#girl you’re ageism is showing

[rawrsatthetree]

“Oh Astarion looks old cause of trauma and stress”

HE’S A VAMPIRE. ARE YOU STUPID?!?!

Trauma and stress he experienced as a Vampire. Vampires don’t physically age. They’re frozen in time however they originally died. That’s like a big part of the vampire deal. He looks the same as the day he died.

Why are we still saying this he doesn’t even look remotely old.

[hana-no-seiiki]

can we get to know the perverted faculty in midnight darling?

hoo boy. i was gonna make it a stretch goal to include each and every subject mc might get as a biology major in the philippines but have the named ones for now.

warnings: homophobic society, inappropriate teacher/student relationships, age gap, infidelity/adultery, ageism, voyeurism/exhibitionism, sexual and typical yandere themes. dark content. this is a lot smuttier than all of my previous headcannons oh god.

[previous part] — yandere bad boy/jock, good girl, nerd and president.

YANDERE COLLEGE! FACULTY! X POPULAR GIRL! READER [PANGALAWANG YUGTO / SECOND PART]

ELOISE MORIN - PHYSICS TEACHER

✎ Eloise Morin was always drawn to you. You stuck out like sore thumb in her long list of faces she had to memorize every year and was the only time she ever broke a rule. The rule being to never fall in love with one of her students.

✎ It all started with the pairing of her sister, Ella Morin (The Emo! Kid) with you in order to break her out of her shell. The other faculty members seemed to trust you, and you had perfect grades.

✎ Sometimes your harem regrets always cleaning your record with how much the professors called upon you for tasks, thus reducing your time with them.

✎ And it worked, Ella’s grades improved and the sisters’s home life was better. They started actually talking during meals. She just seemed so much happier.

✎ Eloise soon found out it wasn’t because you were friends, it was moreso that you’d relieve Ella of stress when she acted to your whims.

✎ The woman could never forget the time she caught you eating out her little sister after a study session. In her own damn home.

✎ She was confused. Any responsible teacher and guardian would put a stop to this, right? But she found herself welcoming you in every time. Ignoring your disheveled look after ‘hanging out’ with Ella. Always treating you well so you’d be incentivized to come again and again into her home.

✎ So she can watch you defiling her baby sister as she touched herself to sounds of your moans.

✎Her horny levels are pretty terrible for an adult. Eloise was brought up to be a stout, pious woman. Never to have any sexual relations before marriage, much less the same gender. She was never attracted to the men around her and through you she finally knew why.

✎ She has yet to explore her likes and dislikes but what she does know is that merely seeing you gets her absolutely dripping in arousal. She fantasizes day in and out about what you could do to her and where you could do it.

✎On her sister’s bed? The Kitchen counter as she cooked dinner for you whenever you stayed for the night? In front of the class as she teaches? On the desk of that damn principal that kept creeping on you?

✎The only thing stopping her from pouncing on you is guilt. Guilt that she’s attracted to a person much younger than her. A woman no less. What would her parents think? Sure, they’re dead. But Eloise can still imagine the disappointment they’d show if she gave into these lustful urges.

✎What Popular! Reader thinks of her : Like many of your teachers and fellow students. You see her as a means to an end. However, unlike the rest of them, Eloise does interest you the most. You’re waiting to see the moment she snaps. Ready to taint her with your colors.

AMELIA YORKSHIRE - LINGUISTICS TEACHER

✎ Amelia is the eldest teacher in the staff list. She’s a triple divorcee with a child from each husband.

✎ She craves male approval and used to work with Ricardo to bring you down a peg. Before you came in, she was known to harass her male students and show a little too much skin that it was unprofessional at best.

✎ She quickly switched to the other side after a private one-on-one exam with you.

✎ Not only did you get a perfect score in that test, you also managed to give her a better orgasm than all her husbands combined.

✎Also uses her family to get you closer. This time more intentionally. C’mon don’t you just love children? Aren’t hers the cutest?

✎She doesn’t make it discreet when it comes to her more perverted side. Often shoving her cleavage to your face when in class.

✎Tried using another student to make you jealous and that only made you turned off.

✎Is currently desperately trying to earn your attention back. At this point she might as well wear nothing to school.

✎ What Popular! Reader thinks of her: You aren’t the type to slut shame. That would be quite hypocritical of you to do. But a professor obviously perving on her students was kind of baffling. She left little to the imagination, so after your first romp with Amelia you basically never touched her again. Unknowingly making her obsession worse.

✎ Hers was a minor subject anyways, so you didn’t put that much effort into humoring her. She was a great fuck though.

MARX ESGUERRA - BIOLOGY TEACHER

✎ Now Marx was a different story entirely. Unlike your more lowkey teasing with Eloise and disinterest with Amelia. It was well-known throughout the campus of your interest with the Biology teacher.

✎ It took a while to get into his pants. Marx was known to be even worse than Eloise when it came to how strict he was with himself and his students. He was teaching a new generation of healthcare workers after all.

✎ At least that’s what you thought. You didn’t realize it was because he was studying the best way to approach you.

✎ Marx thought of you of you as perfect. He knew what he wanted and what he wanted was for you to stay by his side. Permanently. He didn’t want a shallow connection like you had with Amelia and Justin.

✎ A perfect student like you deserved a perfect relationship from start to finish. And he’ll make sure to give you that.

✎ He expects you to be completely immaculate. He has an image of you that you have to follow. He’ll drill it into your mind if he has to. A perfect man needs a perfect spouse. He’ll never settle for less. He’ll wipe all those filthy hook-ups you’ve made from history. Besides you were just practicing for him, were you not? The rumors about your supposed interest in him do no good to stifle his delusions.

✎ He bumps your grades just a little bit after your dalliances to give the impression that he definitely does not want you just for the sex.

✎ What Popular! Reader thinks of him: A total snob. But you do what you must to gain perfect grades and better opportunities for yourself. Even if it means sleeping with that narcissistic man that kept staring holes into your body.

DANIEL CRUZ - THE PRINCIPAL

✎ This man is the very definition of corrupt. He knows of every dirty little secret that has happened in the school grounds and beyond and gets paid handsomely to hide that.

✎ Thus, he’s great at hiding your little relationship with him. From the school and his older wife.

✎ You were his secret as much as he was yours.

✎ You were just so much more beautiful, younger, tighter, than that stupid woman. He only wanted her when he was younger because she looked hot back then but age wasn’t so kind. After she got pregnant with his children she started showing signs of being grotesque so he often brought home other women to their marital bed. He just couldn’t get it hard with her for the life of him.

✎The wife is unfortunately used to his ways.

✎ Ever since you though, she noticed how he brought home less and less different women. Up until it was just you. She didn’t know if it was a relief or a more terrible sign that he’d actually fallen in love with a sidepiece.

✎ She didn’t know how to feel whenever you exited her own room after a night with her husband. A sorry look on your pretty features gave her a mix of anger for you pitying her and relief that whatever her husband felt, at least it wasn’t reciprocated.

✎ Other than his wife and perhaps even children (oh god) however, no one knows of your relationship with him. Not even Ricardo and he knows the most about you.

✎ What Popular! Reader thinks of him: Despite what many thought of you, you viewed marriage as sacred. You only ‘cheated’ on Justin because you didn’t want him to get killed. Once a promise is made it best be kept and treasured.

✎ And Daniel broke the most beautiful promise of them all.

✎ He’s one of the few people you actually strongly felt for. Unfortunately for him, it’s disdain.

A/N : This is the most filthiest thing I’ve written on this blog so far. I need to take a bath of holy water after this.

[insomniamamma]

Spinner: Joel Miller x F!Reader

A/n: Okay, so this one got real personal real fast. Many of Spinner’s insecurities are my own. I meant this to be a soft little snuggling for warmth fic, but then things happened. Even in a world than hasn’t entirely gone to shit, it’s so hard to hang on to doing the things you love even if they don’t make you money or get you likes or clout. Also, I rabbit holed a lot about the spinning process and plant dyes but there’s only so much i can do. Any inaccuracies are on me.

Warnings: slurs. Mentions of past relationships gone bad. Shitty family dynamics. Reader is neurodivergent, diagnosis unspecified. Old enough to be married on outbreak day. Ageism. Bullying. Gruff Joel.

No one in Jackson calls you by your name. You’re Spinner or Weaver or Yarn-lady. Turning wool into yarn into clothing that spills out of your needles when you can��t sleep, socks and hats and mittens. You had a spinning wheel, looted from the historical society, but it was old and dry as a bone and the wheel split the one time you tried to use it despite how careful you were, so now it’s the drop spindle, the endless rhythm of it, a sensation so close to your own pulse that you don’t think much of it any more. Waste of time your father told you when you built a loom in the garage, your useless hobby your ex-husband called it as if he didn’t spend all his free time playing GTA and Zelda and Final Fantasy. Every family gathering since moving out a hybrid of when are you going to settle down, when are you going to give us grandkids, when are you going to get a real job, as if you didn’t spend half the year doing paid demos and plying your wares on the ren-faire circuit, good if not entirely predictable money, but it didn’t count because you didn’t make it in a cubicle farm.

You always knew you weren’t like them but could never quite pin down what made you different, what made you other, your Mom told me not to marry you because you’re a fuckin retard, your ex had spat during the fight that ended your marriage. And, for as shitty as your ex was, you knew he wasn’t lying about that part. Two brilliant sisters and then you. An odd afterthought of a girl. Got yelled at for staring at people when you weren’t looking at anything at all. Got yelled at for not making eye-contact, look at me when I’m talking to you.

Funny how they’re all dead and you’re still alive.

You hear folks talk sometimes. Waste of time if you’re asking me. They drug a whole container of clothes from the old Walmart. In your mind you grab them and shake them and yell in their faces that that world is never coming back, that we’re gonna have to get our shit together real quick or our grandkids are gonna be wearing untanned hides and rotting plastic tarps. But you don’t. You just spin your wool into yarn, and do your assigned tasks. Everyone helps everyone. That’s how things work here. Folks come and help you pick and soak and scour the fleeces. You show them how to card the wool and how to make drop spindles of their own and turn fleece into yarn, but most of them give you odd pitying looks. That world is dead, you want to tell them. It’s been twenty years. It’s not coming back, but you know in their secret hearts they don’t believe it.

Everyone helps everyone. So that means you help with the gardens, help with the harvest, help in the kitchens, reinforcing a gate or raising a barn or clearing brush for firebreaks. You’re at your best when you can work with your hands and not have to talk much. Everyone helps everyone and you know how people think of you with your wool and experimental plant fiber yarn and onion skin dyes and mordants. You can feel it even when they don’t say it right out loud. No place in this new world for people like you. Only the strong survive. So you put yourself on the roster for watch duty and patrols. Watch duty is fine by you. Sit in one of towers along the wall and peer out over the vast and unchanging dark, rifle leaned against the wall in case something happens, two way radio for emergencies only and it’s quiet and unchanging and you don’t mind at all.

Patrol is a different animal. Why do you keep signing up for this? Maria asked you, I know you hate it. Can’t make someone else do something I won’t, you told her, but that’s not the whole answer. You want to feel like you’re doing something real. Like you’re contributing. Like you’re not as helpless, as useless as everyone seems to think.

You show up for your assignment. A foot patrol. Day out and day back. Over night in a shelter house a little over halfway round the trail. You’ve got a bedroll and a change of clothes and the canvas bag you use for foraging. Your patrol partner eyes you skeptically and you curl into yourself. Everyone’s heard the rumors about Joel Miller. People shrink from him. You’ve seen it. When he comes into the tavern or the caff or the lending library people suddenly find someplace else to be. Figures. “You Spinner?” “Yeah.” “I’m Joel.” “I know.” “You good to go?” “Yeah.” He looks at you the way someone might look at an odd bug or a difficult equation, and then turns down the trail and you follow.

He doesn’t say much. Which is a relief. Last time you were on patrol you were paired with Ez who could not shut up for the life of him. That trip out and back was a running commentary of things Ez missed and things Ez remembered and a million other things you could not give the faintest of shits about. Joel doesn’t try to engage you in conversation and you are glad for that. A soft hold up means he needs a moment to go take a leak in the weeds, and you creep off too to do your business. You’ve seen plants along the trail that you could use on other patrols, sumac berries and oak galls, but you never said anything, just tried to remember on the off chance you’d be out here again.

“Joel? Can we stop?” The question surprises you as you ask it. He turns to look at you, “This is curly dock.” You hunker in the tall weeds on the side of the old road, logging trail most likely, frantically clipping stems and pawing roots out of the ground, dirt plating itself under your nails, scrabbling for what you can get before Joel tells you to hurry it. Even dried out and dormant, it’s still good. “What’s it for?” “For making dye. If I can find the right mordants I can get some nice golden yellows from the roots and the seeds. I’m still figuring it out.” “How much you need?” Joel hunkers down beside you and starts slicing off the flower heads that look like clusters of coffee grounds. You shrug. “I was just gonna fill this bag,” you say, “I’m still testing it out.” Joel stands and you yank a few more roots out of the ground. “I’m gonna make a blaze,” says Joel, slicing lines into the bark of a young cottonwood. “Huh?” “So the others’ll know there’s something useful here.” “Thank you.” Joel nods, folds his blade away, puts the knife back in his pocket. He turns and continues along the winding game trail and you follow, small smile playing at your lips. Useful. Not a word often used for you and what you do, you and yours. The other artisans. Figuring out how to tan hides and dye wool and save seeds because that world isn’t coming back. They’ve managed to drag a few trailers of that world from the Walmart, teams of horses foaming around their bits, sweat darkened flanks and for what? Clothing and shoes and cans and dry goods for now. There’s only so much to be looted. And then what? That world isn’t coming back. Even if cordyceps went away, that world isn’t coming back. Who could fix the world? Not Fedra, that’s for damn sure. Not the folks in town who talk too much.

