#there's nothing toxic inherently about the room i like the room

[britneyshakespeare]

i don’t see what the point is in remaking the room

#like the thing that's so funny about it is the sincerity #the commitment and surreality of how bad the writing is #it's also just completely silly #you can't make something like the room on purpose #but props to tommy wiseau for managing to profit so hard off of irony cringe movie bros #i hope he's sittin cozy #text post #i like the room i think it's fun but i once knew some guys who were. just a little too into it. if you know what i mean #no you probably don't. they had worse personalities than just innocently enjoying a meme movie a lot #but in retrospect the way they embraced irony with such an... ironic... sincerity #it was reflected in other ways that they just could not be genuine in their interactions w people unless they thought they could play it off #as a joke. and i mean. in situations that were far far far worse than enjoying a movie. #okay yeah ive said enough #there's nothing toxic inherently about the room i like the room #i hate fateful findings though. neil breen isn't funny to me at all. #i have this whole thesis on how the room is a good bad movie and fateful findings is a bad bad movie #i'll save it for another day

[tollingreminiscentbells]

In the defense of bottom!Voldemort|Tom

I'm in a mood, so I've decided to break down my thoughts on this topic and I'm putting it in the tags for anyone who is interested. With a suitably melodramatic title.

The rules here are simple: if you know you won't like this, don't read it. If you read it anyway and don't like it, that is the definition of a you problem. Okay? Okay.

So let's talk about why I think it is incorrect and, frankly, offensive to claim that Voldemort|Tom bottoming is inherently out of character.

In order to have this conversation, we're actually having a bigger conversation about sex. Because that's really what this is about.

Something that has popped up in a handful of comments on my own fic is surprise that Voldemort wants to suck Harry's cock. Now, I'm going to be charitable and assume that the people who say things like this don't realize what they're implying. But the reality is that they are operating from the assumption that a man sucking another man's dick is, at least to some extent, weak and degrading. A subservient act.

This is both homophobic and factually untrue. A significant percentage of people who like dick also like giving blowjobs. It's an enjoyable, pleasurable thing to do. And even if the physical act of sucking cock doesn't turn someone on, there are so many other reasons to want to do it. Getting off on being the source of your partner's pleasure, for one example.

But let's move on to the elephant in the room: anal sex. Specifically, the act of being penetrated. The interesting thing about bottoming is that, contrary to what some people seem to believe, it's the more powerful position. Penetration is only happening because the person bottoming is granting permission. Even if that person has ceded total control of the encounter, the fact remains that they made that decision in the first place and could un-make it at any time.

If that agency does not exist, the sex is not truly consensual. Full stop.

Moreover, a strong, dominant personality =/= topping. There is no innate correlation. This is where misogyny really comes to the table. Bottoming seen as a feminine act, and femininity conflated with weakness and submission. Do I think (most) Tomarrymort readers are consciously thinking this way? No. But that doesn't mean the underlying bias isn't present.

There are so many ways penetrative sex can play out. Yes, you get the "classic" version of the person topping being dominant and the person bottoming being submissive. But you can also get topping from the bottom, where the dominant partner in every way is the person being fucked. Or maybe no one is taking a dominant role. Et cetera. This is a broad overview, not an exhaustive list.

Do you see what none of these things have? An assumption that topping=stereotypical masculinity and bottoming=stereotypical femininity. Even with a couple that likes playing with that flavor of gender roles, it's a choice they're making. And before someone willfully misunderstands me, there is nothing wrong with that choice. But don't mistake it for something it's not.

So now that we've clarified that being penetrated is not weak, degrading, or even inherently submissive, let's bring this back to Tomarrymort.

First of all, have you read the books? Voldemort is campy as shit. High drama and a surprisingly great sense of humor (his jokes are fucked up, but also pretty funny). He's not this hyper-masculine figure. On the flip side, Harry is not an effeminate man. He's a jock who will fight you.

So from whence comes this zealous dedication some people have to a fixed dynamic that puts Voldemort|Tom in the masculine role and Harry in the feminine role? Yes, we've established that sex positions are neither of those things, but we all know that's the assumption simmering toxically in the background.

I can't say for sure, but my instincts tell me that it comes from a shallow read of both characters. Voldemort is a powerful man who commands a terrorist organization. Harry is the good-hearted hero, defined by his capacity to love. And this can get twisted into Voldemort|Tom taking and Harry giving in a very reductive way. Even when the relationship is meant to be consensual.

Obviously, I don't think this is universal. I've read a lot of incredible takes on sex in this fandom, with different top/bottom/switching dynamics. And this is fanfiction, which means you can play with characterization to your heart's content. What I'm talking about is people insisting that Voldemort|Tom must top and Harry must bottom and anything else is wrong.

Why are you so adamant about that? Have you ever given it a moment's thought? If you prefer it, you prefer it, that's all fine. But when it morphs into claiming that bottom!Voldemort|Tom is out of character and bad, things have crossed over into the arena of the absurd. Like what you like, but be aware of what you're really saying when you talk about sex.

Not conflating bottoming with weakness and topping with strength would be a good starting point. Understand that there are myriad reasons a person might want to bottom. It can be a source of relief, allowing someone else to take control so you don't have to. It can be an act of manipulation. It can be a form of domination. And sometimes it's just because bottoming is what feels good and they have more fun that way. Or it's just the kind of pleasure they're in the mood for on a random Tuesday night.

No one is telling you to read things you don't enjoy. And no one is saying that fixed top/bottom dynamics don't exist in the real world. But it's ridiculous to apply a fixed dynamic to such a degree that you get upset when other people write something else and consider a fic "ruined" by it. You really should put some thought into your biases. It's good for you. But even if you don't, when you claim a sexual dynamic is inherently out of character, you're actually just wrong. So stop doing that. It will be a net gain for all of us, including you.

#harrymort #tomarrymort #it's time for a sex talk #i prefer to write switching but there is no hierarchy here

[inkykeiji]

anonymous said: what would flawless tomura do if they were at a party and he left reader alone for a few minutes and came back to some guy talking to her?

character: shigaraki tomura

genre: smut

notes: okaaaay so it’s a teeny tiny bit more than just talking to her but ah anon! this ask immediately sparked an idea in my brain and i just had to write it for you! this is set within my flawless AU and it’s pretty much a prequel to part two!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, semi-public sex, toxic relationships (jealousy, possessiveness), minimal prep, rough sex, noncon nonsexual touching from a stranger, size difference, implied yakuza

words: 4k

Tomura hates these things.

As far as he’s concerned, these overly extravagant ‘work functions’ are nothing more than an excuse for a bunch of bigwigs and hotshots to get together and jerk each other off.

Really, it’s not much different than a college house party; if you take away the opulent venue and the nice clothes and good food, it’s practically the exact same thing.

He hadn’t wanted to bring you, fucking despises the thought of having you in the presence of any of these animals at all—disgusting and crude and primal and dangerous—but Kurogiri had insisted.

It looks good to include her, Tomura, he had said. You know how important these events are to your father.

And he knows how important you are to Tomura. But Tomura supposes that doesn’t matter nearly as much in his father’s eyes, now, does it?

In his mind, you’re just some silly little girl, a shiny new toy for Tomura to play with, to occupy his son’s time until he needs him, until he once again deems him useful. Then it’s expected you’ll be cast aside in favour of the family business, because nothing could ever be more important to Tomura, poor little orphaned Tomura, saved from the clutches of poverty by the Shigarakis, than the family business he’s being groomed to own one day, right?

Wrong.

But his father doesn’t give a fuck about that. He’s right if he says he’s right, end of discussion, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

So you’re here.

You had been cautiously excited to attend, desperate to earn his father’s favour, to prove that you’re worth it, worth all of the time and energy and love Tomura spends on you; that you can belong, if you really try to.

It’s sweet, really, how eager you are to be a part of the family. Impossibly, it makes Tomura love you even more.  

Kurogiri’s been bouncing around the banquet hall like an efficient but headless chicken, splitting his time between checking in with guests and keeping a watchful eye on Tomura, since he has a nasty tendency to suddenly and miraculously disappear into thin air at these things.

The corner Tomura has the two of you wedged in is shrouded in shadows and at the back of the room, far from all of the excitement, the chattering voices and chewing teeth. It’s still loud, though, a mess of chaotic and indistinct noise, booming laughter tangled with confident speeches wafting over you in waves, carrying with them the scent of hors d’oeuvres from the self-serve table at the head of the room.

Your tummy growls, nothing more than a gentle rumble beneath Tomura’s palms, and he hugs you tighter, chin hooked over your shoulder as he nuzzles into your neck a little in apology.

“I’ll have Kurogiri grab you some food the next time he makes his rounds, baby, I promise.”

A dainty hand lays atop his own, fingers snuggling between the gaps of his own and resting there.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you murmur, the side of your head knocking against his own.

And, oh, that word.

That special word, nothing more than a sweet huff of breath on your tongue, five little letters that get his blood surging and his chest puffing and his spine straightening.

That one word that summons the true dominant that lays dormant at his core, slept and stomped on by inherent brattiness; that single word that pumps his whole body full of heady authority, muscles swelling with it, tense and gorged on the power it affords him.

But then your tummy grumbles again and Tomura frowns, fingers flexing as they sink into your flesh, holding you closer. Your ankles hook around his calves in response, body melting further into his—giving in, giving over, complete and total control—sagging s little in his lap, and he sighs.

But there’s no way you can get up, no way he can allow you to get up, to go anywhere near the food so meticulously laid out across a long, white table. Because Tomura has already seen the way these mongrels called men have been staring at you, eyes sick and starved as they try to swallow you whole, gazes nipping at your bare legs, tearing at your sweet little dress.

Instinctively, his body curls further around your own, shoulders hunched and chest curved as it molds to your back, almost as if he’s trying to hide you away within himself, within his flesh and bone and soul, far away from those ogling eyes and their gnawing little teeth.

Kurogiri returns not long after, though he is not able to fulfill Tomura’s promise, a slight breathlessness to his tone as he delivers a directive.

“Tomura, your father needs your assistance.”

