#the homoeroticism of surviving The Horrors together

[milf-lover42]

LottieNat this and MistyNat that, TaiShauna this and TaiVan that. My guys. Milf Polycule is the best of every world please just get on board holy shit they can all have sex and love each other it’s fine

#you are not immune to #the homoeroticism of surviving The Horrors together #yellowjackets #yellowjackets s2 #misty quigley #natalie scatorccio #shauna shipman #taissa turner #van palmer #lottie matthews #mistynat #lottienat #taivan #taishauna #milk talks #milk and laz #milk and laz do yj

[sawocs]

slashersona time slashersona time slashersona time

HEAVILY film-inspired.. 80s small town boy named Levi who works at the local drive-in; it’s still semi-popular bc its 45 minutes/an hour to the nearest actual theater, but he gets stuck with most of the assholes who can’t get to the real theater. He beat a guy who chucked a beer can at him to death with one of the film reels + that was when he was kind of like “oh hell yeah”

He starts with a very simple costume because he’s a broke 23 year old in a tiny town— black hoodie, work pants, boots. The real defining feature is the mask he uses; a rubber mask inspired by vintage halloween masks with really bright colors, it looks like a jack-o-lantern face with white/shimmery hair (has those little cheap plastic strands in the hair that makes it look iridescent) (x)

Of course murders in small towns don’t go unnoticed, and eventually Levi gets run out of town. He drifts for a while, killing hitchhikers and people who broke down on the highway near the town; he scavenges a handheld camera from one of his victims + a projector from the dump, and using the film of his killings and other scavenged tapes/reels he splices together his own home horror movies. Every slasher needs a “final girl,” though; someone who captures their obsession + acts as a counterbalance. Levi falls hard for a farmer’s son, Wayne, stalking him on and off.

By this point Levi’s pretty unhinged, but in the process of preparing to face off against the farmer’s son he’d chosen he decides he’s really in love with Wayne. A small town upbringing in conjunction with his deteriorating mental state means Levi’s determined to kill him— Wayne survives but only incapacitates Levi, fostering an even deeper-rooted obsession. When he recovers, he continues to pursue Wayne with even more fervor. They fall into a cat-and-mouse pattern of about a year, both of them suffering heavy injuries; Wayne always escapes by just a hair, and Levi is always even more convinced he needs to kill Wayne. Tied with that, Wayne is even more determined to survive.

Wayne beats Levi near to death but finds he can’t finish the man off, leaving him to bleed to death; Levi, naturally, survives, but something about Wayne’s unwillingness to kill him cuts deep. He skulks around instead of pursuing Wayne anymore; at first, Wayne’s grateful for the break, but he quickly realizes how frustratingly uneventful his life is without Levi. He seeks Levi out to kickstart their “game” again, only this time with more homoeroticism and less near-death. 

#levi #his last name is hudson........ shhh #oc img #oc intro

[momo-de-avis]

So, as per @insanityisfine ‘s wishes, here is the story of how a hardcore catholic member of the Opus Dei repressed his homoeroticism with sexism and plagiarized Harry Potter thus teaching me a valuable lesson about writing.

So, let’ call this guy C.

C, as I said, was a hardcore catholic. By that I mean, of course, that you couldn’t actually tell until you actually met him. Though he kind of dressed like your average beto (but not so much, since he was kind of poor), he kind of came off as a regular dude who you could have a conversation with. Except, of course, if you were a girl. In which case you’d get a huge creepy vibe just from engaging with him shortly. He touched a lot, he leaned in, he smiled way too much and he had a really, really weird way of going about women.

First of all, a little background. C was like, the sixth brother of like, I don’t even remember, 10? 12? His mom was a super, hyper devote catholic and his dad—surprise, surprise—was a locksmith atheist who he venerated. The two—MOST SHOCKING OF ALL—were actually divorced. I know. The scandal.

They weren’t really poor, but they weren’t middle class either. They were adrift, you know. Which makes you wonder—how the hell does a family of like, 10 children and one single and stay-at-home mom manage to get this entire progeny into private schools (so Private they didn’t follow the regular, state-issued high school program, they actually had a list of banned books: I cannot tell you how much he despised Saramago lmao) and into high-end universities (like Católica)? Well, that’s where Opus Dei comes in. I never really understood how the fuck that works, but if you’re a member, you basically got a green card to live as a king even though you gotta mend the holes in your socks yourself.