He stops walking and you almost collide with him. “Look.” You follow the track of his raised hand over his shoulder, a herd of deer crossing the path, a buck standing stone still, looking at you with shimmering black eyes, antlers curling up like old tree branches, while the does and yearlings cross behind him, all long limbs and flicking ears and quivering noses, and you feel yourself smile. You remember a time in your life when seeing deer in the back yard was a magical thing, you and your siblings and your parents pressed to the curve of the bay window, watching them pass through the trees like shadows. Even after everything you’ve seen since, your heart contracts with the old wonder. “They’re beautiful.” You glance at Joel and see the curve of his smile, the way it dimples his cheek. “They are.” The buck flicks his ears and springs off into the gray light, the rest of the herd gone like ghosts, and the wind stirs after them, and you pull your coat closer, tuck into yourself. The faint spats of rain against your cheeks have turned into a steady, miserable drizzle. Nothing to focus on but how cold you are and Joel’s retreating back, and you silently curse yourself for not dressing warmer. Bright blue sky scrimmed over and swallowed by low, blank clouds, not quite cold enough to snow, but the damp air makes your knees and hips and knuckles throb. Should’ve dressed warmer. Fall in this part of the world can turn on a dime.

Not too far now, he says, but by the time you reach the shelter little pellets of sleet are mingling with the rain. Shelter is a rough, drooping structure with yellowed plastic sheeting taped over the small windows, crude wood stove blacked with smoke, ugly welded chimney poking up past the sagging roof. Joel hunkers in front of the wood stove. Folded cots lay against the wall and you pull one out and unfold it, smells like mold and motor oil, and you get another one, one for you and one for Joel. “Shit,” he murmurs low, “Wood’s all punky.” “Will it catch?” “Yeah. Maybe.”

You and Joel sit on your cots and eat, bread and cheese brought from home. The fire in the stove burns low and ugly. Joel has set up lengths of firewood in a straggled ring around the stove, hoping the heat will dry them, but the cold creeps in, unroll your sleeping bag and try to rest. Sleet spats against the roof, against the plastic shrouded windows, wind blows hard enough to send huffs of smoke back down the chimney, not that the fire is doing much, seething hiss and low smolder, sluggish embers, weak orange glow that does little to ease the cold. You jam your hands into your armpits and curl yourself tight, crunch your eyes closed and wait for your own breath to warm you, but there’s no position, no way of tucking your limbs against yourself that does a damn bit of good, the cot creaks and squeaks with each shift of your weight.

“Stop movin around so much.”

You can see the slope of his shoulders picked out in the weak firelight, his back to you. Your throat constricts and tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You lay with your arms crossed, peering up at the cobwebbed beams I won’t cry, I won’t, but the tears slide out of you all the same, fever hot where the rest of you is so cold, close your eyes and try to make yourself stay still, at least until Joel falls asleep. Your teeth chatter. You can’t stop it. You wonder for the millionth time why you’re still here, familiar poisonous rut that your mind runs in, why are they all dead and I’m still alive? Can spin wool into yarn while people snicker behind your back for it, you know that world isn’t coming back, the easy one where you could go to a store and buy a heavy coat to keep you warm, an electric blanket to keep you warm, once this is over, you hear them say sometimes, once this is over I’m gonna eat nothing but rare steaks for an entire year, once this is over I’m gonna buy my girl a ring, once this is over, we’ll never be cold, we’ll never be hungry, we’ll never be hunted once this is over. You feel your chest tighten. Your breath comes hard and fast. Your chattering teeth and ragged inhales betray you. You hear him move and tighten your arms across yourself, try to stop your tears and teeth.

Joel knows the sound of muffled crying. Tess would cry sometimes in the dead of night, curled away from him, when she thought he was asleep. Your shuddered inhale and tight clench of your shoulders give you away. His first impulse is to turn over and ignore you, let you blend into the spackle of rain and sleet and let sleep take him, but a dull spike of guilt lodges in his gut, can’t fix the world, but maybe he can fix this.

“Hey, Spinner, you okay?” You roll on your side, poke your head out of your sleeping bag to look at him, can’t quite meet his eyes, you shake your head. “Can’t get warm,” you say, “It’s stupid. My hands--“ “That wood should be a dried out a little,” says Joel, “Try and see if it catches.” You get up and moving around feels a little better, hunker by the wood stove and tuck a length in, flames licking low and yellow, you blow into the fire, hoping the wood will do more than hiss, more than useless white smoke of escaping water vapor, hold your hands in front of the low lazy flames and grey-ashed coals. You prod at the small nest of logs with a stick, turn one over and the fire licks up bright. You can hear Joel moving around behind you, scrape and rustle and he’s pushed the cots together, he’s unzipping his sleeping bag. “What’re you doing?” “I’m gonna zip these together,” he says, “It’s warmer this way.” Your cheeks and ears burn. You shouldn’t even be out here. Can’t even keep yourself warm. Can’t look at him. “You don’t have to--“ “C’mere.” You glance at him, his dark eyes shining in the weak firelight, “It’s okay.” You nod, more to yourself than him, crawl in beside him and zip the bag around the two of you, and before you can protest, Joel has pulled you half atop him, rubbing his hands briskly down your arms and back. “When we were kids, Ma got it in her head that we should go on vacation for Christmas and see real snow,” he says, the motion of his hands rucks your shirt up a little and he smooths it back down. “Colorado?” you ask. “Maine,” says Joel, and you laugh through chattering teeth, “Ma rented us a cabin out in the ass end of nowhere. I’ve never been so cold in my life. Dad showed us how to zip our sleeping bags together. It was warmer after that, ‘cept Tommy wouldn’t stop kicking me. Here. Give me your hands.” Joel folds your hands into his, squeezes your fingers, and then cups your hands in his, and blows, breathes into the cage of his hands around yours, you remember coming home from a day spent playing in the snow, cheeks and ears and toes and fingers burning as they warmed and your Mom taking your hands like this and breathing into them like this, and your eyes scrim over, sink your teeth into the meat of your lip but it does no good, the tears slip out. “I’m sorry.” “For what?” For everything, you want to say, but don’t. “Weather turned on us, that’s all.” Joel rubs his thumbs over your knuckles, “You don’t need to be sorry.” Presses your hands tight in his, holds them to his chest, and that’s how you fall asleep, warmed by his breath, hands folded together between you.

You don’t speak of what happened. Just pack up your gear and head home, following him down the trail, it feels like he turns to check in with you more, but maybe you weren’t paying attention on the way out.

“Hey you got a package!” says Ellie. Joel misses coffee. Almost killed a man over a dented can of Folgers, misses the taste and smell and waking slow with a cup cradled in his hands. He’s barely staggered into the kitchen, barely nursed the coals in the stove into life, waiting for the kettle so he can have some herb tea that warms his hands at least, but Ellie is up and bright eyed and talking a mile a minute. “Package?”

“On the front step, stupid.” Joel rubs at his eyes.

“Why don’t you quit yappin and bring it in for me?”

“Lazy ass,” says Ellie, but Joel hears her grin, hears the door open, feels the puff of frigid air. Ellie plops an irregular bundle wrapped in string and old newspaper on the table. “I gotta go,” she says, “Gonna be late for school—“

“Hey! Did you eat?” But Ellie’s already out the door, leaving Joel to examine the lumpy parcel, rain-dotted darkening newsprint scavenged from God knows where. Joel unties the string and winds it into a careful coil, turns the bundle over to unwrap it. Thought I’d return the favor, the note reads. No name, but who else could it be? Broad scarf of thick cream colored wool with a pair of socks to match. He runs the pads of this thumbs over the precise rows of stitches, brings the bundled scarf to his face and breathes in, not unpleasant smell of sheep and grass.

“Oooooh, looks like Christmas came early!”

“Ellie!” Joel feels his face going hot.

“What? I forgot my bag,” she says, scooping said backpack off it’s hook by the door, heads back out into the bright, bitter day, frigid air blowing loose snow across the threshold, turns to grin at him, her split eyebrow quirked up. “You know she likes you, right? She actually smiles when you’re around—“

“Git! You’re letting all the warm air out.”

“If those socks fit you can thank me!” And then she’s gone, door closed behind her.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel says to his empty kitchen. Wraps the scarf around his neck, just to see how it feels, imagines your hands busied with knitting needles, maybe a spinning wheel like in Sleeping Beauty, hands that felt like ice in his, the uncertain way your eyes would fix on his and flick away, didn’t say more than three words to him until you happened on that patch of weeds in the ditch along the trail. Burdock? Curly dock? It looked like used coffee grounds on stems, but you were so happy about it. Your face lit up. You smiled. He sits at the kitchen table, hoping that Ellie hasn’t forgotten anything else, and peels his socks off, threadbare, thinning at the heels, so he can try on the ones you made for him. They fit perfectly. Gonna have to talk to that girl about prying into grown-ups business, the thinks.

You wouldn’t be here if not for Lina’s birthday, she came to your place with three cakes of beeswax, knows you need it for waxing the finer threads you spin, the ones for leatherwork, for sewing book pages onto spines, we’re getting together at the Bison! You should come! And Lina is one of the few people in town you like. She’s always been kind to you, never seems to mind when you start talking scouring and lanolin and how you want to start working with plant fibers. She’ll talk endlessly about her hives and how the weather effects the honey, what’s in bloom and what isn’t and how it changes the taste. So you sit with Lina and her handful of friends, drinking hard cider and wishing you were home sitting in front of your wood stove drop spindle in your hand, endless, thoughtless repetitive motion until sleep calls you. When you spin the things you’ve seen recede, slows your ever racing heart. You fidget, calloused fingers rubbing together, the motion you make when you spin, not wanting to be there, but not wanting to let Lina and the other half-dozen people you interact with down, an impromptu artisans meeting, you and Lina, Jimbo the paper-maker and his daughter, Tim who used to teach high school chemistry before everything went to shit. Joel’s here, him and his brother seated at the bar, talking over their drinks, faces serious. You feel yourself start to smile. You’re not sure if he’s been around more, or if you’ve started noticing him more, like playing punchbug when you were kids, there were Volkswagen Beetles everywhere if it meant getting to hit your cousin as hard as possible without getting in trouble for it—

“Oh look it’s the Artists.” You feel your jaw clench and Lina puts on her brightest, cheeriest, go-fuck-yourself smile. “Hi, Kev,” Lin chirps, “To what do we owe the pleasure?” “Maybe I want to wish you a happy birthday,” he says. Kevin and his lot. Supposed crack-shots. Take every opportunity for long patrols, ex-military if you believe their yap. Picked off some clickers and expect everyone to kiss their asses. “Consider it wished—“ “And maybe I’d like to know what we’re risking our necks out on perimeter for--“ And this shit right here is why you rarely leave your house, if it’s not Kevin it’s some other jerk wanting to know what you’re here for. Same question you’ve asked yourself so many times. Why are they all dead and you’re still alive? What are you here for?

“Maybe I want to know what you ar-teests are doing while me and my boys our out risking our lives in the dark.” You know how this will play out, how it always plays out, Lina will placate him with offers of hot honey and soap, the rest of you will bend the knee, make polite noises about how you wouldn’t be able to do what you do without people like him keeping you safe. Never mind that no one’s seen a proper pod of clickers or runners in months, a few lone stragglers and that’s it, your eyes flick up to Jimbo’s and you see the resignation there. Let him have his say, take the ribbing and move on, and you see Joel, pushed back from the bar, looking your way. Your face goes hot and your neck goes tight and you are angry, Kevin and his bullshit always makes you angry, but this is different, brighter and sharper, and before you really know what you’re doing you are up in moving yourself into Kevin’s personal space.

“How those Walmart socks holding up? Your little toesies start poking through yet? Getting a little thin in the heels?” He grins wide, hands on his hips, “You offerin to mend my socks, Spinner? Got a girlfriend for that. ‘Less you think you can do better-“ He laughs and his dumb buddies do the same— “What’s this shirt made of?,” you pinch a bit of his yellow and black flannel between your fingers, “Feels like a cotton poly blend. Probably more poly than cotton. Too bad.” “You tryin to flirt with me, here, Spinner? Bit long in the tooth for all that aren’t cha-“ “You know why wool is so much better than poly-cotton blends like this? Wool holds its heat even when it gets wet. You can wear wool in a rainstorm—“ “So what?” “So you’re gonna have a cold walk home.” You dump your nearly full pint of cider down the front of Kevin’s cheaply made flannel shirt, turn tail and bolt for the front doors.

“Woo!” “You tell im, Spinner-“ “You fucking BITCH!” “Don’t.” Joel’s voice the last one you hear before bursting into the snow-shot night.

