#and it feels like the most dogshit sleep ever

[inktho]

I am being Plagued by him Do You Understand

[theladygazingatemptiness]

.

[yieldtotemptation]

ANIMALS ft. Natty

natty x male reader smut

10k words

“All I’m saying is,” Natty starts, like she always does, with more unsolicited advice than you can handle at 2 AM, "for someone that complains so much about not having a sex life, you really don’t do much to fix it."

“And what, oh wise friend of mine, is your recommendation.”

“I don’t know. Get a haircut. Dress better. Try not being a massive pussy?” Natty shrugs. Or at least you think she does. Only so much you can tell over the phone.

You sigh. Bite back the urge to tell her to fuck off. But then, who else would talk you to sleep at this ungodly hour? So instead, you concede the point. “Noted.”

“Or, you know, if it’ll stop you from being such a little bitch,” and now she’s laughing, cackling really, and not once has that ever, ever meant anything good. "You could always just fuck me."

—

Two weeks and twelve hours post-Natty’s incredibly unhelpful suggestion that did absolutely nothing to alleviate you of your insomnia, and you’re back on the phone with her.

Only this time, there's video.

So, yay.

"Help me, please."

It’s a Friday and Natty's begging, again.

Because she knows she can count on you, knows that you’ve long since resigned yourself to your fate as Natty’s on-call ‘fixer’. There for everything from life-changing career decisions to helping her figure out what show to stream next.

And now, apparently, choosing her outfit for tonight.

“Help me, help me, help me, help me.”

God, this woman and her begging. Knowing full well that it’s your kryptonite.

"Okay, okay, okay," you're relenting, much earlier than usual. Mostly because as far as Natty’s petulant requests usually go this one’s a walk in the park. “But don’t you have people for this sort of thing? People who don’t, and I quote, ‘have a dogshit taste in style?’”

“It is dogshit!” Natty calls out, already turned around and leaving you (her phone) on the vanity, facing out to her bedroom and all its hideous pinkness. She disappears from the screen, diving deep into her closet for yet another pair of shorts that will most certainly hug way too close, or a top that dips way too low, or a pair of heels that scream—'hey, I have legs, would you like to spread them?' "But!"

Natty returns to the camera with a leather belt—oh no, that's a leather skirt—in hand; clad in nothing but a casual cotton bra/underwear combination that she’s filling out far too well for your sleep-deprived brain to handle.

She holds up the skirt against her waist for your consideration. Poses. It wouldn't cover a thing. Or maybe that's the point—again, you don't have any fashion sense, whatsoever.

“You’re a man, and I need a man’s opinion because I’m hoping to take one home tonight to fuck my brains out until I forget about this shit-storm of a week. So, you know—help a girl out?”

“As always, you have quite a way with words.”

Natty leans towards the camera, bending down to stare right at you. It makes entirely too much sense that she’s built an entire career around doing just this.

“It’s my third language, asshole.”

The insult lands softer than she likely intended, considering well, you’re a little too distracted to take it. It’s entirely her fault. The angle makes her tits look far too immaculate to pay any attention to her mouth.

Maybe she should consider going out just like this?

Yeah, that’d definitely get her fucked.

But, she frowns before you can make the suggestion, turning on her heels and sashaying back to her closet, leaving you to choke on air at the sight of her ass stretching out her favourite pair of panties. (The white pair with the pretty-pink bows. The one that rides up her ass when she stretches, bends, sneezes—basically any time she’s not standing perfectly still. And even then.)

Anyone else and this whole thing would be weird. Well, weirder than it already is.

See, you and Natty have this thing; this odd, cat and dog relationship that’s been going on since what feels like the dawn of time:

You’ve watched her shamelessly cycle through men faster than a teenager through a box of tissues, leaving a trail of broken hearts and broken cocks in her wake.

While she’s been forced to witness every time you’ve met ‘the one’, only to be there months later to help pick up the pieces when you’re burying your feelings in video games and alcohol and porn, wondering how it all went so wrong.

All this to say that seeing Natty bouncing around in her underwear with that laser-beam of a smile of hers; with all of her soft curves, thick thighs, her ridiculous ass and again, those immaculate fucking tits isn't that unusual.

In fact, it doesn't really do anything for you at all.

(Fucking liar.)

“Here, how about this.” Natty appears from the corner of the screen, having found a top that’s somehow made of even less material than the bra she’s already got on. The gall of her to ask, "Too much or not enough?"

You deadpan. “Does it come in adult sizes too?”

Natty grins, because she can read it right on your stupid face. She looks so, unbearably hot. Without even trying that hard. This bitch. “So just right, then.”

And then she twirls, leaving you to face her back, and before you even have time to blink, Natty’s bra has fallen down her shoulders; and you’re hating how you lean in to look because this damn app has no zoom feature to save your sorry eyesight.

Her fucking tits. Perfect, bouncy. Even through the pixels, even from behind, you can still see the way they spill.

She slips on her chosen top for the evening—a tiny, strappy number—and spins back around to face you in all her Natty glory. By the skin of your teeth, you’re looking away and leaning back, feigning nonchalance and leaving her none the wiser.

You think.

“You know,” Natty says, tilting to one side, hand on hip. Fuck, even that slightest movement makes them bounce. Utterly, utterly obscene. “You should just come tonight.”

You’re saying, “Fuck no,” before she’s even finished her sentence. ‘Coming tonight’ means ‘clubbing’, and ‘clubbing’ means being stuck listening to the shittiest music, surrounded by the worst people in all of Korea, drinking overpriced slop and watching Natty turn down a revolving door of douchebags on the dancefloor.

So, yeah.

If ‘fuck no’s’ were bricks, you’d be building the Great Wall of ‘Fuck No’, big enough for aliens on the other side of the galaxy to see with a fucking telescope and have their first contact with the human race be a giant ‘Fuck No’.

And that’s your polite way of turning her down.

Yet somehow, Natty’s hardly deterred.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Natty sing-songs, shuffling on her tiptoes, shifting her weight from foot to foot, making her entire body jiggle. It’s like she’s intentionally trying to sell you on the idea with every little movement. Make you believe that if you came with her, you’d be able to find someone who comes close to looking half as good as she does in that… whatever-the-fuck that is. Bralette? Crop top? Whatever. Fat chance. "Come on, come, come, come. Be my wingman please!"

You already have your second ‘fuck no’ queued up, but Natty just won’t stop fucking talking.

“Don’t you want to get laid? Don’t you think you need to have fun after what’s-her-name?” Natty continues, pouting at you through the screen.

And there it is, a study in how Natty usually gets her way—jutting out her bottom lip, digging her thumb into the waistband of her panties to expose just a smidge more skin, leaning just right to make her tits look like they’re about to pop out. It’s like she’s got a fucking manual.  

“Don’t tell me you’d rather stay at home with Handalf the Grey than come out with me and all my hot friends?”

“You mean having to clean up after all your ‘hot friends’ and their bullshit while you run off to score free drinks?” You retort, recalling all the other times when she managed to entice you out of your self-imposed isolation and into the deafening, sweaty hellhole known as a nightclub.

“Said hot friends that you’re too much of a pussy to hit on, mind you,” Natty chides, and then oh-so-casually decides to drop this nugget: "They all like you, you know, they'd be more than happy to break this dry spell of yours if you just asked. Don’t act like I haven’t seen the way you look at Julie."

You can feel your cheeks reddening. You’re not a teenager. You shouldn’t blush at this shit. But here you are, falling for Natty’s words and their magical abilities to needle at your insecurities and fill your head with thoughts of her friends and all their... well, incredibly positive attributes.

Natty pounces on your lapse in composure and gets closer to the camera, crouches. Drops down so she’s on her heels and all you can see in that tiny window of your phone is the red of her plush, plump lips.

“Come, you pussy—”

“Natty—”

“Do it pussy—”

“Natty, if you think that’s going to work—”

“Pussy, pussy, pussy—”

You’re yelling down the phone: “Fuck, fine!”

Natty’s victory dance is already in full swing before the words have even left your mouth. Bouncing around her room in pure joy at once again having ruined your evening. Dancing in that barely-there outfit, treating you to entirely sinful ripples across her curves and dips, pure sex on a pair of toned legs. Really makes you wonder how the fuck is she not illegal in at least fifty different countries.  

You hide your face in your hands, because there it is, the reason you’ve never really been able to deny her:

Her laughter, her energy, her fucking shameless glee whenever she manages to get her way (which, if you’re keeping count, is every single time).

She’s just so frustratingly adorable.

Somewhere in her celebrations, Natty finds exactly what she was looking for. Reaches down to the floor, picking up a belt—no, that’s another skirt—this one even tinier than the first.

“Oh, this is perfect,” she preens, holding it out to the camera (to you), before stepping right into it. She spins around, making it dance around her hips. It does wonders for her thighs. "How do I look?”

You swallow. “Like you’re going to get fucked tonight.”

The glint in Natty’s eyes. Like you’ve just served up the finest compliment on a silver platter. You feel sorry for whatever poor soul crosses her path tonight.

Natty winks. “Here’s to hoping.”

—

Guess what?

Turns out you were right: this is the worst place in the world.

Only, you’re the sole person here that seems to think that.

Hours have passed since you helped Natty look perfectly fuckable and you’re at the bar, trying and failing to get the attention of the bartender. Unfortunately, he, like every other male with a beating heart and a boner seems far more interested in Natty’s little dance routine than his thirsty clientele.

You can’t blame him, really. It’s built in how she moves.

Strobe lights cutting through the air like knives, slicing her into this series of absolutely pornographic snapshots as she dances. And she’s not alone, she has friends—beautiful, all of them, in their own ways. They spin and twirl around her; but Natty’s the sun here, the star that everything orbits.

(You included).

You see it play out—the Natty effect. Men, even women alike gravitate to her, drawn by that magnetic force that is Natty at her very best. Trying to get a dance, maybe whisper a line they stole from some movie in her ear, even dare to reach out to touch or press themselves up against her.

But she’s a black hole, a dark star. Can’t get too close.

One by one, they’re swallowed up by the void of Natty’s disinterest. The shoulders slump, the smiles falter, and the hope in their eyes dies as Natty, with a simple flick of her wrist sends them stumbling back into the crowd, forgotten almost immediately.

And the whole time she’s doing this, she’s got you in her line of sight. A wink here, a smile there, a dance on its own; and all you can do is nod and pretend like you’re okay with all this.

You inhale. Deeply.

Her outfit looks even tinier in person.

You turn away for just a moment, shaking off thoughts of Natty, of her hips and their sway and her winks and her smile; attempting (and failing) to flag down the bartender once more.

This fucking night.

But, when you look back, Natty’s no longer on the dancefloor.

She’s standing next to you. Arms looping around your neck.

“Natty—”

But she’s not listening. Her eyes are darting around the room, searching for something—or someone—that you can’t see. Your stomach clenches, because that look on Natty’s face? That’s not her usual I’m-about-to-make-some-poor-soul-my-bitch look. That’s something else entirely. That’s fear.

“Shut up, I need a favour,” she’s in your ear, yelling over the thrum of the bass that’s rattling your ribcage.

You lean in, bend down to meet her, because, frankly, you’re worried. You’ve never seen Natty like this, wide eyed and shaky. Never seen her be anything but comfortable.

You’ve also never been this close to her. Felt her breath hot against your neck, felt her body press up against you, felt her softness, felt her—

Fuck, you should be asking her what’s wrong, but before you can even do that, the bartender's filling two shot glasses and sliding them over to Natty.

She takes one. You take the other. It tastes lethal.

Natty’s nails dig into the back of your neck, and she looks at you, intense. Words fast and frantic. “Just pretend we’re together, okay? For a bit. Until I can figure this out. Just—just keep playing along, yeah?”

You blink. The room blurs around you. You think you might’ve misheard. “What?”

“Be my boyfriend,” she says, taking a second shot before you can even digest the first. “I need you. There’s some creep and I need you. Now, please?”

You turn immediately, scanning the floor, but the lights and shadows make it near impossible to make out anything other than vague shapes and strobes of colour, let alone pinpoint a face. "Natty, where is he, I can—"

"No, no, no," she cuts you off with a shake of her head. “Focus on me.”

“Wait, why do I have to—”

“Oh, shit there he is—”

And then she’s kissing you.

Ending whatever argument you may have had, because she’s grabbing, pulling you in, and her lips are on yours and oh fuck, she’s really, really kissing you.

It’s a slap to the face, and you need to reel in from the sting. Because you’re already forgetting what you’re doing, forgetting how your limbs work, because Natty’s putting on the performance of a lifetime and you’re having trouble keeping up.

Her hands are in your hair, yours at the small of her back, and she’s pulling you close, squishing against you and the taste of her—sweet like candy and sharp like vodka—filling you all the way up.

Your tongue catches up, flicking against hers, licking inside of her mouth and she’s even convincing you—as if she’s the one that’s always been into the love at first sight bullshit and you’re the non-believer.

And it’s a problem, how right this feels. Because this isn’t what friends do—definitely not Natty and you. But still, you can feel her tension, her need for this to be believable; and you don’t dare to fuck it all up.

So you kiss her back, because that’s what you do for Natty.

You always do what she needs.

You’re about to pull away; this should be enough to have every single person here convinced that you’re hers and she’s yours. But Natty’s already sliding her tongue back in your mouth, pleading, “Keep going,” the moment a gap opens between your lips; and you’re diving back into the kiss without a second thought.

And then you hear it.

A flash of a camera.

A cheer.

A whistle.

Julie, Haneul, Belle—Natty’s friends, staring at you like proud fairy godmothers witnessing their own magic at work.

You break the kiss. You look down at Natty.

She giggles.

You feel like a fucking idiot.

"There is no creep, is there?"