The thing was, this guy was peak Mommy Issues. His mother was a goddamn viper. From what I gathered, because of her religion and the fact that she was divorced with so many fucking children at home, she was desperate to control her children. So the way she found of doing it was by simply playing mind games with them. She pitied her kids against each other. She clearly had a favourite one, and she compared all others to him. C was treated like waste, like he would never achieve the primal status of perfection his older brother achieved, and his sisters were constantly getting into fights because she used hearsay to pity them against each other. I also vividly remember him saying things like a kiss were banned from his TV, and his grandmother would smack whoever if they even dared to glance at the television when something as dirty as that came on. Mommy here would particularly pick on C. She specifically had him share a room with his youngest brother, who always went to bed earlier, specifically so she could complain about how late he got home, and she often hid his laptop away from him. She never even gave them a single phone, they always had to buy it themselves, with their money.

So you see, lovely home already. Which I would have accepted as an excuse, if he hadn’t grown up to be a huge dick. But you know, trauma or not, life in the end is made of choices, and boy, C chose to be a spiteful, humongous dick.

I met him in my first year of college. He was in this group with two other girls and another guy (C on the list I mentioned, let’s call him Z, cause he will be important for the story as well). We got together first because we were all, in 2010, some of the few who had been born in 1989. We were the ’89 group. And damn bitch, that was one fucking weird group. It was like Friends on a budget: they all tried to sleep with each other like there were no cast members left to fuck.

Initially, I thought he was nice, easy-going. We bonded over our passion for writing, mostly. You know the snippets I’ve been sharing of my WIP, with Selena as the protagonist? At the time, I was working on it, it was my second draft, and he was helping me construct the story, along Z (actually, Z is an even bigger dick, but he was the one who provided me the key ingredients into shaping the story. Literally, if it wasn’t for him, that WIP wouldn’t exist). We would sit for hours at this local café talking about it, and let me tell you, I hesitated, yeah, but C was quick to share his WIP with me.

Now, that WIP? When I explain to you what it was about, it’ll throw you off because the premise is actually cool as fuck. Basically, it’s about a young man who finds himself a victim of a curse. The curse causes his skin to fall off, and the only way he can survive is by killing other people and perform a skin transfer so his own skin can regenerate.

Sound rad as hell, doesn’t it?! Except this is C. And C really has a way of masterfully destroying things that look cool to the eye of the beholder.

Well, this cool ass premise? This how it kicks off:

The protagonist is a young kid, I don’t know, of 17 or 18, who’s hanging out Cais do Sodré at 4AM and somehow—somehow—that is weird enough for a police guy to approach him. For those not Portuguese: let me tell you as a person who lives across the river form Lisbon. Cais do Sodré is a liminal space, and the shit that happens there between 3 and 5AM? It stops being weird after a couple of months. Literally no police come near you unless someone’s fighting or someone’s pissing in broad daylight. So I really don’t get wtf this guy was going on about, but moving on.

This dude’s skin’s falling off, so he kills the police guy. Then, he takes off and sees a guy sitting on a public bench wearing, and I quote, «the habit of a monk» (yes, I have the document open right now). That guy tells him, literally, ‘I am a wizard and you can’t hurt me, my name is Cedric’ and this begins the long line of plagiarizing HP. Wait for it, it gets better.

Also, if you’re wondering if this is set in Lisbon, despite there being exactly one Portuguese name? Yes it is. In Sintra, too.

THEN it skips to summer (I have no clue what the fuck that intro is supposed to tell you) and we’re in Sintra, specifically Galamares (the story gets oddly specific). This guy’s out partying with his beto friends and shit, and one night he meets a 25 year old French dude called Goulage who invites him over to his mansion for the weekend and what does our protagonist do? He goes, of course.

This already feels like a premise for a horror story that will inevitably turn into an erotic romance, but remember: this dude’s hyper catholic, and to him homosexuality was not just… a Sin. You see, for it to be a sin, you actually have to think about it. Thing was, this guy pushed it down so far he was deepthroating that denial. He avoided it at all costs. And naturally, what happens when you do this, is your story gets an unnaturally homoerotic subtext that jumps off like a dildo slapping you across the forehead. That’s exactly what happened here.

