it's so hard when they make it green like that

Why don't you wanna be a girl anymore?

Sometimes when I tell people I identify as trans they ask questions like “why don’t you wanna be a girl anymore” or say things like “oh I understand I hate periods too” and even sometimes they say “sometimes I don’t like my boobs either, they get in the way”. I never knew how to reply to these questions and comments, I understand that when people are trying to understand someone they try very hard to relate. Its a huge factor in learning, if you can make connections between something you already know and something new you are succefully learning. I just recently realized why I never knew how to respond, and while I knew people were just trying to relate and understand it always made me feel worse and frustrated, like someone saying the sky is green when you’ve told them hundreds of times that it is blue. The reason this is so frustrating is because I don’t want to not be a girl anymore, because I’ve never been a girl. I’m not going to go through this transition to become a boy, I’m going to go through the transition process because I am a boy who unfortunately grew breasts and has a vagina. And that’s why its so frustrating when people talk about my transition as if it is me changing who I am as a person, and its not like that at all. I have never been a girl, I’ve just had to be presented as one because of my body. I don’t want to be a boy, I am a boy and I want everyone, including myself, to see me that way. I don’t have the answers to why my mind, energy, and soul don’t match my body, it probably has something to do with genetics, all I know is I’m not simply inconvenienced by periods, boobs, and estrogen I am psychologically damaged by them. And if any cis gendered male randomly started having periods everyone would tell him to immediately seek medical attention. I understand that this this is a confusing topic for cis people because they simply cannot relate, there is nothing in them that is similar to my situation, this isn’t something you can learn, it’s just something to accept. I love being a boy, but I hate the body I have to do it in, so I will do whatever I need to do to be able to love myself in all aspects including physically. I am and have always been a boy.

I Don’t Remember That Part

Characters: Dean, Sam, Reader

Word Count: 1,103

Warnings: mild language, drunken shenanigans, less than effective comebacks

A/N: This was written for Rosie & Nicki’s Impossible Prompts Challenge. Congrats to both of you on 500! My prompt was: I came to gank monsters and get drunk, and I just finished ganking monsters. I’ve never written drunk anyone before, so bear with me on this @rosie-winchester and @nickiwinchester97. And thanks to my letter checker/constant encourager @hannahindie and my PA for this project @wheresthekillswitch (she helped me word…I love you…sometimes :P)

“A Shōjō? This should be fun!”

Famous last words.

You see, when I agreed to this plan I thought that I’d seen the Winchesters drunk before. After particularly long hunts, when we all wanted to blow off some steam, both brothers tended to knock back one too many rounds. They didn’t have much of a filter with that much alcohol running through their veins, and many a colorful line would have me snorting into my beer bottle as the night progressed. I’d normally drive them home, random complaints and commentary drifting from the backseat.

But this.


This was a different ballgame altogether.

“Y/N! The banana! Give me the… that… Potassium!”

I blinked heavily, focusing on the object in my hands until it came into a slightly fuzzy focus. Yellow, slightly green on the top, just the way I liked it. But…why the hell am I holding a banana? My stomach growled, and I reached up with my other hand, fumbling as I tried to break the peel.

Keep reading

keepmyserenity  asked:

Hi Mollz, can you please repost rainy days (in chateau d'if)?

sure! a throwback.

rainy days (in chateau d’if)

           Days between storms, the Ladies Association of Bright Colors holds parades. As they pass by the street outside they pop open their rainbow of parasols and shout curses at our house. They call us the Cat Thieves because of the way the neighborhood felines stage hostile takeovers of the apartment every time it rains. We’ve tried to explain that the pets aren’t invited and we’d prefer it if they stayed away, but once you get a reputation as a Cat Thief, there’s really no shedding it.

           The cats don’t like us, I’ve told the Ladies over and over, it’s the apartment they want. The apartment, with its tall, curved windows and deep-stained mahogany that you can hear moaning in the winter, soft and languid, smooth. The ratty, sea-green couch Sal inherited from his dead uncle, its insides all spilling out where the cats have ripped through the velvet; the ruined silver tea tray, cat hair embedded in all its cracks; the names of former tenants etched behind the loose paneling in the bathroom, letters harsh and curveless. I wouldn’t mind the cats so much if they didn’t use the dark wood of the walls and railings as scratching posts. Sal says the whole place looks like a prison, like all our ghosts have tried to claw their way out.

           My mother calls the apartment Chateau D'if. I’m not sure it can be a prison if all the occupants keep trying to get in, but Sal likes the name so much he made a sign for the door. APT 2D. CHATEAU D'IF FOR CATS.


