#like not in a capitalist way but as a way

[agreeeeeeeeeee]

Christmas Karaoke | E.M.

He wasn't a Christmas guy, being the town freak and his all together hatred of capitalist bullsh*t, but when he saw you smile like that, your eyes dancing like the twinkle bulbs, he thought maybe he could be.

feat. Eddie Munson x fem!reader

SUMMARY: You go out to Christmas karaoke with your friends Robin, Steve, Vickie, and Eddie and get a little wild, liquid courage and some classic carols giving you the push you need to claim your man.

CW: MDNI 18+, smut, eddies pov, drinking/getting drunk, protective!eddie, mentions of blood/fighting, eddie is the sweetest (and filthiest) man alive, oral (f&m), dirty talk

Eddie flipped down the visor on the van, checking his hair and making sure he didn't have an spaghetti sauce on his chin from dinner at Wayne's. The van was idling outside your door, thick clouds of steam obscuring the outside world.

He was picking you up for Christmas Karaoke with Steve, Robin, and Vickie at the Hideout. It was a normal thing, he'd picked you up countless times for countless reasons, so why the fuck were his hands shaking on the steering wheel?

He clenched his hands, knuckles white and rings digging into his skin, and tried to take a deep breath. Things had started to change for him over the summer, after Eddie got into a fight with a handsy lifeguard at the pool.

He wasn't a violent man, truly. But when that fucker put his hands on your skin, sun kissed and dripping with chlorinated water, and your face screwed up with disgust and fear, he saw red.

It took an hour to clean the blood from his rings, and you'd been gracious enough to help him. Cramped into the trailer bathroom, scrubbing at his Cthulhu ring with some Palm Olive and an old toothbrush, your brow crinkled in concentration.

Now, he couldn't even wash the fucking dishes without thinking of you.

Every since that afternoon, he was a nervous wreck around you, clumsy and awkward, though you were too sweet to ever comment on it. You were oblivious to the change in him, at least as far as he knew.

He flipped up the visor and sagged into his seat, turning that Cthulhu ring on his middle finger. It was just karaoke, he could do this—

“Hey, Eds!” You chirped, tugging open the van door and climbing in.

His greeting died in his throat when he saw your outfit. Leather mini shirt and ripped tights, heavy boots, eyeliner…and what had to be the ugliest patchwork Christmas sweater he'd ever seen.

But somehow, you made it look sexy as fuck.

“What? Too much?” You asked, pulling at the hem of your sweater with a smirk.

Eddie clapped a hand over his eyes, letting go of the wheel. “You're gonna have to drive, babe. My eyes have melted from the hideousness.”

You laughed, the sound like Christmas bells, and swatted his arm. “It's not that bad! Robin helped me!”

“It's grotesque.” He smiled, dropping his hands to start driving. “And I love it—”

“You do?” You beamed so brightly, he almost didn't finish his sentence.

“Sure! The way I love “Night of the Walking Dead”, or when Ozzy bit the head off that bat—”

“Ha ha, go fuck yourself.” You stuck your tongue out at him and he huffed a laugh.

“I'm teasing you,” he chuckled, adjusting the radio to your preferred station. “It's perfect. And only you could pull of that kind of monstrosity.”

You smiled, settling into your seat, and cranked up the music.

It took a concerted effort for Eddie to keep his eyes on the road. The color splashed against your skin was so pretty, and the soft smile on your face every time he passed a particularly elaborate house made his heart forget how to beat.

He wasn't a Christmas guy, being the town freak and his all together hatred of capitalist bullshit, but when he saw you smile like that, your eyes dancing like the twinkle bulbs, he thought maybe he could be.

“So, will we get a Corroded Coffin performance?” You asked, jarring him from his fantasies.

He snorted. “Unlikely.”

“I’m sorry, you, Eddie Munson, who sings more than he speaks, aren't going to participate in karaoke?”

“It's not like Judas Priest has a Christmas song,” he chuckled. “I don't have the range for Sinatra. Though I'm flattered you think so.”

“What if I pick it for you?” You asked, batting those doe eyes at him.

He sighed, thunking his head back against the headrest. “Stop lookin’ at me like that, it's not fair.”

“Like what?” You tilted your head, cherry glossed lips pursing slightly.

He wanted to sink his teeth into that pout, see a sticky ring of your lipgloss around his—

“Fine, fuck. One song.”

“Yay!” You leaned across the seat, planting a smacking kiss on his cheek, and he nearly swerved off the road in his shock. “You won't regret this.”