Natty shrugs, looks up at you, and she actually looks—what is this? Shy? Embarrassed?

"There could’ve been," she says, her eyes wide and innocent, a mask. You see through her like you should have when she first wrapped her arms around your neck.  Oh sure, like she’s ever been innocent for a second in her entire life.

She’s far too smug for that.

You roll your eyes. You feel like every other idiot that’s ever fallen for a bat of her lashes and a peek at her tits. Hope is a hell of a drug, especially when Natty’s the dealer. And yet, despite yourself, the corner of your mouth quirks up. "You're fucking insane."

“Maybe.” There’s a long pause. She’s staring at your mouth. She presses a finger to your sternum. “But I had to do something.”

It takes a second. What?

What does that mean?

You stare at Natty, lick your lips. Her taste still lingers.

“Ask yourself the same question I’ve been asking myself for months now,” she says, louder this time, her voice cutting through the noise of the club and hitting your ears with a sobering clarity.

You know what she’s going to say—what she’s going to ask before she’s even opened her mouth. You’ve been asking yourself the same thing too.

So, swallow hard, try to ignore the way Natty’s friends have gone quiet. Try to ignore Natty’s hand still resting against your chest, her eyes burning a hole right through you.

“Why haven’t we had sex yet?”

The blood’s rushing to your cheeks; the music's too loud, the lights too bright, and the room's suddenly spinning around you like a carousel.

Fucking embarrassing.

But Natty doesn’t crack a smile. She just looks up at you. Hopeful. Searching you, searching your eyes for an actual answer; and you already know what it is.

“Because, Natty, we’re friends.” You offer up a weak smile, hoping against hope that she’ll buy it.

But she shakes her head. “Oh, please. Like that’s ever stopped anyone before. Besides, if you want to put a label on it, call it whatever the fuck you want. I just know what I need. Do you?”

You sigh. She gets closer. And closer.

Until your nose is brushing hers. Until her breath is hot on your face, until your heart is racing so fast you can feel it in your ears. Until her hand is sliding down, down, down, until it’s resting over your pants and oh, oh no, you’re straining.

You gasp. She smirks.

“See? You want it too. And I know you do, because, sweetie, your cock’s practically begging me to pull it out and shove it between my tits right here in front of everyone.”

She just throws it out there, so casually, so bluntly, she might as well be talking about the weather. And maybe, maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just Natty being Natty, but fuck you can’t do anything but stay frozen still.

You’re letting her hand linger. You’re letting her touch you like she’s got every right in the world. You’re letting her because there’s a part of you—the part that’s growing by the second—that wants to see just how far she’ll take this.

“So, what is the real reason, ba-by?”

Because you’re in love with her. You’re in love with her, and you can’t just have casual sex with someone you’re in love with because it will ruin you.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you just tell her: “Timing.”

That makes her laugh. Has her closing what little gap remained between your bodies, until her tits are flush against your chest, and you’re coming to the conclusion that, yes, you did help her pick out the perfect outfit for tonight.

Perfectly, hopelessly, fuckable.

“Well,” she says, and she’s pulling you back down again and shutting you up with yet another kiss. “We’ve got all the time in the world now, don’t we?”

—

You’ve been here before.

Many, many times before.

You installed the showerhead and fixed all the cabinets yourself. Even secured the lock that you’re now unlocking with the digits that you coded.

But somehow, it feels like a first.

First time you’ve kissed her in the back of a car, pushed your hand up her skirt, felt the heat of her against your fingertips. First time you’ve pinned her against the wall of an elevator, made her feel just how desperate you were for her against her thigh, made her promise to be so good for you when you got to her door.

First time being pulled through the threshold, hands at your chest, tearing your shirt off you before you’ve even stepped foot in her apartment. Had her smiling against your mouth, because she’s won, again, and you can’t even bother to argue because you’ve lost to her so many times now that this shouldn’t be so surprising.

What is surprising though is how you’re naked first.

"Terrible, terrible taste." Natty's clicking her tongue as your shoes, your shirt, your pants are scattered along the floor behind you. “We’ll have to fix that.”

And then she’s moving on, hands clawing down your stomach to land at the waistband of your underwear, hooking her thumbs in and yanking down. You’re so obviously hard—you’ve barely made any effort to hide it from her—fuck, you pretty much flagged down the taxi with it.

"Holy fuck," is the first thing out of Natty's mouth when she takes a hold of you, feeling the naked weight of you in her palm. "You’re really not messing around, are you? I was expecting—"

"A sad, lonely little thing," you finish for her, because you've heard it before. "Yeah, you like to mention it a lot."

But Natty’s not laughing now.

She’s just staring. Almost reverently. She decides, her voice a little raspy, tinted with an apprehension that you never knew she was capable of mustering, "I like it. It's... massive."

You lean in, pressing your mouth against hers because if she’s going to say that, you’re going to kiss her, again and again, and there’s a strong possibility you're never going to stop.

She whimpers, gasps into your mouth, says your name for the first time—not some nickname, not a jab or an insult. Just your name, in your ears, like it’s something sacred.

You’re not a saint. You can’t ignore that.

Your cock jumps in her hand, and as if on instinct, she strokes you.

It's slow, purposeful. She's too good at this. Knows the right pressure, where to twist and wind her wrist. How to sweep her thumb over the tip, smear pre-cum over your skin, and this entire time she's staring down at your cock like she's discovered something new.

“This is going to ruin me, isn't it?” she whispers, and you nod, because your voice is lodged in your throat and she’s stealing the air from your lungs. “Going to fit so fucking nicely inside me. Fuck it’s going to stretch me.”

You groan, collapse your weight into Natty, press your lips against the column of her throat.

Both hands now, one underneath, toying with your balls, balancing them in her fingers, and the other doing its best to squeeze, to pump, to make you fall for her with every stroke.

“I can’t wait to ride this,” Natty kisses these words into your cheek, your jaw, leaves these marks all over your collarbone. “I wonder if I can fit it down my throat. God, can you imagine what it’ll look like between my tits?”

And that makes your cock throb.

Because face it, Natty has always had a way of getting into your head; is far too dangerous with her words, and she’s all too willing to abuse this power she has over you to get you do what she wants, which is now, apparently, fucking her senseless.

You let her, let her build and build this pressure, let it coil inside you, tighter and tighter. Until the need to feel her, all of her, is too much to handle.

Until you grab her, take her by the shoulders, push her—not hard, but firmly—against the nearest wall.

You’re not gentle about it, because Natty doesn’t want gentle. She wants rough, she wants passionate, she wants to be fucked and have her cunt worshipped by way of complete ruin.

She’s told you as much.

"That's more like it," Natty bites into your ear, grips your shoulders. She follows your eyes. "Let me guess, my tits?"

So, maybe she has caught you looking once or twice. Either way, you don’t care much for her top anymore, it’s served its purpose. You take a fistful of it and pull, ripping it right off her and tossing it to the floor with everything else that’s kept the two of you from tearing each other apart.

“Better?” Natty poses for you, puts her tits on display—and yeah, you were right all along. Fucking immaculate.

You take a hold of one, palm it; fill your hand with flesh, twinge those dark, plump nipples, because of course you’re going to. You’re going to pinch and squeeze and suck on them. You’re going to mark her like she’s already done to you. Mark them, with your teeth, with your tongue. Fuck, you’re going to make them yours.

But for now, you're just going to slap them, because you want to watch them jiggle up close.

You laugh. Natty does too.

"Much better."

And with that, you’re back on her. Kisses that are sloppy, wet, and filled with all the pent-up want that's been simmering for months. You don’t even know where to begin with Natty, but you start with her mouth. It’s a good place. It’s always a good place with Natty.

Her hand doesn’t stop moving, can’t, won’t. The friction is heaven; you just let her touch you, fuck her hand while you indulge in her tits. Get to know the weight of them, the balance, the softness.

A sigh into your ear as your tongue finally finds her breasts, deep and messy, sliding over her nipple—she’s already so sensitive, just a flick and she’s gasping. You’re not even trying to be precise anymore, not that Natty needs it, not that she needs anything but for you to enjoy yourself against her.

It all makes the room seem smaller, the walls close, surrounding you with the scent—cinnamon and sweat and something else that’s just her.

“See this is why fucking me is such a great idea,” she slurs against your shoulder, hand tightening, stroking you harder, faster.

You mumble an affirmative into her breast. It’s a miracle you can still stand upright.

“Isn’t this so much better than like everything else? Anyone else?” She sighs, breathy, sweet sounds, as she takes you by the wrist, guides your hand southwards.

Fingertips graze her stomach, trace around her belly button and lower; until you’re digging into her skirt and feeling the heat rise off her skin. She’s soaked right through her panties, dripping with it. Another place for your tongue to land.

“We can just be fucking honest with each other,” Natty’s explaining, eyes tearing when your finger pads her clit, pressing down just right. “You already told me all the things you hate. All the things your bitch exes never let you do.” And she smiles, wicked. “Never had the tits to give you.”

Christ.

“And I can get you to fuck me exactly how I want with this big, fucking cock,” Natty finishes. "We’re a perfect fucking match."

It’s at that moment you find the zipper of her skirt, tugging it down, watching it fall to the feet. Leaving Natty to step out of the tiny scrap of fabric she calls her panties; abandoning the sticky mess of cotton.

You take a step back, unlatch your lips from her tits, because you need to see it. Need to finally see her, see your Natty, see the Natty you've never allowed yourself to look at.

So, take your time, drink her in—because the way she’s standing there, the way she’s touching herself now; biting her lip, sighing your name. All but saying, ‘Look all you want, but don’t you dare look away’.

Look at the arch of her neck, the red you’ve left there, that trail you’ve burned down to her tits. Bruised and swollen from your tongue, your kisses, and yet still not marked enough. Follow the curve of her hips; how they flare out from her waist, the plush squish of her ass cheeks against the wall behind her.

You want to kiss her, from the tips of her toes to the top of head; all of her, every part of her, because now she’s going to finally let you.

Because now you're going to fuck her until all she knows is you, going to make her scream your name, going to make her beg for you to fill her with your cock and cum and never ever leave her cunt empty again.

That’s the plan, anyway.

But Natty’s got plans of her own.

“Didn’t you say,” Natty begins, sighing, circling her cunt in a rhythm that you’re dying to recreate. She licks her lips. “That your last ex refused to suck that lovely, magnificent cock of yours?

"Yeah," you stammer, at a loss for breath at just the sight of it all. “And weren’t you trying to find someone to fuck your brains out?”

Natty’s eyes light up; and there's that easy, charming grin that knocks you right off your feet. "You’ve always been such a good listener."

—

Natty's plotting to ruin you.

It's the only possible explanation for the way she's looking at you right now—on her knees, at the foot of her bed, flanked by walls painted an ugly shade of pastel pink and Natty's tits, sandwiching your cock.

You’d imagined it, thought about it when you shouldn’t have been thinking about it. Whenever she brought you to watch her perform, whenever she sent you pictures of her outfit of the day. But your eyes always went there. Straight to Natty’s tits, every time.

You knew they were big.

You’ve felt them, on accident (though they don’t seem like accidents anymore).

But now, to have them enveloping your cock, drowning your shaft in their softness, and to have her, staring at your face with so much fucking excitement as she gives you everything you’ve ever wanted—it’s surreal.

You’re dying to paint them white.

“Looks like you’re already about to fall apart, baby,” she teases, and it’s even worse now that she’s calling you these sweet names, saying them like she’s always wanted to, like she’s finally letting herself. “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

“Fuck, Natty—” you breathe out, your hands finding her hair, tightening, because that’s all you can manage to do when Natty’s in control. Like she’s always been.

“Mmhmm,” she hums, keeping her eyes on you, making sure you’re watching, even as her tongue flicks out to taste you. A slow, taunting lick to make you buck your hips, desperate to feel the suction of her lips. “You must have been dreaming about this, huh?”

You don’t bother lying. She already knows the answer. “Every. Fucking. Night.”

Natty’s smile spreads across her face, and she rewards you with a kiss, pressing her lips down onto the head of your cock; before sliding them lower, eyes fluttering shut with the first taste of you. “Well, what took you so long? All you needed to do was show me your cock and I’d have been happy to do it whenever you want me to. Happy for you to use my tits as your cum rag. You know that, right?”

She moves; and the sight of it alone—Natty’s tits wrapped around your cock, bobbing up and down, hypnotising you with the flicker of her nipples—up and down, up and down. It’s merciless, unrelenting, and she keeps talking, keeps kissing these sweet little words into your cock that makes your hips jerk, trying to fuck her tits faster, harder.

"Look at how perfect you look," Natty keeps going, "how your cock fits so snug."

The sounds she’s tearing from your throat as her tits take you, and she’s barely even started.

“But we can do better, can’t we?”

Her pace picks up, and with it, the tightness of your grip on her hair. She’s pushing the ample mounds together, squeezing, putting her whole body into it, into this new art she’s pioneering. Driving you insane with just her breasts, making you swell between them, throbbing as she works you over.

“So big," she’s panting from just the effort, the bounce, bounce, bounce of it all, "I can feel you getting so much bigger."

Everything’s going too fast, her tits are too soft, her lips on you too hot, and she’s drooling, her spit dripping down onto your cock. You want to tell her to stop, that you can’t take it, but Natty just keeps going.

"Fuck,” Natty mewls, pinching her own nipples, for you, for her. Pinching and rolling them, making them nice and stiff and swollen. “Let me just try and—”

She cranes her head, bends; takes your cock deeper into the warm, wet heat of her mouth. Her tongue darts out licks your cock, gets that sweet spot on the underside, makes you shake underneath her.

Natty holds you there, even as you groan, even as your hips rise; just licks, spits, sucks. Her mouth moving up and down on you, making a mess down your shaft, down her tits. Taking you deeper, deeper, until you’re fucking her face.