“What?” Tomura hisses, head whipping to face his handler, eyes narrowed sharply. “With what?”

“There are some people he’d like you to meet,” Kurogiri responds calmly, unfazed.

Tomura’s features pucker, the mere thought sour in his head. “You can tell him to fuck right off, I’m not—”

“Tomura,” Kurogiri cuts him off, stern but not sharp. “Is this appropriate behaviour for a CEO-in-training? These are very important guests—important clients, and it is imperative that you continue to keep our relationship with them in good standing.”

Scarlet eyes dart between you and Kurogiri, settling on the crown of your head, a certain type of woefulness imbuing his features—mouth turned down, eyes drooping slightly, forehead woven with lines of worry.

“She’ll be alright on her own for a second or two,” Kurogiri continues, voice softening. “It’ll only be for a moment, Tomura. Just come say hello.”

“Fine, fuck.”

With the utmost gentleness, Tomura slides you off his lap as he stands, taking your jaw between his palms, bony fingers splayed across your cheeks, so long his middle fingers nearly rest on your temples.

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy,” you laugh a little, nudging forward to press a quick peck to his lips. “Promise I’ll survive on my own while you’re gone.”

“You better,” he threatens, cold voice contradicted by the mirth shimmering in his eyes and the love tugging at the corners of his lips. “Be back in a minute or less.”

“Thirty seconds,” you hear him growling to Kurogiri as he stalks off, vying fingers already gouging his own flesh, nails leaving thick divots that pool rapidly with blood in their wake. “Thirty fucking seconds, that’s all they’re getting from me.”

Your eyes trail after him as he weaves through the space, an ache, dull and heavy, settling behind your ribs when you spot the ribbons of crimson adorning his neck, trickling onto his crisp white collar, Kurogiri hastily attempting to dab at them as Tomura viciously swipes at his hands.

The ache throbs, expands and pushes against your ribs as if it’s trying to escape the cage, as if it’s trying to propel you forward, urging you to act, to move, to go be with him.  

“Hey,” a voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you startle slightly, gaze snapping towards its owner. “You looked lonely—Like a lost kitten, or something. This your first time at one of these things?”

It’s clearly a lie, you know it is, can see the falsities glimmering in his stretched smile, wide and tense and hungry across his cheeks—there’s no way this man didn’t see you with Tomura only mere seconds ago.

“Uh—”

“I’m Shin,” he continues, eyes obscured by the chandelier lights glinting off his glasses. Even veiled, you can feel it, the man’s slimy gaze gliding up your body, slowly, studiously, and leaving a filmy trail behind it. Your flesh crawls along your bones, feeling wrong, dirty, bare, and you wrap your arms around yourself, hugging your ribs. “Nemoto Shin. I work for a, uh, friend of the Shigarakis.”

“Oh,” you say, dull as your eyes skip across the crowd, feet shifting a little as you lean away, hunting for Tomura in a sea of businessmen.

“Actually, I’m a doctor of sorts.”

Your narrowed gaze drifts back to his, eyebrows knitted slightly.

“Of sorts?”

“A chemist, kind of.”

“Kind of?”

Smirking, he tilts his head to the side as if he finds you fascinating, revealing dark eyes as the light catches on his hair.

“I run clinical trials, collect data, and then revise.”

And it’s the way he says it, voice imbued with a sort of deranged glee that smears his sharp smile wider, as if he takes pleasure in conducting these experiments, that has shivers skittering up your spine, nails digging into your biceps as your arms squeeze your torso.

“On people?”

“Of course.”

“Oh. That’s, uh...”

Your eyes dart around the venue again, expensive silk suits and leather loafers all a blur as you search for an out, a familiar face, someone, anyone.

“You know,” Shin begins conversationally, taking a step closer to you. “You look like you’re about the correct age and height for our newest study.”

Large hands wrap around your own, fast and sudden, and forcefully uncurl your fingers, tugging your arms from around your body and holding them out wide, leaning back on his heels to fully appreciate you.

“In fact, I’d say you’re perfect.”

A discontented whine catches in your throat as you struggle in his grasp, attempting to pull your wrists free, Shin’s grip tightening to near bone-crushing in response.

Yelping, you wrench again, trying harder to jerk yourself away from him. He merely laughs in response, a sound that shoots spikes of ice through your limbs, and yanks your arms open further, tutting his tongue as if your struggle is so adorable, head quirked to the side with an egging smirk.

“What do you say? Want to participate?”

“No, you bastard! Ugh, let go of me!”

“C’mon,” he goads, eyes gleaming with poorly concealed sadism. “I promise it won’t hurt. In fact,” his head dips a little, looking at you over the wire of his spectacles. “You might even enjoy it.”

“She’s good. Thanks, though.”  

Tomura’s voice has the man flinching, a jolt of panic surging through his veins and loosening his muscles, your arms dropped from his hands in an instant. He recovers quickly, though, any traces of alarm smoothed out from his expression a second later, features morphed into a perfect mask of professionalism.

“Tomura,” he says with a polite nod, a small but appropriate smile on his face. “You’re looking well.”

Tomura says nothing in response, glaring at him through sharpened eyes, crimson simmering with such anger you swear you can see the heat waves radiating from his sockets. He holds the man’s gaze until, finally, the man looks away with a cower, head hung in submission.

And then Tomura’s turning away with a sneer, catching your hands, busy mauling his biceps in desperation, with ease and wrapping a palm around your arm.

“Fucking vultures,” he’s spitting as he all but drags you from the venue, the fingers cuffed around your wrist tensing. “I leave for, like, a minute and they’re all over you.”

“I—I’m sorry,” you’re whimpering as your free hand winds around his forearm, jogging a little in your haste to keep up with his pace.

“Sorry?” he questions, the word seething on his tongue, as if you’re stupid for even apologizing at all. “It isn’t your fault, princess.”

And even though his voice is still scalding, the look he throws you over his shoulder is soft, stuffed full of love.

“Besides,” he’s continuing as he shoves past the heavy glass doors at the entrance of the hall. “I’m gonna show those fuckers who you belong to.”

The satin toe of your heels catches on the rough concrete, instantly causing it to scuff and fray as Tomura hauls you along behind him, the slap of his trademark red sneakers echoing out among the parking lot with each hasty stomp toward his car.

“Tomura, wait!” you’re calling as you teeter quickly behind him.

But he isn’t listening, your staggering not nearly fast enough for his liking, giving another harsh yank on your arm with such vigour it sends you stumbling right into his back, ankles wobbling a little as you almost trip over your own feet, a little yelp sounding in your throat.

He catches you easily, though, skinny arms wrapping around your form, offering minimal stability as they slam you against the driver’s door of the Bentley, effectively trapping you between the metal and his body.

Knobby knees are parting your legs instantly, sharp as they barge at your inner thighs and force them open, his feet framed by your own.

His hips slot up against yours, bones defined and protruding as they press into your supple flesh, his cock already half-hard.

And, God, you’ll never tire of how easily he gets hard, just the thought of your cunt enough to send a rush of boiling blood to the apex of his thighs, to fill his cock, a girlish giggle bubbling past your lips.

“Something funny?” he’s asking as large hands cup your jaw, fingers curling around the hinges and dragging your face upward, prohibiting you from answering as he all but smashes his lips to yours, keen tongue prying through your lips to lick at your teeth.

It’s messy and enthusiastic, just like kissing Tomura always is, smears of drool glistening across your chin and dripping off your jaws in fat, sticky globs to cool in little puddles on your collarbones, dribbling steadily from the corners of your lips as they move and mash and mesh.

His hands work in tandem with his mouth, large palms sliding up your thighs and beneath your dress, hem pooling around his wrists as he reaches your pretty pink panties, revealing your bare legs to the throngs of men clustered around the gilded doors, leering at you through hazy clouds of cigar smoke.

A squeak of his name is pushed from your tongue onto his, muddled and weighted with spit, eyes popping open as vying fingers begin to twist and tear through dainty lace, elastic band snapping audibly against your waist a moment later, leaving a lingering sting in its place.

“Daddy!” you whine as your panties flit to the asphalt in a ruined little heap, legs instinctually trying to snap shut only to be kept wedged open by his hips, a dark chuckle soaking into your skin as his lips glide clumsily from your mouth to your jaw and down the curve of your neck, painting your skin in slick strokes of saliva.

“I’ll buy you more, y’little brat,” he mumbles into your shoulder, teeth sinking into the muscle a moment later and forcing a pitchy cry from your throat, the sound embarrassingly loud, echoing through the parking lot.

His jaw flexes, tenses, burrowing sharp ivory deeper into your flesh until they slice through it, staining his mouth with your blood. His tongue laves over the wound, sops up the oozing blood like it’s sugary syrup tinged with copper, and seals the bite with spit that turns frigid the moment his mouth is gone.

A large hand squeezes your thigh, fingertips dipping into plush skin as they hoist your leg up, hooking it over his hip. You can feel his clothed cock, prodding your bare hole as he ruts unevenly against you, premature little thrusts that he can’t quite seem to quell.

A collection of baritone murmurs draws your attention back to the men, tendrils of smoke coiling in the air as they watch the scene in front of them unfold, exhaling little chuckles and comments among themselves, eyes never straying from your bodies.

It all feels so fucking grimy, their gazes sludgy as they creep across your frame, thick like glue as Tomura’s free hand traces up the curves of your torso to knead your breast much too hard, eliciting a low whistle and a smattering of claps.

“Daddy, Daddy, they’re looking,” you whimper, casting another quick glance at the men and wincing when your eyes connect with theirs.

“Let them look.”

“Tomura!”

“I want them to look,” he growls, a sort of petulant possessiveness bleeding into his tone. “I want them to see who you fucking belong to, I want them to see what they can’t touch, I want them to see who it is that makes you cry and scream and cum. ”

“No, Daddy, please,” little fingers curl in the cashmere of his dress shirt, attempting to use his body as a shield. “Not here, not like this, not all out in the open—”

“Oh, come on, don’t be such a baby.”

“No, no, no,” you’re nearly weeping, head shaking in shuddered little movements.