           I like to watch the parades. The Ladies make their own dresses, layers of sewn silk that are dyed deep and resonant with blues and greens and reds and yellows, colors mixing in the fabric like liquid, whispering around the Ladies’ legs and making them as beautiful and precise as the careful stitching. They look best without the parasols, with the sun sticky against their pale skin, their dark skin, mixing flesh with fabric until its hard to tell what was born and what was made. That’s when I like them best, but when they pass by through the Chateau D'if they push open the shade of their umbrellas and hiss, “Thieves! Thieves!”

           "We’re not thieves,“ I remind Sal from the balcony. He is eating a tuna sandwich. There is a soft drop of mayonnaise on the corner of his mouth. He shrugs. The Ladies Association of Bright Colors doesn’t bother Sal, except that they making driving impossible on sunny days. We always have to take the bus–an ungainly, purple, bovine thing that rumbles down too-small cobbled alleys like a child’s overloaded wagon, squealing and squawking every time the driver hits the breaks. The wheels have no tract whatsoever and we always slip when we hit puddles. It’s not so bad in the dry season, but once the cats start showing up with regularity I know to get a window seat and brace myself with my knees.

           "No,” he agrees.

           "We should just start closing the windows when it rains.“

           "Sure thing,” he says, and takes another bite.

           On sunny days like this, you would never guess about the cats. Sal is meticulous about vacuuming up the hair, about shoving the couch’s insides back where they belong. If it weren’t for the deep scars in the walls, even I might forget the way the cats wind around my ankles and barricade the door. When they come, they come in hordes, in legions; they don’t lie on the couch, they lay siege to it. We cannot cook because the cats are sleeping in our pots and curled up in the microwave. There are always at least three in the dryer, no less than two in our pillowcases. We find diced mice on the cutting board as if someone expects us to serve it.

           The purring might drive you crazy, if you didn’t become used to it, if you didn’t turn it into a lullaby. Sometimes I think that they are singing in harmony. Sometimes I think that they are whispering secrets to me, trapped safe in the place where languages meet and are incompatible. They watch us with their dark eyes, prowling in circles, shedding and coughing up hairballs, telling us all the things cats know, including that they know that we don’t understand them.

           "I think you’re overthinking this,“ says Sal around a mouthful of tuna. "Just watch the parade.”

           "I am watching the parade,“ I tell him, and the Ladies’ dresses fan out around them as they spin, whirring like pinwheels.


           There is no official credo of the Ladies’ Association of Bright Colors. I thought they might be animal activists, the way they go on about the cats, but Sal says he read somewhere that really what they’re protesting is the rain.

           "How can you protest the rain?” I ask as the sky darkens and the first hum of a cat folding itself into the space between the window and the frame slips into the living room.

           "Ask the cats,“ says Sal, and laughs. I don’t know why he thinks it’s so funny. It’s Sal that can’t stand the hair everywhere, Sal that wakes up with cat bodies pressing him into the mattress, pinning his wrists. I sleep in the bathroom during the rain. The cats won’t touch the porcelain tub, for reasons they’ll only tell us in their untranslatable, rough tongues.

           There are four or five cats now, slinking their way along the walls, circling. This is how it always goes: a spiral from the wall inward, until they have reached the center of the apartment. We tried placing furniture in that spot, but it doesn’t deter them. The old wicker lampstand that we finally settled on is frayed and cracked, its paint chipping. It is held together as much by cat hair as by its woven strands.

           The rain comes faster and so do the cats, knocking over bowls and wrapping their tails around the legs of the furniture. They pay Sal and I no mind.


           When the rainy season ends, the Ladies’ Association of Bright Colors hosts a parade that far outshines all the others. The street seems to light up beneath them, gathering their reflections. They say that black is made from colors mixing, and today that’s true. Today black isn’t even black, just the reflecting of silk in sun-drunk pavement.

           I call Sal from the bus station. We spent the morning locating the cats’ owners and returning them. Now he is using Drain-O to dissolve hairballs and vacuuming under the couch. I can hear him munching on chips, probably sour cream & onion flavored because that’s all he’ll eat. The phone will have slick, grainy fingerprints on it when I get home, and I won’t be able to scrub the oil off. We’ll have to wait for the next rainstorm to come, because the cats lick off the grease residue with their tough, no-nonsense tongues and make everything sparkle.

           "Chateau D'if for Cats,” says Sal, laughing around a mouthful of crushed starch. “Nothing but open windows and unlocked doors, and still, no one can get out, not a single soul.”