You fetch up near the huge pine tree in the town square all lit up for Christmas, on the steps of the gazebo where the choir’s set to sing a few days from now, a rag-tag group led my Moira who’s got to be pushing ninety and teaches the kids how to read music and pick out middle C on the desperately out-of-tune piano in the Hall. They sound so sweet together. For now the square is silent save for the gentle ticking of snow falling on snow. You’re cold and you should go home, but your rolling gut says to sit right here and wait, a couple pints of cider and spent adrenaline roiling your insides. Stupid, you think. You’ve made things worse, Kevin and his goons will just double down, but you were so angry— “Hey.” You glance up from the nest of your hands and the gathering snow, feel Joel settle beside you on the step. “Hey.” “That was brave, what you did in there.” “How come I feel like I’m gonna throw up, then?” “You want me to break his legs?” You look up at him and he’s smiling, a little one that just curves his cheek. “You’re joking.” “Mostly,” says Joel. “If Kevin bothers you again, you come tell me-“ “You’re wearing the scarf,” you say, and feel yourself smiling wide, and now his eyes flick to the side. “It’s real warm,” he says. “I’m glad you like it.” And you sit in the silence together for a beat, mesmerized by the slow falling flakes, catching and haloing the strung lights. A few years from now, these bulbs will be candles, but for now it feels a little bit like it used to. Joel stands and offers his hand. “Can I walk you home, Spinner?” You let him pull you up off the step. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Tagging @oonajaeadira @grogusmum @sp00kymulderr @boliv-jenta @writeforfandoms @quicax3 @fromthedeskoftheraven @artemiseamoon @the-blind-assassin-12

[imaginedreamwrite]

She definitely talks about this on one of her lives and is so talking about Ari

“Do you know what’s a damn shame?” You’re already on the subject of ageism in Hollywood, triggered by a comment someone who had accused you of being too old for what you did.

“The fact that there are women out there who won’t give older men a chance. I mean it, do you have any idea how much better it feels to be with an older man? And I’m not talking just about physical relationships but emotional.” You we’re diving deep into the conversation, unaware of Ari who was watching you with great interest.

“Plus, seeing silver streaks in hair is incredible attractive. Nothing is more attractive than an older man who has experience and confidence that isn’t interested in playing games. The silver is top tier-“

“I didn’t know you felt that way, princess.” Ari’s voice is husky and seductive, and your eyes immediately widen in the scope of the camera, your followers jumping to conclusions on what was happening.

Someone’s in trouble

Someone’s going to get it

Get it girl!

“Ari! I didn’t know-“ he had walked toward you and leaned down, gazing into the camera and greeting your live followers with a charming smile.

“Mind if I steal her?” He’s cute when he rests his chin on the top of your head, but his tone of voice and the way he squeezes your hips under the desk tell a different story.

When the comment section had started to blow up, Ari had extended the affection by kissing the top of your head and helping you stand, exposing your cute matching fuzzy pyjama shorts and over the knee socks.

“I’ll take good care of her.” Ari winks at the farms and shuts the stream down, waiting for a moment before he effortlessly throws you over his shoulder and smacks your ass earning a squeak.

“Come on, little princess. Time to show you exactly what a silver fox like me can do.”

[nctsworld]

spin me right ‘round

✩‌ johnny ‌x‌ ‌reader‌ ‌|‌ record store owner!johnny | fluff | smut | 4k‌ ‌

SUMMARY‌ ‌⇾‌ buying from the local records shop leads you to eventually bed the hot owner on the night of your first date.   WARNINGS‌ ‌⇾‌ ‌smut (in the second half), oral s*x (f and m receiving), f*ngering, johnny has a big d*ck and f*cks you hard???, office s*x in the epilogue (kind of) RATING‌ ‌⇾‌ explicit TAGLIST ⇾‌ @infnteen​ @sehunniepot​ (thought you might be interested in this nikki 👀) 

⇾ gif created by me, please don’t share or repost without credit! 

Opening the store’s door, the ringing of the bell above you signals your entrance. 

You moved into the neighbourhood recently and since someone gifted you a record player for your last birthday, you thought it’d be a quaint idea to drop by the local records shop that you always pass by on your way home.  

Rows and rows of vinyl records, organized both alphabetically and by genre, welcome you with open arms, along with a faint musty smell, likely due to the faded, vintage records hanging between the posters on the cream walls. 

The outside of the store is misleading to its size; there’s enough space here for at least thirty people easily. However, besides you, it looks like there’s only one other customer in the shop.  

Although your surroundings captivate your senses, the striking blond man bent over the rock section in the middle of the shop is the true cynosure of your eyes. 

His long fingers flutter seamlessly over the records, seeming to be on a dedicated search to find one in particular. He towers high over the low stacks and oozes coolness with a thumb stuffed in his front pocket and donning a stylish green beanie atop his medium cut locks. 

Not to mention that his jeans tug perfectly over the curvature of his prominent ass, but you merely steal a glance or two at his backside as you stroll towards the pop section. 

Okay, maybe three glances.

With your back facing the man, several minutes pass as you rummage through the sea of mainstream music, ranging from recent to old, but all the while pleasing to your tastes.  

“See anything you like?” 

Your eyes meet the figure standing nearby with a hand on the edge of one of the stack dividers. His smooth voice matches his strong aura and his gorgeous face, which you’re now blessed to be viewing up-close. 

Your gaze pursues downward, soaking up his sturdy frame hidden behind his flattering clothes. Darting your eyes up his lengthy body back to his face, you lick your lips and swallow, in hopes to dampen the sudden dryness in your throat, and naturally raise the corners of your mouth.        

“Yeah—” You, you think in the back of your head and execute a nod, “—there are a few things.” 

He smiles endearingly towards the floor before glancing back up to you. You wonder if he can read your thoughts, or maybe it’s simply written all over your face.

Releasing his grip, he says, “Take all the time you need. If you need any assistance, let me know." 

Your eyebrows perk up in realization. “Do you work here?”

“Yeah.” Bobbing his head, he runs a hand over his beanie. “I’m the owner of the store.”

“Oh, wow,” you exclaim, jaw hanging slightly. “You’re so young, I wouldn’t think someone in their 20s would have their own store, especially one like this." 

A frown falls over his face, and in that moment, you knew you fucked up any chance you had with him.  

“Yeah, 26 to be exact,” he shrugs, tight-lipped, prior to the folding of his arms. His eyes become slits of bitterness. “Thanks for the ageism."

Immediately shaking your head at the misunderstanding, you stammer, “I didn't mean it like that—"

The owner’s expression melts in an instant and a warmness emanates from him once more. The knot in your chest loosens at the sight and relief waves over.  

“I'm just playing with you, don’t worry." 

He opens his mouth, about to continue, but his attention is interrupted by the ringing at the door, and you turn to see another customer over your shoulder. The attractive individual begins to stroll over, but still faces your direction, beaming. 

“Well, if you decide to get anything, you know where to find me, and I'll ring it up for you." 

With puffed cheeks, you nod and watch him greet the incoming patron. Trying to leave the embarrassment behind you, you shift toward the records again and browse for a little longer. 

Finally deciding on a few choices, you walk toward the front register and peer over at the beanied blond. In the classical section, he’s listening intently to the bumbling customer. Not wanting to disturb them, you lay the vinyls on the counter and thankfully find a pen and a stack of sticky notes upon it. 

After sticking the following note on the top vinyl cover, you head out of the store:

“Put these on hold for me?  I'll be back for them.  Thanks!  -Miss Ageist” 

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Judgmental."

A couple of days later, you drop by the store again and find the spirited owner at the front counter. Today, he’s channeling his inner grunge style, adorning a half-up, half-down ponytail and a loose white t-shirt over a tight, long black sleeve shirt. Is it possible for him to look even cuter than he did last time? 

“Sorry again for that,” you scrunch your nose at the memory. He grabs your records from beneath the counter and rings them through. “You just look so young to own a store.”

The blond airily laughs, “I'm gonna take that as a compliment." 

He spots you twisting your mouth to one side and nodding shyly. “It is." 

As you pay for the items, he gestures to your vinyls on the counter. “Good choices, by the way.”

“Are there bad ones?” From the pay pad, you glance up at him and he’s feigning a hurt look. 

“Oh, most definitely.” 

You banter with a tilt of your head, “Isn't music subjective though?” 

“Not to me. I am the king of music taste." 

Both parties exchange laughter while you wait for the transaction to process. Once it finishes, he rips the receipt and places it into the bag with the records. 

“I mean, I do own a records store, so I think I should know." 

Flashing you his pearly whites, he hands the filled bag over to you. 

“Here you go, Miss Judgy Pants.” 

“Actually, you can call me—” You properly introduce yourself.

He leans back a little, straightening himself and tucking his thumbs into his pockets. 

“I'm John, but you can call me Johnny." 

With a glimmer in your eye, you question, “Is Johnny exclusive to me, or does everyone else also call you Johnny?”

His eyebrows raise, impressed by your straightforwardness. “I only let the pretty girls call me Johnny, if that’s what you’re asking.”  

The wink he gives is short-lived, but it’s enough to cause heat to blossom over your cheeks. You brush some hair behind your ear. 

“So, Johnny,” you enunciate, indulging in his name. “When does the store close?” 

You lift up your bag and cheekily add, “Gotta know when to break in to steal more vinyls." 

Johnny chuckles, and your heart bursts knowing you’re the reason behind it. Looking aside, his hand rubs the counter casually and you can’t help but stare at his large palm dominating the surface, along with his elongated fingers. Eyes blinking rapidly, you attempt to break the fantasy assembling in your brain—his hands are the guest stars alongside (and within) your body in the leading role. 

“I can close whenever I want to, but thanks for the heads up; I'll make sure to keep you away from the store,” he jokes.  

Catching your gaze, one of the sides of his mouth lifts. “Why do you ask?” 

Shrugging nonchalantly as you play with the handles of your dangling plastic bag, you reply, “Just wanted to know when the cute worker got off so I can potentially go on a date with him.” 

You scan around as if someone else is there in the empty store besides the two of you and point your thumb to one side, whispering teasingly, “Not you, but the other guy.” 

His tongue grazes against his bottom teeth, nodding understandingly with a deeper smirk. “The store closes at nine usually, but I can make an exception for him to get off earlier." 

Satisfied with Johnny’s answer, you bounce your head and make your way backwards toward the door.

“Sounds good, I'll be here at eight for him tomorrow night. Maybe I'll see you around then, too.” 

Granting him a wink of your own, you turn on your heels and leave. Intrigued, Johnny watches you disappear down the street through the store window. 

At 7:58 the next evening, you show up to the store. 

A customer is at the front counter finishing a purchase. As they pay for the products, the worker takes notice of you, smiling in recognition. You return the same, beaming back at him, and casually stride over to a random section to wait until they’re done. They make some small talk, so you delve in the opportunity to admire Johnny’s outfit for tonight—a tight black t-shirt that showcases his blatant pecs and a loose red plaid shirt overtop of it. 

When the customer exits, you make your way over to him as he puts on a light jacket. You lean your elbows onto the counter. 

“Surprised to see you here.” 

“Likewise," he jests back, snaking out of the counter to be in front of you. You glance at him, consuming the tall drink of water.   

Nodding to the door, you ask, “Ready to blow this popsicle stand?” 

Johnny hums affirmatively and you follow behind him outside as he flips the open sign and locks up the store.

“So, where we heading off to?” 

Informing him of what you had in mind, the two of you decide to take his car to the downtown pier. Once there, both of you grab take-out and eat together at a bench table under the clear sky and dazzling stars. Conversation comes easy, making the night fly by fast. 

While talking with him, since his hair flows freely today, he sometimes shyly brushes some of it behind his ear. Although you’re listening intently, you also ponder how it’d be if you ran your fingers through his soft, silky locks. 

Dinner eases into dessert, with the two of you having ice cream side by side on the pier railing, looking out towards the twinkling water. By the time you’re halfway finished with your cone, you hint at not wanting to end the night just yet. Agreeing with your sentiments, Johnny makes the suggestion of going back to the store. 

After finishing the ice cream, you head together back to his car. The back of your hand brushes up against his. Taking a chance, you curl the tips of your fingers around his, half-holding his hand.  

Pressing up against his arm, you whisper, “Thought you said you gotta keep me away from the store."  

He peers down at the partial hand holding and the grin he gives you reaches his eyes. He gives your hand a small squeeze, ensuring the burgeoning attraction is mutual. 

He whispers in reply, “At least this way I can keep an eye on you." 

At the shop, Johnny locks the door from inside, in case of any wandering bodies, and blasts some upbeat, electronic music onto the store speakers. Intercepting your hand, he guides you to the back corner of the store and starts to dance with you. 

At first, your bodies are separate vessels, grooving to the beat of the music, but as the songs play on, you gradually gravitate towards each other. Soon enough, one hand settles comfortably upon your waist, the other on your hip, while yours are hooked around the nape of his neck. Before you know it, you merge together as one with parted lips, finally satisfying the tension in the air and within your bodies.       

The kissing is intense, electrically charged and sending currents to the tips of your fingers. Although you’re barely acquainted, you two kiss like you’ve been deprived of each other your whole life—every kiss and every touch quenching your thirst for one another.  

Wanting to change it up, you step over to an empty counter and hop onto it. Johnny steps in the space between your legs and his lips meet yours again. You cup his face, clutching onto his strong features, and occasionally run a hand through his hair to caress his head. 

You answer inwardly to your previous thoughts, confirming the silky texture of his hair, and your touch relishes in his golden locks.  

Suddenly, his mouth channels hunger onto your neck and the electric currents divert directly to your rising arousal. At the sensation, you rashly grind your hips into Johnny’s body, and he groans heavily in the crook of your neck.  

He mumbles into your skin, “Do you wanna take this further? My place is nearby." 

Sighing further into his embrace, you half-jokingly reply, “You know, I was really looking forward to getting fucked in a records store." 

He easily breathes, “We can do that next time, I promise." 

You snicker. “Aren’t you a little presumptuous?” 

Tugging his shirt by the neckline, you force him to leave your neck and to greet your mouth instead. Pressing the top of your forehead against his, you match his gaze.   

“And what if I don't like you after tonight?”  

Something in you already knows that won’t be true, but you mischievously ask regardless. 

The simper Johnny flickers is enough to send another wave of bolts downward to your core. 

