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ifyouseekay468 · 4 years ago

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what do YOU personally think the teenagers (mcr) lyrics are about my friend ? like i keep thinking about them but im not sure im going somewhere

okay, ive answered this ask twice on mobile and each time my phone deleted it, so here I go, the FINAL version of this post

It's been a hot minute since I listened to teenagers so I decided to do a quick run-through of the lyrics, and while Gerard&Co were raised catholic the lyrics seem to REEK of protestant trauma, so that's what I'll be going off of, but I'm pretty sure the two denominations overlap here. The first verse is about kids in youth group, Christian GirlsTM especially, who are put there to pressure you into being "normal" into "cleaning you up with the lies in the book" (bible), although the pastor is the one giving the teaching THESE are the people who will get you to BELIEVE, who will get you to lie to yourself, who will get you to church camps that on some level utilize brainwashing techniques, and will DESTROY you with the idea that you're "Just one of them, and just need to change everything about yourself and fake your way through every last sermon to be just a part of the gang",

The part about sleeping with a gun and keeping an eye on you is about two things: one, about the idea that God can see all your thoughts, that THINKING about "sin" (ie; fantasizing about sex) is as bad as COMMITTING sin (which is fucked up entirely on its own because fantasy is SO FUCKING DIFFERENT FROM REALITY and that is a CRUCIAL aspect of sexual expression in order to safely engage in sex), AND the fact that these kids will pretend to be your friend, will prod you into doing things with them, into telling them things about yourself all the while making you feel like "part of the group" when really they're just blabbing either to religious leaders, or are ostracizing you and bullying you behind your back.

"The drugs never work"

This in my opinion points to the fact that this song is specifically about being QUEER in a christian culture. It is common for trans people to turn to drugs or psychedelics in an area that has little to no access to gender affirming care, or acceptance because they both change reality and disconnect one from the body that is causing their dysphoria. It can also help burn away the guilt, so to speak.

The methods of keeping you clean is about two things: one, about purity culture, no smoking, no drinking, no friends who drink, no sex, no porn, no masturbation, no impure thoughts. The second, is the way they're able to subtly manipulate you into hiding yourself, into lying to yourself, into forcing yourself to the point of death into being cishet. They're keeping you clean not just from the vices of addiction, but the vices of the flesh, the vice you can't escape because it's a part of you from the day youre born. On a darker note, this could also be referring to c*nversion th*rapy, given this second interpretation of the lyrics

"Ripping your head and aspirations to shreds," Is again about two things in my opinion: both the idea of "losing yourself to God's will" that usually leads one to losing their identity and getting depression and fucked up mental health, and the "shift" that happens at church when you reach a certain age. You know the kind, right? You're four years old, and church is FUN! You get to go to this big room and sing and dance on stage with all your friends! You get to play GAMES! You get to talk to the ~cool teenagers~ who are ~Just like you~ and ~think youre a "cool kid"~, you have ~best friends~ who will be with you like Jesus and the 12! but then, one day, something happens, something SHIFTS. maybe the Sunday school teacher leaves, maybe there's a new family at church, maybe the church changes buildings. Maybe none of that has to do with any of it, all you know is that now things are forever different. Church isn't fun anymore. The kids classes are repetitive, they're bribing you into memorizing bible verses with money, they DONT reward critical thinking or analysis, but they do call you smart, that's because they dont want SMART kids they want OBEDIANT ones. You have no choice but to stat going to REAL church. Suddenly, your best friends are not your best friends. Suddenly they're avoiding you. Suddenly they're lying to you. Suddenly you're too... well they don't know the word yet but "gay" for them...

"Teenagers scare the living shit out of me"

This is what youth group does to you, it isolates you from your entire generation because there are few people your age and a whole lot older than you, and everyone is so much DIFFERENT from you for some reason, but neither of you know why, not yet anyways. This makes you distance yourself from teenagers, because you can't SEE yourself as a teenager, because youre nothing like other teenagers.

"They could care less as long as someone will bleed,"

This is the martyr complex that permeates youth culture like the smell of wine, the problem? these kids love to make a show of themselves and their martyrdom, but they're unwilling to martyr themselves, so what do they do? They throw someone else to the wolves and take the glory. They ostracize and eliminate the unique in the name of preserving their faith. They convert and convert and god help anyone who doesn't want to convert.

"So darken your clothes and strike a violent pose"

This is about deconversion, how the moment you leave the church you never want to see another cross till the day you die, that you want to avoid christians of all costs because you don't want them To drag you back into the pit that devoured you. So you do anything and everything you can to make yourself repulsive to Christians, which actually coincides with your indulgence of mundane activities previously considered as "sin"

"Maybe they'll leave you alone but not me,"

There's a different between a cishet ex Christian and a queer ex christian, and that difference is that a cishet atheist is more likely to be left alone than a queer one, especially a queer one whose whole demeanor screams "Christians be gone," that shit is like... it summons christians faster than free winter jam tickets! They swarm to you frothing at the mouth with holy water waiting to either convert you or exorcise you into purity, depends on if you want them or not. Again, you don't even have to be OPENLY gay, they can TRACK this shit. it's like fucking... INSTINCT or something.

"The boys and girls in the clique, the awful names that they stick, you're never gonna fit in much kid,"

as alluded to above, this lyric is about how, even from a young age, BEFORE youth group, this toxic culture kind of develops. ESPECIALLY around christian girls. They don't have the vulgarity of slurs, but they can make up for it with slang like "tomboy" "nancyboy" "too boyish" "a sissy" "Weird" etc, youre NEVER going to fit in, because the moment that "shift", from fun games and songs to Real Church, occurs, you have a target on your back.

"But if youre troubled and hurt what you got under your shirt will make them pay for the things that they did,"

This is probably a gun. But that's a tad too boring for my taste. If you were raised protestant you KNOW that being an ex protestant, after the craziness of evangelicalism, you would not hesitate to burn down your old church. It could be a secret tattoo, top surgery scars, hell maybe even nipple clamps. Whatever it is, it's symbolic of revenge. I know that anytime I wore my labrys necklace to church I would always hide it under my shirt. I hid books and CDs under there too. Again, it's about revenge, it's about breaking free, gun or no gun, the point is getting out and getting back at them.

and thats pretty much my take on the song. Again, this is not about artist intent this is just what the lyrics reminded ME of personally (as you can see from the over biographical bullshit I wrote), I'm always open to contradicting interpretations though as I always have like 2+ interpretations of a song or book! I never really saw the song through the lens of youth group specifically but when I went over the lyrics again in retrospect it all seemed to really click (pun not intended) well! Thanks for the ask!