She moans around you as your hips buck and you push deep, desperate for it. Her eyes water, her cheeks hollow, and she’s got you. You’re in her mouth and she’s loving it. Loving the power she has over you, loving giving you what she wants, loving how you’re pulling her by the hair, desperate to feed her more of your cock into her throat.

Like your entire relationship has been building up to this moment—to Natty’s tits wrapped around you, her mouth all over you, her eyes on yours, watching as you fuck her face.

"Fuck, Natty," you grunt, your voice barely recognisable. "What the fuck—"

But Natty's just smiling, you’re fucking that smug little smile on her lips, and she’s taunting you. "Come on baby, keep going, keep going."

It’s utterly obscene—the smack of her lips around your cock, her slobbering all over you, her gagging, her moaning around you, looking up at you and asking, “Is that all you’ve got?”

You're so close, so fucking close, and she knows it. Moving her tits faster, faster, and you're about to blow your load all over Natty's pretty face, her chest.

But she keeps talking.

Even as you stuff her cheeks, even as you muffle her, “None of those other skinny bitches could do this, could they, could handle this big, fat cock?”

Even as you force her down, pull her by the hair, “You’ve been so obsessed with my body, so obsessed with my tits, haven’t you?”

Even as her tits slide off you and your cock smacks her across her cheek, “I always saw the way you looked at them, fuck I was showing them off for you, you just took too fucking long to notice.”

She won't stop fucking talking.

You finally snap. "God, are you ever going to stop?"

But Natty just laughs, bats her lashes. Slides her tongue from your base to your tip. "Maybe you should find something to gag me with."

Your hand wraps around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes go wide, to make her mouth pop open. She rolls out her tongue for you, and you know what she expects you to do, what she expects you to fill her mouth with.

But you don’t—instead, you fill it with your kiss.

It's deep, it’s bruising, it’s saying ‘fuck you’ in the sweetest way possible, without uttering a single syllable. Natty laughs against your mouth, a ‘fuck you’ right back with her teeth, biting down on your lower lip. Not breaking skin—not yet—but the promise is there.

Her hand leaves your cock to wrap around your neck, pulling you closer to her, her mouth eager for yours, and you don’t even think twice before you hoist her up, her legs wrapping around your waist. Giggling again—another sound that’s going to be your undoing—before you’re both stumbling back onto her bed.

The mattress dips under the weight of your bodies falling back into it. Natty straddles you, presses her cunt down onto your thighs. So wet you can feel it on your thigh, leaving your skin sticky and stained with her. Your hands move to her hips, dragging her closer, so you can feel the friction grinding against your cock, making you ache.

She breaks your kiss, gasping for air. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide—seeing her pant like this, it’s not even fair. She’s just so fucking beautiful, like a painting you’re afraid to touch because you might smudge it.

You tell her as much.

She blinks. Blushes.

Grins.

“You,” Natty breathes, her hand trailing down your chest, finding your heartbeat, resting there for a beat, two, “are so fucking in love with me.”

You don’t argue because she’s right.

Her hand slides up your arms, nails dig in and she’s got your wrists, pinning them over your head. You let her. Let her grind herself against your cock, feel the warm, wet heat of her cunt against the tip.

She takes her sweet time, melting herself into you, pressing her tits into your chest, and you can feel her heart racing against yours.

She whispers, “God, I’ve waited so fucking long for this.”

You can’t even form a coherent thought, so you just grunt.

“I’ve dreamt about this so much,” she continues, breathless words sending shivers down your spine. “Your cock, fuck, it’s just as perfect as I imagined. And now, it’s all mine.”

And then she does it—she sinks down onto you, slow and sweet, her pussy taking you in inch by glorious inch. You groan into her shoulder, your eyes shut as Natty’s tight heat surrounds you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before; sure there’s been others but something about Natty’s cunt is so intense it’s almost painful.

“So tight,” you grit out, the words torn from your chest like they’re made of glass. She just laughs, low, sultry, and starts to move.

It’s a dance, a rhythm that’s been building between the two of you for what feels like an eternity. She’s rocking her hips back and forth in this torturous grind. Fucking you like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do, like she needs to make the most of it. Like you’re going to vanish into thin air the second she lets you go.

“I knew you’d feel this good,” Natty sighs into your neck, already surrendering to your cock. “Fuck, I knew it—why did you keep this from me?”

You can’t answer, not really.

You’re too lost in the feel of her, too consumed by the way she’s moving on top of you. Every inch of her body is pressed against yours, and she’s so warm, so alive, that you can’t think of anything but how Natty’s finally letting you in. How she’s letting you make her whole.

But it’s too much. Natty’s cunt, tight and wet, fucking you so slow it’s a fucking crime. Pinning you down, a butterfly on a board spread out, displayed, unable to do anything but take her sweet, sweet punishment. And she’s whispering it in your ear, grinding down, rolling her hips, “Fuck you. Fuck you for keeping this from me,” with every stroke.

She’s doing it on purpose, you’re sure of it. Driving you crazy, making you beg, making you want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your life. Your hips jerk up to meet her, trying to speed things up, to get that friction you need, but Natty just pushes down on your shoulders, keeping you in place.

So you tell her, "This is fucking torture."

Natty just smirks, her hips never stilling. "Is it?" she asks, as if this all isn’t intentional. Like she doesn’t have some grand plan to ensure you never forget the things her cunt can do to you. "Do something about it then."

So, you do.

It takes more effort than you’ll ever admit, but you break her grip on your wrists, grab her hips, and flip her over, sending her sprawling onto the bed, face down.

The squeal from her. It’s music.

How her eyes go wide when you treat her like a ragdoll, how her tits juggle and bounce, smacking the mattress. And when you push down into her, slamming your hips into her ass, how she arches back into you, her back bowing like a fucking violin.

“Yes!” She cries, fucking cheers into the mattress, like she’s been waiting for this—for you to have had enough of her shit and take her without asking. “Yes, yes, yes—”

You hover over her, throb inside her. "Is this what you fucking wanted?"

Natty sighs into the bedsheets, urging her hips against you, begging without words, begging for you to do more.

“You want it rough, baby?”

“Yeah,” Natty says, pushing back against you again, nodding immediately. “If you can.”

Still with the provocations, unable to resist pressing at your buttons.

You grab her hair, yank it back so she’s staring at you, force her to look at you. And you fuck her hard. Fuck her like you’ve wanted to since the first time she walked into your life and decided to make it all about her.

You fill her with deep, long strokes, fill the room with the smacks of your hips colliding against her, of your cock thrusting into her cunt again and again.

She claws at the sheets, trying to find purchase, trying to push back against you. But you’re too strong, too desperate.

You pound into her, impale her with your cock, watch her face twist in pleasure, in pain. You’re fucking her like you’re trying to break her, like she asked. Trying to solve her—how hard can she take it, how deep, how fast.

But Natty won’t give you an answer, she just takes it all—every inch, ever pump into her sopping wet cunt. Just grins and takes every bit of your need, your frustration. A bottomless pit of pleasure, begging for more with every whine, every little noise she makes that’s not quite a scream but is so close that it rattles your brain.

And when you finally let go of her hair, Natty’s licking her lips, and without even a care for what it does to you, she coaxes, “You can do better.”

You don’t know how she can talk right now, how she can even think with your cock so deep inside her, but something about the way she says it makes you want to test the limits of her ability to stay coherent.

But first, there’s the problem of her ass.

“Let’s see about that,” you murmur, dragging your hand down her spine, feeling the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, and coming to a stop at her perfectly rounded ass. It’s a masterpiece, a work of art, and you’ve always had a bit of an artist’s soul.

You do what comes naturally.

A spank against Natty’s ass. Hard, hard enough to make her yelp.

Again—another slap, another yelp, louder, better.

You keep fucking her, keep spanking her, keep watching red bloom across her cheeks and Natty squirm underneath you. The whines get louder, her cunt gets wetter, but it’s still not enough to dull that smug look on her face.

“Fuck yes,” Natty gasps, raises her ass, presenting it to you like a trophy for you to claim. “I always knew you had it in you.”

You grab her hips harder, your knuckles white, your hand a blur as it connects with her ass. It’s so explicit, the sound of it in the quiet of Natty’s apartment—each spank echoing through the room like a gunshot.

But Natty just takes it, her body jolting with each hit, her cunt tensing and tightening around you.

“God, don’t fucking stop,” Natty sputters, tears of pained pleasure leaking from the corners of her eyes. “You’re using me so good.”

You lean down, kissing hard against her neck, branding her shoulder. You want her to feel you, to remember you. To not be able to ever feel remotely good again without first thinking of you.

"It's your fucking fault, Natty," you growl into her ear. "You drive me mad."

And she laughs, the sound vibrating through her body and going straight to your cock. "Good," she answers, "Good. Be mad. Be angry."

But you’re beyond that now, beyond the point of no return. All that you know is Natty’s cunt, Natty’s ass, Natty’s moans, and Natty’s grin that you’re aching to wipe off her face.

"Fucking hate me if you want," she’s saying, and she can’t seem to stop, "just don’t stop fucking—ah!”

You nearly stop when you realise you’ve finally done it. Finally left Natty out of breath, lost for words. A fucking miracle, really—the kind that makes you feel like a fucking god.

It doesn’t stop her cunt clenching around you, tight as a vice, because even now, Natty’s got some kind of death grip pussy, and she’s using it to fucking kill you.

You whisper in her ear, “You like that?”

Her only response is a breathy, needy little whine, so you spank her again.

And again.

Her cunt tightens. She’s close, so close. You can feel it.

“You like it when I use you, Natty?”

She nods, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth crying into the mattress, a mess of hair and sweat and utter bliss.

“Say it,” you demand, slapping her ass once more, watching as the pain ripples through her. “Say it.”

And Natty does, because she’s a good little whore, because she’s yours now. “Yes, yes, I like it when you use me, when you fuck me like this, when it’s only about you, your cock, your needs, your pleasure—”

God, it feels good to hear her say it, but you still want more than just words. You want her to fucking scream it.

You make the bed shake, knock the headboard against her wall, it’s a competition of what’s going to break first—the frame or her.

“This cunt. Your cunt. I’m going to use it. Fuck it whenever I want.”

But Natty catches you off guard, because that’s what Natty does best. She opens her eyes, looks right into yours, and suddenly she has her voice again: “Whenever I want. You’re going to fucking move in with me.”

You freeze. Your hand mid-spank. Your cock mid-thrust. It throws you entirely off, because, what the fuck?

"You're going to be my boyfriend now," Natty says, wrenching back control, fucking her ass back into you. Stating not asking, leaving no room for argument. "Move in with me, your place sucks anyway."

"You're out of your fucking mind," you start to protest, but she cuts you off with another squeeze of her cunt around you, and now she’s the one fucking you, her hips rolling back and forth in this maddening, sinful way that has you biting down on your tongue to keep from shouting.

"Move in and just fuck me every day," she says, all light and airy, like it’s already been decided, like moments ago you didn’t have her dead to rights. "Morning to night. It would be so fucking nice."

This is real, you know that for sure. It’s not just something she’s saying to get off, not another way to get under your skin. You know it in her voice, she’s deadly serious and suddenly your mind’s racing.

"Come on," Natty purrs, punctuating each word with a slap of her ass against your waist, "You know you want it, why fucking wait?"

She’s not wrong. It makes too much fucking sense to deny. And yet, part of you still can't believe it. That Natty, the girl who's had countless men at her feet, could have any man at her feet, actually wants you. That Natty is underneath you now, eyes glossed over with need, mouth swollen from your kisses, ass cheeks flushed crimson from your palm.

"I'll take such good care of you, baby," she says, unaware that she’s already completely won, unaware that her cunt already has you bending to her will. "Every day, every night.”

You can't help but nod. You're too consumed in her to do anything else. You just let go of everything. The fears, the doubt, the fucking logic.

And Natty says it, the three words that seal your fate—"I'll love you," she cries out, "I'll fucking love you forever if you just keep giving me this fucking cock."

It's like the world stops, like everything you've ever wanted is right there in front of you, wrapped up in Natty's tight fucking body.

You're so close, so fucking close, that you can almost taste it—the sweet release of your orgasm; giving in to Natty’s unbelievably sensational cunt sleeving your cock, pulsing with each thrust, desperate to milk you dry.

There’s nothing left to do but give Natty wants. Fuck her, hammer into her so hard that you’re going to fuck a Natty-shaped hole into the mattress, fucking shatter her bedframe, and then keep drilling her straight through the floor.

And she’s crying out your name, forgetting about everything that isn’t you, isn’t your cock, isn’t the dream of your cum filling her to the brim and spilling out of her cunt every single day for the rest of your fucking lives.

“Are you close, baby? Are you going to cum for me? Please, give it to me, I need it so bad, I need it now, because I'm about to, about to, about to—"

And then it happens.

Fucking destroys her.

It hits. A crescendo that peaks as you bottom out inside her, shaking her to the core. Her cunt spasms about you, her body rises off the bed as if you’re performing a fucking exorcism, and she screams your name so loud it’s only a matter of time before the neighbours come banging on her door.

"Oh my fucking god you—"

Natty gushes around your cock, juices running down your shaft, your balls, and she’s squirting. Oh god, she’s squirting all over the fucking place.

Natty’s body goes rigid, her back arching so much it’s like she’s trying to fold in half, crying, sputtering these words that don't even make sense—until you realise she's speaking an entirely different fucking language.

Not that it matters, because you can tell what she's saying, read it in her body, in the way she's spurting and making a big fucking mess beneath your bodies. Whatever she’s saying sounds utterly depraved, filthy and so, so good to your ears.

