#might be a platitude but in this case i'm all in on it

[golyadkin]

trembling in my boots at the prospect of being able to tell you guys about [redacted] project like it's not even art but you best believe I'll be posting about it on every single blog i have if it comes to fruition

[thatstonedwriter]

˚₊‧🍄[ Pain in the Ass ]🍃˚₊‧

◉ Synopsis; Billy Butcher comforts(?) you as you deal with chronic pain

◉ CW; swearing, chronic pain, mentions of self-medication, references to ableism, Butcher might be a bit OOC (sorry), implied romantic attraction

◉ A/n- I’m still nervous about writing scenarios/short fics but i wanted to try it out since I really like this prompt. Hopefully it turned out alright- enjoy!

You’d done your best- really you had. All morning, quotes from people who thought they knew better, your parents, your own fucking doctors- everybody saying it’s just “mind over matter”- echoing in your head. Classic platitudes you’ve heard since you were younger; people trying to relate, but instead, minimizing your pain.

“Oh yeah I get it- sometimes my stomach hurts, too.”

“Headaches suck but it could always be worse right?”

“You can’t let pain control you.”

“Fuck those stupid God damn- agh!”

Annoyed grumbles turn into a sharp gasp as another wave of pain shoots through your joints. This paired with the stomach/headache combo from this morning was really wearing you down.

And now you were reaching a point of desperation. The medicine you’d been prescribed proved itself useless against the pain today- and sure you could ask for some meds from Frenchie’s stash but… that option should be saved as a last resort. You could ask for help from Hughie, Kimiko or M.M. Surely one of them would be kind enough to pick up more of your prescription or grab you some heating pads- but then again, going out in public could put them at risk. You couldn’t ask them to put their lives in danger for something so trivial.

Never had it crossed your mind to ask Butcher for help. Worst case scenario, he kicks you out of the group for being weak- best case scenario? He says something ableist and leaves you to fend for yourself. No. You’re not dealing with that shit, especially not now.

A knock on the door to your little “bedroom” signaled that a higher power had other plans for you.

“Ya’alright in there, love?” Butcher’s voice, in any other scenario would have been a pleasant surprise- but in this moment of vulnerability? It was like hearing death bells toll.

“Yeah- yep- yep I’m good, thanks.” Your curt reply was not unusual to Butcher, but certainly not preferred. Slightly worrisome, even. You hadn’t come out all morning, and now you’re miffed with him? He hadn’t even done anything to piss you off! Today, at least.

He tries the doorknob, letting out a frustrated huff when it turns out to be locked.

"Trying to let yourself in? See, you're why God made locks."

"Come now, no need for the 'ostility-"

You rolled your eyes as Butcher began his usual spew of excuses, but one in particular caught your attention. It was near the end of his little monologue- softer, quieter, and spoken with a hint of uncertainty.

"and besides… can't have ya crappin' out on us, yeah?"

Even from in your room, you could hear the uncomfortable shuffling of a man unacquainted with emotional vulnerability.

"I'm not 'crapping out' on anyone," you scoff, wincing as more pain sears through your body. "But.. I could use some hel- hey!"

Before you could even finish your sentence, the door "magically" opened- and there Butcher stood, sly smirk on his face, lockpick in hand. He catches your gaze and shoves the pick back in his pocket.

"So then, what seems to be the problem, eh?"

God, it's going to sound so ridiculous when you say it out loud. Compared to what everyone's been through, saying "my tummy hurts" isn't really a matter of urgency.

But it's more than a stomach or headache on it's own. It's more than your joints occasionally aching and popping. It's been every goddamn day for as long as you could remember. Would it really be so wrong to ask for help?

“It’s just been.. pain. All day.”

“Is that all? A’right, where does it ‘urt?”

“…Everywhere. All the time.”

Your response caught Butcher off-guard. He’d been expecting some minor complaints, or even a sarcastic retort about what an ass he was being. The cocky, confident expression was replaced with one of concern as he caught a glimpse of the medications littering the nightstand. Surprisingly enough, they were all your own prescriptions. Probably not strong enough for whatever you were dealing with, Butcher reckons.

“You tried Frenchie’s stash?” he sighs, playful demeanor gone as he goes fishing in his pocket for cigarettes and a light.

“I’m.. saving that as a last resort.”

Butcher lets out a ‘hmph’ as he lights a cigarette, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke out the door.

“What d’ya need?”

“Sorry?”

He takes another drag, this time blowing the smoke out his nose. “Make me a list, I can grab what’cha need.”

It was hard to tell whether or not Butcher was annoyed with you. On one hand, you could appreciate the concern. On the other, it was almost certain Butcher was frustrated with this show of “weakness.” It took you a moment to find the right words- not necessarily wanting to decline the offer, but hesitant to voice your needs.

“You don’t need to grab anything. Meds aren’t helping today, and I can’t ask you to put yourself at risk. But if you’re offering… I wouldn’t mind some company…”

Uneasy silence smothered the room until Butcher finally sighed, dropping his cig on the floor and putting it out before walking into the room, taking long, slow steps. He grabs a nearby chair, loud scraping assaulting your ears as Butcher drags it to the side of your bed, plopping himself down and crossing his arms. More uncomfortable silence envelops the two of you until you decide to speak up.

"You don't have to be here if you don't want to, y'know."

"I know," Butcher mumbles. He glances at you out of the side of his eye, gaze softening as he watches you wince as yet another wave of pain rolls through your body.

Black spots invade your vision as the aching in your body worsens. You let out a low groan, hands gripping the sheets tightly as you wait for this wave to pass.

A larger, calloused hand covers one of yours, startling you enough to open your eyes. Through the black spots, you swore you could see Butcher's hand on yours, thumb rubbing your knuckles softly.

"You'll uh.. You'll be a'right."

You let out a weak laugh at the awkward, but sweet attempt at comfort.

With how little you'd expected from him, this gentle, caring side to Butcher was a welcome surprise. As the pain dissipates, your eyes begin to flutter closed.

"How about ya take it easy today. I'll tell the others not to bother ya, and I'll come back 'n keep ya company." Butcher's voice is soft- unexpectedly considerate.

Nodding weakly, you lean your head back, shifting against the pillows to get comfortable once again.

Butcher squeezes your hand, keeping a firm hold on you as you drift back to sleep.

[autisticexpression2]

I'm so sick of the cynical self-righteous leftist wank around the election in regards to Palestine.

Of the two candidates, Trump is objectively worse for Palestine. Worse even than Biden. That's not an "Orange Man Bad" platitude. He'll tell you that himself. He has accused Biden of holding back Netanyahu. Biden. Genocide Joe. Trump thinks Joe Biden went easy on Palestine.

Wake up. Trump will not only make things worse for Palestinians on their own land but Arab diaspora in America as well. He will suppress any pro-Palestine voices in America. He isn't fucking around this time. He has a plan. Have you seen it? If you haven't, you should look it up.

If it's a choice between the guy who openly wants to make the situation even worse vs a woman who might not immediately make things better but has entertained at least the possibility of a ceasefire, the conclusion is very obvious to anyone who actually gives a shit and isn't just pretending to care online for clout. If there is even the slightest possibility of hope for Palestine, or even just a chance to avert the absolute worst case nightmare scenario, we should all be grasping at that instead of giving up and handing the reigns to Donald "Final Solution" Trump.