#anon #okay to rb #religious trauma #ex christian #religious trauma syndrome #ex baptist #ex protestat #apostate #MCR #mcr #my chem #my chemical romance #the black parade #welcome to the black parade #gerard way #ray toro #frank iero #Mikey way

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tigerdrop · 4 years ago

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Hfbbfbhbbbbff stumbles in here. Listen. Uhhhh hl gordo topping the absolute shit out of vr gordos like, fingers shoved in so far in his mouth and Benrey "accidentally" stumbling in to find them and just seeing vr gordos become such a fuckinf mess under hl gordo..... idk it's on the brain now thanks to you and honestly thank you very much

thank you very much for this fantastic idea i took it and ran way too far with it

vr gordon on his knees with a hand in his hair tilting his head back, hl gordon in the HEV suit with 3 fingers fucking his mouth so you know he got those gloves on, just looking him right in the eyes while he does it, vr gordons got his hands wrapped around hl gordons forearm and his thighs spread wide, hes fuckin droolin and flushed and moaning around hl gordons fingers

and then benrey walks in and vr gordon Flips and is like "mpphh mhmhpph" trying to get those fingers out of his mouth and be Normal but hl gordon just grabs his hair tighter and plunges them in deeper and turns to stare right at benrey. doesnt say anything. just gives him an intense, totally unreadable look

gordon getting cucked by hl gordon and not letting himself join in b/c he is emotionally and sexually repressed as all hell is great. but i think it would be really fucking good if hl gordon wordlessly invites benrey to join in. just jerks his head to the side like "get over here"

well, first benrey just stands there, eyes wide and surprised as all hell while vr gordon slaps at hl gordons arm until he takes those fingers out of his mouth. then he starts bitching like "fucking-- go away, benrey, wait a fucking minute here--" until hl gordon leans down and whispers something in his ear that benrey cant make out. but whatever it is, it has an Effect on vr gordon thats kind of like watching a glass of water be poured over his head - his mouth snaps shut, and his face turns a dark, dark red, and he swallows hard as he looks back at benrey. and then back to hl gordon. and then he says, real quiet, "uh. okay"

and then benrey gets another Look from hl gordon and hes like "uhhh. cool. yeah. this is cool" and steps into their circle like his legs are on autopilot cuz hes still like what is even going on, never fuckin seen freeman like that before, this is craaaazy ha ha

(like, okay, in this scenario hl gordon already fuckin knows that vr gordon is into benrey and hes just being a little emotionally-constipated bitch about it. thats the whole reason he nodded at benrey to let him join in anyway. so what hl gordon is whispering into his ear is something along the lines of, like, this is what he wanted to do anyway, right? hl gordon already knows. so why dont u be good for the both of them, gordon?)

then before he knows it, hes standing in front of vr gordon on his knees and casting a shadow over him and vr gordon is so fucking embarrassed right now. but, like, hl gordon wasnt wrong, and he really, really wants to be good for him. (and, you know, for benrey, but if he admits that to himself he might actually fucking die.) hes sweating as he looks up at the both of them, like, "uh, okay, hey. uh. what am i supposed to--"

hl gordon interrupts him by making a fucking obscene motion with his (still spit-slick) fingers, indicating that benrey should do what hl gordon was just doing a second ago. (please note: hes still got his other hand in vr gordons hair.) and benrey looks between the two of them with his hand raised halfway into the air, like, yo, is this cool? is this actually happening? hl gordon gestures at him like, go ahead, bro. and when his hand approaches vr gordons mouth and his fingers alight on his lip, that mouth parts just enough to let him in, even if vr gordons having a really goddamn hard time meeting his eyes.

and benrey slowly starts feelin him from the inside, feeling the slick surface of his tongue and teeth while hl gordon gives benrey encouraging gestures and shows him how best to do it. how to get vr gordon to whimper and drool around his fingers just like he was doing earlier. not that vr gordon needs much help getting there - the humiliation of copping to his feelings like this, on his knees and fellating his frenemys hand, combined with hl gordons fingers gently stroking and scratching his scalp and stroking his ear and jaw as if to say, youre doing good, is getting him 12 different kinds of Fucked Up. hes still too embarrassed by all this to really get back into Whoredon Freeman mode so easily, but the embarrassment is.......really fucking cute. its doing it for benrey. and soon enough, hes got 3 fingers in gordons mouth and is feeling those low noises gordons making just as much as hes hearing them

i just......i think hl gordon is neat......hes just......a really quiet guy that projects this air of almost total confidence just by virtue of not speaking that much (and therefore, never sticking his fucking foot in it) and talking with his hands comes a lot easier than speaking aloud.......and hes a nice guy who doesnt have a problem showing it when its necessary/appropriate but he doesnt abide bullshit b/c bullshit gets people killed, which vr gordon unfortunately has in spades........literally all just fucking made-up personality traits but i just see it very clearly in my head

in my mind he is the polar opposite of vr gordon. like. vr gordon is so desperate to maintain control over his peers and his environment and he mostly just......yells ineffectually and runs around like a big loud rooster trying to peck everybody into place. and clearly that shit dont work out too well for him. so in comparison hl gordon is just......effortlessly confident in what he does and how he acts and people are just naturally inclined to listen to him/take him seriously. or at least he appears that way on the outside - i imagine the guy still has some self esteem issues, both about himself as a person and in his own abilities to Do What Needs To Be Done. just.......being so quiet all the time projects that air

i also imagine that like......his smiles are a bit of a rare thing, too. especially for vr gordon, who spends most of the time rubbing him the wrong way. so when vr gordon does earn one of those smiles, or a thumbs up, or basically any kind of positive attention, it hits extra hard

still thinking about. hl gordon basically......teaching benrey how to fuck vr gordon. in so many words. starting with the fingers.....hes also quietly being encouraging towards benrey, too, communicating that hes doing good at this. (is hl gordon domming both of them at the same fucking time?? youre goddamn right he is.) and benreys tenting the absolute hell out of his slacks by the time hes got vr gordons hand wrapped around his wrist to keep him there, and by the time gordons whining around his fingers and spreading his legs open wider instinctually and jerking his hips a little against the arm hes got shoved down between em for just a little friction

and then hl gordon stops benrey and makes another obscene motion and-- oh. yeah, benrey would like to take care of his boner issue like that, thank you. benreys a little dumbfounded, like, "yo, uhhh, you really wanna suck my dick? friend?" and vr gordons like "oh my god, you didnt have to say it out loud! jesus fucking christ, do not say anything-- not another fucking word--" but hes cut off by hl gordons hand tugging his hair hard enough to make him hiss. "okay, okay, jeez!"

vr gordon shimmies closer and looks up at him, still red, still sweating, drool running down the corner of his mouth and trailing in a translucent string from benreys fingers. still embarrassed. but daring benrey to do as he was told. so benrey unzips himself with shaking fingers and pulls out his dick. hes fully hard already and hl gordons there to guide the both of them how to do it - takes vr gordons hand and curls it into a fist with his thumb tucked inside, guides vr gordons head with the hand still in his hair. pushes him onto benreys dick. and theres something decidedly fucking weird about hl gordons role in this, but hes clearly getting off on it, and so are the rest of them, so theres not a lot of room left for any of them to worry about it

i cannot rightfully allow myself to keep fucking writing this when i still havent finished writing gordon freeman coming untouched but im just fucking frothing thinking about hl gordon showing benrey exactly how to push vr gordons buttons. shows him how to finger vr gordon, which angle he should push gordons legs back to so he can hit just the right spot, guides him to take just the right pace and shows him how gordon likes his hair to be pulled

and benreys so obedient! its a marked difference from how much shit he gives vr gordon at any attempt to control him. vr gordons honestly a little miffed about it, but on the other hand, hl gordon is really good at jerking him around and getting him off and hes a very good teacher. he cant complain

Anyway. See Ya

#asky #writin stuff

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andypantsx3 · 3 years ago

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hi andie!!! thank you for the new chapter of lay low <333 i enjoyed it immensely aaaaaaa i too have a raging crush on smooth n suave hawks and he CANNOT KNOW!!! it would make him all too powerful >:c anyway im just dropping in to say that i hope everything goes smooth (hehehe like hawks is) for you during ur hiatus and i cant wait to have you back!!! who else is gonna cry over being dumb n obtuse to the ways of the bnha characters with me 😭😭 i love you and please do remember to take some time for yourself even when you’re busy! see you when you’re back <3 - 🌼

I love you and I missed you!! I hope you've been taking very good care of yourself as well!!

