#i am an oxymoron of emotion

[sydnikov]

“Ariana what are u doing here”

[cdyssey]

Thoughts on Abbott women and their relationships to the cameras:

AUSHSHS, OKAY. One of my favorite things to think about how is how the Abbott characters are super aware of the cameras and how they have different relationships to the fact that they’re being filmed all the time. Here are some thoughts/headcanons for women esp.

Janine: Janine is the most honest with the cameras, treating them like friends, and thus shares a lot of her life with them: her triumphs, her plans, her sadnesses, her insecurities. Hell, I think it’d be fair to say that she even overshares, allowing the cameras unfettered access into her home and car and life beyond the workday. I especially thought this during “Sick Day.” This poor girl was literally, like, letting herself be filmed running to her bathroom!!! Like, girl, set some boundaries. You have a right to some privacy!!!!! But, of course, this is the crux of Janine’s central character arc. So lonely, once a clearly neglected child, our protagonist has a hard time with boundaries in general, and that extends to how she interacts with the cameras. They have become her closest companions and her dearest diary, her safe place for unapologetically being herself. We’re always getting Janine unfiltered, and it’s an incredibly humbling experience for an attentive viewer. She’s fully let us into our lives, and we feel for her deeply. My God, we just want her to be happy.

Barbara: Of the cast, Barbara is one of the most vigilant of the fact that she is being constantly surveilled and has to perpetually maintain her perfect facade because of this crucial fact. It’s her almost doll-like smile into the camera when she says that she doesn’t have a weird thing about her. It’s how she’s always emphasizing how proper and moral and Christian she is in her talking heads. One of my favorite recent examples is from the tattoo episode when she initially says her favorite “b” word is Barbara, but then her first correction is to the more upstanding and characteristic answer of “Bible.” But, as some of my favorite Work Wives gifsets have shown, Barbara occasionally forgets that the cameras are there—usually when she’s drawn into the intimacies of a moment, allowing herself to feel her own emotions without disciplining or regulating them. And it has to be with someone she emphatically trusts, such as Melissa. But any slippages, which are few and far-between, are quickly and efficiently amended. She studiously remembers herself. She slips the mask back on and smiles directly at the cameras and dares them to question what they saw in the place. She is Barbara Howard, married woman of God. She’s always perfect, don’t you know?

Ava: OKAY, OKAY, so I genuinely think that out of everyone, Ava is the most aware of the cameras being on her at all times. TikTok queen and social media extraordinaire, how can she not be? Like Barbara, and honestly even more proficiently than our favorite repressed lesbian lady, she touts an expert facade to the cameras, hyping up her natural charisma and her extrovertism and coolness—sometimes to the point of excess. She’s always catering to a targeted audience. She knows her way around an algorithm, a trend, a hashtag, perpetually attuned to what the people like and want to consume. Of course, she, too, has her rare moments of vulnerability, but the cameras have to be super quick and sneaky to find them. Avanine enjoyers, I think one of my favorite shots is when the cameras initially locate Ava and Janine talking about Ava’s grandmother during the step episode. The framing is faraway at first because the cameras are at the distance—clearly intruding and zooming on this quiet moment—and that’s pretty much the only way they ever catch our Ava Coleman slipping. I am sooooo invested in the fact that we can probably count the times that we’ve seen Ava unmasked on one hand!!!!!!

Melissa: Melissa has a fascinatingly contradictory relationship with the cameras, perhaps to match the oxymoron between her own well-chosen facade and her personality. She presents herself as tough and unflappable, likes to maintain an air of “dark mystery” to others as she once famously smirked in a talking head, but simultaneously—behind Janine—she’s probably been the most candid of the cast with the cameras. She actually let them stay in her house! Oh, yes, she absolutely insults the cameras from time to time—clearly distrusts them, stops herself when she thinks she’s saying too much, fears that they’re snitches—but she’s also told them some pretty damn intimate things too, like showing them pictures of Kristen Marie and literally crying. I really love LAW’s headcanon that there’s one camera person that she thinks is cute and so confides in more because I think that tracks with our general conception of Mel as someone who only relaxes around people she trusts. Some cameras are cops to her—they invite suspicion and paranoia, alerting her fight-or-fight response. Others have seen her at more unguarded moments and teased a lovely softness out of her.

[yrrtyrrtwhenihrrthrrt]

Any of my other Anger Issues Havers really enjoy driving because it's like the only space you can freely express anger ?

And let me be clear I am NOT talking about aggressive/reckless/dangerous driving, I'm talking about how in the car with the windows up I can absolutely scream my head off in rage without it affecting anyone. In a toxic positive society all negative emotions are repressed, and anger is especially taboo to show in public (and for good reason-- screaming at people is not an okay thing to do. It's abusive and terrifying, as is hitting walls, throwing, and breaking shit). I know there are ways to calmly express anger, but to me, that feels like an oxymoron. Anger is the opposite of calm. I can calmly tell someone I'm angry, but that's not expressing the anger, I'm still repressing it.

And when I'm in the car by myself, as long as I keep a cool enough head to drive safely (which is actually easier when I don't have a bunch of bottled up emotions) I can spit as much venom as I want, I can cry or scream as loudly or as dramatically as I want, and nobody can hear me and that is so fucking cathartic.

[my-jokes-are-my-armour]

My witcher fics general masterpost

Here are all stories dispatched by ship. As most of my fic are mature because of the subjects (depression, suicidal thoughts, mourning process...) and the whump, I will go the other way around and put the 🌸 tag for the light fics. Note that warnings are also in the stories for each chapter.

Fics are post on ffnet and here on tumblr for the microfictions.

[Edit] I have an ao3 account now but I am not sure what to do with it so I will put the links when available there too.

