#undeliberate

[twoglhddqj]

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[anteomnia]

just endlessly thinking about blue eye samurai.

thinking about how akemi, taigen, and mizu are if a coin had three sides or maybe just the two and mizu is the bridge of metal between them.

akemi being the ideal image for women, for the life they endure. she was simultaneously a princess, a prostitute, and a prisoner. her entire life was men making decisions for her, even the ones that had good intentions, and she believed her deepest desire was freedom. it still is, but she has been revealed to this heinous predicament of her gender, and she’s realized that to reach true freedom as a woman is to be the bird in the cage, to play nice and to earn the love of a man until he buys her a bigger cage and a bigger cage until he trusts her not to fly away. and it'll never be true freedom, but it will come with power. it'll come with the freedom of only one master rather than many.

taigen being the ideal image of a man. not all powerful, but not weak. he had a taste of what it'd be to succeed, and when it was taken from him, that easy success, he mistook it for his honor. he hunted mizu down to kill him, and instead he saved him. he saved him and saved him and he came closer to killing mizu when they were on the cliff's edge, and just when he gets to the point where he may actually fight mizu, he's tortured for information on him. he is tortured. Literally tortured within an inch of his life, enduring such a heinous violence, and he refuses to break. this man was a fight, was the torturer, and the victim of his torturing could've been his salvation from pain but he refused. mizu gave back taigen's honor but not by fighting him.

akemi wanted freedom and learned she would need power to have it.

taigen wanted power and learned that the violence that came with it was infinite and dishonorable.

and then there's mizu. mizu who wants revenge, wants acceptance. arguably the same things as them both. mizu wants acceptance, the freedom of living and the freedom to love and be loved. mizu wants revenge, which follows after violence and power, to get said acceptance. she thinks she must do both, have both, to live peacefully, and she's blatant about how she will not live without either.

she's given acceptance with the blacksmith, her "mother," her husband, but she sees the flecks of avoidance in it.

the blacksmith will not hear of her true gender. her "mother" will not acknowledge the crime of her birth. her husband can't find tolerance for the violence within her, the man of her.

and so she has to balance the woman and man of her, the ronin and the bride. taigen and akemi. and it's meeting mizu that they start to unravel their own identities.

mizu, who is both, and akemi and taigen who thought themselves one but turned out to be neither.

god.

#complexities #and comparisons #i think they are so much more than what i’ve said but just #the cinematography #and the metaphors #the underlying theme of birds #blue eye samurai #the poetry that you are #it feels like every scene was specifically crafted #like they did not make one undeliberate mark #like it all has meaning #i’m insane #mizu #taigen #akemi #mizu x akemi x taigen #the ronin and the bride

[cyberdragoninfinity]

[spoilers for nope (2022) ahead]

it’s been a couple days since we saw Nope and Oh My God I Cannot Stop Thinking About Jean Jacket. it’s a ufo. it’s an alien. it’s a force of nature. it’s an animal. a wild animal. a hungry, territorial, untameable predator. it’s a spectacle. an object of attention, obsession. an exploited show pony. a must-see event. with its gigantic screen-shaped eye it in itself IS a horror movie, a theater of billowing, constricting curtains and played back screams. it’s the viewed. it’s the Viewers. it’s the lens of the camera watching, capturing the image, of a black man on a horse. it’s an eye. it’s a mouth. it’s both, good god, it’s both. it ravenously consumes all who looks upon it and all it looks upon in return. it’s the perfect kind of movie monster that we as an audience are so horrified to look at, but the monster, in so many ways, is also us. it’s just us. we’re looking at a reflection, and it startles us, scares us. just like lucky at the beginning of the movie.

and it’s just fantastic.

#nope #nope movie #nope 2022 #it's very late and i need to go to bed but i also needed to ramble about JJ because im just entranced by it. the whole movie tbh #the way peele does nothing undeliberately. the way jupe calls JJ 'the viewers.' the way it's a fucking screen!!!!! #it's something we watch but also something watching us. the film and the camera. a window and a mirror #but at the same time it's something Perfectly Knowable. it's an animal! with animal instincts! #just the sheer amount of layers and themes and meanings flying around in this movie are going to make me crazy. i love it so much!! #i love media with many different themes at play!!! i love a good monster movie!!!! NOPE MAN FUCKING NOPE!!!!!! #GO SEE IT!!!!!

[jhze7mjdhrfmv]

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#self-changed #hippocampine #acataleptic #ACU #sixty-seven #quaketail #packed-up #loord #ungravitating #churls #midlines #hungrify #undeliberating #sonnetization #Glumiflorae #boodie #Irene #punky #thornbush #unperfectively

[wb7ykfq08gy]

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#janet #febricitation #world-resented #Prenter #undeliberately #irrision #beflagged #Kephallenia #slumberless #reprograming #plum-shaped #nftart #co-religionist #Trochaic #playland #self-consumption #3rdlife #Andi #rectal #Slavonian

[oldshowbiz]

To the public Red Skelton was the God and country comedian. He recorded a best-selling version of the Pledge of Allegiance and told reporters that he read the bible every night before going to bed. His friends and colleagues say it was just an act to ingratiate himself to the public.

Television producer George Schlatter worked on The Judy Garland Show at CBS Television City, just one soundstage over from The Red Skelton Show. Schlatter says, “Red Skelton was a phony with all his God bullshit. He ended every show saying, ‘God Bless.’ Then you realize that his dress rehearsal was the filthiest event in town. They did the dirtiest dress rehearsal and then he would go on and do this, ‘God Bless,’ and the country and the flag and all this shit. He was a dirty old man.”

According to the FBI, Skelton possessed one of the largest collections of pornography in Hollywood. A Bureau memo from the 1940s said that “during the course of an investigation of a purported ring of obscene motion picture operators in Hollywood, information was received that the best known customers for obscene film in Hollywood were Red Skelton, Lou Costello, and George Raft.”

The contradiction between his public front and his personal life was the stuff of tabloid legend.

“Red’s constant drinking when he had his CBS radio show was the whisper of the microphone colony,” reported the trashy magazine Confidential. “Often his hands would be shaking so badly he could hardly get into his clothes to begin the show.” The tabloid claimed Skelton regularly “terrifies wife and kids with loaded pistols.”

