#woman's built like a brick shithouse

[merge-conflict]

wip wednesday

Chuck tossed her cigarette into a nearby puddle and checked in with the rest of the group. It was another muggy night, in a string of muggy nights, and her undershirt was sticking to her like a second skin, sealed in tight by her armored vest. All she could think about was going home and slipping into a nice, chilly, ice bath– maybe falling asleep on the couch while Namita went on her weekly raid. The perfect Wednesday night.

“Pacer–“ Raina said, in warning tone. “You ready? Or not?”

“Incoming…three, two, and… done.”

A video feed flickered into Chuck’s vision– Pacer insisted on cutting together his overviews with an extra bit of style– transitions and breakouts, everything labeled legibly and tagged in her interface. Plenty of mercs liked to complain about him, but she liked it. Hadn’t been quite so long ago she’d been working with runners who barely spoke, never mind briefed and updated the team in real-time.

The job was a simple flashbang: get into some dim, smoke-filled basement, rile up the occupants, smash up the place, and flush all the targets smart enough to run straight into a net. Chuck was point on the shock squad, with Javi and Lena working crowd control in her wake. Raina had Nikita with her, leading the huscle stationed around the building’s chokepoints. Twenty minutes, tops, from first hit until delta. Forty minutes home to shower and slip into a bath. She flexed her claws, considering. Maybe another thirty to pick up something to eat and a couple of beers. It had been raining all day.

All the side doors to the basement had been jammed twenty minutes ago, so when Chuck tossed the bouncer straight through the front door, she blocked the only exit available to the two dozen or so card players gawping up at her. She stepped in and tossed the door ahead of her, watching two men in suits scramble frantically out of the way. Someone fired a gun and there was a familiar ping! as the bullet glanced off one of her gleaming brass arms– the best set of implants the Animals had ever taken as payment, and which she’d earned in a battle royale. With a bit of effort she could shoulder her way through a car. Small caliber was just that: small.

[meangreennunseen]

Tempted to give Jaghatai or Dorn a wife, just because for one these two are total wife guys, but for a second I want to give Nefrit at least one normal sister-in-law to hang out with...

[l00k4tm4m45c415]

Claire Max

[rackartyg]

[sees art of a man with shrink-wrapped abs] GET HIM A BOTTLE OF WATER HE'S ABOUT TO PASS OUT

[fuffylove]

[highlifeboat]

Lil doodle of Melony and her Hockey/La Crosse player gf

[tedkaczynskiofficial]

Women frequently prefer a different outcome than men from working out, but as long as you watch your form and don't overload yourself, women can do the same workout regimens as men. The caveat is that without steroids it'll take the average woman longer than the average man to get big, and the average woman doesn't get as big as the average man.

I don’t know if there really is any science behind workout routines separated by sex, but even if there is benefit to doing exercise “for women” i don’t give a shit. and i will intentionally seek out guides made For Men. because by and large, this is how the different video thumbnails shake out

[memecatwings]

im only 22/623 pages into iron flame and im already so over it violet sorrengail im putting you in the soup

[cowboy-heart]

'BUTCH MANIFESTO'

inspired by 'FEMME SHARK MANIFESTO' by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

(ID under cut)

Ko-Fi (Commissions Open!)

[ID: an original poem titled 'BUTCH MANIFESTO'. the stanzas are all on the left side of the page and lineated, except for the first line, and last stanza. Poem begins:

Listen up! Butches hold it down! We don’t spend hundreds of pounds on designer clothes and black and white tuxes – we shop off the charity shop rack, hand-me-downs from our bois, our men, our women. Butch is not a glamour word - Butch is not for the white collars in their 9-5 and their office parties, Butch is not for the woman in a police uniform with short cropped hair, Butch is not for the masc who looks down on our femmes, Butch is not for the dumbass white people who call themselves stud, like our people haven’t taken enough from black lesbians, Butch is not for the politician or the soldier, it’s for those of us who get shit done and don’t throw anyone under the bus; who stand between our loved ones and the white-knuckled fist; it’s for the people who take a breath of relief when they get home and get to lay their head on the shoulder of their baby and say, it’s hard, and I need you right now; it’s for those of us with hard-soled feet, worn by hours of standing, just so people can buy some useless shit on a Sunday. Butch is for the primary school teachers, the neighbour keeping your package safe, the hairstylist, the barber, the youth worker, the locked up, the sectioned, the evicted, the boy on the dole. Butches hold each other up, Butches stand up for communities, no matter how different we might be.

