#just because he’s never fucked doesn’t mean he’s an incel an incel is a wildly different thing

[erik-christine]

if you think erik is an incel you misunderstood the entire story 🥰

[potatoes-is-are-food]

Miss potatinha pls can I have Touya-nii getting cucked by his incel friend Shigaraki who he teased would neva have a gf, and is now fucking touyas sister? 🙏🙏

Here you go light of my life~ I hope it’s everything you wanted, it was definitely really fun to write. 

Warnings: slightly implied incest, Touya-nii being a meanie

“Touya-nii,” you softly tug at his sleeve, wince when he swats your hand away and tells you to wait, “but Touya-nii I have to go,” you whine. He glares at you.

“Wait until Keigo gets back,” he pulls you to sit on the armrest beside him, “I don’t want you two alone together.” You don’t ask why, you’ve seen the way his friends look at you. They said they wanted to be your friends, too, but Touya keeps you tethered to his side constantly, especially when Keigo is around. It’s like he doesn’t want you to talk to anyone that isn’t him.

It wouldn’t be so bad if your brother wasn’t so mean. He tells you you’re stupid, gives you spankings if you do something he doesn’t like, pinches your thighs, flicks at your chest, and gives you hickeys you can’t hide just because he can and likes to make you uncomfortable. Makes you “play wrestle” so he can grind his crotch into your body while you squirm and try to get away, just how he likes. He makes you cry and then tells you to suck it up while he lets you sit in his lap to “make up for it,” without saying sorry. Ever.

When the blonde comes back Touya lets you go, telling you which hallway to go through since this is Shigaraki’s house and you’ve never been. You nod, give his cheek a kiss when he tells you to, and scamper off to relieve your bladder.

Just as you’re closing the door on the way out you see his other friend, Tomura. He’s never worried about Tomura being around, he thinks he’s too creepy and you’ll cry for your nii-san if he tries anything. You don’t think he’s creepy, though. He’s a lot nicer than Touya. Honestly Keigo is the one that creeps you out when he tries to touch you and makes lewd comments to see you flustered. Shigaraki usually just stares a little but it doesn’t really seem like he knows he’s doing it.

You wonder if he’s nice to you because Touya is mean to him, too. You’ve heard him say Tomura couldn’t get a girlfriend if he paid someone and a bunch of other insults. He calls him crusty and says he’s gross, and one time you could’ve sworn you saw him wiping his eyes after Touya finished berating him.

He walks back with you into the main room where Touya and Keigo are laughing at something on one of their phones. When your brother sees you he gets up, pinching your cheek.

“We’re gonna go grab some beer. Play with Tomura or something, yeah?” You nod, not wanting to risk him spanking you in front of his friends again if you said no. He pats your head and heads out with the blonde, leaving you and Shigaraki alone; completely secure in the thought that he’ll come back to you awkwardly playing video games. Or maybe if he’s lucky crying for your nii-san because Tomura’s creepy ass tried to cop a feel.

The two of you end up playing some fps game, sitting in the floor next to each other mashing buttons while you murder your opponents in co-op. You’re not horrible but he’s definitely much better than you and it’s clear he’s completely carrying you through the matches. You keep sneaking glances over at him, admiring the focused expression on his face. It’s a similar expression to the one he has when he’s looking you up and down. You’re not stupid, you can tell when he’s leering at you but for some reason it’s more flattering when it’s him rather than creepy.

Victory flashes across the screen and you set down your controller, pulling your knees up to your chest. He throws his down and goes to the kitchen to grab an energy drink, taking a sip and then offering the can to you to try. Your cheeks burn as you press your lips to the same place his had just been, barely even tasting the liquid inside before handing it back and muttering a thank you.

“Wanna see my setup? It’s way better than the console.” You nod too fast, too enthusiastically, and follow him back down the hall and into his room. It’s gross, there’s empty cans all over the place and laundry covering every inch of the floor. Several hoodies are strewn across his unmade bed and you can’t help but wish you could put one on. You watch him and listen as he tells you about the monitor and how he customized all his stuff, but you don’t understand any of it, simply nodding along and happily taking another sip of his drink when he offers.

“Can I sit?” you ask softly, gesturing to his messy bed. He shrugs, clearly trying too hard to seem indifferent, and you sit, hand smoothing over the soft fabric of his jacket as you move it aside. He sets the can on another empty one on the desk and plops down beside you, much too close for comfort if he were anyone else. You wonder vaguely if your nii-san would make him move.