Panic rips viciously at your chest, rising high in your voice as protests pour from your lips, heated face burrowing into the junction of his neck. You’re pawing at his shirt now, a few of the buttons popping open to reveal milky skin stretched over a prominent collarbone.

“You can do it, angel,” he chides, voice just a hint gentler. “I know you can do it for me.”

A hiccup hitches in your throat, caught painfully on a breath, interrupting your stream of pleads, burning tears leaking from your crunched eyelids and staining his collar with salt.

“Please, please, please,” the word is humid against his neck, exhaled on shaky little gasps, letters disintegrating into droplets of condensation on his scarred skin. “I don’t wanna, please, Daddy, I don’t—”

“All right, Christ,” he’s groaning over your pathetic begging, pivoting your bodies quickly and keeping an arm wrapped around your waist as he rips the drivers door open.

Collapsing heavily behind the wheel, he pulls you down with him, hands rough and cumbersome as they try to rearrange your body into straddling him.

It’s cramped, one knee digging into the centre console while the other leg bends, foot planted on the leather of the seat.  

“Get my fucking cock out,” he’s spitting at you the moment the door shuts, hips pushing upwards in emphasis. “I can’t fucking wait any longer.”

You’re obeying in an instant, dainty fingers clawing at the buckle of his belt, leather cracking as you yank it free from the prong. Then he’s lifting his hips again, aiding you as your fingers hook in the waistband of his briefs and tug, pulling his trousers down with them.

His thighs spread instinctively, elastic and cotton cutting into thin muscle.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he’s muttering as his palms wrap around your hips again, dragging you towards him to hover over his swollen, leaking cock. A hand grips the base, holding it steady as he lines it up with your hole, the head bumping against your cunt.

For the breath of a moment, everything is still, your combined panting ragged as it rings throughout the car, dense and tangled. Your forehead knocks against his own, hands clamped over the back of his seat.

And then he’s shoving his cock into you with one quick, sharp thrust upward, a high whine escaping your lips as your face scrunches in pain.

Your cute little hole stings as his cock tears through it, rips you open wide and forces you to take it all, a loud cry spilling from your lips as Tomura holds your hips in place, savouring the way you spasm around him, desperately trying to adjust to his girth.

The pace is brutal right from the start—not that you’ve come to expect anything less from Tomura—the snapping of his hips vicious as he pounds into you, sweet little snarls falling from scarred lips with each slam of his cockhead against your cervix.

There’s nothing for you to do but just take what he’s giving you, his grip on your waist blooming tiny blotches of blues and purples in the shape of his fingerprints into your skin as he holds you in place, thighs flexing in time with his powerful thrusts, the soles of his sneakers skidding against the rubber floor mat as he uses his feet for leverage.

It hurts, but Tomura doesn’t care, hips rapid, rabid, ruthless as they piston into you, so rough and hard and fast that it has your entire body shuddering, the thin, sharp heel of your stiletto skidding against white leather, tearing it open.

It hurts, but it’s also so fucking good, choked little wails of his name and his title knotted on your tongue, each one fucked out of you as he bounces you on his cock, easy and effortless like you’re nothing more than his favourite little toy.

And there’s something so hot about it all, something so wicked and disgusting and deliciously depraved about fucking in the middle of a crowded parking lot, open and on display for anyone to see as the sun begins its descent below the horizon, lacking the protective veil the night brings with it.

You can feel their eyes searing into your skin, glaring and gawking, wide and unblinking, the Bentley’s thick windows doing little to lessen the smoldering of their gazes as they roam your body, the Bentley’s bulletproof glass muffling the howls and the whistles.

It sends sick thrills racing through your veins, leaving your blood fizzy and muscles tingling, a loud moan, stuttered by Tomura’s incessant bucking, tumbling from your lips.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it, baby,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, straining under pleasure, edges of his words breathy, almost whiny in a way, as if he’s begging instead of instructing. “Show them. Show them how pretty my cock makes you.”

“Yes, Daddy, yes, Daddy,” you’re whimpering out, head nodding in tiny, short motions with your words.

And you do—ever the perfect, obedient, good little girl that you are—cumming pathetically quickly, the fast, hard drag of his cockhead over that swollen patch of tissue buried deep inside of you combined with the peeping, prying eyes resulting in your sweet cunt convulsing almost violently around his cock, thighs aching and tense as his title shatters on your tongue.

It’s so much, slick gushing down his shaft to soak into the waistband of his pants, bare thighs slippery with your essence, sick and sticky with each slap against your ass, obscene sounds echoing throughout the car.

“F-Fuck,” he gasps, the curse cracking in his throat, head knocking back against the headrest and face contorting in ecstasy, watching you through lidded eyes and thick black lashes.

His thrusts have turned messy now, rhythm sloppy and irregular as he jackhammers into you almost desperately, clenched teeth bared and on display.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—” you’re mewling, grappling little fingers twisting in his damp shirt, nonverbal begging imbued in the motion.

“M’cumming,” he nearly moans, cutting you off before you can even ask for it.

He gives you exactly what you want, a mere two thrusts later, whole body going rigid as his nails gorge themselves on the flesh of your hips, holding you still as his cock pumps you full of thick, hot cum.

And he’s so fucking beautiful, breathtakingly so, so much that it decays your words and kicks them from your chest in frail little huffs.

Sliver tufts of hair have flipped upwards, clumped and curled with salt, tiny dewdrops of sweat collecting on the points, glittering in the waning sunlight. The white of his shirt has turned translucent, sodden and sticking to his juddering ribs, expanding and straining beneath his heavy, laboured breaths, the whole cage starkly defined, shadows outlining all of the curves and contours, bumps and ridges, each bone and every gap.

But then he’s pulling you from your admiration, gangly arms wrapping around your body tightly.

“Mine,” he murmurs as he hugs you to his chest, whole body finally deflating, soaking into your own.

“Yours,” you whisper with a little nod, pressing chaste kisses along his scarred neck. “Yours, forever.”

His. Forever.

He hopes they all understand who you fucking belong to, now, hopes they’ll keep their grubby hands and grimy gazes off of you, now, but should any of them forget—well, neither of you are necessarily opposed to teaching them this lesson again.

#shigaraki tomura smut #shigaraki tomura x reader #bnha smut #shigaraki smut #shigaraki x reader #eee hehe enjoy!!!! it's just something smaaaall but i really enjoyed writing it!

[nymphadora7]

yuri and kitty make sense. it did not come out of nowhere. the rom com meet cute? all of the tension while yuri was “dating” dae and how easily that tension transfers to romantic tension after kitty’s dream? that doesn’t come out of nowhere. kitty and yuri in the beginning of the show are two people who are at odds but don’t really want to be at odds. once the dae situation is mostly resolved, they become fast friends, which it’s foreshadowed they can be in episode 1. moreover, kitty has been with dae since she was 12. she clearly has been focused on him and not herself, and her interest in yuri is allowed to flourish because she is not with dae when it begins. she does not think she will be with dae. and she is in fact actively looking for someone to kiss. moreover, even if it was out of nowhere (which it isn’t) kitty is 17 (16?). at that age, crushes appear out of nowhere all. the. time. and while it might not have been the best idea to tell yuri about her feelings, kitty thought she would never see her again. sometimes the right thing for you, the thing that will let you keep going, is going to hurt someone else. doesn’t make it okay, just is. and on top of that, she didn’t fully confess anyway. and kitty’s not known for making good decisions, since literally the first tatbilb movie. it’s up to yuri now to decide what to do with this information. she clearly has wanted juliana to come back, and it is unlikely she will drop juliana because of kitty’s aborted confession. additionally, the few times we’ve seen juliana have been 1) the flashback, 2) the kiss in the janitor’s closet (neither of which reveal much about her), 3) the phone call in the tent, 4) the phone call in kitty/yuri/q’s room, and 5) the scene at the airport. in 2 and 3, juliana seems to have resigned herself to a life without yuri, and seems honestly shocked that yuri cared enough to go to such lengths to find her. what does that say about what juliana thinks of the relationship that yuri is so invested in? in 4 and 5, 4 explicitly, juliana is worried about yuri’s friendship with kitty, and jealous of it, and pushes the fact that she doesn’t quite trust yuri’s telling her the truth about the platonic nature of their friendship. to be clear, i have absolutely nothing against juliana. i am interested and curious to see her as a full character in season 2, and i do, in fact, desperately hope that they do not villainize a black queer female character. on the other hand, black queer women can be toxic partners. limiting othered people to only heroic, savior-like, positive roles, is also not great. and exhibiting jealous and mistrusting behavior already when we have so few, brief scenes of her is to me an orange flag. i’m not worried about it yet, but i have noticed it. and often, people who imply that they don’t trust their partner not to cheat, have already cheated themselves. once again, i hope this is untrue, i hope i’m wrong. finally, kitty was not in the right to almost confess to yuri, but it is not the cardinal sin some people are pretending it is. yuri and juliana may continue, they may not. whatever happens, it won’t be kitty’s fault. it is not inherently homophobic if you don’t ship kittyuri, or if you ship minty. it is homophobic to perpetuate this idea that the ship came out of nowhere simply because you don’t ship it and have refused to see what the show is explicitly showing.