It keeps going and going, until she has enough sense to speak your language again, needing to make sure you hear it when she says—"fucking fill me, baby," she whimpers. "Give me everything, all your fucking cum."

And it’s your turn to be hit—like a fucking freight train.

You're cumming, hard and fast and out of fucking nowhere. Your balls tighten, your cock throbs, and you’re flooding Natty’s cunt.

It’s biological, in every cell of your body—like your entire being is coming undone, and the only thing holding you together is Natty, Natty, Natty.

Her body shaking beneath you, her cunt contracting around your cock as wave after wave of cum fills her up.

She’s so fucking tight, so fucking perfect, that you can feel every pulse of your orgasm, every drop of your cum spurting into her. You're not sure how long it lasts, how much you give her, but it’s enough to make your muscles shake, enough to knock the architecture right out of your limbs.

"So fucking good, so fucking good," Natty coos. "Fucking finally, finally filling me up so good."

Her moans a lullaby, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body with every syllable. You lean down, burying your face in the crook of her neck, your every inhale and exhale ragged as you try to catch your breath. Still twitching inside her, still releasing the last of your cum, and Natty’s just lying there, her body limp, her eyes closed, basking in it all.

"So perfect," she keeps repeating, right up until the very end, “So, so, perfect.”

You collapse on top of her, just lie there shivering together, your face next to hers. She’s got this look on her face, a victorious glow, and you just have to accept it. Yeah, she’s won again, in devastatingly convincing fashion.

For a second, you’re both just that—spent, exhausted, entirely drained. Like you’ve just run a marathon. Or been in a fight. Or both.

Then Natty’s got the nerve to stir, to kiss your cheek with the tenderness of a whisper. Lips softer than you thought possible, given how hard she’s just been fucking you. And that’s it, the moment your body decides it’s had enough of playing dead, enough of lying there like a sack of potatoes.

You roll over, bringing Natty with you, her body curling into yours like she’s been made to fit there. Her head rests on your chest, her legs entwined with yours, and for a moment, you just hold her close.

It feels fucking right.

"Tomorrow," Natty sighs contentedly, her cheek finding home atop your heartbeat.

You blink. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, you're moving in tomorrow." Natty’s deciding for you already, setting the dynamic for the rest of your future. Doing all this with her eyes still shut as she snuggles closer to you. "I'll hire the movers."

You sigh, the weight of the world and Natty's body both feeling surprisingly light. You think about the next few days, the weeks, the years even, with Natty. The idea is so ludicrous, so absurd, that it feels like a fever dream.

But as you hold her, feel her warmth, her unabashed, blatant satisfaction, something inside you shifts. A reframing of the concept of Natty that you hold in your head. The thought of her naked body in your bed, her laughter in your living room, her mess in your kitchen—it doesn’t feel like an intrusion, it feels like home.

"Are you sure?" you ask. A little shaky, a little hopeful.

Natty opens one eye to look at you, a laugh playing on her lips. "Oh, you know I'm going to be the worst fucking roommate ever."

"Yeah, I can see that. But as long as you keep being the best fucking everything else..." Your words trail off into a whisper, your hand tracing idle patterns on her back.

And then she says it again.

"You’re so fucking in love with me."

Natty kisses you hard, deep, her tongue sliding against yours. And you know, you fucking know, that she's right. You are desperately, entirely, so fucking in love with her, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You laugh, the sound a little desperate, a little wild, and roll her again, pin her down again. A strange feeling rushes through your mind. Like you’re going to be repeating this exact same motion for the next hundred years. And somehow, that doesn’t sound like the worst thought in the world.

Natty squeals, cheers, moans when you settle between her legs.

"Fuck you, Natty."

"Oh, baby," Natty giggles, reaching down between your legs, squeezing you. Once. Twice. Until you're filling her hand once more. "That's what I'm here for."

[yosh-iro]

just realizing my hearing can be summed up as having a fucking nasa computer for hardware but only ever using it to play that vid of a spinning rat with a compressed version of free bird in the background

[jellyluchi]

Birthday Blues

A/N: A fic for my lovely @widdlepeetsselfship for their birthday! It's originally with Cannella, her OC.

Pairing: Formaggio x Reader Genre: NSFW Warnings: Reader wears a dress and does makeup has tits and pussy, coercive sex, non-consensual to dubious consent. man handling, degradation, PIV sex, praise kink, daddy kink Summary: Formaggio wants to treat you to the best birthday ever but not without a price!

Fifteen minutes past noon is when you feel a slight shake, sunlight dancing on your closed eyelids like small fireworks. Shuffling away from whatever disturbance had the audacity to disrupt your slumber,you try to go back to sleep. A faint whisper comes from somewhere above…

“…wake up babe… sweetie baby!” He calls your name

The voice grows louder, bringing you out of the perfect dream you were having, of lavish desserts and expensive getaways to some otherworldly place. Disgruntled, you groan, opening your eyes to find your boyfriend hovering over your half-asleep form. 

“Maggio…” you say groggily. “Why’re you awake so early…” 

“Early? Babe It’s past noon, perfect time to wake up!” He gives you a goofy grin, one that would lighten your mood if you were not between waking and sleeping. You stare at him, slightly annoyed and not clearly thinking at all. 

Without a word, you try to turn back to sleep only for your boyfriend to grab you by the shoulders. 

“Hey hey hey, woah woah! Hold on, are you forgetting what today is?” He gives you a rare incredulous look and you realize for once he’s being sincere. 

“Fuck, did I forget out anniversary?” The expression of pure confusion with the combination of your half lidded eyes and bed head makes Formaggio howl with laughter. 

“Amore, it’s your birthday.” The emphasis on the words takes a minute to sink into your mind. You look at him for a couple more seconds. 

“Oh… okay.” 

“Don’t ‘oh, okay’ me! Get ready baby, we’re going out for breakfast. I wouldn’t be called Formaggio if I didn't even take out my sweetie baby on their birthday.” He caresses your cheeks affectionately, as if handling a feisty cat for the first time. It’s not how he would handle a real cat, being absolute dogshit with animals as he is. Yet the affectionate touch is enough to convince you. “Doll up for me real nice, I wanna see you in that dress.. You know the one.” 

Formaggio winks as you pout at back, unclear to him whether because he asked you to get up or because of the demand to dress up to his choices. You sigh, even if you have much of an option there's a certain entertainment in humoring your boyfriend’s whims and knowing you’re most likely about to get free food is enough motivation to wake up past noon. Balancing yourself,you let yourself sit up.

“That’s my baby.” He whispers, bringing a slight blush to your face that you don't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing. 

Watching him leave the room, you flip over the covers and drag yourself to the bathroom, determined to look your best. And Formaggio, being the experienced boyfriend he is, expects the time it takes for you to get ready. A rookie version of himself would have become impatient with waiting for his partner. But as he has learned and in your wise words…‘glam like this takes time.’

But it’s completely worth the wait as you walk out of your bedroom with your hair tied, a couple of hoop earrings, radiantly shiny gloss, a fur shawl, all brought together by a baby pink dress, the sweetheart neckline of which falls rather low. The glitter eyeshadow of your lids twinkle with the natural light in your shared apartment. You’d be damned if you don’t look your absolute best on your motherfucking birthday. Being the type of man he is, Formaggio barely feels inadequate standing next to his goddess of a partner. 

In true Italian fashion, he grins at you with arms wide open as if to try and give you a hug. Grabbing your shoulders, he almost shakes you with mirth. “You look fantastic.” His handsome grin is more than a little overwhelming and You pretend it doesn’t make your heart flip flop in your chest, looking away. 

“You look pretty handsome.” It's an understatement. Despite only adorning a blazer with a mesh shirt underneath, somehow Formaggio makes it look runway ready. Curse him and his beautiful tummy. 

Clutching your purse, you walk to the door with him in tow, going down to the parking lot.

“Wait, bella, hold on.” While you try to walk out of the building, expecting him to take you there by foot, he has other plans. He produces something from his pocket, setting it down on the ground before giving it space. Within seconds, the tiny thing turns into a car. His latest loot from some random citizen no doubt. “We’re not walking today, my love,” he quips. Opening the door, he gestures for you to go inside.  “After you.” 

Impressed, you give him a pleased smile. “We aren’t late are we?” You ask, as he wasn’t waiting for you just because you wanted to get the perfect eyeliner for almost thirty minutes. 

“Nope! There’s no such thing as being late where we’re going.” You quirk an eyebrow.. “Don’t worry, mio amore, you’ll like it.” 

Quickly racking your  brain for options, you  let yourself think wishfully just a little bit. “Are we going to the new restaurant that opened up a few blocks from here?” You ask, perking up at the thought. Only for your expression to fall when Formaggio howls with laughter as he buckles his seatbelt. “Not at all. You’ll like this even better!” 

The car ride is anything but silent, Formaggio rambling about this and that, yet he refuses to share his birthday plans.. But no matter, instead, you start listing the designer items on the latest Vogue Italia that you wish to get as gifts. It’s, by no means, a demand for him to buy them immediately. However, it’s quite a large hint at what he should aim to steal next. 

Surely Formaggio is no fool. And as his partner expects, he produces another miniscule object from his pocket. He can’t get enough of your excited gaze into his hand. 

It’s an antique necklace that looks worth at least $10,000. You're no fool either, knowing not to question your boyfriend's sources and methods when it comes to the spontaneous gifts he gets her. 

“It’s beautiful…” you whisper, eyes twinkling to reflect the light from the necklace’s decoration. Taking it from his hand, you put it on, finally arriving at the destination. 

“Mcdonald’s.” An amused look crosses you. .

“Yup, your favorite.” 

You’re not sure whether to be excited or exasperated. Cheap fast food on your birthday… while dressed to the nines. You  reluctantly get out of the stolen car, not waiting for Formaggio to open the door, pretending to be a perfect gentleman. Contemplating, You secretly wonder if Formaggio met with Prosciutto behind your back for a presentation on conduct and etiquette. Not that he could hold up such a persona for very long. 

And as expected, he throws his hands into his pockets, nonchalantly walking into the establishment without even holding the door to the entrance. 

It doesn’t take long for you two to order some food, chicken nuggets, a shake, some fries. He gets a soda for himself. But as per Formaggio’s predictions, it wouldn’t be the only thing you eat that day. 

“You sure you want that drink, babe?” he asks. 

“Well of course, you should already know my order by now.” You take a sip of her boyfriend’s soda, sideying him rather openly. 

“Then what about the drinks we’re gonna have after?”

“What drinks?” You suddenly perk up, handing his soda back. 

“Y’know the coffee with the syrups and all that, I don’t really get it.” 

“We’re getting frappuccinos afterwards?” You can’t hide your excitement even if you try. And at Formaggio’s sheepish grin, you give him a bright smile, holding your boyfriend’s face in your hands. For a moment in your enthusiasm you forget the rest of the world. 

“Maggio, I could kiss you!”

“Well then why don’t you?” Suddenly flirtatious, he moves closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Wait, not in front of these people.” You’re sure people are already giving looks your way from being dressed the way you are, and it almost crumbles your confidence. 

“C’mon, sugar,” He encourages. Formaggio has always welcomed PDA with open arms. Unlike his disgruntled partner who would often even reject his affections if it was too crowded or busy. Yet it never makes him stop persisting. “Just a small one… it’ll be quick.” 

Formaggio already begins to descend upon your lips when he whispers the words and you have no choice but to accept his kiss with no resistance. Holding him by the blazer jacket, you are still against him as he plants a few soft chaste kisses to your lips. Only to hold you by the chin and gently pry your lips open, allowing him to taste the inside of your mouth. 

Formaggio’s tongue takes the form of pure ecstasy, making you shiver from the intimacy. 

An awkward cough makes you two separate in a haste.

“Your fries and nuggets…” the waitress respectfully places the food at the table as Formaggio gleefully receives it. All while you silently fume. There was no need for her to interrupt and humiliate you this way; the waitress would display far better service by simply not saying anything whatsoever. Munching on nuggets and fries with extra gusto, you can’t wait to leave for those frappuccinos.  

“Woah, slow down there, babe. Here, take my soda.” As Formaggio offers his drink, he chats casually, a similar back and forth you experienced in the car, leaves you feeling somewhat calmer. Eventually, forgetting you felt wronged at all. Every memory of your shitty dates to fast food chains flashes within your mind and a helpless smile forms around your lips. 

“What’re you smiling about, sweetheart?” 

But you don't have the capacity to be sappy in the middle of Mcdonald’s. 

“Nothing. Let’s go, I’m done.” Reapplying some lip gloss, you wait for your boyfriend to finish his burger, a last minute purchase he got hungry midway through the date. 

Finally exiting the restaurant, Formaggio drives to your favorite coffee shop, noting the good mood you’re in after having fast food for breakfast. He reminisces about Prosciutto once telling him off for craving a burger early in the morning, saying he’d find no one that matches his tastes so closely. ‘Eat shit, old man’ he thinks. 

Parking in front of the shop, he’s barely able to walk out of the car before you’re already opening the door and marching in. 

Considering Formaggio hardly has anything to eat from such a place, he’s in no hurry and only thinks of his plan once you’re done here… He takes his time, walking into the coffee shop with nonchalant strides, finding you in line to order and picks a seat to wait for you there. Somehow it always takes at least ten minutes for your drink to arrive, boring him to no end, never understanding your enthusiasm for a place like this. Where there is more sugar than coffee. But really, the thing he comes to see is your smile, full of food and sugar as you should be. 

Formaggio insists you drink at the coffee shop, making up some bullshit about the nice atmosphere and how much you seem to like it. And given your perky disposition at the moment, he suspects you won’t anticipate his plans, ignoring the burning in his groin at the thought.  

