#tw beauty expectations

[skyeconch]

Hi besti :3 how are you ? I hope you are well you are having a great day

I hope you don't mind but I had an idea for a Horangi scenario, starts in angst that ends with something cute.

I don't know if they are any good but I'll share it with you anyway. (⁠;⁠;⁠;⁠・⁠_⁠・⁠)

In Korea they take very seriously what is the external appreciation in an unhealthy way so my idea was that YN at the beginning was looking for a bit of how is the Korean culture more than anything to be able to ask out Horangi and avoid some culture shock, the thing is that when YN discovers all this obsession that Koreans have for the physical appearance and that in Korean standards YN is unattractive which discourages them a lot, When Horangi realizes that he starts to avoid him one day he decides to confront him and ask him why he avoids him, to which YN responds with what he feels, at the end Horangi tells him that it is true that Koreans have very high standards of beauty but for YN he thinks it is very nice, he wants to have a date with them.

I hope you are having a great day and if you are having a bad time I hope tomorrow will be better. (⁠つ⁠✧⁠ω⁠✧⁠)⁠つ

Hello bestie 👋✨

I hope you’re having a good day/night ✨

Mine is well…average but good! ✨ thanks for asking🌸

Bestie your idea is amazing! Don’t feel discouraged from your mind bc I meant it✨💛

I’ll try to find a format similar and tweaks it a little bit to fits the scenario 👏✨

I hope you don’t mind waiting bc I don’t do well with pressure 😅 i apologize💛

I understand the beauty standards part tho 😔 it’s sad that we have to live up to these expectations everyday 🙃

I used to compare myself with them before but I realised that sometimes I don’t need to try so hard to meet that ✨expectations✨

I slowly learnt to be comfortable with who I am, with what I’ve given, and improve my life for my own future, not dependent by someone else’s choices or expectations 👏

It’s not easy for everyone, but I will keep pushing, and I hope everyone will find a reason to fight on as well! 👏🌻💛✨☀️

[artist-rat]

I feel your breath upon my neck / a soft caress as cold as death

[asmodeauxx]

happy sex update yall

buy me a kofi?

[yangjeongin]

FELIX | W KOREA

[uncanny-tranny]

I would give up my immortal soul if it meant that journalists, publishers, writers, family, friends - just everybody - would stop with the whole trans person's chosen name followed by "formerly known as [unused or dead name]"

[insipid-drivel]

Horse writing question I've been thinking about since I read Black Beauty as a kid. If you were to set Black Beauty in the modern day what animal husbandry/cruelty things would you highlight? Are there many issues left in the 21st century now that fewer people need horses for everyday labor? Thanks

I've never read Black Beauty, so I can't really make any informed comments either in praise of or critique of it.

A lot of people seem to assume I was one of those "horse girls" growing up with the horse-themed folders and horse-themed lunchboxes and horse-themed backpacks and horse-themed historical fiction YA library books dreaming of owning my own pony one day.

I wasn't, and as loving as the term may be, I'm agender and don't like the term "horse girl" applied to me, even though it's "the general name of the type of person". Right now, I'm tantalizingly close to getting my bottom surgery, and still get misgendered on a daily basis by literally everyone that speaks to or about me, no matter how loud I scream my they/them pronouns, or how many "Please use They/Them" pronouns I wear pinned to my shirt (I have several, still haven't been correctly gendered, even by the surgeon performing my bottom surgery - my mom only really tries to remember my pronouns when she knows I can hear her, and just reverts to she/her when she thinks I don't know).

I was a stable hand, which is a form of skilled labor that is often unregulated and goes without union or OSHA protections, and is a form of work where underage and child workers are extremely common. If I got injured at work as a stable hand, it was my parents' problem to get me to the doctor - there was no on-site accident insurance or PTO or anything. It is not an exaggeration to say the horses were treated with more care for their safety and wellbeing than the stable hands - myself included - caring for them were. You either worked and made what the boss gave you, or you didn't work and you didn't get paid until you showed up and put in your hours. I was always paid in cash under the table by adults looking for cheap labor with minimal red tape and oversight - sometimes I'd even have relatives "borrow" me and commit me to working at a friend's ranch on weekends "as a favor to their friend/colleague who needed an extra pair of hands" even when I was already balancing working during the week WITH going to school, all before I was 16 years old. Some days I spent more time shoveling horse shit than I actually spent with any horses, but I stuck with the work for as long as my body would let me - even long after I was too disabled to keep riding.