“You’re cute,” he says bluntly, and you nearly squeak, face burning as you manage a small nod in thanks. He grins widely, gripping your shoulders and looking at you intensely, “So do you wanna go out?” his fingers are digging into you but all you can do is nod again, leaning eagerly when he comes closer until you’re clumsily pressing your lips together.

He almost immediately shoves his tongue down your throat, cupping your face too hard and smushing your face against his. You tangle your fingers in his hair, whimpering when he moves his hands to pinch at your hips and thighs. You cling to him as he pushes you onto your back, his old mattress squeaking loudly under you as he swings a leg over to straddle you, never breaking the kiss.

He tastes like the energy drink, his hair is greasy when your fingers run through it, and you’re pretty sure your head is resting on one of the many questionable stains littering his bed, but you’re elated. Both of you. He gropes harshly at your chest, frantically shoving your shirt up to paw at your nipples, pinching them roughly as he groans into your mouth.

You whimper when he bites your lip, and he pulls away smirking down at your trembling body. His eyes lock onto your chest and he yanks your shirt completely off before setting his sights on the rest of your clothes. You pull him into another kiss while he clumsily works off your pants, pulling them and your underwear, leaving you completely naked and him with everything on.

Blood rushes into your cheeks as he pins your arms, hungrily looking over your bare form as though he’s unsure where to start now that he’s got you. You shyly cross your arms over your chest but he takes and pins your wrists above your head, kissing you briefly before dipping down to your chest. His tongue flicks against your hardened nipple, his free hand pinching at the other one as he starts to suckle the soft flesh. He releases your wrists to grip your thigh, pulling your leg out from under him. You get the hint and wrap them around his waist, the fabric of his t-shirt grazing your clit just enough to make you jump at the contact.

He leans back and pulls his shirt over his head, letting it join the mountains of others on the floor. His eyes lock onto your pussy and his tongue trails along his lip. You’re not sure he’s even aware he’s doing it. Without a word, he delves between your legs, excitedly licking you with no technique or regard for how it feels, merely wanting to taste. You squirm and his arms wrap around your thighs, pinning you as he laps at your folds. His clumsy movements against your clit are enough to send you over the edge, and you grip his hair as you cum, crying his name as your back arches.

He wipes his chin off with one of the random articles of clothing scattered under you and flings it to the floor, crawling over you and latching onto your neck. His cock springs free as he shoves his pants down, bouncing slightly before weighing heavily down. Bigger than you’d imagined, and you’d thought you were generous. You catch him smirk at your reaction, giving it a few pumps for your viewing pleasure.

He lines up the drooling head of his cock and presses slightly in, gathering slick on it before pushing in the rest of the way. The stretch has your eyes rolling back into your head and soft whimpers leaving your lips. His head bumps your cervix as his hips meet yours and you let out a guttural moan, head flopping back onto his bed.

“Fuck,” he groans, looking down at the sight of his pubes pressed flush against your folds. He gives a few experimental thrusts, marveling at how much your walls cling and twitch around him. You moan softly, wrapping your arms around his neck and drawing him into another kiss as he starts to really move. He’s rough, like you expected, hips rolling against yours almost frantically as he fucks you into his mattress.

You’re moaning and panting into each other’s mouths moreso than actually kissing, gripping at limbs as though you’re both worried it isn’t really happening. The bed groans and the headboard smacks against the wall, bed springs squeaking loudly, however it’s not loud enough to drown out either of your moans.

For a time he leans back and smiles wildly at you, not attempting to hide his excitement. His pace is uneven and rapid, borderline inhuman. He grips your hips to keep you in place as he uses you like a toy, immediately stooping to kiss you when you give his arm a little, needy tug. He’s perceptive, trailing a hand gently along your cheek when you cling to him, still reaming you without pause.

Your tongues twirl together as his hands come up to press yours into the bed, fingers interlocked as his thrusts get more animalistic. Tears prick at your eyes, his rough treatment and the friction from his hair pushing you closer to the edge again. As though able to read your mind, he trails a hand down your body, pinching and groping his way to your clit and rolling it in his inexperienced fingers.

You can tell he’s close, his hips sputter and he groans, shoving his face into your neck to suck at your skin and muffle his noises. His treatment of your clit gets rougher, the puffy nub’s abuse bringing you to orgasm. Your eyes roll back in your head and you cry out just as the door opens, giving your brother a front row seat to your O face.