Butches stand up for Butches, because only we know the shit we face, we don’t argue over what butch looks like for someone - their struggle doesn’t counteract ours. We’re brothers, sisters, siblings, lovers, mentors, we don’t fight over femmes or fight each other. We help up our siblings who can’t hold themselves up and shouldn’t have to.

Butch is recognising our hurt, our pain, and making sure nobody has to go through that, in the very least not alone. Butch is not reproducing that hurt, butch isn’t the transfem exclusion, the toxicity, it’s driving our girls and boys to the abortion clinic, it’s holding your femme’s hair back over the toilet bowl, it’s telling your darlin’ to take a deep breath, before you poke the needle into her thigh, it’s holding back on punching the catcaller because you know it’ll put your lover in more danger, it’s fishing in your closet for an old, dusty dress for your questioning girl, it’s never calling the cops, it’s carrying the Narcan, it’s gathering the funds for bail, it’s tipping the waiter, it’s kissing the bruised chin of a fellow butch who’s built like a brick shithouse.

Butch is not all muscle, able-bodied, white Butch is not all skinny and androgynous Butch is care Butch is NURTURE. Butch is a cane and an unsteady step Butch is putting down the ramp Butch is wheeling up it Butch is addict Butch is straight-edge Butch is diaspora Butch is desi Butch is antiracist Butch is socialist Butch is punk Butch is black Butch is brown Butch is fat Butch is fat-loving Butch is mental illness Butch is antipsych Butch is autism Butch is trans Butch is anger Butch is tears Butch is grief Butch is the old bull Butch is the closeted kid in a dress Butch is the baby dyke wearing a rainbow flag cape Butch is smile lines Butch is crinkled eyes Butch is crying in your friend’s beat-up car Butch is foetal position Butch is pink Butch is motherhood Butch is fatherhood Butch is cat-dad Butch is fucking Butch is getting fucked Butch is stone Butch is bashful Butch is humble Butch is cocky Butch is proud Butch is single Butch is uneducated Butch is poet Butch is poetry Butch is council estate Butch is gentleness Butch is bones and spit and the soft curve of our lower backs the clenched jaw under a double chin the hard-eyes that any femme can see right through the estradiol the testosterone the carabiner clink the thick hands the cellulite the bloody pads the tampon string the mood swings the sagging tits the top surgery scars the swinging cock the hairy pussy the protruding t-dick the leather harness.

Butch is eternity Butch is sewn into the fabric of atoms Butch is love and solidarity Butch is never leaving anyone behind and never selling anyone out.

End poem. In the bottom right corner, the poet is signed as 'Ren H.' End ID].

[fagulaa]

I love TSV because i was immediately locked in to what I think the characters look like on first vocal impact, and have been unswayable on this account. but the GREAT thing is that that appears to have happened to EVERYONE and we all have slight variants going on. The one near universal agreement seems to be that Faulkner is built like a series of mops and sticks super glued together.

[panpteryx]

hey @beepiesheepie have you seen these

OK you know what I’m slapping these refs down into their own post. I didn’t go nuts trying to finish all of these for artfight for nothing!

I’d like to do a remake of their og introduction post at some point with the other two classes buuut my mind is elsewhere at the moment! So I am handing these to you in the meantime o7

[spearxwind]

oh my god Ringworld's misogyny is *so bad*. I don't even know where to start

I read ringworld when I was like, 13 or so and I didnt really PROCESS the misogyny until like years later but when I did then OH BOY...

Some of my faves that I still remember: - One of the main characters is from an alien race of huge anthro cats where only the males are sapient and females are completely feral and inferior - the woman they find on the derelict ship who is INSAAAANELY good at sex and the book outright tells you "well of COURSE she´'s so good at sex she was on a spaceship full of MEN and she had to SURVIVE so she had to be real good at that" ???????????? - one of the mc's being just stpid as fuckkkkk and it being a legitimate, honest to god, cosmically relevant plot point. and of COURSEEE at the end of the book she stays with the very stupid, but built like a brick shithouse barbarian, instead of The Intellectual Protagonist, because she's just that stupid.