Geraskier

The Muse Saga masterpost [x]

Pears [ffnet][ao3] : OS. 1.7k words. Whump. Geralt and Jaskier are taken prisoner and have a rough time but they have a little moment to chat a little bit. Geralt will learn a thing or two. [Mixed POV]

Microfictions :

Friend [x] : After the moutains [Geralt POV]

Don't abandon me [x] : Alternate ending. Jaskier has heard after the battle of Kaer Morhen [Jaskier POV]

Last thoughts [x] : Alternate ending. Rience finishes him off [Jaskier POV]

What if [x] : Just a thought about what if Jaskier heard them talk after Voleth Meir

Radskier

If I have the courage to publish more of it some day, this will go there. I try to make it happen creating this category. But due to certain things I have destroyed all remaining notes for the stories I had written for them. So that's all that's left at the moment.

Wild Blue : [ao3 series link]

Trapped [ffnet]: OS. 1.6k words. Hidden between the red roses, a wild blue flower grows. [Radovid POV]

Thorns [ffnet] : Multichapter (9). 35.9k words. Strong whump. Radovid and Jaskier are linked through their dreams. The new king of Redania witnesses the doom fate of his lover and has to find a way to help him get through some terrible wounds - physical as much as emotional. [Multi POV]

You can find every chapter with their specific warnings under the # wild blue of this post.

Others :

For the first time [ffnet][ao3] : Multichapter (in progress - around 9k words for the moment). Dark - Emotional and physical whump. Radovid has everything he wants except what matters. He acts his life out day after day. He is searching blindly for one thing that doesn't exist in his world but that he needs deeply : love. This is the story of how Radovid falls in love with a certain bard. For the best and the worst. [Radovid POV]

Microfictions :

My beloved king [x] : AU (kinda). Someone is jealous of Radovid love for Jaskier. [That guy in the back POV]

Mixed

This can be multiship or no precise ship at all.

Oxymoron [ffnet] [ao3] : Multichapter (in progress - 120k word for the moment). Quite heavy - Whump physical and emotional. The Continent has long forgotten magic and monsters. Those are for books and legends only. Yet some still believe in it and witchers are still in activity. Geralt, one of the last, knows that monsters have just adapted to the human world and hides even in the biggest cities. One day, he meets a young man playing in a bar on the road and his life is changed. - [Modern AU][Geralt POV]

Microfictions :

Vespula's logs - part 1 : [x] Vespula's notes on Jaskier's muses. 🌸

[ethernetmeep]

i take the fact of being someones crush very wholeheartedly. even when it was back in a time i thought it was all fake, 6th or 7th grade, i still remember the person who told me they liked me for the first time. they had long curly brown hair. we shared a science class. they specifically shipped sans & papyrus.. only remember this because it was a focal point of theirs. would frequently make sexual remarks on artwork i made not inherently made to be sexual at lunch. i was uncomfortable, but you don’t know how to say that yet.

i distinctly remember they sent me a message on instagram about it & i replied with how appreciative i was of the sentiment, but ultimately didn’t reciprocate. i asked them to truly ponder their feelings, asking if it was because of something they liked about me truly or it was just the factor of me being one of the few people to treat them nicely and like a person. i believe they handled it okay. i hope they did. i held the topic with the most care i could muster at that age.

i think when you don’t deal with the topic with nuance it can scar the other person, even if its accidental & especially if it is the first of its kind. as daunting as it is, everyones actions affect others in certain ways. theres a sort of emotional intelligence to the matter that is hard to grasp for many. i am lucky enough to know this intelligence well & try my best to tread the line.

i guess i write about this topic now because i listened to a song & a piece of writing resurfaced from my past which was extremely indicative of the feeling. i was a late bloomer. i no longer like the song in the title, but reading it fills me with an odd sort of euphoria whilst simultaneously making me grimace. its odd how writing can be so oxymoronic. how can you like something yet hate it so? a question for another time.

i don’t have a way to end this.

[halothanic]

little project from a couple months ago, which were redraws of some fitting 80s album covers with my oc, atticus! i had originally planned to do four, but life got away from me, and i am really satisfied with these two, actually. but perhaps in the future, there will be more. i have way too many ideas for him.

first one is the album "synthesist" (1980) by harald grosskopf. this album is legendary to me and reminds me so much of the energy of his story. i often put it on when trying to write scenes, and highly recommend it. i never thought i’d be trying to capture him painted silver but it was fun to try full rendering for the first time in about a decade.

now, number two is the single "tarzan boy" (1985) by baltimora. if my story were a movie or show, it’d definitely be making an appearance! this song and i go way back. i still remember really listening to the lyrics for the first time and thinking, “this has to be about being gay..” and then learned that it, in fact, is. it still makes me emotional from time to time, it’s just so good.. in the live performances he reminds me SO much of atticus, even back when i created him in 2016 i would always imagine he had some kind of secret lanky dancing talent haha. if i ever get to animating i’d love to use his performances to bring atticus’ moves to life. he has such a silly and fun charm that i find is integral to atticus’ character, despite his serious demeanor. also, while looking for an atticus-esque replacement band name, i learned that “oxymoron” has a plural form lols

[agentartemus]

What Do You Think I Am?

A poem from Providence's perspective.

Tell me, what do you think I am?

Do you think I am a human?

Do you think I am a machine?

Or like many others,

Do you think I am a monster?

A villain?

A fiend?

While all of those things are accurate-

To their own degrees- tell me,

What do you think I am?

Am I a machine because of my metal?

Or am I a human because of my flesh?

Am I a machine because of my wires?

Or am I human because of my veins?

Am I a machine because of my bolts?

Or am I human because of my bones?

I want to know,

What do you think I am?

You can look at me,

And tell me to my face-

That I am a machine.

And I would not “correct” you.

You can look at my prosthetics,

My wires,

My circuits,

And tell me I am a machine.

And I still would not “correct” you.

Or you can look at me,

And tell me to my face-

That I am human.

But would I correct you?

That depends,

I do bleed, as you can see,

Like a human.

I do breath, as you can hear,

Like a human.

I do think, as you can believe,

Like a human.

But am I human?

What is the definition of ���human?”

Is it physical?

Is it emotional?

What is human?

Is it my flesh, blood, muscle, and bones-

What makes me human?

Or is it my thoughts, my conscience, my soul-

What makes me human?

What is human to you?

I can tell you now, I am not-

By default-

“Human.”

I am human, physically, again-

To a degree.

But because I'm physically human to a slight,

Does that make me “human?”