You aren't helping Palestinians with your defeatist anti-voting bullshit. You're using them as props in your own personal morality play, starring Your Most Holy Righteousness as the main character. They're human sacrifices at the altar of self-image. You don't care about the outcome as long as you keep your hands clean by not touching that which is impure. You don't care what actual material good you do as long as your morally pure sociopolitical opinions ensure you a place in woke heaven.

Even Palestinians and other Arabs are starting to say this now, and you're still doubling down on your smug self-righteousness. It's fucking disgusting.

Just grow up and fucking vote. And for the love of God, shut the fuck up.

[moodymisty]

Hello! I noticed you wrote something for Darksodwrs Samael, I'm so happy! Might I request some... Headcanons I think would be best, for Samaels s/o or, if the relationship isn't established just yet, crush, always ‘draping’ him in earnest, kind yet simple compliments? From both his spectacular appearance to his brilliant mind? Apologise if this is a bit vague! Thank you!

Author's note: Hello Hello friend! I'm excited to give another try at writing for Samael, so hopefully you will like this one. I decided to do some headcanons, with a bit of a little tiny drabble at the end. Best of both worlds.

Relationships: Samael/Gn!Reader (just how it turned out; not a nickname or anything that could allude to a specific gender in sight)

Warnings: None, unless you consider flirting with a demon something to warn about ;3

Samael is of the sort who believes that behind every single compliment, wink, gift- is a motive. Be it monetary, physical, or something else entirely. No one does something without expecting something in return, be it now, or down the line.

That thought process very quickly gets challenged however, when he meets you.

As a human associated with the Horsemen, you have a lot to gain from making nice with him; Or at least making a tentative enough relationship that it secures more of the safely of your realm.

But everything you do just, doesn't make sense to him. No matter how hard he's tried to wrack his brain, there isn't a solid reason as to why you do and say the things you do to him.

You'd first asked for a tour of his palace- odd, given humans have a fear of Hell, but he had indulged. Maybe you're looking for structural weaknesses, or ideas of what he's researching to relay back to the Horsemen so they can keep an eye on him. He doesn't think it would be too unusual for them to use you in that way; Even if they are not fond of the two of you being in the same realm to begin with.

But no, that doesn't turn out to be the case. You just ask about paintings and gold coins, curiously looking up at towering statues of demons who's names you have not the slightest clue.

And as if that isn't odd enough for the demon to deal with, not soon after, you start complimenting him.

Not even just about his power or stature, but odd seemingly minuscule things. And for the first time, he doesn't have a response to them. At least none of the usual ones. They all feel so, crude, in comparison as to what you're saying to him.

'Do all demons have wings like yours? They look amazing...'

'Have you really been around that long? You need to tell me about some of the things you've seen.'

'Has anyone ever told you your voice is, really soothing?'

You always have a smile when you say these things, and for the first time, Samael is genuinely confused and almost unsure of what to do. On one hand he wants to be suspicious, but on the other, he feels like he's getting wrapped around your finger.

Each time he sees you he's yearning for a compliment to come from your lips. Less so because of narcissism, and more so because they sound so earnest. You mean each and every one of them, unlike others who are only seeking to throw platitudes at him.

Maybe that's been your plan the whole time, to make him like you like this. He almost becomes furious at the idea that it's actually working.

You're on his mind far more than anything else, thinking of you and softening some of his sharper edges so he doesn't wound your gentle soul with harsh words he's used to using towards other demons.

He starts getting you physical gifts in retaliation; A handcrafted sword, jewelry suited to your tastes, mythical texts in books bound with gold filigree. All extravagant, and nothing he's even done before. He didn't even go through this sort of thought for Lilith.

You refuse most of them, the latest time specifying why- saying that your time with him is good enough. And it only serves to baffle him even more.

In a way, Samael would almost classify himself as beginning to have an obsession over you. But he keeps himself in line with his expected formality, just barely.

"So, what is it you're going to show me?"

You can't help but keep up the air of curiosity, looking up at Samael as one of his wings casually stretches. Their shape was always curious to you, but you've never gotten around to asking if they're simply unique to him, or if the odd upside down shape is simply common among demons. He's the only friendly demon you've met, after all.

"Your ceaseless curiosity is going to get you in trouble, one day." He says so with a voice filled with teasing, so you just shrug your shoulders.

"Funny, you're not the first non-human that's said that to me." He's not surprised in the slightest at that fact, though he does wonder who else it was that said so. Presumably one of the Horsemen.

Death, if he had to guess. It would be the most in character of him to do so, especially considering he is the one most against your being near him.

"Here we are." You're a bit too busy looking up at him to notice where you've ended up, until you turn your head and notice the drastically different scenery ahead of you.

"This is my private library." He takes on step forward, still speaking to you, but also overlooking the vast array of tables and shelves. His tail gently hovers over the ground, swaying back and forth lazily.

"Almost every bit of knowledge I have collected rests here." Samael protects this area with almost as much fervor as his own life; It's the source of so much of what he knows, and a one of his grandest prizes.

After all when you're effectively immortal, things like gold and shining trinkets stop meaning as much, in the grand scheme of things. Then do things like information, knowledge and secrets, begin to hold a much greater value. So even if you may not even realize, it's a overwhelmingly large deal for him to do this.

A testament for how much he sees in you that he likes.

"You had mentioned enjoying tomes." He has a tiny smirk that reveals the sharp points of his upper fangs. "Feel free to sate your curiosity."

Mouth set partly agape you look around, the usual filigree of the demon's palace also adorning a large array of tomes. He's watching your glowing face, and in a briefly pride filled thought, he's pleased to finally get such a reaction from you. None of his other gifts had worked; And over time he's learned that you don't want strictly physical things.

What is odd for him however, is that getting this reaction from you doesn't earn him anything. Normally that would've been his only goal, but now, it's only seeing your fondness for him that he desires. A small repayment, for all of the kind little human words you've shown him.

"Seriously?" His smirk grows wider, showing off his sharp teeth even more. At which you smile back, feeling your face grow a bit warm.

"Thanks, Samael. This is amazing."

"Now, go have your fun. Before the Horsemen come to steal you back." He gestures with his head forward and watches as you trot away. Though as you start to look around, Samael's mind begins to wander as well.

Now that he's earned your friendship, Samael begins to wonder what he can do to earn more, looking at the way you're gleefully peering around. You've shown so much of your little soul to him, and he wants more. Not to toy with it, or snuff it out; He wants to keep it safe. Keep it all to himself. There's not much more he wants now than for you to say you love him.

Now Samael finds himself understanding why the other races are becoming so fond of humans.

[veilder]

Yoooooo! It's been a hot minute since I posted a new prompt, but here's something I've been thinking about for a few days now? Consider:

AU where Cole was born much earlier, back before Hank's career really kicked off. He follows his ol' dad into the police force, joining the DPD the summer of 2035. However, that same year, a freak ice storm takes the city. Hank had been planning to visit Cole in his first apartment, promising him that "the roads aren't that bad, don't worry about it." The next call Cole receives is from Detroit Regional Hospital, asking for a next of kin. Cole rushes there himself, heedless of the horrible state of the roads, to find his father in surgery, a medical android operating. Anxiously, he waits through the night, fidgeting in the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside the operating theater.

He receives the news the next morning. Hank had suffered some serious injuries including multiple concussions, and had fallen into a coma during the surgeries. He's told there's no way to know when or if he might wake. The sight of the medical android leaving the theater with the same placid expression on its face as off of the things haunts him long after that night.

