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vixenpen · 4 years

Text

Neighbors

(Hawks x Miku x Bakugo)

Chap.6 Daddy💦💦💦

The warmth between her legs was familiar. A dull thrum of pleasure spread from her core through out her entire body.

Miku’s hips undulated, her body desperate for more.

Scenes and faces blurred before her eyes, painting a confusing tapestry of shapes and colors.

Brown hair. Blonde hair. Soft cheeks. Rough hands.

Golden eyes that smoldered and teased.

“You like that, Angel?” He smirked up at her.

“Yessss...” she sighed.

She held his head in place, back arching as his tongue danced around her clit. His fingers flexed, sending a sharp, electrifying pleasure zipping through Miku’s body.

“My Dove.”

Dove?

“You taste so good.”

That voice...

Lips tasted her dark skin from her thighs to her toned stomach to her big breasts until they reached her lips.

She laced her fingers through his soft, blonde hair and kissed back with just as much fervency as he was giving her.

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she mumbled: “Katsu...”

“Morning, Dove.” He grinned back at her.

“H-how did...what are you doing here?” She sat up, causing the sheets to slip down her bare body.

“I felt bad for missing out on dinner last night so I wanted to surprise you this morning.”

“You...” she blinked again in surprise, “baby, that’s so sweet.”

“So are you,” He grinned. “I was supposed to making breakfast in bed, but uhh, I got a little hungry myself.” He smirked, licking his lips.

Miku snorted. Bakugo kissed her once more before hoisting himself off of her.

“Chill here, I’ll get Your breakfast.”

As her boyfriend ambled through the kitchen, Miku’s mind wandered over the very lucid dream she had just woken up from. She barely knew this man. He had hardly touched her, and yet, that touch felt as if it had burned itself into Miku’s very memory.

As Bakugo re-emerged with a bowl of homemade oatmeal and fresh fruit He quizzed: “Did Konan come over last night or something?”

“Huh?”

“The glasses and plates. I noticed there were two sets.”

Miku slowly dig into her breakfast as she replied.

“No, ah, Hawks came over for dinner.”

Bakugo’s handsome face clouded with anger, immediately.

“He what?” He asked in a voice much calmer than his expression.

Oh fuck...

“Look, I told him I would make him dinner sometime as a thank you for helping me move in.”

“I told you about dealing with that guy, Miku.”

“Don’t start.” She rolled her eyes. “It was a simple dinner.”

“A simple dinner that required you two to drink an entire bottle of wine?” He snapped back, crossing his arms. Miku’s gaze hardened, defensively.

“What are you trying to imply?”

“What the hell should I be trying to imply?“

“Katsuki,” Miku sighed, “it’s too early in the morning to do this shit, can we just eat our food? Please.”

“Nah, fuck that. I’m only gonna say this once, Miku, I don’t want that dude in here if I’m not here.”

“Excuse the fuck outta you,” Miku’s neck rolled with her growing anger. “I’ll have whoever the fuck I want over at my house.”

“Not with my name on the lease, you won’t.”

“Oh ho, so you’re gonna dangle the lease in my face now,” Miku sat her tray to the side. “You think Cuz you paid for a little condo, you’re what? My daddy now or somethin’? Baby boy don’t you ever forget that I don’t need a nigga for an apartment, a car, a boat or shit else. Ive never known Sessui Shirogane a day in my life, so unless you’re him, don’t talk to me like you’re my daddy.” Tossing off the sheets, she hopped out the bed in a huff.

“Where The fuck do you think you’re goin’?” Bakugo demanded, gaping at her in anger.

“To get ready for work.”

“Miku, I’m not done talking to you.”

“Well, I’m done talkin to you, so you and your breakfast and get the fuck out.”

Before she couldn’t even get two steps away from her bed, Bakugo gripped her wrist, sending her hurtling back first against the soft pillows.

He was on top of her in an instant, his red eyes flashing with anger and lust. She could feel his erection rubbing against her still sensitive clit.

Her chest heaved. The fire was back and more intense than before.

Pinning both her wrists above her head, Bakugo freed his throbbing erection from his jogging pants.

“What you not gone do this morning, Dove, is talk shit to me in my house. Understand?”

“Fuck you.” She shot back.

A growl clawed it’s way from his throat and in one movement, he plunged into her.

