This rebrand has sent me into fucking orbit 🤣
topshelfperverts rebrand (april 2026 edition)

seen from Poland
seen from Türkiye

seen from Poland
seen from United States

seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Poland
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Brazil

seen from Yemen

seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States

seen from United States
This rebrand has sent me into fucking orbit 🤣
topshelfperverts rebrand (april 2026 edition)
do you think there’s something wrong with me ? (For reggie)
The question lands soft, but not quiet. It hangs in the air between them, like the sharp hush before a wave crashes. Francis doesn’t answer right away. They let the wind do its work—sifting through palms, lifting grit from the sidewalk, combing through the knots of late-afternoon heat clinging to the Venice beach strip. Somewhere nearby, a seagull screams like it’s been personally wronged. The horizon is pinking at the edges. Everything smells like seaweed and weed and something deep-fried. The strip itself lends to commotion on a Thursday evening. Every day and night is consequentially busy here. But Francis likes to people-watch.
They glance at Reggie, slow. Careful. Their features are cut in calm lines, a kind of sculpted stillness that’s learned how to make space without taking any. No one who looked at Francis would call them soft, not exactly—they’re lean, strong-cheekbones, a little too intense around the eyes—but there’s a steadiness to them, something that grounds. Their black curls are recently chopped in length, meeting their chin, strands escaping to stick against their temple in the heat. Their black tank hangs loose over a frame that’s quietly athletic, not showy—just someone who moves through the world like they’ve had to carry other people before.
They reach into the paper bag they’d been cradling and hand Reggie a sandwich wrapped in foil. All heavy vegetables and loaded with home-made ingredients from their small garden. They can't eat meat. It makes them sick. But they know how to make a mean sandwich.
“Wrong’s a bad word,” they say eventually, not looking at her, just watching the light move across the waves. “It puts the blame in the body. Like it was born bad.”
I sound like my brother. The thought passes. They can't be sure if it's a good or bad thing to sound like him.
They shift, shoulder bumping hers lightly as they start walking again, heading nowhere. Just further down the boardwalk where the noise thins out and the sky gets bigger.
“What's on your mind?"