#men confuse me

[aluridrose]

Can you tell I am on one right now

Henry Cavill as Gus March-Phillips THE MINISTRY OF UNGENTLEMANLY WARFARE (2024) Dir: Guy Ritchie

[stopbeinggaymikey]

If the guy ur talking to is planning things around u n saying how much he really really likes u does that mean yous boutta be a thing?

[mysillycomics]

[torturedpoetsdpmt]

On my way home from the movie I was talking to my boyfriend on the phone and I had a random dude on the street walk up to me and tell me that I looked not boring, like a boss on an important phone call. Like okay? If it actually was an important call do you think I'd appreciate you interrupting it

[vintage-bentley]

I do not feel comfortable being openly homosexual in the company of “queer” people. Even hinting that I experience absolutely no attraction to the male sex is stressful, because often this results in a bunch of questions that equally feel like bafflement and interrogation. “What about THESE men?” No, not them either. No men. “But this man identifies as a woman!” I am not wired to be attracted to pronouns. “What about this man? He’s femme!” He is still a man, and I am still a lesbian. “So just no men at all?” YES. What is so hard to understand about that? Why can’t you just accept that female homosexuality exists, that it isn’t an evil ideology, and that it’s just how I and many other women are born? Why can you accept and understand so many things, but draw the line at a woman having no interest in the male sex?

[daddymikeyway]

Aight Neil is quiet all day then goes “I’m going to come visit you this week.” It’s 9 on a Saturday and I’m in my pajamas lmao

[freshbaked-bread]

sum doodles i did in class 💥💥💥 spins around in cirlces

[robotpussy]

i always knew he was going to be the sexiest doctor (who) ever but WOAH.......

[so-i-did-this-thing]

Someone just tagged one of my tweedy selfies with "dark academia is problematic" and I'm just dying over here, especially since I associate my look more with riding horses than archiving at the Mütter Museum.

Anyway, "vintage style, not vintage values."

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 290

Ghosts have the habit of taking names of those they’ve defeated. Not in spars or play-fights of course, and one has to actually be an adult for the instinct to hit, but it happens. It happens far more often than one would think. 

Jason? Actually has no clue when he comes back to the living why he stole one of the Joker’s older names, nor why the Pit goes so angry when he thinks about Robin- HisTitleHisFraidNameFromFamily- 

Now the Pit? Not a baby semi-near the cusp of adulthood, in fact is Very Old even if it’s more hivemind-esque then a full on realms entity. Very offended for the Baby it was gifted, because who takes that from a literal infant?! 

Oh! Oh that’s another baby! Hm, change of plans, obviously the baby is also its. Because while adult ghosts trying to forcefully take a Name is a direct challenge? A ghostling- or in this case liminal- doing it is an open invitation for adoption. 

[brainrotcharacters]

And when Scotty boy over here meets Logan's boyfriend Wade????????

[fae-morrigan]

Y'know, I see a lot of people argue that like, Jay is ugly. Why does Jon like him? And I've made it clear I disagree, because, like, cmon:

That is OBJECTIVELY a handsome man, and I'm a lesbian, lmao.

But like. If he was. ... So?

I actually think it's pretty cool that DC was like, yeah, Superman fell in love with a guy who cuts his own hair with dull scissors and dresses like oscar the grouch. He's a little weird to look at, maybe he's not the most conventionally attractive dude, but SUPERMAN found him wonderful and wanted to kiss him on the mouth.

That's... great? Like that's great. There's no universe where that reading of the text isn't awesome and empowering. Queer love should transcend looks and social status, and a huge part of queerness is finding beauty in the 'odd', anyways.

[hyperfixiation-station]

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Information Pt.3

TW: Blood, Torture, Violence

Summary: You get rescued(finally)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4

Silent. From the moment Price had found you in that dingy cell, broken and bleeding, that was all you had been. You were silent when they moved you, though it had to have hurt with how many broken bones and lacerations you had. You were silent when the medics asked you where you were injured, how you had been hurt. You were silent through the debriefings, through the desperate attempts to find out what you had been through, what secrets you had spilled. You were silent through all of it. 