in this same vein, min ho and kitty make sense. it did not come out of nowhere. and while min ho might not have had the best timing with telling kitty his feelings, he did in fact wait until he had confirmation that she was no longer with dae. he might have said something further had the PA not interrupted, but he did not appear to expect anything from her in return after he told her (just as kitty did not appear to expect anything in return from yuri when she almost confessed). kitty is shocked, but very clearly not upset about the information. to us, it is clear that min ho has liked kitty for a while, probably longer than he knew or let on. sometimes so called “hatred” for someone is genuinely that, but as demonstrated in xo kitty, it is often the exact opposite. (i am of course talking about disliking someone interpersonally for muddled reasons, not disliking someone for genuine reasons, i.e. they’re a harmful person.) dislike for someone is often based on someone protecting themselves for whatever reason. based on all that we know about min ho, he has a lot of family related issues, and a lot of reason to put up walls in order to protect himself. he is initially “anti-kitty” because he thinks dae should explore his options with someone he is in the same country with and then because he thinks yuri is a better option. a lot of this quite clearly stems from the way he was raised, the fact that his father is on wife #3, and the classism that very much exists in korea (as it does in many places) and honestly probably because kitty is half-white (i am not saying there is racism against white people, there isn’t. i’m saying that there is often unfortunate biases against mixed kids from both/all of their communities). in the chuseok episode, he says “my parents thought they were true love, and then had the messiest divorce ever” (or something to that effect). that line is so telling: min ho doesn’t believe in true love, or maybe even love at all. he looks at it as transactional, what can i get from them and what can they get from me? it’s evident in his failed (i think?) tryst with the k pop star whose name is escaping me, and in his situationship with madison. but spending so much time around kitty specifically changes his mind about these things. slowly, at first, and then much more rapidly. he’s still cocky, arrogant min ho, but he chills out a lot over those first few episodes. i think he appreciates that kitty actually responds to his teasing and one ups him oftentimes. and when he calls her his saesang, it’s so funny bc he is so clearly the one obsessed with her at all times throughout season 1. also, the dream happens after the chuseok episode, where they noticeably get closer. there is buildup! he thinks she’s beautiful when she enters his party, and is actively trying to resist his crush on her (because he thinks he shouldn’t have a crush on his friend’s girlfriend) when he reacts to it being her. he respects that he thinks she and dae are still into each other and moves his attention to madison. he knows her order in the detention episode. he is upset for her when he finds out yuri and dae lied. he saves her from the fireworks. he does not fight back against dae after dae attacks him because he thinks dae has the right to. he looks visibly shattered when kitty says min ho isn’t the one she was talking about. also, min ho would not have made the effort to sweet talk some flight attendant to find kitty’s seat and sit in coach because of nothing. 

with both kittyuri, and with minty, they are one sided crushes (at least at the moment) with potential to be reciprocated, and i think people are misinterpreting them because of that. neither of them came out of nowhere, neither of them are toxic, and neither of the two ships involving teenagers include characters who are morally bad.

in conclusion, let people ship things. ship things yourself! and most of all, do not take things that seriously. shipping should never be a war. even if you personally don’t like a ship, it is shitty to go and actively hate the ship, especially if the ship is not doing you any harm, especially if you go into the positive spaces for that ship to spread your hate. if you don’t ship something, do not interact with content for that ship. it is not that hard. it is 2023, not 2013. ship whatever the hell you want.

#xo kitty #xo kitty spoiler #xo kitty spoilers #spoilers #spoiler #kittyuri #minty #kitty x yuri #yuri x kitty #min ho x kitty #kitty x min ho #kitty song covey #yuri han #min ho

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

what the hell is the male or female gaze and why are zutarians obsessed with it

You know how some scenes in movies and shows, especially those from a few decades ago, have some scenes that exist solely to show off how hot an actress is, but in a really, really weird way that doesn't feel like a hot moment in a story, but a story suddenly being interrupted and turned into a cheap porno? You know, those scenes where there's a conversation going on, but the camera is practically up the actress's ass?

Some feminists starting pointing out how these scenes neither fitted the tone of the stories, nor were all that appealing, how many of the actresses were coerced into them, how many directors treated them like shit during said scenes, and how some of these actresses were MINORS, and how often times this was the only role of women in stories. "Look hot for the benefit of this male director and male audience members that think women are sexual objects, then disappear."

They also noted how, in some states of the US and in other countries, some set-in-stone rules about what things related to sex could or could not be shown to certain audiences had some sexist undertones. For exemple, a scene with no nudity of a male character getting a blowjob from his girlfriend was ALWAYS considered less inappropriate than him eating her out - again, even with no nudity or anything too explict. Violent rape scenes with the girl crying her eyes out for several minutes did not change movie ratings, while a quick scene showing a girl getting to orgasm did (but a guy having an orgasm wasn't a problem).

There was also the classic "Guy was in charge of directing a lesbian sex scene, made it look like a horny 11-year-old boy's very confused notion of how sex without a penis could even work."

They refered to that kind of thing by the catch all term" the male gaze".

Some people thought the term was great. I always felt it was unnecessary and a bit pretencious since we already had terms for those things: Misogyny, double-standards, exploitation of minors, abuse of authority, puritans seeing consensual sex/sex positivity as inherently more sinful/inappropriate than violence (even sexual violence), clueless men that think the experiences of gay women are the same as this fantasies, or just the regular crap movie trying to get the audience horny enough to watch it even though it has nothing to offer.

There was also a tiny, small, huge with problem with it: it implied men were always the bad guys, and women always the victims. No room to discuss women that abused their authority (look at the literal thousands of abusive "mom managers" of child/teen stars that gladly allowed hollywood creeps to perv on their children) or the men, and underage boys, that were also sexualized to absurd degrees (plenty of the infamous Twilight scenes of the werewolf guy constantly being over-sexualized happened when he was still a teenager).

And, it also led to a bunch of very stupid consequences:

1 - People claiming any kind of eroticism on screen was ALWAYS bad, inherently exploitative, served no purpose in a story, and could only be appealing to guys, not girls.

2 - People labeling ANYTHING they didn't like as "male gaze" or "male fantasy" - see Zutarians claiming Kataang is the writers' incel fantasy of the Nice Guy getting the girl that is totally not into him).

3 - Women labeling anything they personally liked "female gaze" as a way to imply their opinion was "superior" due to supposedly being "feminist" - see Zutarians claiming Zutara is the "female gaze", the "feminist ship", or that all the fanon content for it "by women, for women (and guys that are not sexist)."

These words are just like toxic, problematic, abusive, etc. It's the classic "There was a point to this at first, it got derailed pretty fucking fast, and now annoying, pretencious people on the internet will use this term incorrectly FOREVER because they think it makes their opinion objectively correct."

(The only difference being, again, I personally always felt like "male gaze" had some problems even without the internet watering it down to meaning "I'm right and you're wrong because I'm better than you")

#anti zutara #male gaze #female gaze #things are not that fucking simple

[uglynicc]

Listen, I avoided this movie for AGES thinking it fit into the Bro Movie Torture P0rn™️ genre which really isn't my thing, but after going down a rabbit hole of video esays and analysis, I decided to watch it.

And I actually loved it. There is SO MUCH commentary about this movie but I enjoyed it enough to dive into my own analysis of it lol, even if it's one that's been done before.

The book does sound like it's a bit too gruesome for me (plus the author's comments about "women can't make movies" definitely rubs me the wrong way), but only going off the movie I am blown away how some toxic trolls out there entirely miss the point and unironically idolize Bateman.

Firstly, I interpreted this as a comedy, a real dark satirical one, and I laughed a LOT.

Second, I do think the murders are in his head. I know there's room for commentary about The Rich And Elite Being Able to Literally Get Away With Murder, but I'm fairly certain someone would, at the very least, complain about a naked man running through an apartment complex with a chainsaw after a screaming woman. All the little hints that a lot of events didn't happen also lead me to think this.

I think he's still a D Bag who abuses sex workers, but that the killing was either a fantasy to give himself a sense of power, control, and greater agency in his life, or that it is a product of untreated and worsening mental state.

Ignoring his potential neurodivergency/mental illness here purely for the fact I think it's a separate interpretation from the one I have, and focusing on the idea that he's getting lost in the dark fantasy world he's constructed, my greatest takeaway from the movie:

Bateman is a loser.

Yes, he's wealthy and attractive, but what does he actually have going for him, even in his shallow little group of elite toxic fuckwads?

For his inflated sense of importance, no one gets his name right or even remembers who he is most times. His fiance doesn't respect or even like him, and he doesn't like her either. He pays women to be part of fantasies where he is awe inspiring, a rich, muscular sex god, and even they are bored and unimpressed, they can't even act like he's worthy of their admiration. His male peers don't think he's anything great either, and how could they when they're constantly wrapped up in meaningless pissing contests. He's so insecure in his masculinity he is close to tears when someone mistakes him as being homosexual. He can't even buy his way into Dorsia, can't use his good looks or cash, the only things he has going for him, to get a dinner reservation at his White Whale restaurant.

He's failing to achieve anything even in his shallow little world, so his Wall Street job (with a business card no one thinks is particularly great), fancy apartment (which he grudgingly admits isn't even as nice or as expensive as his rival's) and chiseled good looks mean nothing. He craves status and recognition, which he fails to achieve.

And yeah, he's a misogynist, racist, classist, homophobic dishrag too, can't forget that.

He's the archetype of toxic, impotent-with-misplaced-rage, insecure yet inflated male ego we see everywhere. If people don't perceive what Bateman feels is his inherent "greatness" or "importance," he lashes out, through mistreatment of those more vulnerable, and/or through dark fantasies which give him that sense of greatness and importance.

It's almost too real, because there are so many real world examples of this kind of privileged dickwad (which makes it even more baffling when these same real world dickwads put Bateman on a weird pedestal thinking he's actually great), but I loved the way the movie examined it. I don't think it's celebrating Bateman or men like him at all, I felt more compelled to laugh at him as a figure of jest, a ridiculous caricature of entitlement and failure. Hell, even his "confession" falls flat, he can't even get that right.

Anyway, just my musings after my first viewing, 20 some years late to the party lol.

#american psycho #american psycho movie #don't come for me #patrick bateman #movie analysis #kitchen sink rambles #long post #also it was super tame compared to movies I've seen recently like Barbarian

[tumblingxelian]

Wednesday Fanfic Concept - Soulmate Struggles

Summary:

Wednesday has always loathed the idea of a Soulmates. Emotions of warm nostalgia and love forced on her for a stranger by the whims of fate? IF she ever meets the people whose marks match hers she will ensure she doe snot become a slave to passion as her parents did!

Bianca had always feared meeting her Soulmates. Already terrified of the power she had over the minds of others she could think of nothing kinder than to reject them as harshly as possible.

Enid had always longed too meet her soulmates, hoping to find two kindred spirits who could perhaps love her without conditions or demands.

Too bad for the three of them what they got was each other.

Concept:

This is likely one of m most painful ideas, and definitely the one that explores Wednesday's toxic traits the most overtly.

