Tumgik
#assfuckers
sternutaries · 3 months
Text
!slight spoilers for DetCo movie 26 (regarding character interaction)!
The tension between Akai and Furuya??? I'm used to those two basically being a divorced couple but Akai IMMEDIATELY starting to flirt right after noticing Rei is in that damn call as well and Furuya jumping on by praising him and THEN THEY USE THEIR OLD CODENAMES??????? Lemme live, bro.
66 notes · View notes
Text
Best Curse Word Tournament!
साला (Hindi) sālā No IPA 1. brother-in-law 2. a term of abuse that implies that you are sleeping with the insulted person’s sister
assfucker (English) /æsˈfʌk.ə(ɹ)/ 1. a rude person  2. the top during anal sex
54 notes · View notes
sporesgalaxy · 11 months
Text
1. I went thru stages consuming trigun. "idk if scrangle would be a plant" -> "i dont think scrangle would be a plant" -> "scrangle HAS to be a plant actually" so i will be remaking trigun scrangle
2. temptation to name plant!Scrangle Renga (レンガ) because it means Brick and its in their name [スクレンガル (すくれんがる)]
74 notes · View notes
dicapiito · 4 months
Text
Mizu; a mixed Japanese woman who has to live like a man to survive
White people: I’m going to be racist and fetishizing and headcanon Mizu as someone she’s not because ‘ lgbt representation’!”
13 notes · View notes
megatronsimp · 11 months
Text
Nightshade should be protected at all cost.
51 notes · View notes
neurogliadudette · 10 months
Text
might even excuse axing people but svidrigailov's - A 50 yr old man, attraction and arousal by a 16 yr old is where i draw the line
21 notes · View notes
liroyalty · 6 months
Text
Tumblr media
Neowiz didn't have to make their protag this adorable, but they did it anyway. I Love Him. Fuck Geppetto, this is MY son now.
10 notes · View notes
xamaxenta · 5 months
Text
Envious of the way insects shed their exoskeletons and yearn to do the same
9 notes · View notes
xiaoluclair · 1 year
Note
lestappen - i don’t need your pity (for the prompts thingy)
it’s been a while anonsie and for that i can only say i hope you’ve stuck around long enough to see this (or maybe not because i had no idea WHAT i was doing). its been off and on in my mind but i only figured something out recently so thank you for unknowingly challenging me, it was certainly Something to write and i’m glad it was! i hope you enjoy if you find it hidden somewhere in the dash <3
warnings: waffle | severe lack of coherent thought from author (that is grotesquely obvious in the story mess(tm)) | not exactly the fluffiest thing i've ever written | parallel-universes-esque storymessline | post monza 2022 | not exactly a happy ending ... oopsie??
word count: 1926 (aka so much longer than i thought it would be wtf)
- ꭘıаӧᴸu℄ɐiɾ - ꭘıаӧᴸu℄ɐiɾ - ꭘıаӧᴸu℄ɐiɾ -
Question: What Happens When Two Stars Collide?
Answer: They Merge Into A Single Star.
On one side of the door, in fluorescence and sweats, is a man. In his hands is a little bag. His name is Max. He raises a hand and knocks. 
On the other side of the door is a space of silence. Into it moves another man - a different man (how different, this is unclear). His name is Charles. He tilts his head back and stares at the moon touches on the ceiling and exhales. 
Max knocks again after a few seconds. His fingers are flush to the base of the bag, collecting the warmth that remains. What the bag is, this is not yet known.
When Charles opens the door, this is the second thing he considers. The first, is that the man on the other side is soft and smiling and tantalizingly alive. Then, we get to the bag.
“What is this?” he asks. A thing the room missed: the hollows under his eyes. They are easier to see in sick yellow light, stark with cowering shadows. They glitter slightly too - Max does not notice this. 
He holds up his arms like an offering. Fitting, because what else could this be. “Dinner for us?”
Pity, perhaps. After all, what is more pitying than someone sad for no pinpointable reason of their own other than someone with an exact pinpointable reason. Charles thinks about this too much. He does not want to think about it now but. 