Patience is a virtue they say, one that Formaggio tethers himself to by a thin string, waiting for you to be satisfied and gesture for him to leave. He calms his nerves, settling himself back into the bastardly grin after rubbing his short hair by the side. It’s time…

Naples is known for its narrow alleys and hideaways, making it easy for Formaggio to locate a little hole in the wall between the building adjacent to the coffee shop. Pulling you with him, he eagerly near-drags you to a space where the sunlight doesn’t reach, completely shrouding you from the eyes of the public… almost. He’s sure any noise at this point of the day would be heard by nearby pedestrians. 

“What’s going on?” Your curious, somewhat alert voice asks him as he corners you into a wall. 

Brushing a hand over your shoulders, he lays a lecherous gaze over you in the dress. In his humble opinion, it fits too well. How is he to resist a squeeze or two? And what better time than your birthday. His stare doesn’t go unnoticed by his partner, heating your cheeks both in alarm and flustering alike. Grabbing your hips, Formaggio pins your back, leaving no room for escape. 

“Just a little fun, you wouldn’t leave me hanging on your birthday right?” He doesn’t wait for the reply, kissing along your neck and collarbone, wetting them within seconds. 

“Maggio!...” You want to yell, to shout. But your words only turn to sounds of pleasure, your mouth uncooperative with your brain. It’s unbecoming of you, yet you can’t bring yourself to stop him; his grip too strong, his touch too heavenly. Breathing heavily, you take his kisses as you did during breakfast. Except Formaggio is far less gentle this time, demanding more with tongue, making you whine, trying to push him off by the shoulders. 

He chuckles into his kiss, as if your fists are nothing but child’s play. 

“Settle down, sweetie…” Looking at you with lustful eyes, he says. You realize his irises almost disappear from the lack of light, making them appear as dark as abyss. A strange mix of shame and arousal swirl within you, trying to fight the feeling. “Oh don’t be like that, darling,” he says darkly, a hand already pressing between your legs to dig into your underwear. “Ya look too good in that dress for me to let this go… c’mon, I got the food and the drinks…” 

As the pieces fall into place within your mind, you understand his enthusiasm to leave for breakfast, his urgency for you to finish your coffee… the bastard only wanted to bed you. Or well.. You realize it’s not much of a bed, standing panting against the wall. 

As Formaggio’s thin string of patience finally snaps, he’s no longer satisfied, only grinding against your hips. Flipping you to your front against the wall, he allows himself to unsheath the burning cock from within his pants. 

“Wait!” His partner’s words fall on deaf ears as he forces you to bend to his whims. The pink dress rides up, revealing your wetness to him easily, how perfect that it should be so short, so easily accessible. 

“Just like a common whore,” he murmurs. She could only clutch the wall the dear life as he teases her entrance slowly, covering himself in your arousal. “Stop it, Maggio…” she you whine, the resistance of your mouth not matching the anticipation of your body. And within seconds, you find yourself full of him to the brim. Panting helplessly, you try to keep yourself quiet. But your boyfriend only makes it more difficult, bending atop your back to kiss your neck and claw at your breasts.. 

“Sweet doll, ya always take me so well,” the grin is apparent in his voice, even if she can’t see the smug satisfaction on his face. Biting your lip, you let her body jerk to his thrusts, not trusting your voice to be of any use. 

It disgruntled your boyfriend a little bit, who is enthused by your noises during intimacy. He moves his hips faster in hopes of getting more out of you. “You’re doing so well, doll…my personal whore. Dressing like that just ‘cause I said so.” He takes a moment to chuckle, encircling his arms over your stomach to knead the soft flesh. 

At long last, his wish is fulfilled as you moan out a helpless “daddy…” in which he relishes. 

Laughing still, he kisses over your back where it’s exposed. “So sweet.” It doesn’t stop him from continuing to thrust, now clearly chasing orgasm without paying mind to your needs. You hold still, realizing he would be cumming inside you. 

“Wait please! Maggio!” 

But your words are interrupted by your own orgasm, taking you by surprise when you squeeze him tight, making him plant his seed inside you within seconds.

“Fuck,” you whisper. Hearing him sigh, and pull out, You straighten yourself, worried about the condition of your dress and hair. You’ll have to reapply that lipstick. As Formaggio zips his pants, you fuss over the rumpled creases. 

“I’ll take ya home, so you can get changed,” he says, clearly not as concerned. 

“I’m not sitting in the car with your cum inside me!” 

“Do you have a choice?” He challenges. “Or did ya want me to eat ya out before we go?” 

You hit him up the shoulder. “It’s not funny, Maggio!” Huffing, you make your way to the car, hoping no one notices the trail of white down your thigh. 

Scoffing, Formaggio follows, wishing you a mockery of a “happy birthday.” 

commissions [closed]❤️‍🔥support my work

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 1/2/2024

it’s quite satisfying how the year started on a monday

listening

first song of the year: how could it be anything other than Sabata. this is the theme from the titular Sabata, i meant to pick the theme from Return of Sabata but im not mad about it.

-

reading

i read Tim Marchman’s Popping Tins newsletter (a newsletter about fish and seafood) less bc i enjoy locking Mack in the bathroom every time i want a tuna melt and more for the droll authorial voice. i have bought a tin of mackerel after reading some entries, and it was very good but much much richer than tuna.

What should I do with this can of krill meat?

after consulting the importer’s website:

This is accompanied by a photograph of the can featuring easily-discerned black eyes, which are nothing to be concerned about, according to the company that produces this can. The first question on its FAQ page is “What are the little black speckles in my can?” “No need to be concerned here!” the answer reads. “Your meat is not dirty, and you did not get a defected can. Our Antarctic Krill meat contains the most nutritious parts of the krill, which happen to include their eyes.

…

The risks here are clear: I could vomit when I open the can and see the nutritious black eyes staring at me; I could destroy the peace in my home by making it smell like sautéed and simmered krill; and/or I could ruin a perfectly delicious lunch by introducing nutritious eyes and hard bits of chitin.

i have no memory of how i found this newsletter.

i keep forgetting i have ten hoopla credits a month through my old library and i want to read more comics this year bc reading comics is fun. in the past in practice this means ive binged all ten credits over a weekend. this weekend i had time for exactly one.

The Riddler: Year One is an extremely direct tie-in to the movie and i think it’s neat they let the riddler’s actor paul dano go wild with his backstory and then turn it into a comic. it’s fun when actors get to do weird tie-in shit.

(non-sequential pages)

watching this forensic accountant’s brain crack and scramble like an egg as he struggles to really grasp the enormity of gotham corruption and why the city is such a dogshit miserable place to live in made me go “oh huh that was a pretty good writing decision in the movie”. not that the riddler was terribly stable to begin with but the despair and the unraveling were very effectively conveyed. this comic has a lot of fun with funky layouts (left) and an entire issue (right) is conspiracy board shit on top of accounting forms which is a neat artistic choice.

deeply depressing but an interesting new little window into the rpatz batman (god i hope we get more rpatz batman films) and fun to look at.

how i found this: trawling the popular comics page on hoopla

-

watching

this is the seventh year of starting a new-to-me classic black and white movie around 1030/11 PM New Year’s Eve and i am annoyed i didn’t like the movie that started this year but, according to the data, it’s been fifty-fifty so far.

previous years have featured: sunset boulevard, yojimbo, the thin man, it happened one night, bringing up baby, the big sleep, and now roman holiday (1953, dir. Wyler).

this is the platonic ideal of a classic movie. it’s not sterile but it’s so… unobjectionable. wholesome (derogatory) even. not particularly what i was looking for in a movie but, much like the gelato and champagne that pop up, it was kind of a sweet nothing. i don’t think anyone eats any real food this whole movie?

this is never a movie that feels rushed. it is two hours of watching beautiful people traipse around a beautiful city in beautiful edith head costumes. i would not say there is a lot of tension for the first hour and a half. however, imo, it does land its ending and for that i can forgive it a great deal. this is another beautiful movie that is simply not for me.

-

playing

have you ever wanted an open world rpg where you play as a shark? congrats, this was apparently free on epic a while back

Maneater has a tremendously fun prologue where you play as the soon-to-be-dead mother shark who is absolutely going to town on a crowded beach and destroying multiple spear-gun-wielding divers and multiple boats full of citizens exercising their second amendment rights. this prologue is an excellent choice by the game bc it locks the fun part (eating people) behind several hours of really grindy shit. i am not entertained by the grind of eating progressively larger muskellunge, avoiding alligators, and collecting license plates. the grind is EXCEPTIONALLY grindy, i put about three hours into it and have only gotten to level 5 (teen) and have only two mutations i can sink loot into (four types of loot gained from eating other fish. this is too many types imo). i am not anywhere near a recommended level to start fucking humans up. im also not super impressed with the open world aspects of it— there are not a lot of things to do, discover, or interact with in the first two areas.

this seems like a really fun game that clotheslined itself with a cripplingly slow upgrade cycle. im sure the mid and late game are hysterically fun, especially on stream. however i am not willing to put in the hours to get to the fun part when i could immediately be having fun in some other game.

-

making

a lot of profoundly uninteresting cleaning. after not being able to figure out why my office (where Phil [no longer in heat. for now] lives) still reeks of piss even after stealing a blacklight from a friend and cleaning with a blacklight, it is of course bc she has been pissing in secret places i didn’t think she could get to. upside down smile emoji. both the girls got their monthly flea goop yesterday and were deeply unhappy about it.

most of my plants died in the move and i am finally tackling the survivors. fan favorite giant snake plant (not pictured, tidied up and inside) did make it and pull through but is not happy about it. now that i have baby basil and baby dill sprouting in the kitchen i do need to do something with the balcony so they have somewhere to grow up study and strong.

also slammed that silly little blondeyes NFT thing up on the archive

[mysecretdsmpblog]

Pspspst, so like, what are your other QSMP DID HCs if you don't mind sharing? :)

Anyone with "alter egos," possession arcs, amnesia, etc. are automatically given a free dissociative disorder by me.

Luzu and Arin? DID. Bang bam boom, easy. Possession isn't real on Quesadilla Island only the DID. Arin has memories from an alternate universe that doesn't exist, and that's just something some alters have.

Richarlyson and Romero Richas? Romero Richas is so tired of Richarlyson destroying their paintings, come on man, they worked hard on those. It's not their fault the paintings are scary as fuck to Richarylson. DID, no notes.

Roier is so easy because he kind of laid the groundwork for me? At one point I think I remember him dropping a little bit of lore saying he was hearing other people in his head at one point? I don't think anything ever came of that in canon but MY AU INTERPRETATION MY RULES. In my head, Melissa definitely started as just Roier in drag and then very quickly evolved into her own person. Anyway, Doied is very easy to interpret as an alter, even though I had already been viewing Roier through a DID/OSDD lens for a while now (not as canon, again, just for flavor).

Quackity and El Quackity? Girrrrrl I was on that train the minute it became clear they weren't the same person. Giving everyone on the QSMP a dissociative disorder is my favorite pastime. El Quackity having to be told by the Feds, with a delayed response, details about his life? Quackity speaking to him from inside their brain. When Quackity came back with no memories? Another alter. That afterlife bit? They can't help it their innerworld is scary. Listen, the Quackity system is by far the funniest for me, because there's Quackity, Quackity, Quackity, The Quackity, and Rat Quackity.

I am constantly on the fence with Charlie Slimecicle. It's almost too easy, with the Gegg arc. I usually sum up the whole thing as age-regression as a coping mechanism that got a little out of hand, or as an exploration of a different disorder, but if I wanted to view it as DID or OSDD I could do it in a heartbeat.

Phil is really easy to give DID to, honestly. If I didn't like it so much it would feel like cheating. Man's got a self-proclaimed dogshit memory, goes to Hardcore when he "sleeps," had that long-ass derealization episode post-Birdcage arc, wakes up to the Gods having done things like leaving letters around, was possessed by the Ender King (who talked to him inside his head), etc. He also has autism but then again most of them do.

Despite the amnesia, Badboyhalo doesn't have DID. He's just a little freak. He does have episodes of dissociative catatonia, though, and that's what I attribute to "Dapper Time."

[starrook]

character deep dive

NAME: alcryst

BODY

height: 5’7/171cm

strength ★★★★☆ (strong, but not build like a brick shithouse so he’d give himself a 2)

dexterity ★★★★★ (what that +3 to dex cap do king. suited to delicate tasks!)

health ★★★★☆ (was never a sickly child and has a great immune system)

energy ★★★★☆ (bundle of nervous energy most of the time, always alert. around friends though he is a lot more calm and self-assured.)

beauty ★★★☆☆ (in the eye of the beholder. personally i think he’s cute but in a rat sort of way. alcryst would rate himself a 0/5. realistically he’s probably average.)

style ★★☆☆☆ (doesn’t have much personal style as he’s stuck with diamant’s hand-me-downs most of the time. he’s exploring that with the different colors and hair clips and boots, but still doesn’t care too much about fashion.)

hygiene ★★★★☆ (has a haircare routine, if alcryst skips out on it it fucks his whole day up, he won’t feel like himself without it). 