The nature of soulmates in this world is that as you grow and aspects of your personality, temperament ETC settle in you develop a connection with your soulmate/soulmates.

But all this means is that you have some base comparability. It says nothing for beliefs, ideologies and little for life experience.

Despite this, because of the schooling systems and such most people meet their soulmates in their onw age brackets, communities. schools ETC. & from this comes the entirely cultural expectation of romance, despite the fact soulmates are not inherently romantic or platonic, they just are.

As a result, lots of people with soulmates outside their age range or no soulmate tend to experience some stigma or at least judgement.

This also means a lot of soulmate relationships actually end up really unhealthy and or destructive but not enough that its become a talked about problem. But yeah, basically despite the comforting feeling a soulmate provides, any relationship actually requires work.

This story was also inspired by the concept of "This will always be our first" That is to say, a first meeting, a first reaction, a first date and one party intentionally making it worse either out of some mild selfishness that just exploded or even a degree of malice.

The two inspirations I drew from were:

RWBY's volume 9 with main character Ruby Rose, having been driven to a breakdown lashes out at those around her. Including her sister and her girlfriend because their budding relationship and happiness is just agony to see when she's in so much pain. Any other day or time she'd be over the moon for them, but the tragic thing is this will always be the reaction they all remember.

The other was from a Wenclair fic, where despite having been engaged for months, Wednesday did not tell her parents until she & Enid touched down at the airport. Morticia was awkward & Gomez was distraught and ended up fighting Enid who then went to her & Wednesday's room to be depressed because that too will always be her first meeting with Wednesday's parents.

The first being bad is not something that cannot be worked through but it is inherently bittersweet I feel.

Characters:

Enid: Wow I have two soulmates… Maybe they will, I dunno, love me unconditionally? 🙂 Wednesday: Emotions. Complicated. Vulnerability. Awful. Hate them, you did this to me, how dare you. Stay away! Bianca: I don't like affecting anyone's mind by my mere presence, I hate the idea of someone doing it to me even more, I will not be made vulnerable, so stay away!

Bianca & Wednesday: You made me feel emotions against my will. Die. Enid: Wow, both my soulmates are like this… Great… I'm so lucky... :/

Kinbott is actually a better therapist in this cos her soulmate is platonic, IE Cassie from Uriah's heap. SO she is a bit socially isolated herself and more thoughtful. She also has a thing for Principle Weems who was Gomez's soulmate but that didn't pan out.

Chapters:

As noted, this story would definitely be delving into some of Wednesday & to a lesser extent Bianca's more toxic defense mechanism and general attitudes.

Be they born from being indulged by her parents but socially isolated in Wednesday. Or traumatized by her mother and adopting an extremely toxic self image in Bianca.

Enid will be contextualized below:

Chapter 1:

When encountering Enid for the first time, both register they are soulmates. Desperate to avoid her parents cooing, Wednesday is quick to evacuate the situation and Enid surprisingly enables her.

Through the tour, Enid is much more indulgent of Wednesday and generally open even revealing her issues with transforming. She in essence pulls her rib cage open so Wednesday can see her heart.

Wednesday uses this as a chance to stomp on it.

Partially because of her complexes regarding emotions but also because she thinks Enid is just 'that way; because of the Soul Mark and she just wants her gone and so is generally the worst.

Enid puts up with it until the next morning, where she gently confronts Wednesday and Wednesday keeps trying to antagonize her:

"I really wanted you to feel welcome and safe, to make the feeling the mark is meant to give real. & now… That first day and night will always be how we met. (Deep breath) You didn't want I offered, and fair enough, but-"

"Are your ears as broken as your transformation pick it u-"

Enid literally tackles her to the floor, nearly breaks her wrists and snarls against her throat.

"I have spent my entire life pouring love and dedication down a bottomless pit. I will not do it again. You don't want me? Fine! But I am not your servant, not your friend and not your family. Never demand anything of me again you spoiled brat!"

Then she gets up and walks to class like nothing happened.

Wednesday lies on the floor for awhile longer processing:

1: She drastically misread Enid's personality. 2: She just got physically outdone by a peer for the first time ever. 3: Evidently the soul mark did not make Enid a simpering wreck. 4: For the first time in years, Wednesday felt a spike of fear.

Chapter 2:

Displeased by all that, Wednesday wants to get back on the horse so to speak and restore some of her damaged confidence and also figure out how the hell that happened.

Mostly cos it runs contrary to how she thinks soulmates work despite she herself not following the 'rules' of soulmates.

She & Bianca have their encounter and there is not even any speaking. Both register the other as their soulmate and draw swords and it is on sight, because both of them would rather an enemy that let someone in close.

Wednesday still loses so she's still not having a great time. Especially as it turns out Enid is more interested in chatting up a vampire than her or Bianca!

Enid is not outright blanking her, or hating her, but just treating her like any other student she happened to share a room with.

Wednesday would find cloying affection smothering but not unexpected and she would find hatred acceptable.

But it turns out just being kind of dismissed, really gets under her skin. So she storms off, meets Xavier, is generally caustic ETC.

After the Gargoyle incident Enid did show some concern but very generalized, "We're both Outcasts & you are a person who almost died?" and then gets distracted and spends the rest of the night chatting with Thing.

Wednesday's music garners no real reaction from Enid, though we see Bianca having a not emotionally fun time of it in her room because of it.

After that when they go to be, Enid even says, "Night Wednesday." But that's also its, it's so dismissive, it's so... casual.

Wednesday was not built for casualness.

Wednesday was built for soul crushing devotion be it hatred or love!

Chapter 3:

Because of these elements she does not have Enid's help trying to get out of Nevermore. As a result she may actually turn to Bianca because "We both want me gone, help me make it happen." Which may even cut Tyler out for a bit.

Still, the two otherwise remain in their ongoing "We will be eternal enemies/I will ensure you never get close" stalemate. Its not healthy but both deem it acceptable.

Meanwhile Enid begins to fixate on Enid either in her first session or a later one, talks to Kinbott solely cos she wants an outsider perspective on Soul Marks and obsession.

We learn about her ties to Uraih's heap and that soul mark obsession is just down to obsessive people.

IE, Wednesday is obsessing because she's prone to such behavior and because Enid dismantling and then dismissing her is a huge blow to self identity. Wednesday is used to being rejected, or hated, or feared and even adored without resveration from her family.

She is not used to being looked at like a spoiled teen and summarily dismissed as unimportant and it makes her feel like Enid is 'winning' some kind of contest she's not even playing but Bianca is.

Chapter 4:

Wednesday & Larissa do get that hot choc, & Wednesday does fix the machine & Tyler says he owes her. Later, when drinking, Tyler interrupts claiming Thornhill called and could not get through on her mobile.

Its a brief distraction but it lets Wednesday scribble a note demanding his number and she gets in on the receipt and organizes her extraction.

Cue the festival a brief interaction where Enid warns her of Tyler's hate crimes.

Wednesday tries to ply it into being about her rather than Outcast solidarity but is shrugged off as Enid goes off with Yoko, leaving her in a bad mood.

Yes Wednesday is still jealous of Yoko, she cannot escape it XD

Kinbott is there and chatting with Larissa but not enough to distract her.

Then Wednesday blocks two darts flying at her head and one ends up in her hand.

Bianca shouts "Rowan!" Who takes off running and is followed by Wednesday into the forest.

His ambush doesn't work though cos Bianca was after him to and she knows he is a telekinetic. So she manages to knock him out with a drug and steal the book. Bianca likely knows she has it but won't cause a scene around the sheriff.

Gaplin tries to shoot her but is stopped by Weems and Kinbolt makes sure Rowan is alive before practically shouting the man down and then helps carry Rowan back to Nevermore while Weems rounds up all her students.

Wednesday wants Bianca to use her siren song to make him talk which makes her livid and Kinbolt has to intervene a bit and also reveals its not useful for that as the subject just says what the person wants to hear in their own head not their own mind.

After that, Enid arrives.

Turns out Thing fell out of Wednesday's pocket and she was so pissed off she sort of forgot him in the chase.

So, Thing is sulking & Wednesday is initially more interested in trying to get info on Rowan and or proving a point to Enid to acknowledge it so they clamber back over to Enid to sulk and they go off with Yoko to do their nails.

Though not before revealing Rowan was "More like a normie than Kinbolt."

IE, he did not like other outcasts besides his fellow psychics.

Basically a more extreme version of Xavier's distrust and contempt for Bianca and Sirens in general.

Enid: (Puts Thing in her hand) Rowan was always like, 'Oh you may be outcasts (Sneers) But I am the only Outcaaast! (Falls back and it caught by Yoko. They then put an equally dramatic Thing back on her shoulder and leave.)

Wednesday and Bianca are shooed out while Weems and Kinbolt try to get Rowan to talk (Gaplin is being yelled at by the mayor for almost killing a 15 year old)

She & Bianca likely have a tense stand off regarding the book Rowan stole but Bianca needs to keep her secrets and despite being presumably able to Siren Song Wednesday into giving it to her does not. Instead promising to collect it with her scaled hands later, before ominously vanishing through a secret passageway.

Wednesday returns to her dorm room to find it empty.

Her victory over Rowan, briefly a restorative of confidence now tastes like ashes, the book seems useless, Bianca refused to fight and Enid is still vexing her mind.

She shatters the window, as loudly as possible.

Enid comes racing up and Wednesday antagonizes her and Enid's claws and fangs come out and she's barely held back by Yoko and Thing. But more by the arrival of Thornhill making them all have a "Sleep over" with Yoko cos its dangerous to be in a room with so much broken glass.

The three mostly ignore Wednesday and go on about their nails and let Enid vent about the window, but it never ties back to soulmates, or romance, or anything Wednesday wants it too and they eventually go to sleep, with Thing giving her a judgmental vibe lecture while safety out of reach.

Back to square one, incredibly frustrated!

Notes:

As noted, this story is kind of exploring Wednesday at her most intensely bratty, but I think the window would be the farthest it would go so after that there is nowhere to go but up.

Ya know, maybe.

But she & Bianca still have a lot of issues to work through and if either of them ever want anything more than a superficial understanding of Enid she will need to overcome her distrust.

