Man, just saw a post about it, but renewed my frustration over work nonsense yesterday
Being like, oh, cool! It's disability pride month! We get to switch the displays in the store! I wanna make a really cool display right up front!!
Getting a cart to go start selecting books from our wide array of children's books, picture books, YA novels, adult fiction, nonfiction, etc that I know feature disabled characters and people and that I've seen sitting on the shelves for a while, our previous book buyer was always suuuuuper vocal about finding books w disabled characters, after all, representation just MATTERED SO MUCH to her,
And then being absolutely dumbfounded when we BARELY HAVE ANYTHING outside of characters w ADHD/Autism. MAYBE anxiety. PERHAPS a character has cancer. THE FAINTEST SUGGESTION of a wheelchair in one book. Huntington's? Question mark? In another? Conditions resulting in disfigurement/amputation? The concept could possibly exist in this book, uhh.. maybe...... anything else? Ha! Not on these shelves I fucking guess?!
Like.... we have a ton of books w queer rep! Different body types! Different skin tones! Teach your toddler about social justice! Transgender characters! Nonbinary characters! The alphabet but we're making it gay! At least one book, I think, with asexual characters! But no, we don't have our self-empowerment books anymore or the little guide to sexuality and disability, we have Buddhist monk advice for anxious people, but nooooo we DON'T have that cool book that talked about disability activism anymore, and definitely not in time for July!
I know she and I were at odds before she left, and I know my specifically putting "National month of..." prompts up on my desk calendar after she expressed it was "so difficult to find out what each month is the month of!" probably really irritated her, but I'm like. Appalled that she hadn't been ordering to restock for disability pride month since she always made such a big deal about having books like that in the store.
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In Clays and Creams and Yellow Music is now on ao3
Robin is gay, is the thing. She always has been.
She remembers being very small and watching the way girls skirts twirled around their knees, the way their hair would brush they collarbones and get stuck on their mouths, lips sticky with gloss and— his hair has grown out, is the thing. Since everything. Since it's all been over. He hasn't gotten it cut.
Used to be every three months like clockwork, the minute it would start brushing his shoulders. And she'd asked him once, why he bothered when it looked so nice longer. He'd tensed up, facing away from her, hands still poised above the register. And then his shoulders had dropped, all at once, forced like, and he’d shrugged. Told her he didn't like the feeling of it brushing his shoulders. He hadn't looked her in the for the rest of their shift.
She doesn't think she believed him then, either, but she hadn't known what to say to him about it (years later, in the quiet dark of their apartment, he will tell her about his first hair cut and his father and the way his hair brushing against his shoulder's made him want to cry and how confusing that was because it was from happiness and from fear and sadness and some weird twisted second-hand form of disgust (and she knows if she ever sees Harrington senior again she will absolutely break her fucking hand for the sheer pleasure of popping him one right in his great big nose.))
So, yeah. His hair is getting long, and the longest bits reach past his shoulders, now, and the front pieces are falling just past his chin, with this one extra short bit— lifted by his great big swirling cow’s-lick— tickling his cheek-bone. And he’s stopped swooping it up with too much hairspray, lets it fall soft and wispy around his face instead— and the door opens, bell jiggling, and he smiles at the pretty girl on the other side of the counter. All big and flirty-like, that one that shows off his one crooked incisor and it makes her stomach twist uncomfortably and she feels sick with it. But Steve is talking with his hands now, fingers flying as he explains the plot of whatever movie he’s recommend, and she can see the way the girl tracks them, nose wrinkling, and that makes Robin's stomach twist for a whole other reason, sinking like a rock in her fucking abdomen, tugging at her diaphragm until she can't breathe with it either. Because really, Steve’s picked up a lot of that from her and Eddie, the way he flourishes his hands. But Eddie knows better than to really do it much in public, and he’s created the kind of personae that it wouldn’t matter even if he did but Steve doesn’t have that, and he doesn’t even really know.
But Steve is ringing her up now, and they’re both smiling and the girl is thanking him and—it’s fine, really, it's all fine.