“I don't believe that for a second, sweetheart,” he said, praying you chalked his blush up to the multi-colored lights.

“Oh god, not you too,” Steve said when you bound towards him through the crowd, Eddie on your heels.

“You love it, Harrington,” you teased, stealing the beer in his hand and taking a few, long gulps. Steve and Eddie’s eyes met over your head, both wide with surprise.

“Woah there!” Robin said, appearing to Steve’s left, dressed in an equally ugly sweater. “That kind of night?”

You set the now mostly empty beer on the counter. “Yep. What's a Mistletoe Mayhem?” You called out to Nick, the bartender.

Nothing good, Eddie thought.

“Green and sparkly,” the bartender replied.

“Perfect,” you grinned, slapping your ID on the counter.

“Make that two!” Robin chimed in, and Steve groaned.

“I want one!” Vickie emerged from the dance floor, also wearing a hideous sweater, though it was tied around her waist.

“Three Mayhem's coming up,” Nick chuckled, skimming ids before passing them back and moving down the bar.

“And can I get another beer? No? Alright,” Steve sighed, leaning back against the bar. “What's up, Munson?” He said, waving Eddie over.

Eddie tore his eyes away from where you were gushing with Vickie over the bars tiny Christmas tree and moved towards Steve.

“Oh, nothing. Kids have been asking me to put together a festive quest for our session tomorrow. Best I can do is Krampus.”

Steve chuckled, smiling when the pretty female bartender slid him and Eddie some beers. “Not into Christmas, huh?”

“Are you?”

“Nah, Mom was always the Hallmark family Christmas type, just felt so phony, y’know?”

“I do. Poor Harrington with his mountains of presents and immaculately decorated house,” Eddie teased, and Steve rolled his eyes.

“It wasn’t a mountain.”

“Oh, I apologize. A rather large hill of presents.”

“Three Mayhem's up!” Nick called, and the three of you bound out of the crowd like puppies called for dinner. Nick set down three fishbowls full of green, glittery liquid, topped with cranberries and limes, and a sprig of mistletoe.

Steve wrinkled his nose. “That looks dangerous.”

Eddie agreed, but held his tongue.

You took a big sip, needing two hands to hold the giant glass, and immediately pulled a face before unleashing a hundred kilowatt grin. “Very dangerous,” you hummed, taking another sip, and Eddie felt his cock twitch to life at the wicked gleam in your eye.

It was going to be a long night.

Karaoke began half an hour later, with Steve and Robin kicking things off with a dramatized rendition of “Baby, It's Cold Outside.”

Eddie was following you around the bar like a shadow, scaring away anyone foolish enough to look at you twice. But you were none the wiser, already buzzed and dancing around like a Christmas elf on crack.

You were already one Mayhem deep, and he bribed Nick to tell you they were out of the mix to spare the consequences of a second. But you just ordered a double margarita instead, so his efforts, and $20, were forfeit.

But Eddie was more than happy to be your guard dog for the evening, so long as you were having fun and safe. It's what any good friend would do. But when he ran into Gareth and they started talking about the new Slayer album, he lost track of you.

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath, surveying the crowd for your sweater. But with the fog and throbbing multi-colored lights, it was impossible to see anything clearly. “Excuse me,” he said, interrupting Gareth in the middle of a sentence.

He bee-lined to the high top where your friends sat.

“There he iiissss!” Robin yelled, waving her beer glass in the air. “Where ya been Edward-ed-son?”

“Have you seen y/n?” He asked, mostly to Steve, who appeared to be the only other sober person on the entire establishment.

“Thought you had her.” Steve shrugged. “Got my hands full.” He nodded towards Robin and Vickie, who were now loudly singing along to the karaoke.

“I did, but then Gare—”

The crowd erupted in applause as the song ended, cutting Eddie off.

“That was greeeaaat, Tina. Now, let's welcome y/n singing a classic, ‘Santa Baby’!”

Eddie whirled around to the stage and your friends burst into cheers. You sauntered out in your little skirt and insane sweater, grinning ear to ear as the spotlight swung towards you.

“Found her,” Steve chuckled, pulling out the chair beside him for Eddie.

Eddie dropped into it, rolling his eyes and laughing. He should have known. “What's ‘Santa Baby'?” Eddie asked as the song started.

Steve gave him a sympathetic look and clapped him on the back. “Oh, you'll see.”

You stepped up to the mic, the one Eddie's used on countless occasions, and wrapped your little hands around it. Something about it being his mic your lips were so close to made the primitive part of his brain purr with delight, and he relaxed into his seat, hiding his growing erection under the table.