Again, I will ask you,

What do you think I am?

I can tell you what I think I am;

I am an oxymoron.

Silly, on the surface,

But read between these lines-

I am an example of what is human,

And what is not.

What is humane,

And what is not.

Flesh.

Metal.

Thought.

Programming.

I am all of it.

I am a human-

suffering at the hands of another,

Unraveling into a non-human product.

I am a human

Being stripped of human qualities.

I am a human

Being stripped of humanity.

Each day, all my sense of humanness

Is chiseled away, bit-

By bit.

And you can see it.

It's right in front of you.

I

Am right in front of you.

And you can stand there,

Call me “human” all you want.

Have the audacity to do so.

Ignoring the evidence that proves you wrong.

So I will ask one last time,

What do you think I am?

Important persons taglist:

@bladesjulia29 @clone-appreciator @furious-blueberry0 @kdo16 @powdered-kneecaps @starsidexiv @zealfruity

[ddarker-dreams]

I value every part of a yandere fic that you mentioned, but the one I tend to find most important is the emotions it invokes! With yandere fics, I’m specifically looking for an outlet for my anxiety, in a strange way. I find the relationship between people who have anxiety and horror/dark content really interesting—for me, it lets me feel anxious in a controlled way and helps me manage my emotions? So if a yandere fic doesn’t bring out those strong emotions in me (even if they’re not anxiety, I need to feel something strong), I find it a lot less satisfying.

Of course, all yandere fics need a well-written relationship and dynamic between the characters, but I feel like that applies to a lot more than yandere fics; whereas the emotions yandere fics evoke are one of the most important parts of a good yandere fics in my opinion!

man i felt this on like. so many levels. right down to... wait what's the tiniest thing in existence...

... my quarks...??? that doesn't sound very poetic. anyway. moving on from the quarks.

i am obsessed with the relationship between anxiety havers and people who love horror, because it sounds like such an oxymoron, but i really feel that there is a correlation ?? i don't have data or anything, just vibes. what you mentioned was something i proposed to a friend who deserves a noble peace prize for listening to me ramble on this subject for however long i did. that by being in control of our anxiety for a change, there's almost a therapeutic element to it. so i completely get what you mean. maybe apart of it has to do with the depiction of anxiety being an integral aspect of yandere fanfics, it's a subject matter we're deeply familiar with. not quite like a 'home sweet home' type of familiarity, but an 'ah, man-made horrors beyond my comprehension' type of familiarly.

i had a difficult time assigning importance to the different answers in the poll, but my leaning goes toward the dynamic between the reader and yandere/the interactions between the reader and yandere. i believe the dynamic is what gives a yandere fic its distinctness. i was thinking about zhongli and god darling specifically, how their history and the reader's position as a divine being shapes the story differently than if it were say, zhongli and a mortal. there are a lot of unique things you can do depending on the dynamic.

[coffeeeinbed]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

date: 13th july, 2024 time: 1PM

coffee chat #2 ☕️

so i was at the airport today taking a flight from my college town to my home town since i’m spending this weekend with my family (more on those trials and tribulations another time) and i made a lil moodboard of my travel essentials.

i'm a terrible combination of my mothers anxiety and my fathers military grade need to speed through tsa as fast as possible, as if trying to break last times record, so it was a little bit of an emotional rollercoaster this morning, especially at 5 in the morning.

also lets talk about how disorienting it is waking up that early and having to pretend you are a functioning human being for the rest of the day...what is that about? it's only one o'clock, the afternoon has hardly started, but i've lived about a hundred lifetimes today and you're telling me i have to go through the rest of the day?

and i'm not a nap person. super unpopular opinion, but i find it more disorienting than waking up early in the first place. if you think i'm taking a nap on the plane, you're mental. do you know how dehydrating planes are? i lathered my face in hyaluronic acid and aquaphor this morning because i always feel like a prune upon my departure from the airplane air. and chugged 40 oz of water midair. i did pee in the piddly ass airplane bathroom for two minutes straight. so i'm tired but at least i'm hydrated.

now i'm blogging from my girl room and i feel like THE it girl right now. typing that into a tumblr textpost feels oxymoronic, but if this reaches the right audience, you know exactly the feeling.

i came to terms with the fact that i was non-binary in college, and i try to refrain from using "girl-blank" terminology to affirm my own identity, but my childhood bedroom is where i spent my formative years identifying as a girl and experiencing common girl problems, and so i will always regard it as such. so even though i am non-binary, girlhood will always be such an integral part of my identity.

i feel like that's a huge avenue that i could explore as an afab non-binary person, but that's a whole rabbit hole i don't feel like delving down right now. maybe someday we'll talk about it.

also upon trying to cultivate the ideal explore page, i've realized i have no good words to describe my aesthetic, which i find both to be something positive and an extremely frustrating experience. i really like pink, but in the lesbian way, specifically paired with orange and other warm colors. i'm obsessed with oranges in the poetry way, but also because it's my favourite colour. i love coffee and pretty beds, but i like sitting next to my perfectly made bed at my desk and i hate girl rotting. it makes me feel super unproductive and, for lack of better words, bleh.

essentially i feel like i haven't found my space yet. girl room, girl rot, and pink are very tumblr-esque, but they don't appear in the mediums that i find attractive on this platform. nor do i have the words to accurately describe the way that i can describe my aesthetic.

but again, this is something i find to be positive, because the hyper-categorizations of aesthetics has gotten out of hand. as a victim of this very culture, it's difficult not to self identify with a fleeting micro trend of an aesthetic and thereby shrink all the best and individualistic parts of yourself into a confined space of what you are expected to be based on the parameters of that so called aesthetic.

for me, i set my own expectations, and allow myself to be and just enjoy the things i enjoy. that's not to say that aesthetics, especially cultural ones, are not important. i think it's a good way to experiment with different fashion senses, hobbies, and interests, but for me, i feel much more myself when i'm just allowing myself to like the things i like without thinking of the way im perceived.

anyways, those are my thoughts for today. since i'm in my hometown, i'm spending time with my family, which i think will open my personal pandora's box of thoughts and feelings, so i will definitely be back to share more of my lucy-isms as the weekend progresses. <3

[shadovan]

Tareque is such an interesting character, I love so much of the work you have poured into developing him. He's such a flirt and a menace and it brings me so much joy to see what he gets up to with other muses. Please don't ever stop, I cannot get enough of him!