Except that now Robin's looking at his hands too, all cluttered with rings, which he's slowly been collecting for the past month now—two months? All delicate weaved silver and floral motifs, one with a small inset amethyst and one with weaving ivy (from Robin) and another, the only chunky one (one of Eddie’s)— an old signet style ring with a heavy lined moth, weighing down his pinky-finger in tarnished silver. And his nails— they’re painted. A soft pink clear coat you can barely see, except for when it catches the light just right and the florescent bulb shines in arcs across them. He'd had Robin repaint them Saturday night, after the girls had left, from a bright yellow ( his favourite colour) to this ‘so he could still wear it into work’. (When pressed he had simply stated that he'd promised El, and then, in a much quieter hushed kind of voice, that he thought it would be good for Will to have some positive roll models.) They're well cared for, Robin knows, and by turns soft and rough—slightly callused from years of sports and swinging his dumb bat at dumb terrifying monsters, but he has this whole drawer full of fancy creams and she knows that he trims his cuticles, files his nails until they are a perfectly shaped oval—
“-obin" Steve is looking at her now, head tilted to the side with that soft exasperated Robin-smile he saves just for her. "Robs?" he says again, and he laughs softly when she just blinks at him, it makes something in her stomach clench painfully. She feels sick. Is she sick? She wonders if this is all some sort of fever induced hallucination and— Steve is looking worried now, stepping closer with that little furrow between his brows, one hand lifted like he's thinking about pressing it to her forehead to check her temperature and— is he wearing lip gloss what the fuck? But— no. Steve is not allowed to look worried.
He's worried so often— about her and the kids and Eddie and even Nance and Jonathan, and there's absolutely no need for him to be looking like that right now, not about whatever is happening inside Robin's head because its nothing. So she laughs and pokes at his forehead, and he swats at her hands, still kind of frowning at her, and she knows he's still worried.
“I'm okay, Stevie, really” she says, and then he goes a little pink, the way he always does when she calls him that, fond and pleased, and he squeezes her hand tightly between his.
"You looked a little warm, are you sure?" and she doesn't stop him from pressing the back of his hand to her cheek, forehead, neck until he's satisfied. He smells like the lavender he puts on his temples before bed and like something else sweet and musky and floral. Fuck.
"See?" She says, and squeezes his other hand where they're still clasped by their sides. “All good."
He hums, still looking her over. "Alight, but let me know if that changes okay? We’re closing early to day to help out at the middle school, so I can always drive you home and then come back to finish closing up on my own.” And then he's back to work again, squinting at the computer screen and typing with his painfully slow two-fingered jabs.
And Robin's gay, is thing. She always has been. She likes women, or at least, she doesn't like men.
But Steve is—
Well. Fuck.
Part 2
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You know being transmasc after a life of growing up as the sole "girl" in male-dominated areas gives you a weird and complicated relationship with gender identity.
Like... being told straight to your face, "you're naturally bad at this cause you're a girl", "you're naturally weaker cause you're a girl", "you can act tough but you'll always just be a girl", "stop acting like you can keep up with the men", and even the well-intentioned, "Yeah women are like that, but you don't count, you're basically one of the boys"...
It leads you to this weird space where it's like. "Fuck you, women kick ass," and then busting yourself up to prove that you, a woman, *can* keep up, and not only keep up but do it better than anyone else, and taking pride in your femininity because it's not a fucking weakness, but at the same time knowing that... You're not a woman.
You're not a woman. You're not a girl. People just see tits and curves and decide that nature made you delicate, and then all of a sudden it's your responsibility to prove that you're not fucking weak, women aren't weak, while also saying, "I'm not a woman, though."
It's... bizarre.
I'm not a girl. But so long as I'm interpreted as one, I'm still gonna be held back by the same stereotypes. But if I ever stop being interpreted as one, then all the hard fucking work I put in to excel in my field is going to go down the toilet as "just something you can do because you're a man".
And fuck that. That's stupid, too. Guys shouldn't have their effort taken for granted like that, and it stings extra hard because you remember people just naturally assuming you suck and earning respect only to lose it immediately the second you step over to the "man" side. Because you've worked your whole life for something that as a man you'd just be expected to have naturally.
You SEE that shit staring you in the face, and worst of all people still walk around you in plain view and still talk about how women can't do shit and conveniently forget that you've BEEN ONE. "Because you were a man all along" or "because you overcompensate to prove yourself", whatever they think of to justify the cognitive dissonance that keeps their narrative going.
Nobody seems to consider that I'm not really different from women OR men, because those differences don't exist.
I'm not "naturally better" than women because I don't identify as one, and I'm not "worse than" men because I wasn't assigned the title by a third party. I'm just a person. We're all just people.
I'm just tired, man.
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THE HORNIEST
↳ GOJO さとる + fem!reader
Summary : Horny!Gojo needs you so bad, he's insatiable. A menace.
