. The silence was best left undisturbed — as if trying to break it would be like breaking the mirror to each others lives. You don't busy yourself in the affairs of the House of the Hearth, and she doesn't make you. It's better that way, too. Maybe that makes you naive, blind even, to the bodies at her feet piled so high she could drown, but you don't want to give up this fragile tranquility.

So you let the dull scratch of a pen lull you to sleep, try not to smile too much when a hand reaches out in uncertainty to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your cheek with so much affection it makes it hard to breathe.

It's a tenuous balance, but come the next night you will wipe the blood from her cheek again and she will care for you the only way she knows how — distant service.

And when you wake up to an empty bed, warm despite the fires long burned out, you'll still feel her presence in the allure of a warm drink and pastries at your bedside, a note tucked beneath the plate.

Just like the day before, and just as you expect tomorrow to be. But one day you'll gently pull apart the barbed wire and be let in — not today, no, but someday. It's a slow process, but you're patient enough to wait — and when she let's you in, you'll tend to the scars that it left like you've always done.

One step at a time, one day.

[celtrist]

I love how you draw Alastor with the dark patches on his skin/fur. Although I feel bad for him being forced into outfits he's not comfortable in, I have to agree with Charlie that he looks super cute in that dress!

Tis the burden he bears being attractive: people wanting to put him in outfits he'd 100% not be cool with wearing.

[imthewokerbaby]

the world needs more transfem edgeworth. I wish I was more talented that I could provide it with such a thing. Those of you making transfem edgeworth for us peasants I love you and I hope you get to eat a lot of your favorite fruits

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Bro kissed his mum thank you as he got out of the car for the gym. We both exchanged this nod:

[thegoldenavenger]

First pass at the bingliu and bingqiu fusions

Bingliu has all of lqg’s confidence, lbh’s social graces, and both of their crippling need to avoid failure!

Bingqiu loves himself sooooo much, is pretty detached, and definitely thinks he’s better than everyone else. He’s just helping, why are you running away!

In the ficlet I said lqg doesn’t like interacting with BingQiu (or… sqq thinks that) but really it’s because BingQiu mercilessly flirts and teases him, is effortlessly stronger than him, and kind of projects ‘oh you sweet thing, I could just eat! you! up! [pinches cheeks]’ energy and this is such a contrast from his interactions with lbh and sqq that he just gets very awkward all the time about it.

[haley-harrison]

just had a cishet white dude complain to me that the business world doesn't take him as seriously if he doesn't grow a beard.

mf, image being a woman in this patriarchal society. no beard cheat-code. you just gotta deal with it and let your work speak for itself. 🙃

[sophiethewitch1]

Maybe it's the gender is an illusion or a spice of life in me but I gotta say the gender bends are transphobic discourse stuff sounds a lot like nonsense to me. Before you shoot me between the eyes I use they/them pronouns so therefore I am allowed to have an opinion about this lmao

[injunade]

I've never met a woman who wouldn't fuck Kurt Cobain

[chryblossomjjk]

it sucks how everything has been tainted by patriarchy and as women we cannot do literally anything without it being linked back to patriarchy. like wearing makeup or pink or whatever has been determined feminine by the patriarchal definition feminity, so doing those things means you’re playing into the patriarchy. not doing those things means you’re also playing into patriarchy because it’s a rejection of the idea of femininity, and thus, reaffirms that identifying with feminity in any way is inherently inferior. likeeeee we really cannot win lol… i think a big part of reclamation includes allowing space for people who identify as women to find out what that means to them.

[ilynpilled]

crying so bad

[sciderman]

Sometimes i remember a comics moment i randomly came across somewhere, where Sam Wilson mentiones a musical and Steve Rodgers says he doesn't like musicals, to whitch Sam goes "Guess that means you really are straight" and even tho i don't care about Cap America or the Avengers, the moment stuck in me for that quote by Sam. And like....Sci, any ideas if straight men actually don't like musicals or is that bullshit?

actually i think i know more gay men who hate musicals than i know straight men who hate musicals. i've had a drag queen stop me point blank when i was about to sing a barbra streisand song, and i know so many gays who pointedly hate abba. so based on my experience i think the inverse is true. most of the straight men i know are kind of impartial about musicals, but gay men? hate.

my theory is that a lot of gay men don't want to fall into stereotypes, maybe. but thaaaaat's just a theory! a gay theory.

[chamerionwrites]

Laying aside the question of folks with full-blown genderfeels just for a moment, a thing I’ve always found lowkey interesting is how much more common it seems to be for cishet dudes to choose to play women in RPGs than it is for women to choose to play dudes.

(The flip explanation is ofc that if you’re a straight man who is going to be staring at a character for many hours it might as well be a hot lady, but ime the pattern holds true in tabletop as well as CRPGs, so.)