It gets obvious in the way he describes this French dude: he mentions that going over to one of his parties was ‘a privilege’ for merely ‘a lucky few like [protagonist]’. When he gets to his physical appearance, it gets really neat: he had a smile that went ‘from ear to ear’, ‘glistening eyes, dark and full’ and his hair ‘could be described with one word: confusion, or in another: revolt’ because he had hairs that ‘turned against each other like someone who doesn’t comb their hairs after getting off the shower’. And then, the exact next bit of text says some of the funniest things in this piece of shit: ‘if I were an aspiring psychologist I would say there is a very profound reason for his hairs to be like that, perhaps an inner confusion’. He also says he ‘moves with extraordinary lightness, seemed to be everywhere and spoke with great expression coordinating his words with his gestures. He would be a great professor, if he were ever up to that’.

Two paragraphs later, the love interest, a girl, shows up. Her description? ‘She would look great in a bikini’—a direct thought of the protagonist

There’s this incredible exchange where Goulage snaps his fingers and fire spits out of his finger and he does this to light the protagonist’s fucking cigarette and the protagonist is like ‘wow you gotta teach me that’ and the dude’s reply is ‘I can teach you many tricks’. So the French dude promises a class that night, and off they go to ‘the basement, that was entirely dark’ lmfao. Goulage then prepares a drink for him and the protagonist slams down on the floor, unconscious. Yes, date-rape drug. When he comes to—and by god, bear with me on this one cause I fought against this little shit for this scene—he touches his neck and realizes there are two small wounds there.

What does this genius think?

‘I was bitten by a snake’

I remember SO WELL the conversation I had with him about this bit, because at this point the snake comes off as very, VERY evident homoerotic symbolism because in no fucking world would it make sense for a snake to bite you in the fucking neck, what are you talking about, and I tried to make him see that but boy—lost time.

When summer ends, our protagonist realizes the date-rape thing was actually the French dude’s way of cursing him with his skin disease from hell and the two get into a fight.

Now, if you’ve been following me for a while, you know there is a maxim I live by: there are no bad ideas, just ideas that need working. C was actually the one who taught me that, because he actually had a really, REALLY fantastic idea for a story that he completely fucked up because he refused to do any work besides sitting at his laptop and shitting a few words together. He did no revision (he thought himself above that), did no research (he couldn’t understand why that was needed, when he could simply copy it from existing books) and he did no fucking work on his plot—and if you tried to show him, he would take your criticism to heart.

Because not only is this a story about a protagonist who lives under a curse that causes his skin to fall off and his only way of survival is killing so he manages to make a new skin transfer, this is actually the Friends to Enemies trope, which I fucking adore. But he fucked it up completely by somehow—somehow I have no clue how exactly—doing it in light of the entirety of Harry Potter. (My favourite sentence in this WIP is—and I remind you, I quoting this shit: “I am going to the suburbs, so many people disappear there they won’t notice my presence”. Absolute fucking poetry, this little gem. Love it.)

This is set in a wizardry school and this somehow relates to elves in Lisbon (lmfao). Cedric dude from the beginning? He’s from the Ministry of Magic (YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN). They teleport to some fucking city that is like, magically concealed behind a barrier or some shit in Sintra (LMAO). Also, wizards are divided in Orders like, First and second and shit, which I understand also comes from HP (remember I never read HP, these comparisons were actually made for me by an HP aficionado I used to know who pointed them out for me, yet even I could see the plagiarism lmao). And what’s even funnier, most of the names are lifted from somewhere obvious: Gorbachev is there, so is Oskar Koskoshka (yes, like the painter) or Gorbunov. And guess what non wizards are called lmfao.

Also, the spells are exactly like HP: stupefy, stritia maxima, accio fogo, incarcerous and invicta are some of the few I caught eye of here.

I remember there’s a Brolyk somewhere in there as well, and someone called Polidoro, even fucking FREEZER is here (if you’re not Portuguese: that’s our version of Frieza lmfaooo). Oh, and Marowak as well (that’s a pokemon isn’t it?) The protagonist at some point is recruited to work for the, idk, FBI of the wizardry world? Or the Wizard Police Department or Wizard CSI or some shit?