Horse upkeep was something that very much got introduced to my early life because of my dysfunctional biological parents. I mostly worked in barns because I'd grown up around horses and horse-people, and barns are a good place where a traumatized kid can drown out the noise in their head with backbreaking labor, exhausting work hours, and animals that were more emotionally available than anyone I had at home. Earning the trust and affection of giant 1000+lb animals also gave me a sense of validation and power: "My parents may not make me feel safe, but this quarterhorse can kick at 2000lbs PSI and secretly hates everyone but me," is an empowering feeling when you live in an environment where your sense of safety feels like more of an essential daily need than food and water.

[possiblynya]

I promised you forever and you fell for the lies; it's weird, why do you like being traumatized?

(I have no idea what tumblr guidelines are any more so I'm calling this a tasteful nude, giving it a little tag, and leaving it as is)

[yonemurishiroku]

Percico prompt in which I am Cupid and the moment Percy just considers reciprocating Nico's feelings, the arrow I've stabbed into Nico's heart would pierce through his heart and I get to see how much it bleeds.

[mariocki]

Mad Doctor of Blood Island (Tomb of the Living Dead, 1969)

"You are quite mad."

"Then you should be very careful, doctor. Both of you. Mad people can be quite unpredictable."

[alchemistgoose]

"One could only imagine the days and nights of grueling training in archery Yelan had gone through for all her fingers to bleed."

(excerpt from yelan's canon vision story)

[montgomery-cannon]

whatever it takes flashback self para

Growing up as a Cannon would never be easy, and Lionel Cannon was there to make sure of it. He was an intimidating man, a baron around town, and well known throughout the region for his height, his booming voice, and his temper. He had singlehandedly led the Blue Ridgidian army against the what was going to be the Second Wave - it was renamed the Crushing instead given how deftly Lionel had handled the situation.

“Again,” Lionel barked, the sound echoing across the glen. Montgomery was exhausted. He had run this drill already to collapse, but it was a birthday tradition: you run the gauntlet as many times as you are years old. And this meant that Monty had to run it twice more to complete seventeen runs.

The trial was grueling. It consisted of running laps, body weight workouts, an upstream swim,  and a tree-sit until your legs gave out (assuming it was long enough to satisfy Lionel) - plus more. Monty usually looked forward to these feats of athletic ability. It was how he proved to his father that all the work they did together was worth it. The reward for completing the gauntlet was a sparring match with Lionel himself, and Montgomery had yet to best his father. While Montgomery usually wrote it off as his father having a huge advantage (not having gone through rigorous exercise just before), Lionel insisted that it was because Monty hadn’t trained enough. One day, Monty would win.

There was only one caveat - only Montgomery was forced to do these each year. None of the other children were subject to the annual ritual. In some ways, though, Montgomery understood. Though Liliana was wild and athletic, it wasn’t the kind of work she would be expected to do. And as for Augustus, well... he wouldn’t survive even one round of the trial - much less the number he would be required to do. Even if by some fluke or miracle Auggie was able to complete the trial, there was simply no chance in heaven, hell, or the five districts that he would win against Lionel. So in a way, it was merciful not to put Augustus through the sheer embarrassment he would face. 

This year felt different, though. Seventeen. This was the first year Monty was eligible for military promotion. He had been serving since enlisting at age fifteen - and truly since twelve or so, when he would run messages for officers. But with two years of military college under his belt, he could be given his first elevated rank. 

There was something about this year that felt at a higher pressure. Usually completing the birthday ritual and then losing to his father felt like a completion, like a victory in its own right. But what if... what if Monty didn’t get that title? What if next year it was this and nothing else? The very thought of being so useless threatened his concentration as he dove into the river for the sixteenth time today. 

Normally the cold water would snap him into concentration, but this time it only focused his mind around the future. He could see the look on Lionel’s face if he came home without a title. He could feel the ice in his father’s eyes, the disappointment palpable. It hadn’t even come to pass yet, but Monty could feel the weight of expectation sitting in his stomach. He felt it pull him down. It kept his head under the water and forced his hands to stop pulling. It almost felt like he was drowning. All he could see was the deep, dark eyes of his father - full of rage and hurt. This couldn’t be his future. It couldn’t be.

Monty’s next memory was his father, screaming in his face. “Monty?! Montgomery!!” It was pained. It was... well that couldn’t be. There wasn’t an ounce of “fear” in Lionel Cannon, so there was no way there was fear in his voice. Something hard and powerful thudded into the middle of Montgomery’s chest.