And ahhh me too!!! I'm fascinated by the inherent duplicity of his personality, but the charming/suave part is my absolute fave!!! He's way too hot to be allowed. 😭

I think hiatus is just about over for me! I got in some really good R&R and the absence of any pressure to post stuff was really nice. I ended up writing just as much as I usually do lol but I didn't feel like I needed to edit anything or get it up in a timely manner which was a good little break.

But now I'm like vibrating out of my skin, frothing at the mouth to share so I will be putting something up very soon!!

💕 ❤️ 💝

#🌼anon #ask andie #i missed u 😭

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nightglider124 · 5 years ago

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night r u as sad as iam about dk in the new dcau movie?:(

Uhh... no not really. But, I think that is because I didn’t go into watching it, naively thinking they were gonna be all happy and sparkly. I mean, I had hoped the ending would kinda make up for the shitness but... it didn’t so...

Spoilers under the cut.

I mean, the movie, in a word was fucking wild XD but in a truly laughable way; not some deep and meaningful way... like. I was constantly just like: the fuck is going on here??

Robot Kory and demented Dick is not how I ideally wanted dickkory to go in these movies lmaooo but that’s what we got. I mean... I had a bit of a hunch Damian had used the lazurus pit on Dick when they started walking down that hallway but boy oh boy shoulda heeded those warnings around the pit. Dick came back but he was pretty feral looking in his little straight jacket and padded cell, huh?

In a way... I’m still like... happy? I had been thinking it was gonna be like one of them was dead and the other lived on and felt immense angsty guilt and missing them and shit but... I didn’t expect what they actually did to my bubs.

When I say I will take dickkory in any way, I mean it so I was still like sure I will take this weird... fucked up version of my otp. I’m not happy about it but hey, at least there was no love triangle in the end, no break up (unless you count death and becoming a robot/mindless zombie thing) and at least there are no more movies of this continuity so it’s like cool we’ll put this shit to bed then.

Idk, I think I prepped myself for it not ending well for anyone a long time ago cos like I really don’t care and the nice part is, I have the previous movies to still gush over my dcamu babies XD.

Im not counting this bullshit movie as something legit like... I will take everything before this and I’ll just run with it, thanks.

And before anyone is like OMG NIGHT HOW CAN YOU BE OKAY WITH WHAT THEY DID. Lol, I’m not but I’m also not gonna froth at the mouth over something I already knew they were gonna do. If you watch DC movies or shows or... anything to do with DC and expect happiness and good times and your fave characters not to get fucked over; you don’t know DC very well at all.

They fucked over Kory and they fucked over Dick but, c’mon, who else saw it coming a mile away?

I’m just making the best out of what I was given. They weren’t separated and they weren’t both dead... so like... Ima just take it. They’re getting rebooted anyway so who cares.

I was surprised that we saw more of Kory than Dick though. We literally see Dick twice. He is there in his padded cell near the beginning and then he is being cradled in Kory’s lap at the end whereas robokory is there quite a few times.

Idk... it was just... very... shit.

But hey ho, life goes on and so does the love for dickkory XD

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kinkymagnus · 5 years ago

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Thoughts on Magnus in a fucking machine or a "milking" machine? Not as in literally milking with actual milk, but as in his nipples and/or clit being sucked with like, those clear sucker attachments like he's being "milked" 👀

me: i really need to answer my feminization kink ask i just need a little inspi--anon: magnus. in a fuck machine. gome: (frothing at the mouth) OKAY SO-

also thanks to a few certain people now i’m just like (vibrating intensely) “magnus’s tiddies????” so there’s that

okay so magnus in a “milking”/fucking machine. i’m picturing like a special padded chair (it’s comfy and designed for this, obviously) and he’s trapped (well. you know. “trapped”). his legs are spread, straps around his thighs keeping them that way, so that his cunt is exposed and on display. there’s a dildo attached to the chair from below, buried in his cunt, and since he’s strapped down he can’t get it out (again i emphasize he can if he actually has to or asks alec to, but You Know.) and he’s just squirming helplessly on it. and since this is a fuck machine, it’s thrusting up into him. but it’s a machine, so it’s like, mechanical, a predictable rhythm, and while it’s nice and hard and deep, it’s also steady and just not enough. there’s none of that human error or surprise of like, a thrust that goes a little deeper and hits just right, or one that’s a little harder after magnus made a particularly pretty noise, or teasing changes of pace. it’s just steady fucking that he can’t escape and isn’t going to increase. (well, there might be settings that alec can change, but we’ll get to that in a minute if i don’t forget.)

there’s a smaller one, maybe a plug, in his ass. i’m not sure if i want this one to move or not, i’m always a slut for magnus getting fucked in both holes but i also like the idea of him squirming on it while it tugs on his ass as he rocks his hips and tries to grind down on it and the one in his cunt at the same time. so like whenever he moves or clenches down he feels it, it’s just a solid constant and it’s also not enough, it never moves or fucks him the way he wants it to. and I’ve just decided it’s short but thick, so it’s like. satisfyingly stretching him but not deep enough.

ok so his hands… i like it when they’re tied above his head but going for the whole “strapped into the machine that’s fucking him” aesthetic, it makes more sense to me to say his wrists are strapped to the padded arms, maybe some nice straps around his biceps so when he squirms and struggles against them his muscles bulge so prettily :)

and the “milking” part!!! i know what you mean, i’ve seen some cool art of that kind of thing on twitter and shit. so like, these suckers (i don’t know what else to call them tbh) are attached to his nipples and clit, and they’re all swollen and sensitive and the suction feels so good but magnus isn’t allowed to cum—bonus, it’s enchanted so he literally can’t unless alec says so. actually, the whole thing is enchanted so he can’t escape or use his magic beyond like useless sparks and lights and shit, and the ties are super strong and adjust as alec tells them to, same with pace and intensity of the various parts, but like, the safeword (verbal and nonverbal, like tapping three times) can deactivate all of it in an instant and let him go. (i think maybe like the traffic light system—yellow, and a corresponding non verbal safeword, mean slow down and is just an indication to alec to chill, red makes it all stop immediately??? idk)

anyway BACK TO THE SUCTION ON HIS CLIT AND NIPPLES. magnus is dying in the best way, his clit is swollen and hard and he’s shaking, his hips are rocking desperately both in order to grind down on the toys inside him and to rock against the suction on his clit. his small tits look so pretty like, with the nipples all swollen and his chest heaving as he breathlessly moans and begs and pants for it ;) tries to get more pressure on his nipples even tho he knows pushing his chest out isn’t going to do anything but make him look like more of a little slut (like, emphasizing his muscles and his tits)

mmm ACTUALLY gags. possibly gags. cock gag or ball gag? Ball gag looks prettier but cock gag means he’s got a toy in all three holes ;) mmmmmm not sure but i do love the aesthetic of all of this is happening and magnus is just drooling around a gag, forced to look at his reflection being Wrecked, eyes full of pleasured tears :’)

and you know what I was gonna say he was blindfolded but consider: this chair is in front of a mirror, and he has to watch himself get debauched by a machine, just blushing a little and watching the toys disappear into him, watching his body tremble and react as his clit and nipples are sucked (imagining…..straps around his tits. I mean he’s def strapped into the chair comfortably like, around his waist and possibly hips, idk how to describe it, but the point is he’s strapped down, so why not criss-crossed over his chest?) possibly with alec behind him, hands massaging his broad shoulders, watching his reflection intensely, and just seeing those dark eyes and feeling those strong hands gets magnus wetter and wetter