Touya’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates at the sight, Keigo’s immediately doing the same but accompanied by a massive grin. They watch as Tomura groans, unaware of their presence, spilling himself inside as your cunt milks him for all he’s worth. He presses into you deeply, humping his cum against your cervix with a shudder before he collapses on top of you, panting.

You tremble under him, grateful for his body covering yours as your face burns. You shake him slightly and he grunts in response, muffled in your neck. He looks up after a second, concerned at your expression before he turns, face going completely white.

Tomura locks eyes with Touya, both completely at a loss for words. Keigo looks over all your exposed skin he can see, ecstatic look still plastered over his face. You’re looking anywhere except at your nii-san or Keigo, trying not to cry as you pull one of his numerous hoodies over your chest.

“Uh,” Tomura starts, “we got along fine. How was the beer run?” You think you can hear Touya’s brain implode.

[treehugginglibrarian]

Social Justice Bedroom Warriors

Social Justice Warriors need to stay out of people’s intimate lives, unless they’re personally invited in, because they’re starting to sound a bit like incels.  

Recently, a member of one of my childfree on-line forums posed a question regarding dating and mental health, being unsure whether it was acceptable for her to bow out of a potential relationship because the gentleman in question suffered from depression and anxiety. While most people, including those with one or both of those health issues, were quick to reassure her that she never has to date anyone she doesn’t want to, and she owes no one an explanation, others were less supportive. One entire sub-thread of this mess ended up dedicated to the notion that, if she did not date this man, she was an “ableist cunt.” That’s not how this works. THAT’S NOT HOW ANY OF THIS WORKS. This also isn’t the first time I’ve seen this argument made.

As a population, we’ve gotten pretty good at reminding straight, white, men (and black men, on occasion) that women do not owe them anything. We don’t owe them our time, our phone number, a date, or sex. We do not owe them anything simply because they were born with a dick and took a fancy to us. It’s becoming increasingly clear, however, that the only people who don’t appear to be owed sex or relationships are straight, white, men. 

On multiple occasions during the course of my adult life, I have been called a “racist” by a black man who wanted my phone number and to whom I did not want to give it. Sometimes I didn’t want to give it to him because it was obvious he wasn’t my type. Sometimes I was just disinterested. Sometimes I was taken. In all instances, my rejection was not met merely with annoyance, but with a charge of “racism.” As though their blackness entitled them to my time, even if their maleness left me disinterested. As though a failure to be interested on my part could only be attributed to an aversion to brown skin, rather than an aversion to them, as an individual. I never thought much of these instances because I have, in fact, dated men of color before. As a child, my first Hollywood crush was on a black man. As an adult, about the only human I would consider leaving my wife for is a black woman (I jest. I would never leave my wife. But if I did it would be for Jessica Williams). My disinterest in these men was not because I am incapable of attraction to black bodies. I just wasn’t interested in those men; a fact they were quite offended by and quite willing to project over.  

Shortly after coming off of active duty, I got called “fat phobic” for the first time. It wouldn’t be the last time and, despite the general definition of oppressive hatred, at no time has this name been lobbed at me because I’ve been treating those who are overweight as though they are “less than.” I’m not scared of fat people. I don’t hate fat people. In fact, unless you are an overweight person with whom I am personally acquainted, I probably have effectively zero feeling about you or your excess weight. If you’re a fat person with whom I’m personally acquainted, my feelings towards you will have little to do with your weight and significantly more to do with your personality and your work ethic. You do you, boo, just don’t be a mean person or a shitty coworker along the way. That said, I acknowledge a lack of physical attraction on my part when it comes to overweight people. Part of it is that I’m just not attracted to the body type. Part of it is that I am an insanely active person, and I do make certain assumptions about other people’s lives and activity levels based upon their body types. I am going to assume that someone who is 150 pounds overweight is not going to be compatible with who I am as a person. My unwillingness to date people who fit this criteria, my disinterest in having sex with a body type that does not appeal to me, is apparently rooted in a deep and unacknowledged phobia of fat people. I got told by multiple women that unless I’m willing to force an attraction to fat people, I am fat phobic. How I treat these people out of the sheets is completely irrelevant. 

