i touched this man

crazy-indigo-child  asked:

To your Touch-starved Sheith. I can imagine that Shiro wouldn't be too keen on being touched *in any way* when he's without his prosthetic. Might even isolate himself just to be sure no one would catch him off guard. His dominant hand--which is also a prosthetic, would be one of his only means of defense. I'd imagine it would be a HUGE milestone in their relationship for Shiro to let Keith stay with him after removing the limb as well as letting him touch and caress him without it. Defenseless.

Oh man I am RIGHT there with you. You’re killing me here but I can definitely see that happening.

I imagine Shiro would avoid taking if off as much as possible, for the reasons you mentioned, and as a result it gets very sore and cramped. He would be in incredible pain and might even get a fever from the inflamed skin. I can see Keith realizing this, or maybe Shiro’s in so much pain he can’t hide it and Keith just sits him on the bed and gently confronts him about it. Part of my prosthetic theory is that his arm also has straps that go around his shoulders and chest for extra stability to keep it on while fighting, and if left on too long those would chafe and dig into the skin terribly.

Keith coaxes Shiro to remove his shirt and pleads to let him take of the prosthetic, but poor Shiro has this mental block and he doesn’t want to, but he’s in so much pain. Finally he just gives up and lets Keith take it off. His eyes are closed the whole time and he is in tears, saying what he never wanted Keith to see him like this. Keith pressed their foreheads together and tells Shiro he loves him, right now, at this very second, no matter what. Keith tends to Shiro’s arm and makes him promise to let him take care of him.

Sorry, I kinda ran with this! But I love the idea, I’ve had a fic planned for a while and if you don’t mind I’d love to use this concept! Thanks for sharing.

Midas Touch

When i was 14 i met a man
A man with golden tongue and hands
He whispered sweetly to me
Things I heard only in romance movies
Bought me sweets
Always said goodnight
To you I will call him Midas

Midas liked to give people hugs
but for me his hands moved lower 
each embrace freezing me to where i stood
It wasn’t until he was that close
that i saw the gold dripping from the corner his crooked smile

Midas liked to text me a lot
he told me he was looking after his most precious treasure
but apparently not so precious to take care and wear gloves
leaving scratches and bruises on my wrists lungs and heart that, slowly, turned a certain metallic yellow

This man with golden hands, golden lips, golden tongue, had golden words he expertly welded into a chain to wrap around my fourteen year old throat
he just wanted me to be gold too
and i guess, for a while, i was
so poised that when he touched me i became gold statue, when he spoke i became gold weight, when his voice rose i became gold leaf

Its been three years since Midas left
Why am i still purging gold paint out of my body with gold tipped fingers
i wish midas had stayed locked away in mythology books
where the only words he would be able to say were silent ink stains to paper
unable to echo in the hollows he dug in my bones


Remake of this gifset because bless the new gif size limit.

How often my conversations about feminism have spiraled into requests for assault. I say, “Women don’t need men to defend them,” and am asked, “Can I punch you, then?” And I say, “Women belong in movies and video games and everything,” and I hear terrible things, unprintable slurs and demands for my assault, the threatening of a young woman to shut up: What they would do to silence me. The things they’d shove between my teeth. I say, “Men cannot threaten any woman they disagrees with,” and I’m told, “Women are just as cruel. Am I not supposed to respond in kind?” In my inbox today I have deleted sixteen messages asking for my life. When I say, “Your virginity only means what you want it to mean,” I’m asked, “If you believe in sexual freedom can I fuck you?” When I say “All it takes to be a woman is to want to be a woman,” I am asked, “So if I just say that I’m a woman, can I watch you in the shower?” As if women stand shadowy behind each other in our private moments. As if being woman means sexually assaulting each other.

Part of me - cynical, unwilling to be frightened, says that it might be a nice dose of reality. My shower where I am naked but my hair becomes streaky and thin, where my body sags, where my makeup smears. To witness a woman less than sexy, legs akimbo while shaving, pulling up flab thighs to reach the underside. Part of me dares them to punch me because I fight to win and am small but I’ll kill a man if he touches me. Once I dropped a U.S Marine. Part of me, hellfire and ice queen - says come on, then. You want a fight? Come fight me.

But more is scared. More timidly deletes messages, makes sure my name is hidden, doesn’t answer the endless antifeminist comments. The insertion of men and their opinion on simple things like “I teach children to ask before hugging.” When I close my eyes sometimes I wonder if they’re right and that scares me. How much am I going to change when my voice only echoes around me.

Why are you angry. Why are you angry. What do you think we are taking from you? If it’s not already equal why would equality frighten you.

The ancient art of being a woman and trying to get your voice heard: the gentle suggestion, the peaceful comment. The quiet listening to another opinion and the fact we must acknowledge it before we can continue. That I must educate, be sweet, be feminine in my feminism or else it’s “invalid.” I must present my declaration as a timid thing: “Women maybe should be part of more things.” And then the apologies: of course I don’t hate men, yes I like plenty of things with men in them, no I don’t think women are better. And then the explanations: women are people, here is the number of women in media, here is the number of dead women in media, here are the number of shows led by men. And then I brace for it. For the bullying.

Every time I speak it’s from a flinch. From “maybe this isn’t always the case but for me it is.” From please listen. From less demanding. God forbid I state factually that men are violent. If I speak about our fathers and brothers and the cycle of anger unfolding. God forbid I suggest that just once we should cut the bullshit and treat women well without pandering to men about how that helps them. What if I say “Men shouldn’t hit anyone. Hitting isn’t an answer.”

I’ll tell you what happens. The post was up for four seconds with three notes. The message I get is “If hitting isn’t allowed I’ll just go ahead and shove a gun down your throat.”

if you caught him red handed eating cake, he’’ll probably just squint at you and keep eating ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ aaaa also little birthday doodle for myself// toots confetti 

“He had carried her, fought beside her, spent whole nights next to her, both of them on their bellies, peering through a long glass, watching some warehouse or merch’s mansion. This was nothing like that. He was sick and frightened, his body slick with sweat, but he was here. He watched that pulse, the evidence of her heart, matching his own beat for anxious beat. He saw the damp curve of her neck, the gleam of her brown skin. He wanted to … He wanted.
Before he even knew what he intended, he lowered his head. She drew in a sharp breath. His lips hovered just above the warm juncture between her shoulder and the column of her neck. He waited. Tell me to stop. Push me away.
She exhaled. “Go on,” she repeated. Finish the story.”
~ leigh bardugo, crooked kingdom



Have you anything to say before we start? Facilis descensus Averno. ‘The descent into Hell is easy.’ I’m glad you believe in our sacred Clave motto. Alec and I use it to remind each other we can’t be broken.