“What do you want, Max?”
“I want to be with you." Max's answer is simple. It is how he feels, after all. And what is the truth other than simple.
Charles considers it for a bare amount of time. He says bitterly, "I do not want pity."
Max only says, again, "I want to be with you."
It takes a moment. A few moments. But then he steps to the wall and gestures the offering inside. Max comes with it.
It is not something so much worked out as simply occurring: Charles sits on the bed, close to the wall and curled around himself. Max sets the bag upon the sheets, between both of their bodies. He is stretched over the other side, his legs doused in moonlight.
They share two little tupperwares of tomato soup between them.
Max's chest is warm and beating. Charles listens to it until sleep weighs his eyelids, stomach filled, and lost at the edge of peace.
Answer: The Smaller (If There Is A Smaller) Is Swallowed.
"What do you want?"
This is, objectively, a simple question. Simpler when you regard the context:
Sex.
Something like it, anyway.
There are two men. One - blue - is flush to the wall. The other one - red - is flush to the blue. Hands are gripping, teeth clashing, and the tyres beside them are not the only things that are hard.
Perhaps a silly observation: there is no purple between them.
"I do not- I do not know." Red is breathless. He is also lying. The truth is, he wants it all. He wants to place himself against the wall without a care, he wants to be asking What Do You Want because he already has everything he wants. He does not want pity. He wants pride.
Surrounded by red, he wants to be Blue.
It does not matter. He is only kissed harder, crushed closer. Blue takes his face with reverence. Red cannot afford this. But he tries anyway, because the last thing he wants right now is to crumble. He lets himself be held together and touched and tries his best to do so in return. To give back the emotion he is being pressed with. For whatever reason, he thinks he fails.
The air twitches.
Blue pulls away, happy and hazy and blinking away the dilation from his pupils. He and Red share a stark look. His body moves, forceful nod of his head.
Panic pushes Red right behind the tall tyre trolleys, his breath held and lungs screaming. There are few gaps between the blankets. He looks through these as best as he can and listens for all the rest.
"Max?" Surprise - his teammate. "What are you doing here?"
"I was looking for you," says Blue as they share a shake of hands. "Are you free for dinner?"
"Sure, man. You have something in mind?"
Blue does actually. Tomato Soup, Blue is thinking, but he cannot say this. Only, he cannot think of anything else to say. So he says, "I really want tomato soup."
A laugh, "That is very specific. I will take it."
"Excellent!"
Conversation continues to ebb between them as they leave. Blue feels bad, but only a little. He will leave tomorrow and Red will stay but they can always Facetime. Besides, he has Italy to explore tonight, a win to remember, and a friend to share it with along with some soup.
Left in shadows, Red crouches in his own garage. He hides until the pain does not trail down his face and his eyes feel less itchy. He wipes his mouth, still sticky with saliva that is not his own. It comes away on his hand, reflective. He licks his lips.
A bitter taste lingers.
Answer: A Neutron Star Is Born That Dissolves Into A Black Hole.
If you stood on the ground, among the fairy-lit treeline and quartz potted gerberas, and tilted your view up to the sky, you would see stars, fresh with memories of red seas and Dutch anthems.
If you tilted your view just a little but lower, you would see a man.
He lifts a hand, hollowed with shadow, and itches the skin on his cheeks. Again, and again, and again; one side, then the other. This might have continued forever. It does not. 
His hand moves, instead to the dust beside him. And then his entire self moves, swallowed into the darkness breathing behind him. But wait, for a few seconds. You see him, spat out with his elbow bent. Squint and there is the movement of his mouth, voice sucked into the base of the phone. 
Lip-reading from so far down - impossible, probably. 
This does not matter. We simply go a little closer.
If you sat with your spine curled flush to the glass - cold, freezing - you would hear a voice, see it being spoken. "I am fine."
If you inched a little closer, until his skin - freezing, cold - pressed to yours, you would hear the reply. "So you are not crying in your room?"
"No," laughs this man in front of you. "Of course not."
"Tell me, what are you doing?"