Steve slid his beer to Eddie, who took a grateful sip, his mouth dry as the desert.

“Santa Baby, just slip a Sable under the tree, for me,” you sang, your voice breathy and so sweet. “Been an awful good girl.”

Your eyes locked on Eddie and he nearly choked, his cock lurching painfully against his jeans, heart pounding in his ears.

Surely you didn't mean to look directly at him, right? He had a habit of searching you out during shows too, you were probably just mirroring that. Looking for a familiar face in a sea of strangers.

“Santa Baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.” You dragged your hands down the mic stand, swaying your hips to the music, and Eddie thought he might faint.

He maybe would have, if it wasn't for the roaring men pushing towards the front of the stage drawing his attention.

But your eyes were still locked on him, ignoring them entirely, and he gave you an encouraging thumbs up. He wasn't about to let his stupid crush, or a bunch of leering creeps, ruin your fun.

You kept singing, your voice a little wobbly, but airy in that way that made his pants tighten and his mind wander to places it definitely shouldn't. You looked so beautiful up there, laughing and swaying to the music, that Eddie found himself smiling too.

“Lookin’ a little lovesick there, Eds,” Steve teased, nudging him with his elbow.

Eddie waved him off. “Nah, just making sure she has someone that isn't a perv to look at.”

Steve nodded, popping some nuts into his mouth. Steve was the only friend of theirs that seemed to clock Eddie's shift in demeanor, though he mostly kept it to himself. Eddie knew he knew, and Steve knew that Eddie knew he knew, and that was good enough.

You wrapped up the song with a flourish, doing a little curtsy in your mini skirt, and Eddie cheered as loud as he could, ensuring you heard him over the roar of douche bags.

He jumped up, rushing to meet you at the edge of the stage before someone else could, adjusting himself as went. The crowd parted and there you were, bright as the morning sun, bounding down the stairs and into his arms.

“I did it!” You cried.

“You were amazing,” he murmured, lifting you up and spinning your around. It was totally platonic, but the rest of these fucks didn't know that.

“Phew, what a show. Next up we have a familiar face! Eddie Munson of our very own Corroded Coffin singing ‘Blue Christmas’!”

You squealed in delight and Eddie's jaw dropped. “Go, go!” You shoved against his back, pushing him up the stairs as someone handed him a guitar.

“Figured you didn't need the track, yeah?” Danny, the stagehand said with a grin.

“I don't know this shit, man,” Eddie protested, but Danny rolled his eyes.

“I'll play it in the background, you'll pick it up!”

Suddenly Eddie was in the spotlight, and you were jumping up and down on the side stage. It was far from an atypical experience for him, but butterflies still churned in his stomach. He never got used to you watching him perform, even if it was something as silly as Christmas karaoke. The pressure to impress you was paralyzing, but if it would make you happy…

The track started rolling softly in the background, and he focused on his fingers, finding the simple chord and replicating it with relative ease. The audience cheered even louder, and he smirked to himself.

He risked a glance over at you, confident he had a handle on the notes, and you were practically glowing with joy.

Shit, maybe Corroded Coffin needed to add some Christmas song to their set.

Words started to roll across the small screen at his feet, and he stepped up to the mic, absolutely delighted to find a smear of your lipgloss on the net.

“I’ll have a blue Christmas, without you,” he crooned, putting on his best Elvis impression, and the roar of the ladies was deafening. “I'll be so blue just thinking about you.” He let his eyes wander back to you at the end of the lyric, wondering if you understood just how close this song hit home for him.

You were grinning ear to ear, swaying happily to the music. Oblivious.

“You’ll be doing all right, with your Christmas of white. But I'll have a blue, blue blue blue Christmas,” he continued, finding that he did, in fact, know this song despite his earlier assertion.

C’mon, who didn't know Elvis?

Thankfully, it was an incredibly brief song, and he finished off with a freestyle riff, earning another cacophony of drunken cheers.

He bowed and hustled of the stage to where you waited for him, arms open. He held the guitar behind his back and scooped you up around the waist with his free arm, lifting your feet off the ground.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, wafting your sweet perfume and the bitter sting of alcohol over him. “That was amazing!” You gushed.

“Thanks, sweetheart. But you were better,” he replied, passing Danny the guitar. He started to carry you down the steps, but you shook your head.

“Wanna go backstage,” you murmured against his ear, and his heart stopped.

He pulled his head back to look at you, eyebrows raised. “Backstage? Why?”