Skelton was often criticized for laughing at his own jokes or breaking up in the middle of a scene. It was an ancient stage trick. Skelton knew that if you lost it on camera, it often made the audience laugh harder. It was a gimmick despised by fellow comedians who saw right through it.

“Dreadful,” said Stan Laurel of Laurel and Hardy fame. “Just dreadful. I love his talent but I hate … when he does that deliberate and undeliberate breaking up. In my opinion this is the worst possible thing any comedian can do – the worst. And he even lets some of his untalented guests do it. Dreadful.”

Many viewers felt the same. Patty Valentine of Cincinnati wrote, “There is only one person laughing at him and that is himself. He thinks he is funny but no one else does.”

By 1964 the program hadn’t changed much since its first episode back in 1950. The show got strong ratings, but the demographics were far too old for the sponsor’s liking. In an attempt to court the youth market, Van Bernard Productions, Skelton’s production company, negotiated an exclusive deal with Sir Lew Grade in the UK to provide British Invasion rock groups for the show. Changing its name to The Red Skelton Hour, the program presented The Kinks singing “Got Love If You Want It,” Manfred Mann doing “Do Wah Diddy Diddy,” The Hollies performing “Look Through Any Window,” and The Animals playing “We Gotta Get Out of This Place.”

Skelton introduced many British Invasion groups to Middle America for the very first time. But he promised his elderly demographic that he didn’t fully approve, always cracking jokes about their hair and fashion sense.

#red skelton

[isaut]

𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 (autumn, day 1)— f!reader x chrollo lucilfer. 3.3k/57k. ao3

i said i wouldn't post any of ten million jenny on this blog, but i can't help but be extremely pleased with this chapter. you probably need to read the rest of the fic to understand this ♡ reader is part of the dead dad club, there's dancing, builds off this fic and this one too. oysters are paired with beer. read notes from the underground here.

Standing in front of your mirror, you take in your figure. Head cocked to the side, hair shifting. Only in fitted trousers and a bra. Your fingers ghost over your stomach, over where weeks ago you’d been fatally wounded. Not at any fault of yours. Now, not even a physical scar remains. Instead, your fingers drift over smooth, falsely touched skin. 

Your blouse hangs on the doorframe behind you. Time is ticking. There’s somewhere you need to be– It’s important to your psyche. Your concealer is sinking into your skin. But you can’t pull your gaze away from the clear patch of skin that should be marred by a deep, embowling scar. 

“Darling?” Kuroro calls from the bedroom door. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, caught off guard by his presence. “Are you ready to get going?” 

“Almost,” You reply, “I’m just finishing up. Could you get me a glass of water?” 

“Of course,” Kuroro replies, and pads off. 

You turn your attention back to your stomach— fascinated by your reflection in an unfamiliar way. Your gut churns out of anxiety. You wonder if she churns because she remembers being on the exterior of your body. 

“Water for you,” Kuroro calls again from the bedroom door. 

You leave the bathroom to take it from him. He doesn’t follow you into the echoing tiled room anymore. Not even to hold your hair back while you vomit— He's always bringing you a trash bin to empty your stomach in. You’ve vomited often recently. Unfortunately. Undeliberately. Unattractively. 

You don’t know why you still worry about your appearance.

Kuroro is dressed for the cooling weather. Trousers and a turtleneck, tattoo covered by dark fabric. His fingers slide against yours as you take the glass from him. 

“I’m almost done getting ready,” You say. “I’ll be ready to go soon.” 

“Take you time.” Kuroro’s words kiss your forehead. “I’ll drive us in.” 

You don’t want to argue about parking, but you equally don’t want to argue about how you’re getting to work. You simply don’t want to argue. 

The leaves have yet to begin falling. They hang to branches, still green from the summertime and rustle in the cooling winds. The courtyard of your university is barren. Students aren’t back yet, and professors are squirreled away in their offices doing last minute preparations. You stand outside the building that houses both your office and classes, an unlit cigarette in your hand. Your work bag is slung over Kuroro’s shoulder, and shifts as he leans into your space to light your cigarette. His frame blocks the wind from whispering to you, and you find solace in the ashen smoke that fills your lungs instead. 

“I would have loved to take classes here,” Kuroro comments casually. 

You turn your head to blow smoke away from the two of you. “I think it would piss you off.” 

“Do you?” You can imagine his eyebrow raising. 

“Mhm. You’d argue all your grades.” 

“You think that little of me?”

“You argue my students grades with me,” You reply. “I can only imagine what you’d do as a student.” Late nights. Wine glasses. Glasses perched on your nose. Watching Kuroro expectantly as he reads over the essay you’d handed him in frustration. 

“I see it as more of a debate,” Kuroro replies, brushing off the comment. He lets his gaze linger over you. “Are you excited to be back?” 

You do. The normalcy of it all is a welcome gift after everything you’ve been through. It feels like a warm heating pad applied to horrible cramps. Just enough to wean the pain. You take a deep breath of the chilling air, letting your cigarette dangle between your fingers. 

“How much longer will I get to keep doing it?” You ask. 

“It’s never my intention to strip you of the things you love,” Kuroro says. He rests his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Maybe when we’re done here we can go get dinner and drinks at the jazz club.” 

The idea is tempting. You think it over through another inhale. “Is anyone performing tonight?” 

“I’ll investigate,” Kuroro says. 

You take one last breath of the smoke, before dropping the butt to the ground and rubbing the box of your heeled shoe into it, firmly extinguishing the cigarette. “Let’s see how I feel when I get done here.” 

“Of course.” 

Kuroro holds the door open for you, after you swipe your card against the reader. It’s so new, so electronic, that it stands out like a sore thumb against the gothic architecture of your building. There’s the old smell in the walls still, and the stairs still creak beneath your weight as you climb them. 

There are a few papers in the wooden box attached to your door. You unlock the ancient, heavy door, the lock stuck from disuse over the summer, and it swings open. 

Relief washes over you as you realize everything is the same. 

Plucking the papers up, you walk into the office and immediately crack open the windows. A refreshing breeze passes through the stiff air. You sit at your desk, leaning back in your chair and closing your eyes. There are birds singing outside. Kuroro’s footsteps are silent as he crosses the room to your bookshelf, plucking one down at random. 