the remains of whatever outfit he was wearing (lingerie? maid outfit? yes i COULD make this into maid roleplay, of fucking course i could) are just hanging off him in tatters, shoved aside so his nipples are exposed and the panties are just completely torn off for access to his cunt and ass (unless possibly a thong that can be pulled aside???? mm. not sure) and he’s a total wreck

hey also i’ve just decided that before magnus was strapped into the machine alec was ravishing him (magnus wasn’t allowed to come, and i’ve already mentioned he still can’t because Magic) so he’s covered in hickeys (all over his thighs!! and also up his neck and all over his tits and just really all over the place and he looks STUNNING) and because i said so alec DID come, a LOT, probably with the help of a stamina rune and/or potion of some sort, so magnus has just got cum on his face, thighs, tits, stomach, whatever, i could go for one or all of those tbh

so he’s just trapped in the chair, rocking his hips to get more pressure on his clit and get the toy in his ass deeper and the toy fucking his soaked cunt to change the angle (because it’s not changing angle, but if he moves just right—) and helpless to do much but take what the machine (and by extension, alec) is giving him. and he’s a sight to behold, all spread out and beautiful, this gorgeous muscular man all strapped up and helpless as toys fuck his cunt and ass and his nipples and clit are sucked but he can’t orgasm so he’s just begging and babbling (or moaning around a gag) and

maybe alec is watching him, but not touching. just staring at him, standing behind him, so magnus can see alec’s eyes on him but alec isn’t touching him or giving him relief even as he sobs (picturing now that at some point magnus begs so prettily to cum alec decides to let him cum… over and over, so the machine fucks him through orgasm after orgasm without mercy until finally alec unstraps him and pulls him off them and fucks him himself and magnus is already whining and incoherent and fucked out)

or maybe alec is ignoring him while he does work at his desk (with magnus in the maid outfit mayhaps?) and this is some sort punishment, and no matter how prettily magnus begs or how much he sobs alec seems unmoved (he is, of course, hard as a rock, but he knows the longer he makes magnus wait—within reason and safety and comfort, of course—the sweeter it will be when he finally is allowed to come)

or perhaps teasing him by grabbing his tits or stroking his face or kissing his neck, whispering all these dirty things in his ear maybe using his fingers to stroke his pussy or cup his tits but never doing anything to change the pace (maybe he eventually lets magnus come, still being fucked by the machine, and he squirts so hard then slumps back in the machine, moaning as it continues to use him—because he does feel used, in that humiliating and incredibly hot way, like he’s just part of this machine, here for alec’s viewing pleasure, or if alec’s ignoring him, he’s just a slut needing to be satisfied, so much so that even a machine is enough—and alec eventually gets to slide into his sopping wet cunt and fuck him senseless even tho he’s already incoherent and soaking wet)

and the dirty talk like calling him a beautiful whore, taking it so well, and when he’s off the machine stroking his pussy with his fingertips and telling him how sloppy he looks, licking his nipples just to see how he twitches and whines, talking about what a mess he’s making, how wrecked he looks (and if we’re going with the maid roleplay: talking about he’s made such a mess he’ll have to clean up on his hands and knees later, how he’s a slutty little maid so eager for his boss’s cock, getting fucked at work like that, how he looked so pretty getting his tits sucked and his holes fucked,

but like no matter how kinky they get alec is totally taking care of him, okay, he’s giving him little bits of affection and soft kisses, and making sure he’s comfortable and safe……and the AFTERCARE y’all

alec massages away any soreness, cleans him up, kisses all the hickeys he’s left all over him, im picturing like. after he’s taken magnus out of the machine (turning off the suction and leaving magnus gasping with tears in his eyes, slowly removing each sucker and gently stroking his sensitive nipples and clit with the tips of his fingers, or kissing them and making a tear from slip magnus’s eye…. undoing each strap and gently massaging him, turning off the dildo in his cunt and slowly lifting him off the toys, watching how he dripped and slick soaked the dildo, carrying him to bed) and let him take a break for a moment, get him some water and maybe a snack, he slowly fingers him, eats him out until he comes again, then finally fucks him (he gives him the choice between deep and slow and gentle or hard and rough and fast) and then cleans him up, helps him come down slowly, whispers all this praise, and then they cuddle dlgkhjfghghfgh magnus just melts and is his little spoon and alec’s arm’s around his waist and he’s so fucked-out and relaxed and alec’s just telling him how good he was, how he was so beautiful and perfect, and alec’s hands are stroking his stomach and his tits (not even sexually just like. Touch) and it’s so good and ldkgjhflgkhjgfh

khgfjklghjfgh guess i went feral on this ask oops

#trans magnus smut #long post

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plantfeed · 5 years ago

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ok turns out i am 100% that dumbass bitch who still aint posted my intro on main....... so for reference..... hello! im nora ( she / her ). im a 24 year old creative writing graduate currently residing in sheffield, south yorkshire. when i’m not hunched over a keyboard writing, i enjoy independent cinema, chinese food, and big nights out that i’ll remember only in fleeting snapshots. i currently work as a barmaid and a tutor for a filmmaking project.

without further ado, here is my interpretation on the skeleton ‘ophelia’, a development of a character who’s been brewing at the back of my mind for absolutely AGES now so thank u for giving me the push to actually flesh her out.

ive included a full biography, but please feel free 2 skip to bullet points if TLDR because it is LOOONG..... and im so happy 2 be here.... new home.... chefs kiss.... yes lov u all

IN CHARACTER.

skeleton: ophelia name: theresa rigby. (goes by diminutives tess, tessa, tea or thea. the only time she’s theresa is when she’s in trouble.) age: 21, born july 10 (cancer) faceclaim: diana silvers. gender: cis-female. pronouns: she/her degree: comparative literature & ancient history (joint honours)

INTRO.

trigger warnings.

loss of a parent. missing person / disappearance. drugs and alcohol reliance. death.

BIOGRAPHY.

i. narragansett, rhode island.

1999, an Austrian sunrise, it is the year of the Water Monkey. A water baby, first screams under the surface, the catch of it gargled in your throat. A birth mark the size and shape of a door handle pressed into your pelvis like a lover’s badge. Born like a clenched fist. Annie always wished you’d be more like an open palm. You still carry that tension with you, an unreadable kind of silence when you slink around the edge of a room or perch on an arm rest like a bird about to startle and fly off. Nobody knows a thing about you and you like it that way. Conceived in the winter, some of that coldness still lingers in you.

The only perfect girl is a dead girl. That’s what you learned, last-born runt of the litter growing up in the bedroom of a girl who would be forever cold, young and pretty. In the beginning, they thought you were a blessing — Bet’s soul reincarnate, the same pale face they’d seen as they’d signed her into the pick ‘n’ mix family. You were given her clothes, her room, even her middle name, stripped and rebranded like a toy doll bought after the last one’s head was chewed off by the dog. Four boys, a dead sister, and you who — with your birdlike features and unrelenting eyes — was merely a walking ghost. Tennis skirts, nail varnish, a shag rug, a rotten corsage; these were the staple reminders that you were living in a shrine, the room never quite your own lest you disturb the lingering presence of Bet. Soon, you began to see it as not a room but rather a prison cell caging you in the imprint of a sister you never met.

