check out my bedazzled notebook bitches
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probably time for this story i guess but when i was a kid there was a summer that my brother was really into making smoothies and milkshakes. part of this was that we didn't have AC and couldn't afford to run fans all day so it was kind of important to get good at making Cool Down Concoctions.
we also had a patch of mint, and he had two impressionable little sisters who had the attitude of "fuck it, might as well."
at one point, for fun, this 16 year old boy with a dream in his eye and scientific fervor in heart just wanted to see how far one could push the idea of "vanilla mint smoothie". how much vanilla extract and how much mint can go into a blender before it truly is inedible.
the answer is 3 cups of vanilla extract, 1/2 cup milk alternative, and about 50 sprigs (not leaves, whole spring) of mint. add ice and the courage of a child. idk, it was summer and we were bored.
the word i would use to describe the feeling of drinking it would maybe be "violent" or perhaps, like. "triangular." my nose felt pristine. inhaling following the first sip was like trying to sculpt a new face. i was ensconced in a mesh of horror. it was something beyond taste. for years after, i assumed those commercials that said "this is how it feels to chew five gum" were referencing the exact experience of this singular viscous smoothie.
what's worse is that we knew our mother would hate that we wasted so much vanilla extract. so we had to make it worth it. we had to actually finish the drink. it wasn't "wasting" it if we actually drank it, right? we huddled around outside in the blistering sun, gagging and passing around a single green potion, shivering with disgust. each sip was transcendent, but in a sort of non-euclidean way. i think this is where i lost my binary gender. it eroded certain parts of me in an acidic gut ecology collapse.
here's the thing about love and trust: the next day my brother made a different shake, and i drank it without complaint. it's been like 15 years. he's now a genuinely skilled cook. sometimes one of the three of us will fuck up in the kitchen or find something horrible or make a terrible smoothie mistake and then we pass it to each other, single potion bottle, and we say try it it's delicious. it always smells disgusting. and then, cerimonious, we drink it together. because that's what family does.
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can we pleasee please please stop fucking fearmongering and blaming trans men for the predstrogen situation. please god. posts about "trans men teaming up with terfs to get trans women banned!" with zero sources all over my dash. blaming "transandrophobia truthers" for all the transmisogyny. have you all lost your fucking minds?? what the fuck happened to t4t??? what the fuck happened to trans solidarity??? why is "transfem separatism" even a subject worth entertaining????
anyone who says other trans people are the enemy is a fucking fed. jesus christ
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"[...]Plus, when it rained, the palace grounds were pretty much empty, everyone else taking shelter, so I’d usually have the whole garden to myself. Perfect time to dance around like nobody was watching.”
“Dance around?”
“Yeah!”
(In which the vex prince sets out on a magical journey of a lifetime, and an unassuming avian knight is dragged along for the ride.)
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THE DOOR IS NON-EXISTENT ALREADY LAST BUT VERY NOT LEAST FOR HSBB FROM ME These are my pieces for @gaylotusthatexists's epic fic series "to the ends of the earth" again in @hermitshippingbigbang!! :D
This is for chapter 11 of the fic featuring THE DANCE SCENEEEEEE go. read it. it's so worth it i swear they are so SJKDADwijwa and the whole world Lotus has created within the fic is so cool!!
It's botw but epic and it's scarian and I might have immediately lost it when I saw the fic summary back in *checks dms with nox* September. and the actual fic did not disappoint it is absolutely lovely <3
GOOGGOO YIPPEE👉👉👉👉👉
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cw: dubcon humping. gn reader. he’s just a little pent up guys.
gaz is absolutely the type to squeeze you into a hug that lasts a bit too long.
idk, maybe you’re his best friend or something. someone he instantly clicked with at uni and who’s stuck around despite everyone else in his life falling away like pastry crumbs. devotion that isn’t romantic nor entirely platonic in a sense, but a secret third thing that has you inviting him to stay the night when he returns home and his flat is too far a drive for someone so tired.
you greet him at your door when he arrives. he’s bulkier than when he left for deployment, fills up the arms of his t-shirt and the thighs of his pants. smells like sweat and the faint traces of his cologne (Y by yves saint laurent. you’d gotten it for his birthday.) so sexy you might as well abandon your propriety and slip a hand down the course hairs of his happy trail. but you don’t. instead, you go in for one of your patented this-isn’t-more-than-a-friendship half hugs.
which he does not take. as your one arm hooks around his neck, both of his wrap around your waist and force you to embrace him fully. it’s crushing. so tight you have to lift your head to breathe properly. he lifts you off your feet and sways you back and forth as he whispers little complaints; things about stubborn CO’s or unnecessary bloodshed. you allow it because it sounds like he needs it, this small comfort.
except it verges on longer than a few seconds. longer than proper for a pair of good uni friends. his hand kneads the flesh of your back, and his hips grind against your groin. is he hard, or is that a gun he has yet to unarm? you can’t tell, but it seems to work for him when the hard mass in his jeans catches the canyon of yours. he groans quietly, stuttered, as his thrusts gain pace. as he tightens himself like a cobra around its prey. as he plants his lips onto your neck and starts inhaling the scent of your freshly washed skin.
“…kyle?” you whisper, awkward hands flailing about behind him. your voice comes out in a strained way, vocal chords crushed against his shoulder.
“jus… give- fuck. give me a moment, mate.”
so you do. it doesn’t last much longer after that, anyway. his grinding grows brutal, knocks the little air left out of your lungs. it hurts to a degree. he’s hitting the tendon between your leg and crotch – and you’re sure it’ll be tender in the upcoming days – but you don’t voice your troubles to the man around you, who unravels at such a startling pace you know he’s too far gone to pay proper attention regardless. how else would he be bold enough to grope the plush curve of your ass? two hands latch onto it like dough, anchoring you up so the angle hits just right.
and then he starts to get sloppy. his rhythm loses pace. his stance widens and he fucking whines into your ear as a wet spot spreads across the front of his pants. you’re so dizzy that, when he lets go of you, you have to hold onto his forearm to steady yourself, blinking owlishly at the grin that stretches across his face. as if he didn’t just hump you and cream in his clothes. why are you the one caught off guard?
“thanks for that.” he winks, then pets the flyaways off your temple.
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