He lets out a soft sigh as he sits, spreading his legs and making himself comfortable. 

You crack open an eye to look at him. “Do you plan on simply following me around from now on?” 

“You’ve never had a problem with it before, darling,” Kuroro replies, opening the book to its first page. It’s an old teaching copy of Hamlet, with hefty footnotes and bound in red. The cover sleeve has long since been lost. You gaze at it with some consideration. 

“Context has changed,” You decide on. 

“You’ve been made aware of the full context.” 

Sighing, you right yourself. Pull yourself towards your desk. Power on your computer. 

You hate how light your fingers feel as they tear across your keyboard. There should be a new ring on your left hand. There should be different memories in your mind. 

Once upon a time, you were a regular at the jazz club. You used to lie to yourself and pretend you liked Old Fashioneds, when really all you cared about was the music and the atmosphere. You used to sit by yourself at a dimly lit table after a long week of classes and treat yourself to a few hours of mindlessness. 

Kuroro opens the door for you, and it feels like it did years ago. A little younger, the same sparkle in his eye. It had felt like you were sharing such a secret back then, letting him into your life like this. 

The atmosphere is just as sacred, just as clasping as it had been that same night. You can feel the itch on Kuroro’s mind to rest his hand on your lower back. 

“Take a seat, and I’ll grab us drinks. What do you want?” Kuroro asks, too close to your ear. 

“A mojito,” You reply. 

The two of you peel in different directions. You, towards a familiar table with a candle in the middle of it. Him, towards the bar. 

From the seat, you watch the band on stage set up. Music still plays through the speakers, easing through the atmosphere. You roll your shoulders back and try to relax into the dark room. 

Kuroro places your drink on the table before you see him, startling you out of your lack of concentration. He slides into the seat across from you, taking a delicate sip of his drink. An old fashioned. 

Sitting with Kuroro is pleasant, with something else to focus on. The club owners must have hired a new jazz singer, as you don’t recognize her. She’s young, with lipstick on her teeth. You wonder if she’s young enough that you’ll see her in a week, sitting in one of your classes. 

Kuroro perks up at a familiar melody. “Dance with me.” 

Turning your head from the entertainment, you feel resentment and want pump through your heart. 

“For old times sake,” Kuroro urges, or, dare you say, pleads. 

You take a sip of your mojito. You’re almost positive Kuroro slid the bartender a few bills to ensure your drink was stiffed of most liquor. Sensing your hesitation, Kuroro reaches his hand across the table and lightly rests it on yours. There’s a knowing look in his eyes. 

The lights are directed at the band, so the only heat comes from your bodies. Kuroro’s hand is warm in yours. An older woman, who definitely thinks she’s being quiet, swoons as you pass her, being led to the dance floor. 

It’s been a long time since you and Kuroro have danced. Weeks, even. Summer ended with no late nights dancing to accordions along the river. Unlike last year. And the year before that. 

Kuroro takes one of your hands in his, the other resting at your lower back. You rest your hand on his shoulder in turn. He steps forward and pulls you close in one fluid movement. You tense, taking a deep breath. 

It was the closest you’d been in weeks. Amber, vanilla and Egyptian jasmine fill your senses. 

The man who stabbed you did not smell like this, your brain reminds you. 

“We’re going to trip,” Kuroro murmurs against the shell of your ear. His foot taps against yours. 

Your senses chase the familiar cologne, and you take another breath, letting yourself relax into Kuroro’s hold. 

It’s like riding a bike. You remember where Kuroro is going to move, remember that he’s going to guide you. Memories of trying to learn how to dance flash through your mind– Kuroro’s apartment, newly invited over. Dressed in a satin button down of his, him in the matching satin sleep pants. Nothing but blossoming romance. 

“What are you thinking about?” Kuroro murmurs. His hand slides lower, over to your hip to brace you before he indulges you in a shallow dip. 

“Us learning to dance,” You murmur back, “And about your cologne.” 

Fond memories come to Kuroro’s mind, and he smiles softly. “We have such a good time together.” 

You must agree. “We do. We did.” 

Kuroro makes a pitiful wounded sound in the back of his throat. “Think in the present, darling.” 

“I am,” You say. 

Displeased with your response, Kuroro dips you once more. You gasp and grab the back of his neck, shooting him a look. 

He gives you a devilishly charming half smile. 

“Are you having fun?” 

“I am, in fact,” Kuroro replies. “I’m in a jazz bar, dancing with the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

Not an object, you tsk at him. Reflexively. 

“Apologies,” Kuroro amends, “The best person who has ever graced her presence in my life.” 

You don’t move your hand from the back of his neck. “That’s better.” 

Over Kuroro’s shoulder, you can see a woman watching you. She’s older, with a two piece outfit and gaudy jewelry. She’s watching the two of you with hearts in her eyes, a certain desire for what you have. To an outsider it must look quite nice– Two attractive young people dancing at 7 o’clock in the evening just because they can. 

If only she knew whose hands rested upon you. 

Would she still swoon? Would she still wish her husband would get off his ass and bring her out on the dance floor as well? Would she still look upon Kuroro with desire? 

The last thought causes jealousy to sink her claws into your core, which unfairly feels warm. 

“Ease up your grip, darling,” Kuroro murmurs against the shell of your ear. 

Immediately you relax your hand, not having realized how tight your grip had become. 

You can feel Kuroro smile. “Did you see our admirer?” 

“She isn’t admiring me.” 

“No?” Kuroro’s pinkie finger dips below the waistband of your trousers for a moment. “I am.” 

You hum, casting your gaze down to your feet, watching as you move with Kuroro, almost subconsciously. You flick your eyes upwards, to meet Kuroro’s burning gaze. “You are?” 

“I’m never not.” 

“Double negatives confuse me.” 

“I’m always admiring you.” 

Warmth floods your face. 

Kuroro takes a breath, exhaling slowly. 

“What is it?” You ask. 

“It would be foolish of me to share,” Kuroro says, shaking his head slightly. 

“You love telling me things.” 