           I hear him shove the vacuum under the always-bleeding couch, choking on lint and fur that has gathered on the rug. There are no cats left in the apartment but there are always the ghosts of cats, always the deep scars left in the wood where they have sharpened their claws.

           "Next rainy season,“ he says easily, "let’s try closing the windows.”

“It’s about time,” I agree. “Next rainy season.”

           But that’s the thing, you know; that’s what makes Chateau D'if Chateau D'if: neither one of us will shut the window. I can’t explain it to you, if you don’t already understand. I am not a Cat Thief and I don’t claw at the walls. I want to see the Ladies Association of Bright Colors without their parasols. But I can’t close the windows when it rains.

           It is a cat’s house. We just live here.

Mossy Frogs: Convergent Crypsis

Alright, sit down, shut up, and let me tell you about some of the coolest frogs in the whole damn world. Someone sent an ask about my favourite example of convergence; this is way up there.

You may have heard of the Vietnamese Mossy Frog, Theloderma corticale, pictured top right in the figure above. This awesome little bastard is now quite common in the pet trade because of how bitching its camouflage makes it look. This is a really fucking awesome example of crypsis, because when these frogs are at rest among moss, they are almost imperceptible.

What makes it so hard to see? Well, for one, it’s fucking green. That’s pretty effective as camouflage when you live on moss. That green isn’t solid though, like a lame-ass Hyla arborea. No, it’s mottled with brown and other shades of green, to break up any solid colours. Next, it has spines all over and around its body, especially on the edges of its limbs. What do these do? They break up the outline of the frog. It doesn’t cast a frog-shaped shadow. This makes it much harder to spot, and is just generally awesome.

But this is Fuck Yeah, Convergent Evolution, not Fuck Yeah, Crypsis! (Yeah that’s a thing now too, I couldn’t help myself).

The green colour and spiny body, often with fringes around the limbs and body, has evolved in many many animals (including my favourites, the Uroplatus geckos).

The evolutionary pressure for this kind of crypsis is so great that incredibly similar structures and body shapes have evolved at least. seven. fucking. times. in at least four families of frogs! There may even be more but I don’t know all of the world’s frog species. These are just the ones I knew of already and a few added by Prof. Karen Lips and Dr. Jodi Rowley (two of the coolest herpetologists on the internet).

In Madagascar alone we have three convergences on this mossy crypsis: some frogs in the genus Spinomantis (Mantellidae:Mantellinae), including S. spinosa depicted above, and the aptly named S. phantasticus; a few frogs in the genus Scaphiophryne (Microhylidae:Scaphiophryninae); and Platypelis grandis (Microhylidae:Cophylinae). These three groups have few things in common, but chief among them is a predilection for moist mossy habitats.

The common ancestor of all seven of these radiations hopped the earth hundreds of millions of years ago. It was barely even a frog, let alone a fucking awesome moss mimic.

The similarity we see in these frogs can therefore mean only one thing: the evolutionary pressures they are experiencing (e.g. being eaten) are selecting for the same solution: bad-ass crypsis. And rather than re-inventing the wheel of crypsis, each group has found the same solution: textured skin to break up the shadow and outline of the body, and mottled green colouration to blend into the foliage.

The convergence is so extreme that you would be forgiven for thinking most of these species to belong to the same genus if you didn’t know they were from completely different sides of the earth.

Convergent evolution is the fucking best.

anonymous asked:

mickey waking up sick ian in the morning with a cup of tea, ian's like "where the fuck did you get tea, I don't even drink tea" and he's like "it's supposed to make you feel better bitch just drink it"!!! (ian later opens their computer to find the search history is all things like 'how to cure a cold' and 'how to make sick person feel better') -x

and when confronted with an aisle of different teas he’s like ’..shit should i get green tea? earl grey? the fuck is a ginseng?’ so he just buys a bunch of different ones cause he’s not sure which one ian will like.

he tries so hard to look after the people he loves what a sweet boy 😭


a photographer sets up an experiment
of a bowl of fruit against green cloth,
a diorama of peaches and plums
in late afternoon light.
i feel the taut stretch of their skin as my own,
the soft hairs on end like the goosebumps
down my arms, my neck,
trails of touch and fear and loathing.
it is hard to be a good person
when i feel so blackened inside,
my emotions dripping down my throat
like tar making its way to my lungs.
it is hard to be whole when i feel sectioned
and seedless.

