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2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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@orchestratedmagic
I have Tumblr.... Wow, almost forgot

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Sodom was such an iconic town that anal sex was named after it. Gomorrah wishes
it is so jarring and weird when a fantasy book is like âok letâs go around the circle and have each character talk about which lgbt umbrella category they identify withâ like ok your fantasy world doesnât have to be feudal europe but can it not be 2023 twitter please
tags from @bonesbuckleup
#there was a book I read a few years back#I'm not gonna name it#but like#all the characters would intro themselves as#HI I'M (NAME) AND I'M A LESBIAN#and whoever they were talking to would be like#HI (NAME) I'M (OTHER NAME) AND I'M TRANS#....#like#I love representation#would love to see more of it#but can we please not make it at the expense of actual good writing or storytelling???#queer characters are just like...characters#and should be treated as such#queerness is an aspect#like if a character is a pizza#then queerness is the cheese or the sauce or mushrooms or w/e#it isn't the whole pie#it can be critical to the pizza!#but we want full pizza characters#not none pizza left queer
On the exact opposite end of the spectrum, one of the most elegant examples I saw of showing that a character was trans, was that a member of the protagonist team named Maia had stolen some important document that was an editable text file about experiments, and when the other characters read the file, it kept referring to âstates of maiaerâ and âantimaiaerâ. One of her teammates realized that someone mustâve gone through and run automated find-and-replace on âMattâ to âMaiaâ.
I was just going to reblog this for "none pizza left queer" but "states of antimaiaer" is somehow even funnier
i love harpy-esque designs ... đđď¸

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fuck therapy iâm becoming a knight
moon snail đ
Selkies have a special place in my heart
I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free. â Michelangelo
Some poor suffering gobs!!

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Back again
And look who came crawling back, I know! Iâve not used Tumblr in a hot minuet. Hi everyone
ăĄđĽ
thatâs a really interesting interpretation of this character. i actually hadnât seen it that way before. unfortunately you are wrong and stupid but i think itâs great that you tried.
RPGs, or relentlessly persistent girlsĂÂ by cassandrha
Art by Man Luo

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Hans Zatzka
Austrian, 1859-1945
date a selkie, but donât hide her cloak. let her go home and visit her family now and then, knowing that sheâll come back and hang her seal cloak in the closet like she always does. trust is important.
The first time she lets the redhead take her home, sheâs diligent about hiding her cloak. She folds it carefully against tears and rips and abrasions, and hides it in a sea cave whose entrance is concealed by the tide.
She does the same, the second and third and fourth times, careful, wary, mindful of her motherâs lessons. Remembers the way her motherâs hands had chafed on her soft cheeks, rough with cooking and cleaning for her fisherman husband, the way her motherâs peat-dark eyes had been tense and harsh with the lesson.
âMind me, daughter. Never let them find your cloak.â
The way her motherâs mouth had curved, a sickle of dissatisfaction and relief and envy, as she had escaped into the waves.
So she minds her motherâs lesson, and she takes care with her cloak.
Would that she had taken as much care with her heart.
The fifth time, she wears the cloak to the girlâs door, clutched about her throat, dripping along the darkened lanes.
She enters the home, welcomed with soft kisses and gentle touches and kindling passion. She drapes the cloak, artful in her carelessness, across an old wooden chair, the one that creaks and tilts slightly if you donât sit just right.
When she wakes, in the wee hours of the morning, even before her lover, the cloak still rests, supple and dappled by the sea, on the back of the chair.
She frowns into the softening dawn, dons the cloak, and returns to the sea.
And again, the sixth time. And the seventh.
The eighth time, she finally breaks, prickling and hurt with longing, gripping a handful of russet hair in her hand, firm with emphasis.
âSurely you know what I am,â she says to her lover, the cool froth of sea foam and the call of gulls curling around her voice.
âOf course,â her lover responds, soft and tender in the dawnlight, throat arched willingly, pale as the inner whorls of a shell. âYou taste of the sea,â the girl whispers, reverently.
She shakes her loverâs head gently, fingers tangled still in russet locks. âWhy?â she demands. âWhy wonât you keep me?â
A long silence that waits and fills, like a tidepool, stretches between them. Cool as a current. Deep as the Channel.
Her loverâs eyes are dark and tender. âMust I trap you to keep you, my heart? Is that the shape of love that you desire?â
She sinks into the thought, struck and stymied, remembering her motherâs harsh hands, her cold eyes. Her hand eases into russet waves, caresses where her grip had punished. Her lips press cool and damp as the sea against the arching curve of her loverâs shoulder. âWhat shape of love will you give to me?â
The answer is easy, quick, certain. âMyself. Only myself, whenever you should wish it. Your cloak by the door, your body in my bed, and the freedom to go, whenever you must. As long as you wish.â
Itâs not an answer a fisherman could ever give, nor would think to.
The ninth time, she hangs her cloak by the door, draped in careful dappled folds next to a drying oilskin jacket.