For three long years, he's consoled with platitudes of "it might be any day now." For three long years, he visits his father regularly, hoping to spark some change in the man. For three long years, he throws himself into his work, hoping to forget that this was all his fault. That Hank had been out because of him. That he was laid up in a sterile room for years because of him.

And almost three years later, his hard work pays off. His promotion to detective coincides with a surge in deviancy cases. And Cole Anderson, professional workaholic, newly-instated rookie, who's father's big shoes he will fill or die trying, has a proposition for the captain:

"Assign me this case," he demands.

"This is high profile, rookie. The sergeant will handle it," Fowler replies.

"Sir, the sergeant hates androids. I can work with it. Perhaps even mediate."

"Seem to recall you not being a fan either, Anderson."

And Cole grits his teeth, flashbacks of an android in bloody scrubs running through his mind. But he says, "I'm not, sir. But I need…" And here he hesitates, looking away from Fowler's piercing gaze. "… I need something… substantial… at this time of year…"

And the office is quiet for a few seconds more before he hears Fowler sigh. And Cole knows he's won this. "Alright, Anderson. Alright. I'll add you to the case. But Reed takes lead, you hear me? No going off on your own, kid."

Smartly, Cole salutes, knowing when to let sleeping dogs lie. "Thank you, Captain. You won't regret it."

"But Reed might," he hears the man mutter as he closes the door behind him.

Cole smirks, returning to his desk and the case files he'd been finishing up. Deviancy, he thinks. Perhaps this is the missing link. The key to proving androids can't be trusted in sensitive situations. That his father's condition was a result of malpractice, not routine. That they, too, shoulder some of the blame.

Two days later, Cole meets Connor. And that is when he knows his theory is right.

Or! The one where Hank is out of commission and an adult Cole Anderson is assigned to the deviancy case alongside Connor and Gavin. Through peril and hardship, the three must learn to work together to solve the greatest mystery Detroit has ever known, or risk letting the menace known as deviancy roam free. And meanwhile, tempers flare, worldviews shift, and all three learn there's perhaps more to life than just being human.

[vro0m]

i've been thinking about smth for a while and it came to me this morning (post race clarity or delusion?) that the way merc is operating this year remindes me a bit too much of mclaren after lewis's championship, car is everywhere, or it's good, but the strategy is not, lewis asks for one thing and they give smth totally different, tp's assuring that they're on the right path as they go to their demise, it's just that lewis isn't 25 yrs old anymore, do you see it or do i need to drop f1 for mental health and go for a walk?

Between F1 and a walk, the right choice is always the walk, first of all. That said, it's a tough question because it's very up to interpretation. In my opinion, I see what you mean but it's not that bad— yet.

Long post / essay :

For starters I'm gonna say something super controversial that people might completely disagree with and is totally arguable : imho the '09 McLaren was worse than the W13. Simply because back then McLaren was pretty much the only team having put together such a shit car, whereas in '22 some of the issues the W13 had, they all had.

McLaren corrected their issues much more quickly than Merc is doing now but you have to keep in mind that there was no costcap so they were able to throw money at it until it worked. It's not the case anymore. It means Merc has to get used to operating with a suboptimal car, instead of "just" trying to fix the car, which creates new issues they never had before and are struggling with, such as adjusting their expectations. (As are a lot of the fans, btw.)

If they were as positive and as comfortable with hard times as they like to say they are (saying stuff like 'you only learn when you fail' and all these platitudes), they might see it as an opportunity to optimise every other thing they can apart from the car, like the pitstops (didn't RBR become the kings of pitstops while Merc was dominant?) and the strategy (you have to try things rather than play it safe when you can't rely on your car to close the gap). Alas they can't seem to shift focus from the engineering department to the rest of the pieces of the puzzle.

But I think the main difference between McLaren post '08 and Mercedes post '21 is the team culture. They are not functioning in ways that are comparable in my mind. McLaren in the 00's was shady AF. I mean that's the team that forced Lewis to lie to the stewards and got him DSQ from a GP! Merc is fumbling atm but they're not a mafia.

25yo Lewis thought he had no choice but obey, 38yo Lewis is not gonna take shit anymore. His relationship to Merc comes with loads of perks and they can't push him around like McLaren used to. They can't force him in a box like McLaren used to. His worth, and thus his leverage, has increased dramatically since then. He's not a puppet. He's choosing to stay there and negotiating every penny and every bonus and every clause he can, there must be a reason why. I'm not gonna pity him, nor see him as a victim of his team.

The thing imo is that most teams struggle with what Merc is struggling with. They all make bad strategy decisions, some more than others (Ferrari being specialists), they all fuck up pitstops more or less often, etc. The feeling that Merc is doing particularly bad at the moment exists mostly out of comparison with previous results. They used to win everything because they are a good team, with good resources but, more than anything, because they had the best car. Them fumbling is mostly that shocking and remarkable because they used to win everything. Ferrari has been struggling for almost two decades and we're pretty much used to it now. Not Merc. But truly Merc is not more dysfunctional than Ferrari (or McLaren, or Alpha Tauri, or Williams, or...) at this point. I really don't think they got worse at strategy and pitstops than they used to be pre-'22. They just can't fall back on the car to hide their shortcomings anymore, as we were saying yesterday. They need to face up, but we get back to my previous point re: being apparently stubbornly unable to work on and question more than the car itself.

About Lewis suggesting things and not being heard, I wanna say the same thing I did yesterday and several times before : despite what I often read around here, the team gets it right more often than not. They have access to data he doesn't have access to. Not listening to him yesterday was a huge mistake because when it comes to rain, no one has better insight than the driver driving through it. But as far as engineering goes, sure, he can give his opinion on what needs to be worked on, but he's not an engineer himself. It's not as easy as saying "we need more downforce" ; adding more downforce changes how the rest of the car performs. The engineers know better than him what is possible and what is not possible to do in what time window.

For me, what makes McLaren post '08 the absolute worst is not really the racing part of things. It's how they treated him as a person. Merc is not abusing and disrespecting Lewis the way McLaren did. McLaren did not listen to him because they didn't take him seriously. Merc did not listen to him yesterday because they were fucking idiots. Hence why I said it's not that bad yet. We have to distinguish independant mistakes from dysfunctional patterns. Imo, yesterday was an independant mistake, albeit probably the worst one I've seen them make so far. The dysfunctional pattern is them not seeing anything past engineering at this point. McLaren was also making independant mistakes, but McLaren's dysfunctional pattern was belittling their drivers. We're not there yet. And I'm not sure we can get there at all with 38yo Lewis.

[eomereadig]

Snippet: Need To Know

Written for the prompt “how could you?” for @whumpril! I promise I'm almost done with all these prompts haha

Fandom: Star Wars

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Commander Cody

Rating: T

Tags: angst, emotional hurt/no comfort, arguments, post-Rako Hardeen arc

Full fic now avaliable here

The atmosphere in the room seemed oppressive, even if the two of them had yet to say a word to each other. Simply saying hello or trying to engage Cody in small talk would have been out of place, Obi-Wan sensed - even if all he wanted was to pull him into a hug. It was better to give the other the space to organise his thoughts, even as Cody grit his teeth and frowned down at Obi-Wan’s threadbare rug. His own gaze lingered on Cody’s boots, not wanting him to feel under a microscope with the Jedi’s gaze on him for too long in the tense quiet that had encompassed them. 

And then, very quietly, Cody spoke.

“How could you?”

Obi-Wan didn’t have an answer for that. He was still trying to answer that question himself. Trying to justify it wouldn’t have done either of them much good. So instead, Obi-Wan let out a sad little sigh and finally met Cody’s gaze. 