Your mothers met at an undergraduate socialist meeting when the fall semester fell into winter, Kath in a mustard coloured beret, Annie in a blood-orange duffle coat, a philosophy major and an art historian respectively. Your childhood was a montage of potato printing eels onto the walls of a Rhode Island boarding house next to the sea. Five children — some adopted, some surrogate — a permanent rotation of rooms and always a handful of lodgers to foot the bill. Travelling salesmen, students on gap years and tinkers in search of odd-jobs became a flipbook of faces etched into your memories like fleeting figures in the wings of a theatre; you sketch them into the body of your work. They become the characters to haunt the pages of your notebooks, stashed beneath floorboards lest they fall into too-hungry flour-caked fingers, scones baking in the oven two floors below. A house that seemed to physically inhale every time a new body entered it, tall and thin, too small to house all that weight. The gaps beneath the floorboards are the only spaces that feel like your own, untouched by a girl who’s shadow you were born in. In your diary, you scribble her name until it tears through the pages thinking that if you wish hard enough, you’ll make yourself her. It’s never enough.

At twelve, you lose Annie to a boating accident. You lose a piece of yourself with her and stop wearing yellow. Grief makes a better writer out of you though it sounds selfish to admit it. Kath remarries the following spring, a man named Peter. He is ordinary in all the ways Annie was magical and when he sits in your mother’s chair you feel yourself slip out of your skin and into the body of a raven cawing in the woods, scratching at the dustmites. You try to teach yourself how to be a girl, though you’ve always felt more like a wild thing crouched in the attic window of the lighthouse, screaming at the crash of the waves. You wanted to love the sea as closely as it owned you. In the sea you were rewritten into a tide, into a shell, into the swell of a rockpool around the body of a crab. You wanted to be like the ocean —a tangible, changeling thing —making paper boats and setting them out to sea, wishing you could shrink yourself into one, sail away. For a while, you toy with the idea of starving yourself into something the size and shape of an eel; of growing gills in the night and darting into the ebbing current. They’d think you crazy if you told them.

ii. concord, massachusetts.

You butt heads with Kath on a daily basis. She tells you you resent her for moving on with her life when you seem unable to move on with yours. That maybe a clean break would be best for all the family. A fresh start. A change of scene. You lock yourself in the bathroom and cry for an hour until your mouth feels raw, like running a cheesegrater down the inside of your throat. The following September, they send you to boarding school, two suitcases and an armful of Annie’s jumpers. Kath has decided they don’t compliment her skin tone, and she’s not twenty-five or studying philosophy any more. New England becomes the best decision for you that your family have ever made. You thrive on the independence of living in a dormitory on a corridor of Alison’s and Margaret’s and Ruth’s. From the names on their doors, you paint them into people in your head, red-haired Ruth who collects birth stones and can count to twenty in Mandarin. They turn out to be nothing like the versions of them you’ve spun. You love them anyway, their rough-softness, the scuffed knee thrill of growing up half-wild. There’s a brightness in their girlhood that you try to capture in your words.

Though you never quite find yourself settling into a group, Dr. Franklin becomes the anchor to which you tether yourself to, a little girl leeching onto her Literature professor for a sense of stability in a tempestuous world. The others might think it sad, but she sees something in you — an inner restlessness, a need to analyse and observe and contain everything within poetry and prose — that reminds her of herself at your age. You begin one-to-one sessions after the school day has closed, whisper about Proust and O’Hara over frothed lattes in a campus-run coffee shop, ink blots on the pages of dog-eared copies she’s gifted to you on an indefinite loan. Sometimes, you think you love her. You run your fingers over the buttons of her typewriter, close your eyes, and imagine yourself pulling on her skin like a new coat.

The woods become your saviour. In Narragansett you never knew woods, only harboursides, seafood restaurants, the smell of the ocean breeze and a lighthouse calling you home. You learn to love the smell of the earth after rain. The feeling of soil between your toes. The sense of belonging you feel trailing through the woods in stark white nightgown, twigs catching on the mud-stained hem. Massachusetts becomes a place of revision. You remake yourself as a fawn, elegance in your limbs and hunger in your heart. You learn how to write yourself into being. There’s a violence in your grace — simultaneously glass and the hammer that shatters it — and despite the ethereal way you move it’s the leonine stature of a tigress, claws bared, teeth sharpened into fangs, but a smile like butter wouldn’t melt. Lady Macbeth was always your favourite of Shakespeare’s heroines. There’s something dark in her that resonates with you, the way when a pimple appears you have to squeeze it until it bleeds. You tell yourself that everybody has a morbid fascination.

Each night you take a torch, a book and a bottle of Merlot, and you wile away the hours reading in the woods. At home, sleep never came easy to you. You’d pace the floorboards counting sheep and wake having barely slept a blink. This, on the other hand, seems useful, though when you’re never asleep, you’re never quite awake, floating through the school day like a ghost, part removed, the dark circles pulling your eyes to a close. It’s a tiredness you carry in every aspect of your life, limbs heavier than usual, pen slower when it grazes the page. Soon you start taking tablets each night. Two white ones, no bigger than a baby’s fingernail. For the first time, you begin to dream.

When February rolls around you take your exams. Pass with the grace of a swan in everything except AP Calculus. You say you’ll try again next semester, but you don’t. You apply for Yale, Cambridge, Harvard, Columbia, Ashcroft. You wait. And wait. And wait until it feels like your skin has shed itself since the letters left your hands, before an envelope comes marked Theresa. No one ever calls you that name. Right from the start it’s been Tea, Tess, Thea, common names in your house as fickle as the tide that swallows it. Billy’s never been a William, and Sebastian sounds all wrong. You can scarcely remember what Brodie’s short for. Rejection after rejection until Ashcroft answers the call, a cawing in the dark of a wasteland you’ve not yet walked. You’ll read literature, follow in the footsteps of Ginsberg who you clumsily try to quote as you bid the girls goodbye, a bonfire and the smell of cinnamon whiskey.

iii. ashcroft university, edinburgh.

You’d read of a boy who went missing there. It happened in the woods. Seventy years and all they’d found was an emptied bottle of wine and one shoe. Newspapers claimed involvement in an elite society, perhaps a hazing gone wrong, and you imagine them burrowed in underground tunnels wearing wellington boots and tweed. This is what draws you to Ashcroft ; to Imperium. It’s not so much the mystery of it —you’ve never seen yourself as a Nancy Drew — but more the idea of living in a place where people can disappear. That’s always been an idle fantasy of yours. One day, you wonder if you’ll write yourself out of the world and into the pages of a book, nestled between a title and contents page.

From Concord to Boston, then a ten-hour flight ; for the first time in months, you sleep through the night. A line break cancels your train and you have to take a replacement bus service instead. By the time you reach the school, the open day is almost over. You feel it at the gates, like a tingle on the back of your neck, something crawling down your spine. It only grows as you close in on it. It feels like it knows your own heartbeat. You’ve never known a building to have so much soul. You imagine yourself walking the cobblestones on the quad each day, climbing the steps to a dormitory, sprawled on a library table, scribbling frantically, willing the clock hands backwards. It’s a life you want to lead.

In a matter of months, Ashcroft has become not only your home but your life. You are utterly consumed by it. You meet Lysander at a poetry reading. You recite Shelley. He recites Keats. He compliments you on the steadiness of your voice, clear as a bell. A voice for the stage. You tell him your father had a powerful voice. It’s a lie. You’ve never had a father, but it’s fun to imagine one slouched on the couch, wire-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose. He invites you to dinner the following week. Grilled sea bass and risotto. You don’t have the heart to tell him you’ve become a vegetarian, swallow each mouthful with your pride. You try out for the orchestra, though your hands shake a little too much and you hear more from the inside of your own head than the keys. You leave without waiting on an answer. It’s too contained for you, anyway. You need something more chaotic, like jazz. You wish for chaos, so Imperium opens it jaws and swallows you whole. They like you because of your voice, a voice that speaks scarcely more than a low whisper in life, but when written wins you a Bysshe-Shelley Prize. In poetry, you give that voice to the voiceless ; bring dead girls buried in the woods out of the ground and into being, like soil in your hands. A voice like that is a powerful thing to have in your ranks. It becomes every page in your diary, every catch of your skirt on a tree branch, every rap of your fingertips against the desktop, imperium, imperium, imperium.