Anon giving me emotions on a Munday

I… still don’t even know how to eloquently respond to this. I read it this morning and almost sappy dribbled in my coffee. I know writers say we don't crave validation, but who doesn't feel a sense of gratitude and satisfaction from hearing words like this?

Thank you so very much for these words.

Tar is my bby. He's been loud as hell in my head for the better part of fourteen years, so it's wonderful to see I can still do him justice when I set him loose on the world. He is a menace. Yet, somehow a darling menace. I think he'll forever be a walking oxymoron of himself.

On another note, I'm seeing more and more posts like this popping up on the dash, just interractions hyping each other up and I am SO here for it. This is how it should be! Keep boosting one another, loves! This is how we encourage new blood into the RPCs when they see things like this. <3

[hetchofficial]

there is so many better things you could've done with immortality, why do this? why hurt people? torture innocents for eternity for nothing more than entertainment? did you just get bored? is this the only thing you can find joy in anymore?

I had to think about how to answer this one.

You asked an oxymoron of a sentence, ignoring the grammar error.

There are so many better things I could've done with immortality, why do this?

Because being immortal gives you just one, ah, advantage over others.

Time.

So. Much. Time.

You seem to be under the - not entirely mistaken - impression that I never tried anything else. That I never tried to be 'better' as you so gently and politely put it. My dear, innocent, horribly naive reader.

I tried.

I tried being caring, and kind, and nice, and warm. Of course I still had to fulfill my purpose. But I was not 'hurting' or 'torturing' them in the sense you meant.

I tried having people.

But when you have infinitely more time than they do, you will always be left behind. Whether by death, by growth, by age, or by circumstances beyond control, they will always be gone in the end. And only you, forever here, alone by design of self, only you will be left behind as the worlds spins towards an end that, when it does happen and you think. "Oh. Maybe this time." You don't get to share that end.

You must go on existing, ever forwards, ever through, ever you alone marred in time. Forever.

Oh but look! You actually got something right in your misguided lecture on what someone you know vanishingly little about should and should not be doing.

I am bored. So, so bored.

When everything is something you've seen before, in almost every definition, you're bound to lose yourself in the foggy monotony of it all.

But, in the same way that no two people are alike, they never quite react the exact same to strife. Real human emotion entertains me, gives me - in your words - joy when nothing else does because it's always new. And interesting. And fun.

Before you cry morality, in your apparent infinite wisdom to match my infinite experience.

Haven't you ever crushed a bug? Buried them in sand to watch them dig frantically out? Haven't you ever startled an animal, even a little, because their reaction entertained you? Schadenfreude is a word for a reason, my reader. My dear audience member who claims to not be entertained by suffering, you only know of me because of what I've done. You've only gone this far because you gained something from someone else's misfortune, just. Like. Me.

People are uniquely fascinating in many ways. If I can not indulge the human in me, that luxury torn from me by unfeeling time itself? Then I will satisfy the...

...

Then I will satisfy the monster you call me.

[enigmasandepiphanies]

today my friend told me how the guy she briefly dated over summer has no fulfilling friendships and it led to us sharing about our intense friendships with people

I told her about friends I care for and have cared for and how they cared for each other and how I have witnessed them being in love with me,being apart from me, being in love with each other and apart from each other and how I used to get so glowy like happy whenever I went on an activa ride with my best friend to ex to close friend and my childhood friend and I used to leave my best friends' building and sing on the activa cause I felt like there was a ball of golden light inside me

and how I met this insane boy in my life who became the coolest person I have talked to and I gave him so much value and love and warmth and he became one of my closest friends in no time and then I realized he didn't care that much and I did and I cried so much and my other friends were there for me

and just I feel like I am growing but I am also constantly reliving my girlhood and I feel so intensely—something many people have either taken as a flaw or respected me for it— you know I used to think I was the only one in the world to feel that because teenage angst is the othering of self to belong to the other and you know, I realized it wasn't true as I grew up because I found solace in this collective loneliness of humanity, isn't that funny how we are all collectively lonely, we are lonely together! what a hilarious oxymoron, a bizarre antithesis

I have nurtured so many friendships and some of them have just withered away and sometimes I get so scared whether I am too intense for a person but last month I visited my childhood best friend after two years and she held me as I cried and told me that I do feel more than other people she has seen perhaps but it's not a flaw at all and when she sees me she sees me as love shaped because that's how I have grown to her and that's what makes me, me

and I have had extremely fulfilling, intense, emotional, fiercely in love friendships with people and all I want is to be a prism and radiate so many emotions and rainbow like light to them so they can be hugged by all colours of warmth and I hope I have done that in my past friendships even though I have faltered so many times

and I wanna give them so much love and make them laugh and hold their hands and listen to their bubbling rants and rest their heads on my shoulders as they feel safe in their sleep and how this friend of mine, the one I am talking to has become one of them

I am growing up so much and one of my greatest wishes and hopes in life is that whenever my friends have spent time with me in the past and will do in future, I hope they have a ball of golden light inside them too

and for lost friendships, I only hope that on cold days and monsoon days they can go to that little crevice and find some warmth in that

and yes, my friendships are fulfilling cause they literally fill me with light and oh how I love them

[trrickytickle]

Guitierrez Giggles 🪇

🦅☠️🐾🦅☠️🐾🦅☠️🐾🦅☠️🐾🦅☠️🐾🦅

"Jorge is my favorite kind of filmmaker- the guy who permeates every single aspect of his work with his ideas, his vision, and his hard work." -Guillermo de Toro, about Jorge Guitierrez in the foreword of The Art of The Book Of Life A/N: This is a long awaited collab with @toweroftickles !! this one goes out to his love of obscure weirdos and tickles and lol I just wanted to collab with him. On my part this took me for evsies to finish but it's done and it's our child. Check out his part (it's fuggin GREAT) If you couldn't tell, these fics are based on the wonderful works of Jorge Guitierrez, an artist I admire for his cartoons and passion for Mexican mythology as well as his way of telling action-packed stories filled with emotions. We settled on his stuff because we came to a mutual agreement that his work has a lot of cute lees AND is very creatve, fulfilling both our appreciation for lesser-known lees, art and tickles, ofc