I remember the climax of the story is a sword fight between he two former friends, totally-not-gay-nope dudes and the way he did it… It was in a poem that sounds like a DDR recital. Like, first he gets this swarm of anger that, as it always goes, propels him to be the Best There Is and the weirdest fucking modern poetry ensues, and then the fight scene is like this: “Step forward, attack through the right / step left, attack forward” etc etc. Just this fucking SHIT.

So yeah, when this guy showed me this my reaction was pretty much

Now, I TRIED to be critical in a constructive way. Because, as I said, his premise is actually super fucking original and, being well worked out, it could have been actually incredible. But C refused to take criticism. When he approached anyone with his ‘would you like yo read my story and tell me what you think’ mumbo-jumbo, he didn’t mean criticism, he meant praise.

So what happened was he did to me what he thought I was doing to him. He put me down constantly.

Joke was on him. He was so excited about my story, he actually went on google sketch to project some scenarios from my story. The School, where the story starts and introduces Selena to us, he actually fucking drew the whole thing, so I don’t really know what his problem was cause he was actually more excited about it than I was.

But he just couldn’t take the fact that I was being critical of his work. I started noticing that most people around him hesitated when it came to giving him real opinions. When he asked someone what they thought, he didn’t say ‘what do you think?’ He’d say ‘it’s good, isn’t it?’ and that left people cornered. But I just.. don’t take shit. And my friend back then, who knew HP back and forth, he jumped in as well because he could see that like, if this thing would ever see the light of day, JK Rowling would have a field day suing his ass (though it’s way too bad for it ever to reach publishing, trust me. He doesn’t know how to accent prepositions. He writes “fui áquela casa” or “vou á casa de banho” by fucking hand).

He constantly nit-picked my work. “Swords don’t wheeze, Ana” he said. “I know, C, it’s called a fucking metaphor”.

“This looks too much like the Chronicles of Narnia, I think you’re risking plagiarism, because of this Tiger symbolism”; “C, the Chronicles of Narnia has a Lion passing for Jesus, the Tiger is literally just a symbol of a god, what do you mean”.  

“This is too much like the Mists of Avalon”; “have you even read the Mists of Avalon?”, “no, but it’s celtic paganism all the same”, “???????????????”

Now, here’s another thing about C: he really had no fucking clue how to deal with women. They were alien concepts to him. And one thing he really believed (I mean he really believed this) worked wonders in conquering a girl’s heart was basically put her down and annihilate her self esteem. Call her ugly, say she’s fat, tell her she’s got ugly teeth—and then provide the compliments! So he was a professional sexist. And I remember when he started picking on me because I dared criticized his masterful magnus opus of a fucking piece of shit book, he went in for the looks. At the time, I was about to go on the table for my jaw surgery, and he actually said this to me: “Finally men will look at you, Ana, and you’ll look decent!” He would ell other people “Ana? She’s not a girl, to me she’s a guy—she’s even too ugly to be a girl”.

He really went fucking hard.

It didn’t take long for me to just… fuck off.

But I kept his fucking first and second draft

What’s outstanding is how a hyper-catholic dude who wasn’t allowed to see kisses on TV and who was a virgin at 24 years old out of religious beliefs but bragged about getting a boner for his female friends on the beach managed to just… Become my prime example of everything you shouldn’t be as a writer. I am not kidding. C was my life lesson. Whenever I can’t write, I go back to his first draft and like… It’s so fucking bad, I get a boost. IT’s not just poorly written, everything about it is bad.

But then I remember what’s so bad about it: he made it bad by being a shit person. C thrived off of attention, negative or positive, it didn’t matter, so long as he was the subject of the conversation. He used others to aggrandize himself, by putting them down and treating them like shit in front of others—specifically, in an environment where others couldn’t control but he could (his brothers used to make jokes in front of me—as well as literally everyone else, whether I know them or not, about how C was fucking me—he wasn’t—and say things like ‘is she the one you’re eating?’ in public). He hated women because of his mother, his mommy issues were down to his marrow and man, he projected that onto every girl he ever met. He specifically sough women with little initiative, little impulsivity and who submitted so he wouldn’t be challenged. For friends and girlfriends.

But I challenged him, and that wouldn’t stick. So he treated me like shit, constantly. So much at one point I stopped showing up, stopped talking, just.. walked away.

But those shitty first drafts? Oh, my friends… you wouldn’t believe the shit I have here in my computer.

#momo tells a story