“Ahh, fuck!” Miku exclaimed

Bakugo grabbed her throat. His hips bucked against her own, thick dick pummeling her pulsing wet walls until the only sound were the gushy smacking sounds of him inside her.

“Ka-Katsu, Katsu-ki,” Miku choked out.

The deep pressure inside her had her clawing at his back.

“Yeah,” he growled into her ear. “This shuts you the fuck up doesn’t it? I know how to shut your ass up.”

“Oh...god..”

It hurt so good, her own hips were snapping up to meet his—drool trickling from the side of her gaping mouth.

“That nasty little mouth of yours is only good for suckin this dick, you understand, Swan? Huh?”

He was met with garbled groans and broken sentences.

“Say it, Miku,” he bit her ear before hoisting her thick, dark thighs above her head.

He groaned low in his throat at the deeper angle. Her plush pussy was practically swallowing his dick.

“Wet as a mutha fucka,” He chuckled. “You’re mine, Angel, understand? I own this pussy. Now whose your daddy?”

Mustering what energy she could, she hacked up all the moisture she could manage and spat on his cheek.

SMACK!

Her cheek smarted on the impact.

“Oh you wanna play like that, huh bitch?” A feral grin crossed his face. “Alright then.”

He pulled out of her. Before Miku could whine in protest, she felt him sink slowly into her ass.

“OHH GOD!”

He chuckled through his own groans. Eschewing the usually steady pace they usually started with in anal, he hammered into her.

“Oh gaah, fuck, fuck, fuck! Yesss! Shit!”

His face hovered in her vision completely as he glowered at her. He grabbed her jaw roughly.

“Now, who the fuck is your daddy?” He ground out.

Tears stung the corner of her eyes.

“You,” she croaked.

“What was that sweetness?” He rocked his hips slower, punishing her with the slowed pace

“You,” Miku sobbed out, needing her release too desperately to fight anymore. “You daddy. You! Fucking you are.”

“You’re god damn right.” He smirked.

And then the orgasm crashed over both of them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once again, Keigo was faced with a familiar unfriendly face. He stepped back to allow the younger hero to get off the elevator.

“We gotta stop meeting like this.” Keigo quipped.

“Go back to Fukuoka and we will.” Bakugo shot back, stepping up in the man’s face with his arms crossed.

The blonde cocked his head, wearing his signature nonchalanct smirk.

“Ya know man, I’m starting to think you have a problem with me.”

“Cut the crap, Hawks,” Bakugo spat, “Stay the hell away from Miku.”

“Gonna be pretty hard to stay away from her when she’s right on top of me.” The older man replied, coolly.

His slick choice of words made Bakugo’s heart hammer in his chest angrily. He snatched the winged hero up by the collar.

“The fuck Did you just say?!”

Before Keigo could respond, the room next door creaked open. Out popped the head of little Mrs. Abe, an aging Enka singer. She was wearing a worried expression on her weathered face

“H-Hawks? Is everything ok?” She asked, eying Bakugo’s hostile stance.

“Everything’s fine, Mrs. Abe!” Keigo grinned back at her. “Just a little chit chat with an old friend.”

Mrs. Abe looked less than convinced and more than a little worried, but she nodded. “Ok then,” and ducked back inside.

Using the distraction to his advantage, Keigo shoved out of the irate man’s grip. He kept his expression neutral, but couldn’t help the hard edge in his voice.

“Look man, I don’t what your problem is, but there’s nothing going on between Miku and I.”

“Of course there isn’t, ‘cuz you haven’t made your move yet, but I know you Hawks. You’re not as slick as you think you are. I see the way you look at her-“

“And how is that?” He chuckled, stepping closer to the blonde. “Is it the same way you look at me?”

Confusion flitted across Bakugo’s face.

“What?”

“You know what I mean. Sometimes you don’t know if you wanna tell me to go fuck myself or if you wanna do it for me. That hate boner you’ve got going for me must be very confusing for you. Unfortunately for you, kid, I don’t bend over for nobody. Especially hot headed man children with anger issues. If you’re that worried about somebody stealing Miku away from you, maybe you should ask yourself where you went wrong to be this insecure in your relationship instead of trying to step to someone you can’t touch on or off the field.” He stepped around the fuming younger man to press the first floor button. “Mind The business that pays you kid, not mine.”

With that final jab, the doors slid shut in Bakugo’s gawking face.