All he could taste was water. The muddy, caustic water of the creek. In an instant, Monty felt like his insides were on fire as he vomited water onto the banks. He would never be able to pinpoint how long he was there, rewatering the glen floor with the contents of his stomach.

When he had finished, his father seized him, crushing his body in his arms. Monty’s impulse was to strike out, to fight back, but his limbs wouldn’t obey his brain. They stayed limp at his side, completely devoid of energy, as Lionel - as he came to realize - hugged him. It was the first time Montgomery could remember his father doing anything resembling this.

“Montgomery Zachariah Cannon. You will never do something like that again, you understand me?” Lionel held him out at arms length to look him in the eyes. Monty had trouble focusing, but managed the energy to nod. He had no clue what he had done to elicit this response from his father, but he knew he would do anything to make his father proud. And if that meant agreeing to never again swim in the river, then he would do it. Whatever it took.

[ravencromwell]

"Minnie Mouse Toy" by Willie Edward Taylor Carver Jr.

“Would you like a Hot Wheel or a Barbie, sir?” The words float like ghosts in front of me when I speak them, frozen by the winter air whipping in through the drive-thru window. “Boys’ toy!” Gruff. No a. Just boys’ and toy. Two words. “Okay. We have Hot Wheels and Barbies.” “No wonder you work at McDonald’s, you idiot.” Idiot. I am five again. My mother’s knee-length, interstate-cold denim coat is a traveling house. When I stand close enough, I smell floor cleaner, cigarette smoke, minty gum. Home. The bright lights of McDonald’s are a circus of plastic, shining glee; my tiny heart twists with such rapture that I feel dizzy and hug the clouds of home that are her coat. My mom clears her throat. “Could I get a Happy Meal with the Minnie Mouse car?” The words are soft like the quilted lining of her coat, and each petal of a word builds a flower of please. The cashier hammers a few buttons and yips our order into a thin microphone, but then her eyes grab me and drag me from the coat. They look me up and down and tug at my shirt. I pull the coat closer until I am surrounded by the smoke and gum and cleaner and can feel the blankets on my bed piled around me. But I hear her through the imaginary walls as she hands the boxed meal to my mother: “You know you’re gonna ruin him?” The words lodge themselves into the foundation of the imaginary home. It dissolves, and suddenly I am just a boy near a coat in a bright place with nowhere to hide. “Thank you.” The flowers are dead. They fall fast to the ground. My mother carries the cartoon-colored box to the booth, drops a pack of menthols on the gleaming tabletop, and gently directs the toy car to the side of the cigarette box as she lights up a cigarette, exhales a whispering cobalt storm cloud of mint and worry, and then fights gravity to pull the edges of her lips into a smile. “Go ahead and play, bubby. We can eat after mommy smokes.” She tries to ash her cigarette. I try to play. The toy car is as heavy as her smile, and like the smoke, I know the weight of it is my fault, and unlike the smoke, I can’t make her feel better. The plastic is too thick and the paint on Minnie’s pink hairbow looks like my little baby cousin’s cheeks that change from white to red while she screams, crying, and her mom begs her to stop. I look to my mother’s face. *** I pull myself up from the memory. I am sixteen. I am in a drive-thru, and the word idiot is snowing on me. “Sir, we have two toys: Barbie and Hot Wheels.” He drives away. I keep standing.

[uncanny-tranny]

You know, even if somebody was "turned queer" because of trauma, that is:

1. Not your business

2. Not something you should be interrogating them about, be you queer or otherwise (see point one)

Trauma is a deeply harrowing experience, and it's oftentimes something people don't want to share if they don't feel safe or comfortable. Creating environments where queer people have to both interrogate their queerness and defend themselves is simply hostile.

If somebody seemingly became queer after a traumatic event, what you do is support them. Likely the last thing that person needs is you barging in and demanding explanations and justifications before they're allowed to be queer and/or exist around you.

[voxmilia]

I hate trying to parse through my self diagnoses to properly advocate for myself in terms of evaluations and medication

Bc I'm sitting here trying to figure out if it's a manic episode thing or a sensory thing that made me, at 12:30 am, immediately go rinse out my hair bc i put too much product in it after my shower 2.5 hours earlier, and I hated the greasy wet feeling of it and Knew it couldn't be salvaged without wetting it down to sopping again

[cyarsk52-20]

[delirious-donna]

tw: kento x female reader, breeding, kitchen sex (because when is that not hot?), kento speaking his mind (yeah it’s filthy 🫦)

Kento found you in the kitchen, guided to you by the sweet lilt of the tune you were absently humming. He loosened the knot of his tie and rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows, exposing the corded muscles in his forearms.