🦅☠️🐾🦅☠️🐾🦅☠️🐾🦅☠️🐾🦅☠️🐾🦅

-The Book of Life- (lee!Xibalba, ler!La Muerte)

There was a certain flow to every day in the Land of the Remembered. Spirits came, tearful reunions happened, and almost every day was like an oxymoron of quiet chaos. The buildings seemed to glow and blend with the nature while skull-shaped hot air balloons and cascading flower petals sailed down from beacons of golden lights onto the infinite fiesta, each winding road and hill leading to increasingly vibrant festivities.

As always, La Muerte was keeping a watchful eye on her realm through her castle, smiling down at whom she considered the veterans of the living world- until she had noticed the intoxicating black smoke-cloud before her eyes which exploded into glowing green. Black tar spilled over her colorful floors, growing into a slender disproportionate figure with gleaming red eyes. Immediately, she froze wearily, recognizing the crimson skulls. As alluring as they were, La Muerte could only stand tortured as the blight on her realm- and love of her life poofed up before her. And she knew exactly what he was here for.

“Ugh, Xibalba.” she growled. What silly thing is it that you want this time?“ The mild mannered goddess walked closer to him, looking at him with her all-too-familiar glare of anger, the tone of her voice soft with a sarcastic lilt.

"Amor, please, please, just-”

“That’s right. You’re here to take your widdle wager back, isn’t that right, Balbito?” Shushing him by placing her finger on across his face of tar, her tone shifted into that of a degrading one, which, even still, was just as sweet as the sugar she was spun from.

The god circled the goddess, leaning into her. “Come on, I- I mean consider it! You ever think about how lonely it is down there? I’ll even stop toying with the mortals!” La Muerte scowled. “Ay ay ay, Xibalba… You’ll never stop toying with the mortals! How am I supposed to hand over the Land of the Remmebered to you if you keep on making silly wagers and empty promises?” Xibalba fake-sniffed. “A-at the very least I’d hope for some company, my dear..” That last word was accompanied by a carress to La Muerte’s face, resulting in a loud and clear slap. “Oof! That was uncalled for!”

“Oh bub-but, sweet Xibalba..” Her hand slowly found its way lower, crawling from his chin down to his torso. “You lost. And now…” She eventually settled into a pause near his stomach area, a long bony finger stroking over Xibalba’s middle. The god of the Forgotten stood dead in his tracks, swallowing and looking up at his love in both fear and excitement.

“Mi amor…”

However, this display of intimacy was as usual, not what it semed. Her fast fingers strummed along his neck, exploiting a sensitive spot from their days together. “..You are paying the price!” La Muerte continued, picking up the pace, her small, sweet hands gliding and digging into his ribs and down to his sides, applying just the right amount of pressure every time, all while looking smugly into the eyes of the ex-lover.

“Aw, ticklish little Balby~ How did I ever forget about this?”

“Kkgh- I don’t know.. UuAHAHA- maybe it was becahause you left me to -pff- rohohot in the wasteland of the dead- ack!” The tar god tittered, sputtering and coughing as his wife’s evil teasing drove him mad, though the barrier of his reactions was barely being broken.- that is, until La Muerte dug her skilled fingers into his wings. Ugh, why did it have to be there.. Still, Xibalba perservered, small raspy giggles cracking like bones while tar-like teeth grinded apprehensively all while his beloved’s careful and gentle strokes were making him suffer softly. Deep down, however it was something they both missed. They both enjoyed the intimacy and control which came with, but the couple was much too prideful to let their guard down.

“Amor, what beautiful wings you have… It’s a shame they’re such a weak point. Aw, how embarrasing.. Isn’t that right, you two?” His pair of wings thrashed rapidly, as if answering her question with delight. Xibalba swallowed a laugh.

Stopflappingstopflappingstop flappingstopflapping….. His mind repeated like it was a mantra of sorts while flailing around, trying to look away out of embarrasment when all La Muerte could do was just tease and coo and look lovingly into his eyes. Even she was lost in this juvenile game, her fingers playing him like some sort of living tar tuba, combing through his wings and viciously stroking his plumage, occasionally in circular motions, counting each feather like it was serious buisness. “It’s like I say every time. Tar and feathers… always stick.” La Muerte smirked, her gentle movements turning into crazed strokes inside the crooks of his wings- which was the tipping point for Xibalba.

“MuehehehertitA-HA-HA!! S-SPARE ME!!” he roared while the goddess sat over his back in her dress of marigolds. “Well, think of it this way, Balby. You came to me in the first place. This is what you deserve, no?” His reaction was her drive while she resumed, now using one of her diabolically small fingers to slide up and down along his neck in rapid motion, while sensually plucking a feather down from his wings to trace along his back. Oh no.

“And that was for EVER wanting to trade lands with me in the first place!” Xibalba's skeletal pupils' flashed a startled expression, while La Muerte was having the time of her life, her fingers shifting and poking and sliding while he writhed.

“Go on, apologize. Say you will rule the Land of the Forgotten, and that is final.”

“I will noho- nehehAHAHAHAH-NEVER do thahahat!”

No matter how this went, it would still be equally as rewarding both ways. Either he answers and gives up his pride, or she gets to continue with the evil tickles.

“Come on, I’ve seen you say worse things with that dirty mouth you have, you..” she crooned.

“Go on. Say. It. Say you-”

“Ah-HAH-i-hi will r-ruhuhule…”

“Yes?” The tickling halted, her fingers stilling to hear what he had to say.

“I, Xibalba will rule the Land of…”

“The Land of the what?” La Muerte spat, looking directly at her love.

“The Land of the Remembered.” Xibalba smiled smugly, looking up at La Muerte in a taunting fashion as she did him.

Total silence followed.