“I do,” Kuroro smiles just a bit at that. When he speaks, his breath mingles with yours. “I was thinking about how badly I want to kiss you right now.” 

“That is foolish,” You confirm. You get another wave of amber. Your words are caught on an exhale. “Be a fool.” 

“What’s changed?” Kuroro asks, curiosity coming before desire. 

You swallow. “I’ve enjoyed today.” He has you lean against him, before returning back to the somewhat simple step you’d fallen into. “I’ve been reminded of a few things.” 

“Old times?” 

“Old times.” 

Kuroro doesn’t know when the next time is he’ll be able to press his lips against yours. There’s a firm understanding he must make this one count, must make this one better than anything penned on paper. 

Old times would have this be the final straw, the moment where it’s time to leave. You’d be in some slinky number and he’d be down to his buttoned shirt, which has the top buttons loosened on it. The both of you donning a sheen of sweat, sore feet. 

So, for old times sake, Kuroro grants you one final dip, lowering himself with you. He captures your lips in a kiss, pulling you back up with your lips still locked. He tastes like smoked bourbon and oranges, bitter and sweet. 

You pull away, slow as you can. It feels sinful to take such solace in a kiss. 

“Let’s get out of here,” You suggest. The room suddenly feels far too hot, as if summer’s lingering heat had consolidated within the club. You can feel eyes on you, which isn’t as pleasing sober as it is drunk. 

“Of course, darling,” Kuroro says, a soft smile on his face. He wraps his arm around your waist. “Do you want to pick up food on the way home?” 

Your fingers dance along your bottom lip. For old times sake…

It’s oysters on the balcony. A decadent treat from the restaurant across the street. The moon is rising, you’re smiling, enjoying the mood you’ve been set in. Kuroro’s dusted off the record player for the occasion— He’s placed Dvorak’s Serenade for Strings upon the turning plate. The gentle instruments wash over you. 

It was the first concert you went to together, had shyly held hands and pretended not to care as you asked him to come up for drinks. 

The evening, it’s charming, you can’t deny that. With how the time has passed, you half expect Kuroro to begin reciting poetry to you. 

Kuroro takes in your appearance. The way the night’s lights caress your skin, the way you effortlessly slide another bite of oyster into your mouth and set the shell down with a tink. Instead of your trousers, you’re dressed in pyjamas, with freshly washed skin. He can smell the roses, cucumber and shea butter combination in the cooling air. 

He poses a question. A safe one, one that he's posed a million times before. One that’s gotten him as close to you as he is now. 

“Have you read any good books recently?” 

You glance over at him, then shift your body towards him. Indulge him in familiar conversation. “I reread Notes from the Underground,” You say. 

Kuroro’s brows raise. He matches you, turning his pyjama-clad body towards you. It’s like riding a bike, it’s like dancing, talking to you about Dostoevsky. Over beer, over oysters, in the newly-autumn air. 

“You always said it was one of your favorites,” You continue, closing your eyes. “I’ve always been fascinated by it, but I can see why it would resonate so deeply with you.” 

Kuroro sits quietly and listens. You flutter your lashes open. “You’re just not spiteful.” 

“No?” 

You sigh. “It was… It didn’t make me feel good that I resonated with the Underground Man.”

“You resonated with him?” Kuroro inquires, head tilting in interest. 

“I don’t know how to describe it… But I think I finally understand the spite of Fydor’s work. I’ve done so much… Research on it, so I logically understood why his protagonists carried that tone but… Now I get it.” 

“Are you spiteful?” Kuroro asks. 

You swallow thickly. “I keep… Thinking. About how you just…” You sigh. “Jesus fuck, I have no clue.” 

Kuroro can’t help the chuckle that reaches his lips. You pick up your beer bottle and take a pull from it. 

“When he talks about romantics,” You say, setting your bottle back down on the table. Glass clatters softly against mosaic. “About the difference between a Russian romantic and a German romantic and a French romantic.” 

Kuroro hums. “Hmm… something about understanding everything, seeing everything far more clearly than positive, practical minds?” 

You shake your head and stand. “I’ll be right back.” 

“I’ll be right here,” Kuroro replies easily, leaning forward to pick up his own beer. He exhales into the night sky. Regret invades his senses.

You come back moments later, flipping through a hand-sized, weathered copy of Notes from the Underground, filled with tabs and annotations. Kuroro knows this copy well, he remembers the first time he found it in your office, how he had devoured all your comments, all the parts you called attention to for your own sake and your students. 

Finding the page you were looking for, you clear your throat as you sit back down. “He’s a man of breadth and scope, our romantic, and the greatest fraud of all our frauds.” You close the book and set it on the table. “It has new meaning to me now.” 

“Ah,” Kuroro says. “Doesn’t he frown upon the romantics?” ‘

“I think he hates himself for being a romantic.” 

Kuroro laces his fingers together, looking away from you off to the skyline. “I think being a romantic, whether it’s Russian, or German, or French, is a double edged sword. If I was a pragmatic man, I wouldn’t have made the choices that I have. But… I think there’s a certain human aspect to being a romantic. It’s in our nature… The Underground Man might despise the fact that he shares traits with the romantics, but he is driven to express himself romantically. Not in the romance sense–” 

“But in the literary sense,” You finish for him. 

Kuroro smiles softly, smiles wistfully. “Exactly.” 

“I agree,” You admit. “I keep having the same spurts of… What does he call it… these lofty spurts where I think about us. And today… Today I realized that nothing’s changed. Everything has changed but nothing has.” 

A beat of silence passes. 

“I think the Underground Man desires to express himself romantically too,” You whisper. “Because he’s human.” 

Kuroro thinks about all the people he knows, everyone he’s come into contact with. About the relationships he’s seen blossom, about the relationships he’s cut short. 

“Do you think he’s ashamed of it?” 

Kuroro glances over at you. “Of viewing the world through a romantic lens?”

You nod. 

Kuroro takes a deep breath. You look beautiful, half illuminated by the warm lights of his apartment, half by the twinkling nightlife. “No,” Kuroro decides on. “I don’t think he is.”

You lick your lips, nodding again. “I think he’s annoyed he can’t stop seeing the world like that. And… I think that’s where I recognized myself.” 