Honorable mention:

When the derelict space lady is banging the protagonist (i dont remember why but she does it multiple times and i feel like it was bc that way she got smth out of him??) and then then one of the other weird alien freaks from the party shoots her with the Orgasm Mind Beam which IMMEDIATELY makes her super docile and into the protagonist because women are that simple (??????)

It's REALLY upsetting because a lot of the worldbuilding is genuinely so awesome!! like... fist-of-god was my favorite thing ever. its just so brilliant and iirc it was rly well written (for my 14 year old mind). the puppeteers planets being set up in a kemplerer rosette and moveable like colossal spaceships!! and the fact that some humans can be cosmically significant based on their luck is also a cool concept, but it was pulled off so misogynistically....

I wish I remembered more but I think the book focused too much oh Weird Scenes and I don't remember a whole lot about the lore other than these things :(

[hisaacswrites]

See, Soap is a bartender. Well, he’s actually whatever his boss says he is while he gets used to civvie life again, but right now he’s a bartender. And before that, he was SAS. In both professions, being able to read people is invaluable. And even before that, Soap had always been good at getting a feel for people, at reading a room and seeing what’s underneath it all.

Which is why he’s been keeping an eye on the bar’s back booth. There’s a couple there. A bombshell of a woman and a hulking mountain of a man. For all intents and purposes, they look like the stereotypical lovesick couple who’ve had a bit too much to drink to understand the boundaries of acceptable PDA- The woman is draped across the man’s lap, her hands are wandering across and under, her lips working furiously over his skin every chance she gets in between sips of her drink and eyeing the crowd.

But something sets Soap’s senses on edge. Something is wrong.

Maybe it’s how stiff and awkward and downright uncomfortable the man looks.

Maybe it’s how the woman keeps shoving drinks into his hands despite his clear reluctance, watching him like a hawk until he finishes the glass.

Maybe it’s how the man subtly flinches every time the woman touches his bare skin with her oxblood nails. Or how he tries to hunch in on himself when she’s not focused on him, how he seems to be pressing back into the seat as if he could disappear into the upholstery.

Maybe it’s the panic in his eyes, the resignation on his face, the ignored “no’s” that Soap can read on his lips even across the dark room.

Something is wrong.

So even though the man is built like a brick shithouse and looks like he could bench Soap without breaking a sweat, and even though he has scars across his face and knuckles that prove he can take care of himself, and even though Soap can feel the aura of “leave-me-the-fuck-alone” radiating from him-

Soap still approaches the man when the woman stumbles her way to the bathroom. Because something is wrong and he’ll be damned if he ignores his intuition.

So Soap goes over under the guise of picking up the empty glasses, undeterred by the man who’s unfocused gaze is boring holes into the sticky table. He picks up the glasses and plays it cool, rapping his knuckles to get the man’s attention, as if taking his order for a refill.

Asks the stranger if he needs an angel shot.

It takes a moment for the man to respond, for him to understand what Soap is asking. But when the man’s shoulders slump in relief and gratitude shines in his dark eyes as he nods up at Soap, looking like a lost child staring up at their salvation, Soap knows he made the right decision.

The woman returns, sliding into the booth and spreading possessively over the man’s lap when Soap asks him how he wants his drink.

The “On ice, please,” spoken in a rough and tired baritone has Soap nodding and heading back to the bar with a grim but determined expression.

In a few minutes, he’ll head back to the table and tell the man that something is wrong with his credit card and he should come with him to settle the tab. He’ll take the man to the back office, safe and secure, and get the woman an Uber of her own. He’ll learn that the man’s name is Simon and that he’s been in an abusive relationship with the woman for two and a half years. Soap’ll learn that she physically, mentally, emotionally, financially abused Simon, that she controls his every move, that she cost him his job, she wrecked his car, she killed his cat-

But right now he’s grabbing a refrigerated bottle of water and a bag of crisps, dropping them off in the back before putting his best apologetic-server face on and heading back towards the booth with the “bad news” about the man’s card.