#Spotify #katsuki bakugo smut #bakugo smut #hawks smut #keigo takami x oc #hawks x oc #relationship drama #messy relationships #black anime characters #black female characters #bnha imagines #my hero academia #bnha #bnha scenarios #bnha smut #love triangle #my hero #my hero oc

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8888888888888888888 · 3 years

Text

My First Kiss

In the years leading up to high school, I had poured over my sisters’ yearbooks to build a mental picture of what my high school experience would be like. The joy and delight. The cool. Where did I fit in to that world? Would I be cool? I had heard their stories of drunken nights, make outs. I couldn’t wait for my world to be embroiled in these adult things.

I had purchased my back to school clothes from some obscure website. Colorful graphic tees with cheeky phrases like, “Number One Dad.” Shirts that begged others with a sense of humor to see me and be my friend. My mom seemed confused but didn’t object. I lusted after a pair of checkerboard vans, but could never summon the courage to ask my mom to buy me a pair. Is this the type of cool that I can be? Am I allowed to wear these?

I arrived to school to find the all the girls clad in Abercrombie and American Eagle floral skirts and lace trimmed tank tops. I spent most days just trying not to pit out my new t-shirts, selectively choosing the ones that wouldn’t spell out my crushing anxiety in big wet letters south of my shoulders. I’d stuff my shirts with toilet paper to control the spread. Finding creative ways to angle my body in class as I raised my hand to summon the teacher.

Social groups bent and flexed. Walking around the cafeteria was terrifying, so I would pretend to be confident to cover the fear. Amplifying my personality in these on-stage moments. Louder, sillier. Willing others to see me by my own power, rather than by theirs (or worse, not see me at all). I wanted to control the narrative.

I had taken an inventory of my new social pool. I had narrowed my focus on 10 different crushes. After school, Jessie and I shared our list. “... Zach L, Brian, and... Russ,” she said. In the beginning, our shared crush on Russ grew together until it was supplanted by a shared jealousy. It was her or me.

It was the week of Halloween, freshman year. My crush on Russ had culminated under a shared blanket at a Thursday night football game. We watched our team go up by 21 while he felt me up. I had spent 15 years dreaming of soft kisses and holding hands and instead just felt calloused fingers straining to latch on under the weight of my underwire.

Jessie saw us wrapped up together and stormed out. I had hurt her. Jessie and I had known each other since 2nd grade. This was, in her view, a betrayal. And things with Russ snapped. Somehow, this exposure of our connection had changed things between us. I was now the bad friend and had lost the interest of my crush. Friends had rallied around Jessie and I was alone again. Wearing the wrong clothes, drenched in sweat.

I spent the next day at school feeling like the world was collapsing around me. Feeling the scarlet letter burned onto my skin. My breasts had been fumbled with to no understandable end before my lips had ever been touched. I had been grabbed and discarded. It wasn’t an activity created together. I was an object acted upon. And I was punished for it.

My sulking was put on hold as that night was Emily’s Halloween Party. I had siphoned my parent’s vodka and tequila into respective water bottles and stashed them with a few beers into my purse for my first high school party. Kiley, a newish friend, and I had arrived early. I had worn a grass tiki skirt and flower bra over a pair of jeans and a long sleeve white shirt. Was this ok? I knew my sister had worn this costume flower bra before, so I had figured it was cool. The cool new girls in their hot costumes advised me to ditch the shirt underneath. “Are you sure? I’m not skinny skinny like you?” “Totally, you look great.”

Others arrived and I donned fake confidence while while we snuck up to Emily’s room to pass the alcohol around. “Hey.. I heard you have booze can I have some?” The power had shifted. I had thought that they all drank, that this party would have booze everywhere, but I was the only one who had brought alcohol. I had enough for a few of us to get drunk. And we did. I was gaining cool points; pretending. The cool guys took note of me for the first time. The girl with the cheeky crew neck graphic tees had double Ds, spilling out of a flowery bra, held together with a dangling string.

I was being seen, appreciated. I had bought my way in to this circle with booze and skin. The crushing disappointment of the past 24 hours was fading as I was rising in social relevance.

It was either Keegan or Nick, the first to ask to see my boobs. The guys who had commonly addressed the female population of Burke High School as “sluts” (“Sup, slut?” their favorite phrase). My skin bloomed in their light. And I showed them, all of them. Again. And again. Giggling anxiously, drunkenly.