Kuroro hopes, deep down, that you’re circumventing something he desperately wants you to tell him. He’s always admired your adoration towards the universe’s care– Or perhaps it was the guiding palm of your deceased father– that kept you upright. Perhaps this time, he’d be kept upright too. 

He doesn’t know how many more months he can lose, how many more can be shaved off his own lifespan.

#chrollo x reader #saintchrolloism #i feel like im gonna get my characterization of chrollo destroyed here #or my understanding of the underground man #i havent read the book in almost a year please cut me some slack #dead dad club slay #by ophelia

[solarcas]

url art challenge for @universalcas ❤🪐- although I'll admit I undeliberately turned him into a bit of a solar!cas too (but it's fine, he contains multitudes <3)

[Open for better quality!] + bonus glitter close-up:

#sorry for posting these so late <3 i hope you like him tho! #url art #cas #castiel #castiel fanart #universalcas #solar!cas #space #traditional art #watercolour #solar draws #spn #spn fanart #rambleoncas #emeraldcas #deancaskiss #castiellesbian #chapeldean #spxcekya #userda #userjactingjoices

[benjaminthewolf]

Daddy Dearest Lol

Welp, MondayNightMunchin' fans, come get y'all's' juice.

****

     The searing, rabid scrapings that the pursuing feline’s claws gave unto the blackening, moistened, crumbling topsoil whilst it maddeningly pursued your fragile form sent continuous reminder after continuous reminder of just what those same weapons were to do to you provided you did not stop your despairingly futile efforts of running tingling their way up from your legs all the way into your brain. 

     You had absolutely no idea whether you had previously passed that same patch of daisies at one point time or another, and yet you still knew with near declarative certainty that as long as the confines of this battleground, or more accurately, this current lack thereof, were relegated to the boundaries of this undoubtedly lavishly tended to garden, at least some form of the notion just had to be wholly, and unequivocally true.

     In complete and utter contrast, however, despite the wealth of context clues which were quite literally strewn before your minute form, you were still but entirely lost for a satisfactory answer as to who this garden belonged to. You knew that it had to belong to someone with either a requisite wealth of time, money, or passion that was naturally required in order to upkeep such a masterpiece, and considering that the size of the garden alone meant that it must necessarily either belong to a property that had ample amounts of space to begin with, or took up a large proportion of a smaller amount of property space by design, you felt therefore justified in ruling out the “time” option from the trio. 

     Of course, all of this analysis had merely come subconsciously, as you were still pretty much required in the moment to relegate all of your conscious ability to the single objective of surviving. The cat from which you were attempting to survive from couldn’t be factored in as a part of the equation, since it had initially chased you here from outside of the garden’s borders. So all your brain really needed to know about it was that it was brown. Stamping the petals and disgorging the roots of a multitude of innocent flowers as it went, the monomaniac, destruction-bearing cat barreled on. 

     Though the fact that your brain was sifting through its acquired visual details subconsciously did internally make sense, this only was the case because, as you had spent so long at the mercy of the quite literally higher-ups towering above your form, it thus became a necessity each time you ventured onto one’s property, to determine said owner’s alignment to your cause; that cause of course, being nothing more than survival. In this particular case, however, due to your inability to think consciously about the matter, this remaining question of alignment remained all but an enigma for now. And it was destined to stay that way, until the aforementioned stepped forth for themself.

     “HEY! STOP THAT!” a masculine voice cried out. “STUPID GODDAMN CAT, GET OUT OF MY FUCKING GARDEN!”

     Now that you knew that the owner’s words of anger were directed towards your pursuer and not yourself, you now felt comfortable enough to put your trust into this as of yet unseen figure, causing you to instantly swivel your head all around, seemingly in a full 360 degree fashion, in search of this figures’ great, firm, straightened legs. Upon finally locating them, you practically dart your way towards, before, undeliberately around it; as, despite the fact you had a bit of a fully clasping grip around the thing upon the end of your sprint towards its safety, the momentum within your body that had so vehemently bore itself forwards back during the heart of the chase, still yearned to be expressed. Thus, you are able to secure yourself behind its powerful form, as the accompanying half of the pair firmly halted the momentum of your pursuer, in an attempt to get the chaotic, crazed creature to leave. Although this was to be in the form of meeting the attacking animal with a subsequent attack of its own, still, the job had been accomplished, and thus, with one last bare spite in the form of a violent hiss, the feline made a swivel of its own, and, with a grumbling pout in its step, made it way back and finally over the fence.

     At last, the chase had been quelled, and you had now found an alliance ship that had, at the very least, lasted long enough to save your life. You weren’t entirely sure where the still unrevealed giant was to take said relationship from here. And yet, once the ominous figure bent over its spine in order to send an arm groping downwards to you, the decidedly non-threatening manner in which all five figures grasped your miniscule form gave you much hope towards that end. Slowly yet surely, both giant and tiny alike were hoisted up towards a level where the two could speak towards the differing other as an equal, where inevitably, the very first step of the matter would happen before each figure even knew it. Thus, upon the same subconscious processes that revealed to you much that was unspoken about this garden, much did it do the exact same with this giant. Simultaneously, however, it came without a single speck of doubt in that flow that the giant was experiencing this, too. Thus, as the single moment of reckoning drew at last into the present, there was only but a single mutual thought floating through each person’s independent mind; if only because it was, well, the only single thought that was floating through each of their own independent minds. And that thought was, as was destined to be expressed verbally, the simple, one-worded thought of absolutely nothing but: “YOU?”

     Yes, it was true. The two of you had met some time before. And the two of you knew it. Almost immediately, the circumstantially built up air of formality and seriousness that had been formerly hanging around the both of your heads instantly shattered at last, causing a mutual uproar of gregarious laughter to ring throughout that blackened night.

     “Geez, man, just how many times will my family end up saving your life in your, well…life?” Daddy Dearest chortled out in good spirits, as your near-instinctive, immediate response to the manner came in a simple shrug of your shoulders.

     “Who knows, man, it’s certainly not up to any of us!” thus seemed to be communicated in that same gesture. 

     Nobody, not the least the two of you, had any idea how long you spent within that howl of good mutuality, yet still, just as all things no doubt are, that moment did have to have an end to it eventually, and thus, Daddy Dearest spoke clearly once more.