First, he has an angel shot to deliver.

A brainworm drabble that’s near and dear to my heart. Abuse comes in all shapes and sizes and doesn’t discriminate against gender. Please keep your eyes peeled, your ears sharp, and your hearts open to those who may need help, including yourselves. A part of me wants to make this a full fic, but I’m not sure. For now it’ll live with the other brain worms.

[alyimoss]

yknow what i have somehow never considered fem fresh before. and now i have. tall woman... big tall woman...... big tall chubby woman..... towering over me....

yeah im gonna be normal abt this. very. definitely.

i love fem!fresh (literally just fresh but girl) way too much for my own good this is not normal i don’t think. i need to marry her like right now. where are the fem retroglitch fics. where are any retroglitch fics actually hold on. where have they gone

[bitebitesnap]

Guzma is such a specific kinda guy and I love it.

He's built like a brick shithouse. His diet consists of diet mountain dew and several different types of fish, none of them made healthy. He's one of the most determined pokemon trainers in Alola, with some of the strongest pokemon in the region. His main pokemon is a bug type who's main gimmick is fleeing the fight and cannot be caught in battle unless cornered. He's a gang leader. His gang is a bunch of stupid teens. He's respectful and does have a level of honor when regarding pokemon battles.

He's wanted for several felonies in 3 cities and at least one of them is murder. He broke a teenager's arm for losing to him. He's beaten his own members because they didn;t perform. He let a woman gaslight him into believing he was one of the strongest pokemon trainers ever and that he could control pokemon from another dimension, which lead to him getting kidnapped by said pokemon and nearly dying.

He has a moth that's probably not much bigger than a medium sized dog.

[aamputation]

Consequences of Villain’s Kindness

A body flies back, hitting the side of the building with an impact that shakes it to its very foundations. The cloud of dust and debris it kicks up is like a smokescreen, obscuring the victim of such an extreme show of violence. As it slowly clears, a rough silhouette collapses against the building and begins to take shape, revealing itself to be the Villain. To see such an indomitable force rendered down like this is unnatural, the usual stamina and endurance that the Villain is known for missing so profoundly. The obscuring dust eventually clears, revealing the Villain surrounded by a halo of brick and mortar, crumbled and falling like apocalyptic snow around them.

The gas-mask they usually wear during acts of Villainy is shattered and blood-stained black gloves shakily pull the broken remains from their face, letting it drop unceremoniously amongst the rest of the detritus. The Villain coughs, blood overflowing from their mouth to drip down their chin and throat, disappearing into the black high collar of their protective under suit. Their legs shake as they struggle back to standing, dark Kevlar pants ripped and bloodstained. Their prosthetic sparks dangerously from the holes punched into the external plating, spare wires and innermost mechanics spasming and misfiring. 

Their ribs ache, and they’re concerned that the nanobots aren’t going to have enough fuel to pull from to fix the damage this time—there’s just too much, the internal-bleeding not-withstanding. The base of their prosthetic is protesting the damage sustained to the mechanics, connected to their nervous system as it is. It’s agony, but it’s still mostly functional. There’s a non-zero chance that it will fail, but the Villain refuses to succumb to such shitty odds—not now, not when there’s so much on the line.

Never had they thought they’d be in this position, forced into a corner against dubious odds, improbable circumstances. This never should have happened to begin with, and they’re furious it even came to this point. They weren’t even doing anything particularly bad this time, for fucks’ sake, they’d been at the goddamn grocery store when they’d gotten jumped! Gritting their teeth, they fight back the flinch that threatens to overtake them as a particularly sharp shock of pain surges through their nervous system. They flex their right hand, checking the responsiveness and frowning at the jerkiness of the mechanics. Bludgeoning it is, then.

“Villain…”

Their eyes narrow as the sound of footsteps grow louder, adversaries approaching. They can’t run, not with their ankle as fucked as it is and their ribs as jacked up as they are—that’s just asking for a lung to get punctured and then it truly would be game over. Steeling their nerves, they straighten their posture as much as they can, immediately starting to come up with contingencies.