Everything was right with the world once he had returned to your warm presence. Nothing could sour his mood now that he was home, and he watched from the doorway as you prepared cookies for baking, leaning against the frame with arms crossed and his cock twitching to life.

It was amazing how the tiredness, that only moments ago had pressed against his eyes, lifted as he admired your figure. The summer dress that showed off the plush of your thighs and thin straps that would be far too easy to push down to reveal your beautiful breasts.

You really were perfect for him. Nanami knew you would be a wonderful mother, but that thought startled him as he had not thought himself ready for such responsibility—not yet.

… but maybe?

How could he deny the pleasure thrumming through his body when he thought of you round with his child? His cock strained painfully against his expensive tailored trousers and a sudden tightness forced his balls to draw up, ready and aching.

It only took three strides and he was behind you. You startled with a high-pitched yelp at his unexpectedly sudden presence, jumping in the heat of his body as he crowded you against the counter without uttering a single word. His strong capable hands made hasty work of pressing beneath your dress to find the waist of your underwear, tugging them down until they pooled around your bare feet on the floor.

“Kento!” you giggled, slapping playfully at his hands, but he was not to be dissuaded and you weren’t really putting up any resistance. There was an urgency that surrounded him—thick and consuming. The air seemed to ripple with tiny vibrations that had not been there moments earlier and you eased into the sensations like sinking into a perfectly hot bath.

His strong forearms flexed as he pawed and massaged your breasts through the thin material of your dress, pinching at your budding nipples until you were fervently grinding against his prominent erection.

You barely had time to draw breath as the sound of his belt being unbuckled was followed by the drag of metal teeth being eased apart. Kento’s cologne enveloped your senses, the familiar warm notes tickling your nose and had you reaching back a hand to thread your fingers through his perfectly parted hair. Your toes curl against the tiled floor, expectation bubbling low and hot in your belly.

“I’m a lucky man,” he murmured into the soft curve of your neck. His lips left wet spots in a pattern only known to him, sucking marks that he would later finger and examine with that faint little smile that never failed to make your heart stutter in your chest.

“Then I’m a lucky woman,” you countered, ending on a gasp when the straps of your dress eased off your shoulders and fell to your elbows.

Kento hummed. His brain couldn’t stop conjuring the image of you growing with his seed, of the glow that would accompany such a venture and the flutter of kicks he would feel when laying his palms over your stomach. You stilled; the gears in your head whirring when he touched your belly and his hips rutted forward to saw the thick impression of his cock through the cleft of your backside.

“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart. That’s it… good girl.”

The skirt of your dress lifted to reveal your bare behind, forcing you to brace a hand atop the counter and you twisted your head to watch as he pulled the weight of his cock free from his underwear, purple and leaking fat pearls of precum. Your mouth watered, jaw falling slack when his fingers trailed the length of your slit, thumb rubbing gentle circles atop your throbbing clit. Kento pumped his impressive length, once twice, but he was more than ready to be accepted by your body.

The height difference made it a little awkward but Kento was a man on a mission, widening his stance and bending his knees until he notched at the flexing entrance of your cunt and pushed in on a grunt of exaltation. A shudder rippled down his spine, his teeth set whilst he fought the primal urge to let go immediately. He was wound nearly to breaking point with the need to pump his load into you and keep it there, but the fraying strands of his manners persisted.

Your toes barely touched the floor as he forced you to bend against the counter, your face right next to the sheet of cookies you had been ready to bake. The stretch of his girth made you hiss and writhe like a snake but he held you firm until he could bottom out and soothe the burning need you both felt.

Kento was still, his chest heaved as he fought down the urge to pound you stupid until your cunt was drooling on the floor and saliva pooled from your mouth.

“I think it’s about time I bred this sweet little pussy. Don’t you think, sweetheart?”

“Kento!”

He threw back his head; the rhythmic clench of your velvet walls betraying the shock of your voice. He smiled into your hair, kneading the fat of your breasts with rough hands and pistoned his hips harder and faster.

“Mm, I thought so. Let’s see how many loads you can take tonight. Then we can start all over again in the morning…”