It will likely be revealed in the Rowan bit that Xavier lied to Bianca about not having a soulmate when trying to become her boyfriend. This also comes up in the herbology class when he tries to flirt with Wednesday and fails hard.

Chapter 5:

I think Wednesday may actually, after a point call her mother and kinda low key ask if she's spoiled and or being childish.

"Your father and I wanted you to have every freedom, every opportunity to explore your passions as you pleased. We have always been astounded by you, but... Perhaps in doing so we did not impart to you some key lessons."

"You think I am broken. The-"

"NEVER. A child cannot be wrong or broken or unwanted in anyway. All this is is that your father and I expected your to enter a contest without imparting to you the rules, you are not at fault for anything."

She later asks Wednesday for a favor.

"You are doing very poorly at imposing limits, mother."

She wants Wednesday to tell Weems she and Kinbolt will have a lovely tea together in her office.

Cos of the attack, Wednesday has another appointment with Kingbolt earlier and imparts the message to her instead and claims its the Weathervane to try and see if she can influence visions. She doesn't get to know if she can.

Also Rowan is taken off campus by his father so he lives but Wednesday gets no more answers from him.

Final Notes:

But yeah that's about where I am with it.

But I wanted to explore the idea of soul bonds but with the romantic angle being entirely socially engineered. Pus other aspects for the casts as you may have noticed :3c

Oh, also Bianca is more shocked by Thing than Kinbolt, a hint that she is from a background that isolated her from the Outcast community compared to Enid or Yoko who are just sorta like, "Weird but neat" and "My sire has a haunted samurai mask that constantly yells at us. Thing is way more polite."

#wednesday netflix #wednesday series #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #bianca barclay #Wenclair #Goth Bees #Enid/Wednesday/Bianca

[gold-rhine]

electro is such a polarizing element bc how different the vibes are. like boys are always furry short king hyperfixated on found family and strong sense of right and wrong, but the girlies are all wlw and either the absolute chad badasses like Kuki and Beidou or the most cringefail toxic girlbosses like raiden and yae.

i haven’t formulated the electro visions meta yet, but i believe that electro is about creating your own world that goes against the society or even the reality and fighting for it. electro are often loners like cryo, but cryo believe they are isolated by something inherent that they can’t change, electro isolate by choice IF they choose to

and i think the difference between cool and cringefail electro are in that decision, to isolate bc you believe in the superiority of your ~eternity~ and that others just won’t get it. like beidou was ostracized as an unlucky orphan by the people she grew up with and she said no thanks, i wont play this role, imma be a sexy pirate and a legend moster slayer. kuki was supposed to become a shrine maiden and she was like no thanks i don’t want to spend my life sitting under a tree and being manipulated by a pink furry, imma self-actualize as a lawyer and join a community who will love and support me no matter what i choose to become, even if this group is seen as not respectable by other ppl. like they both went with their own vision of the world even if it meant leaving all they knew behind, but they didn’t close off and they now have a lot of friends and ppl who love them

but like no one ostracized rauden, she decided to close herself in a room herself. she decided that the rest of the world has nothing to offer her but decay. sure, she was grieving, but beidou suffered much more and didn’t become a solipsist like raiden. and yae’s story quest is like “sad that so few youkai left:( the magic world is leaving:(” when yae is fucking ostracizing or directly trying to harm the lives of every yokai she meets, like sara, ittto, harassing gorou. girlboss is herself the main contributor to her isolation, there are magic beings all around inazuma, she just pushes them away

fischl is kiinda in danger of becoming cringefail girlboss, but she has friends who are both willing to roleplay with her, but also keep her in check by reminding her she’s being cringe, so i think she’ll turn out fine.

sara doesn’t count, she is actually a chad badass who was indoctrinated as a child into following cringefail girlbosses and i can fix her

#rhine talks

[writing-good-vibes]

you're awful, i love you

corey and michael have a toxic and problematic relationship? no way! but their toxic ways aren't as clean cut as you might expect. the question is: who is really in control?

WARNINGS for corey cunningham x michael myers, age difference (not specified but inherent), smut, unsafe kink practices (safeword? what's a safeword?), murder, domestic violence (up for interpretation), dubious consent (with suggestions of other consent issues), an implied abusive relationship and a brief reference to child abuse. tagged heavily for safety. dead dove; do not eat.

taglist: @slutforstabbings @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (if anyone else wants to be tagged in corey related things, just let me know !! or if you don't want to be tagged anymore, that's okay too, just let me know !!)

Corey never says no.

Doing as he’s told is easy. It’s safe. He’s been doing it for as long as he can remember, being good and obedient and unresisting. Sit, stay, behave.

There’s a hand around his throat, crushing and cold, and Corey stops kicking a lot sooner than he would like to admit. Hollow, black eyes bore into his and it hurts. Hurts deep down in his chest and he can feel himself falling, staring straight back into those unforgiving eyes and Corey wants so badly to say no, to make it stop, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

He doesn’t realise that Michael – and that was Michael, wasn’t it? – has let him go until the fresh air almost winds him and the stark morning light burns his eyes.

As he crawls through the scrub, covered in filth, he ignores the ache in the pit of his stomach. He’s had better mornings. He’s had worse ones too.

Corey is covered in blood and not all of it is his.

The corpses, propped neatly in the corner, never saw it coming. How could they? Sound asleep in their motel room; silly them, forgetting to lock the door. The handle was cold in Corey’s grip, he twists it, slowly, listening for movement inside but hearing nothing but their steady, sleeping breaths.

Michael has this down to a fine art, and who is Corey to stop him? No, Corey hasn’t been able to stop Michael, even if he’d wanted too, since that very first time he looked into Michael’s unforgiving eyes.

Corey watches Michael’s knife sink into hot flesh, blood spilling thickly onto the rumpled sheets, and he’s jealous. Fuck, he’s jealous. Because there’s blood on his face and the walls and all over the sheets, and Corey can see Michael’s growing arousal as he draws the knife back, before plunging it in again. Controlled and primal all at once, the way Michael unleashes himself on them. And oh god, Corey wants that, he wants to let Michael tear him apart like that, wants to be at his mercy, wants to be the thing that makes Michael hard and throbbing beneath his clothes. He wants, he wants, he wants.

The blood-soaked sheets dry slowly, sticking to Corey where he’s bent over the end of the bed.

Michael isn’t nice to him, but Corey tells himself he likes it that way. Love and violence always come hand-in-hand, don't they? Michael is rough and fast and unstoppable. Controlled and primal all at once, the way Michael's bloodlust always finds it's way to Corey, willing and waiting to receive it. Corey is just like any other body for Michael to split open with his violence – with his knife, or his cock, or his bare fucking hands – but doing it this way means he can do it over and over again.

Corey is covered in blood and some of it is his. He’s dripping with it, down his thighs and his face, tasting like pennies in his mouth. Corey should know better by now, should know that nothing can stop Michael when he’s riled up, when there’s nothing and no one left to satiate him any other way. Corey bites down on his lip again, breath hitching with every thrust but it’s too big, too fast, too rough for him to even try and brace himself. He wants it so badly that it feels like the most awful betrayal when all he can think about is how much it hurts.

Through gritted teeth, Corey gasps, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” when he comes. Michael grunts, low and hoarse in his throat. Stoic. Or curious. He’s curious, watching Corey feel something he himself has never felt before. Studying the way Corey’s face scrunches, how he whines and pants. Observing how Corey’s shaking hand grips his half-hard cock while he rides out Michael’s violence. Sit, stay, surrender.

In truth, Michael had never touched Corey with anything other than violence, but Corey doesn’t know that. Or maybe he does, and he simply chooses to forgive, because he just doesn’t know any better.

(Violence, violence, violence...)

When it’s over, Corey rolls onto his back, sore and sticky and silent.

They’re not fucking anymore, they’re fighting. And somehow Corey still gets weak-kneed for a hand that feels like home around his throat.

Corey had pushed too far, said the wrong thing, fucked up in some way he could never of predicted. There’s a hand around his throat, heavy and hot. He scrabbles at Michael desperately, short nails digging into weathered skin as Corey tries to pry him off. Just like our first time, Corey thinks, only he tells himself that he can’t quite remember it.

The walls in this place are thin, and their neighbour from the room next door bangs hard, twice, for them to keep it down. Corey can’t help the way his legs kick, the scuff marks his boots leave behind when his feet catch the wood-panelled walls.

A knee lands in Michael's gut, and a sickening second goes by while he processes the blow. Corey's eyes are still wide and wet, but his lip twitches into an almost-smirk.

Underhanded, perhaps, but Corey always fights a little dirty. It's his one defence against Michael's inordinate, brutish strength; a knee in the gut, a bite deep enough to draw blood, a half-hearted gouge at a milky-blind eye, a sharp kick to the knee as he scrambles back, the frantic groping at a rotting latex face.

Corey drops into a heap on the musty carpet, throat burning as he sucks in a breath. Michael stands there, staring, with cruel black eyes. Sit, stay, obey.

Michael doesn’t usually hit him – just chokes and grabs and manhandles – and for that Corey is grateful. It would remind him far too much of Momma.

Doing what he’s told is safe. But it’s even safer to do it before he’s told. Show Michael how good he is for him – how good and obedient and unresisting – before he can even decide that Corey might have been bad at all. And Corey is good, which is probably why he’s always owing so many favours.

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

It was already late when they crossed the state line into New York hours ago, and the next motel they find will definitely have their names on it. But Corey’s starving – he’s always starving – and Michael stops at the Wendy’s drive-thru when Corey asks.

“Please, Michael. I’ll do you a favour?”

They’re driving through Oregon and Corey wants to go camping. At the next general store they pass, they load up on supplies – food, water, maps, sleeping bags – and head off the road into the forest. The night sky is so clear it’s almost scary how many stares watch them as they lie in the bed of the truck.

“I’ll do whatever you want, anything you want.”

Some half-drunk asshole in Nebraska picks a fight with Corey, over something or nothing, while he’s smoking outside a bar. Corey holds his ground, bracing himself against each shove before the guy gets bored and lets his grudge go, but not before spitting at Corey’s feet and ambling off into the night. Later, Corey watches the blood pool at the drunk's feet as Michael draws his knife back.