“Heroes,” they greet as dryly as possible, “Are you quite finished beating the shit out of me? I find I’m rather tired of your barbaric acts of violence for violence sake.”

The first of the four Heroes that the Authority has sent after them step out of the shadows around the building they stand in front of. He’s tall, built like a brick shithouse, and has huge hands that look like blunt force weapons. The second slinks out to the far left, long and lean with eyes glowing like toxic waste. He flicks his wrists idly, long stiletto blades flashing between his fingers in a delightful display of sleight of hand. They know these two Heroes, although they were supposed to have retired and gone on to desk work: Alley Cat and the Hound.

“I know there are two more of you, don’t take me for a fool. Show yourselves, lest I truly consider you for cowards,” they sneer, lip pulling back into a bloody snarl.

“You’re a piece of work, Villain,” a very young female voice drawls as a woman—no, a girl—steps out to the Villain’s right side, casually examining her fingernails. She’s dressed similarly to Their Hero and it makes them seethe.

“I’m certain I could say the same about you,” the Villain replies, “although you look barely old enough to drive, so perhaps I ought to simply presume you’re merely a teenager with a chip on her shoulder.”

“Why you–!”

“See, if I wasn’t ordered to take you out, I’d have thought you funny, Villain.”

The Villain turns to face the fourth hero, a young man built strong but not like the Hound, also dressed in a fashion similar to Their Hero. He’s perhaps what one would call “dashingly handsome” but the Villain just wants to spit at the ground by his feet. He’s the one who beat them so badly… they’re not going to forget such a punchable face any time soon—they will hold a grudge until they consider payback served.

“Quite frankly, I don’t give a shit.”

He smirks at their reply, probably expecting more—clearly used to getting some sort of reaction—but the Villain just stares back.

“Villain, the Authority knows you’ve been snooping around in our databases,” Alley Cat says, his voice smooth and deep, coming to stand beside the Hound, “we’ve been authorized to clarify what information you stole by whatever means necessary, as well as to determine what you’ve done to another of the Authority’s Heroes.”

Arching a brow, the Villain remains still although their heart begins to race. They’d known this day would come, but they hadn’t known it would be like this. Perhaps one new Hero would come after them, not four! Wasn’t this overkill? They aren’t even a Supervillain, just a Villain, what about them warrants four Heroes coming after them with an “any means necessary” order? 

Panic begins to rise.

“Curious, I don’t recall ever admitting to such a thing. What makes you so certain it was me snooping around, as you claim?”

“Because you did something to Zeta!! And I won’t stand for it!!” the girl-child Hero stomps her foot, pointing angrily at the Villain.

“Chi, stop it,” the annoyingly handsome Hero chides his comrade, “Zeta was one of the first generation of Heroes to come out of the new Program,” he turns back to the Villain, “and you did something that made doubt enter the previously flawless equation. Zeta never questioned anything before you.”

Privately, the Villain feels a surge of pride having learned that their Hero has begun to think independently, away from the brainwashing claws of the Authority. Outwardly, they remain impassive.

“Zeta is my senior,” he continues, “and I refuse to allow your toxic influence to continue to poison the good the Authority and Zeta can do together!”

“Yeah! What Iota said!”

The Villain sighs, closing their eyes and pinching the bridge of their nose, “I cannot claim to have such influence over this Zeta you speak of, nor can I claim to have been snooping—as you say—in your database to steal information. I am afraid your intel is false and this entire endeavor has been in vain.”

“I don’t believe you!” the little girl hero shouts.

Tossing their hands in the air, an action that fucking hurts, the Villain scoffs, “Believe what you will, child, but I am not lying!” 

In their periphery, they can see the Hound and the Alley Cat glancing at one another as they exchange a look, nodding as though coming to some sort of conclusion. The Villain feels like they’re dancing on the head of a pin; on the precipice of danger. This encounter can end one of two ways: relatively peacefully, or with more gratuitous violence. They’ve given up the information the Heroes want—granted it’s not completely factual, but there’s enough truth there that it stands on its own—and quite frankly they’d never learned their Hero’s actual hero name, so the whole Zeta this, Zeta that nonsense means jack shit to them. Their Hero is Their Hero, plain and simple. Whatever name the shitty, fucked up Authority assigned is nothing in comparison to what Their Hero means to them.

