Mizu’s relationship with their gender is very very complicated and we MUST acknowledge that.
No one should have to justify why they think Mizu is one thing or the other, because Mizu’s past, their environment (how it treats women) and their negative associations with being a woman, can easily make a case for Mizu wanting to be a woman, or for Mizu preferring to be a guy. If I see ANY of you get mad at people for thinking Mizu is either a strictly a man or strictly a woman, or something out of the binary, I am going to GET you.
Any HC to do with Mizu’s gender has narrative merit and importance to Mizu’s character, and one does not make Mizu less complex than the other. One does not make less sense than the other. One does not MEAN less than the other. And even if it’s not about the narrative significance of them being trans or cis, and it’s more about how you think the character is coded, or even just their vibes, that’s fine too. A HC doesn’t need a justification.
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I'm one thousand percent sure Valentino bought that equipment for Marc. It's so corny and a bit weird, fits perfectly with Vale in your OF au. It's also so Vale to bring a pornstar to the ranch and just...assume that everyone already knows he's a pornstar or that no one knows or wait you know what, the most probable scenario is that he didn't think about it at all. Because ofc some of them are going to know (looking at you Celin) some of them are going to find out (Bez) and some of then won't be aware at all and it's going to be so awkward. I mean some of his students have jerked off to his boyfriend while some don't even understand why everyone is so awkward all of a sudden.
Anyway, as always, love this AU!
It 1000000% is just that vale doesn't really think about it. He even KNOWS that uccio knows, so logically he should assume uccio told someone? But that literally doesn't occur to him.
He's just a dumb ass old man like "look at my hot boyfriend! he's hot and he rides motorbikes! i'm gonna plow him into next week 🥰"
No thoughts about anyone knowing/finding out (except for the minor moment where they thought luca recognized him). He literally does not think about it or care (for now).
And he definitely bought the gear for him. He's one of the highest paid athletes in the world and while he's happy to sit around and ride bikes every weekend with The Boys, he's also not afraid to spend that money... (yellow ferrari, i'm looking at you). So when it comes to making his new twink boyfriend happy the credit card is OUT he's buying him bikes he's buying him riding gear he's buying him all his fancy little skincare for when they're done riding together 💛
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Battery City does not have sidewalks— what good would they be, anyways? Space is a crucial component in urban design, and when confined within armed concrete walls meant to protect as much as conceal, one can only really ever build upwards.
And so, upwards the City went. Roads once left as relics of the automobile age turned slick sheets of light meant to guide hover-cars along invisible paths, high above the ground. Catwalks hung upon walls alongside planters full of artificial plants and monorail tracks secured with the claw-like grip of steel anchors.
Like a vine, the City grew upwards, and like a vine, it tried to snuff out any life below it.
Humans, however, are far more resilient than plants— quite resourceful too, when push come to shove— so in the shadows of towering spires they've built their own paths. Along rivers of radiance there are stepping stones in the shape of broken down cars left to be claimed by decay, far enough out of sight to create an inconspicuous road network of its own.
After all, why look down when all your aspirations dangle above your head, barely out of grasp?
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Hey! I'd love to see number 16 from the prompt game 🥰
hello!! this was fun teehee probably came easiest of them all so far even if its a little simple...good day at the let s punch people headquarters xx
Hangnail on his left index. Remus fights the urge to bite at it by shoving his hand beneath his thigh and it works, sort of. “You’re meant to tip your head forward,” he mutters. “Not backward. The blood isn’t going to—to just go back in.”
Sirius’ eyes flit in his direction; the rest of him stays as is, head thrown back to face the high Hospital Wing ceiling, bloody rag clutched to his nose. The pale skin of his throat, the curve of his Adam’s Apple, slick smear of red down his chin. His shirt, ruined. “I’m pretty sure they say to tilt it back,” he replies, half-crushed into the wad of fabric.
“Well, they’re wrong. And I daresay I’ve had more experience with broken noses that whoever they are.” Sirius’ thigh is pressing into his, they're creasing the starched white hospital bedsheets they're sitting on. “Don’t swallow your own blood, you pillock. For god’s sake, tip your head forward.”
“Oh, god, if it means you’ll shut up—” Sirius swings his face down, “happy now? Fucking hell. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were looking to pick a fight with me. And, as you can see—” a wave of his rag-hand, his blood-stained grin, his busted lip, he’s made such a mess of himself for no reason at all, “—someone’s gone and beat you to it, today. Try again tomorrow, and I’ll see if I can fit you in.”
Remus frowns. His hand is getting clammy, and now he’s thinking about the hangnail again. “I don’t know why you’re making jokes. It wasn’t funny at all. I hated it.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear,” Sirius drawls. “My boyfriend hated the bit where a bloke punched me in the face.” He knocks their elbows together. “See, I knew you were the one.”
“I mean it, Sirius. You should’ve just let it be. As if I care what some stupid prat has to say about my blood status—”
“No. No, don’t fucking start, not right now. I care, alright? I do. No one fucking—talks about you, like that, Moony. No one calls you that and just gets away with it. Fucking prick. I’ll fucking kill him. I’ll fucking knock the rest of his teeth out, next time around. Try and stop me.”
Remus watches his jaw work, the muscle ticking away. He looks like he wants to bite something, someone. A strand of hair, plastered to the blood on his cheek. Sirius, his prize-fighter. Sirius, his torn-up boy-saint. His sweetheart, really. Strained leash and snapping jaw.
He untucks his hand and folds two of his fingers over the pinkie of Sirius’ free hand; he’s careful not to graze the raw, scuffed skin of his knuckles. He squeezes.
“Could’ve been worse. I’d rather be called a dirty fucking half-blood than a dirty fucking half-breed. Does it still hurt?”
Sirius shrugs. “Not much. It’s sort of throbbing, a bit. I just hope Pomfrey can set it right again.” He takes the rag away, presents the crooked jerk of his nose, the black gash along the bridge. “Do you still fancy me even now I’m not pretty?”
Remus chews his lip, pretends think it over. “'Spose so,” he decides. “Dunno why.”
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