Warnings : minors do not read/interact : smut/explicit content, it's very horny lol, not proofread, c*mshots and creampies, unprotected sex, multiple rounds, implied drunk sex
Note : lmk if you want more horny gojo lol 👍 reqs open!! anyways lol the title cracks me up. he ain't the strongest he's the horniest :(
Horny!Gojo introduces himself to you in the flirtiest way possible, cooing a sweet and drunk "Who invited the goddess?" into your ear. He's sat on the couch with you, one night at a stupid frat party. Starstruck by you. And your reciprocation made his chest feel fluttery for the first time in years. It also made his dick stand up in his pants.
Horny!Gojo leans into you for the whole night, whispering flirty things and dirty jokes into your ear like his mind is a factory pumping them out. You match his playful energy so well, he says "I think we're made for each other."
Horny!Gojo has his sharp eyes wandering to your thighs, then your shoulders, then your lips as you speak — and he licks his lips to wet them.
Horny!Gojo showers you in compliment after compliment, relishing in your reactions and getting greedier; he needs to get you alone. "Wanna go someplace quieter?" he has to shout over the music to ask you.
Horny!Gojo assures you with cocky confidence, "Yeah, I could make you cum. Aw, don't give me that eyeroll, it's turning me on. I know for a fucking fact I could make you cum. I could make those eyes roll back. I could make your legs shake."
Horny!Gojo squeezes your hand tightly when he leads you upstairs, and giggles with you as the two of you escape into a quiet, empty bedroom. His heart is panging so hard in his chest. His body feels electric. He's so horny it's the only thing he can focus on.
Horny!Gojo whimpers when you crash your lips into his. He starts making out wildly with you like he's a sex-deprived loser. Because he is. A sex-deprived, touch-starved college boy.
Horny!Gojo hits those deep, hard strokes with no breaks just to destroy you. He never lets up. Never stops to have a breather or lets you catch your own breath. "Working up a sweat b—abyyy? Too much dick stuffing your little cunt? Yeah? Is it too much? Too big? Too deep? Fuck, you're gonna squeeze my dick off, haha, calm down. It's just a little dirty talk."
Horny!Gojo murmurs into your ear, "All I wanna do is make you finish over and over again." desperation and conviction in his voice. He really just wanted to fuck you into bliss, have you dumb on his fat cock, have you squirming and whimpering and going feral for him.
Horny!Gojo pins you down like a beast but also pounds into you like he's the bitch in heat. "Oh my god oh my god yes yes yes fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckkkk that pussy's so fuckin' gooooodddd" he's a mess, just swearing and moaning like a broken record.
Horny!Gojo almost sobs your name into your mouth when he cums, draining every drop of cum that he's worked up for you in the past hour.
Horny!Gojo turns his creampies into whipped cream with his thrusts, smacking his hips so hard into you that you feel his balls slap against your ass. They're so heavy and full, makes you think that if you weren't on birth control you'd definitely get knocked up with just one of his fat nuts.
Horny!Gojo goes round after round, becoming a melting sweaty mess of a man and feeling his muscles tire out. He pins you to the bed with his whole weight, and gives you his all just to show off a little.
Horny!Gojo has such a strained but enthusiastic voice after fucking you into next year with his dick. "Wow... that pussy's so fucking creamy." he grins toothily. A sweat drop beads off his cheek. His bangs are stuck messily to his forehead, some brushed to the side.
Horny!Gojo is insatiable, he calls you long after the party, over and over, shows up at your door and relishes in how his horniness rubs off on you. He's always a giggly mess in bed with you.
Horny!Gojo needs you so bad some days that he comes to you straight after his workout at the gym, no shower just sweaty gym boy abs, and fucks you as a way to "push his limits" for like three hours.
Horny!Gojo needs to cum everywhere he can. It's like he has a cumshot checklist. Thighs? Yes. Tummy? Yes. Ass? Yes. Chest? Yes. Face? Yes. Pussylips? Yes. Hands? Yes. In your panties? Yes.
Horny!Gojo is so fucking cute when he kisses you after sex, nuzzling your neck like a cat and telling you how good you treat him with that five star pussy.
Horny!Gojo jerks himself alone when you can't come over :( always to you, of course. Sexts like a menace. He's a bit too good at it.
Horny!Gojo gets so pussy drunk sometimes that he begs you to become his wife. His dick feels so raw and sensitive but he keeps squeezing it into that tight hole of yours.
Horny!Gojo is obsessed with you, mind body and soul. Just the sight of you and sound of you makes his dick stand up. And then he's whisking you off your feet and frantically throwing you onto the bed, and you're giggling at your horny boyfriend— oh... when did that happen? Hm. Well now he's your boyfriend.
© arminsumi
Do not plagiarize / repost / translate / copy layouts / etc.
Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.
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