#missing all my babes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkskinned · 1 year ago

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love when men cry about body hair bc "it's hygiene" and yet 15% of cis men leave the bathroom without washing their hands at all and an additional 35% only just wet their hands without using soap. that is nearly half of all men. that means statistically you have probably shaken hands with or been in direct contact with one of these people.

love when men say that women "only want money" when it turns out that even in equal-earning homes, women are actually adding caregiver burdens and housework from previous years, whereas men have been expanding leisure time and hobbies. in equal-earning households, men spend an average of 3.5 hours extra in leisure time per week, which is 182 hours per year - a little over a week of paid vacation time that the other partner does not receive. kinda sounds like he wants her money.

love that men have decided women are frail and weak and annoying when we scream in surprise but it turns out it's actually women who are more reliable in an emergency because men need to be convinced to actually take action and respond to the threat. like, actually, for-real: men experience such a strong sense of pride about their pre-supposed abilities that it gets them and their families killed. they are so used to dismissing women that it literally kills them.

love it. told my father this and he said there's lies, damned lies, and statistics. a year ago i tried to get him to evacuate the house during a flash flood. he ignored me and got injured. he has told me, laughing, that he never washes his hands. he has said in the last week that women are just happier when we're cooking or cleaning.

maybe i'm overly nostalgic. but it didn't used to feel so fucking bleak. it used to feel like at least a little shameful to consider women to be sheep. it just feels like the earth is round and we are still having conversations about it being flat - except these conversations are about the most obvious forms of patriarchy. like, we know about this stuff. we've known since well before the 50's.

recently andrew tate tried to justify cheating on his partner as being the "male prerogative." i don't know what the prerogative for the rest of us would be. just sitting at home, watching the slow erosion of our humanity.

#writeblr #warm up #ps edited so it is more clear where “half” of men is coming from:#15% literally don't even touch water #an ADDITIONAL 35% ''wash'' by just running their hands under water WITHOUT SOAP #15+35 =50%#like that is not washing ur hands. go back and use soap #btw the numbers for women are 4% never washing and 15% ''just water''#which is still gross but like. sooo much better yikes #ps i know we're all gay on this site but watching ppl ''correct'' my math on this has been wild #i have a learning disability im genuinely bad at math so i check EVERY time someone corrects me #but no they're just confidently wrong.....#182 hours is a week babes. 182/24 (number of hours in a day) is ~7.6 #that's where i got that number from. also from rent we know there's 168 hours in a week.#ALSO btw if u read this and ur response is ''men are also struggling rn tho'' like babe you missed the point of it tho #this doesn't even make fun of men it's legit just pointing out that bigotry against women isn't founded #in anything men actually CARE about . like they don't actually CARE about ''being clean'' when they make fun of armpit hair #or they would be WASHING THEIR HANDS.#men pretend to be rollin' in cash and Apex Predators and instead they are trained to be lazy and unwilling to act in emergencies #i have never and will never make fun of men for asking for more support on important topics like DV and mental health.#this is so clearly not about men; it's about how common just being plainly misogynistic has become.#like they don't try to hide it anymore.

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catscidr · 7 months ago

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i. note — i was feeling a certain typa way because i kept coming across fics where the reader was described as busty so i wrote this in like two hours to make myself feel better lmao sue me…. ii. includes — dottore, afab!reader. no pronouns used, only descriptions of boobs/looking womanly (?) iii. cw — fluff, hurt/comfort, crack-ish bc this is a little silly, dottore is trying his best (maaaybe ooc), a little suggestive but nothing happens, talks of sex and oral, casual touching. MDNI. tldr reader is self conscious about their body and dottore tries to make them feel better lol iv. wc — 1,8k

It’s not often that you get to lay in bed with your lover; he’s always busy running around his lab, either fixing others’ mistakes or scrapping his own work to start over what he has spent so much time on. Dating the infamous Il Dottore was a challenge not many were strong enough for, but you made it work.