Teeth worry over lips for a moment. A flash of red is left behind, swept up by the smooth motion of a tongue. "Just watching TV, writing a little bit. Might take another shower but I do not know if I should take a warm one or cold."
Static sounds, a moment. "Sounds like a simple evening."
The man makes a noise. Something like happiness if happiness were a Wikipedia article. "Very."
They breathe together, for a long long time. You might breathe with them if you were more than an apparition, a ghost. But even bodiless, the quiet flush of thermia set on this man's cheeks is clear, slight tremor in the phone as the surface refracts the moon.
"Hey."
He stays silent.
The line continues. "I love you."
Finally, a smile. It brightens as few things do: small, flickering, absent. Joyous and pained.
"I have to go but. You did really really good today. And I am sure next weekend will be better."
The inevitable beep sounds then, of a line hung up. Warmth still lingers though from the explicable words, comfort in every syllable.
To you.
The man - Charles, it would reason - his eyes are drawing up, tight. Much like the corners of his mouth. Where something light once rested, darkness is swallowing, stamping its hooves.
If you were to swim between the neurones in his brain, you would be dead. So would he.
His thoughts are his own only. All that is there is the twist of his lips, as though closed around something bitter.
Answer: Supernova.
On one side of the door, in fluorescence and sweats, is a man. His hands are pressed together in his hoodie pocket. He is thinking something about tomato soup, but it is difficult to remember with a mind so addled by gin. His knuckles rap. He calls, "Charles?"
Louder: "Charles!"
On the other side of the door, another man is rushing. It swings open in bare seconds. "Max?"
"Charles," says Max. He is happy. He is squinting.
"What the fuck?" says Charles. He is not.
The smell of alcohol is filling the air, of champagne. Like a taunt.
“What do you want?”
Max shrugs, smiling dripping a little less. “To be with you.”
Because Max does not think like this. After all, he has no need to taunt anyone, he has no threat. Especially not from Charles. And if he does not come to taunt, then there is only one other thing.
Charles starts the inch shut the door, hinges giving way freely. “I think I should be alone.”
Max steps forward, a hand flashing out. "What?" He holds the wood still, presses against Charles's weight and his eyes are searching. He is drunk; he focuses on small, insignificant details. "Why? Are you- you have been crying."
Charles shakes his head and the undersides of his eyes glimmer again. "Go away."
Patience is something racing will often inevitably drag with itself. There are ways to place a car and ways to keep it placed and ways to change its place, all perfectly times, all learned and being learned by the two men in this hallway and this room.
It is too bad, then, that being human comes with hiccups even in something akin to heartbeat.
"What is wrong?" asks Max. The door has stopped shoving into his palm; he does not stop shoving his palm into the door. It cracks open, loud into the plaster. A dent - neither of them care or notice.
“Nothing!” says Charles, only now he sounds hysterical. Case in point: his arms are up, like crackers shooting to the clouds, pupils dilating even under the drench of gutted yellow. Only he does not stop: "I hate you, I hate you."
The reply is factual. "You do not."
What once glittered only, now flows. "I love you." It breaks. "I love you."
"So tell me," says Max as though waving a wad of cash against a bag of groceries: tomatoes, onions, herbs, a stick of butter. "What is wrong."
There is this thing in competition. It is well-known and well-played and when rested on a tongue, makes it curl in unpleasant ways.
Charles takes Max by the plastic-ended strings of his hoodie then. It hurts, the crack of their teeth together. The door crashes shut behind them, and mattresses are not hard but perhaps this one is. It nearly breaks Max's back.
There is nothing lovely about this. It burns with ache and pain and, aloud in every touch Charles feels, something unspoken. It makes him pull away, skin flush and sliding thickly against the man below him, stretched out and pliant. An invitation - Do what you wish. I can afford it.
It rises a hiss, a far cry from prideful Ferrari: "I do not need your pity."
Who knew the bitterest thing of all could be a smile.
46 notes · View notes
intertexts · 18 days
Text
sirens have been going by all night???
4 notes · View notes
catdog-coyote-butch · 22 days
Text
.
4 notes · View notes