You worried your lip between your teeth, eyes like melting honey. “Please, Eddie baby?”

He could do nothing but obey, backing up the steps and ducking behind the curtain with you still in his arms. He shifted his hold you, your legs wrapping around his waist, mini skirt pushing up to enough to give him a glimpse of the cherry red of your panties.

You dragged your nails down his shoulders, your lips finding his throat and leaving soft, sticky kisses along his jugular vein that may as well have been along his cock for how intense the contact felt.

“Honey,” he grunted, stopping to press you against a dressing room door. “How drunk are you?” he panted, eyes crossing when your tongue laved over his pulse, your teeth grazing his pierced lobes.

“Not too drunk, I promise,” you said, pulling back to look him in the eye. “Been wanting this for so long, Eddie, please—”

He swallowed your sweet words with a kiss, tentative at first, but quickly devolving into a sloppy mess, your cherry lip gloss and the lingering taste of cranberry vodka flipping a switch in his brain that had his long-held control unraveling. This was his one shot to impress you, his one shot to get you as addicted to him as he was to you, and he was not about to fuck it up.

Eddie was the town freak, and dating him came with all the baggage of that title. But he’d show you the benefits of it, too.

He had to make like Santa Clause and fucking deliver.

With a quick turn of his wrist, he opened the door to the dressing room and carried you through. He dropped you onto the leather chaise before climbing up your body, capturing your lips in another hungry kiss. Your tongue probed at his lower lip and he opened for you, your smaller muscle licking curiously along the inside of his mouth, when he felt the tip of it brush the warm metal of his tongue piercing.

You gasped, apparently having forgotten about that particular modification, and pride blazed through his chest like an inferno.

He leveraged your surprise to turn the power into his favor, driving his tongue into your mouth, feeling drunk himself on the intoxicating taste of your drool. He dragged the piercing over the roof of your mouth and you shivered, your hips rising to press against his thigh.

He pressed his leg harder against your deliciously warm cunt and you whimpered, you hips rolling in a more deliberate motion. He brought one of his hands down to grip your hip, his rings digging into your soft flesh as he helped you ride his thigh.

“How long you been wanting this, baby? Huh?” He rasped against your ear, hearing your breath hitch. “Barely touched you and look, so desperate already.”

Your hands curled against his shirt, your hips stuttering against his thigh as the pleasure mounted, your slick starting to seep through your panties onto his jeans. “Fuck, feels s’good,” you whined, burying your face into his neck.

“Yeah? Little pussy getting nice and wet for me? Such a good girl. Look so sexy riding my thigh.” He encouraged, noting the way his words made your hips move incrementally faster, the filth spurring you on.

Despite thoroughly enjoying the sight of you dry humping his leg, his mouth watered for something even sweeter.

He moved his thigh back, the denim wet with your honey, and he lowered to his knees on the ground. “Can I taste, sugar? You’re not the only one that's been waiting ages for this.” He started kissing up your inner thighs, wet and loud smacks on your tender skin as he moved closer to your sopping panties.

“Please, Eds, wanna feel you,” you panted, spreading your thighs wider for him like an angel opening heaven’s gates.

His heart gave an elated thump. How could this be real life? Here he was, moments from devouring your drooling, pink pussy and you were saying his name like that? Asking to feel his tongue against you? Maybe he really had gone to fucking heaven.

“Fuck, so pretty. So fucking perfect.” He dragged his tongue over the clingy fabric of your panties, sucking the material into his mouth to taste you. His eyes rolled back in his head—so fucking sweet.

With deft fingers, he slid them down your legs and stuffed them in his back pocket, before settling back between your legs.

You were trembling with anticipation, worrying your lips between your teeth as you watched him through your painted lashes. With a flattened tongue, he licked from your entrance to your clit, feeling the heat, the velvet softness of your slit without obstruction.

You keened, throwing your head back onto the arm of the couch when he swirled the tip around your clit, flicking his piercing over the sensitive bud.

Shit, he could do this forever. Just live between your legs, making music with the most beautiful instrument he'd ever played: you.

With two fingers, he dipped into the pool of slick at your entrance, lubricating himself before easing them inside, watching your face over the stretch of your body for signs of discomfort. But you only continued to moan, already looking gorgeously wrecked.

He worked you with his tongue and fingers, finding that spongy spot inside you that made you sing, and let himself get lost in the rhythm, the mind-numbing bliss of pleasuring you.

“Eddie baby, fuck. M’getting close,” you whined, and he could feel the truth of your statement, your walls starting to twitch and clench around his fingers, your clit swelling under his tongue.