a photographer sets up an experiment
and waits, days, weeks,
watches growth overcome the fruit–
it’s the natural order of things, decay,
and still it appears dark and primal.
i feel my body soften and bruise
like the thin peach skin, hair
rubbing away under the touch of a thumb,
my knuckles now too-ripe persimmons
that become mush under the kneading weight
of my frantic hands. back and forth.
i am rotten in every sense of the word.

a photographer sets up a diorama
of growth and decay,
disappearance in its most natural form,
and watches fruit shift from sweet pink
to graying green, fuzzy black,
tufts of white that appear fresh and clean.
i am a rotted thing trying very hard to be pure,
my skin now just a bruise, only a soft spot,
a gathering of weak places
susceptible to puncture and destruction.

a photographer plays back a series of photos
and watches reduction.
i am an ugly thing trying very hard
to be beautiful.
i am a rotted thing trying very hard
to grow back.


how many times will i play your games
before you disappear and i’m the only one to blame
well i don’t know
i don’t know…

Found in drafts...

I’m so sad I can’t find the image that went with this, but it was just Clint running away from something. Which inspired the following chat…

coppersam: oh my god for a second I thought this was grown-up Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes, not Clint
coppersam: And now I want a fic where Calvin grew up to be Clint
low fur: That would be the weirdest crossover ever.
kungfunurse: that seems very oddly appropriate from what I know of comic!clint
low fur: Wait, who would be Hobbes?
bookbabe: Natasha
low fur: That would fit.
coppersam: Clint keeps adopting troublemakers who like tuna sandwiches. “When I was a kid I thought my stuffed tiger was real. Turns out she was real and she was a Russian assassin.”
low fur: LOL, I just realised that would make Steve and Tony Clint’s exasperated parents.
bookbabe: ….are they not?
low fur: Well I mean yes, but now imagine Tony listening to Clint complain about sludge for food.
coppersam: “It’s called a SMOOTHIE”
low fur: Poor Dummy, he tries so hard but its kale you know, it’s GREEN.
low fur: Wait can we make Bucky Susy?
coppersam: you know honestly Bucky fits Hobbes even better than Natasha. Half-imaginary, violent, hides from other people
low fur: Hobbes is very good at guerilla attacks. From high places.
bookbabe: I can’t see either natasha or bucky wearing jams though
low fur: I can’t imagine Natasha willingly going on a kamikaze sleigh ride through the woods more than once. But I can see Bucky doing it.
low fur: Also I can’t stop laughing at the thought of Steve’s expression.
bookbabe: Steve “it builds character” Rogers
coppersam: Well I’m talking more about metaphor than direct transposition. Like Clint had a wild stuffed tiger as a kid…now he has replaced it with Bucky Barnes
kungfunurse: Honestly I can see a grown up clint with a beat up stuffed tiger in his quiver who takes it everywhere and refuses to talk about it. But is caught having EXTENDED metaphysical conversations with the stuffed tiger when the thinks he’s alone
low fur: The question we then have to ask is does Clint’s belief that Hobbes is real transpose to reality? Or even - does Loki assume Hobbes is real because that’s what Clint believes so strongly? And thus the next time Loki attacks or whatever, he looks around for an attack tiger…

Warcraft Movie (no spoilers)

Things They Did Well: 

  • Humanizing the Orcs: This one caught me off guard more than anything. The few personal moments we got with Draka, Durotan, and Orgrim were so much more sympathetic than anything we got from all of the time with, say, the Na’vi in Avatar. I legitimately enjoyed the orcs scenes, and I can’t convey how much of a shocker that was because I am a Confirmed Orc Apathist. Even Gul’dan was such a fun Obviously Evil Villain. The warlock ya love to hate.
  • Scenery, armor, outfits felt real and looked good. I thought the atmosphere of the whole movie was pretty well-done, blending CGI with real filming without it feeling terribly jarring.
  • We see men and women of all races performing the same jobs in the Alliance, and lady orcs taking part in Horde scenes. It was just so nice and refreshing to see women doing all the same work as men, and it’s just life as usual for them. I really appreciated that there was never awkward attention brought to women and the jobs they do or what they’re expected to do. Draka, of course, gets to be a mother and we see that side of her, but first and foremost she’s a warrior and a woman with a goal outside of motherhood. Garona mostly serves as the Alliance main woman, with some notable time given to the Queen of Stormwind. It seems a little bit of a cliché for the human Queen to be the emotionally wise one, but it kind of plays off Garona’s physical strength and drive, and since they’re both portrayed as sympathetic and good, it’s less a case of “Nice and Demure is Good, Physical and Ethnic is Bad” and more “Two characters have opposing strengths and weaknesses.” None of the characters said pointless sexist lines or gendered slurs, which was nice! I appreciated how natural it felt to not be on edge, bracing for Dumb Shit.
  • The characters, while simplistic, all had unique personalities and motives, and it’s easy to pick favorites (and faves to hate.) 
  • Changes to the lore: This one is debatable. Some purists are probably going to be angry. Personally, I feel like they ironed out a lot of wrinkles and made an extremely convoluted story slightly less bonkers. Things make more sense, and they’re internally consistent. As someone who has an embarrassingly substantial amount of Warcraft lore in their brain, I appreciated that some changes kept me guessing! I wasn’t entirely sure what was going to happen next, and that was very fun.
  • Young Detective Khadgar
  • In a twist, I’m going to say: Still images of Garona looked like ass. When the movie starts and she’s just a babe in green makeup, it seems like ass. As an audience member it’s like “People are going to acknowledge she’s just a human in makeup, right?” And I said no spoilers, so go see it for yourself, but I felt satisfied with the treatment. Give Garona A Chance®
  • Gryphon: ADORABLE. Those tiny little ears… My sweet birdcat…