There was a blazing anger there, something bright and fiery that reminded him of Anakin, but something upset and vulnerable there, too. Obi-Wan knew he’d be having dreams about the pain he saw there for a long time to come. But this wasn’t about him. This was about Cody. 

“If there had been any other alternative… I would have taken it in a heartbeat… I would have told you what I was doing, but your reaction needed to be genuine - that was a big part of why it worked so well.” Even as the words left his mouth, Obi-Wan knew that had been the wrong thing to say. He might have meant it more as an explanation, but all too easily he knew it could have been interpreted as an excuse. 

The way Cody’s face screwed up in rage was confirmation of that. 

“It’s not that!” He snapped. “That, at least, made some fucking sense!” He was almost shouting before he managed to reign himself in again. “I’m talking about what happened afterwards.”

Oh, Obi-Wan thought, the incident in the prison. Of course it would be that. Obi-Wan still had some scars to mark the occasion, but he was going to keep them from Cody for as long as possible. 

“Right…” Obi-Wan felt wrong-footed, unsure of what to say when normally, words and platitudes came easy to him. Cody needed more than just a simple apology, however. “I’m sure if you knew the full situation, you wouldn’t have done it. And I certainly don’t harbour any ill feelings based on the incident.”

Cody’s jaw clamped tightly shut once again and, eyebrows almost touching with how hard he was frowning, he made to pace up and down Obi-Wan’s office. He barely made it to the opposite wall before more hurt seemed to explode from his chest. “Of course you don’t.” The words were quiet, but an eruption all the same. “But you should! General, I beat you into the fucking floor! Why would you let me do that?” Obi-Wan opened his mouth to explain, but Cody cut across him. “And don’t you dare tell me some lie about keeping in character - you and I both know that’s not the case.”

Full fic now avaliable here

[gratisdiamanten]

24. Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you? 46. How would you describe your style? (Character/emotion/action-driven, etc) 63. Something you hate to see in smut. 64. Something you love to see in smut.

24. Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?

SAID IS DEAD. Holy shit I wish people could just get used to saying "said" and then making it distinct in other creative ways. To an extent, also, "show don't tell". I think sometimes it's just a case of people taking basic writing platitudes way too literally and purely; a lot of popular contemporary authors are falling into these traps and not properly maturing into having their own approaches with these things, IMO

46. How would you describe your style? (Character/emotion/action-driven, etc)

I'd find it reductive to put any plot entirely in any of these categories, I think all three impact each other, and setting impacts all of these! My writing is extremely setting centric though, even when it might not be obvious on the first pass.

63. Something you hate to see in smut.

Any word for penis that isn't penis/dick/cock. I know penis isn't sexy, but sometimes in an explicit scene there's a place for unsexy words. Also, flattening characters and making their dialogue completely out of character. If the character isn't identifiably the character beyond appearance, I'm bored and I'm out of there, write about another pairing

64. Something you love to see in smut.

My fiancée answering on my behalf - "HUGE UNCIRCUMCISED PINK COCK"

More seriously, unflattering depictions, character study, REALLY GROSS BODILY PARTS OF SEX like sweat and hair and mucus and spit etc. Miniature failures in sex. HORRIBLE BAD DYNAMICS

Send me fic asks!

[thesinglesjukebox]

KELSEA BALLERINI WITH NOAH KAHAN - "COWBOYS CRY TOO"

It's time to be a cowboy nooowwwww / and cowboys DO cry...

[5.78]

Julian Axelrod: Noah Kahan's email inbox must look crazy these days. After securing a string of Stick Season features from his famous friends, I can imagine him slowly working through a stack of requests for verses like he's Ty Dolla $ign in 2016. Kelsea Ballerini is among the first to cash in on the Kahanaissance, and she's not fucking around: Nothing says "I, too, would like to sell out arenas in Vermont" like an earnest folk ballad about fragile masculinity and the complicated relationships between fathers and sons. Unsurprisingly, Noah rises to the challenge, and their voices come together beautifully. But coming off a year of promoting her most "personal" work yet, it's telling that Kelsea feels most comfortable fading into the background. [5]

Katherine St. Asaph: A surprisingly tender, nuanced lament on toxic masculinity. Both Ballerini and Kahan are credited; perhaps they're to thank for the empathy? [7]

Will Adams: A comment on the lyric video by one darrensawyer-ju9bn: "Thank you for bringing attention to the fact that men have emotions too." I genuinely cannot tell if this comment is facetious or sincere. My cynical, too-online brain wants to cast off "Cowboys Cry Too" as obvious and self-serving, but there's a little seed in there that truly believes Ballerini and Kahan pull it off. It helps that their take on toxic masculinity acknowledges the generational aspect ("I grew up wishing I could close off the way my dad did") and the woman's perspective ("when he's showing his skin... that's when he's toughest to me"). It's pretty, too, which also helps. [6]

Jonathan Bradley: “Cowboys Cry Too” would like to signpost changing expectations of masculinity, but it underestimates the terrain: country music since its inception has offered an arena in which men were permitted to be more emotional and more sentimental than they can outside the honky tonk. Cowboys are complex: as well as weepers, they are creatures mommas should not want their sons to grow up to become, but they’re also frequently secretly fond of each other. Noah Kahan is not a cowboy or a country artist, but his folk ballads offer something like a Vermont corollary to the genre’s implicit Southernness. Kahan can’t deliver a melody as expertly as Ballerini, who here attempts empathy but ends up sounding stunted (boys have feelings -- who knew?), but his first-person narrative of fathers and burning “too many miles trying to ride out the sadness” paints a more nuanced portrait. But there’s also the ghost of Reba McEntire; if cowboys cry, Brooks and Dunn told us cowgirls don’t, and using that song’s motifs puts into relief how emotionally austere this one is. There’s too much Yankee stoicism here and not enough tears. [6]

Taylor Alatorre: I'm okay with country music existing in this imaginary space where everyone's either a cowboy or cowgirl, regardless of their suburb or exurb of origin. But when used in a song title like this, and especially when paired with "I never knew," the effect is rather infantilizing, like your therapist giving you advice from a Pixar movie. However, Ballerini's decision to buck the Western imagery and reach all the way to Vermont for a duet partner was improbably the correct one. If Noah Kahan has any misgivings about being typecast as a weepy folk balladeer, he doesn't show them here, as he pins down the kitschy platitudes into a more concrete narrative about fatherhood and fears of abandonment. Notably, though, he doesn't make any reference to rural life in his lyrics, suggesting that he too might be quietly ashamed of working under this banner. A good illustration of a case where keeping one's feelings bottled up really is the best option. [6]

Nortey Dowuona: Alysa Vanderheym once co-wrote a song called "Talk You Out of It" for Florida Georgia Line. Hence why, when she got to be part of a good song, she went hard in the paint with the steel guitar. [9]

Ian Mathers: "This Whole Thing Smacks Of Gender," i holler as i overturn Kelsea and Noah's overpriced-sounding milquetoast pop country song and turn its Jukebox score into the 4th of Shit [4]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Give me my "Dawns" back. [3]