A little research showed that fatphobia was hardly the only politically correct pile of shite making its way into bedrooms. White people who won’t date outside their race are, with some level of regularity, told they’re racist. Refusing to date someone from another country, culture, or religious sect is now deemed xenophobic. Even refusing to date someone who had children or wildly different political views than your own was, somehow, deemed inappropriate. Even as society has been trying to drill into people’s heads that no one, NO ONE, is owed a relationship, that same society is doing an excellent job of telling us that we’re not allowed to say “no” to certain people. Saying “no” to marginalized or “othered” individuals is no longer a simple declination of sex, and is now an act of discrimination. Their marginalization, apparently, entitles them to both my time and my body. 

Through it all, sexism is a charge that has largely gone underutilized amongst most groups. Gay men are never called sexist for refusing to fuck women, and straight people are never called sexist or homophobic for not being queer. Lesbians, however, haven’t been granted this same dignity. (As usual, bisexuality is ignored. For once, the bi’s of the world are pleased about this). Probably because the idea that sexual pleasure can exist outside the scope of a penis is, for many, wildly inconceivable.     

For as long as lesbianism has been a thing, people with penises attempting to convince lesbians that said lesbians do, in fact, enjoy dicks have been a thing. For most of history, those people have been humans presenting as straight men, who apparently can’t conceive of a woman not wanting any dick at all, let alone their dick. In more recent years however, a vocal cohort of trans women, many pre-operative and still possessing intact penises, have taken to outing lesbians who refuse to date them as “transphobic.” As though one’s bedroom is an arena in which our efforts at establishing equality for all can be adequately assessed. 

Here’s the thing, a lack of attraction to a particular characteristic or a disinterest in having a particular characteristic in your bed or yourself, is not a form of discrimination. Why? Because absolutely no one, no matter how disenfranchised they may be by the rest of society, is ever owed personal time, relationships, or sexual intimacy from or by anyone else. They’re just not. Lesbians don’t owe transwomen sex or relationships, and they don’t owe them an explanation for why they’re not interested in these things. They are not suffering from a case of discriminatory genital preferences, because sexual proclivities are not preferences- they are ingrained parts of our beings. 

Do you really think straight women wouldn’t make the transition to vaginas if it was as simple as changing their genital preferences? The existence of straight women is proof positive that basically everything about our sexual attractions are beyond the scope of our control. 

While we can control whether or not we act on these attractions, control over what we are attracted to is pretty fucking limited. Do you really think pedophiles enjoy being pedophiles? If you do, I’d recommend reading an interview with one. It’s pretty eye-opening, if you can get past the part where you’re reading an interview with a pedophile. And all of them make quite clear that acting on their attraction to children is within their control, but the attraction itself is not. A fact that tends to leave them shunned by society whether they act on them or not, and pretty fucking miserable for obvious reasons. The list of things I’m not attracted to is relatively long and, while the list itself is mutable because additions have been made over the years, I have never found myself attracted to something that had once previously repulsed me. 

You will not change someone’s attractions simply by couching their sexual disinterest in social justice warrior language and attempting to shame them into being attracted to you. 

All you’ll do is piss them off and lose an ally. If you don’t want to date someone who is black, white, or purple, you don’t have to. If you don’t want to date someone with a particular set of genitalia, you don’t have, no matter what their external presentation is. If you don’t want to date a particular gender, you don’t have to. You don’t have to date people with mental illness, with food restrictions, with terminal cancer, or with webbed feet. You don’t have to date fat people, skinny people, or exercise obsessed people. You don’t have to date rich people or poor people, the fashion forward or the fashion oblivious. You don’t have to let anything other than your attraction to that particular person, or lack thereof, determine whether you date another person. And if you don’t want to date anybody, at all, you don’t have to. And you never, ever, ever owe them any explanation for why you are not interested. In fact, an argument could be made that you’re better off not giving them a reason.  

Get your shamey social justice warrior bullshit out of our bedrooms. NOW. 

No one owes you anything. 

[thischairismyhomenow]

Joker

I must preface this little review with a defense of my honor.

I did not want to pay to see this movie! I didn't!! And I wasn't planning on doing so either! I was going to pirate this shit wait for streaming and I would have, except that a new friend wanted to see it for his birthday and it felt like the wrong time to go on a self-righteous tangent. Especially since (having not seen the film, duh) I didn't know for sure if there was anything to even be self-righteous about.