Things They Could Have Done Better:

  • Bloated cast of characters. Now, this is hard to avoid when trying to make full societies on both sides of the war. Every side has its roles: The faction villain, the faction leader, the doubter, the supporter, etc. Take a normal cast of movie characters and double it, then give them all fantasy names and try to keep up. Fortunately, most of the main characters do us a favor by often referring to each other in-scene by their names. It helps, but it’s not perfect. I could easily see Non-Warcraft audiences getting lost when it comes to the secondary characters. 
  • As a result of that: Huge cast of characters and dual-sided story culminated in a very jumpy plot. Get ready to keep track of a lot of threads. If you aren’t at least vaguely aware of the Warcraft plot… Yikes on bikes. If you ARE, you’re going to love seeing so much stuff and so many places on display. In hindsight, I feel like this would have worked better as a high-budget TV or Cable mini-series.
  • PoC actors could have used more lines. Having said this, with an already bloated cast of characters, we’re blessed that we had no other characters to memorize. The only prominent PoC characters were the Queen of Stormwind and two recurring soldiers who run with Lothar, one Black and one Asian. The High Elf we get the best look at is Asian, which I love. They could have recast Lothar to be the same race as his sister, but I’m down with inter-racial siblings. In all, you could tell they put conscious effort into to getting PoC in the frame often to give a sense of a multi-racial human society, but I wish they’d been willing to go farther with it.
  • Magic looked corny. I feel bad for thinking this, but I do. The glowing eyes, the teleports, the lightning… Things felt a little too homebrew for a big screen production.
  • Orcs looked so good, but a lot of them looked very similar. There’s no mistaking Durotan for other male orcs or Draka for other female orcs, but it’s easy to confuse Orgrim, Blackhand, the Thunderlord chieftain, and a few others. They went to the trouble of making background orcs unique, but I still struggled at times with the main orcs. They growl all their lines, too, so you’ve got to acclimate to that and have a keen ear to catch every word.

Overall, I went in with very low hopes and was pleasantly surprised that I had an enjoyable, not-significaly-embarrassing experience. There’s one scene I really think could have taken itself less seriously, but it’s forgivable in the grand scheme, and I’d let you all decide for yourselves what scene that is. I didn’t go home desperate to play WoW or get back to rp, but it was fun enough that I’d like to watch it again sometime soon.

If you’re a WoW fan, I say go in expecting a casual summer fantasy adventure and you won’t be disappointed. If you know nothing about Warcraft, prepare to pay really close attention, or you’ll probably get lost.

Thinking about you somehow makes my day better. I don’t know how you do it. There are some days when no matter how hard I try, I cannot seem to make myself feel better. I cannot make myself feel okay. Please teach me how you do it so effortlessly so when you inevitably leave, I can continue on.
—  3:23pm thoughts// or at least try to

fabulousanima  asked:

5 - Soma, 14 - Marichat

Soma, fingertip kiss

Sometimes, he catches himself staring a little too long, and with the same amount of intensity he uses when he composes a new piece. It gets worse the older he gets, the more aware he becomes of how attractive his long-time roommate and best friend is, even when she is doing something as simple as making a grilled cheese in their worn-down kitchen.