My mom had eschewed the norms of nudity at home. Regularly leaving the bathroom door open, walking through the house naked, while we giggled or yelled, “mom!” The body was just a body. I had known that I had large breasts and had shown others before for a laugh. Knowing the surprise of the moment could stir up a silly commotion amongst friends.

This was something different. Swarms of teenage boys poked, teased, and preyed upon these breasts. These breasts that had been felt for the first time just the night before, leaving chaos in its wake. And here they were, shown to the world at the pleading of a mob of boys encircling a 15 year-old-girl in a dimly lit suburban basement.

For years, the boys would mock me about this moment. “14 times!” they would shout at me in the hallway at school, so I could never dare to forget the number of times I had supposedly shown my boobs. Girls and guys alike, encouraging me to remove the layers that I had put on to protect myself. Their mockery rang out like a brag.. A proud recollection of the night I bent to their will, when they convinced me to sacrifice something of myself for their attention, affection. This was my legacy. You can find it written in pen in my high school yearbook.

I’d love to tell you that my first kiss was Russ saving me from this crowd of thirsty boys, kissing me sweetly as we got the fuck out of there. But he didn’t and it wasn’t. He wasn’t interested in this drunk, over-exposed, validation hungry girl. I’d love to tell you that this ended my crush on Russ, but it didn’t. Years later I would drive an hour out of town to watch his hockey game alone in yet another unsuccessful attempt to win his affection.

Back at the party, I went outside to cry alone. How did this swing so far out of my control? I drank more. Pete found me. His gaze heavy, fingers prodding, beckoning me into the bathroom with him. I remember the waffle weave of his long sleeve white shirt, like the one I had worn and discarded before the party began. Party goers cheered and banged on the door as we kissed, as he attempted to unbutton my pants. I said no, twice.

Monday had come with a wash of complicated feelings. Word had traveled. Whispers of my drunken breasts had traveled with a new story. A story that I hadn’t lived. Pete had told our classmates that he had fingered me. Now, the story looked clear. This was the girl they knew. Not the graphic tees, Conan O’Brien quoting, honors student, Braves baseball fan. The girl they knew was a drunk, flashing, slut.

Filled with rage, I confidently strode through the cafeteria and approached the cool kid lunch table. Heads turned. I told all who could hear that Pete, had in fact, not fingered me. And walked away, back to my uncool lunch table where we laughed til we cried and wore dumb clothes with pit stains.

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incarnateirony · 4 years

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In what season and episode did you realised that Destiel went from subtext to actual text?

Difficult question really. I don’t exactly have a magic switch of some weird personal set goalpost I have, and frankly, wasn’t even really a shipper, just defended shippers, until... 13.5/6. I think I started slipping after 12.19 because I’m not a moron, I don’t live under a rock, I have eyes and know what the fuck a mixtape means to Gen X. But I kept it at arms reach because even Carver era was so totally subtextual-- atop all the stuff that got cut S10 after the S9 blowout, I didn’t exactly want to invest myself as much as point out shippers weren’t crazy for seeing what they saw, especially S8/9+ and even prior the resonance of the hero’s journey over our entire human civilization and historical othering of queerness made earlier readings or notices of it completely fair even if not really like, directional by the crew?

But to begin, Carver era was when I saw /intentful and meritful construction of the body of text, via subtext, to subtextually tell a story with classic queer coding./ Because a lot of what this fandom calls queer coding makes me want to hide my face behind a quantum hole of facepalms and is often like, pretty much the reverse of what should be advocated or considered. All those retro old “he’s been written as queer from S1″ make me want to kick puppies or something because oh my god it’s Not Good, most of the content there is Very Bad And Hugely Problematic, and it’s an attempt to retroactively prove what old canon was doing without any substance.

Carver era was the shift to substance, but silent substance. Subtext that’s genuinely thematically scaffolded into the storyline in a way that while the events themselves were largely cued on subtext, consideration of that subtext was critical to understanding the full body of text and people that refused to grow into and adapt with that text as the tone shifted are the ones that got more and more confused and angry.

Dabb era was the threshold crossing into (often low-visibility) text. Fandom intentionally arguing points that require complete removal from social structures (which is everything from regional meanings of major symbols, social codes, language, or why-letters-mean-things) doesn’t mean shit doesn’t mean what it means. A mixtape isn’t subtext any more than getting on one knee and popping open a box is subtext even if they don’t verbalize the words. We know what these fucking things mean and anyone who doesn’t is in DESPERATE need of going outside and experiencing the real world before making any kind of social commentary on a body of text.