Alfred Soto: The fusty tropes don't smother Kelsea Ballerini's lack of affect; she knows how to weigh her feelings by sticking to the script. Noah Kahan isn't there yet, but in a fictional world where a song about cowboys a-weepin' enters the Hot Country Airplay top five his pathos is a glass of fresh iced tea.  [6]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[gayspock]

ehr

i feel like i just resent every fucking person whos ever tried to tell me that you'll find somewhere someday and think about all the places I ve been and existed and left and have never felt a fucking thing because I just never felt anything but a sad and miserable fucking detachment. it felt like uni never happened might as well neve have happened and the same with school and everything else because i just float from place to place and even when 8 try i really try I feel like I'm always just left out and sad and unhappy and I've tried to believe it's not in my head but the evidence is always so fucking undeniable because it's not in my fucking head it's a genuine fucking documentable fucking case of being left out of every single fucking thing all of the time. Being told things weeks and months after it's gone by playing stupid fucking catch up games everyone always hanging out and neve being taken seriously and it's pathetic it's really fucking pathetic I kept crying about it all the time and still do because I know in my heart of hearts I'm notging to most of the people I've crossed paths with and they won't even remember me and they never do and I just keep crying like ah everyone else manages to find people they can at least exist around but if I even as anything im2just fucking not anything now like there's notging to like there's nothing to love I think about how my grandad told me that before that it's too fucking difficult to love me and it's thst unspoken fucking thing most people are too nice to say it or to truly fucking believe it it's a whole load of you'll find something sometime somewhere just keep trying but it will never ever be here and now I'll never be anything meaningful in anyone's lives and I want to get angry and blame people but I can't do anything but cry about how fucking worthless I am and to the point now whwr e I'm thinking about how it was always going to be this how it's always going to be thks how I can't unstick myself how I can't muster the energy to manage anything how I'm dying like this and how I used to fucking try and cope by imagining being with people seeing people regularly and existing in the world or having some sort of life and how this is something nearly everyone else has in some way maybe in smaller doses like they've had it once and it's gone or they have a family member at least who's there to see they're still alive Ispend every day fucking alone and I have done and. I keep thinking OK random aside the aside of I fucking can't listen I don't even try any more because the truth of literally everything JSUT sends me nuts so hearing stupid fucking platitudes and canned fell good crap is never anything but just this. Really cruel exercise of "If you don't respond well to this you're obviously making yourself miserae" anyway the fucking wowee! What would your child self think if they saw you now! Haha surely they'd be so psyched you made it! and it's always been one of those fucking sentiments in particular thst just fucking grips me in fucking horror realising notging fucking changes that I 8sed to cry every fucking day of loneliness back then and sob and wish trying mattered or someone would care and wishing I was safe and I think my child self would fucking hate my fucking guts and that I'm notging but confirmation that it's not getting better, that all the anxiety was right, that there's no fucking way out. Maybe thst it's even worse than that because you do nothing but figure out you're even stupider and worse and there's so many more things you have to deal with and they're so fucking hard to do by yourself and to stop trying so hard because it does nothing but JSUT tire you out and make you sadder but even then at the end of the day it's so fuckkng pointless because who cares who fucking cares you should kill yourself before you're too old it's pointless bro big smile

[puraiuddo]

It's so fucking infuriating how anxiety is viewed as some lesser, even illegitimate form of mental health disability.

Just because you have experienced butterflies before public speaking or an interview and have ~gotten over it~ does not mean you now have even an inkling of what living with a severe panic disorder is like.

That shit is not the same as having such a severe neurological reaction to stress that your nervous system is convinced you're dying and is so overwhelmed by stimuli that it is patently unable to process anything outside of all-consuming, irrational panic.

And even when people are capable of conceptualizing that someone may have panic attacks and are sympathetic to that... it's like that's as far as they're willing to take it.

Anything short of a panic attack is suddenly something that can be ~overcome~ or ~powered through~ just like "everyone else".

Ironically, if you view severe anxiety rationally... is it not obvious that if someone is capable of experiencing the same level of a panic over getting a shot that you would experience when being held at gunpoint that... that level of hyperactivity might extend to literally every other aspect of their life?

Many cases of severe anxiety are a function of a defective parasympathetic nervous system. People with severe anxiety are as neurologically incapable of calming down as someone who suffers from seizures (the medications for the conditions literally overlap!!).

Medication, therapy, and coping mechanisms work as well as they do for any other health condition.

If I have to hear "get over it" or "just calm down" or any other idiotic platitude one more time I'm actually going to commit homicide.

[lindira]

Oh, for Envy of course: #'s 3, 16, 17, 20, 21, 30, 40, and 66? I love seeing Envy facts ❤️

Oh, I'm glad you're enjoying my infodumps about Envy! I wasn't sure anyone was reading them. <3 And thanks for the ask!

3. What is your character’s moral alignment?

I'd say Envy falls just barely into Chaotic Good. He's not an altruist, but he generally doesn't want innocent people to get hurt. He has a definite dislike of authority and will protect people from abuses of power whenever he can. But Envy is also prone to flights of fancy and random whims, and may do things that aren't very morally sound if it sounds fun or funny. He mostly thinks "laws are laws only when the Fist are watching". So he strays into Chaotic Neutral territory pretty frequently.

16. Which of the companions does your Tav trust most? 

Envy trusts Wyll and Karlach the most, and they're the companions he likes the most outside of Astarion. He knows that they're always trying to do the right thing, and they're incredibly loyal.

17. Which of the companions does your Tav distrust most?

Probably Gale. Envy likes Gale, but his hunger for power is disquieting. He knows Gale wants to do good, but he also sees how power could corrupt Gale very easily. The road to the Hells was paved with good intentions.

20. If you’re romancing anyone, why did your Tav fall for them? And why did that character fall for your Tav?

Envy fell for Astarion because he's funny and smarter than he acts. Despite how Astarion gripes about compassionate acts, Envy sees that when kindness is shown to Astarion, Astarion gives it back. After the level of torture and misery that Cazador inflicts upon his spawn, a lesser man would have had any kindness stripped from him completely. That Astarion has the capacity for it at all is astounding to Envy. For all of Astarion's faults - of which there are many - Envy finds him to be fascinating and remarkable.

Before Envy, most of Astarion's smiles and laughter were performative or tinged with bitterness. But then Envy came along and made him really, truly smile and laugh for the first time in a great many years. Astarion fell for Envy because Envy was the first person to notice how deeply Astarion was hurting and to want to do something about it. Though Envy wasn't strong enough to kill Cazador at the time, he provided solace and comfort to Astarion. Envy fed Astarion and listened to him and felt outrage on his behalf. Envy didn't just offer platitudes - he did things to help. Small things, but important ones nonetheless. All of that was stunning and baffling and SO important to Astarion.

 21. If you’re romancing anyone, who fell first and who fell harder?

Envy fell first. A few months after they had met, he was already crazy about Astarion. As soon as Envy found out about what Astarion was going through, he felt so much admiration for how Astarion had survived that he couldn't help but love him.

Astarion was a case of "he fell in love slowly, then all at once". Astarion distrusted Envy's kindness at first, and then didn't want to get attached to anyone because of how Cazador had punished him in the past. But he eventually realized how deeply Envy cared for him, and that he was finally important enough to someone for them to give a damn about his situation. Envy reminded him of the good things life has to offer that Astarion had long since written off as unattainable for him. For Astarion, the very concept of happiness came into existence the day Envy entered his life. It might as well have not existed before then.

30. How does your Tav react when someone insults their friend/partner?

One should assume that Envy is ready to fucking wreck someone verbally at any time. He has lost many jobs because of this. Insults to his friends or to Astarion are worse than insults to himself, and he will tell off and insult the offending party right back. If the person refuses to apologize, Envy is ready to fight them physically, but would prefer making up a scheme to annoy them an equal amount (in Envy's eyes) to how bad the insult was. No one fucks with Astarion or his friends.