Her golden hair drifts past her shoulders, loosened from its pigtails by his own wandering fingers; it is hard to resist playing with the strands when they feel as soft as feather-tips. Her emerald gaze remains on the bread as she flips it over in the tarnished pan, and it is a green so deep he feels like he could fall right into it. She wears one of his oversized Weezer shirts (something like a relic to him now), and leans all her weight on her right leg. She bites her lower lip as she realizes she burnt one of the sides, and she sighs. He isn’t sure how long he has been staring at this point, but her legs are miles-long and sometimes take a few extra minutes of gawking to get through.

His suspicions are confirmed when she turns his way and gives him an odd look. “Soul? Why are you staring at me like that?”

He shakes his head, as if it would be enough to free the unwarranted lewd thoughts from his mind. “Like what? Like I’m holding back a comment about you managing to ruin something as simple as a grilled cheese?”

She turns back to the pan with a distinguished frown. “I’m really upset.”

He grins. “You should be.”

Maka huffs and, without thinking, places her hand on the stove before he can stop her. She screeches and pulls her hand back, her ocean-green eyes watering against her will.

He walks over and grabs her small wrist, turns it over to observe the damage in as soft a manner as possible. His heart hammers in his chest. Three of her fingertips are beat-red, but the heat did not seem to reach too far deep in her skin.

And, in the way she placed her hand to the stove without much conscious thought, he kisses her injured fingertips before grabbing an ice pack and placing it in her hand.

He looks up, and their eyes lock for a moment and he sucks in a sharp breath from the sudden proximity. Her cheeks are now as red as her burns and her mouth is wide open, as if she just saw his spirit leave his body (it may as well have, with how he near-jumped out of his skin at her brief scream of pain).

“What?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

“I was…until you…kissed my wound?” She stutters, her voice higher than before.

“I…actually, I…don’t know what that was for…?” Their gazes stay in place for one more breathless moment, their faces now both the same shade of rouge. He doesn’t let go of her hand and doesn’t say a single thing until they hear the sizzle of the blackened grilled cheese and he drops his firm grip to turn off the stove.

Soul removes the pan and his nose wrinkles at the stench of the smoke. “I’ll eat it,” he whispers. He takes the pan with him to his room and shuts the door behind him.

The sandwich does not taste too bad, but it barely removes the lingering, small taste he got of her skin.

The Marichat prompt is here (and side note: happy birthday!!)

anonymous asked:

Felicity has a thing for superhero panties. Take what you will ;)

(I’m laughing so hard omg! I have so much superhero themed underwear, it’s a little ridiculous! Also this is complete and utter crack oh my god.)

He notices the running theme pretty early on in their relationship. There’s that silver sports bra she likes, with the shield emblazoned on the front, the black panties with ‘god of thunder’ written across them, the iron man bra… You get the idea.

But it’s not until she starts babbling excitedly about some new movie that she’s apparently been waiting years for, that he finally fits the pieces together. She’s so shocked that he’s never heard of these ‘Avengers’ people, that she sits him down and makes him marathon watch superhero movies with her. That’s when he can finally put faces to the names and symbols he so often comes across on her underwear.

He makes a mental note to ask her about it sometime, and lets himself get drawn into what he has to admit, is a pretty good movie.


“Is there a reason you have so much superhero themed underwear?” He finally asks one morning, holding up her latest purchase, a pair of lacy Spiderman panties.

She blushes and hops out of bed, quickly grabbing the garment out of his hands and shoving it back into a drawer. He’s still watching her with a raised eyebrow when she turns to face him, so she sighs and idly wonders how red her face can get before she no longer resembles a human being.

“It amuses me.” She shrugs. “It’s like an inside joke, people who see my underwear will just think I’m a total geek…” She smirks at the thought before continuing. “Little do they know I’m part of my very own crime fighting team.” She says the last phrase in an overly dramatic voice before giggling and looking up at him to see how he’s taken her explanation.

“People who see your underwear?” He asks, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Who sees your underwear?”

She quickly places a hand on his chest in a placating gesture before hurrying to explain.

“No one! No one like that… Well, I mean I did start wearing them before we were together so…” She breaks off when she sees the look on his face. “Right. I just meant like…  Actually I’m not really sure what I meant. Never mind.”

She changes the subject, and the topic doesn’t come up again until two weeks later. When she opens her underwear draw to find dozens of pairs of custom made Green Arrow panties, in all shades of the rainbow, each with a pair of crossed arrows and the name written across them.

She laughs so hard she has to sit down. But her old superhero underwear doesn’t get much use after that.


Prompt me!