You’ve never been able to do things by halves — you always let them consume you. One glass becomes a bottle. One paragraph becomes scrawling until sunrise. Obsession takes its form in Hamlet, strong in all the ways you appear weak. You like the smell of his breath when he tells you to stub out your cigarette. That’ll kill you one day, he says. I know, you reply, and your pretty lips curl upwards. One drunken night, you fall into his bed and imagine stitching yourself into his sheets so you can sleep with him every night. Tongues on your thighs like a voice in your throat. Touch me, touch me, touch me. Never been held like this before. Like you’re not glass, but something material and robust. You like the way his hands feel under your skin. Perhaps you’ll keep him there like a splinter. Tall for your age but thin as a rail, he makes you feel like more than an eel of a girl. You like the way he catches on your spindly elbows where others have snagged leaving trails of cotton. At first, it’s only physical, but you get greedy and want more. You’re not sure when a love of beauty became something more than skin deep. You’re not sure if you even loved him until he’d stopped loving you. In October, you find the body. The day all the clocks stop ticking. The day something inside of you snaps like the branch of an elm.

You become a cocoon, velvet ribbons in your hair and rope around your throat. Or maybe it’s lace, and you’re only imagining it that way. You drink wine, stumble blind-drunk through the woods, lose textbooks to nature and curse when you can’t find them the following morning. Most nights, you appear like a ghost in the wood, a linen nightdress with mud clinging to it’s hem and feet laden in soil. You’re not sure if it’s conscious at this point, or mindless sleepwalking. Everything you do feels like sleepwalking these days. Shadows move in the corners of your eyes at night and you turn to the tarot cards for answers. They tell you only of that which you already know. Death. The Hanged Man. High Priestess. You think of Octavia, of Lysander, and of you pulled like a ragdoll between them, with the intuition that comes from living by the sea but without the evidence to execute it. The pills have stopped working. You wake in sweats, guilt swelling in the pit of your stomach. In a therapist’s waiting room, you watch as a girl scratches the skin off her own arm.

Soon news of your occultist proclivities becomes gossip on everyone’s tongue. Witch becomes a synonym for your name, and one you’ll happily wear like a noose until you’ve stolen Lysander from the drop. Finding the truth becomes the only thing keeping you sane, runes scrawled on the walls of a dormitory where pages of novels are tacked up like wallpaper. And still, you can’t shake the fact that she hasn’t come to you when the others who scarcely believe in such phantomed are rattled by her ghost on a nightly basis. Competing and girlhood go hand in hand, but the longer it gets, the more it feels like she knows your desperation to absolve Lysander isn’t entirely selfless. Perhaps she saw you lingering in doorways, waiting in the wings for him to change his mind and tell you it was you all along. Or maybe the sight of her corpse is making you search for answers in places they don’t exist. You’re hanging on my a single thread, one glimpse away from fleeing to the woods to plant yourself into the earth.

The snow is crisp on the November ground when you learn to love melancholy like a dance you were taught as a child. You think it adds depth to being a writer. How can a person write about pain if they live in a state of blissful oblivion? You tell yourself that all of the best writers were depressed; Plath, Fitzgerald, Dickinson, Rice. If you say their names each morning, followed by your own, perhaps you’ll become one of them.

BULLET POINT SUMMARY.

here is a bullet point summary of theresa, as i understand my writing can get a little dense.

Mother always said that people who grow up near water are different to other people. That there’s something more primal in their bones. A kind of knowing.

In Theresa, the knowing is a kind of silence. She’s always struggled with verbal communication, and it’s rare that she can ever let herself go in a conversation. She’s the one on the outskirts of the group, only speaking up to deliver a poignant metaphor, before fading off again. On a good day she’ll ramble, perhaps, on morbid longings and fascinations, but it’s like she’s always skipping around words she can’t quite pinpoint.

Writing’s different. When she’s writing, she feels like all the dead souls of Emily Bronte and Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath are all rising up from their graves to possess her. It is, perhaps, a rather egotistical thought -- but it makes her feel less alone. Like writing isn’t so much a solitary pursuit as it is a reigniting of what’s been lost, a way of listening to the dead. She’s militant in the way she writes, has been for as long as she can remember -- every night when the clock strikes twelve. Even if she’s rolling on mandy in an abandoned warehouse or dropping acid in a shipyard with her toes in the sand, she’ll start scribbling at twilight, for as long as she can. Back home, there weren’t too many bars that allowed underage kids, and the ones that did would nail your phone to the wall like you’re living in the eighties, so they made their own fun getting high in places long since infested with rats on baggies bought cheap in the back of the dry-cleaners shop.

Theresa’s always felt more able to relate to dead people than to living ones. That might sound depressing, but she doesn’t think so. Death has never been far from her. She grew up in the room of a foster sister who had died the previous winter. She lost her mother to a boating accident at twelve years old. She lost Octavia last year, found her body in the woods, and was thankful that she -- and not someone else -- had seen her crumpled like a fawn. Because even though it clings to her and burrows under her skin, she knows how to drown it out now. In words. In wine. In pills crushed against the veneer of a sink and snorted through a twenty-dollar bill. She’s getting good at losing herself completely. Theresa herself feels like a girl half-dead, like something ghostly, trapped between two planes. Which is why it hurts so much that she still hasn’t seen Octavia’s ghost. She’s supposed to be the special one. The one who’s vision isn’t clouded by idle dogmatism. The one who believes in all that fate, juju, third eye stuff that the others seem to scoff at. It feels like a personal attack. Like somehow, in keeping hidden, she’s blaming Theresa for her death.

Theresa is the month of November. There’s something mysterious about it, something cold. It’s on the cusp of the end of the year, but it doesn’t quite reach it. I feel like that’s what Theresa’s like. Always reaching for the apples that are just out of her grasp, or perhaps, reaching for apples which aren’t even there.

She knows grief like an old friend, but somehow, she still doesn’t trust it. When she was twelve years old she lost one of her mothers. Annie was always the brighter of her parents, and Tessa never really believed that someone so full of life could just disappear. Her soul had to be somewhere. When Kath remarried, Theresa never forgave her. Between grief and anger, their relationship became fractious, and Kath decided to send her to boarding school. She went to a New England college where she learned art, history, literature, english, athletics, the sciences and the classics. Boarding school was probably the best decision for Theresa that Kath had ever made. She became fascinated with the girls around her, so feral and wild in their girlhood. She fell in love with another girl more than once. She fell in love with the freedom of New England, of being in the woods, of a gaggle of girls with bottles of wine sat around a campfire, scared half to death that the matron would find them.

But death’s never far from her. She’s been searching for Annie in the linebreaks between poems, in the chaos of clutter under her bed, under lace and linen in her underwear drawer, but somehow she can never quite find her and never give up. Finding Annie was perhaps the reason she came to Ashcroft at all. She intended to go to Columbia, read Literature, and clumsily follow in the footsteps of Ginsberg. But Annie had spoken of Edinburgh with such a childlike awe.

Lysander was the first of the society she met, at a poetry reading in the autumn of her first semester. He brought her into the club because he saw something in her, an otherworldliness, a still but powerful voice. Her eyes saw more than they let on, always glinting at something more. She thinks her closeness with Lysander is the reason she still hasn’t seen Octavia’s ghost, and now Hamlet’s out of the picture she’s starting to think she might love Lysander. Or maybe she just needs to be loved by someone, and absolving him of blame is the key.