     “Well…seems like that cat didn’t get to you. Unlike that car did the first time we met.”

     Allowing yourself to look back on that memory, the encompassing warmth of the internals that belonged to this same man’s wife brought upon you elation, and not only because said internals had been the sole cause of that day’s no doubt lucky survival.

     Daddy Dearest seems to recognize this, no doubt causing him to reflect upon that very same moment himself. Suddenly, a sparkle of enthusiasm appears to light up in his eye.

     “...you know…you know…” he begins attempting to say, before eventually comically giving up, with a bit of a chuckling snort. “Ah fuck it, you know what I’m thinking, I know what you’re thinking, why don’t we just get it going?”

     Similarly lighting up upon the famed giant’s swift proposal, the simple, yet all that was needed gesture coming in the form of a thumbs-up, finally caused Daddy Dearest to initiate the beginnings of the process. Opening up his hand so that you were now laying on your knees within his palm instead of being held up and grasped by the intricacies of his fingers, the rich and well renowned demon began to slowly bring his opened hand towards his face, before the tips of the flattened-out hand at last came into contact with the flesh upon the man’s chin. There would come to pass but a single second of waiting. And then, the gaping chamber was unveiled.

     Giddily clambering into said chamber using your hands and knees, you squish yourself onto the surface of Daddy Dearest’s tongue, getting your palms rather slimy in his saliva as a result. Soon, you have crawled all the way in, and the giant demon on the outside is able to cautiously close his maw as such.

     Casually sprawling yourself across the surface of his tongue, you begin to nuzzle your cheek up against the warm, slick muscle beneath you, whilst the top half of the region slowly curls over in order to flop itself onto your back. Promptly extending out your arms in order to better caress the floor beneath you, you are eventually able to feel your way towards the ends of the muscle’s width. Ultimately deciding to simply wrap the whole length of your limbs over the thing entirely in order to embrace its slickness further, the tongue naturally responds to this by lifting itself up slightly, whilst its tip begins slowly dragging itself over the back of your form in reciprocation upon your affectionate action.

     Snuggling up against the warm muscle for some time, you are at some point forced to open an eye if only as confirmation that everything was going as you presumed it. Upon opening said eye, however, your gaze is almost immediately graced with the downwards sloping, gaping, blackened route leading down into the demon’s gullet, accompanied by the swaying, plump uvula dangling just above the welcoming drop. 

     Realizing at last that it was time for the next step to commence, you gently let go of the tongue, and lay yourself against the sloping muscle, as if preparing to ride down its length head-first like a waterslide, and into the tunneling depths down below. The churning, goopy catch pool laying at the end of the trail was waiting for you, and you, fully and consciously, knew it. 

     Assisted along by the universal constant of gravity, you are able to feel the slide commence as you naturally start to pick up some speed. Gliding into the descent cleanly and effortlessly, Daddy Dearest on the outside is finally able to feel something lodging itself in his gullet. Swiftly tilting back his head, before placing a finger over the area, he is able to feel as a result the subsequent bulge squelching past the tiny region as the swallow finally commences. Able to feel your tiny form being squelched into his esophagus, now all but destined to land inside of his stomach, Daddy Dearest let out a euphoric sigh, with his arms dangling loosely at his sides, before bringing one up once more in order to follow you down for as long as he possibly could.

     Meanwhile, on the inside, the rhythmic, sensual squeezing shoving in and out from your body lends a gentle massage upon your being which you knew but implicitly absolutely no specific alternative force would never be able to match. It was downright bliss. Somewhere along in your journey, the deep, thumping heart rate echoing forth from the demon’s chest flooded into your ears, and you now knew as a result that you were extremely close to the giant’s stomach.

     Allowing yourself to soak in the sensory squeezings and ambiance for just about as long as you would physically remain within, at last, you pick up the gurgling, groaning, and growling emulating from deep within the shifting chamber below.

     Once your tiny body had made it to the lower esophageal sphincter, you let out a satisfied sigh as you are smoothly squeezed along through. Making a splash landing at long last, you are now fully ensconced within the audible symphony of sound, with the low voice, high voices, and baseline working in tandem for auditory pleasure.

     But auditory pleasure was not the only form of pleasure you would receive within the coveted chamber you lay in. Squishing yourself deep into the shifting, goopy, thick, slickened walls enclosing the organ, you allow your fatigued form to grow limp as you calmly subject yourself onto the gently rocking movements produced upon the pleasantly heated, toasty walls, and finally drift off as such. It had been quite an exhausting journey back there with that damned cat, and yet, it now seemed, that same exact chase was now destined to fade away into nothing more than a neutrally remembered event, as it was now utterly overshadowed by the marvelously, and effectively managed to soothe your being’s whole. Body and mind all alike, all of it still. Silently churning along the watery liquids, only betraying your life from the equally just as rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. Your body now subdued towards tranquility, all from the slick, lavishing organ ensconcing you, provided but fully from one who had once helped save your very life; that of course being, the one, the only, the devilish, Daddy Dearest.

#soft vore #safe vore #willing vore #willing prey #gt vore #g/t vore #pov vore #male pred #male predador #male vore #wholesome vore #extreme cuddling #endosoma #monday night munchin' #monday night munchin #v.ore #v/ore #v0r3 #v0re #vor3 #vore fic #monster pred #demons count as monsters in my book

[xarrixii]

Cinder_29 : "Strike" ━━━━━━━━━━━━━

CW: drinking, smoking previous chapter | beginning | masterlist

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ▼

Harlow yanked on Ainsley’s shirt collar, holding them back and receiving a searing glare for it, watching their fist clench. “We cannot go knocking everyone out. That ruins the point.”

“Why should I waste time delaying the inevitable? Everyone they put me with is always the same, including you. I’m not one of their trainers, this is real shit. It’s not sunshine and rainbows.”

He frowns in response.

Ainsley swats Harlow’s hand away. “If you have any other ideas besides coming with and fucking it up, be my guest. The longer we stand here the more suspicious we get.”

“Do you strive off being constantly paranoid?” Harlow drums his fingers against his lighter, leaning against the car they took facing away from the bowling alley.