SKILLS

perception ★★★★★ (noticeably observant of other people’s actions and habits and tries to anticipate their needs, ex. offering celine tea that helps her sleep, knowing that citrinne trains at night and lapis sends money to her family.

communication ★★★★☆ (when he’s not being alcrysty he’s very well-spoken and gets his point across well. he always speaks his mind for better or worse)

persuasion ★★☆☆☆ (scores low mainly due to the initial impressions he usually makes. i’d like to think that people who really get to meet and know alcryst are more readily swayed by him, but that’s not everyone)

mediation ★☆☆☆☆ (prince alcryst “allies? with ivy? fuck no” of brodia has a hard time staying objective and generally picks sides. It’s one of his weaknesses vs it being more of a strength for diamant)

literacy ★★★★★ (likes philosophy books? get him away from me)

creativity ★★★☆☆ (he’s come up with a lot of creative ways to put himself down haha. sometimes i think about that line from his boucheron support that goes like “NO we can’t go from 100 to ten, that’ll exclude one of the zeroes. i feel sorry for that poor zero, cut out because of a weakling like me” like christ man, bars)

cooking ★★★★☆ (he’s always tasting his food while he cooks so that it doesn’t turn out to be dogshit, so alcryst’s food usually turns out tasty. he’d be good at one of those palette testing games from hell’s kitchen where you guess the food just by taste and texture.)

combat ★★★★☆ (he’s alive right? that counts for something. alcryst pulls his weight)

survival ★★★★☆ (i think alcryst would know enough to survive in the wilderness for a while)

stealth ★★★☆☆ (has startled people by being too quiet when he approaches them)

street smarts ★☆☆☆☆ (has only ever known life as a prince and grew up fairly sheltered)

seduction ☆☆☆☆☆ (LMAOOOOOOO)

luck ★★☆☆ (not the -1 modifier…)

handling animals ★★★★★ (confused a wolf out of attacking him and then made friends with it… that’s talent)

pacifying children ★☆☆☆☆ (does not know how)

MIND

intelligence ★★★★☆ (i can’t remember how the fandom hc of alcryst being good at complicated math started but he’s smart prommy)

happiness ★☆☆☆☆ (TOUGH TO ANSWER. alcryst is still grieving his father and he’s going through a difficult time in his life)

spirituality ★★☆☆☆ (i dont know why i find it hard to see alcryst as religious. like i can’t see him praying to the divine dragons.)

confidence ★★☆☆☆ (he’s gotten a little bit better!)

humor ★☆☆☆☆ (doesn’t always recognize jokes for what they are and is bad at telling his own)

anxiety ★★★★★ (naturally anxious)

patience ★★★☆☆ (no patience for himself)

passion ★★★★☆ (feels very strongly about everything)

nice         ☆★☆☆☆     mean

brave       ☆★☆☆☆     cowardly

pacifist     ☆☆☆★☆     violent 

thoughtful ☆☆☆★☆    impulsive 

agreeable ☆☆★☆☆     contrary

idealistic   ☆☆☆★☆     pragmatic

frugal        ★☆☆☆☆     big spender

extrovert   ☆★☆☆☆     introvert

collected   ☆★☆☆☆     wild

ambitious / possessive / stubborn / jealous / decisive / perfectionist

SOCIAL

charisma ★★☆☆☆ (questionable rizz)

empathy ★★★★☆ (cares for other people more than himself)

generosity ★★★★☆ (5 stars reserved for citrinne)

wealth ★★★★☆ (prince of brodia, enough said…)

honest   ★☆☆☆☆ deceptive (not very good at lying)

leader   ☆☆☆★☆   follower (born follower, always a follower)

polite     ☆☆★☆☆  rude (has been on both ends of the spectrum tbh)

political ★☆☆☆☆  indifferent (prince of brodia, he always has an opinion)

BELIEFS

higher power ★★★★★ (they a fuckin dick tho for bringing sombron and the hounds back from the dead but not his dad)

fate/destiny ★☆☆☆☆ (i think it would be the brodian mindset)

magic ★★★★★ (see higher power)

soulmates ★☆☆☆☆ (can’t imagine himself having one)

good and evil ★★★★☆ 

luck ★★★★☆ 

PRIORITIES

family ★★★★★ 

friends ★★★★★ 

love ★☆☆☆☆ (is not holding out for love of his own because he doesnt know if he’ll need to marry for political purposes… but it would be nice)

home ★★★★☆ 

health ★☆☆☆☆ 

praise ★★★☆☆ 

justice ★★★☆☆ (not out for revenge)

truth ★★★★☆

power ★★★★☆ (getting strong 4 brodia)

fame ☆☆☆☆☆ 

wealth ★★★☆☆ (brodia’s wealth not personal)

others' opinions ★★★★☆

[thewadapan]

Circling the drain in Twisters

In an interview with CNN, director Lee Isaac Chung is quoted as saying, "I wanted to make sure that we are never creating a feeling that we're preaching a message, because that's certainly not what I think cinema should be about. I think it should be a reflection of the world." If this is the case, then Lee Isaac Chung is clearly an idiot, because his studious commitment to avoiding anything that could be construed as an ideological statement has seen him create a world where tornadoes are wild beasts—something like a tiger, or a hippopotamus, maybe—which roam the American plains and will hunt you for sport, as opposed to a mindless confluence of meteorological factors. Says one of the characters: "We're having a once-in-a-generation tornado outbreak in Oklahoma. […] It's getting worse every year." An "outbreak", as if this is some freak disaster, a sudden pandemic of unclear origins, and not a predictable trend where each year is the worst year on record. Don't think of it as a microcosm for the meteorological hardships happening all over the world, year after year—think of it more like 30-50 feral hogs, a consistent but localised problem, the kind of thing you can solve by climbing into the back of your pickup truck with an AR-15.

Certainly, it can't have anything to do with climate change, two words which—despite scriptwriter Mark L. Smith's assurance that the film would "shine a light on […] the causes and effects of climate change"—go completely unmentioned in the entire 122 minute runtime of this dumpster fire.

Pass through the eye of the "Keep reading" button below to see the rest of my blustering.

I know that everyone is sick of ecological stories. I know that, if we're being bluntly honest, all the movies and books and comics and thinkpieces in the world don't mean a fucking thing to the blood-soaked oil industry or our ghoulish politicians. I can understand the instinct to flinch away from the aesop. But to put it as simply as I can: there is no way to neutrally talk about the weather. To even try is to fail, because you end up coming off like a climate denialist.

Oh yeah, this film is also dogshit on pretty much every other level you can conceive of. From the opening prologue, which introduces protagonist Kate's hi-and-die friends, the film is constantly two steps behind the audience, as it clumsily plays out the most paint-by-numbers plotting you can predict in your sleep. You know these people are going to die, you can divine the fucking order they'll be killed off in. And still, on a pure spectacle level, this prologue is about as exciting as the film will ever manage to be; every subsequent bit of tornado action is just a bloodless encore, devoid of stakes or novelty, just CGI nonsense completely divorced from any kind of spatial grounding (in one scene, an oil refinery sort of just appears from nowhere so that the tornado can blow it up).

The film's main conflict is between a team of meteorologists led by Kate's old friend Javi, and a crew of redneck storm-chasers led by a YouTuber "tornado wrangler", Tyler. While I wouldn't say that these groups are overtly representatives of "science" and "gut feeling" respectively—because again, Lee Isaac Chung is a spineless filmmaker who clearly wouldn't know substance if he ate a brownie laced with it—their differing approaches to storm-chasing are contrasted throughout the film. To begin with, we're led to trust Javi's team because of his existing rapport with Kate, their professionalism and preparation, their apparently noble goals, and their class status as white-collar engineer-types. Meanwhile, Tyler's gang are initially presented as stupid, reckless, dangerous, opportunistic, money-motivated, and backwards.

But then, aha, here comes the movie's one (1) twist! (And here I thought the whole titular basis of the movie was that there'd be multiple.) It turns out that actually the rednecks have only been selling all those T-shirts to charitably fund disaster relief, food for the victims of tornadoes. Actually, YouTuber Tyler is a really good storm chaser, and he's also quite caring, and also hot. Meanwhile, the scientists are actually in the pockets of land baron Marshall Rigg, who's profiteering from the tornados by buying victims' property from them for rock-bottom prices in the wake of devastation. For a moment, it actually seems as if Marshall Rigg is some kind of MCU supervillain with an evil master plan to create his own tornadoes and take over the entire USA—because that's the kind of level of reality this film is operating on. If this truly is a "reflection of the world", as Chung claims, then it's a funhouse mirror- no, a flimsy plastic compress, free with a girls' magazine, a paper sticker inside, printed with the face of a beautiful cowgirl.

This "what if the bad guys… were good!" twist isn't really a reveal, so much as it is the script turning these people into completely different characters. They start out as cardboard-cutout trailer-trash, hooting and grinning, and then they are substituted out for an entirely different set of cardboard cutouts, doe-eyed.

The character writing in this film is absolutely embarrassing. In one scene, Kate and Tyler end up at a motel when the tornado sirens start going off. The other people at the motel, ignoring this, continue complaining to the receptionist. "Nine times out of ten, it's a false alarm," one of them says. The power goes out, causing the siren to stop. "You hear that? No tornado." Another anonymous alien says to the receptionist, "Hey, I don't want to give you a bad review." Then a tornado rips the roof off the place. They run outside. The first person is yelling, "There's a tornado! There's a tornado!" Then gets sucked up and killed. Look, nevermind the mean-spiritedness of it, nevermind the misanthropy—what sane writer would ever think that real people would actually behave this way? The script is constantly tripping over itself to make sure you get the jokes; here, the joke is that the woman thought there wasn't a tornado, but then she realised that actually there was.

I recall another example from earlier in the film: when Kate and Tyler are still competing, two tornadoes appear, and the rival storm chasers wind up splitting up, each going after a different one. Just as it seems like Tyler is coming up into the eye of his storm—suddenly, the whole thing dissipates, as though it was never there. They get out of the vehicle, and he looks over the horizon, where Kate's tornado is still swirling. And Tyler's pal says, "We should've went with her." Buddy, I am watching the fucking screen! You can see it right on his face that he should've went with her, you don't need to have one of your characters blurt it aloud. Are you scared I've fallen asleep in the ten seconds since someone last spoke?

God, I haven't even talked about the romance yet! Throughout the movie, YouTuber Tyler keeps popping up around Kate, and you can tell the filmmakers really don't want you to think about the fact that this plotting contrivance basically just implies he's stalking her everywhere. Kate reveals herself to be a country girl at heart. Tyler reveals himself to know about science and stuff, through dialogue where he reels off complicated jargon which you figure probably isn't accurate, or if it is, is the kind of basic meteorology the scriptwriter could piece together by poking around on Wikipedia for a couple of hours. The film doesn't actually give a fuck about science, or the scientific method, or meteorology, because in this movie science is a glossy CGI simulation of a twister which our heroes plug numbers into until the whole thing flashes green or whatever. It's telling, I think, that the onscreen simulation and the CGI twisters themselves are no different from one another—it's all artifice, isn't it, intangible particle effects swirling around, signifying nothing.

People seem to be going mad over Glen Powell in this thing, but come on, are you really satisfied by this sexless nothingburger of a romance? They don't even fucking kiss, right? All blockbusters are like this. I'm starving. This film can't even be bothered to crystallise a proper love triangle between Javi, Kate, and Tyler, even though you can tell it's thinking about it. It's as if the film itself knows it wouldn't even be compelling if it tried. Considering the absolutely abominable emotional manipulation Javi uses to get Kate onboard with the project—which the film never seems to quite become cognizant of—it's for the best anyway. "Hey, remember how your boyfriend and your best friends all died right in front of you? Well if you don't come help me by putting yourself in that exact same situation again, loads more people are going to die like that too!" Unhinged. Put that man in the twister, and the filmmakers too.

So yeah, I think I hate this flick. It's a movie that exists to soothe the conscience of its audience: see, we don't really hate the South, it's not our fault the planet is trying to blast us off the face of it, we're all trying our best. Let's watch a rodeo or something. It's the kind of film that can lull you to sleep, like a final, fatal injection.

Rating: 2/10

If you’ve enjoyed this review, you can find dozens of similar essays over on my Letterboxd account.

[sable-roteuth]

(Yipping and yapping)

I am super eepy rn but I don't wanna sleep because I yearn to yap but I don't got anyone to yap to.

Here's some doodles from recently ig

I'll upload better/finished ones later lol

(lots of yapping under the cut)

I got so desperate to yap today that I yapped to my ENGLISH TEACHER about cotl. My friends walked in as I was doing that and I felt super embarrassed LMAO. Those same friends also decided to sit in an empty classroom today and put on those weird videos of people dying and laughed at them so I just left the room. Another friend decided to start having a very loud conversation with themself as well during class and I wanted to EXPLODE it was so embarrassing.

I'm thinking of taking some time for myself this weekend, even though I've already been isolating this whole week lol. Might make some food and play Splatoon or watch a show, just anything to keep me from feeling bad about everything and yapping my head off again (I'm so sorry if you actually read this whole thing). I was writing in my notes app earlier but I feel like I gotta get this out somewhere so idk. Obviously the aforementioned friends aren't the best to talk to, and my other friends are.... all in a call without me.

Although I've been feeling less bad about stuff like that lately, cuz honestly a lot of the time when I do join in on a call I end up not enjoying myself for... several reasons (Mostly feeling unwelcomed in one way or another, but I'm not gonna get into that here lol).

My birthday is next week and I'm dreading it more than I've ever dreaded any birthday before. My mom wants me to get a job the day of and I couldn't be less enthusiastic. I barely have enough free time as is.

I'm also realizing that I'm mad hungry rn cuz my school keeps serving the most dogshit food so I keep not eating lunch this week. I had like one tiny ass piece of chicken for dinner too. I should really log off rn cuz I keep not getting a lot of sleep, so GN everyone.

Thank you for listening to my yapping session.

[propaganda-inc]

Tw: Depression Propaganda

I don't want, nor expect this to go anywhere. Actually, I kinda don't even know if this is a good idea to post this on here. But I have nothing to do, and it's better to put my thoughts on here rather than keep them in, or so people say.

I'm homeless. I'm not going to go into detail as to how this happened, because it's the Internet.