“XIII-BAAALBAAAAA!!!” And as if it was out of nowhere, the sweet goddess exploded out of sour temperament, pinning him down once again and targeting his sweet spots in what would later turn to more ways than one. He was going to be there a while.

-El Tigre (lee!Manny (/El Tigre) +Frida, ler!Zoe(/Black Cuervo)

After kicking some sweet Mustache Mafia tail below the smoky orange heights of the Miracle City volcano, (this time without the help of Raul, sentient mustache compadre) valiant young hero El Tigre shifted back to regular-old kid Manny Rivera while his sidekick Frida Suarez was still, well, Frida. They wandered around the city streets relishing in their victory, casually passing robbed jewelry stores, charred buildings and multiple previous crime scenes like it was just a regular afternoon (which it was, in Miracle City).

“And El Tigre’s done it again! The good old facial hair fling. Works every time, I tell ya!” He held his fist out only to be greeted with a swift punch on the top of his head.

“Um, hell-o, forgetting someone?!” Frida scoffed.

“AWCH!!- Yeah, yeah, you fought good, sorry.. or whatever. So.. what now? We check if El Oso’s robbing the bank for the millionth time?” Manny suggested.

“Psh, nawww! I’ve got a way better idea..”

“Play at the arcade 'till our wallets give out?” he retorted.

“Yeah, what else?” Both kids ran straight towards the pillar-like building, making it halfway up the stairs when as if it was out of nowhere, a fast but recognizable flurry of gold-streaked twilight and darkness scraped through the skies, causing the two to look upwards. There was a screech, and a loud, dramatic thud, and swooping down came a familliar raven-haired raven shrouded in the shadows, or better known as-

“It’s Black Cuervo!” Frida yelled. “You know what to do, Manny!”

“You betcha!” Spinning his belt, Manny proclaimed-

“El Tigre!”

“Well, well, if it isn’t my good friends; the hairy brown fuzzball and El Tigre. I knew I’d catch you at one of your usual haunts.” the raven villain crowed.

“Hey! You’ll never win!” yelled Frida.

“And neither will that nasty flock of yours!” the hero followed up.

“You have foiled my many evil plans, tore my heart into pieces, and now you insult mi familia!? Well, unfortunately for you two, I happen to have a secret weapon!” Raising her fist into the air, the “weapon” placed itself atop Black Cuervo’s upper lip. There it was. A silky, coifed golden-blonde mustache. “This baby’ll keep you busy while we steal that pretty little belt of yours. I’d like you brats to meet Juan. The mafia hooked me up in exchange for the small-small price of the El Tigre belt. So what’ll it be?” To the gothic villan’s dissapointment, the two stood there blankly and then promptly bursting into hollers of loud laughter as they rolled and banged their fists on the floor, practically crying. “L-look’s like you’ve -pfft- got a little something on your FACE! Bwahaha-ha- I’m sorry, just.. too funny, man!” Frida was practically dying, chortling over the hilarious and mildly horrifying sight.

“What’re you even going to do? Throw bird poop at me with your manly mustache, Black Chavo?” El Tigre quipped, flicking the fiend’s fake facial hair.

“W-whatever, stupid Tigre! You wouldn’t want to know what he’s capable of… nor would you want to call me.” the villian pleaded with faux-innocence.

“Bird poop or not, I’ll conquer anything I throw at you!” Lifting his arm up and pointing towards the sky, he proclaimed; “This, I SWEAR-AAIIIEEEK!!” Tendrils of hair reached to swiftly swipe over the hero’s sides, interrupting his catchphrase by making him leap up to the air. Eventually, both strands formed into claws, ghosting over his sides while his eyes darted to observe the situation. With no time to escape, the bristly claws started swiping up and down, feeling silky yet effectively sharp. As they tickled tauntingly, Black Cuervo held the hero up just above the air, rendering him unable to do anything but kick and thrash like a fish out of water while she didn’t have to move a muscle, watching the object of her unwilling affection suffer.

“What’s wrong, Tigre? Don’t like your tummy scratched? Why don’t you just surrender then?”

“Nahehe- I’ll nehehever! You knohow it!” He flushed at the teasing which only made him struggle more.

“Y'know, I’ll let you go if you call me..” the raven girl proposed with a bat of her eyelashes.

“Nohot in a mihihillion lifetimes!” El Tigre spat back.

“Fine, whatever then, stupid Tigre.” The claws split off into multiple smaller, somehow more devious featherlike tendrils, squeeezing and poking around at his ribs and armpits. “Let him go now, you mustached meanie!” Frida chirped in anger while charging at the villian, whipping her goggles around like a lasso and smacking the raven girl atop the nose, causing Black Cuervo to drop the superhero previously in her clutches, which she retaliated by scooping Frida’s arms into a coifed coil, the other part of the mustache waggling and diving directly in front of her torso.

Any last words, Suarez? Think you’re so amazing, trying to take him away from me…“

"You plain stink!” Frida’s face flushed, yelling out in humiliation. “Thanks for the compliment. Now sic’ em, Juan!” The mustache bobbed up and down in agreement and brushed against her torso, locked directly on her stomach as it transformed into a feather-esque shape, swirling around in figure-eights.

“AHYA-HYAHYAHYA!! A-A little heheheHEEEELP, please!??!”

“On it, Frida!” El Tigre jumped triumphantly towards his trapped friend, only to be interrupted by a flying, mustache-administered-tickled-Frida-punch, slamming him against his sidekick slightly, knocking him to the floor while he was scooped up into the sinister arms of Black Cuervo, whom he attempted to kick in the face only to be grasped by the ankle by the mustache while his sidekick still struggled within the Cuervo’s coils. “Plea-hease! Muh- Make it stahahahap!” she yelled. “Make it stop? Do you think I’m the kind of person who’d make it stop? Big news, niña! I’m evil capital E!”

“Oh I’ll make it stop, alright! El Tigre jumped out from behind both girls, his claws unsheathed. Within the noise of laughter, he announced. "Oy, Cuervo. I’ll have to admit, blonde’s a pretty good look on you!”