“If you’re gonna stay here, my rules, alright?” Ainsley unclenches his fist, taking out a cigarette from a pack and lighting it with his thumb.

“Do your rules include trying to actually be stealthy about this?”

Ainsley grumbled, taking a moment with their smoking before tossing the still-burning cigarette to Harlow. “If it prevents you from ratting on me, fine.”

“Then what’s the plan?”

Swirling the drink in his hand, Harlow watched someone set a basket of seasoned fries in front of him from over his shoulder. With a muttered thanks, he set down the drink and almost instantly popped one into his mouth.

“You know,” the bartender said while wiping a glass clean, “If you wanted to fill your stomach before drinking, I’d recommend something heartier.”

“Trying to upsell me, are we?”

They smiled, setting the glass down and pouring someone else their next shots. “You the local fries taster then? Need the drink in case they taste worse than across the street?”

“You wish they were. Bet it’d make good money,” someone cut in after clapping their glass on the table. “Really, though. Mind sharing?”

Harlow shrugged, beginning to jog his foot on the stool. “Go on ahead.”

He watched the guy reach over and pop one of the fries into their own mouth. “First time in an alley bar? Just waiting on some friends to start bowling with or what?”

“Ooh, friends,” Harlow winced to himself. “Nah. Thought about celebrating my new place with myself by throwing a few down the lane, but by the time I walked down here I guess I was more into reminiscing on everything else. Then my good buddy said he’d be up to come down, so I’m just waiting.”

“That can’t be any good. You’re gonna need something a little stronger to wash away that kind of feeling.”

“What’d I say about harassing our customers?” The bartender strolled back around, refilling the guy’s shot, which they immediately downed.

“To stop.”

That elicited a low chuckle from Harlow, feeling the vibration of the phone resting in his back pocket. He chucked a few more fries into his mouth, drank a decent amount of the glass on the counter, and stood up, still bouncing his leg as undeliberately as possible. “Think you can watch the fries? I’ve gotta take a moment.”

“Not the drink?”

“Never been one for liquor anyway. All yours if you want it.”

“Why’d you order a drink, then?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve had one, tastebuds change. Guess the right ones haven’t yet.”

Harlow shrugged, backing off and listening to the sounds of pins crashing as he wrestled the phone from his pocket, feeling the controlled flame of the cigarette in another.

“Ainsley?”

“You’re still inside?”

“Yeah, I’m still in here. I can buy the lane now if you want.”

“Buy the lane? What the fuck are you⸺”

“Alright. I’ll get on it.” Harlow listens as Ainsley scuttles away in the above vent, shoving his phone away and going down to rent out a lane. He’s surprised with a playful arm around the neck, raising his arm and stealing the loaded USB stick Ainsley drops into his sleeve.

“You sure you’re up for this?”

“‘Course I’m up for bowling. Oh, go set up the screen and everything, I’ve gotta grab some fries I left at the bar.”

“Fries?”

Harlow looks into Ainsley’s baffled expression with a smile, stepping back over to the bar. He politely takes back his fries and returns.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ainsley hisses into his ear while stepping up to the platform, rolling the ball down the lane and hitting a few pins.

“Improvising. You were paranoid in the parking lot, imagine how paranoid Storm would be if some random dude just stood there for God knows how long.” Harlow replies back through gritted teeth, shoving a hand in his pocket while Ainsley throws the ball a second time.

He fiddles with the USB for a bit before it finally slots into the data reader.

“You⸺”

Harlow ignores him, grabbing his bowling ball from the rack and sending it down the lane for a strike.

By the time the basket of fries is emptied, Harlow had given the USB to Ainsley again with a pat on the back after a row of spares and they’d gone off to “the bathroom.”

Harlow was returning the two pairs of bowling clogs when Ainsley returned from the bathroom doors and ushered him outside into the car. Where Harlow promptly started breathing way faster.

“The plan was for you to stay put.”

“Wouldn’t have needed to do any acting if you’d remembered to wear the pants with our more casual uniform.” Harlow rummaged out his lighter and drummed his fingers against it.

“Do not fucking remind me.”

“You also could’ve, I don’t know, let me do it?”

“Something tells me you are used to being in charge, and that attitude has to change. I vaguely taught you how to knock someone out with fire, and now you think we’re buddies. We’re not. You’re just another Cinder operative who happens to be on Liam’s good side. Let me tell you, you’re not the only one.”

“Just ask to go on solo missions if you don’t like other people that much.”

Ainsley snarled, kicking the car into gear. “I’m not the one who breaks down when I summon fire.” Harlow frowns, forcing himself to wrap his drumming fingers around the still-lit cigarette in his pocket to smother it in the car’s ashtray. “Just drive us back.”

next chapter

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ▲ missing a content warning? let me know

this is where i'd say something funny... if i had something funny to say. anyways, new format, again. experimenting is really cool, also i finally got to use the divider bar i made a month ago lmao

#fiction #original story #original characters #magic #dystopian #fantasy #angst #i love it when characters argue #over the simplest of things #just like normal people

[cephalopodinspace]

"This sounds like it was written by AI" actually, the AI text sounds like it was written by us. Mimicry is its intended function. AI, much like humans, can produce language that sounds "normal" as well as language that sounds weird or incorrect, whether that's for deliberate reasons or undeliberate ones. The fact that AI can produce weird art does not mean that all weird art is AI-generated. The fact that AI can produce bad art does not mean that all bad art is AI-generated. The desire to avoid engaging with AI content is reasonable, but don't let it limit your understanding of the scope of human creative ability--and especially don't let it make you be rude to real human artists and writers whose creative processes and goals are not immediately obvious to you.

#ai #grousing

[amorphousprimordia]

I was gonna sing this and put it to misic and stuff, but I don't wanna, so without further ado, here's Love, Me Abnormally by Won't Wouldn't!

(Long post ahead)

In lipbalm on the window

Are the vowels to my birth certificate

In trochaic rhythm, ignored parameter

Crossed my T's, dot my eyes

I was delivered holding knifes,

I live undeliberately, I'm no quitter

And a loser anyway

Cause I completely agreed to participate in this game

Will follow my dreams

Yeah, they don't got me waking up screaming

I can't let them go from me

After all there's an "I" in enemies!