But it's hell. I feel like I've been dumped out on the world without a clue how things really work, and expected to fit in like the last puzzle piece everyone's looking for. I didn't realize, even during college, that my main goal was to survive, not live. Everyday since I've graduated high school, since I've graduated college, was to try and follow a road and path that was not for me. And every step I've taken since then has been on the wrong way. I thought doing an entry level job in my field would help me figure out where I needed to go. It just made me a drunk, a cynic, and more depressed than I ever thought I could be. I thought moving might help, and put me in a place where I could help others in a better way. That just made me even more stressed out, and even drunker. After all this, I know I'm damn lucky. I'm homeless, but I'm safe. I can get the basic stuff I need. I'm even in a training program. I have some friends in real life I can talk to. But I'm empty. Totally hollow. When I'm not at work, all i do when I get home is the exact damn thing- watch TV, go on my phone. Nothing gives me joy anymore. I can't even play video games anymore, because I just don't have the urge. The past week has been me taking melatonin just so I can sleep during the day so I don't have to go through the whole day awake. I can't get myself to get a hobby, because I don't have the energy or urge to do anything anymore. Interests aren't acted on. The only time I feel like I have emotion is when I have to fake it for others. Hell, I have an idea for a video that I'd love to make. But like everything, I think that "yeah, I have no experience nor any idea what I'm doing." Then the urge vanishes. Everytime. Just like everything else.

I've started to be called a Doomer. I see it, I get it. When you think that the world has 20-30 years of normalcy before all hell breaks loose because we can't agree on whether or not plastic in the ocean isn't a really good idea, some people don't particularly want to be told that.

But what the hell do you want me to think when I've spent time learning just how little of a fuck most people do/can give about a world that is quite literally burning before our eyes?

Look, I'm trying to do the things that people say are going to make things better. I've set therapy appointments. I'm trying to take care of my body. I'm trying to take care of my head. But having no money makes some of that hard. Getting appointments rescheduled the day before because your healthcare system is dogshit doesn't help that. Neither does living in a world where you question your existence as much as others like to deny it. Ah, oh well.

[thessalian]

Thess vs Gaming While Disabled

Pretty sure Goblin gave me her cold. Also still in exceptional pain from two consecutive days’ commute. Cold-achy plus fibromyalgia-achy is ... not fun at all and I didn’t sleep overly well because I kept having stabs and spasms.

On one hand, I kind of want to give Code Vein a proper try. Bestie got it for me as a part of a replacement birthday present when the Trinket slippers didn’t work out.

(Note to prospective buyers of the Trinket slippers on the Critical Role store - CHECK THE SIZES. They say One Size Fits Most, and there is zero wiggle room in their size range because my big-ass feet are a half-size or so larger than the upper limit on the slippers and they just will not fit on my feet. Also I kind of feel bad for any guys that want the Trinket slippers because my feet are large for ‘women’s sizes’ but about average in ‘men’s sizes’ so ... yeah.)

(Further note: the Trinket slippers are getting a good home with my friend in France as soon as I can figure out how best to seal and label an appropriate box, and I have Code Vein, and also a pre-ordered copy of B Dylan Hollis’ Baking Yesteryear, so nobody loses out on this; Bestie gets to make two people happy, friend in France gets slippers, I get cookbook and ARG. Speaking of; back to ARG talk.)

I mean, seriously, I do want to try this game. I’ve basically discovered that my predominant issue with ARGs is keybinds. As in, it feels like they’re usually designed for console and expect someone to be able to plug a controller in and appropriately use it. Fuck that; I could barely hold up my phone last night, and my phone’s way lighter than today’s controllers. Thing is, people more comfortable with a keyboard can apparently eat shit because people dealing with the keyboard controls appear to have gone about assigning keybinds the way I used to play Pin The Tail On The Donkey as a kid. I’m pretty sure the “git gud” crowd would probably say I’m overreacting about this and I just need to figure it out ... except for one thing.

To paraphrase Keanu Reeves as Neo: “I know Google-Fu”.

It’s easy to believe that whatever condition or problem you’re having, you’re the only one having it. Especially when the loudest and most annoying voices involved are the people who belittle and bitch at you about not being able to do exactly what they can, and how you should either cope with how it is or accept that it’s not “for you” and howl like they’re having their human rights violated when you ask politely for accessibility options that they don’t even have to use. I think the best lesson I ever learned - from therapy, from my friends, from Tumblr, which feels like a stupid place to learn a valuable life lesson but Tumblr Be Like That - is that there is always someone who has been where you are, who has gone through what you’re experiencing, and who might be able to help make it easier for you to go through it. All you have to do most of the time is find the right search terms, and advice will be there.

So I Googled “Code Vein Keybinds”. And what do you know? A whole, if short, Reddit thread where people are basically going, “The keybinds on Code Vein are dogshit; any advice for how to set them better?” The only reason the thread is so short is that a couple of people had what appears from the reactions to be an ideal set-up that I’m actually entirely keen to try.

The problem is the OW. Lotta OW. So much OW. I’m not sure I could manage that amount of frenetic activity in the state I’m currently in. I need something that’ll let me hyperfocus past the pain, yes, but adding a learning curve is probably not it. I suppose the thing to do is to go through the character creation thing (because seriously, it has the most fun character creation menu I’ve ever seen; almost makes up for the fact that there’s an awful lot of Big-Tittied Anime Girl With Minimal Clothing right in your face as soon as you get out of the tutorial), see if the new keybinds get me through the tutorial section any easier, get through the opening cutscene, and then stop there and do something a little less ... intensive. Not that my current thing isn’t kind of intensive in its way - I’m trying to finish my Meep!Herald’s run through Inquisition and am in the middle of Jaws of Hakkon, and still noticing that its response to the complaints of “too much running around through too much empty scenery” was “throw in respawning monsters too high level to simply blow through easily”, which is not the point but never mind. Just the controls are somewhat simpler; just a lot of pressing R interspersed with number keys. That’s a lot easier to manage than “parry”, “block”, “dodge”, “drain attack”, “variety of Gift keys”, etc.

I’m probably never going to be good at ARGs, but I dislike there being a whole kind of video game I can’t play because disability. I already have the whole thing where I can’t play most first person perspective games because I get migraines; if the ARG route is also blocked to me ... well. There are fewer and fewer games that don’t fall into those two categories, and I’m starting to feel shut out of the entire hobby. I mean, there are the indies - thank the gods for the indies - but still.

[trannyradfem]

Massive TW for 10 chapter novelette about misogynistic slurs, medical abuse and misogyny, in depth descriptions of abuse, and the things that go on in my mind as a survivor.

This makes me sick to my stomach. My dad, my much older cousin-- so many men in my life who promised to care for me when I was vulnerable-- were extremely physically, emotionally, and sexually abusive. It feels like sheer luck that this exact scenario didn't happen to me at some point. I've been exposed to so much danger starting as early as 4 years old, and it's a miracle I made it out alive.

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I've fallen down a flight of stairs-- wind knocked out of me, unable to breathe, multiple bones in my spine fractured-- while my mom looked down at me, scolded me for not being able to drive her 3 blocks away to work, and then left me there. I fell because she knowingly woke me up less than 3 hours after I had taken Ambien to get some sleep. She knew he would hurt her if she didn't re-enact his cruelty, and she was too cognitively disabled to fight back.

At that time, I thought I was going to die. As my vision started to fade to black, even though moving caused me some of the most excruciating pain I've ever had in my life (second place to a cervix biopsy without anesthetic performed by a sadistic male gynecologist I had never met before), I used my arms to pull myself up to the railing and flailed myself onto it, desperately trying to pseudo self-Heimlich-maneuver my diaphragm out of spasming so I could breathe again. It worked. I was so fucking lucky it worked.

After writhing in pain for what felt like hours and taking a dangerous amount of Ibuprofen, I drove my damn self to the hospital for an already scheduled orthopedic appointment for my knees. I had to argue with the male doctor for nearly 20 minutes, begging him to take an XR.

That stupid fuck told me, "You didn't break anything. If you did, you'd be crying." I was 22ish years old, yet I felt like he saw me as a 9 year old. But even at 9 years old, I had a much wider breadth of understanding what suffering is than anything he'll probably ever come close to in his entire lifetime as a priveleged, white, straight, male, doctor.

How pitifully uneducated he sounded to me, fully ignorant of the wide variety of torture and suffering that are worse than death. Things that make you crave death with every inch of your burning body, desperate for it to all stop, even if that means your future is forfeit. He has no fucking clue what that's remotely like.

I wanted to tell him off so bad, throw that misogyny right back at him-- because I didn't want his bullshit discrimination in my medical care--, "I'm not a little bitch like you, I'm not WEAK like you! Your frame of reference is dogshit and worthless! This isn't enough to make me cry, my parents always give me REAL things to cry about! When the youngest you've been digitally raped was in toddlerhood, this is NOTHING compared to the lifelong suffering I will have to endure for the rest of my FUCKING life!" A reality check, a blood curdling harpie screech ripping thru his ears, begging for-- no, demanding-- help. To tell him, "Do your fucking job, fulfill your rightful role, and stop being a whiny, delusional, lazy cunt!", as I have been told my entire life as I silently suffered.

The burden of misogyny is so heavy, and it still burns that those words-- even if I had said them to him-- would still never tear him down in the same way I was torn down at every opportunity. Because he has the role of "man". My role as "woman" was to suffer silently, to be grateful for the "love" contaminating my body, to love and enjoy the abuse. But I am NOT a fucking sex slave, and I am not a fucking TOY. I should NOT have to fight and protest just to be seen and given medical care as just another human being!

I fought him until he relented. I know this well, that doctor schedules are almost always insanely booked. I played a game of strategy-- if reporting medical misogyny only ever fucks me over, the only power I have here is the ability to waste time. And so I did-- enduring as the adrenaline wore off and the pain intensified--, until he was so frustrated, that he finally caved and smugly said, "Fine. I'll do the XR's just to prove nothing's wrong with you!"

The imaging was done. He came back about 10 minutes later, put my XRs up on the screen for me to see, and told me, "Well look at that. You DO have two VERY SMALL HAIRLINE FRACTURES. You'll be fine in a month." He then tried to end the visit.

I glared at him, nearly frustrated, humiliated, and exhausted to tears. I knew if I asked him about the pain, he'd think I was trying to score pain meds off of him, given my mental illness history and my several admissions for suicide at that hospital. I knew I had to pick my words carefully and quickly before he could get away, the pulsing pain threatening to derail every single thought.

Thank fuck the words came to me in time. As a child, I was nearly entirely nonverbal most of the time. Speech has always been a struggle for me, despite practicing speech therapy treatment methods on my own. Being an autistic female fucking blows.

I had said, "Doctor, what is the treatment? The adrenaline is wearing off and I want to get better fast so I can go back to college...". He turned and looked at me, his facial expression inscrutiable as he took a few moments to think. "Bed rest. Get a donut cushion to sit on. I'll send some meds to the pharmacy.", and walked away. I finally won. I got the care a male could've gotten in a mere fraction of the time, pain, & effort I had expended. Most importantly, I wasn't turned away without solutions like I had been so many times before.

I held out for too long, and my eyes began to water. I thanked the receptionists and left in a hurry, lest he think that I was an addict that purposefully injured myself for this, crying tears of an addict's relief. But even if I was an addict, did I not deserve proper treatment for injuries so severe? As soon as I got to my car, I laid down in the back seat, locked my doors, and lost consciousness.

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Hours later-- thankfully undisturbed in the busy parking lot-- I drove myself home going 10 MPH with my blinkers on the entire way, hugging the rightmost side of the right lane. The pain was at its peak; one slightly wrong positional shift and I feared I'd jerk the steering wheel in pain, and veer off the road or into another car. Thank god, I was safe, everyone on the road was safe, and the police left me alone. I had nobody to help me, nobody who believed me. Otherwise I never would've attempted such a dangerous stunt. But I had no other choice, abandoned by every authority figure that was supposed to keep me safe. I cried when I got home as nobody was there, and it was finally safe to be weak.

He kept me on Norco for what felt like 3 months. The entire time period was a blur because I didn't tolerate the medicine all that well. It gave me headaches, worsened my migraines, made me dizzy and more likely to fall again. The lowest dose made me feel high, detached from reality, and constantly sedated. Tramadol might've been a better option, but I didn't know my options. I spent that entire time on the living room couch, playing Skyrim in between naps. I knew what I would be risking if I were to ask for a different pain med. Uncomfortable, disorientating relief was better than none at all.

So again, I endured.

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To this day, that statement-- that'd I'd be crying if it was real-- boils my blood and makes me see red. Dozens of protests buzzing in my head like a furious swarm of wasps. This is the shit that COULD actually make me cry. This is the shit that could turn my pacifist self into a criminal, trying ro hold back urges to fantasize of making him hurt as much as I carry every single day. To make him UNDERSTAND just so I can get the care I needed. Another authority figure condoning my abuse because he could not for a single second see me as a fellow human with potentially real, excruciating pain.

No, I was just a whiney, exagerrating little girl. As always.

My T11 is now in the shape of a wedge. I have chronic sciatica and nerve pain down my leg AND across and down my back. My tailbone chronically dislocates, and I've been told by medical professionals that the only way to put it back into place is with a doctor's gloved finger up my ass. I'll pass. I'm tired of men's greedy fingers in my holes. I ended up strengthening the muscles around my tailbone so that, on my better days, I can flex to the point of pain, but it'll also put it back into place if I bend just the right way. It hurts like hell, but the relief ends up being worth it every time.

Years later, I started working in medical because I wasn't always strong enough to fight back when I'm sick, and my health was thus declining severely. That also saved my life. I now know it wasn't two "small hairline fractures". It was a compression fracture and a borderline displaced tailbone fracture that didn't heal properly. And I shouldn't have been on the pain meds for more than a month without having me graduate into physical therapy after the first month or so. He never had me come in for a follow up, or ordered follow up imaging to track the healing. This is what you're supposed to do with the severe functional decline I experienced that never got better. As an orthopedic specialist, he should know that better than anyone.