The gothic girl flushed pink. “R- really? Thanks, Tigre! You’re the best! Say, why don’t you-”

K-SHING!

While Black Cuervo was in a giddy lovestruck daze, El Tigre had managed to cut Frida free from her clutches.

“Finally! I’m fuh-free!” Frida panted. “Que!?” Black Cuervo exclaimed. “You must pay for this. I will not stand for betrayal! Ven-”

RRRRRRRRRR-RIP!! Within the heat of confrontation, Frida had ripped Juan off of the Cuervo’s face. “On three, two, one…” she counted down, a particularly mean smile stretching across her cheeks. “yyyYEEEEE-OOOOOWCH!” As the villain yelled, Manny and Frida fist-pumped, walking away from the scene with satisfaction.

“That was absolute torture!” the goggled girl yelled, wiping a tear. “But seeing you get it… well, it was kinda funny.” she smirked. “C'mon, lemme tickle you, muchacho! It’ll be hi-LARIOUS! Puhprettyplease?”

“I don’t even wanna talk about it.” He grumbled. “However…” His frown shifted into an evil, almost sharp grin. “There is something you can help with.” “Is it what I think it is?” Frida gave a knowing smirk, wriggling her fingers as if it was like a signal. “On, three, two, one.. Get her!” She yelled, the duo running straight at the exhausted raven girl, thirsty for revenge.

“Wait, no no no no no- Ahahahaieee!! Stop! Stop that!”

-Maya and the Three- (lee!Zatz, ler!Acat)

The gods respected- more so tolerated Lord Mictlan and Lady Micte's iron fist over the Underworld.

Between causing terror in mortal kingdoms and lands, bringing upon the two forces that ruled theirs- war and death, there were times when they weren't needed by the god of war, but any fleeting moment would be soon interrupted with his summons. The tension was always thicker than the hot air that flowed through the realm.

Today was one of those days. Zatz, the prince of bats arrived at the throne room with a dark flurry of his subjects behind him. Lord Mictlan had required him over on Luna Island to speak with the Wizard Council, in search of the Gran Brujo lest they declare divine war. Said prince groaned, marching up to his tall, twisted throne while fire boomed in the background. With Lord Mictlan's yell, the bats dissipated and flew off into the corners of his triangular abode. "Stand before me, Prince of Bats." The God of War's voice had an irritated sibilance about it. A chill spread down Zatz's back as he kneeled- Lord Mictlan was unpredictable as he was tactical. At any moment his life could end in a puddle of liquid gold. Lord Mictlan snarled. "Your last success was in vain. I'm losing faith in you to bring him over- dead or alive." There was an assertive metalic stomp which never failed to make Zatz's blood run cold and with that he walked away- only to be greeted with a tilt to the chin and a kiss to the forehead- by Acat, the goddess of tattoos- and his on-and-off girlfriend. Zatz sighed. "Look, Acat- you don't have to come with me." "My poor, poor, principe.. There, there, Acat will take care of it for you.." Ending the sentence off with a sultry chuckle, every step Zatz took out of the palace, she followed along. Inked designs flowed along her body from her head to her arms to her back, all with a meaning and a purpose. Zatz shrugged off her flirty demeanor in disinterest, brandishing his macuahuitl. "Come ooooon, let me come with you, guapo.." she chuckled evily, circling around the prince. "I bet my snakes could send that bobo flying!" "No, Acat." Zatz's voice echoed through the daunting castle hallways. Acat inched closer towards the prince, a finger slowly running up his torso. "You know I don't take no for an answer, right, Zatz?" The prince flinched, stifling a small smile. "Besides, I know how to make you crack, mi principe.." She followed the sentence up with a sadistic laugh, and her boyfriend stood still as a stone. "Y-you are not doing that again." "Oh yes, yes, yes I AM!" The tattoo sleeve on Acat's hand glowed purple, squirreling under Zatz's thick armor. "You better show me a smile, chulo.." The slithering snaky chain squirmed at his sides, teasing them with slow and methodical drums playing him as if he were a piano. He couldn't crack- no, no matter what. His teeth clenched, and he squeezed his left eye shut in a feeble attempt at resistance. "Trying not to laugh, are we, corazon?" the tattoo goddess cooed. "G-raah-UGH! This isn't fair!" Acat's hands squirmed their way into Zatz's armpits, causing them to slam shut on impact. When they zeroed in on that spot, he loudly swallowed, exhaling with laughter. In response to that, the claws danced across his hollows eagerly, eventually eliciting loud, bellowing laughter. "Grrr.. Ahahack!- Acahahat! Nohot the claws, you know this- aha-HA-ha!" Zatz growled, a kicking, loud puddle on the floor just from mere gentle scratches. Acat giggled, taking great enjoyment in knowing the power she had over her boyfriend. "Well then, how about the snakes?" Suddenly, the designs on her skin shifted and the metalic fingers which wormed inside Zatz's armpits turned into quetzalcoatl-like faces which were eager to give his tummy a tongue-bath. "Hehehehaha.. Now then, bring me along, will you?" Acat coyly teased, her snakes lapping away at Zatz's midsection. "You see, I can do anything you want me to.. even break the ever so brooding bat prince~" There was no response. Only loud laughter. Acat smiled to herself. "I'll take that as a yes, mi principe..." The snakelike creatures shifted their focus, the chains now coiling around his calves. Zatz gulped, while his bulky boots being stripped off, feet placed on Acat's lap. "And a little extra convincing.." Acat drew her usual smoke-and-mirrors tactics in exchange for her painted fingernails, which she teasingly wiggled at Zatz before they skittered all the way across both feet.

"Grr-rahahaha! Me hace cosquilahahas!" Zatz snarled. His legs kicked at her face to no avail as Acat's right hand turned back to a claw-tipped chain to wrap his ankles up in. He writhed, he squirmed and he yelled, cursing and thrashing, but never admitting defeat. "*pant* Aha-ha-lright, fine! You can cohome with me!" Zatz heaved, exhausted and tingly from Acat's loving persuasions. The chains gave out, and she lent a cold hand to him as he stood up. "That was easy, wasn't it? Mmmmw-uah!" Acat gave an unreciprocated kiss as Zatz flushed a slight rose. It was about to be a long, long trip to Luna Island.