He peels his head away to bring it beside your ear. His thumb on your thigh may be gently rubbing you, but his following assurance is hoarse, absolutely drenched in pure lust.  

“Oh, you're definitely going to like me after all the things I do to you tonight." 

You barely have an opportunity to scan around his bachelor pad because his lips capture yours upon arrival. In his entryway, Johnny entangles with you, pushing you up against the wall. Impatiently, he drags you to his bedroom for the long-awaited spectacle of the night. 

After hurrying to turn on his bedside lamp, Johnny presses his weight against yours on his bed, embracing the full body contact. His lips continue to attack the terrain of your skin as he denudes you. You hum softly as he pursues south to your aching desire. Hoisting your backside and with his assistance, you’re finally completely bare. 

Sitting up at the edge of the bed, Johnny pulls his top layers off, revealing a sculpted physique, the kind that artists muse and obsess over. You knew he was fit from how his clothes constantly hugged his body, but this was just insane. 

“Holy fuck,” you murmur, staring blankly. 

Chuckling, he does the same bashful gesture from dinner—tucking some of his hair behind his ear. The gentleness is a contrast that nicely compliments his Adonis qualities. His soft side is flipped onto its backside in a second as he begins to creep his way over between your legs, his eyes darkening. 

Upon resting on his chest, you didn’t notice it before, but there’s a hair tie on his wrist, which he uses to effortlessly make himself a quick ponytail. 

With anticipation, you sigh into the kisses he leaves on your inner thigh, making his way toward your pulsing sex. When his tongue issues the first swipe, you inhale sharply with fluttering eyes. Johnny isn’t in a rush, taking his sweet time to lazily lap up your slick and learning what incites you.           

Once he has a better understanding of your desire, he dives in and devours you whole. 

Realization sweeps over as to why he has to put his hair up.

In accompaniment to the painting of your folds, Johnny spreads them gently and ensures he dunks his tongue in your wetness. One of your hands drift away from the bed sheets to one of his snaked around your upper thigh, clutching onto his fingertips in reaction to the swift rotational swirls on your raw flesh.   

He draws back, lips lustrous from your nectar, and hastily replaces his mouth with two fingers.

Your half-lidded eyes shoot wide open. His long, thick fingers fill you greatly, scissor you so far in your sex, so much that you fear what his cock is like if this is how his digits feel. 

You’re overcome with bursts of pleasure. Further bursts ensue as Johnny tongues your clit alongside the fingering. Your throaty cries and the squelches of your pussy is melodious to his ears, better than playing his favourite vinyls on the best record player he owns. The lewdness of it all overwhelms his jean-bound arousal, so Johnny retaliates by grinding against the bed.  

After Johnny retreats, he stands by the foot of the bed and starts unbuckling his belt and pants. You crawl your way over, still panting and reeling from the rush of your high. As you reach him, he drags his pants and boxer-briefs towards the floor in one-go, freeing his unsurprising lengthy girth.    

On your knees, hunched over his cock, you chuckle in disbelief. “Now that’s unfair.” 

He watches in amusement as you examine his desire with delight, before taking it into your hand, pumping it languidly. “What is?” 

You peer up, cocking an eyebrow. “Seriously? You’re hot, own a record store, really funny, and you’re packing. God really has his favourites.” 

Johnny’s about to respond, but his brain short-circuits momentarily at the pad of your thumb rubbing his precome over the tip of his blunt head. He cranes his neck back, exhaling a groan. 

“Well, what can I say? Guess I’m just-fuck—” 

You suck the words out of him. Literally. 

Your warm embrace encompasses his entirety, possessing a strong hold over him. Since you can’t possibly take him fully into your mouth, your fist solves your problem by stroking him by the base. Aiming to please, especially after his oral act from earlier, you slurp and bob your head mercilessly, disregarding the saliva leaking down the sides of your mouth. 

One of Johnny’s hands arranges your hair in a make-shift ponytail to get a clearer view of the obscene display. His hazy eyes skim over the gorgeous curves of your bent back and ass jutting high up in the air. His breathing turns heavier and he’s about to tug on your hair, motioning for you to slow down, but you thankfully come up for air just in time. 

The stately figure attacks your lips with urgency. The kiss is wet and messy from going down on one another, but it merely adds to the intensity. While lip-locked, he lowers you into his pillow once more, then stretches an arm out to his bedside stand to fish out a condom. 

He nimbly rolls on the cover, but is confused to find you back on your knees instead of laying on the bed. You grasp him by the wrist and press your fingers against his firm pecs, indicating to him to recline backward. In awe, he obediently obliges. 

Hovering over him, you suck in a breath as you line your sex up with his, cognizant that you need to acclimatize to his size. You steadily sit onto his length and when it finally reaches the end, you release a piercing groan at the deep sensation.

For a bit, you don’t move too much to get used to his great desire. In the meantime, your fingers wander over the chiseled flesh in front of you—his defined, veiny arms; his solid chest; and the valleys of his abs. 

Once you think it’s been enough, you transfer more weight onto your knees and slide on his cock with more vigor. You throw your head back in pleasure. 

On the other end, Johnny’s gaze wavers between the main action, your bouncing breasts, and your supple neck. He can’t see your face clearly, but he knows you must be enjoying this as much as him by the breathy moans that follow each thrust.    

When your legs start to tire, Johnny tries to hold you close and roll you over onto your backside. You both giggle at the unsuccessful attempt to keep himself still inside of you, but that’s an easy fix. Despite just having him within you, you gasp again at the penetration. Him being on top hits you at a different angle and you truly feel the length of his inches. 

Johnny reaches down to meet your lips. You brush your fingers over his pulled back hair as he consumes your existence. In addition to each passing drive of his body into yours, you also grip harder onto his hair in ecstasy, which leads to the unraveling of his long locks upon your face. The gold ocean of silkiness drowns your senses, the strands stroking your skin like extra caresses. 

Retreating back onto his knees and raking a hand through his tousled mane, his hands then attach to the flanks of your body and he pounds you breathless, leaving you heaving for air. 

In your dazed state, you desperately grab on to whatever you can—the sheets, his upper frame, his ass, anything. Throughout it all, your core contracts even tighter over the way his clavicle, tendons, and muscles protrude and flex like they’re about to break through his skin.  

At this point, you’re beyond delirious and definitely beyond gratified. You assume he’s about to finish when he decreases his pace and bends closer to you, but instead, he continues to still move inside of you.  

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ,” you gasp and grunt between his rough, buried thrusts. “How are you not close?” 

“I’m not ready to be done with you yet, beautiful,” Johnny rasps into your ear. You catch a glimpse of his cocked eyebrow and smirk. “Unless you can’t handle me?” 

Denying his accusation, you haul his cheeks to yours and kiss him fiercely.  

And with that, Johnny’s weight is on his knees again and he fucks you like there’s no tomorrow. 

However, Johnny might’ve been right because it doesn’t take long for you to beg repeatedly for him to come.  

“So, what’s the verdict? Still like me after that?” 

Both individuals are still nude on the bed, but now covered by a blanket. Resting on his chest, you drum your fingers over his skin in thought (as if you need to even think about an answer besides the obvious). 

Pouting up at Johnny, you say, “I’ll only like you if you keep your promise on fucking me in the store next time.” 

“Of course.” He palms your cheek and inches forward, preparing to kiss you tenderly. 

“A gentleman never breaks his promise.”  

EPILOGUE 

One month later, the record store’s business has been growing, so Johnny decides to hire one of his friends, Mark, to be a part-time worker.

Which means that Johnny has more spare time to do other things... like taking you from behind in the back office over his desk. 

“Shit, fuck,” you grip harshly onto the edges of the worn-out wooden desk as he thrusts endlessly. Even after a month of dating, your pussy still isn’t fully accustomed to the size of his girth. You’re unsure if it ever will be. 

No matter, it always feels amazing. 

“Johnny, Johnny—” 

“Johnny!” Mark’s voice suddenly cuts in and calls from outside of the office door. You immediately bite down on your lower lip to shut yourself up. “Someone’s asking me about a limited edition vinyl and I don’t know how to answer.” 

“Uhhh,” Johnny drones absentmindedly, yet jabs into you with more rigor. You bite down harder, but you can’t control the rising volume of your stifled moans. “Give me five minutes.” 

A silent beat passes. 

“Dude, are you fucking in the office again?!” the part-timer exclaims. You can practically see him shaking his head in disgust. “Ugh, I’ll give them the store’s card. Hurry up, though.”

As he walks away, you hear him faintly say, “Sometimes I think this is why you hired me...” 

Simultaneously, you both giggle heartily. Your lover pecks you lovingly on your shoulder prior to diving again into the wanton moment. 

In the end, Johnny actually spends ten more minutes with you. But he can afford the extra minutes—he is the owner of the shop, after all. 

[owltypical]

sometimes i just want to skulk off into some secret corner far away from everyone else and lift up some forgotten rock and whisper under it about how much i just...don’t like anime or manga or games in that style

there’s a few exceptions, like i grew up loving the early final fantasy games, i adore the way of the househusband comic, yakuza: like a dragon is fantastic, stuff like that

but the sprites and cartoony aesthetics of early ff was great and left a lot to the imagination, ff8 felt bland and the concern about the style started setting in, ff9 was refreshing and delightful even despite how super bishonen some of the designs were because it was colorful and having fun and just being a big ol’ love letter game, and then from ff10 on it was just...the same generic semi-realistic super anime style over and over, and as much as i thought ff7 remake was cool in a lot of ways, it had that same damn style to it, and doubled down even harder on the anime-ness with some of the changes and new characters and the more i think about it the more irked and less enthused about the game i am

househusband plays around with genre and expectations and is just incredibly charming, yakuza: like a dragon rules because it’s specifically about a bunch of weird but realistic middle-aged losers with great character designs and has fun with the mere concept of jrpg games instead of being a gaggle of weirdly-talented children out saving the world

there’s always good stuff to be found in every category of media, in every region of origin, like miyazaki and satoshi kon made some real works of art, but the vast majority...i just can’t, i’m tired of the same anime art styles over and over, i’m tired of spiky haired twink kids and super frilly sexualized girls of questionable age, i’m tired of the massive ageism that’s contributed to a lot of poor self image and the deep fear it’s instilled in people how if you’re over the age of 24 you’re ancient and worthless, i’m tired of how many horny creepy pervert dudes show up in so many works no matter how jarring it may be to the plot or setting, i’m tired of big tiddies and big dumb action and style over substance that weeaboo dudes endlessly jerk off to as the peak of art, i’m tired of how much people copy the same generic overly pretty and infantilized half a dozen character designs over and over and never learn actual human anatomy, i’m just...tiiiiiired

[bisluthq]

What kind of grandma's do you guys have.. Imo that cardigans she used tot wear are more grandma🤷‍♀️

I think if anons problem is lack of skin showing then it would make sense for her to say she dressing like a older women. Also she is not a supermodel dude. And she has never been fashionable.

But even skin /=/ young? That’s exactly the whole problem of what I’m saying? Like it gets into ageism and like highkey weird cultural stuff too because some women don’t want to show a ton of skin for cultural reasons and that doesn’t mean they dress ugly or don’t follow fashion or don’t dress their age. It’s just fucked up.

If you’re saying this is “grandma style” I kinda get it but also it was just the quirky girl Zooey Deschanel thing that was in at that point:

If you’re saying this is grandma style like idk man it just seems like you’re using it as a synonym for “this was ugly”:

[puttingherinhistory]

Women in ancient Rome often weren’t given names beyond their family names; if you needed to differentiate between sisters, you’d often just say “Cornelia the younger / the elder” or even just give them numbers. Their husbands would address them, in private, by the feminine form of their own names (eg. if you married Julius then he’d call you Julia).

A lot of people think the effect has disappeared today, because women typically have less common names than men - a higher fraction of men are named the absolute most popular names like John or Jack whereas women are more spread out over different names.

But it’s really noticeable how often parents give their sons meaningful names - they’ll have a historically important namesake, or be named after a great grandfather, or have a traditional name with a meaning their parents liked. That’s why the common names tend to be common. The names given to daughters are often chosen because they’re “pretty” names, because their parents just liked the way it sounded, or are even just nouns / adjectives like “Lily”, “Hope” or “Summer”. They emphasize that the role of a girl is to be a pretty ornament, not to achieve meaningful things or inherit anything from a namesake.

They’re often very infantilising - sure it’s cute when you have a two year old named “Poppy” or “Precious” but she’s going to have to grow up and put that name on her CV.

They also highlight just how much ageism is directed at women and how much women have to struggle to keep up with fashion, even in something as basic as their names. A traditional male name like “Joseph” or “Edward” or “James” or “Luke” is fine no matter how many centuries it’s been popular for. An off cycle name might be unusual, but that isn’t a bad thing. But dare give a girl a name that was popular too long ago - “Dorothy” or “Mary” or “Dawn” or “Gertrude” - and she’ll be ruthlessly bullied in school for it because it’s a “old lady name for grandmothers”. Don’t you know those names are ugly now, undesirable, associated with old wrinkled women who aren’t sexy? You need a young, new, sexy name like Ava or Madison or Olivia - keeping in mind of course that those will be “ugly” too when your daughter gets old.

The tendency of feminine names to emphasise beauty - and occasionally sexuality, which can be somewhat inappropriate considering the kid has to grow up with that name - is taken to an extreme if you look at porn stars’ stage names, which are all things like Scarlet or Rose or Desiree or Ravyn. Femininity, taken to an extreme, tends to end up being about sexual availability.

And when women do try and give their daughters unique names, so they’ll be memorable even if their surname changes, people make fun of names like Nevaeh or Unique or Evylyn because apparently that’s tacky. And maybe it is! I’m not a fan of replacing all vowels with y either! But wow, there are just no good options for women.