You would spend time with him in Haeresys by helping him with some tasks (even if they were small, and didn’t really need to be done in the first place). Handing him different tools when he’d wordlessly ask for them while neck deep in the guts of a Ruin Guard, carefully organizing old reports and documents in his desk that would never see the light of day anytime soon, and bringing him a healthy meal to eat while he worked (though you would do that yourself, because Archon forbid he actually eats on his own accord).

So, given how sparse your time together is, of course you would make it count. Of course you would use that time wisely, go out for an evening to a nice restaurant, maybe even cuddle up on the couch to binge an entire season of a show you had been meaning to watch for ages but couldn't bring yourself to because you wanted to watch it with him.

You wouldn’t dare spend your evening together in bed, wallowing in your own self-pity while he sits up, reading a book you can’t even stomach the contents of.

...Except that’s exactly what you’re doing.

You can't really help it, though. You know how he is; diligent and hardworking, a man of his craft. You know he doesn’t have the time to entertain you and your silly questions and hypotheticals, you know he’s not too fond of sweet touches and words of affection. You know this isn’t your typical relationship, but you don’t mind because you get to be with him— and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Save for when you sulk and feel so incredibly insecure and inadequate for a man such as himself.

Humans have needs. You are human, and you have needs. Dottore is a human (to some extent, though still technically human), so he, naturally, also has needs.

The issue lies in the enormous, metaphorical physical gap between you and your lover. Naturally, Dottore is essentially married to his craft, so getting any sort of action is usually out of the question. You can get a peck or two out of him, one in the morning and one at night (if you’re even awake to feel his scarred lips gently pressing into your cheek), but that’s where the list of physical affection ends.

You’ve talked about your desires and boundaries alike when you first (officially) started going out. The discussion didn’t leave out anything sexual in nature either; though the conversation was mostly led by you, while he simply nodded and pitched in with a word or two every so often.

It’s not to say you’ve never been physical with one another. But recently it’s been happening less and less, and you’ve been finding yourself in this position a lot more often; curled into yourself, lost in your own thoughts as you picked out every little detail about you that you were certain weren’t up to his standards.

It’s only when you feel him shift next to you that you’re brought back to your shared bedroom, away from the rainy clouds stuffing your mind.

Dottore shuts the book in his lap, keeping his right hand’s thumb wedged between the pages. He peers down at you with a curious expression, silently analyzing your suspicious silence.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he comments, tone as flat as it could be. You crane your neck back to look up at him, the duvet covering most of your face as you wrack your brain for something to say.

After a second of opening and closing your mouth, you finally say something. “’M just tired,” you murmur quietly, nuzzling deeper into the blankets to sell your point. He hums in response, placing his book on the nightstand next to his side of the bed and crosses his arms in front of him, brow quirked up in disapproval. Piercing red eyes stare down at you, making you hold back a shudder. Archons, you’d never get tired of seeing him without that ornate mask of his.

“It’s quite abnormal for you, of all people, to be silent when presented with the opportunity to have a conversation with me, uninterrupted” Dottore states, watching as you tense in your little cocoon. After a beat you emerge from your safety, chin just barely peeking out of the edge of the duvet.

“...I had a long day.” You avoid looking at him, a pout gracing your lips. He huffs in response and runs a hand through his loose hair. “Long day you say?” Dottore keeps his composure intact, remembering the moments you’ve whined to him throughout the day about how completely and utterly bored you felt.

“Mm. Long day, right,” he brings one hand down to hold onto the duvet and pulls it down, making you reach for the blanket to cover yourself up; though your efforts are in vain. “What’s on your mind.”

The way he spoke to you sent shivers down your spine, shuddering at the way he spoke in a way he would when making a statement.

“Nuhh... nothing. Nothing at all, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You shift in the bed to cover yourself, even if it’s entirely unnecessary. The tee shirt you wore covered you plenty, but without the duvet you just felt so... exposed. Especially with how well Dottore could read your body language; it’s like you didn’t even need to say anything (because you didn’t).

His gaze on you never relents as he scrutinizes your appearance; your furrowed brows, your hair sprawled across the pillow- still damp from your shower- and the way your lip trembles almost imperceptibly as you hold back the urge to talk about what’s been bothering you. He hates having to metaphorically twist your arm to get you to open up, but if that’s what he needed to do to keep you sane, he’d do it over and over again.