40. What is the biggest mistake your Tav ever made?

Envy underestimated Cazador. Astarion had warned him that Cazador was cruel and powerful. He had warned Envy that Cazador had a stranglehold on Astarion. But Envy thought he could trick Cazador and stay safe from him. He was wrong.

66. Does your Tav consider themselves a hero, villain, victim or something else?

Envy might boast about being a hero because he's a bit of an ass and likes showing off with a lot of bravado. But he doesn't actually think of himself as a hero. He doesn't consider himself a villain or a victim either. He really just thinks of himself as a person trying to get by in the world. People will put labels on him as they will, but that's not for him to worry about.

Questions taken from this Baldur's Gate 3 Tav Ask Game!

[kerosene-in-a-blender]

I was inspired by @utilitycaster 's tags on this post here, to try and do a reading on Imogen based on the idea that she displays characteristics of having borderline personality disorder (I don't know enough about psychosis to analyze the other option utilitycaster proposed, but I'd welcome someone more knowledgeable to do so). I specifically want to discuss how this reading might colour our understanding her relationship with Laudna. Under cut because this ended up being long as hell

Two of the diagnostic criteria for BPD in the DSM-5 are "labile intense relationships" and "vulnerability to abandonment, frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment"; both of these things appear in Imogen's relationship with Laudna. It's an incredibly intense, co-dependent relationship on both ends, and it's also one that formed incredibly quickly by their telling. Laudna wandered into Gelvaan, got into some manner of trouble with the locals, Imogen defended her, and the two ran off together having effectively declared themselves bonded for life. But, notably, as intense as the relationship is, it's also rather superficial. They both maintain the relationship on mostly platitudes alone; they both seem to love the idea of the other more than the other as a person. They also both seem to lack any confidence that their relationship could survive a sustained conflict. Hence, their relationship is intense, but unstable or, in other words, labile.

And speaking of Imogen and Laudna's lack of willingness to sustain conflict with each other, it's clearly an effort from both of them to keep the other in their lives, to avoid being abandoned, one could say. In Imogen's case in particular, we can see a few other instances of her making frantic efforts to avoid Laudna leaving her, mostly around the time the party was in Bassuras. First off, Imogen let go of any anger towards Laudna she had for the Gnarlrock Incident and bought her an expensive present because she was afraid she might loose her to Yu, despite that relationship not going any further than possible mutual interest. Secondly, after Laudna's death, Imogen immediately began trying any avenue she could to try to get her brought back, including contacting Delilah Briarwood, despite knowing how dangerous she was. Imogen also spent the nights Laudna was dead sleeping in the portable hole next to her corpse. All in all it's pretty clear Imogen is terrified by the idea of being abandoned by Laudna.

I doubt that Imogen having BPD is a reading intended by Laura (though I'm glad to be proven wrong!), but viewing her through this lens highlights the extremely codependent nature of her and Laudna's relationship. Imogen clearly fears being left behind (and alone) by Laudna and has taken some pretty severe actions to avoid that just within the bounds of the campaign. Yet despite this, the relationship is shallow and unstable; it's almost like Imogen and Laudna's mutual desperate need to have in each in their lives is preventing them from truly becoming close, lest the other see something they don't like and leave. It's an extremely messy but ultimately really fascinating relationship.

[thebreakfastgenie]

Trick or treat!

Answering based on the rules from this post.

I'm going to share a full, short spirk fic I wrote this a few years ago but never posted. It's unedited, exactly how it was in 2018.

Kirk sat at the table in his stolen, Klingon-decorated quarters, mulling over the events of the day. It was easier than he expected, turning on the old charm. It had been so long he thought he might have forgotten how. But it worked, it put Dr. Taylor at ease, maybe even won her over to their cause. And maybe he’d made a friend, however short-lived their friendship had to be. Gillian Taylor was exactly the kind of person he used to go for back when he was unattached and adrift in space, smart, compassionate, outgoing, blonde. He’d always had a little bit of a thing for scientists. And even now… he hated to admit it, but there had been a fleeting moment where he’d been tempted. She was so vibrant, so gregarious, so present. It struck him that this woman from the wrong century was more accessible than his own husband. But as quickly as it had come he’d dismissed it. He was still married, even if he couldn’t wear his ring. Even if his husband wouldn’t speak his name. His relationship with Spock had been founded on loyalty first and he wouldn’t betray that trust, not now or ever, even if death technically had done them part.

He was startled from his thoughts by the chime of his door. “Come in,” he said. Leonard McCoy stepped into the room. “Is this a bad time?” “Humpback whales are being hunted to extinction as we speak, unknowingly taking mankind with them in a couple of centuries, but I suppose it’s as good as any. What’s on your mind, Bones?” “I’m more concerned with what’s on yours.” Jim rubbed a hand over his face. “Let’s cut the crap, Bones. It’s not either of our minds we’re concerned about.” “Hey, Spock wasn’t kidding about those colorful metaphors.” McCoy tried for a grin. Getting only a warning glance in response he dropped the attempt at joviality and sank into the chair across from Kirk. “He’ll remember, Jim.” Jim glanced at his friend. “You didn’t have so much faith in his memory before. Has something changed?” “No,” McCoy admitted, dropping his eyes so he wouldn’t have to meet his friend’s gaze. “Three months on Vulcan,” Jim raised his hand in a gesture of frustration. “And all he’s remembered is my name. And now he won’t even use it.” “He needs time, Jim. You have to be patient.” “I’ve been patient! How much more time does he need?” Jim looked McCoy in the eye. “I want your medical opinion, not the platitudes of a well-meaning friend trying to make me feel better.” McCoy sighed. “My medical opinion is I don’t know. With any case of memory loss the rate and degree of recovery is unpredictable at best. This is a unique case if I’ve ever seen one. The man was dead, Jim, we have no idea for how long, and he was reanimated and aged from infancy to adulthood by a unique form of energy that no one fully understands, and that’s setting aside any damage that may have been done by cramming his mind into an occupied human brain,” McCoy tapped his temple, “For that long and the rejoining process, which is so old and so rarely used no living Vulcan had ever performed it before. I can’t give you any answers, Jim. I can’t even ask the questions.” “I know that Bones, I’m sorry.” Kirk looked tired. “I’m just…” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m afraid I won’t get him back.” “You have him back, Jim. He’s up there right now working on the calculations that with any luck will get us out of this place.” “He’s not him, though.” Jim’s voice became even quieter. “He’s not my Spock.” His voice shook. “What if he never is? What if that part of him can’t come back?” Unconsciously Jim removed the rings from his breast pocket and turned them over in his hands. McCoy pointed to the rings. “You still carry those everywhere?” Jim nodded. “I’m afraid I’ll lose them but I’ve tried leaving them in my quarters and… it’s actually easier if I can just pat my pocket to reassure myself.” Jim stared down at the rings, as if transfixed. “You know you can’t start wearing it,” McCoy warned. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” Jim asked, his eyes snapping up to meet McCoy’s. “I know he has to remember on his own, but what if seeing me wearing mine was the trigger he needed to remind him?” “Jim…” Bones’s voice held an edge. “Besides, you said it yourself, we don’t really know anything about how his memory loss works. Maybe in this case just waiting for him to remember isn’t enough, he needs our help! Maybe…” “Jim,” Bones said, more gently this time. “It won’t do any good to tell him, unless you want him to memorize your relationship like a couple decades of Vulcan facts. If you want him to be the man you remember, you have to let him remember.” “I know,” Jim said sadly. “I just miss him. I don’t know how much longer I can wait.” McCoy put a hand on Kirk’s shoulder. “As long as you have to.” Jim nodded in agreement. “I just hope it isn’t too long.”