And of course the moment you put a recognizably feminine name on your CV you become less employable, your qualifications worth less. But if you have a gender ambiguous name, you’re punished for being gender non conforming. Good fucking luck out there.

As far as women changing their names when they get married, I also find also find it irritating that often people showed concern about how their kids will trace their family if the wife keeps her own name - I was talking yesterday about my friend whose mother kept her own name and my mum was like “well whose name did their kids get” and I said that she has her mother’s last name and her brother has their dad’s, and my mum was like “they’re going to have a hell of a time if they ever want to trace their family tree!!” but women’s names get lost all the time through marriage which makes it hard to trace our families, but apparently that’s ok?

This effect also disrupts our relationships. Try finding old friends from high school or your second cousin. They are gone and renamed, lost to you. I have old friends from childhood I would really like to track down but it would be near impossible if they’re married because their names are likely changed. They’re lost to me now and I’ll never have a chance to rekindle that friendship.

It’s kind of a small thing, next to all the rape and mutilation and career discrimination and all the generally horrible things happening to women. But it’s just… nothing is okay, nothing is equal, no part of the world has actually been completely fixed yet. Even our names are yet another thing we need feminism help improve.

[thetangentialruinsminneapolis]

Theatre Pro Rata Brings Shoulderpads-Era Caryl Churchill to the Crane Theater With “Top Girls”

“You’re a sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot!”

Even acclaimed playwright Caryl Churchill had her work cut out for her trying to match 9 to 5 screenwriters Patricia Resnick and Colin Higgins in lucidly critiquing ’80s workplace sexism, but it always needs to be said once more for the people in the back.

Theatre Pro Rata embrace the Thatcher-era setting of Churchill’s Top Girls (1982) in a focused, humane new production at the Crane Theater — a venue that recently played host to the Twin Cities Horror Festival, so its black matte walls are absorbing plenty of dread this season.

With contemporary music setting the scene and performers costumed (by Eleanor Schanilec) in outfits that evoke the times without condescending to played-out leg-warmer stereotypes, director Carin Bratlie Wethern turns the clock back four decades to an era of British history where anyone who’s been absorbing this year’s copious Princess Di content has been spending a fair amount of time.

The play, which in many assessments sits near the top of the prolific playwright’s lauded oeuvre, centers on Marlene, played by Maggie Cramer with subtlety and conviction. Marlene’s recently been promoted to head of the Top Girls employment agency, where she not only needs to navigate her own career and the choices she’s made in prioritizing her work, but also guide a steady stream of women looking to land better positions for themselves.

Marlene and her agents (Megan Kim and Nissa Nordland Morgan) err on the side of brutal honesty when counseling applicants about realities including ageism and the dangers of letting prospective employers know too much about your plans for having a family. The seemingly hard-headed Marlene does have broader reflections on the injustice of it all, though, as we learn in a famed opening scene in which legendary women convene in her imagination for a wine-thirty dinner party.

Wethern’s strong ensemble cast carries this scene, as well as the others, with perfect aplomb. Sarah Broude heads the table as the iconic Pope Joan, while Emily Rosenberg’s badass Dull Gret uses her few words well. Ninchai Nok-Chiclana, who’s kept hopping as a server keeping the thirsty ladies’ wine glasses filled in the opening scene, later shines in two additional roles: a frank child and a job-seeker with a particularly creative résumé.

The show’s powerful concluding scene is a family reunion as Marlene visits her sister Joyce (Kelsey Laurel Cramer, convincingly weary) and niece Angie (Rosenberg, grippingly enthusiastic). While the opening scene underlines the universality of patriarchal oppression, the final scene feels very specific to its place and time, including the suggestion that the upwardly mobile Marlene has succumbed to yuppie conservatism. Today, you’d imagine the rural Joyce being an anti-vaxxer who blows up over Marlene allowing Angie to get a poke of AstraZeneca during her London visit.

If you’re vaccinated yourself (cards are checked at the door), this accessible, absorbing production is ample reason to pause the endless content stream and check in again with thought-provoking live theater. It still feels thrillingly novel to see people together onstage again, and this top-notch Top Girls cast make the most of the opportunity.

– Jay Gabler

Photo: Maggie Cramer in character as Marlene (Charles Gorrill, courtesy Theatre Pro Rata).

[thenightling]

In defense of Tom Sturridge (Already!?)

Apparently Tom Sturridge needs defending from our own meager fandom... already...

Disclaimer:  Though it is looking more and more likely that Tom Sturridge has the role of Morpheus in Netflix’s Adaptation of The Sandman this has still NOT been confirmed.   We are still riding on pure speculation.  However, I will defend the man.

Though it is not officially confirmed that Tom Sturridge will be playing Morpheus in The Sandman there are already people in the fandom complaining about the casting. (See the Neil Gaiman’s Sandman Facebook group.  The one with over three-thousand-members that I left.)  

In this post I will be addressing each and every complaint that I have seen thus far.   

And you wonder why they’re keeping the cast a secret from us for so long?  This.  This behavior would actually be worse if you knew for certain who was in the cast.  

When these negative reactions are in regard to who “might” be playing Morpheus, without any actual footage, or even images of him in character, they were wise to keep it a secret from us.

Now, let us begin.

1.   “He looks too much like Robert Pattinson.”  The hatred of Robert Pattinson is bizarre and irrational.  It is as if a great deal of the population cannot separate him from a character they despise.  The irony is Robert Pattinson never liked playing Edward Cullen anyway.  He did it strictly for the money.  And as far as vampire fiction goes, there is far, far, worse out there than Twilight.  Twilight is not good but there is worse out there.  It seems the hatred of Twilight is almost a knee-jerk reaction- a compulsive raw contempt against anything that appeals to teenage girls.  I do not like Twilight but I do not irrationally hate an actor just because he was in the films.  So what if Tom Sturridge resembles Robert Pattinson a bit?  You’ll condemn an actor because of his bone structure?  Because he “Kind of” reminds you of a man who played a character you don’t like?  Really?  I thought most of this fandom were grown ups.

2. “He’s too young to play Morpheus.”    The casting call was for men between the ages of twenty six and thirty six.  Tom Sturridge turns thirty-six this year.   It’s true that a man in his forties or even a youthful fifties could probably play Morpheus perfectly well and Morpheus did have crows-feet wrinkles in the first issue but to condemn an actor based on his age is merely ageism.  In this day and age a man can look any age with the right makeup.  Look at the lead in the silent film of Faust, directed by F. W. Murnau (Director of Nosferatu).   It’s impressive to know a thirty-six-year-old played elderly and youthful Faust in that film, and that was back in 1926.

3.   “He’s too old to play Morpheus.”  ...Seriously?   What did you want?  A CW teenager or early twenty-something college kid as the ten-billion-year-old dream lord?  Yet again, I know a man can pretty much play any age with the right makeup.  All else is ageism, even my cynical statement about the CW, that’s ageism.  

When Lestat the musical was on Broadway the actor who played Lestat was forty, the woman playing his mother was only about two years older than him.  

The actor playing Barnabas in the original Dark Shadows was in his forties.  The character was (According to Dan Curtis) only twenty-five when he became a vampire.  The woman playing his mother was only five-years-older than him.  

Tom Welling was still in Smallville as pre-Superman Clark Kent and he was older than the actor who played Superman in Superman Returns.  With good acting and makeup age doesn’t really matter.        

4.   “He’s a terrible actor.”    The man has about ten acting credits in total according to IMDB.  Most are bit parts and two are from when he was ten and eleven-years-old respectively.  

Are you judging him on roles he had before he hit puberty!? 

I have my doubts you ever saw him act in anything yet.  You’re probably leaping to conclusions because the pictures you found of him are a stoic pretty boy with beard stubble.

5.  “If he’s playing Morpheus that’s automatically a deal breaker.  I’m not watching.”   Okay.  Okay, fine. Don’t watch it.   You don’t have to.  No one is making you watch it.  However, you should be aware that Neil Gaiman watched the auditions.  He had a say in the casting.  If Tom Sturridge is playing him than this is the man HE chose. If Neil Gaiman doesn’t know who should play Morpheus, than no one does.  I thought James McAvoy did an excellent job in The Sandman audio drama and I will not automatically assume Tom Sturridge is a bad actor just because there are people pre-determined to hate this.

6.  “He shouldn’t be played by a white man.  It indicates that The Endless are all white and white people rule the universe.”   Morpheus likely will still have his bone-white (not human-white) skin from the comics (and I hope, the black void eyes with star pupils).  This was pulled off successfully with the Frankenstein monster in Penny Dreadful, with his own inhuman skin and yellow eyes.   

Morpheus’ bone-white skin, improbably thin build, and black void eyes are supposed to be without distinct race.  He’s not a human being. He’s not Caucasian.   He might be played by a white man, yes, but the actor was chosen based on talent, not racial background.  

I saw the casting description. Race was not a factor.  Since actual non-human / humanoid entities devoid of distinct racial background were unavailable, the show simply had to make do with a human being, instead.  The real Endless were unavailable or refuse to act.  You know how temperamental anthropomorphic personifications can be.    

7.   “He’s not thin enough.”   Okay, look. A lot can be done with CG.   I don’t want an actor killing himself for this role. 

Back in 1976 David Bowie was close to ninety-pounds when playing Thomas Jerome Newton in The Man who fell to Earth.  He was so under-weight that the wardrobe department had to buy his clothes in the children’s department of a store.  Yes, the character was really that thin in the Walter Tevis novel that the movie was based on.  But in the book Newton had hollow bones, like a bird, David Bowie, however, is a human being, not an alien.  And Tom Sturridge is a human being, not an anthropomorphic personification.  

When David Bowie played Newton he was on a diet mostly consisting of cocaine...  He could have easily died.  Thankfully Bowie cleaned up later, but he was not in a healthy state when he was in The man who fell to Earth.  We do not need a return of The Thin White Duke.  Not like that.

For a human to reach Morpheus’ comic book weight- that might require very unhealthy behavior, it would potentially be dangerous.  This is something they can adjust with camera tricks and computer effects.  He does not need to look like he’s dying. 

8.   “They should find an actor whose cheekbones stand out.”   See above...

9.    “He doesn’t look anything like Morpheus.”   I am certain you have not seen him in costume yet.  Neil Gaiman has (hypothetically speaking).   Let us trust the author and believe that his character looks the way he intended.    Remember how Henry Cavill went from Superman to The Witcher.

 10.   “I wanted Henry Cavill to play him.”   ... What?   

Have you... have you read Sandman?   Henry Cavill is under contract to do The Witcher.   He needs to stay buff for that role, and you want him to play “rake thin” Morpheus?  Yeah, a lot can be done with CG but Henry is an action hero actor.  He can act.  He’s a good actor.   But this is probably not the right role for Henry Cavill.

11.   “He looks like an American Youtuber.” He’s not either of those things.  Stop judging by appearances.   

12.  “He’s too pretty to play Morpheus.”   Stop judging by appearances.

13.  “He’s not attractive enough to play Morpheus.”  See above... 

14.  “He’s too short to play Morpheus.”  / “I heard he’s only five foot three.” / “I read that he’s just five foot eight.”    According to Google and IMDB he’s 5′10.  That’s the same height David Bowie was.  That’s average adult male height.  If they want him to look taller that’s easily done. Remember, Tom Cruise was The Vampire Lestat.  

It’s just lather, rinse, repeat, when it comes to fans.  Every adaptation the same thing.   “Tom Cruise can’t play Lestat.” (Anne Rice apologized for leading that charge, when she saw him in action).   Or “Michael Keaton is too wholesome to play Batman.”  or even “Ryan Reynolds should never play Deadpool after what he did in Wolverine.”  

People never learn.

Just give Tom Sturridge a chance. The casting isn’t even official yet.   And if he is Morpheus- try and wait to actually see how he plays the role before you decide he’s the worst thing to happen to The Sandman.  A few publicity photos don’t tell you what he is capable of as an actor.   You might be pleasantly surprised. 

[serendipitous-magic]

Why Don’t We Read: An Impromptu Essay By Me Because I’m Mad

You know how everyone is always saying “oh, I was such a big reader when I was a kid but I just don’t read books anymore, I don’t know what happened”? And how old people are always griping about “This is called a BOOK, it has no commercials and no loading screens, hardy har har har snorf har”?

What if it’s because we just don’t have time anymore?

Think about it. More and more and more of our time on earth is eaten up at our jobs just trying to survive in an economy where “minimum wage” covers maybe 1/3 of bare minimum expenses. And not only that, but we’re expected to juggle more and more and more things every single day. Long, uninterrupted hours simply... do not exist anymore.

Every day you have to not only commute to work, and then work, and then commute back, plus all the little chores and mundanities that make up every day life, cooking food and then eating food and folding laundry and cleaning and putting gas in the car and don’t forget that dentist appointment and better call Mom and if you have a lawn you have to water it and weed it and you have to figure out if you have enough to pay rent this month and you still have to call FedEx about that missing package and now you have to cook again and now there’s more laundry and so many emails to respond to and it’s been months since you washed your sheets hasn’t it and

BUT THEN

You are expected to do and be and keep up with so many things.