The only light in their motel room comes from the TV set, out-dated by about 20 years and hanging on just barely to a signal from the crooked aerial. It’s better that way – so no one can see what they do in the dark.

“You want me to do you that favour?” Corey always asks, as though Michael might answer. He pouts, lips parted just slightly, as he looks up at the older man from down on his knees. On his knees like he’s bringing offerings to an altar. And he is, in a way. Offering up his goodness, his obedience, and praying that it’s enough. Enough for what? Sit, stay, beg.

Michael stays still, watching carefully as Corey moves slowly, hesitant in the same way he was when they had come across a deer walking down an empty highway. Corey had made them stop, hopping out of the truck, holding an upturned hand out to the creature. Corey, who had barely so much as petted a dog before, oh so gently led the deer off the road, into the flanking forests. Corey undoes Michael’s fly.

Michael never says no.

#corey cunningham #corey cunningham x michael myers #cunningmyers #🔪🎃 happy ends anniversary 🎃🔪 #dubious consent but from who? that is the question. #everyone thank blake for putting the camping trip idea in my brain !! ⛺

[opinated-user]

See but this is why I'm worried about some of the things Courtney has been posting(you probably know what I mean) because of fucking course LO will use that to her advantage. And it doesn't help that voicing those kinds of thoughts cross a hard line for most people.

I won't stop supporting Courtney because whatever disturbing or impulsive thing she says sometimes, it is nowhere near close to even the least of the disturbing things LO said and/or actually DID. I will also never say he's "just as bad now" for something that looks like going through a moment right now. Even if I strongly object to that.

mmmm. i feel like if your biggest issue with Courtney expressing that kind of sentiment is that LO will later use it as ammo, then you probably weren't paying that much attention. before Courtney said anything, LO always painted her as an abusive monster. when Courtney started speaking up, LO threw every ableist insult his way that she could think of. before P&Z ever revealed themselves to be toxic abusers, LO was still saying horrible things about both of them. EOT did nothing that you could seriously hold against her, nothing beyond disagreeing with her content, takes or approach, and yet LO still called her a TERF. Morals was one of the kindest and charitable critics that LO ever had and yet LO still said that they gave off "school shooter vibes." she said that we want to SA her. she accuses every unhinged anon that she writes herself of being Brittany. she accused Brittany of grooming minors using her name, right after insisting that she has only adults on her audience. the moment anyone says anything against her, they're bad and that's it. it doesn't matter who they actually are, did, think or post about, because for LO, being against her is inherently evil and so they are. there's nothing on this earth that Courtney could say or do that would make her any less evil in the narrative of LO or in front of her fans. the only thing would probably be apologize for buying that lock to her room and assure LO that she "deserved better", like how she wrote CLO apologizing to G for mentally raping her, something that is never going to happen nor should.

if you disagree with those sentiments on a fundamental level that's valid, i understand. but let's not pretend like LO ever needed a real reason to treat Courtney like the ultimate monster she needs it to be. if Courtney never said anything questionable ever, LO would just make it up, just like she fully made up for months that EOT was a TERF.

LO has never worked with logic or reason.

#lily orchard

[maestriovermind]

wit's end

cw: vent/rant post, uses very aggressive language throughout

this is really not meant to be read by anyone but it doesn't do me any good if it's not available for people to see so just move along, especially if you're emotionally vulnerable to things like anger

people who immediately ghost/block when you do something they don't like or something they find socially unacceptable are extremely untrustworthy and honestly I don't even know the words to describe it but they, like, want to foster an environment wherein they remove people they don't like (for whatever reason) and discard them like trash, which is, I can't believe I have to say it, TOXIC BEHAVIOR.

Self care is important! I will concede that much. And everyone has different needs, and some people cannot afford the spoons to deal with conflict. I know I almost have or just have a breakdown every time I'm faced with someone who disagrees with me.

But you know what's also important? Empathy? You dumb fuck?

Why do you think this person behaves the way they do?

"because they're inherently horrible?" are you really that stupid?

People are inherently good. Everyone has the capacity to learn.

Read it again. Yeah. That last line.

"Oh but some people are less intelligent" Fuck you? Intelligence is measured by the ability to apply knowledge and draw inferences/comparisons, NOT the ability to learn new information, you complete and utter dumbass.

Assuming that someone "is just like that" and "can't be changed" shows that you have no understanding of how people work, you blithering imbecile.

Anyone can learn how to be a better person. And you know what happens when you punish a person for being bad instead of trying to teach them how to be better? Yeah. They keep being bad. You literally improve nothing. It's like stuffing things in your closet when you clean your room. It may not be your problem for the moment, but it's going to be an issue for somebody else, because you were too much of a self-centered prick to do anything about it.

This is me, teaching you, to not be a horrible person. So pass it along, dipshit.

And sorry for being mean, I guess. I hate having to deal with people who continue perpetuating problems through predictive repetition of behaviors that they think are acceptable. So stop the cycle. Please?

-

After writing all this, I would like to address that if you actively try to help someone see that what they are doing is bad, and they refuse to change, then you're probably not equipped to help them. Changing the way people think is not something everyone can do! And if they're harassing you, and not listening to you, that's what the block button is for. But reflexively blocking without even trying? Disgusting.

Be better.

#very angry post #vent post #rant post #rant

[misty-caligula]

More disorganised s2e7 thoughts part 2

Continuing with the strong theme of “These women are all the same, deep down” having Misty making jokes to Shauna about how easily she kills and unintentionally offending her as she struggles with her strong desire not to kill the goat, next to Shauna calling Misty a serial killer and her whole spiral about it, contrasted with teen!Misty’s complete breakdown about the baby, Kristen and Coach, desperate not to have more blood on her hands, vs Shauna handling her grief through beating Lott to pieces, therapy through getting blood on her hands. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a show do something quite like this before, especially with a character like Misty. Not quite a redemption arc, not quite a forgiveness, just... an empathy arc.

---

Shauna confirming that her unwillingness to connect to Callie comes down to a fear of losing her, a struggle to invest in people who may be taken away again, like Jackie, like the baby. Was pretty sure this was the case, especially after s2e6′s line ‘You try not to love them but of course you do.” Poor woman’s heart has been broken too much, and she just can’t handle it happening again, even at the cost of her own happiness and the love of her own family.

---

Misty’s so used to manipulating people, so used to getting what she needs with violence and threats. From the first minutes with Coach she’s pushing him away when she wants to be closer, her ruses and traps are obvious and toxic. She sees him try to kill himself and uses every tactic she can think of to stop him, and nothing works.

(sidenote: EVERYONE sees Misty as a vicious heartless killer, from adult!Shauna to the girls in the wilderness who assume she killed Kristen, to Coach who genuinely thinks that she can just push him off the ledge. No wonder so many in the fandom seem to as well.)

But what actually stops Coach, what pulls him back is a genuine display of her heart, a moment of that true connection that she so struggles to make. She actually opens herself up and even in his intensely stressed out state he can’t bring himself to hurt her like that. SO curious to see how their dynamic changes. Also incredibly surprised to see him survive the episode.

---

While they were at the compound hanging out and Misty tries to ask a question about the first summer and gets immediately shut down as being inherently inappropriate. Then Nat follows up with her own question, same topic, and is taken seriously. Sometimes I wonder how much Misty really can’t read the room, and how much it is just that the others are biased against her particularly and her way of communicating.

---

Tai just CAN’T stop being the one in charge, she immediately tries to solve Van’s unsolvable problem with some expert she knows, because of course HER doctor’s going to be better than anyone Van’s seen, is going to be a miracle worker, because she wants it to be that way. And the way that Van immediately shuts her down like, she’s mad but not at all surprised, she’s just exhausted and so used to it. There’s no point in pointing it out to Tai because it won’t help, and there’s no point arguing, she’s resigned and she doesn’t have time to waste on gordian knots anymore.

---

When Lott’s trying to get them to leave to protect them, Nat says “come on, Lottie, we’re ALL here.”

There are 8 council members. Did all 8 make it back? Is there someone they think is dead, but isn’t? Am I reading too much into this?? Who knows...

#yellowjackets #spoilers

[4acesofspades]

One of my favorite things about the show Emergency! is how it handles platonic male love. 

Today we live in a world of toxic masculinity where every inkling of affection is a sign of weakness, asking for help makes you a liability, and if you can’t do it all there’s something inherently wrong with you. 

But Emergency! doesn’t work like that.  It makes room for its characters to love each other (and show affection) platonically and openly.  And it puts characters in situations where they have to ask for help or risk horrible consequences.  

 Now, obviously these characters rescue people for a living.  It’s their job to take care of other people.  But they also take care of their own.  

When Johnny gets bit by a snake and Captain Stanley barks at the guys to get down there and they do, without hesitation; or when Johnny’s inside the burning building and Roy feels the rope go taught and breaks protocol to go in after him; or even when it’s Roy’s tonsils growing back and Johnny pesters him into going to get checked out- all of this amounts to our boys caring for each other very, very much.  

(Which is, I think, what makes Johnny ouchies so wonderful.  Because if Johnny was alone, or didn’t have a team that loved him like a kid brother, or he had to pull himself out of all of these ridiculous situations, it would just be sad and a little pathetic.)

And this goes along with asking for help, too.  In today’s culture of masculinity, you can’t ask for help or there’s something wrong with you.  (It’s true for women, too, of course, but in different circumstances)  And the guys at the station simply don’t buy into that.  Now whether that’s because that mentality didn’t exist in the 70s or because it’s just that good of a show is beyond my current research, but its important nonetheless.  Not one of those guys is going to risk their lives, their buddies lives, or the life of a patient to try and “tough it out” at a rescue.  In the episode where Johnny gets a little high from the pot truck (which was hysterical), as soon as he realized he wasn’t feeling good, he stepped out.  Of course he’s going to do anything he can for the victims, but he’s not going to endanger them by working incapacitated.  

In a sense, maybe it’s easier for them to ask for help because they do have that bond with each other.  They have that easy, open affection with each other (even if affection often looks like practical jokes) that our culture has all but suffocated.  