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

If your "workplace democracy" is any kind of democracy at all, your "workers" are not in the least going to get to elect whoever they want for the positions of management and owner. They will not have a say in how decisions are made. Even if they could have a voice, it's certainly not going to be equal. There will always be more of one class than the other, and that class will always be given an unearned advantage. That's just the nature of the "majority" system -- it is a system designed for the "majority."

[...]

"Worker control" is the phrase for "people who are members of some category saying what things they think are good for them. This is a different concept, in that it is a category about people, rather than "things" or "goals" like "worker control" is. You can't have control over "things" or "goals," because there are none. It's all about people -- what is good for them.

[...]

https://voca.ro/1t8NgKgf2kD6j

This guy is actually a "worker" ("laborer," in his own term) in a certain sense, and he's doing his best as a "worker," but he does want to take charge, he wants to do things his way, he doesn't think about how other people want to do things. He is a true believer in "worker control."

The thing to do when people who say that are coming at you with "worker control" is to remember that it is only a phrase that we give it. That phrase is only part of what we are dealing with, because when we say it, we immediately say what it should be. This guy wants "worker control" in the sense that he wants workers to have some power, that he wants workers to have some say in decisions. We are not speaking about "worker control" in some neutral or apolitical way. We are speaking about "worker control."

Which is an oxymoron. It cannot be. No "worker control" can be true to its name when one "worker" thinks "worker control" is about how people do things, and the other one thinks "worker control" is about people being in charge. Worker control can only be true if it is about a few people having power over many. If your system is "the worker" versus "the others," then it is a system where "the worker" will have the power to do as they please, and it will be a system of "workers."

So when you're thinking about it in terms of "worker control," remember that when you use that phrase, you're already thinking in terms of "worker" vs "others."

What is true is this: most people (including me) say "worker control." That's what you say when you say "worker control." But when a few people really mean "worker control," what they mean is this:

We will have no other option but to trust the judgment of our fellow "workers" when it comes to "who will do what."

The only way this will ever work is if "we" have more "workers" than the "others," and enough of the "others" that they are just ignored.

This is so important that I will never ever consider "I" or "myself" anything more than a means of getting things done.

I have no rights, I have no desires, I have no emotions and I have no opinion. I am an "uncoerced" subject of the "workers." I have no thoughts or desires, or "worker control" wouldn't mean anything at all.

So, if "workers' control" means anything, that is all there is to it: "workers' control." If "worker control" means anything, then the people who advocate it (like the guy in that post) are lying and misleading, because in "worker control," we have no "workers."

[idrk10]

I feel like my soul is on fire, but numb. Like I can feel the heat, but it doesn’t burn. I can’t cry about it, my emotions are stunted. I feel nothing, but everything all at once. I am exhausted, but my eyes stay open. I fear the pain, but hold the knife. When will these oxymorons end and I’ll just be me. Just me.

[little-miss-moonshine]

flying too close to the sun

(tiny note, I wrote this in late february and didn't post it. a month later, I wrote about the flowers again, but I think I should validate my initial emotions and post this. )

the flowers you gave me on tuesday stand straight and proud on my desk, in the apple juice bottle you bought me on thursday, rinsed and dried on friday. their purple petals glare down at me as I cry at my desk, loud sobs and soft whimpers permeating the stale air of my room. I have often given, but never gotten, flowers. in our relationship, you gave me many things, but never flowers, and never your heart.

the flowers, like you, are slightly oxymoronic. someone once told me that when flowers are given with love, they take longer to wilt than ordinary flowers. the flowers you gave me rest atop dried, crumbling, rotting stems, but the flowers themselves are as perfect and purple and pristine as the day you gave them to me. the colors seared themselves into my memory when you handed them to me, the fallen angel: skin shadowed, blue eyes alight, golden hair made into a halo by the lamplight. like the flowers, simultaneously dead and alive, you are simultaneously beautiful and terrible. my greek god, a force of nature, a being of kindness and cruelty in equal measure.

indeed, that is how I loved you: as something to be awed by, to be worshipped. I worshipped you like holy light, loving you without condition, without limit, and without expectation. you looked down at me from the pedestal I raised you on, something like pity in your eyes. you protected me, I cherished you, and we called that enough. that, in itself, is an impossibility; people go where they find love, and rarely love without receiving it in equal measure. as such, my love, although I treasured you as a crown jewel, it is now your turn to treasure the nuggets of gold, of my love, in your memory, as the world treats you the same way that you treated me. indeed, I still love you, but now, I open my arms and embrace the hellfire of your gaze. you know what they say, the hottest fires burn blue.

so what do your oxymoronic flowers have in common with you? like the flowers, you show me love and care right alongside your casual indifference. holding me, caring for me, forehead rested against mine to calm me down, but telling your friends that I was just another girl. brushing the hair from my face, kissing my cheeks while I called out your name in nightmarish sleep, yet scrolling through bumble as I clung to you for dear life, seeking you even when unconscious. you kept telling me you weren't ready for the commitment of love, but that you care for me so, so much. here's what I think: you loved me silently. subconsciously. you can push it down, run away from it, and hurt me in the process, but you can't escape it. no matter now incapable of commitment you think you are, you can't deny how you feel. the sad part is that it was enough for some time, but just as you're starting to understand, I'm starting to lose hope.

you left this morning without a word, just wrapping me in your arms for the briefest of moments. some would call me stupid, in the throes of illness, coughing blood onto my floor, calling you in the night just to ask if I can sleep on your floor, knowing full well you'd come to check on me out of concern. call me if you need anything, and I'll be there, you said, and you probably meant it. I hate seeing you hurt, you said, but why would you do as you did if that was true?

I hate to be helpless, my love, but I love being with you. I wish you'd throw me a lifeline, tell me everything I want to hear, but I know you won't. doesn't stop me wishing, though.

I wish it ended there. I wish I was the kind of person who could get closure like that. yet, here I am, at midnight on a sunday, unable to move because of the pain in her legs and stomach, and I am calling you.