You’re supposed to work out, or jog, or do yoga, and you’re supposed to meditate or do a breathing exercise daily because it’s good for you, and while you’re at it, make sure that your living space looks like a magazine or an Instagram post, you need X minutes of sunshine a day to be healthy and Y minutes of exercise and Z number of steps, and you need to be an environmentalist and make sure you’re doing your part to save the planet, and you need to be constantly self improving, you need to be learning a language on Duolingo and doing projects like crocheting or writing or antiquing, you have to be completely unproblematic and constantly monitor everything you do and say and post because one tiny little thing can have the internet jumping down your throat, you’re supposed to be a nutritionist and a fitness nut and an expert on everything you talk about because society has become so black and white that saying “I don’t know” or “I didn’t know that before” is looked on as unacceptable,  you’re supposed to know what’s in your coffee and where it came from, you’re supposed to be a son a daughter a sibling a parent a student a mentor but also you’re supposed to be an interior designer, a small business owner (if you do any kind of Etsy or commission thing), a revolutionary (you’d better care about every overwhelming, exhausting injustice in the world and you’d better take action against it - see below), a curator (if only of your own blog), a rhetor (you’d better damn well know how to argue or you’re screwed in this society), a teacher (because school districts don’t teach anyone shit), a negotiation expert because it is car salesmen and insurance agencies’ job to fuck you over as hard as they possibly can.

Oh and don’t forget, you’re supposed to simplify your life and live in the moment. That one’s very important.

All of this is most likely while you’re already working anywhere from 20-40+ hours per week.

Keep up with your friends on Facebook, spend time to see what they’ve been up to, spend time posting your own pictures, catch up with your Instagram and Twitter and Tumblr feed, and for fuck’s sake you’d better make sure you’re reblogging all the right things about current social events, and you’d better also be caught up on the news, which all happens and changes so fast now that communication is instantaneous, keep up with all the politics, know every new outrage and be outraged about it, keep up with the politicians, the scientists begging us to listen, the latest news about the celebrity outed as a bigot, the latest shooting, the latest bombing, the latest protest, you’d better keep up with all of that and know what’s happening in the world, every minute of every day, and oh don’t worry about having to seek the news out, it comes to you. Every little ping on your phone is a new piece of news.

And you’d better care about it all. You’d better have enough energy in your body and mind to care about all the politics and all the injustice, and be rightly outraged every single day by the state of the world and every new horror, but you’d better also care about the dying planet and the burning rainforests, the oil spill, the glacial melt, you’d better be outraged about that too and you’d better be able to act on that outrage because those are all so important, and they are, but then you also have to care about insurance companies ruining people’s lives by making it impossible to afford healthcare, and you have to care about how agricultural companies have made cruel and byzantine webs of laws to drive farms out of business and make food, a basic necessity of life, a business, and one that’s designed not to feed and nurture people but to make money. And then while we’re on the topic of money you’d better care that the top 10 richest companies in the world create 70% of the world’s pollution, and you’d better care about how billionaires could fix most of the world’s biggest problems and they simply choose not to, and how Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos and everyone like them have an amount of money and resources that no single person could ever come close to earning, and how if that wealth was fairly redistributed and recirculated into the economy then maybe minimum wage would actually earn you a living and that’s not even to mention the other systems of brutality and cruelty and injustice in society, the racism, the homophobia, the ableism, the ageism, the sexism, the -ism -ism -ism on for infinity

So you’d better buy and use reusable straws and reusable coffee cups, you’d better cut down on your CO2 emissions, you’d better take shorter showers, you’d better recycle your plastics and spend time at the store thinking about how you can buy things with less plastic wrapping, while you’re also thinking about those big agriculture companies, oh and by the way your eggs? The chickens they came from live in cages, barely being allowed to move for their entire lives, and you’d better be outraged about that too. Where do you think that milk came from? What does that cow look like? How about those peas, were they picked by someone being paid $1 an hour? Every single item on the shelf has some deep horror woven into its backstory. 

You’d better sign every petition you can and you’d better reblog the right things about taking action against injustice and you’d better be vocal about it, you’d better buy your soap and your clothes from small businesses instead of supporting the big evil ones that are much easier to access and much, much cheaper (because somebody suffered, somewhere along the line, to make it that cheap), you’d better remember to save your pasta water to water your plants with instead of wasting it, you’d better make your gifts by hand (if you have the time, which you don’t), and 

And then there’s the beauty industry.

You cannot go a single day without seeing something about “lose weight fast!” or “The Skinny Girl Cookbook!” or “This Weird Thing Burns Belly Fat!”, and everyone you see on screen is twig-thin or muscled, and don’t forget that you’re supposed to take the time to love yourself and practice body positivity too, oh wait no it’s too late, now body neutrality is the right thing to say and think. Every part of your face and body has some malady and you can buy a cure! Spend this much to get rid of acne, spend this much to wax your legs, buy this for wrinkles and that for stretch marks, this cream smooths out your skin to look like an eggshell instead of human flesh, that cream “fixes” those bumps on your arms that apparently aren’t allowed to exist, a basic face of makeup is at least 5 products if not 10, there are countless tutorials on how to make yourself better, because you aren’t okay as you are and you never will be as long as somebody can sell  you something to “fix” yourself. 

Oh, and that’s more time spent, too. Take the time to shave, to moisturize, to do your 3-step skincare routine, to slather all different kinds of goops and goos on various parts of you, take the time to pluck your eyebrows and exfoliate your feet and

Everything wants your attention, every second of every day. Because attention is money. Netflix Hulu Youtube watch this ad look at this ad Twitter Disney+ Twitter again Facebook more ads look at this ad sign up for this subscription package watch this new season of this show, watch this new movie, watch this watch this watch this watch look at this this watch this watch this look at this look at this look at this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this look over here look at this look at this look over here watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this look at this

And then at the end of the day you still have to reserve time for the people in your life that are important to you, and leave time for those long conversations with your sister or time to bond with your kid or time to go on dates with your S.O.

And then you’re supposed to take time for yourself. Self care. Like social media is always saying to do. Take a bath, drink some tea, relax. If you have time.

And all of that. ALL of that. Most likely happens in the small slivers of time before and after your work day, or on the weekend in the small sliver of time before or after you fold that laundry and cook dinner and attend to your personal matters and maybe hang out with a friend if you’re lucky.

And I just described a fairly privileged, not-on-the-brink-of-poverty, not-in-and-out-of-the-hospital, not-constantly-targeted-by-violence-or-oppression life. I just described a cushy life.

Is it any fucking wonder that we all feel shattered? Like our time, even on free days with absolutely nothing scheduled, is made up of tiny pieces? Is it any wonder that it seems like nobody can sit down with a book anymore?

I’m so fucking tired.

[gettin-bi-bi-bi]

Hi Maddie, how or what do you think I can do to not be so self-conscious about my body? I'm a virgin, I'm 22, and I'm ready to have sex with my bf but the only thing stopping me is that. I don't like my body very much. I'm too skinny and short. I barely have any curves and I feel so self-conscious about it. Well that ofc and perhaps the fact that it might hurt but it's mainly the "how I look" part. I want to be confident enough to not give a damn. But I don't know how to.

Hello,

first of all you should try to internalise that you do not have to love your body in order to be okay with it. Body positivity is a great movement but it can be demoralising when it’s focussing entirely on “just love your body” when that seems like five steps ahead of where you are right now. So as an in-between step I’d say just try to create a mindset of “my body is what it is and there’s nothing I can change about it (except my perception of it)". So try to accept your body for what it is and try to just be okay with it.

Little things that helped me over the years to feel more comfortable about my body is to be naked as much as possible. Like... at home I just walk around naked, I sleep naked when it’s not too cold, I go skinny dipping in summer. Now, I don’t know where you live and how your culture is about nudity but I find nothing more liberating about body image issues than chilling at a nudist beach and seeing all different kinds of people just being carefree and nakey and not giving a single fuck about how I look because they’ve seen it all.

Additionally you should try to remind yourself that just because you don’t find yourself attractive doesn’t mean nobody else does. Everybody likes different things and for every body type that exists, there’s someone who finds that to be the hottest body type ever. Like, there’s a lot of fatphobia and ageism in this world and yet I am still absolutely batshit horny for chubby old men. And though there is this beauty ideal that women have to be curvy and an hourglass figure,  there’s pleeeeenty of people who don’t find that beauty ideal attractive at all and actually like skinny and short girls; or tall and fat girls or whatever.

Your boyfriend is with you for a reason. I assume it is because he loves you and is attracted to you. Even if he hasn’t seen you naked yet he probably has a pretty good idea of what your body is shaped like and I can’t imagine there’s anything that could suddenly turn him off when you take your clothes off in front of him. Assuming your boyfriend is a half decent person he’ll know that only very few people look like supermodels - and as mentioned above: he might not even be interested in people who look like supermodels. I used to be very self-conscious about my vitiligo and then realised that half the men I had sex with didn’t even mention it when they saw me naked and the other half who did mention it didn’t do so in a negative way at all, they were just like “huh, that’s different!” and then moved on. So those parts about your body that you hate? Your boyfriend might not even notice them as A Thing. Or if he does then he might not think of them as “bad” or “unattractive”.

If you want to have sex with him I would recommend you talk about any fears and insecurities that you have (and ask him if he has any as well). Maybe when talking about it some of those worries can be resolved before you even get started. And trust him when he says and shows that he is attracted to you and your body.

Lastly, because you mentioned you’re a little afraid that your first time could hurt, I would like to redirect you to this post about that very topic from a while ago. EDIT: I also just found this post again which might also be of interest to you.

Maddie

[matty9370]

Misogyny & 1D Shipping

Misogyny and ziam / larry shipping go hand in hand.

 Misogyny's an 'entrenched prejudice against women' it’s more subtle than systematic sexism. It’s finding fault in what women do all the while excusing men. "Misogyny" is personalised, intrusive and often sexualised. And what makes the misogyny I’m about to talk about more repulsive & potent is that “hatred” and “prejudice” is coming from a group of young women aka“The Shippers”.

One Tumblr/Twitter/YouTube/Instagram post after another the names and places, dates and scenario’s might change but the narrative is identical:

The woman is the attention and/or money whore revelling in playing the beard while the closet man is the vulnerable victim being “forced” into a web of lies by the invisible men in suits!

Even when the "beards” in question have their own fortune and fame they’re STILL relegated to ruthless predatory media whores. Taylor Swift and Gigi, for example, are at the top of their game, yet they were/are using Harry & Zayn.

Gigi ...

who grew up in an $85 million custom built mansion in the hills of Bel Air to a  billionaire developer father and a supermodel/reality TV star mom

whose personal net worth exceeds $45 million,

who's been modelling designer labels since the age of 2

who's raised with the who's who children of Hollywood A listers

whose stepdad was an Oscar & grammy winning producer

who year in, year out makes Forbes most lucrative models list

is with Zayn for his fame and money? 

Of all the men in Hollywood Gigi would pursue and continue a relationship with for PR she’d select one of the most reclusive, introverted and private men in the music industry for that charade? Really?

And when her dad Mohammed reminded people that his daughter is with Zayn 'cause she loves him and is successful with or without him, Ziams ridiculously twisted his defence of his daughter as an attack on Zayn. How dare a father say his already millionaire daughter isn’t a gold-digger!

Now let’s go to Taylor Swift, a woman:

With a net worth close to half a BILLION dollars (quadruple that of Harry)

Who had already won multiple grammy’s and every music award there is to win,

Topped almost every chart in the world and whose songs and music video’s crash the internet

Who rose to fame without the aid of global TV show or the backing of a huge producer

Yet not only are Larries arguing she’d resort to being a beard, but ...wait for it... she had more to gain from faking a relationship with Harry Styles than he did from her!!

Take the Liam and Cheryle scenario, I can count in one hand the number of interviews where Cheryl even talks about her son or Liam. Yet during their relationship and even immediately after it Liam (positively) did countless interviews where he mentions her and their son. 

But if Ziams are right and she pursued the relationship for PR wouldn’t she be the one doing the talking? 

I also lost count of the number times I’ve read a post by a Ziam that “she’s after his money”, again if she’s contractually a beard and the baby is fake who’s she gonna pull that? 

“East, she’ll pimp the baby all over social media and get magazine deals", hands up if you’ve seen Bear’s face, no, anyone?

What’s weird is that Ziams are quick to dismiss Cheryl’s net worth of $40 million when they tell everyone she’s after Liam’s $50 million!!

Their next move is the ageism, “oh her biological clock was ticking so she used Liam to have a baby!” so now we’ve established she didn’t use her relationship for PR and she’s rich on her own right, so we’re gonna switch to her wanting a baby. There’s a thing called surrogacy, IVF and adoption.

If all Cheryl was after was a baby she could have gone for insemination as other celebs do!!

Spare a thought for poor Briana Jungworth! An ordinary girl who’s been inundated with hate throughout her pregnancy and long after it. And unlike Taylor, Gigi or Cheryl she doesn’t have fame and money to defend her herself or even her child’s paternity!!

Larries dumbfoundedly kept switching the narrative from her being a beard to her being a gold-digging groupie who purposefully got knocked up to milk Louis for everything he’s got. But which is it? If she’s a beard whose pregnancy is fake or whose son isn’t Louis’s how could she possibly milk him? If Freddie isn’t Louis son why would Louis have been splitting his time between LA and the UK as his mother was dying, to do what spend time with his beard and fake baby??

I said it before and I’ll say it again..

FOR A FAKE CLOSET GAY MALE STAR/BEARD THEORY TO BE TRUE THERE’S NO INSTIGATOR AND VICTIM. THERE’S SIMPLY TWO CONSENTING ADULTS AGREEING TO DECEIVE THE PUBLIC. IF THERE’S A CHILD INVOLVED IN THAT DECEPTION THAN THEY’RE BOTH CULPABLE! PERIOD!! NO BUTS, NO IFS.