Now, this all isn’t to say that the boys are running around the station writing love sonnets to each other or anything.  This is still the 70s, and decorum is required.  But it’s handled with tact, rather than trying to romanticize, fetishize, or otherwise pervert relationships between men that are already underrepresented, under-experienced, and misunderstood.  The guys pretend they’re worried about having to break in a new recruit when they’re really worried about losing their buddy.  They make jokes about “someone’s got to look after you” or “I liked you better when you were comatose” (yes I know that was Brackett lol) But at the end of the day, they all understand that they have each other’s backs.  Nothing more. Nothing less.   

And that’s what’s so important about this show, and what’s missing from so many others. 

#Emergency! #emergency! 1972 #johnny gage #roy desoto #emergency tv

[andtheghost]

01/11/24 - Disappointed Idealist

I quit a what most people would consider a good job back in 2022. Higher than average pay, guaranteed vacation, a 401k. There were a lot of things happening at the time, but the breaking point was when I had spent the entire twelve hours killing myself trying to keep up with a machine because no one was willing to shut it off to fix it. Downtime means no production. No production is bad. Can you keep up with the work a machine can produce? No, but I don’t give a fuck what your fragile little human body is capable of doing, do it anyway because my numbers are worth more to me than you.

And FINALLY the machine broke down on its own. And after a whole day of constant alarms going off and panicked running back and forth and watching as the product came out at a pace I knew I could never possibly keep up with, everything was quiet, and nothing was moving, and I looked around for the first time in almost twelve hours. Bins everywhere, overflowing with product that was going to need to be fed through by hand. Hours of time that literally nothing got done, because THE MACHINE CAN NOT BE TURNED OFF!!!!!!!! THERE AREN’T ENOUGH EXCLAMATION POINTS IN THE WORLD TO PROPERLY EMPHASIZE HOW IMPORTANT THIS POINT IS!!!!!!!!!

If you die on this floor, so be it. But your coworkers are going to have to work twice as hard now to make up for the production time we lost because of your death. We’ll give a speech about how sad your passing was even though I’ll have to look at my cue cards to remember you even had a name, and mention what a valuable asset you were to the company, but never mention how much of your life you missed in the process.

I ran into the clean room and had a panic attack.

And decided at that moment that I was done. I was never going to be a THING for some corporate fucking piece of shit because I am worth so much more than that. Everyone is, but somehow we all kind of forget that, don’t we?

But I can’t forget it anymore. I had another job briefly later that year, but I felt like the worst kind of traitor the whole time. Fucking liar. The anxiety was constant and, eventually, unbearable.

I haven’t had a job since August of 2022. I would rather slowly bleed the system than prop it up, but I don’t want to do that, either. It’s not really DOING something. Its like passively standing by glaring as the CEO parade comes by with their smiles and their floats and their confetti because they know my existence has no effect on them. A single cog worked its way out of the machine, and there are millions waiting in line to take its place. It’s not helping the system, but it’s not hurting it, either. I want to rip it to unrecognizable shreds with my fucking teeth and set it on fire.

And maybe there’s a third option, but I’m not sure what it is or how to access it, if it does exist.

But the reality is that until someone finds that third option, I would rather drain it than prop it up. There are a lot of people who won’t like that idea, myself included, but I’m just being honest.

That might make me selfish. It’s okay, I am selfish. Humans are inherently selfish animals. They’re also inherently loving animals, but it’s a lot easier to focus on that part than admit the other, and in turn we create a toxic existence where a whole part of our very nature is evil and wrong.

I realized I’m not a pessimist, and I don’t hate people. I’m an idealist. I can see how much better everything could be, for everyone, and I see most people actively working against it, and I can’t read minds. I don’t know if they actually believe they’re doing something good or if they’re just trying to make themselves feel better because they think there’s nothing they can do. I certainly don’t know if I’m doing something good. George Carlin said:

“Inside every cynical person is a disappointed idealist.”

I don’t know if that’s true of every cynical person, but I know it’s true for me.

#andtheghost #text #personal #spilled thoughts #blog #diaryposting #capitalism #work

[eavanyhuang]

Deadlock

It feels like a deadlock, the hermetically sealed individuality does nothing but creates messy self-imploding balloons whose pieces spread out across the earth. Plastic bags buried in soil and found in turtle stomach in the deep ocean. We are nauseous at each other’s jokes, and at each other, at ourselves. Unwashed face, unbrushed teeth, dirty laundry, and messy dark room. They call this depressive episode, I call this temporal-stuckness. Everything seems wrong and not worth pursuing. The self is this disgusting giant poop that has been pooped on. Piles and piles of documents become thousands of erasure poems lying on the floor. Craziness does not heal the world, it is at best a symptom that needs to be let out and released into the air. I saw a flying drone travelling across Southern California, with its little flashy camera. I wish it takes my eyes with it, put them on the wings. I wish I can fly into the milk way. There shining stars sleep next to me with ancestral wisdom stored in their light. I need no compass to navigate emptiness. “I smiled at the illusion of my grief-containment system: there is no such thing. We spill over into the world and the world spills over into us.” Beautiful words put together into sentences in Braiding Sweetgrass, sentences that make perfect sense to me but perhaps of no use to the world as we know it. How do you abolish a world that gives birth to you, nurtures you, and raises you into who you are? We are hospicing our toxic mother. She refuses to die. She climbs up the mountain at the age of 95, seeking validation of her vitality and immortality. Please die, mom, you cry. She looks at you like you are the crazy one. And you are feeling crazy. Everyone loves their mom don’t they. Love means not letting go, means holding on to the thing that merges into your being. Love is no boundary and complete interdependency. This love we all know too well. “I wish we are in the position to call a general strike. But midterm strike means many of the workers will lose their jobs,” said our beloved union brothers. Stuckness.

In hope of grounding myself beyond the modern-colonial two-sided coin of sanity-madness, I go back to the Gesturing Towards Decolonial Futures Collective for pedagogical practices. With the notes they provided, I will create a set of reflections to document what works in each of the directions they seek to reorient the readers toward. There is no inherent structure or rigid streamline in this compass, I will just operationalize this by improvisation. This will start from 1:00 PM today and end at 4:00 pm, lasting for three hours in total. What I will do is document a brief reflection at the beginning and end of each hour, for each of the four directions named here. By the end of the day I will write down a brief summary and overview of what this exercise teaches me throughout the day.

[Hours Later] Okay, as expected, it wasn’t a super successful practice. I suspect that there is something inherently unproductive about the question ”what works”, along with the meditative experiment that started and ended with individual reflections. Most of what I jotted down were things I wanted to fix within myself. Things that I dislike and wanted to cleanse from my body. It might be a good reminder that these practices take time, a long time, not just one day of retreat. Maybe I have done enough, maybe I can grant that permission. Maybe tomorrow I will carry on with more sobriety, maturity, discernment, and responsibility. Maybe it is time to just close my eyes, do nothing, laugh at all of these, and just like my grandma, throw a chair at whatever piss me off and forget about it.

#organizing

[allwaysnighthere]

I'm feeling more at ease (mentally, anyways) and I can make peace. The more I write, the more I mull things over, the more I talk, the closer I get to the realization that there is a future.

I don't want to spend the rest of my days dwelling on the past. I've been holding onto anger and despair for too long, like long enough that there hasn't been much room to invite positivity and love. I never believed I was deserving of anyone's faith, appreciation, respect, love, anything remotely positive. Only hatred, loathing, abuse, and anger.

If someone could abuse me to the point of being an empty shell and toss me away as if my quality of life meant absolutely nothing, that meant I had no inherent right to exist and thrive in the same world as other people. Young me reasoned that I must have deserved the treatment I was given. I didn't know what it was that I did to deserve to be abused, only that I must be naturally worthless regardless of what anyone else would say. I never believed them. Their reasoning didn't make any sense to me and they were only saying it to get close to me to cause pain.

But I do have worth. I deserve to be here, to exist, take up space, and experience life as much as anyone else. I did not deserve what happened to me and as much as I wish it didn't happen so I could have had a stable childhood, it did. There's a lot that happened that I could not control. I still grieve for young me because she always believed everything that happened was squarely on her. The guilt was hers to carry, and I think once there was no justice handed down to my abuser, younger me ultimately let go of any string of belief that she mattered to anyone. Outside of the way I was treated at the hell house for several years, it was a massive rejection to my personhood and destroyed any hope I had of seeing my abuser be held accountable for laying waste to my life.

It changed my world view. I couldn't see anything good in the world anymore. It was infuriating and heartbreaking. It was unfair that someone who was a monster behind closed doors was given a pass to continue hurting others.

I pushed people away. If they were getting too close to me, I decided that was dangerous because the more they knew, the more they could hurt me when they inevitably left. So I forced them away. I found any little sign I could to indicate they obviously hated me and they were on their way out, and then I would cut them out first. I didn't believe it would hurt them because they didn't like me anyways, so why would they feel any hurt or regret? Turns out, that's one hell of a way to make both of us hurt because not all people want to be close to hurt us. They want to be close because they genuinely care. If they didn't care, they wouldn't bother (at least in most cases). What a toxic shithead I've been.

I'll reiterate again that there is no simply locking those memories away in a box and forgetting about it. It's like a sickness that doesn't ever really go away, and requires acquiring new resources to manage it, or else it seeps out in other ways that causes harm to those around you. Or to yourself. Well... I'm learning now. I hate that it took a catastrophe to open my eyes to how unresolved all of this has been and how I've taken it out on others, except maybe that's what had to happen. I've managed to repair some bridges and accept that some never will be fixed. Only time's going to tell. I've done what I can and I forgive myself for making mistakes; I now need to focus on acting with purpose to change my toxic behavior.

The silver lining in all of this is that I've strengthened some bonds with people who have been extremely supportive. I love and appreciate them so much. I've started limiting the information I share to only include folks I know genuinely care about supporting my recovery. There's still a long way to go, but I'm looking forward to continuing the journey.

#30 #recovery is possible #trauma recovery #it's going to get better #moving forward #cw abuse