“That's it, sugar. Come all over my tongue, wanna drown in you—”

You cry drowned out his words, the cunt clenching hard around his aching fingers, a fresh gush of honey soaking his palm and chin. Pride soared through him, and he greedily lapped up every drop you released for him, watching your body twitch and writhe while you came down.

“You’re a goddamn dream, baby. Did so well f’me,” he cooed, easing his fingers out of you and cleaning them with his tongue before placing a final kiss on your puffy clit.

“Fuck, Eddie,” you panted, pulling him up onto the couch with shaky arms. “You're too good at that.” You leaned in for a kiss, dragging your tongue over his lips before smushing your lips together in a quick, sloppy press.

“Thank you, honey,” he hummed, feeling like a damn king. The luckiest bastard alive.

But then you shifted off the couch, settling on your knees between his thighs, and his brain turned off.

“What are you—” His words fractured into a strangled moan when you dragged your tongue over the hard swell of his cock, separated by the rough fabric of his jeans.

You continued to mouth at his bulge while undoing his belt with quick little fingers, unzipping his jeans. He reached into his boxers and freed himself, still half-dazed by the sight of you on your knees for him in a dirty, dive bar dressing room.

He was painfully hard, the head and angry red and leaking, his balls already tight and hot. And you, sweet thing you are, didn't waste a second, popping the head into your mouth and sucking the precum from his skin.

Your mouth was scalding, melting his mind at the wet pliancy of your tongue and cheeks while you took him deeper.

“Fucking shit, baby. Oh god—” he fisted the couch cushions, the temptation to fist your hair and push you deeper overwhelming. But he wanted to see what you would do on your own.

You hollowed out your cheeks, bobbing your head up and down his shaft with messy, drooling strokes, your hand wrapped around his base. His vision went fuzzy, heat curling low in his stomach as pleasure spilled through him.

Shit, you were too fucking good at that.

“Baby, baby, baby,” he chanted, head thrown back against the couch, and finally he let himself slide his fingers into your hair, careful to keep his rings from catching. You leaned into him, moaning softly around his length.

He picked his head up, needing to watch you as you reached the base of him, a sticky, soaking mess in the thatch of his dark pubic hair.

“That's it, sugar. Just like that—fuck,” he grunted, his hips canting up when he felt the tightness of your throat, your tongue lapping at the throbbing root of him. He was deliriously, embarrassingly close already, but he didn't have the heart to slow you down for even a second.

You pulled back, suckling the head with your plush lips while your hand twisted up and down his slippery shaft, the swallowed him down again with a sinful slurp.

Like a bolt of lightening, his balls drew up and he was coming, unable to give you more of a warning than his hand tightening in your hair his cock swelling on your tongue. Sparks danced behind his eyes, his nerves frying beneath his skin as he released rope after rope of come down your throat.

And like a good girl, you swallowed it all and sucked him dry, broken whines falling from his lips as your nursed his oversensitive head.

“Baby, fuck, take it easy on me—”

You released him with a pop, flashing the sweetest, most angelic smile with your chin covered in drool and lipgloss, and he dragged you up into his lap, desperate to hold you close.

“I do good?” You asked, batting your lashes at him, a smug little smirk on your face.

“Good? Honey, you rocked my world.” He pulled you in for a kiss, toothy and playful since neither of you could stop smiling, giddy with the shock of it all.

You giggled as his rained kisses over your face, down your neck, his fingers tickling along your hips and up over your ribs. He wrapped his arms around your waist, leaning back against the couch as he slowed his movements, coaxing you to relax into him.

“Wanted you for long,” he murmured into your hair. “Please tell me you'll be mine.” The words came out so soft, for a second he wasn't sure if you'd heard him.

But then you pressed your hands to his chest and sat up a little, looking into his eyes. “I already am, Eds.”

He grinned, cheeks sore and heart pounding, and kissed you again while a terrible rendition of Ella Fitzgerald's “I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm” bleed through the thin walls.

Looked like it wouldn't be a blue Christmas after all.