It wasn’t your fault, not really. A mental barrier you had constructed during months of torture to keep secrets from spilling, a dam built with a mantra of DON’T TALK to keep your thoughts at bay as your captors repeatedly tried to draw them out of you. 

Even now, when the rational part of your brain knew you were safe, knew that these men, the men you served with, the men who had tracked you down and saved you, were to be trusted, the barrier would not fall. 

Every ‘what did they want from you, what did you see, did you recognize them, how many of them were there’ was met with silence. Anytime you opened your mouth you were hit with a wave of fear so strong it sent you into a panic attack. 

They understood, in part. They had seen recordings, seen the rooms, seen your broken body at the time of rescue. 

It took them 2 days to get to you after figuring out your location. They went in guns blazing, and tore the place to the ground. They split up, Price and Gaz taking the left with Soap and Ghost taking the right. They shot at anything that moved in their quest for vengeance, breaking down doors and checking every nook and cranny for where you might be locked up. 

Price found you about a quarter of the way into the camp. He took the bottom floor and Gaz took the top as they cleared the building. He had stopped before a door that was different, metal and welded shut with a small little flap in the middle, instead of solid and wooden like the others. It took him and Gaz some prying and metalwork, but they got the door open. 

Price almost cried when his eyes adjusted to the change in light. You lay curled in the corner, back to the wall as you shied away from the light. Your hair was tangled and matted with dried blood, your clothes were torn and dirty and your skin was crusted with so much blood and grime that he couldn’t even see you underneath it. 

“Y/n?” He had called, but there was no response. He crept slowly toward you, keeping his movements as open and relaxed as possible. He crouched in front of you, taking note of your dilated pupils, sunken eyes, obviously malnourished form. He winced at the weird bulges in your skin, indicative of broken bones. 

“Sorry love.” He whispered to you, taking a steadying breath as he slid his arms under you and lifted. Hise expected you to cry out, the action no doubt causing unspeakable pain, but you didn’t. In fact, you didn’t react at all. He didn’t dwell on it then, opting to get you somewhere safe and secure. 

“9 broken ribs, a broken left femur, both shoulders dislocated, pneumonia, dehydration and severe malnutrition, multiple lacerations that required stitches, broken wrists, all 10 fingers broken, right kneecap dislocated, multiple concussions, and a hairline fracture on their skull.” The doctor had said. It hurt all of them to hear how badly wounded you were. 

They gave you two weeks to recover before asking any questions. The first week you were unconscious, in a coma as your body tried to heal you. The second week you spent in worrying silence, saying nothing to anyone, not to your doctors, not to your teammates, not to your friends.

Price sent Ghost in first. He had had similar experiences and Price figured he would be able to relate. However when Ghost came storming out an hour later, slamming the door behind him, he came to regret that decision. 

“I got over it.” He had said, “Why can’t they?” Price reminded him that not everyone responds to trauma the same way and sent him away.

Soap tried next, and came out near tears after sending you into a panic attack after calling you ‘Little Bird’. He was confused until Ghost not-so-gently reminded him of the video they had seen, of the words ‘Pretty Bird’ being used over and over. Ghost pretended not to hear him throwing up in the toilet later. 

Gaz tried, to no avail. He ended up just sitting in silence with you, showing you videos of his cats. He counted it a victory when your busted lips twitched into a tiny grin for a few seconds.

And on and on it went, with refusing to speak to anyone. They were losing hope until the psychiatrist finally spoke with you. 

“GIve them time.” She said gently, “You trying to force a response will just make this worse.” 

So they do. The higher-ups still want answers, of course, but Price manages to dissuade them from asking until you are out of the hospital. They spend the weeks treating you as normal as possible, stopping by to give you updates on missions, show you a video of Soap absolutely biffing it in training, tell you the latest gossip of which recruit is sleeping with who. But even though they are trying, they still handle you with kiddie gloves, afraid that the wrong word or look will make you shatter irreversibly. 