She was never really sure how she felt about Octavia. One moment they were friends, the next they were rivals. It was something like love and hate combined, but perhaps that’s just the curse of being a woman. A fierce sense of competition in everything you do, even if it’s just competing for air.

She likes old French music, European cinema, art that doesn’t come in her mother tongue. She’s always thought English pointless. The French say things so much better.

Her favourite TV show is Twin Peaks. She likes the absurdist truth in it, the style, the colour, the oddness. She likes the mystery of it all. She loved the woods in New England and it reminds her of that. A kind of home away from home. Tea brings a pocked dictaphone out with her, for she’s so often absent-minded that she misses half the day. That way, she can replay conversations, the sound of a bird in flight, the particular inflection in the voice of someone she loves. She’s obsessive when it comes to lovers. She doesn’t want to be loved -- she wants to be respected, understood, devoured. She thinks love is a kind of mutual lying.

She finds truth in the unusual. In tarot cards and horoscopes, in the position of the planets through a thrifted telescope. She’s a night owl, never in bed before 3 or 4 in the morning. She visits the woods each night to write until her fingers ache. Sometimes with wine, sometimes with mushrooms, sometimes with a tab against the flat of her tongue, imagining herself to be Alice in Wonderland. She feels like she’s getting close to the truth, but maybe she’s just closer to losing her mind.

LETTER TO OCTAVIA.

My dearest O,

I wish I could find an adequate way to write you an epitaph. You saw a poet where everyone else saw a foolish dreamer and yet you’re the only one I can’t put into words. But in truth, there is no word large enough to contain you. You were the ellipsis I was always looking to conclude, and it’s so like you to steal even that from me. Some days, I think I could love you.

Please know that death cannot touch girls like us. That you’re more than just skin, teeth and bone. Death itself has you only on a short-term loan. As Thomas puts so eloquently, Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Thank you for filling me with life. I’ll see you in the next one.

Tea.

anything else?

mock blog.

wanted plots.

someone who theresa knows purely from seeing them at the library. recently, she hasn’t been visiting as often. she’s less in the world and more in her head. her schoolwork is suffering. someone who feels this absence like a missing tooth.

unlikely bc ashcroft is in scotland but if they’re from rhode island maybe distant relatives.... ophelia / theresa is adopted so could work regardless of heritage. her family lived in narragansett, but she went to boarding school in vermont. could have met if ur character is new england based??? maybe

give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties bcos this baby is not alright. she drinks at least one glass of wine every night. sometimes a bottle. she’s always a little bit high or a little bit weary with a comedown. she can’t seem to keep her feet on the ground.

theresa was pretty numb after finding the body, as you would be. she stayed in her room listening to enya for three days straight and just eating cereal straight out the box. then thalia broke up with her and that fuckin shook her too, and now she just thinks she’s unlovable. she’s always been pretty bad at sleeping but now she just wanders about in her white nightdress looking for a door with light spilling beneath it so that maybe she can find someone who’ll hold her for the night and make her feel like she’s still alive

she’s currently hooking up with a lot of people. a lot of very detached sex, so if she has any sort of close connection with your character this might not work. could be good for angst or awkwardness though, or she cld get like.... super attached after a one night stand and complicate the shit out of everything. theresa’s kind of obsessive when it comes to her affections, she loves with her whole heart or not at all

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life jesus

honestly everything just give me all the plots

#stands on the rooftop and screams like a banshee as i fling this into the woods #spectreintro #very late and personally i think that's incredibly sexy of me x

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rockettransman · 5 years ago

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Rocketman Watch #4 Thoughts

i have so many MORE thoughts can you believe it wow here we go

(i wrote these as i watched it so they’re in order im p sure)

man, his intro monologue during group therapy is just as gripping as it was when I first watched it. And the transition to the bitch is back is so fuckin good. My palms are sweating.

There’s some commentary about forgiving and loving your inner/past child, but I don’t have the words for it at this moment. In the beginning he’s staring down, confused and scowling at his child self, but at the end, he embraces him in a way his father and loved ones never did.

Was he in therapy/rehab WHILE touring and doing music? Stomping into the room in his regalia would have me believe so. I know group therapy was a medium for storytelling. Was it just signaling the very beginning of his story, because we go through different stages through his actions and clothing changes?

Lmao I imagine it must take some pretty cool parents to allow their, like, six or seven year old child to be in this movie. He said bitch so many times.

Took me a hot second to realize the orchestra he’s conducting is playing Rocket Man. The violins are so pretty. Imagine being picked to be in the orchestra on set and getting smile up at the tiny little kid who played Elton. My heart would absolutely swell seeing a little kid being so fantastic at this really intense job.

Kit Connor did amazing in his role. He’s fifteen and he’s already done so much! Imagine growing up knowing you played Elton John as a kid. Getting to work alongside him and his husband and the dozens of incredible actors. Wowie. I’d never shut up about it.

I LOVE how 12 year old Elton is playing the piano SO HARD and is trying to rock out as hard as he can while playing classical music. The boy wanna ROCK dammit.

HE GLANCED UP THE TINIEST BIT WHEN THE MAN ASKED IF ANYONE HAD A FAG (slang for cigarette)

SATURDAY NIGHTS ALRIGHT GIVES ME CONSTANT CHILLS FROM THE START TO FINISH

WOOOW SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD ELTON IS CUTE AS HEEELLLL. The hair, glasses, and front tooth gap fit Taron so well. Goddamn I hope I look like 17 year old Elton some day.

The choreography for this number is absolutely breathtaking. You have to get that many people all in sync! We followed Elton running through the crowd and AAHHH it was a lot! The athleticism! And they did it in the rain! Wow I’m blow away.

Elton is JAMMIN in the back of the stage. It’s really sweet to see his smile and enthusiasm and his brain thinking and working.

That guy in the back peed a LOT lmao

I was wondering where thank you for all of your loving came in.

Charlie Rowe plays Ray Williams, and he also plays LEO ROTH from Red Band Society!!! The first time I watched the movie, I KNEW him from somewhere, but I couldn’t place it and it was driving me nuts. Man. RBS was a big crutch during the worst lows of my ED. Had no idea he was English.

Love to see how shy Elton was as a teenager. It’s a hot ass mood. Also, those silk scarves? Ascots? idk but they’re a LOOK.

“One frothy coffee, no froth.”

The acquaintances-to-best-friends montage set to Border Song *chefs kiss*

Rock And Roll Madonna Is A Perfect Song Send Tweet

Lmao Elton is NOT phased at all when he gets accused of being gay. He’s just like. “Nah. I’m like. Not.” Not overly defensive and surprised, like I’m sure other people would be lmaooo

STUMBLING HOME DRUNK WITH YOUR BEST FRIEND IS A MILESTONE IN TEENAGEHOOD!!!!!!!

“You are a ssSSHHIIIITT HOT piano player—”

So delicate of Bernie the way he politely denied a kiss from him. It wasn’t weird or tense at all. Just a gentle “love you, but not that way. It’s okay” Some people may not be able to handle it that well even today.

Taron’s got nice thighs. That robe & underwear getup is a nice look.

Love love LOVE hearing him experiment with Your Song on the piano to find a melody that worked.

Honestly what the shit do these songs even mean. Bernie sometimes these words don’t make any sense. Don’t worry, they still slap. “See I’ve forgotten if they’re green or they’re blue” like what

AMOREENA IS A PERFECT SONG SEND TWEET

Doug flirting with Bernie makes me snort every time. “Oh, really? That’s.. cool.”