[spaghettioverdose]

there are no bigger babies in this world than punks. for a genre of music (and it is a genre of music, not any kind of coherent political movement, let's be real for a moment) where the fans style themselves to be tough and aggressive, you guys sure love to throw shit fits whenever anyone insults you even slightly. maybe if you were even a little bit anti-capitalist (as many of you claim) in any meaningful way, you wouldn't base your entire identity on consumption of music and you wouldn't feel so mad when someone insults punk or points out that fascists aren't that uncommon among your ranks. then again, the main reason why people are even talking shit about you in the first place is because you're annoying dipshits who base your identity on aesthetics and then huff your own farts about how radical you are, while having politics that amount to an incoherent tantrum.

maybe if you learned how to read political theory, you wouldn't say stupid shit like "punk is inherently leftist/antifascist/progressive", especially when you can do one google search to see how often nazis keep getting into the punk scene. I hope one day you grow the fuck up out of your edgy teenage phase and either learn some actual communist politics or shut up about how radical you are. keep your tastes in music as tastes in music. even though on tumblr half the people who call themselves punks don't even listen to punk.

anyways, if you listen to punk or whatever, I don't care. if you make it your whole identity and try to claim your politics are punk, I urge you to either unfollow me or be very fucking quiet about it. if I catch you saying that shit in my notes I'm blocking your ass.

[philsmeatylegss]

Nothing ever bothers me more than the internet’s inability to understand that being in poverty is inherently traumatic, poor people are more likely to experience trauma and depression, and rich people can experience trauma and depression are all statements that can coexist with each other. Being rich doesn’t eliminate the possibility of trauma or depression, but being poor can itself be traumatic and exacerbate depression symptoms. These are all concepts that can be true at the same time!!! You all are so close to actually getting the point!!!

[dhampirdulac]

would y'all be into it if i wrote a longform meta post debunking the "deadbeat dad louis"" take abt s2?? it'd kinda be a mix combining and adding nuance to my prev threads abt the topic and touches on why the "lol he was so dickmatized he forgot his daughter" frame on him is an antiblack stereotype of black fatherhood- like i've seen a few takes recently of folks being like "why was louis so mean to armand in the show" and this would contextualize that too

[tenebrisimpyris]

more like a bored 6am read, but yes. This is fascinating, and I mean this in the most respectful way as I'm trying to learn: I see IQ being flawed in all ways stated above, but how does that tie into race? For IQ tests to be racist does this imply certain races are worse ar puzzles than others?

Or is it more of a societal segregation due to capitalist classism and less actual racism?

Edit: I have just realized the text above is actually a link to articles.

I can't keep having the same conversations about love languages, mbti, iq, bmi, "brain fully formed at 25" and shit over and over again...

[thyfleshc0nsumed]

Okay I need honesty, do I sound fucking insane. like do I sound crazy. like do I sound cookoo dumb stupid crazy ass who should delete this and stop wasting their time on this or like am I making some snse

‘The pedophile’ is a scapegoat and boogeyman. It is an individualist, carceral, and fascist framing of childhood and adolescent sexual abuse. The individualist nature of this widely-accepted phenomenon functions to provide cover to the material basis that allows and creates such abuse, and is beloved by fascists for its malleability and galvanizing effect. Individual and carceral solutions are fundamentally incapable of stopping sexual abuse; if we truly care about the issue, we must abandon these frameworks altogether.

What is ‘the pedophile’ as a framework?

‘The pedophile’ is an attempt to provide anatomy of the problem. In this view, the cause is simple: for whatever reason, there exist a number of intrinsically sick, or more likely, evil individuals who lust after children and adolescents and make it their life’s goal to rape and defile them. With this framework, the solution is just as simple–dispose of the problemed people. If something about them is incurably evil, then what else is there to be done?

I understand the appeal of this framing to the majority that buy into it; a few years ago, I was caught up in the fervor myself. It’s a fairy tale; there exists a possibility of a ‘happily ever after.’ Evil is singular, and discreet from the world around it. The question of ‘why did they do it’ is conveniently irrelevant and inexplicable–evil is evil because it is evil; we must only know that it is evil and we (who could never be evil) must expel it. 

Unfortunately, evil does not exist. But harm does, and harm is necessarily based in the material, not the moral, or spiritual, or metaphysical. Material results have material causes–that is to say, there are ‘whats,’ ‘whys,’ and ‘hows’ to every meaningful harm.

First, the ‘what’: What happened, and what detrimental material impact did it have?

Second, the ‘why’: Why might the person who did the harm have done so?

Third, the ‘how’: How was the harm made possible?

To view sexual abuse in terms of ‘bad people do bad things,’ we shut down the second question with the thought-terminating idea of evil, and entirely ignore the third question. By doing this, we fully close ourselves off from any ideas that could meaningfully deal with the issue outside of individual instances of it. If we don’t know how harm comes to pass, we are utterly powerless to stop its furtherance. 