Which brings you to now. It’s nearly 2 A.M, and visiting hours are long over as you stand unsteadily in the bathroom, staring at your pale, pathetic form in the mirror. You open and close your mouth, trying and failing to get words out, the barrier cemented in your mind by blood and tears too strong to break down.  

‘Speak, you stupid fucking bitch!’ You scream mentally at yourself, ‘You have to speak! If you don’t you'll be discharged and you'll never be able to serve again! They already think you’re broken, and if you can’t tell them different they’ll never treat you the same. Stop. being. So. Fucking. Pathetic.’

Tears streak your cheeks as you slide down the wall. You draw your knees up, hiding your face in them as your shoulders shake with silent sobs. Rationally, you know you are safe. Rationally, you know that if you were to speak, nothing would happen. But it’s not the rational part of your brain that is keeping you from speaking. 

Going dark in that hellhole you were trapped in had saved your life, and you couldn’t seem to get past it. Sure, not responding had almost killed you right at first, as Kravchenko became more and more ruthless in his attempts to get you to speak again, but eventually he grew bored. His little plaything had lost its sparkle, and he locked you in a cell and threw away the key as soon as he lost interest. But starving to death was still a better alternative to the all-consuming agony that had been your day-to-day. 

And now, the subconscious, irrational part of your brain was convinced that if you spoke you’d be dragged right back and strapped to a table, that you’d wake up to find that your rescue had all been a dream. That you-

“-/n! Y/N! Y/N!” You flinch, startled out of your reverie. You look down to see rivulets of blood running down your arms, your nails having gouged holes into your skin. You look up to see the eyes of a worried nurse, holding your hands in hers. 

“There you are. We lost you for a minute. Do you mind letting me bandage you up here?” Her voice is soft and gentle and you find yourself nodding, letting her lead you back to your bed where she cleans and bandages your upper arms. 

“What are you doing up so late sweetie?” Her voice is calming, almost hypnotic, “I mean, I’m awake cause I get paid to be, but you should be sleeping all your injuries away, shouldn’t you dearie? If I was you, I’d of been cryin’ too, being awake at 2 A.M. for free.” She laughs, the sound echoing through the room, “Course, I suppose you probably think I’m crazy for agreeing to work this shift anyways. Did you know I was supposed to have this shift off? But Roberta’s kids have the flu and so I agreed-” She keeps talking, her voice soothing your fears and helping you relax. YOu can’t help but mentally thank Roberta’s kids for being sick, for sending this wonderful lady who does not treat you like you're going to break at any moment to you tonight. 

“And that should about do it dearie. Just press that little call button if you need any more help, alright?” She says cheerfully. She squeezes your hand and heads to the door before pausing. 

“Make sure to get some sleep.” She leaves, gently closing the door behind her. Something about her makes you feel safer than you have since falling off that helicopter. Maybe it was her motherly demeanor, maybe it was the fact that she treated you like a normal human being, maybe it was the fact that she could have put you on a psych hold an ddin;t, but whatever it was, you loved her for it. 

And as the door closes and the room stills, you whisper a quiet “thanks.” 

Part 4?

~tags~

@louthedino @scarletdfox @dangerkitten1705 @warenai @spineless-spino @rainy-darling

[horrorshow]

SUPERNATURAL 14.13 Lebanon

[barschter000]

broke: Due to his attractiveness, Barok has slept with countless (wo)men.

woke: Despite his attractiveness, Barok is a virgin.

Bespoke: Because of entirely different factors, Barok does not know what sex is.

[bumblingbabooshka]

When the only person who might understand what happened- understand. Not sympathize or empathize or comfort you but understand what happened, isn't there anymore. Or: 'A Man Made Me Do Something I Didn't Want To', for when you can't talk about it or look it in the eye [Patreon | Commissions]