I'm sorry for asking but I have to ask,
Who do you think is worst
The selfshippers
Or shadowpeach shippers??
Hmmmm gonna be honest anon this sounds like the kind of question that could easily start unnecessarily shit, and at least as far as I'm aware neither group of shippers have done the kinds of genuinely hateful stuff I've seen other shipping communities do like be virulently racist against real people. I definitely DO think that a more general awareness of things like how harmful stereotypes and cultural hang-ups can easily perpetuate themselves in and even though fiction is warranted (i.e. the feminization/fetishization of Asian men, the predatory gay man trope, the 'i can fix him!' mentality, etc.), but that's more a conversation about general cultural/fandom trends.
SO while saying that I feel I've sufficiently covered what I find annoying about these specific ships in other posts and may want to complain about them more in the future (sometimes i <3 being a hater), it should be noted again that Sun Wukong has been flanderized to hell and back in both the east and west (actually just got some tags about how many eastern creators make the Monkey King a straight-up evil monster, although at least there there is a vast variety of widespread monkey king interpretations and jttw retellings rather than the monoculture we got in the west lmao), and while I understand that fandom is a place where people just want to have fun with their special guys, overall both shipping trends just read to me at this point as the kind of repetition of the exact same increasingly tiresome tropes you find dominating basically every other fandom out there.
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I saw an astronaut walking on the side of the road today, which is the kind of thing my brain will placidly accept at first, only to go "Wait, an astronaut" a minute later once I'm done with my previous train of thought. By then I felt like it might be too late to stop my car, but I ended up stopping anyway because I didn't want to spend the rest of the afternoon wondering.
I waited for the astronaut to catch up with me since they were going in my direction, but they didn't. Eventually I got out of the car and retraced my steps, and after a bend in the road when I saw no one walking towards me I decided the visitor must have gone back to their spacecraft and I would never get an explanation for this—and then in the distance I caught a glimpse of the white space suit disappearing into the forest.
I managed to catch up with them and they turned out to be a distant neighbour of mine (let's call her M.), and what looked like a space suit when I was driving by was a beekeeper's outfit! (Sorry for the pointless suspense but I was taking you on the same little journey my brain went through.) M. was tickled when she learnt that I mistook her for an astronaut—she told me she'd borrowed her husband's too-big shoes which made her drag her feet, hence why she looked like she was having trouble readjusting to Earth's gravity.
Then she said that one of her hives had swarmed, and she was pretty sure she knew where the swarm was. I had no idea how swarming worked so as we walked in the woods she explained that when a hive becomes too crowded, the queen will get replaced by a new one, and the old queen will leave along with half of the bees. After this split, the swarm will cluster somewhere nearby and wait while scout bees fly away in search of a new hive location. "That's when you have to catch them—if you can find the swarm. But here it is!"
I wasn't expecting quite so many bees!! I'm pretty scared of all flying creatures so allow me to pat myself on the back for what came next—I thought I was about to learn how to catch a swarm from a prudent distance, but M. asked if I could give her a hand, seeing as her husband was supposed to be here to help but clearly wasn't.
The first step of catching a swarm was spraying the bees with sugar water, and I was glad not to be asked to help with that, as it seemed like something that could make bees angry. ("On the contrary, it makes them less agitated!" I was told, but that remained to be seen.) Step 2 was pulling on a rope tied to the tree branch in order to lower the swarm into the new hive, and that was the job I was recruited for. The rope was long enough that I could stand several metres away to pull on it, but my role in this swarm-catching business was still all too clear to any angry bee looking for someone to blame.
I remembered reading that bees can sense the electric field of flowers, so I thought there was no way they wouldn't sense the staticky nervousness coming from the rope-puller, but thankfully they completely ignored me.
M. was offering one fun fact about bees after the other, in a very relaxed voice, which was very interesting and very soothing for both me and the bees. She said this particular colony was very sweet ("some bee colonies are meaner than others?" "yes of course"), and that swarming usually happens a bit earlier in the year "but it's been raining so much lately, the bees had to postpone all their activities, just like us" and also "swarming involves quite a bit of planning ahead of time; for example worker bees have to put the queen on a diet so she won't be too fat to fly. Did you know that?" I did not!
Unfortunately our first attempt to catch the swarm failed. The bees entered the hive, had a quick look around their new home, then left in disgust and formed a thick, angry, buzzing cloud over our heads, while I tried to think nothing but bee-loving thoughts to make my electric field harmless and friendly.
Then one after the other all the bees returned to the exact same spot on the branch where we'd first found them. ("Because it smells like the queen" said M.) We examined the near-empty hive and found that a mouse had made a nest in there! She was no longer here but the traces of her passage were evident (some of the comb was very nibbled.)
As we were removing the supplies brought in by the mouse (sticks, hay), M.'s husband joined us and he had brought a spray bottle containing some sort of bee-attracting liquid (pheromones?) (I didn't have a close look at the bottle because I made sure to stay far away from the bee-attracting liquid, while he sprayed it inside the hive.)