Childhood sexual abuse, like all forms of abuse, is made possible through unequal relationships to power. To understand this, we must understand ‘the family,’ the role of children within it, and the way capitalist society uses the family as an economic unit.

What is ‘the family’?

‘The family’ is capitalist society’s primary organizational method through which individuals meet their material needs. No matter a society’s methods of distribution, it is labor that is the animating essence of survival. Food must be cooked, children must be raised, waste must be taken out, and in a capitalist society, labor power must be sold so that the rent gets paid and the cabinets stay stocked. 

Ignoring the production chains that produce the commodities that are foundational to our lives, it is exceedingly difficult to run a household single-handedly. If someone is not able to leave a situation because they would lack the financial means to subsist otherwise, the person providing those financial means holds power over them. This is a neutral

[tech-issues-apologies]

The thing with all of this is that it is the natural result of the systems we are embedded in. People will tend towards meeting their own needs within the perceived and real limits of their circumstances, and the system will try to maximize profit while minimizing cost, often my displacing or delaying that cost or degrading the product or service.

I don't even mean this in capitalist/economic terms when I say this. With almost all care fields and care, ajacent fields have masive labor shorteges. Hell, a lot of chritical fields in general are short on labor relative to the demands. Although all these jobs definitely don't pay well enough to pull in workers, it goes beyond that. Even with competitive pay, the number of qualified individuals is just not there to adequately fill demand. Even if everyone should afford it there is just not enough bandwidth in the system to acomidate the need.

We let the barriers to training get so large that even people who would work in these positions under otherwise ideal circumstances can not get the training or credentials to do them. Due to *gestures to all capitalism and society*, we are making these jobs and nightmare to work in with a lack of material or labor resources. This is leading to the double wamy of retention and recruitment issues. On top of this, a lot of fields do not pay well enough, especially with the cost of credentials, and they are increasingly made to do busy work invented to reduce the chance insurance will pay that takes them away from care.

On top of all this, a lot of these jobs are the kind of jobs that pull from a smaller talent pool than most jobs. Care jobs often need people who have a combination of aptitude, inclination, and temperment to be done well. Then, with society(capitalism) increasing demand more than is nesisary in the pursuit of unsustainable growth and value extraction and control, it all combines to form a perfect storm of capitalism selling a new shinier solution to a problem it had a hand in creating. Telling people not to use ai without addressing the cause is like telling people not to self medicate on moral grounds and then doing nothing to help or adress the things that keep them in pain. If you are not actually invested in them or their outcomes in a tangible way, why would they let you tell them how to live?

There are plenty of people on the internet shouting commands demands and guilt at strangers on the internet, and i think that we can all agree that there are some pretty bad takes online.

I have said it before and I will say it again. Like most things, if you want to stop a behavior, especially one fueled by a precieved or real need, your best bet is to materials change that person's circumstances or provide better options(I like the atempts I saw above even if i think they fall short of what is needed).

Luckily, the bandaid and the permanent cure are almost the same thing. Society needs to change. Part of that involves undermining and replacing a society in which transactionalism as the only way of living is increasingly encouraged and even enforced by the threat of violence or deprivation towards one of voluntary reciprocity and mutual aid. All of us need to push for more equity and care, and part of that also involves helping and lifting each other up. Of proving the validity and workability of an alternative paradime by living prefigurative living. Not only does the current system break people down and make it harder for them to resist, but Intangibility and Lack of Examples of alternatives makes it harder for people to maintain the morale and determination to push for future tech anger and make it in the moment.

A lot of this is going to require learning and using existing skills to help each other. To build those networks of mutual strength. Of putting in the labor and time to conect, build meaningfull relationships and trust, and meet needs they and you can't alone. Some of this is just being there for people. Spending time and helping with normal underrated skills. And the more and longer you do it, the more you build the strength and size of your network. To make those networks work without you. We do this all the time. What needs to change is that we need to strengthen these weekend skills and make them a greater part of how we meet and organize people and get things done.

guys. please

[mundifinis]

god i love rushes

[bluebellbookish]

Wait god is this why I've suddenly noticed I fucking hate soda? Like, I used to like a bunch of different sodas and the more I actually taste them now they all taste bland and overly sweet in a chemical way. I literally only have one soda left I genuinely like. I thought my taste buds had just changed and that maybe I just liked soda less in general, but I feel like a lot of people think most soda has started to taste like the cheap chemical stuff.

And the really hard part is, that capitalist theory insists that this shouldn't be a problem under capitalism for long. That worse products should make people avoid a product and make any competitor have an easier time gathering market share, as it is a better product, but there is no better product.