When it comes to dialogue text, Last Call is where Bi Dean or at least Queer Umbrella Dean was textualized. Again, it doesn’t matter if people don’t understand the long argued history that was put to bed about repeat sexual encounters with men, it doesn’t matter what the gender of the other triplets were, literally none of that matters. It doesn’t matter if the person understands it. It doesn’t matter if they know their queer culture enough to know their arguments were already buried. It is what it is.

There’s this disillusionment that unspoken physicalized shit like kissing or sex, or verbalized ones like “I love you,” but “I love you, in a gay way, specifically and only you, and want to be romantic with you” because every other statement of the like so far has people crying or arguing about it as not enough either.

These things are nice, but it is not the only way to deliver a textual romance. These are things we want and deserve, and people aren’t wrong for wanting them, the only wrong comes in deleting other text because it isn’t the style of text they want. 100% unhelpful.

Text in AV is complex. No matter how decontextualized people try to pretend this all is, throwing pasta at the wall and calling it an argument worth validating, AV media study doesn’t just incorporate social codes on shit like dialogue -- though anyone that applies those social codes wouldn’t be arguing anyway, as per my old post on that -- but visual language and TV literacy are a long studied topic and are just as relevant as understanding of textual/verbal language and having textual literacy. People trying to eschew these in the interest of favoring fanspaces to try to keep them equal within the canon, which is NOT what fandom space equality is supposed to be about, is just... lol.

When that soap opera reporter that doesn’t even watch the show wandered in commenting on the full mise en scene of the 15.03 breakup being classical “Dark Point in the Romance” framing, that’s not subtext. In a book, characters aren’t running around on a blank canvas. Their environments are the text.

What people may draw symbolically out of an environment varies, and if someone’s /interpretation/ holds up, that’s fine. But being able to digest the entire presentation of a work, that is to say, to read an entire scene in a book and understand their setting and the relevance of that setting is simply a form of text. And when literal fucking randos can spot classic cinematography, it’s time to consider what the full cinematic framework is telling you both in incremental minutiae of texts and in the full body of work.

So basically, I acknowledged lowkey text based on the most basic understanding of social codes, by 12.19, even if I was still kinda eyerolling about it. By 13.5/6, Castiel returned to Dean in something later echoed by Eileen for the zoom shot, but the rest of the arrangement was verbatim identical to the original ending of Swan Song with Lisa, with the only difference being “Never too late” wasn’t a verbal line, but an entire sound track they applied to highlight the scene.

Despite the Swan Song parallel ending reactives went up in arms about the fact that they weren’t having big romantic moments anymore and kinda failed to wrap braincases around the fact that the endgame reunion that was literally the ORIGINAL endgame shot, which ALSO didn’t include physicality (in fact, the text read, “this isn’t sexual at all. He’s a lost soul, and she’s his home” in the script for Lisa), and this dumbass fandom would go “SEE PROOF THAT MEANS THE TEXT MEANS IT WASNT SEXUAL AND HE JUST BECAME BEST FRIENDS THAT WAS HER BEDWARMER MAYBE SHE HAS COLD FEET AT NIGHT” and that’s not how this fucking WORKS. Common sense is NOT removed from fucking discussion and what sense is applied needs to be levelly-- again, social codes.

So at 13.5/6 I had considered it textually paramount to the original endgame arrangement. S14 was just... blatant ass domesticity. Dean got his happy ending. He had his family. He got his win, his everything. They spoke frequently in the kitchen -- only vaguely over cases, more slapping around idioms, eyerolling over barbarous eating, and occasionally discussing how to raise their son. In fact, if you look at non-research-non-casework S14 kitchen scenes I’m gonna let you sit there and map out what all those domestic moments in the heart of the kitchen was, minding 13.5/6.

It was something gained. It was their life. And it was something to lose. 14.18 already advert framed it, we all saw it. Troubled family. People delete history of what is connected where to pretend “we” is vague or makes the romance any less of a canon piece and lmao guys

And season 15 is their year long run where they’re spearheading a huge part of the plot and will be a critical final resolution.

Speaking of 13.5/6 and social codes, anyone remember that Jack hadn’t met Dave Mather and looked at one nonphysical picture of them and recognized “he’s her boyfriend”? SOCIAL CODES MEAN SHIT GUYS.