Ironically, he doomed me to exactly the same situation that aligned with what he thought I was-- someone who only cared about the pain meds. I will have to suffer for the rest of my life swapping out prescribed substances and cannabis I don't entirely want because of this asswipe. Because of how much he likely put in my chart that he thought I was malingering, or how much he downplayed my pain and the imaging. But how exactly do you even interpret, "I've never broken a bone before, but something feels wrong and out of place. This is the most pain I've ever experienced in my life, this is exactly what I'd guess a broken or fractured bone would feel like", as malingering?

The imaging has mysteriously disappeared in current day, but luckily my neurologist had EMR access to them around the time it happened, and saved the imaging. They either tried to erase the medical neglect and discrimination, or just didn't give enough of a shit to import it into a possible EMR update or change.

Either way, I feel like I could argue that it was gross negligence... but when the whole system is set up against me, what rights do I even have? What rights do I even have when the default is that even the most esteemed of professionals assume and document that I'm exagerrating and lying without any investigating?

Afterwards, a plethora of male doctors refused to treat me. This gives me the impression that my hunch of malingering or drug seeking being documented in my chart or notes may be entirely true.

Saying I was "Too young" for surgery or invasive treatment, as if I wasn't too young for this bullshit, this debilitating pain, this loss of functioning. I gained 40 lbs, and could no longer get dressed on my own on half of my days. Nowadays there are even times where I can't even get to the BATHROOM on my own. I used to be able to leg press over 300 lbs. I used to be flexible, sturdy, and very active. I am now totally sedentary, and so weakened and deconditioned I can't even open jars on my own anymore. Fucking forget lifting any weights at all. He and his cohorts ruined my health.

Saying that my depression had been causing it, despite having a history of depression and SH since 1st grade without ever having any chronic pain from it. I now know that clinical knowledge indicates that new onset pain after an injury is very clearly not being caused by a mental illness that is already being managed by medication and weekly therapy.

And not a single one of them, despite their feigned concern for my mental health that even made my jerk psychiatrist roll his eyes, suspected the developmental disorders that WERE actually contributing to my inability to adapt to my loss of functioning.

But to be fair, the psychiatrist didn't, either. He ultimately discontinued my high dose Prozac prescription during the COVID pandemic when I got laid off and was struggling to pay what I owed his office, knowingly risking me having another suicide attempt. His office staff went on to verbally abuse me when I called asking why they canceled my appointment the same day, chiding me as if I were a child, "You NEED to pay your bills! We already gave you courtesy refills and we're not supposed to do that."

I was never notified that any of my refills were "courtesy refills", or that I was remotely even in a situation that demanded courtesy refills. They told me they called me and left a voice message, and gave me a date and tome. I checked my voice mails, and it was nowhere to be seen-- they blatantly lied after I questioned them if they were denying me care.

My life was worth less than $300 to them, originally $400 that I contributed $100 to in favor of going 3 weeks without groceries at their forceful urging over a prior phone call over 6 months ago. And I did ultimately have a suicide attempt, though it went unreported.

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The dismissal of the surgeon's and pain management specialists I saw made my neurologist angry. Briefly breaking through his staunch yet warm professionalism for the first time ever around me, protesting, "What do they mean 'you're fine'? Your vertebrae is shaped in a [fricken? Idr] wedge!".

Compassion from a male doctor that had no obligation to give a shit, as every single one before him hadn't? I felt like I won the lottery, even if the results of my back pain pretty much remained the same. It did, however, gave me the courage and clinical confirmation to push and advocate for myself, and go on to get 3 life saving diagnoses, which he fully supported and assisted me with. I fully believe Dr. S saved my life, he was who turned everything around for me.

Despite that, I know damn well that not every woman is lucky enough to have a Dr. S intervene.

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5 years later, I was so angry when I went back to the surgeon's office I saw when I was first injured, and his assitant said, "Well, clearly you're not malingering." It was as if he admitted that was in my chart, and thought he was the good guy for figuring it out. Then he still had the fucking audacity to put that I was "sitting comfortably in [my] chair" in that note's physical exam, even though I spent the entire visit squirming in my seat, changing positions every 5 minutes from the pain.

No wonder that orthopedic wanted me to see a very specific surgeon when I first bothered him months later asking him why the pain wasn't gone yet, and what my treatment options were.

They were all committed to telling me to just shut up and take it, as if it was a sick porno.

As if I wasn't dead tired of hearing that. But why did I need to suffer 5 YEARS for that useless crap? Just to get a, "Hmm, I've got it! You're not malingering, but your pain is still fake. We can't help you, bye!".

I now know the appropriate treatments and options to discuss-- what the standard process is SUPPOSED to be. Instead of silently declaring your patient an addict or as malingering-- putting that in their chart--, you NEED EVIDENCE to put that in their note. If you suspect it, you NEED to try to gather or rule out evidence.

It would've taken SUCH LITTLE EFFORT for them ask screening questions about how I used prescription drugs, or to utilize motivational interviewing skills to draw out my intentions. Because they would've found that I was religiously straight-edge, and terrified of drugs because of my excessive family history of substance dependencies.

They should've ordered a urine drug screen and had me pee in a cup, because they would find that I'd test negative for every substance.

They should've drawn a CMP when I told them I had been taking high doses of Ibuprofen for a long time because of all my other chronic pain that went undiagnosed for DECADES. They would've found that my kidney function-- my GFR-- was around 60 and on a steady decline, bordering on fitting the criteria for stage 3a chronic kidney disease.

Instead, they all wasted hours trying to convince me my pain was not real, or that it was a direct result of my mental illnesses.

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I now also know my baseline GFR is extremely healthy, and I tend to range between 102 and 110. It dropped by nearly 50 points. I could've permanently damaged my kidneys because of how badly doctors did not believe my pain and suffering was real. To those who aren't familliar with GFRs, sometimes doctors compare these values to percentages of what your kidney function should be.

When my neurologist did labs on me, he was horrified by my GFR. He likely realized that I either highly downplayed my pain and suffering, or that I was otherwise seriously ill and he needed to get to the bottom of it quickly. Someone my age should NOT have a kidney function that low- for most healthy people it doesn't naturally dip to that range until their 60's at the very earliest.

He asked me to keep a log of my migraines. I estimated having 3 migraines per week. In reality, in that entire month, I only had 3 days WITHOUT migraines. He escalated treatment promptly. That entire week, I had to keep convincing myself I hadn't died and gone to heaven, because I didn't even believe getting appropriate care was even possible anymore. I vaguely remember obsessively and fervently thanking him, reminding me of a religious follower praising their god for salvation.

I had just been going through the motions before that point. I needed doctors notes or I would've been fired, because my job didn't believe my pains, either.

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I now work in clinical documentation, and I've scribed hundreds-- if not thousands of-- clinical notes for a variety of doctors at this point. I've ordered imaging, labs, referrals, all on the doctor's behalf, and written clinical summaries for other professionals to reference for our patients' careplans. I always make sure to very clearly and obviously document our patients' pains and aches. I don't want them to go through what I did.

The shitty doctors that saw me did the equivalent to cheating on standardized testing. They not only got away with it scott free, but they benefitted from it. They patted themselves and each other on the back, thinking they dutifully punished another malingering, mentally ill addict. Totally ignoring that doctors overprescribing pain meds as a shortcut thru offering meaningful treatment is exactly what caused the opioid crisis in the first place!

No accountability, whatsoever.

I now can't stop asking, "Where the fuck was your sense of duty, your compassion? Why do you even bother with being in a field entirely comprised of caring for the sick and vulnerable? How could you? And most of all, how dare you abuse your power?"

I learned later thru the medical workplace rumor grapevine that the shitty orthopedic I first saw eventually had his medical license revoked for sexually assaulting his elderly, demented, female patients. I learned a few years after that that he's probably back to practicing, and may have even performed my mother's knee surgeries.

It's a sick fucking world we live in.

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In my youth, I'd tried to kill myself dozens of times. My legs are littered with healed SH scars. I've performed my own sutures before to avoid going to the ER, because my dad surely would've punished me for costing them even MORE money.

But what kind of grown man needs to call a literal teenager a bitch to get his point across? Didn't they have more than enough authority and power? Was I somehow a threat?

What spoiled teen harms herself and goes to extreme lengths to hide it, performing her own sutures without anesthetic?

What sort of bratty, attention-seeking teenager wakes up in a puddle of her own blood because nobody found that she tried to kill herself, and she survived it? And then immediately cleans it all up herself in a panic so nobody finds out?

What spoiled teenager drives herself to the hospital after fracturing her vertebrae and tailbone? And why did healed SH scars almost get me admitted and my rights temporarily taken away?

How many fucking men have made casual violent threats, or rape threats, and never even had to think about being forced into a mental hospital?

How many men have carried out those threats without so much as a slap on the wrist?

And men have always told me, it must have been my fault, I must have been asking for it, I must have done something to deserve it. "It's simply logic."

But there is NOTHING logical about this.

Anybody who wasn't a female rape or abuse survivor thought I was lying and histrionic. A spoiled, whiny, teenage bitch. Because "Fathers love their daughters and know best!"

But statistically, they just don't. Domestic abuse crime rates by birth sex say otherwise. The ratio of men to women who abandon their children and turn their partner into a single parent makes this abundantly clear. Male sexual and violent crime rates write an entire story on the differences between male and female socialization.

And yet, they still delusionally kept me trapped in that hell for 23 fucking years of PURE. SHIT.

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I wonder what they'd all think about me if I didn't survive, if I ended up like poor Daisy. Would they regret all the things they did to dismiss, belittle, and gaslight me? Would they feel guilty for damning me to that fate? Or would they just dismiss that, too, convincing themselves I somehow set myself up for that, too?

You were so strong, Daisy... to make it so far with not just a lack of support, but likely other people condoning and dismissing your abuse, too. I wish I knew you and could've helped you. I hope you rest in peace, I hope there's a wonderful afterlife that makes up for every second of suffering you were forced to endure. Because I know. I know what a curse and burden it is.

It's terrifying-- but that could've been any one of us.

Most of all, I will never stop fighting for all the women who couldn't make it out alive. I will NEVER shut up and stop causing a ruckus-- for those who cannot have a voice, or do not even get to have a chance.

Because that easily could've been me.

[brainfilehasstoppedworking]

I slept so horribly. I had gone to bed at like 9 something PM. Then woke up at maybe 10 in the night to coughing and a stuffed nose. Was horrible, couldn't go back to sleep. I knew I should've taken medication or something but I was too stubborn to get up and go to the kitchen again. Plus, I was very tired. I finally get to sleep earlier than usual and it bites me in the ass.

My mom gave me some Nyquil and I fell asleep. Then woke up later in the night with the most sore throat ever. It felt like someone shoved razors down my throat or something. It felt awful, couldn't fall back asleep. So I tried drinking water to ease the pain a bit then fell back asleep.

I'm better now, just coughing a lot. But to the point it kinda hurts. But I'm better, just feel like absolute dogshit. But that's kinda the norm feeling for me.

[v01d69]

i dont know how many times you have to bring up your anxieties while im going to sleep but it happens quite often.

i tell you to talk to me when i’m conscious and you complain i never want to talk to you. i try to talk to you before bed. you only shrug. its only as my eyes are struggling to keep awake that the words come flooding out. so accusatory in the way that you speak.

if we didn’t have a dog i would have broken up with you. i’m fed up of this.

this is the third time in a fortnight that i’ve cried myself to sleep. that i’ve had less than 6 hours sleep, 4 hours sleep etc. because of a conflict. i had to sleep on the sofa. i feel like absolute dogshit. i’ve been feeling ill due to exhaustion all week and you know it.

i’m quite angry with you. i feel so alone. i don’t want to talk to you tonight. i’m not holding you this morning. i’m very tempted to spit in your coffee. i won’t.

you complain too much and never try to kiss me. you say that all my kisses are only ever sexual. even though we barely have sex and most the time i’m just enjoying kissing you and then i do it less because you’re clearly uncomfortable and so then you complain that i’m not kissing you enough.

you leave me, and say “well that is my job” and then don’t appreciate when i tell you i feel lonely.

you were surprised when i said that sex and intimacy is a physical need and i don’t always want to be chasing you for it.

maybe i will break up with you if this carries on much longer. i am past my breaking point.

[passionpeachy]

Btw I know pills aren’t a magical cure, I just think the serotonin and pause in suffering 24/7 where not even sleep brings relief will be enough to motivate me to try harder. I can’t emphasize how much untreated OCD will destroy your mental health. How the intrusive thoughts will leak into your dreams, how it will flash awful imagery behind your eyelids right as you let your guard down. How it makes you not want to touch anyone because You Are The Worst Most Dangerous Person Alive and it’s the only way you’ll keep other people safe from you. Or keep yourself safe from them. Could be both at the same time. Mentally reviewing every single thought and action 1,000 times. I am just so dogshit terrified all the time and I’ve been trying so hard to just operate like normal, without ever acknowledging or showing it to my family or employers. Even for tumblr which I almost treat like a diary, I still only post the parts I can bear to share, after hours of hesitation. So yes, I know it won’t be perfect but even a dull flicker will feel like a big glistening beacon of light at this point. Sorry if this is dramatic. It’s just been years of this, alone.

I'm ngl most of the art I made this year was made while I was under some extreme stress and depression. So was the year before that. And before that. And before that. I haven't been okay since middle school, really. But this year is different because I got diagnosed with OCD and am starting Prozac. My only 2024 goal is to just be stable now and whatever else happens is a great miracle