This has been happening for years - decades now - and they keep getting shittier while no better alternatives show up.

Studying economics at uni while living in late stage capitalism makes it possible to see the actual theories crumbling as I learn them. This is insane.

They’ve started putting less spice mix in my favourite instant noodles and it is pissing me off SO MUCH.

[kagoutiss]

junimo sight

[frostedpuffs]

every time someone makes a point to say that "Marinette doesn't wear makeup, she isn't like other girls" I want to SIGH because not only does Marinette Actually Wear Makeup in canon, it is exhausting that it is 2023 and people are still doing the "not like other girls" thing

[ravewing]

diabolical mix of characters right here

[whatsaterrarium]

I understand the message of this post and agree for the most part but it is genuinely troubling that all of our ideas of “self-care” for women are predominantly based on their appearance. It feels like a pervasive faux-feminist rebranding of “retail therapy”, and the exact people selling skincare products and marketing make up tutorials to young women are the same people who profit directly off of young women feeling ugly or lacking self esteem.

Obviously there are women who genuinely enjoy these things; who find genuine joy and comfort in getting their nails done and playing with fun make up looks, I know that and that is obviously in no way a moral failing, but we have to be very careful lest we fall into the trap of “making yourself more aesthetically pleasing” = “self care”.

Our society expects women to look and behave in a certain way; while it’s great if you want to and have the ability to abandon these expectations, so many women are unable to without having the way they are treated in their day to day lives severely affected and that is unfortunately a very real struggle. Because of this, it is crucial that we work on not allowing culturally constructed ideas of beauty determine our sense of self worth. The oversexed photoshopped capitalist ideal of “beauty” is not the only way to be beautiful, but more importantly, not being beautiful does not make you worth any less. If you are the furthest thing from “conventionally attractive”, you are still a person with strengths, skills, and worth.

By all means, if putting make-up on truly makes you happy, then do it! But if your idea of self-care is eating that food you know will make you gain weight, or sleeping in a few extra minutes instead of your skin care routine, or putting on your baggiest, ugliest, laziest sweats and getting cozy, do it.

Coming from a girl in her 20s, it is genuine self care, not self presentation, that will save us.

To all my bitches in their 20s please do not waste this time thinking you're ugly. I'm begging you not to. Try not to speak unkindly of yourself, try to do things FOR YOU that are self care. If that's nails, if that's an at home spa day, if that's the full works shower where you shave everything, if that's a hair mask, if it's walking for fifteen minutes or just doing your makeup to wear around the house I don't care what it is do it.

If you continue to fall into bad habits of speaking rudely to yourself, of not believing in yourself it's only going to get harder the older you get. Society is not kind to women, especially not aging women, which we all do. Please I implore you to look in the mirror today and compliment yourself on at least one thing. It can be physical it can be a personality trait you have, anything but you have to look yourself in the eye and you have to mean it.

[rotzaprachim]

one of the things in Life is that even the most radical or anti establishment of ventures, particularly anything involving “community” or “mutual aid” still relies on really normie skills to be accomplished if it wants to be effective for real human beings in the long run. Like a queer housing group or any kind of shelter is still a House that needs to be clean and have clean toilets. A radical off the grid farm is still a farm where the biological necessities of crops might very well require you to wake up at 5:00 AM for weeks on end in order to have a crop. A Union meeting still might need childcare from qualified individuals who can take care of a bunch of preschoolers for hours on end. An abortion fund is still a monetary operation with a flow of cash that needs to be taken care of. Any operation needs to have regularly scheduled meetings set up and attended in the long run. A lot of these things aren’t really negotiable based on vibe or ideology so much as things that need to be done here, in the real world, in order to make peoples lives better, and no amount of perfect buzzword ideology will change that.

[dykedvonte]

I think if their was internet on the Tulpar that Daisuke wouldn’t call for help and just live tweet everytime Swansea and Jimmy got into a fist fight or “girls night” (him and anya sleeping in a different area during said fight).

Almost every tweet is a live tweet of him going “Lol Swansea brought out the axe again :p”

[scarlct-vvitch]

do you think jenna marbles knows how appreciated and irreplaceable her presence on youtube was? does she know that she mastered the craft of making a video feel like hanging out with a treasured friend? do you think she knows that she was one of the last youtubers to feel genuine in her craft, making videos for the fun of it rather than making everything polished, elaborate, and distanced? does she know that even four years later we still miss her? does she know that an era of the internet ended when she left? i hope she knows we saw her. i hope she's having a great time.