So there’s no magic moment. There’s S8/9 coding and subtext. There’s S12′s tape and other elements -- tape is just the easiest to nail down but several through the year tbh -- there’s S13′s Never Too Late, and all things that followed that in waterfall. There’s S14′s established domesticity with Castiel having essentially moved into the bunker, something that wasn’t even entirely established in S12 yet even if he was more frequent there than Carver era.

Without social codes, I could argue that “Dean loves pie” doesn’t actually mean he loves pie. In fact, I could argue those letters mean nothing, because basic social codes are what even give words meanings. Without them these are just squiggly lines on a screen. If I eschew social codes, I could take a “love me some pie” line from Dean and say it means he fornicates with children and make long convoluded excuses around it instead of the observable fucking fact that Dean fucking Winchester likes goddamn pie.

Waiting for your perfect personally dreamed magic moment for a landmark to call text generally disregards the full body of the text and merit of the work. The amount of time and effort this FUCKING shipping fandom has put into -- even Destiel shippers -- bashing down and calling blatant ass text subtext because it’s not the text they want -- just because they want to argue with people that threw the logic baby out with the destiel bathwater they thought was dirty -- it’s fucking embarrassing tbqh. Imagine if people’s competitive fandom BS was muted how anyone here would be addressing this body of text.

Like. “After Carver directed Misha to play Castiel as a jilted lover in season 9, Cain through S10 escalated it into Castiel as Colette, which was confirmed by both the author and actors, seating him as a lover, as Sam was Abel the brother; by season 11, pining and connected hearts becomes the driving theme of the show, repeatedly denounced both in text and showrunner commentary that it wasn’t Amara that was that romance, and instead, a different one rose; by season 12, domestic arguments were many, mixtapes were shared, coming into rooms and playing people for things secretly stashed under pillows were a hinging plot moment, by season 13 he was the Never Too Late Big Win as a far more powerful version of Lisa, by season 14 Castiel moved in, by season 15 their giant sacred marriage euchartist ceremonies on repeat are driving the entire body of the season while overtly making the straight pairing a secondary parallel to the primary Dean and Castiel pairing by 15.09 such as the AU scene, or the ending where they mimicked the same phrase, truncated by physicality. But anyone viewing this text is an adult not competing for their preferred fandom playbox to be considered in the text, and had eyeballs, saw Sam and Eileen were clearly courting, flirting, and/or romantically engaged for a long time before this.”

Can we hope for the equality in that, sure. I want that, sure. That doesn’t erase all the other modes of text before that though.

But there, I just addressed 4 consecutive seasons of storytelling as its stands in the critical themes, without breaking down the dozens of independent scenes themselves that have already been analyzed to death and yall have scorched in your eyeballs by now like angels have prophet names.

I’ve seen people desperately, desperately try to reinterpret this text, or this story structure, in inconsistent ways that fall short. They’re never held accountable for their entire shit falling flat on their face, they just keep building new shit that falls on its face too and keep using it as a base. People can *interpret* ~text~ however they want. Anyone that tells you that “true text is inarguable” is either an idiot or selling you something for your subscription to their blog. Anyone CAN make any jackass interpretation of anything they want.

So sure. You can make some nonsensical explanation around every core theme their relationship is shadowed by, removing all social codes and context from basic elements understood by adult human beings natively, whatever. You can take 200 pages writing around it and degaying it. Generally when I see this, I see unhinged, incomplete writings with no central thread, just a thousand disembodied excuses that don’t even make a story. They’re just that. Desperate excuses. Years of it at this point. And they’re free to /interpret the text like that/ if they want. But that’s their /interpretation/ of a /text/ and as-above generally in /intentional, willful, conscious denial and erasure of the basic social codes we all understand./

Just because they /can/ warp the most left field interpretation doesn’t make it not text. If I pulled an “I don’t know I can’t english suddenly” and threw those codes out the window that doesn’t mean that the shit doesn’t mean the shit it means just because it’s inconvenient to me lmao

And this isn’t necessarily at you, Nonnie, I just feel the need to expand on this because any single time I don’t nail down these conversational stakes, someone breezes through and intentionally hotboxes the conversation to go down these very predictable manipulations and extremizations of the conversation that I really am far too tired to repeat the arguments raging in my mentions again, so I head ‘em off before the shit ever reblogs.

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