There was! But honestly? Not as much as I thought. For a film that's been controversial basically since it was announced, it was mostly just boring. Now, I don't have a problem with slow movies. I loved Curon's Roma, for fuck's sake. But boring and slow are different things.

Okay so, spoilers, if I'm even remembering this correctly:

We meet Joker, whose real name is Forever Alone. He is sad because he has a mental illness that makes him laugh at the wrong times, which is kind of like Tourettes I guess. He is also sad because it's the 80s.

Forever Alone goes to see his therapist after being beat up in an alleyway. His therapist asks if any of the seven (seven!!!) medications he's on are helping. I can't remember if he says yes or no, but he's very sad, because his dad is gone and his mom has no boundaries and this is supposed to make us sympathetic to him murdering people later. Did you know a lot of men were raised by single mothers? They should be allowed to do whatever they want because they are sad and angry. Tyler Durdan told me so.

Anyway, Forever Alone hates his job as a clown. He wants to be a comedian someday. He wants Robert De Niro, who is a talk show host, to be his dad. He helps his mother take a bath, which is very creepy and wildly inappropriate and I would rant about how parental enmeshment is actually emotional abuse but that's a post for another time.

Some smug Wall Street guys who are weirdly good at singing attack him on the subway and he (dressed as a clown) kills them. At this point I'm torn, because fuck those guys. I have a glimmer of hope that this movie is about how we should tax the rich. We don't need to kill them!! We don't even need to eat them. But we should tax them.  

Forever Alone's therapist's office closes due to lack of funding and he can't get his (seven!!!!) meds anymore. Again I have hope that this movie is about economic inequality and it kind of is for a few minutes. He's sad and I'm genuinely sad too, because Jeff Bozo has too much money.

Next: Forever Alone kills one of his friends from work for being mean. He does not kill his midget friend. Then he finds out baby Bruce Wayne's dad is also his dad! What the fuck!

I almost like this twist except that a little later in the movie we find out that his mom was making it up and he was really adopted. (Or was he??) He's really mad at his mom for lying about it, so he smothers her with a pillow.

He does a standup routine that goes 80s-equivalent-of-viral, so Robert De Niro invites him onto his talk show. Forever Alone, who is now the Joker, kills Robert with a gun on live television. Because father figures will always disappoint you or something. There is pandemonium in the streets. Someone kills baby Bruce Wayne's parents. The Joker is embraced by a big mob of people and smiles a bloody smile and that's the end.

Do I feel bad for the Joker? Yeah, sort of. Do I feel mad at the filmmakers? Also yeah! For one thing, they're just perpetuating the same tired stereotypes about the mentally ill, i.e. that they're dangerous time bombs. Are some people so out of touch with reality that they can't be held accountable for their actions? Yes.

Is that who this movie is for though? No.

Are the majority of people with mental illnesses so out of touch with reality that they can't be held accountable for their actions? ALSO NO.

"Oh, I don't believe in anything." —the Joker

This line is how you know the movie is not actually made for paranoid schizophrenics. Because paranoid schizophrenics believe things VERY deeply. If he had said, "I believe I am God's second son who was cast out of heaven. Follow me," I would be like, okay, yeah, decent portrayal I guess.

"I don't believe in anything," is the line that does tell me, yes: this movie will indeed make incels feel special and validated. They will feel seen! Representation for everybody! Nihilistic edgelords everywhere can watch this movie and say, "SEE. IT'S NOT MY FAULT I'M TERRIBLE. WE LIVE IN A  S O C I E T Y."

It's true. We do live in a society. A society that could be improved. What I'll never understand is why this particular type of dude doesn't realize that they could like...do something? And I don't mean shoot up a church. There are a thousand ways to get involved in the bettering of the universe. Sure, if you're depressed AF it's hard to believe that. But you have to try.

I saw this other superhero movie a few years ago, and it started in a similar way — with a weird, scrawny guy getting his ass kicked in an alleyway. This guy had tons of problems too: health problems, money problems, no-dad problems, existential questions of purpose. He didn't really have girl problems because girls completely ignored him.

His name was Steve Rogers.

Think about that.

So I'm not saying the movie is completely terrible, honestly, I just hate that a particular demographic of American Male will walk out of that theater feeling like it revealed some deep truth, when really they are being sold a lie.

You don't have to become a monster just to prove how much pain you're in. You could just like, talk to people. Bad shit is gonna happen. Poverty, abuse, pain, rejection. We can either try to hurt the world or try to save it in response.