[psychewritesbs]

Hii~~ greetings from Argentina oh juremos con gloria a morir~~

Question, do you have any hcs/ assumptions of what Touji’s early life in the clan was like? Cause I’d like to hear you out🥺

HOLA my dear CABAnon ♥ ¡Al gran pueblo Argentino, saludsita! 🍻

hcs about this man you ask...

Why I'm happy to bs about it under the cut mwahaha.

BUT FIRST... clarification:

I'm actually more of a daddy Sukuna stan... literally no one asked you, v.

Or basically how I just love this panel of Sukuna and GO. BACK. TO. YOUR BODY ALREADY DAMMIT!

Also, in case people have not noticed, I have such an obsession with Megumi that I sleep on any arc where he's not front and center. It's, literally, a #thing I am afflicted by.

So I must confess I don't spend a lot of time thinking about anyone else in this darn manga and most people who send me asks haven't realized yet how much of a fraud I am LOL.

So, no, I spend absolutely no time thinking about Toji's swag.

Zero time thinking about his sexy back.

Nope.

Sorry not sorry Toji, but...

Ok he's KINDA sexy. kinda.

So to answer your ask I pulled panels that I think might say something about Toji and then mixed it all with my perhaps unrealistic hc that Toji was actually quite the domestic daddy. It just so happened to be that Megumi-mama's death broke him.

Basically Toji is such a tragic character.

I am no longer who I used to be

So first there's defo a clear delineation in how Toji perceives himself. The person he was before he took the Fushiguro last name, Zenin Toji, and Fushiguro Toji.

And remember, names have power because they define your sense of self. ngl I love that my name is victoria.

I think there's some disagreement as to who was Fushiguro, whether Megumi's mom or Tsumiki's mom, but I personally prefer the idea that it was Megumi's mom.

My perspective, I'll admit, is a bit romanticized, it's just that Toji is always shown as being sentimental about Megumi and Megumi-mama.

So I like the idea that he took the Fushiguro last name because it was Megumi's mom's. I feel like in his head this also served the purpose of hiding himself and leaving behind the person he used to be. That is not to mention that it would also help keep Megumi a secret from the Zenin.

Self-sabotage runs in the family

I get the sense that Toji internalized all of the toxic masculinity of the Zenin household and expressed it by being a complete fuck up.

I get the sense that Toji was so disillusioned with life that he just allowed himself to become the worst version of himself until he met Megumi's mom.

He was also a womanizer, which implies that he knew he was good looking or was attractive to others and probably used that to his advantage.

Toji, truly was, irredeemable.

Just appalling behavior, really.

But I think that's part of Toji's tragedy, that just like Megumi, Toji did not grow up in an environment that was conducive to fostering one's best self. It's like a testament of how damaging extreme psychological attitudes like the ones held by the Zenin can poison the psyche and the sense of self and severely limit its ability to self-actualize.

In that sense, Toji and Megumi (more specifically Megumi) are examples of breaking the cycle of trauma from abuse. It's all about generational trauma getting passed on generation after generation until someone can break the curse.

So yeah, we gotta talk about everybody's favorite toxic family, the Kardashians Zenin.

The Zenin

Now, the irony of the Zenin is that their last name is a literal allusion to a family that is "Zen". And what is Zen if not mindfulness?

Quite the contrary, the Zenin, as an institution within Jujutsu society, epitomize everything that is wrong with Jujutsu Society: misogyny, toxic masculinity, corruption.

There's this really "cute" platitude, something about "bloom where you're planted."

And I believe you can bloom where you're planted. But when the very soil that is the basis for your sense of self is poisoned, well, the way you bloom is going to be a little poisoned.

So I imagine Toji's behavior was a sort of open defiance to the pressure to perform and conform to the unrealistic expectation his family held of him.

For that reason, I think the fact that he's a direct descendant of the previous head of the Zenin clan is a big fucking deal. Like, how are you going to be the son of the clan's head and not even be able to use Cursed Energy?

The nerve!

In other words, if he couldn't be accepted for who he was, what was the point in trying? Why not just give up altogether and be a complete and utter fuck up?

This portion of the post was sponsored by red wine. Thank you red wine.

Sorcerer Killer

Is it a collective headcanon or canon that Toji started killing sorcerers as a way to impose his sense of self against the injustice of being rejected for not having the same abilities as sorerers?

I'm assuming someone said "I'll pay you" and he said "sure ok" and he just became known as the person to go to if you wanted to kill a sorcerer.

Like father, like son

This epic panel...

Is a testament to how broken Fushiguro Toji is.

How does a father forget his son? Or more like... how does a father make himself forget he has a son he would rather forget he has?

Anyways, this reads to me like psychological suppression. And I have to wonder how much Toji had to resort to suppressing himself and his thoughts while growing up in the Zenin household.

Yeah you could take the panel at face value, or you can take the whole context of Toji's backstory and the environment he grew up in, + the tragedy of Megumi Mama's death, and wonder whether Toji cared so much about Megumi that he knew the best thing for him was to not be in his life.

He's a fuck up, right? Worst of the worst. So what's better than abandoning his child with someone else who is capable of caring for him the way he can't?

That's a lot of self-awareness on Toji's behalf if you ask me.

I just get the sense that Toji does not see himself as a "good" person and doesn't care to prove anyone wrong about it.

Toji had to learn to control his strength

Like... what if something as simple as splitting chopsticks is something that requires a lot of finesse and concentration for Toji? Makes me wonder if Toji had to learn to regulate his strength.

Toji is utterly unimpressed

Due to the word choice in the panel above, I have to wonder about how Toji perceives most people who can use cursed energy.

In other words, he's completely unimpressed with most sorcerers and their abilities because he has found he can overpower the vast majority of them with raw strength alone.

Think of it this way, he's the direct descendant of the head of the Zenin clan and is considered an anomaly and a failure due to his inability to use Cursed Energy, right?

Now...

If, in the words of a Zenin, the Zenin clan exists because of Toji's whim, that tells me that the Zenin feared Toji's physical prowess even if they did not acknowledge him.

It tells me Toji was perhaps unafraid to demonstrate his strength in order to gain respect from others in a similar way Maki did during the Perfect Preparation arc.

But for some reason Toji never quite did anything about it and instead decided to leave the clan.

I wondered for a sec whether Naobito perhaps defeated him but then I remembered how easily Toji took on Dagon compared to Naobito struggling.

I think what's sad about it is that after going to such lengths, Toji still found himself as the clan's reject.

In a sense, even if he could wipe out the clan, it wouldn't achieve being accepted and acknowledged as a human by them. And honestly, I can't say for sure that he wanted to be accepted and cherished by the Zenin, but the human need to belong is incredibly powerful.

So to see him call himself a monkey in spite of what he's able to accomplish shows how deep that wound runs.

To see his endless plight to validate himself in a world that denied him the belonging he most likely desperately sought...

And it's a real tragedy just how damaged Toji's self esteem is and how growing up in the Zenin clan completely destroyed his self-esteem.

Which brings us back full circle to...

I am no longer who I used to be + Megumi-Mama

Fudge me.

I know you specifically asked about Toji's early life in the clan but I find myself unable to write about Toji without addressing the clear delineation of who Zenin Toji was before he became Fushiguro Toji.