And I'd rather be abnormal. Yes, abnormal

I suggest that we keep this quite formal

Cause abnormal humans being would need

To pretend to be abnormal, be abnormal

Well I guess at the most I don't owe ya

To be abnormal in a way I could be

C'mon, c'mon, and love me abnormally

If I could live in first person

Well I do think life would be much better than it is

In the future tense, eventually

This sentence ending without question marks nor dot dot dot

It is courageous not escapist

To enter quarantine when you're noncontagious

It may not be a cold

And besides I just wanna get old, yeah

I drank myself to life to be the past death of the party

When the before party came, I wasn’t rolling in my grave

And I'd rather be abnormal. Yes, abnormal

I suggest that we keep this quite formal

Cause abnormal humans being wouldn need

To pretend to be abnormal be abnormal

Well I guess at the most I don't owe ya

To be abnormal in a way I could be

C'mon, c'mon, and love me abnormally

Now this is the part of the song where I hate to talk to my audience

I like to tell 'em there's nothing I want from you hep dogs today

I want you to look to your left, look to your right

Your nine o'clock, twelve o'clock, three o'clock, six o'clock, rock away from the clock tonight

And I want you to find those points of all return, those multilarities

Those freezing rings of ice in the disgusting pupils of the horrible eyes of the revolting

Girl, boy, both, neither, or in-between that you left behind tonight

And I don't want you to tell 'em how you really feel

I want you to tell 'em that you hate the way they unseamlessly, nightmare-illy

Not beautifully, Oh no dutifully

Jam that round peg in the square hole in their heart

I want you to tell 'em that you hate the way

That they stick out like fine middle fingers

That they crawl their way down the side of the bell curve

Leave their flag from the peak, and climb their way back up

I want you to tell them that you hate the way that they're so maladaptive

So malcontent, So malignant and maleficent, but rather that you hate them

Not in the way that nobody else is

I was everything before so I could have asked to be born

I'll be everything again, so what am I after now and then

Is there something to fear? Cause shit's staying weird

So to Devil who made this man, you better not have any plans

I'd rather be abnormal. Yes, abnormal

I suggest that we keep this quite formal

Cause abnormal humans being would need

To pretend to be abnormal to be abnormal

Well I guess that's the most that I don't owe ya

To be abnormal in a way I could be

C'mon, c'mon, no, please don't c'mon, no

C'mon, c'mon, no, please don't c'mon, no

C'mon, c'mon, and love me abnormall

#won't wouldn't #won't wouldn't and the ringworms #wwatrw #will wood #will wood and the tapeworms #wwattw #long post #if anyone wants to preform this be my guest

[thedailytao]

Passage 30

Those who lead people by following the Tao don’t use weapons to enforce their will. Using force always leads to unseen troubles.

In the places where armies march, thorns and briars bloom and grow. After armies take to war, bad years must always follow. The skillful commander strikes a decisive blow then stops. When victory is won over the enemy through war, it is not a thing of great pride. When the battle is over, arrogance is the new enemy. War can result when no other alternative is given, so the one who overcomes an enemy should not dominate them. The strong are always weakened with time.

This is not the way of the Tao. That which is not of the Tao will soon end.

Here begins a series of passages that provide a striking contrast to the Confucian-style The Art of War. The Tao te Ching, while it accepts the occasional necessity of war, is decidedly pacifist. For a philosophy that counsels inaction, indecision, quite consideration, passiveness, and moderation, war is the greatest of human misdeeds: a violently active venture which requires many quick, undeliberated decisions which have permanent, irreversible consequences. It is therefore something to be despised and ashamed of, even if it was necessary and your army won.

You can see why the Chinese emperors were not so hot on Taoism.

I think it’s interesting to contrast the pacifism of Taoism to pacifist communities in the Christian tradition. Christian pacifist churches, like the Quakers and Shakers, Mennonites, and other Anabaptists, tend to have a very absolutist take on pacifism: violence is never okay, ever, for any reason. The most moderate may say that it’s okay to do violence in self-defense, but still won’t participate in military service at all. This absolutism and extremism is quite characteristic of Christian theological practices.

Taoism, on the other hand, rarely speaks in absolutes. Everything is up for consideration, and no one can claim to speak to the right action for every situation. Therefore, we do see guidance on how to go about war, even as the book criticizes and warns against it: fight only when absolutely necessary, make your strategy to minimize the number of battles required, stop the moment you are able to, don’t dominate those you have defeated, and after you’ve won, look back on the violence you had to do and despise it. Be humble and regretful that it was necessary at all.

#the daily tao #taoism #tao te ching

[ithinkwehitametaphor]

Another day in paradise.

I don't know what to tell you about the mental health ward. It's decidedly unspectacular. Boring and calm. I get weirded out sometimes when the nurses do routine checks to see if the windows are still locked. Or when they give me my medication and so closely watch me take it. But that is it.

Everything here happens between 7 and 10 am. The rest of the day drips languidly like honey off a spoon and pools on the blue linoleum floor.

The madness gets bored to death in this place. Swatted with promethazine and sweept away by an endless string of routines. Same old, same old. Not unpleasant though.

Everything is sampled. Blood, urine, saliva. Everything is measured. Height, weight, blood pressure, sugar levels.

Nothing is random but everything feels undeliberate. Because I'm not the one with the chart and the schedule. I just float along.

#health updates #my poem

[aprilblossomgirl]

trying to write down my thoughts about my favorite show, pairing, character, or arc can be nerve wracking like i'm worried i would miss a point or undeliberately unsee something obvious and important or unknowingly hit some sensitive issues or that i couldn't manage to convey all my feelings into it which will cause some misunderstanding or a bitter feeling or just a simple "eehhh" and a future me will go about *exhale in an i'm-done mode*

#ok i'm overthinking but that's that #and then i remember it took me days to write a piece of blog posts of kimchay #and some additional days to finally feel comfortable to hit the post button #but then i was happy regardless #and that it doesn't mean i shouldn't do it again #all this just to gather myself to eventually hit that button #not my drama journal

[sepatudikaki]

You know what? For me personally, your words really matter. I undeliberately capture it, trapped within my mind and my heart.

It can cause trauma or boost my confidence.