my kind of men

My kinds of ships are the ships where the men know their women are powerful forces of nature and that they could fuck up entire armies in a matter of seconds and THEY EMBRACE IT AND TAKE PRIDE IN IT???! “Oh… It’s not me you should be worried about… It’s my WIFE.“ *smirks* YAAASSSSSSSSSS GIVE ME MORE.

I’ve had guys tell me, ‘I’ll never feel for anyone the way i feel for you’

And I’m like, 'well, yeah, because it’s neurologically impossible to have identical emotionally associative response patterns for two separate people you’re receiving input from.’

Which I guess????

Isn’t the response they’re looking for??????



An ordinary afternoon: he thinks, and places the cup of his hand over the cage of John’s ribs.

Sunlight casts shadows over mountain ranges of duvet and John twitches his fingers, wraps them around a particularly pink-looking ear.

“Suppose we’ve an hour?”

Sherlock glances, not at the battered bedside clock, but at the watch wrapped round John’s wrist. “Only just. Maybe 45 minutes if we’re lucky.”

“Who needs luck,” John murmurs against a scrape of jaw.

They kiss.

Later, sunlight stretches into early twilight, and as they stretch out side-by-side on the big downstairs bed, John draws abstractions on Sherlock’s thigh. Touches the soft inside skin. Pulls gentle fingertips through downy hair, wiry hair. Sherlock shivers. Through the dusty windowpane he watches the setting sun move: a finger’s width, then a palm.

“I have something to tell you.”

“Go on.”

They shift onto their sides, all the better to face one another. John, expectant, leaves one hand on Sherlock, the other tucks up beneath his cheek against the pillow.

Sherlock steadies his breath. Inhales.

“I want to be your.” Exhale. “Husband.”

John’s eyes widen. A moment, and then: a burst of a laugh, a true belly-deep laugh that makes a lovely sound and echoes into Sherlock’s skin before John slides his hand away. Without a word, he rolls from his side to his back to his other side, and with a deft pinch of fingers, tugs open the drawer of the bedside table and picks out a small box.

Sherlock’s brain says crimson crushed velvet 5cm x 5cm bespoke jeweler perfect size for a— just as John says with a grin, “Hoped so.”

The ring, of course, fits perfectly.


“[…] I hope I can be half the person he is. And if I have to choose between caring for my friend and believing in your God…then I choose…m-my friend!” Kitty Pryde (x)


My name is Gabriel. I shall always remember what my mother told me before she died: “The man who beats up a child or a woman is damned. Damned forever.”


Zayn’s acceptance speech video for winning The Most Stylish Man award at the 2017 GQ Men Of The Year Awards - 09/08 x

*shrugs* maybe people point out OP is a terf/terf-supporter because it can change the context (or rather, make it more clear) of the post, or maybe some people just really don’t want to interact with someone who supports people who are actively against them/hate them for who they are and I mean you can think whatever you want about that but dismissing them as childish/derailing is kinda naive