Again, this is assuming that Megumi's mom was the one with the Fushiguro last name, which I don't think Gege has confirmed.

But there's just something about how Toji was changed from his meeting Megumi's mom and Megumi's birth.

If Zenin Toji was unafraid to impose his will in order to validate himself through raw strength, we can assume from the panels above that Fushiguro Toji became someone whose priorities were reorganized when he met Megumi's mom.

Perhaps for the first time in his life he saw a reason to become the better version of himself and then he had that taken from him.

Breaking the curse of intergenerational trauma

Last but not least, Toji passes the torch onto Megumi...

I love that even though Toji had set out for Megumi to be sold to the Zenin clan because he thought it was the best for him, he is glad to hear his son did not have to grow up in the same toxic environment he grew up in.

God I love Jujutsu Kaisen... please excuse me while I go cry in the corner.

Anyways...

Spanglish Alert

Que hongo CABAnon? Gracias por el ask! Espero q mi tangente no halla sido muy tangencial LOL. Ya ves, con eso d q tiendo a irme por otros rumbos.

Anyways, me dió mucha curiosidad q compartieras ese pedacito del himno nacional Argentino pq inmediatamente pensé en el himno Mexicano y el himno Mexicano es total y completamente acerca d la guerra.

Me quedé con el ojo cuadrado pq nunca me había tomado el tiempo para pensar en la posible razón por la q el himno Mexicano está enfocado en q los Mexicanos vamos al grito d guerra.

En fin. Será por la lucha de independencia contra España y la sangre indígena hablando por medio de los mestizos?

Oh well... gracias d nuevo y muchos saludos!

[thevoidscreamer]

just a weepy blurb I wrote after I realized why I'm having such a hard time "connecting" with others

CW: religious trauma, s trafficking, cult, trauma bonding, abuse, anxiety, depression, really purple prose, in my feelings

Today I realized that the types of relationships I made in small groups at church, in ROTC, at the brothels in Pahrump, were all formed in high control environments where shared trauma and implicating oneself in “sins” or “crimes” is encouraged as a form of control and enmeshment. These bonds formed swiftly, almost as if overnight – literally in some cases – by way of tried-and-true methods of indoctrination and thought reform. There could be no secrets in these spaces. Every thought must be spoken and known. We strived to achieve impossible goals, punished ourselves when we could not reach them, and encouraged each other to keep trying. These relationships were framed as eternal and unconditional. I did treat them that way, and I felt my intentions were reciprocated, but the result was wildly different to the expectation laid before us by those institutions. The all-consuming, all-encompassing relationships I had, while deeply rooted and very intimate, were unhealthy because they did not allow any room for the self, and they were actually very conditional in an unspoken way. Remain within the culture, and you have unlimited intimate connections. Step outside the line? You are a traitor who is no longer worthy of such intimacy. My reflection follows.

I bared myself, sins, crimes, all suffering and deep gashes to them in these places. The exchange was unconditional intimacy, love, closeness. We were plugged in to one another, so fully that the barrier between us all might have truly been an illusion. Even as I stepped out of our circles, I hoped such depth would continue. In some cases, it did. But suddenly, my world began to dim. Years went by and soon enough I inhabited a realm of shadows. I craved the bright light, the vibrance, of enmeshment. What a joy I had forsaken. And yet also it had forsaken me, for those I had loved so deeply withdrew themselves from me, and rightly so. But now I am betrayed and lost. Even as I seek out new connections, I find each interaction lacking. I was spoiled, joy receptors rotted out and unable to feel anything below the utmost verdant of pleasures derived from hill music and trauma bonds and platitudes we somehow meant with our whole chests. We were twelve. How could we have loved so deeply? They drugged us and told us lies, and our parents dilated our veins while the pastors pushed the needle. We were hacked before we had a chance to form our selves. 

I have today come to understand, in its entirety perhaps for the first time, that what I seek only exists in such cultish environs. I feel lost. I feel thirsty. I feel like there is plastic surrounding me, that no matter how I try, I cannot ever feel the genuine sensation of human skin on my skin other than my own, that my senses will forever be stifled by the cloying scent of my lifelong wounds, even after they close. It is as though I was given heroin from the bottle, and once I weaned myself off it everything felt gray and I didn’t know why. I used things to supplement it for a while – sex with strangers, alcohol, retail therapy, new versions of the same high control environment, new people to rebel against in my quest for closeness, a quest for the ultimate polycule complete with enmeshment and interdependence, too much caffeine, any moment spent on twitter... But now I see it. This excruciating boredom is not the absence of God. This is the absence of dangerous intoxication. This is the obliteration of the joy receptors in my brain through systematic indoctrination. This is not the absence of holiness. This is the absence of human manipulation.

Now I am a hermit in the woods, listening to the crickets and owls and whatever beautiful beast is out there trilling a lonely howl, and I see everything in the shining silver of the waning moon and that unfathomable host of stars up there. This kind of gray is lovely. But the gray I feel when I learn your name or hear your story? That is almost insufferable. You are not boring, but even if there is a spark between us, upon our parting I think that I will never speak to you again. I think that you hate me. I think that there is no instant bond, therefore we are not meant to know more of each other. I proposed with my sins in the first five minutes, but our hearts did not swap spit, our spirits did not fuck, and your dark secrets will never come to the surface. Unconsummated, we part, after hours of this intricate dance with steps and flourishes I was never taught. You watched as I stumbled over formalities and social norms, as I spoke a language you’ve only heard about on deconstructionist TikTok. You could not possibly understand that my interactions with every living human person is tinted gray. No one speaks my language, and I find that yours is simultaneously complex and underwhelming. I see now that you all will always be tedious and gray. Shades of it, sure, but gray nonetheless. Nothing will compare to the deadly, poisonous colors of that flower of thought control. I will never be able to sate the desire for codependence that was built into me from the earliest age. 

Nor should I try. 

Nor should I try.

I left that garden for a reason. I burned those roots to save my life. Were I ever to brew that tea again, I hope that I should dump it, or else take a taste and hate it, lest I be seduced by its intoxication and drink myself into oblivion. There is more death in that one flower than in the entire harvest from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

And now, as I navigate life with this new knowledge, I am aware of my inhumanity. I was hijacked, and while I reclaimed my vessel and my soul, the changes to my gears and mechanisms cannot be reversed. I am worn in ways few others can comprehend. I am broken and fixed with duct tape and rubber bands. I work, but something in me is off. I’m not quite right, and I never will be. So while the others are content in their shades of gray which are, to them, like rainbows and waterfalls of infinite color, I am lost in the loneliness of my own existence, knowing exactly where I can find respite, and also that such refreshment would be my demise. Can I be content to live such a muted life? No wonder so many return to the deadly path touted by those institutions – churches and brothels, preachers and pimps, they’re all the same to me.

And yet… perhaps all is not as dull as this. For even the silver stars have some color. Even the leaves have hues at night. There are smells and sounds and textures to know. There is more radiation in this life than that confined to the visible spectrum. And I feel close now to a revelation; that maybe I can experience the intimacy and vulnerability which I crave, though never again with a living human being. But in nature? In knowledge? In art? In expression? In history? In science? In myself? Therein may be the antidote, the solace, the suboxone that can grant me a life beyond my longing and sorrow. I prescribe them to me now, though my pursuit of them has been long already. Maybe this purposeful application will help ease my ailment, that life may feel colorful once more, even within the grayest of spaces.

Or maybe I’ll just get a dog.