THE TROUBADOUR OUTFIT IS GOOD AS SHIT!!!!!!!!

“NO, BERNIE. YOU ARE UNDERREACTING.”

Taron was right. The overalls do make his ass look massive.

A week ago before this movie I was sick and fuckin TIRED of crocodile rock but now I can’t get enough of it. The movie transformed a lot of old songs I was sick of for me.

Imagine being a kind of shy, nervous kid, terrified to go on stage, but two and a half minutes later the entire venue is LOSING IT because they love the jam YOU WROTE. how cool for Elton.

I want a best friend platonic cheek kiss :(

Hmmmmm I’m wondering if they used the studio recordings that went on the album for the movie or have different movie-specific recordings. Tiny Dancer sounds a teeny bit different in the movie version.

Goddamn I sure hope Taron got to keep that jacket.

“So you liked the song, then?” “Not as much as the singer” *Elton glances away in gay panic*

LMFAO John said some weird colorful words to Elton that barely made sense and he was like OH FUCK GOTTA KISS HIM GOTTA KISS HIM

I’ve talked so much about the sex scene I don’t need to go on about it here. Go search the rocketman tag on my blog for my extensive gay thoughts about it.

Now I know glasses come OFF during sex

oh oh oh I was wondering where Hercules fell in the movie. I love how the songs he’s writing or getting notoriety for is played over the transition scenes.

Elton’s hand on his hip, knowing smirk as John enters the studio. “Hello.”

Bernie is like “HELLO are we RECORDING or are y’all gonna FUCK in the CLOSET?”

*vibrating* Honky Cat Honky Cat Honky Cat Honky Cat

Damn, the flowy white button down with the red pants really is a LOOK

The gestures, staring up at each other, leaning into each other, hands on each other’s chests, damn it makes me feel some typa way. Maybe their love WAS good and fun and exciting while they rode the high of everything before it all went so so bad.

Elton searching John’s gaze while he’s talking and looking like he’s not really paying attention, just looking for a kiss on the couch.. GOD I remember the honeymoon phase of my relationships. So much fun.

His dad going “N-Not really my thing.” That was a metaphor for his SEXUALITY TOO, huh.

Damn. He went to his dad’s to come out to him and he never even got to get to that part. He was just like “....nice shoes....” and even after all this time, didn’t show any interest in his music. If he never was into what he did, how could he even talk about being gay? I’m sure during that scene there were a lot of metaphors to sexuality but I didn’t bother to think much about them.

The eyebrow quirk after his dad says “ah—no. Could you make it out to Arthur?” DAMN Elton was like .. “really. This is what’s happening? Okay. Awesome.”

“What do you have to do to get a fucking drink around here, eh?” *cuts to Elton drinking straight from a bottle*

“Elton—” “Elton!”

John saying “don’t you ever put your hands on me” when he was the one who yanked him from the phone booth AND directly after punching him... woof man. What a shitty dude.

Damn, just noticed John talking very quietly and closely to another man right before he goes on and plays Pinball Wizard. Was this the first sign of him having fun with other men when Elton was indisposed?

Pinball Wizard is absolutely intense and loud and fun, but it DOES carry the tone of “god im SO miserable” under it all. You knew Elton wasn’t having fun.

“It is next week.” Jeezus.

LMAO I just caught the “mom, you’re ON my GOWN” when he reluctantly complies to give the Anderson’s a tour.

Damn, flowy, loose dress shirts with the first few buttons undone is a LOOOOK.

How did they do the overdose scene, you think? Surely the pills Taron took had to be like. Empty. Or placebo affect drugs? Idk. He did take a big drink directly after stuffing his mouth with them. I don’t think he spit them out.

God, there is SOMETHING symbolic about how he meets his child self at the bottom of the pool. Rock bottom? Apologizing? Wishing he could be better? Telling him he’ll never be better?

OH I watched a behind the scenes cut about the pool scene, and none of it was CGI. Taron was weighted under his robe and a SCUBA diver was on standby to provide oxygen. The singing and bubbles coming out of his mouth and stuff underwater was all real.

Dying to know about the choreography around the second chorus, about the undressing and twirling and dressing and injection and handing off of the bat and stuff. That sequence was incredible.

Bennie and the Jets. Damn. It fucks. I listened to it almost the entire time on my run today. (Five miles; I felt like garbage the entire time but it was good anyway.) The scene is wild. He’s in the middle of a drug induced haze orgy. He SHOULD be having the time of his life but he’s so goddamn miserable. (Also, the juxtaposition between Chris Fleming’s Bennie and the Jets is so funny.)

Part of the problem was that John never understood Elton. But, Elton broke it off with John, not the other way around like he said it was. He wasn’t the victim in that regard. John did treat him like shit though.

Victim of Love plays right after that lmao

Renate and he aren’t even close when they do the duet to don’t let the sun go down on me. They’re separated in different rooms, mirroring literally how closed off their relationship was.

The shot with them waking up in different rooms.. damn

His shirt is so LOUD I’m going crazy

Watching Taron down that orange juice made me a little nauseous I gotta say

“Not really I’m gAy”

It’s CRAZY to watch Elton and his mom interact at the dinner scene. He gets accosted and accused of so much by his mom, claiming SHE’S the victim of his actions, making it all about HER and then he turns around and does and says the exact same shit to Bernie.

He yells “Oh, don’t be so dramatic!” at Bernie as he gets into a taxi. THE PROJECTION!! THE DEFLECTION!!!!

I know there’s only so much they can put in two hours, but I wish they showed more of Elton’s eating issues. He had bulimia for sixteen years before he got help. It’s Absolutely the Man With Anorexia in me, but seeing that even men deal with eating disorders quells the lonely aching something in me. I feel that much less alone, you know. Eating disorders aren’t a “woman’s disease.”

How do you think they did his hair? A wig adds more hair, not take it away. He didn’t get his hair cut for it did he?

Seeing Elton’s first love fall apart because John was such a selfish, heartless prick in reality makes me sad.

Elton hugs his inner child when he reconciled with everyone in his past. Goddamn. He found peace and forgiveness for himself, who he was, even after all that time.

When Elton asks him not to go, Bernie refuses, saying this is something he had to do on his own. Healing comes from within alone. No one can help you do it. People can guide you, but you have to work at it. It’s fucking lonely sometimes, but it’s so, so worth it.

I used to loathe I’m Still Standing since i heard it so much at work, but the movie changed my entire perspective on it. I love the slow build up as he exits the rehab center. You don’t get thrown into something so happy and fast paced and fun after a cathartic climax you need to drink in. And the pan to his hat with the rainbow stripe to his smile. I get chills every time. Elton feels so right and secure and happy in himself. At first I thought it was a bit cheesy, but accepting your sexuality, especially after all the hell he went through during his life, grappling with unresolved trauma and fear of abandonment, he absolutely should wear it loud and proud. It’s easy to think times are much easier now being gay, and it shouldn’t be such a big deal. Relative to 1975, it is easier. But it doesn’t mean it’s not such a rough personal thing to work through if you’ve been spit on and resented all your life. Being gay, coming out, and accepting and being comfortable with that fact must’ve been such a HUGE milestone in Elton’s recovery and self-esteem.

Love me again after I’m still standing is perfect. The credits make me tear up every time. Jeez. What a good movie. What a good movie. Hit me up if you wanna talk about Rocketman because I absolutely will with you.

#like if you read pls #noah.txt #rocketman #elton john #rocket man #bernie taupin #richard madden #john reid

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