“Chi, Iota—we’re done here. The Villain has given us the requested information, and it seems that our intel was wrong. They have no reason to lie, considering they’re hiding how seriously their injuries are,” Alley Cat orders. It’s almost comical how quickly the two younger heroes snap to attention, but the relief the Villain feels at the announcement at the Hero’s imminent retreat overwhelms everything else.

“Yessir!” the younger female hero—Chi, was it?—chirps, saluting and skipping over to the two veteran heroes, looking up at them like a dog asking for praise. The Villain barely suppresses their scoff. Seriously, the Authority really is shameless, creating child soldiers, of all things. Disgusting.

“But, sirs–!”

“Iota, that was an order.”

“I understand that, sirs,” Iota replies, insubordinate. The Villain arches an eyebrow, resisting the urge to smirk. Oho, this kid is hurting for a reprimand, if the way Alley Cat’s expression is twitching is any clue, “but surely we haven’t exhausted all our options here? I’m sure we can get more information out of this Villain if we apply more pressure.”

“Iota.”

The younger male hero straightens immediately at the deep reprimand from the Hound. When the man speaks up, you listen. He’s a veteran, a soldier. The Villain’s heard the stories; the guy was active when Mother and Father were on the scene and he’d thwarted their plans more than once with Alley Cat at his side. The man is smarter than he looks, after all.

“We’re Heroes. We do not torture. We do not maim. We do not kill without good reason.”

Ah, yes. Morals, the silly things that Heroes believe set them so much higher than Villains. The Villain resists the urge to roll their eyes. That wouldn’t be a good idea at this moment.

“If you believe that pursuing our line of inquiry further on an adversary who is one good blow away from worsening their internal bleeding to the point that they very well may die, then perhaps the Authority made a mistake in allowing you to join their ranks.”

“Sir!”

“So, Iota,” the Hound says, calm as can be, “do you still think there’s validity in pushing the Villain further for more information despite the fact that they’ve already willingly given us what we came for?”

“I for one, would have continued to push me were I in your shoes, Iota,” the Villain can’t help but drawl, a lazy smirk crawling across their lips to reveal bloodstained teeth, “but then again I don’t subscribe to the same morals as your beloved Authority does, do I?”

“Villain.”

“Ah, apologies, Sir Hound,” they demur, ducking their head to hide their silent laughter.

“Well, Iota?” the Hound asks again. The Villain watches through the fringe of their hair as the burly man crosses those thick arms across his giant chest, making his imposing presence even more intimidating. The younger male hero deflates.

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now, move out.”

The Villain watches them leave, and only once the group of heroes are far enough away do they collapse down to one knee, wheezing in agony as all the adrenaline wears off and the shock sets in. Everything hurts—every breath, every twitch, every hair on their body aches with a ferocity that has them wanting to cry. They haven’t shed tears in years, and quite frankly it feels foolish to do so now even with as much pain as they’re in. Their left hand is clenched into the muscle of their thigh, pressed hard even through the tough, Kevlar-laced material of their pants. They slowly detach each finger one by one, crossing their body to latch onto the anchor point of the prosthetic. Only muscle memory has them detaching the mechanical arm, the broken thing clattering to the pavement beside them, the shredded remnants of their right sleeve ripping further as gravity does its thing.

They don’t know how long they remain there, amidst the detritus and debris from where they’d been flung unceremoniously into the building, dazed and in pain, as they struggle to find the strength to move and call their minions to pick them up so they can get to one of their safehouses. Swallowing, they squeeze their eyes shut, wishing that none of this ever happened. 

Wishing, foolishly, that they’d never thought to try and find out why Their Hero wasn’t able to see their family.

Never wondering why it was so hard for Their Hero to remember the warm embrace of a mom, the blustery laughter of a dad, or the teasing of a sibling. 

Wishing they’d never thought they could do something kind for someone they–

—for someone they love.

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My designs for Villain and Hero found [ here ]

shout out to adornedwithlight for the reblog banner & barbed wire divider