If Freddie and Bear aren’t Louis and Liam’s sons then both these grown-ass men in their late 20s are consciously and publicly playing with minors paternity! And come September the same standard will apply to Zayn! PERIOD! As a Larry, Ziam or a Zerrie a simple question why are you stanning men doing a despicable thing like lying about a childs paternity, and you'll get drivel about A. them being forced to do so (misogyny type 1) and/or B. shift the blame on the "beards" (misogyny type 2). I repeat again, if you're a shipper who believes in the fucked up theory that those babies aren't Louis's, Liam's or Zayn's than immediately unstan those men!!! You can't have it both ways, you can't say the babies aren't theirs than in the same breath try to argue that's not immoral and they're not culpable.

And what’s more tragic about this level of misogyny is that the majority of the shippers are women. Women who pounce on everything other women do or say to debunk and ridicule it, just to keep a fictional ship alive!

However subtle or harshly executed, publicly relegating other women as mere beards, diminishing their accomplishments, faking their reliance on the men, attempting to debunk and twist everything they do and say, doesn’t make you an ally to supposedly closet gay men, it makes you a the worst kind of misogynist, a female one!

[saywhatjessie]

TRC Exchange

This is my gift for @richardcampbells who requested so primo Gansey content! 3.7k [Ao3]

Gansey did not remember being this twitchy in high school.

It was difficult to remember ‘high school’ as this thing that had happened to him only a short year ago and not something in his distant past. He’d experienced so many things in the years of high school and also in the gap year since, it was hard to hold the memory of Aglionby as something associated with himself. He had felt quite different then.

Quite less twitchy.

Blue would probably take offense to the word twitchy. He didn’t think it was a slur of any kind, but it still felt like a word she would not-so-gently correct. Fidgety, she might say. Hyper.

Not that he was hyper, he just couldn’t seem to stop picking at the corner of his folder. Or playing with the zipper tag on his schoolbag. He had to admit, he did feel rather high-strung.

To be so far away from her – Blue – when they’d so recently been so close. Closer than close. It was mildly unbearable.

And not only her, but Henry who had been with them on their gap year road trip around the world. Adam, who was following his own academic pursuits but had been a real grounding presence in his Aglionby days. Ronan, who he missed like a limb and who’d worried him while he’d been away and potentially worried him more now that he was close but still extremely far.

Georgetown was not so far. Ronan came to the area every week for mass with his brothers.

It was enough distance for Gansey to feel it in the marrow of his bones.

He tapped his pen distractedly against his laptop, waiting for class to start and contemplating if he should send Ronan another text. Just to make sure he was coping. He couldn’t remember ever tapping his pen at Aglionby.

“Okay, class, welcome to BBH 251, colloquially known as ‘Straight Talks.’”

Gansey sat up straighter, taking a firmer grip on his pen to sublimate the urge to fidget.

“You can all put your laptops away, this isn’t that type of class.”

Gansey startled, blinking for a good few seconds before shutting his laptop and sliding it back into his bag. He wasn’t sure what kind of class didn’t require taking notes. His pulse jumped a bit in his neck, some predecessor to an inappropriate sense of dread.

“This class is about exploring intersectional identity, putting focus on privilege and invisible identities.”

And now the dread made more sense. Gansey was always far too aware of his privilege.

It would be absolutely heinous to have to get up in the front of this room and list out all the ways society valued him more than them. Looking around the room there were women, there were people of color. Students with pride flags on their bags and their hair dyed outrageous colors. There were students who looked like Adam had when he’d first come to Aglionby: hollow cheeked and broken down in a way that could only be reached by withstanding poverty. How was he supposed to come out to this class as a straight, white, wealthy son of a Republican career politician?

“The class is called straight talks because what we learn in this class, we carry over into other classes. We reach out to other classes and introduce ourselves with our full intersectional identities.”

The horrors continued abound. Gansey would have to do this around the entire university.

“I’ll start.”

Their instructor introduced herself as a white, cis woman. She was a lesbian athlete in her mid-fifties. She talked about the difficulties of being a lesbian athlete, how she suffered ageism in the gay community, and the stereotypes that come with it.

Braver souls than Gansey came forward and asked what cis meant. The teacher calmly explained that it simply meant “not trans”. Gansey hadn’t known there was a word for that. He hadn’t thought about the need for one. And that made him feel worse than anything. Because anything that wasn’t “other” was “normal”. What a terribly privileged thing he was.

“And now, to present more examples from your peers, I’ve asked some of my students from last semester to show you what a straight talk might look like. Ryann, do you want to start?”

Ryann didn’t look particularly bothered either way, but started on what was obviously a well rehearsed speech.

He was genderfluid, which meant he changed his pronouns regularly, but he told them all that at this moment he was a he so please refer to him as such. He was of Māori descent. He talked about what it was like to be underrepresented and constantly likened to Taika Waititi just because he was the only Māori person anyone ever heard of, if they’d heard of it at all. He suffered from EDS, which meant he had what was usually referred to as an invisible disability. In other words: people assumed he was abled when they looked at him since he didn’t need a wheelchair. At least not yet.

This wasn’t at all about Gansey, but he still found himself sinking slightly in his seat, the shame he felt by the simple fact that he had none of these additional social obstacles to deal with making him feel absolutely wretched and helpless.

The next speaker helped some. She was white and cis and able-bodied. But she spoke of growing up in poverty in the American south, constantly living in fear because she was bisexual and a woman. She discussed how she’d known more girls who’d experienced sexual violence than she could fit on two hands.

Gansey felt a little like crying. Actually, a lot like crying. But he was a Gansey and he would never show such unmeasured behaviour in company. And this was not about him. He would not make it about him.

The last person was agender. They were mixed race: what races, they weren’t even sure because they were adopted. They grew up in a wealthy family but lived in a community where they didn’t feel deserving of that station. Feeling undeserving was something, at least, Gansey understood.

They were also demisexual.

“So, demisexuality is on the spectrum of asexuality,” the person – Storm – explained, in a practiced-sounding way, but not like Gansey thought they were tired of explaining: they still sounded as if they cared deeply about this label. “Everyone’s heard of the Kinsey scale?” Most everyone nodded, Gansey maybe too enthusiastically. He’d read a lot of history when he’d realized Adam was bisexual. “Asexuality has that same kind of scale, ranging from sex-repulsed asexual to sex-positive gray-asexual. Asexuality is differentiated by the lack of feeling of sexual attraction. sex-repulsed asexuals don’t feel sexual attraction and don’t want sex in any way. People can still be asexual but have sex anyway for stress relief or for their partner: they don’t feel the attraction but don’t mind the act itself. Gray-asexual people can feel sexual attraction but only sometimes. It’s all very relative and, obviously, I don’t speak for everyone blah blah blah. Following?”

There were grumbles of assent from the assembled class and Gansey nodded distractedly.

What Storm (and that was another thing: Ronan would absolutely love the names nonbinary people chose for themselves when Gansey told him) what Storm was talking about with gray-asexuality sounded just like normal people. Not everyone experiences sexual attraction ALL the time. Then wouldn’t everyone want to have sex with everyone else all the time? That sounded extremely distracting, who would have the time?

And not everyone was in the mood all the time either. He was working to be really open-minded, but this didn’t sound real. 

“Demisexuality,” Storm continued, “Is on that spectrum. The important qualifier is that demisexual people can feel sexual attraction but only if they establish an emotional bond with someone first.”

And just like that, something in Gansey’s head snapped.

He shot his hand up.

Their professor waved him off. “We’re not doing questions right now,”

“That’s okay.” Storm said, smiling at him. Something in their eyes glinted in what Gansey thought might be recognition, even though they’d never met. “What’s up?” They asked, nodding at Gansey.

Gansey had no idea what was up. He hadn’t raised his hand with any kind of plan.

“Hello. My name is Gansey,” he introduced himself, because his mother always said that was a good jumping off point. “Demi is from the Latin word dimidius meaning partially or half.”

That probably wasn’t the right direction to start with, judging by the muttering and eye rolling from his classmates. Gansey felt his neck heat up but Storm looked amused.

“Are you calling me half-sexual?”

“No,” Gansey shook his head, trying to come off better. “I guess I just wondered how the leap was made from demi meaning half to demi meaning… what you said.”

“Mr. Gansey–” the teacher started again, looking a little put-out. Gansey guessed he’d probably said something wrong. Something offensive. Something condescending. He was good at that.

But Storm waved her off again. “I don’t know, man, I didn’t invent the word. I just learned it, same as you’re learning it now.” Their eyes flashed again on the words ‘same as you’. “I learned the word and I remembered every teacher I’d had a crush on growing up after they’d established a connection with me. I remembered the weird sex dreams I’d had about literally every one of my friends. I remembered how any time someone talked about having sex with a stranger I thought they were kidding because how could you feel that way about someone you didn’t know?”

Gansey’s hand gripped the seat of his chair, each statement from Storm triggering his own memories. How he’d never had a crush on a girl – a serious, Want To Do Anything About It crush – until Blue. How confused he’d been when Adam said he had more experience with girls, because he hadn’t, really. How Helen’s advances on poor unsuspecting men felt false, because how could she want to sleep with all of them? She’d just met them.

And he remembered the weird sex dreams he’d had about Adam and Ronan, even though he was straight.

At least… he’d thought he was straight?

Storm smiled at him in a soft, almost pitying way. “Any other questions?”

Gansey shook his head. “No, thank you. Please continue.”

It seemed this class may teach him more than he’d counted on.

His first order of business was to call Blue.

Both because he needed to speak with her about this new word he’d just learned and also because he had a scheduled call with her and also because he missed her fiercely.

“Have you heard this word ‘demisexuality’?” Gansey asked by way of hello.

He could almost hear Blue blink in surprise. “No. Where have you heard the word demisexuality?”

“I’m taking this Bio-Behavioral Health class. It’s usually reserved for at the very earliest second semester students but I spoke to my advisor about my apprehension regarding achieving the required credits for gen eds and she suggested combining requirements through some classes that might cover both. This class counts for gym and science.”

“So you’re not taking a gym class?” Blue hummed, mournfully. “No pictures of sunkissed Gansey rowing in the early morning?”

Gansey’s ears heated up and he cleared his throat. “Any photos you’d like I’ll take for you, Jane.”

Blue hummed again, self-satisfied.

Gansey cleared his throat again. “So this class explores identity and marginalization–”

Blue cut him off with a barked laugh. “Oh, man, I would love to watch this class react to you .”

“Yes, Jane, it was not very comfortable for me, aware as I am of my privilege.” He tried not to sound petulant but he was and it did. “But there was a student named Storm who introduced me to this new word. Demisexuality, I mean.”

“Okay,” Blue said. There was rustling on the other side and Gansey pictured her getting comfortable, sitting in the chair next to the table in the phone/sewing/cat room. She had her own cell phone by now – a fight that spanned weeks and several countries of their road trip – but she refused to use it to speak to Gansey himself, only saving it for calling her mother while she was away or to speak to Adam on the phone his own boyfriend had bullied him into accepting. He assumed she’d cave and use it to speak to him when she was away at school herself (her semester didn’t start until October) but for now they were relying on old habits. “So tell me about demisexuality.”

He began to talk through it with her, repeating some of what Storm said and drawing new conclusions and going so far as to pull a webpage on the subject up on his phone as he spoke, switching between reading off of it and putting the phone to his ear to hear her reply. He knew she could have looked this up herself, but he appreciated she was letting him tell her about it. Teaching her was the easiest way for him to learn himself.

She cut to it pretty quick. “Is that what you think you are?”

Gansey blinked, expecting the question, he supposed, but not expecting how it would make him feel.

“I thought I was straight,” he answered. Because it was true. Even if it was becoming less true by the moment. 

There was a rustling that Gansey recognized as a shrug. “Everyone thinks they’re straight until they don’t.”

Gansey blinked again.

“Thank you, Jane.”

Blue hummed. “I’m gonna let you sit with this. Call me back with any updates?”

Gansey hummed back. They hung up.

Gansey appreciated she wanted to let him sit with this – it was a kindness and potentially a necessity. He didn’t know how to do this, he’d never had a sexual identity crisis before.

So he called Ronan.

Who didn’t answer, of course, so he was forced to sit with his sexual identity crisis.

  He sat with it for two hours until Ronan sent him a text. “Dick.”

Gansey called him.

Ronan answered. “Jesus Mary, Gansey, what ?”

“I think I had a crush on you when we first met.”

Ronan choked and immediately hung up.

Gansey swore, growling, before hitting redial.

“Gansey, I swear to Christ,” Ronan pleaded.

“Shut up!” Gansey swore. “Please shut up. I am so stressed out right now, Ronan.”

Ronan, for his part, shut up. It was an angry and embarrassed silence, but considering what Gansey had just confronted him with that was understandable.

“I learned something in one of my classes today and Jane thinks it might apply to me.” Blue had said no such thing, but something told Gansey that Ronan would take information like this more seriously if it came from sensible Blue. “There is apparently a sexual orientation previously unbeknownst to me that describes feelings of attraction only when there’s an established emotional connection.”

Ronan was silent for a few breaths before he said “Okay?”

“So we were very close when he first met and I felt an immediate connection to you and I didn’t know how to process that outside of friendship because I’d never felt it before but now with this new term sort of recontualizing things, I think it may have been a crush.”

Ronan made a sort of squawk in his throat, reacting similarly to the first time Gansey had said the word “crush” but, thankfully, not hanging up the phone.

“Gansey… I don’t know what you want me to do with this.”

Gansey opened his mouth then shut it again. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Ronan either. He didn’t know how to ask “Do you think I had a crush?” or “Do you think I’m not straight?” or “How do I restructure myself, how do I think of myself, if I’m not straight like I always thought?”