Dottore scoots his body down to lay in the bed properly and turns to his side to face you, icy hair cascading down his neck as he pulls you in towards him with a hand on your waist. You squeak, tilting your head back so as to not invade his personal space.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks, softer than before but still with a demanding tone. You shrink, avoiding looking into his eyes.

“Nothi-”

“I’m not in the mood for games.” He says your name quietly, thinly veiled with an unspoken warning.

With a huff you bite the inside of your cheeks, and finally relent. You speak quietly and without even an ounce of confidence, earning a sharp sigh from your lover.

“I can’t hear you when you mumble like th-”

“I’m flat!” you practically shout.

Dottore blinks back the whiplash that hit him in the face, stern expression fading into one of complete and utter perplexion. You don’t elaborate, staying quiet as a deep flush takes over your cheeks.

“You’re... what?”

He stares at you owlishly, for once at a loss for words. You nod, sitting up to properly articulate your feelings now that the cat was out of the bag.

“My boobs are small! I have no ass! I’m... I look like a door!” You gesture at your chest, expression looking entirely distraught as you vent your feelings out to your lover. Your shoulders droop down unceremoniously, lips jutting out in a pout as you stare at the wall to avoid crossing Dottore’s gaze. The sound of the wind howling outside of your bedroom window morphs into what almost sounds like a laugh, as if mother nature herself was cackling at your expense.

“I feel bad when people see you with me. I can’t... I have such a bad gag reflex I can’t even take a third of your dick in my m-”

He cuts you off by placing a hand on your shoulder, frown etched deep onto his face. If you looked closely you’d see red dusting the tips of his ears, contrasting against his hair.

“You’re self-conscious because you have... small breasts and a... sensitive uvula?” Dottore says, his tone completely void of the confidence he usually carried. Fingers comb through your hair, light and gentle, as he thinks of what he can even say in response to your confession.

You sniffle, looking down at yourself. The shirt you wore did little to help your smaller cup size— and as you frown at yourself, you bring a hand up and place it over one breast. “See, even my hand can cover them easily. My body doesn’t have even a little bit of curves.”

Although at a loss, Dottore recovers from the absurdity of the situation in record time. He shifts your body so you’re now facing him, and very casually slips his hands underneath your shirt to cup your breasts. He speaks before you can, cutting off the slurry of complaints you had ready.

“Have I ever complained about them?” he asks solemnly, forcing you to look at him. “As far as I’m aware I never have. Why bother being concerned over something so trivial?”

His hands squeeze them gently, making you squeak in response. The more seconds pass, the more ashamed and flustered you feel for even bringing this up. As if a man of his caliber would even care for something like this, how stupid do you have to be to think of him as someone that only cared for looks?

“Well, no, but-” another squeeze cuts off your train of thoughts,” -b-but the rest...! Men like women with a fuller figure, I can’t even give you a titjob!”

The words that flew out of your mouth made his head spin, from both irritation and embarrassment simultaneously. He inhales and exhales slowly, dragging his palms down to your ribs, then your waist, until they settle atop your hips.

“I’ve never asked for anything of the sort,” he sighs, observing the changes in your face carefully.

“Yeah, but-”

“No ‘but’s. Your body is fine. It does not matter how it looks like from the outside; your organs are working properly, and you do not have any abnormalities forming anywhere inside or outside of it. How your figure looks holds little importance to me.”

His words sink in, and you feel your invisible dog ears droop to rest flat on top of your head as you glance down at your lap, shame ringing in your ears. Dottore’s grasp tightens around your hips, demanding for your attention to be on him once again, refusing to let you sulk as long as he could help it.

“Although, putting functionality aside, do I need to remind you exactly what I think of your body? Shall I remind you how you make me feel whenever I see you parading around my office? How my body reacts to you?”

Your lips threaten to quirk up into a sheepish smile, but your shame still ate you up from the inside, keeping you from reacting. Your lover hums and flashes you a wolfish grin, leaning in towards your neck to nibble at your ear, teasing the flushed skin.

“We do have the rest of the night to ourselves, don’t we? Want to find out just how much your body affects me, my love?”