He had also brought a white sheet which he spread under the tree, explaining that the bees will want to get away from the bright surface and look for darkness, thus hopefully getting inside the box. Another thing I learnt is that once the queen enters the hive, the nearest worker bees will spread the message by turning round and fluttering their wings to send a chemical signal in specific directions, which will be picked up by other bees farther away; at strategic intervals some bees will light the beacons of Gondor turn round and fan their wings to relay this scent-message until the entire colony is informed of the queen's new location.
We were more successful the second time around! This time the bees who went in didn't immediately get out again to return to their branch. Well I say "we" but I didn't volunteer to pull on the rope again, so I can't claim any role in this victory. But my personal victory was that I stood quite a bit nearer this time so I could watch everything closely, and I felt more intrigued than nervous. Bees were constantly zipping past me but it had become clear that my electric field was pure and they bore me no ill will. I was always fond of bees from afar and happy to see them do their thing in flowers in the spring, but today's adventure got me interested in their daily life as well, so I think I'll read some books about bees this summer!
I was reading last month about the morality of termite colonies (Maeterlinck's La vie des termites) and I had a feeling this man must have written some poetic stuff about bees as well—and he did. Here's a translated excerpt from his book "La vie des abeilles" :)
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Reason #345734 why I don't tell my mom shit.
Her pain and suffering is the only kind she cares about, and she'll play stupid games with me like ghost me for 3+ weeks after a minor surgery, just to make sure I'm worried enough about her life to check, so she "has permission" to start in with the talking my ear off about her problems without boundaries or preamble. She won't know shit about my issues til after they're over (if she hears about them at all) bc she never asks a damn thing about my life, and literally only ever leaves room for herself and her feelings in any equation literally ever and then peaces tf out like. Bitch I'm permanently disabled and in a degenerative spiral that's gonna last my whole fkn life, and you're still bitching about yourself? Wanting me to cater to your emotions when you haven't even spared a CRUMB of consideration in return?
FUck all the way off.
Should have known that if she had died or sth bad happened, I'd have heard something right away. After 30+ yrs of her pulling the "yeah my kid tried to kill themself for the 7th time, but have you asked ME how hard it is to raise them doing the nothing I have been, bc I still don't know them as a person at all or even try to? Where's the compassion?!" shit... you'd think I would know better, but my compassion gets me fucked over YET AGAIN.
If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty. If she's being flighty, she's being petty.
Back to no contact.
Let the bitch suffocate if she can't self soothe.
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18+ only for the love of all things holy
Gojo loves seeing you rip your bra off at the end of the day and abandon it to the wastes of the laundry. When you lift your arms straight up in the air to stretch and he sees the shirt tightens and molds against the soft lines of your breasts without their constraints, oh it makes him salivate. The slight bounce of your tits when you walk around his house, paired with the curves of your ass peaking out from underneath the shorts that are honestly way too short. But Gojo isn't complaining.
He catches himself staring intensely at you, shifting his gaze between his two objectives, not knowing which to pursue first. So when your back is facing him he pounces, because there is no time like the present.
"So soft," he massages the plump flesh of your ass before kissing up on your neck. Part of you satisfied that Gojo is doing this, part of you wondered what got him to be so obsessed. Especially when it's almost that divine time, your breasts are only more tender and plump, his touch only grows hungrier.
"What's gotten into you?" Amused with the way he's touching you, so focused yet languid. He doesn't seem to be in a rush, taking his time with intention, his enjoyment doesn't come for free.
"Are you serious? How can I let you go home after this? Should just move in with me."
"Don't know what you're talking about." His hands travel, leaving behind your soft cheeks to attend to the warmth of your inner thighs. He groans softly. "You're sexy, babe." He loves and he loves loud, even if you're gonna be the only one hearing him. He hasn't dared to press his entire erection between your ass, the last thing he wants is you to freak out...
"...want me to–," "no, honey" he hisses, "let me just touch you for a bit yeah?" He turns you to face him, Satoru is flushed. Lips intertwine, hands to your hips then eventually slither upward, his favorite destination. Each pinch, each squeeze pushes you further into his alluring hold, all guards are down.
Must have been the way you pull away for a bit to tell him you love him so much, that explains why Satoru takes you by the hand to the bedroom and enjoys his meal from the back. Your face presses into the silken sheets, your arms splay across the bed with your fistfuls of fabric and your Satoru's face buried deep in your pussy and finges twirling your puckered rim. He's slow, then fast then his pace defied rhythm. His finger traces your rim slowly, not taking any attention away from your euphoric from cunnilingus alone, until he speeds up and you are torn between two pleasures.
"You're so yummy," as your holes only squeeze tighter, his pleasure is only intensifying with his fingers up in them, "you're kinda nasty babe, letting me do this to you, playing with your asshole like this," you are embarrassed, this felt kind of degrading but you love it. "D-didn't say you could~," he cocks his head, "it's okay I won't be rough. You whine a little when he replaces with his cock, how thick and warm and delicious the stretch he's giving you.
Satoru isn't counting, he doesn't care how many orgasms he can get from you. Today is about quality, not quantity, and he intends to have you for as long as possible. Even if it means all... night. With each stroke, you see stars. The way your face is shoved further and further into the mattress, he's rough but soft. Satoru is full of contradictions today.
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