But that was an emotional burden he had no business troubling Ronan with. Gansey’s feelings weren’t Ronan’s responsibility. He had other things going on.

“Nothing,” he answered, quickly, attempting to brush off the entire conversation. “Just a thought to mull over. I thought I’d share. But, you’re right, you have other things to do–”

Ronan sighed so loud and dramatically, he cut off Gansey’s prepared polite change of topic right in its tracks.

“Gansey, it’s okay if you’re not straight. It would be fucking cool, actually. That means none of us are straight. High five for a perfect queer score or whatever the shit.”

Gansey’s mouth twitched.

“And if you had a crush on me that’s cool too.” He cleared his throat, his next statement coming out as a growl to cover embarrassment. “I had a crush on you in the beginning, too. So it’s whatever.”

Gansey grinned. “Oh, you did?”

“We are never bringing this up again,” Ronan told him firmly. “But yeah, man, you’re like the portrait of well tended youth. But you drove a fast and shitty car and smiled like a dork. I was sixteen, what do you want?”

Gansey’s grin softened. “Well, now I feel indecorous. You’ve had time to think about this. I have nothing prepared to tell you why you were crushworthy.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Ronan said, quickly. “Tell me about the crush you had on Parrish, instead.”

Gansey sat up straight, very much feeling like he’d received a rowing oar to the face. “Did I have a crush on Parrish?”

Ronan snorted, cruel yet fond. “Of fucking course you had a crush on Parrish. Everyone with eyes and a brain has had a crush on Parrish.”

Gansey frowned but remembered again the inappropriate sex dreams. Then he blushed. Then he conceded. “I suppose you make valid points.”

Ronan laughed. “Did you get butterflies the first time he helped you fix the Pig?”

Gansey hummed, getting a little lost in the memory, before jerking back. “Oh. Have I been a little stupid about this?”

Ronan snorted again, the sound 100% joy this time. “Yeah, man. But that’s okay. No one can know everything.”

When Gansey was slated to present his own “straight talk” to the class weeks later, he was prepared. Not ready. Not comfortable. But prepared.

“Hello,” Gansey started, his politician’s-son smile on. “My name is Richard Campbell Gansey III, but I go by Gansey. The legacy in my family, so aptly captured by my name, has never been something I was comfortable with.”

Gansey watched a few faces around the room nod. Expressing that they saw him, they understood what he was saying, and they accepted it.

It gave him the strength to continue. He smiled a bit more easily this time.

“It feels overly boastful to list the ways for which I have privilege in this world – it was something I was never brought up to put a name to for fear of coming off ungracious or pompous. But putting a name to something is the first step to breaking down the social structures that put people like me so far ahead simply by the state in which I was born. So just because it makes me uncomfortable, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t say it. I only ask that as I go down my list, you all don’t hate me too much.”

That got a few laughs. Gansey sighed a bit in relief before steeling himself.

“I’m white. White Anglo Saxon Protestant, which is rather ironic as I’m deathly allergic to wasps.” Another laugh. Gansey took another breath. “I come from a wealthy family: what some call old Virginia money. I’ve never wanted for anything. I am cis, I am male, I am able-bodied – save my poor eyesight and previously mentioned bee and wasp allergy. Access to care for eyes and allergy has never been a problem, though, because of the aforementioned wealth. I’ve been able to go through my life relatively normally because of the wealth and despite what otherwise might be debilitating conditions.”

The bee allergy had killed him, once, but Gansey wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to get into that in this setting.

“I have a girlfriend, so I am straight passing,” Gansey continued, swallowing. “And, until very recently, I thought I was straight.”

He lifted his eyes to the class, hoping some of them were remembering his questions to Storm on the first day. Storm themself wasn’t there but Gansey pictured them in his mind as he continued.

“Learning about demisexuality has opened some things up for me,” he confessed. “I spoke to my girlfriend and to some friends from high school who are queer themselves and who I only recently realized I had had crushes on. They all think it’s extremely funny, telling me I was terrible at hiding it. And they’re all very excited to realize this gives us a perfect record of queerness in the friend group.”

More laughs. Students’ faces were very open and friendly. Some were still a bit disdainful – there would be some fights he couldn’t win, some people he would never be able to win over because they had suffered too much by people just like him – but there were people in this class who didn’t visibly hate him. Gansey grinned fully.

“I expect this discovery of identity will continue: probably until I die.” (Again) “And it was challenging to have to restructure my self-perception, but a bit thrilling, too. I thank you all for sharing so much of yourselves with me. I hope I can go forward in this life and take advantage of my outrageous privilege to do right by you.”

He glanced over at the professor, who looked rather stoic, but nodded once, eyes shining in something that looked a little like surprise and a little more like pride.

Gansey looked back to the class and nodded. “Thank you.”

He hoped he could answer questions – from the class and from himself – whenever they came.

[anxiousdepressedintrovert]

Otome Wednesday (AKA the late af one) Don’t hate me (T_T)

Y’all my weekend was shiitty

I’m not even gonna get into again but let it be known that it was shitty.

I’m gonna post all of LSV tomorrow. 

Anywaay--

The Royal Heir Chapter 10: The one where I really wanna “accidently” shoot he who shall not be named OR A Fox in the Henhouse 

-Ah yes, let’s have a hunt with a fucking toddler around

-Bitch, call me a outsider again. See what the fuck ima do to your crusty ass

-Thank you Liam.

-Bart, you don’t have respect for customs. And you didn’t even raise your own kids

-Hakim, Landon…thin ice

-Oh the ageism is rampant

-Yeah, The people actually parenting a baby can’t just fucking leave

-idiot

-I would sooner burn Cordonia to the ground than leave her with anyone you’ve “prepared”

-I DON’T TRUST MADELEINE! Why is she always an option! Why isn’t Olivia?

-Queen Mother is the only one I trust, and that’s barely.

-Savannah standing up to Bertrand in the last chapter was a small step in the right direction for her

-Yes, Eleanor, go with Gamma.

-OMG I love this child. I want to play as her more

-At some point we (if you’re Queen) need to officially declare Hana a lady-in-waiting. Cause it’s a huge honor, and she basically already is. Not to mention she gets perks from that as well. (I’m totally not giving away plot point for my story)

-I love this hunting outfit. It’s so cute. And practical. And PANTS. For fucking once.

-Though how boss would it have been if we did, ride, shoot and win the hunt in our ball gown? Baller AF

-Marabelle! I haven’t seen you for like, two books! (It might’ve been sooner but my memory is terrible)

-Hehe, love my awestruck husband

-This not foxhunt sounds boring af. The only part that sounds fun is the bow shooting

-Of course Bart gave us a nose blind dog. Ugh

-At least Chester’s cute

--OMG puppy heaven

-Onward Chester! …in the wrong direction

-Maxwell packed the motherload of jerky

-Ew, Bart.

-But at least we’re on the trail again

-Bart doesn’t deserve Rex

-So naturally, I’m going to mess with him

-Beef jerky distraction

-works every time

-go chester go

-Who’s a good nose blind baby?! It’s Chester!

-Of course Bart goes blaming Rex. Cause nothing is EVER his own fault

-#saverex2020

-suck it Bart

-Oh look, a crow.

-Time to have Bart freak the fuck out

-I’m excited

-Bring on the shenanigans

-Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaa

-This entire scene is gold

-I really wanna know what happened to traumatize him this much

-Haha, he has to forfit!

-Why is the press judging the riding portion of this?

-I’m not mad, I just wanna know

-Cause they’re kinda biased/easily swayed

-Ugh why did he have to come back.

-Why couldn’t he have gotten…idk mauled by a bear or something

-If this asshole says one more thing about tradition. I’m gonna strangle him with my bare hands. Cause that is traditional.

-I do have a soft spot for archery though

-He’s compensating for something

-lack of being a decent human being probably

-Who could have come prepared for a surprise archery shoot?

-Oh finally honorary Beaumont status coming in handy

-Have some diamonds. I wanna show off

-Ah Liam and Drake betting again. If it wasn’t so rare, I’d say they had a problem

-Wooowwww. Maxwell took the bow Bart tried to give us and it didn’t even last nocking the arrow

-Yeah, he better not protest. All that shit he was talking about me being an honorary Beaumont

-Yeah I am Liam, yeah I am

-Hakim, you’re still on thin ice

-Nah, bitch. Won your petty challenge too.

-Oh my baby girl is back!

-I need to know what she got up to while we were gone.

-What playroom for a princess doesn’t have a castle. Lame af

-That’s what I said Liam!

-Oh no! What’s he doing to Todd!

-Leave him alone!

-I don’t wanna hear shit from a man who ran away from raising his sons. And even when he was there, was shit at that.

-Yas Ana, style over all

-Yes! Another chance to show up Bart? Yes please

-She said “How-see” My little angel

-Stealing Bart’s limelight

-Cause I’m petty and an opportunist

-HAHAHAHAHAHA Bart attempts to cradle Todd and Todd said “fuck that” and bit the shit out of him

-Good girl Todd

-BRB sobbing.

-My baby’s meeting her first horse

-Her name is Apple

-Maxwell. HER NAME. IS. APPLE.

-Of course Daddy get’s to take his little girl

-Pfftt Liam called Cordonia citizen’s creatures. Which…ya know. I get

-Ugh, that little Tankyu

-Landon, thin ice. No polo until she’s at least ten

-OHH that CG is so cute!!!! T_T

-I can’t wait to see what the next chapter is gonna be

-Oh nooo not the sad face Ellie!

-Did he just call my baby, the child he’s trying to take, a distraction?

-Yeah. I’m def beatin his ass

-Oh yeah! Master of the Hunt!

-Queen Riley, Duchess of Valtoria, Champion of the Realm, Master of the Hunt, Mother of Corgis

-As I said before.

-I would sooner stab this crusty old man with that knife Olivia gave me in Book 1, than let this man, who couldn’t raise his own kids, parent-shame me. In my own god-damned house. Cause I will air his dirty laundry. And I can do it without mentioning anything about his fake illness.

[braincoins]

Harley’s Crew

So, in the penultimate episode of season 2, we get Harley saying that she’s not a supervillain... maybe not even a bad guy. And I’ve been mulling this over in my head. I don’t think any of her crew are bad guys, except Dr. Psycho and I’ll get to him in a minute. They’re all people who’ve been fucked over, and they’re angry about that.

Before I get going on this, let me also say that I don’t consider Ivy to be part of Harley’s “crew” because that implies she’s an underling of some sort, and she’s Harley’s equal. That being said, I’ll get to Ivy also. But let’s focus on Harley, King Shark, Clayface, and Sy Borgman. ...and put this under a cut because of course it got long.

Harley’s parents didn’t really show her love, except for when she was winning competitions and then her dad tells her to throw it, and... yeah, all of that was fucked up. She’s a young woman being constantly fucked over by men - most prominently her father and then the Joker - and at the beginning of the show, she comes out of an extremely abusive and co-dependent relationship. She’s had people telling her who and what to be her whole life, so of course she has trouble deciding what she actually wants for herself!

King Shark has that same problem with his dad: You’re going to marry this person you don’t know and don’t love. He accidentally killed his sibling as a child. That’s not something he decided to do. So he leaves and goes to land and he just wants to do what he wants to do, dammit. But he’s a fucking talking shark. People probably assumed he was a bad guy because Jaws and whatever, and where else could he go? 

Clayface? Oh man. He just wants to be an actor, and now he has this ability to look like whoever he wants. He’s just a gay actor who is constantly shunned and mocked. He just wants to be appreciated. But even with as weird a place as Gotham City is, most normies can’t handle him - even when he’s not hamming it up. So, again, where else is he gonna go? The bad guys are the only ones who’ll even allow him to tend bar.

And Sy, hooooo boy, Sy. The government did a number on him, man. Look at how he keeps talking about ‘Nam and Commies. He has some flashbacks during the series, too. At the point we meet Sy, he’s an old, disabled Jewish man. The odds of him getting respect anywhere are slim to none. 

So, Harley’s been fucked over by men, King Shark is the victim of ...speciesism, Clayface is gay, and Sy gets ageism, anti-Semitism, and PTSD. They all have a reason to be angry, to go against the norm, to say “fuck this shit, I’m doing what I want.”

And then there’s Dr. Psycho.

Dr. Psycho thinks he’s been fucked over, which is why he seems to fit so well in the crew at first. But who fucked him over? That depends who you ask. He’d say Wonder Woman and the Injustice League’s sudden “P.C. culture.” In reality, he fucked himself over by showing himself as a misogynistic asshole.

Look at that penultimate episode when he goes to try to fight Harley and the now-freed Ivy: “I’M A POWERFUL MAN!” he shouts. As if his having a dick trumps what these two women can do to him. (And of course he’s wrong because he doesn’t just have a dick, he IS a dick.) Also how he gets aroused seeing Harley and Ivy kiss because he fetishizes them (”Girl on girl!”).

Ivy, as Harley’s BFF (and, at long last, girlfriend!), is also someone who’s been fucked over, as we see in some flashbacks. She doesn’t ever really talk about it, because she has problems with her emotions. But she also insists repeatedly that she’s not a villain. She’s fighting for the planet, standing up as the voice for plants who - aside from Frank - don’t have a voice of their own. 

Harley and the crew have been trying to be baddies this whole time, and over and over again we’re shown that they’re... really not. And Ivy - who is closest to Harley - keeps saying over and over, “NOT A VILLAIN.” She means it about herself, but really, it applies to all of them.

Dr. Psycho fucked himself over and then chose to blame other people. Classic villain schtick. But Ivy and everyone else on Harley’s Crew aren’t supervillains: they’re anti-heroes. They’re people who’ve been fucked over and aren’t going to take it any more.