#not saying the relationship was fetishized but like

[bostoncreamdonut]

One of the biggest issues I have with the statement, “Not everything has to be gay,” is that not everything is gay.

Straight relationships are far more common than queer ones, even in a show like Arcane, with the main ship and protagonist being lesbian. (BTW, companies accepting WLW ships more than MLM ones are a different conversation but just know they are not your friends.)

What do you see more? A show with multiple queer couples and one token straight or vice versa?

It also implies that people would only ship two men because they derive pleasure from it, i.e. fetishize gay relationships. As if there can’t be genuine love, a bond, or chemistry that others can see in it— no! the characters are the same gender, so obviously people only ship it because they want gay.

It’s incredibly harmful and often used by poorly disguised homophobes who feel uncomfortable when their favorite male character is shipped with another man.

I’m sorry, dude, but your fav has more chemistry and screen time with his guy best friend than anyone else.

On the flip side, we could talk about how every male-female relationship in shows are often interpreted by cishet fans as romantic. These ships are even used to counter gay ships sometimes [as if anyone actually gives a fuck about whether a character is single or not/canonically in love when shipping.]

I might just start saying, “not everything has to be straight.”

Anyway! That’s everything I can think of right now but feel free to add on. Some people already have in the reblogs and it seems we all have the same issues. Hurrah 😃

“Viktor and Jayce have a brotherly bond, not everything has to be gay.”

[kanmom51]

4 months to go...

Someone clearly has JM etched on their hand and on the brain.

Miss those two so damn much.

Funny how as time is closing and discharge from military etching closer I feel like it's moving so much slower than the first 14 months did. Is it only me that feels that?

But time is nearing, nevertheless, and as it is, I can't help but think what comes next. What is the day after going to look like?

Obviously, I'm not the only one thinking of that.

The two of them are clearly contemplating the day after as well.

We don't know what their hopes and wishes are for that post military future is, but I can tell you what mine are.

My hope for post military is that they will continue to be as openly inseparable as they have been going into the army and spending those 18 months of their service together.

I know they are together and their relationship is as strong as ever. With as little as we've been getting from them in the past 14 months of their service, they have shown us that ever so loud and clear.

I want them to be able to continue and be open about it.

I want us not to go back to the reality of 2023. A reality in which we KNOW they were spending their time together, but we weren't supposed to know it. A reality in which they gave us crumbs and clues and puzzles to solve but couldn't be loud and clear like this:

or this:

I do feel like there has definitley been a shift since their joint enlistment.

Obviously, them enlisting together was a HUGE part of it.

AYS and everything we were allowed to see in that show (and everything we know we weren't allowed to see as well) was just as HUGE.

But it doesn't end with that.

14 months of service and we barely got anything from them. But when we did, even more so in the last few months, it always contains a clear message of their "togetherness", take it in anyway that you will (they spend free time together, sing together, exercise together, shower together, have heart to heart conversations with each other before going to sleep - together - might not have been said but clearly implied).

To little ole' me this is not a coincidence. This is a clear pattern. A plan in place, one may think or conclude.

So yes, my hope is that when we reach the end of these 18 months we will be walking into a new reality. One in which they don't necessarily 'come out' officially (I think that is asking too much of them, and it would be a huge decision for them to make - together - one that will obviously impact not only them, but the whole of BTS), but do not shy away publicly from just how close and co-dependent they are of each other. A reality in which, dare I say, it's an obvious natural progression for them to continue to live together as "roommates" (in JK's huge mansion, of course) because "they got used to living together while in service". One in which being seen together in public isn't a big deal, it's a norm. One in which neither of them has to cower away or freeze or double take when they are caught on camera together (JK's deer caught in the headlights looks at the camera in mind). One in which when they aren't together them mentioning of the other isn't an "oh" or "ah" moment, but a natural "not a biggie" thing, because that's just something they obviously do. One in which ot7 army who love to ignore just how close those two are (because they are too close and too suspicious and acknowledging that means acknowledging there is more there and that Jikookers aren't delusional shippers that are fantasizing or fetishizing those two, but clearly seeing what they have been purposefully ignoring) cannot continue to ignore any longer.

And I wouldn't have wished for all of the above if I didn't think that was something they wanted.

Because most of all I want one thing.

Most of all I want them to be happy!!

[visceravalentines]

drowning is only as hard as you make it

bo sinclair x gn!reader

2k words. weird melancholy freak behavior. author's thinly disguised smoking fetish. established relationship (lol). Ambrose is lonely. that's it that's the fic.

He always manages to find you.  Every time.  It’s not a game anymore, not really; there’s no use keeping score when only one side is allowed to earn points.  There are no rules, no satisfaction in the victory.  You’d make your way back to the house even if he never showed up.  Today you’re not even hiding.

The row of vacant windows across the street catches the last lazy rays of sunlight.  A few eager fireflies pantomime shooting stars just above the freshly cut grass.  He mows the lawns regularly, every last one of them, dripping sweat in the sticky air.  You think it’s nonsensical.  He doesn’t care what you think.  At least it smells nice.  Nostalgic.  Painful.  

On an evening like this, there should be kids out.  Riding bikes, running through the neighbor’s yard.  Parents watching from their porches.  People chatting, relaxing.  Hell, maybe a dog or two.  But there is only you, and the fireflies.  

The heat of your cigarette creeps dangerously close to your fingers but you wring one last pull off the thing before you crush it against the step.  Scorch marks dot the woodgrain like initials carved in a tree, only better, because they’re anonymous.  Could've been left by anyone sitting sulking on these stairs and pondering ways to disappear.  Plausible deniability.  

Too bad you're the only one here.

You set your hand on the pack beside you, work another one out with your fingers without looking.  It’s all reflex.  It’s all muscle memory.  That’s all you are anymore, something that survives without thinking about it.  

In that shadowy place called Before, you only ever smoked on rare occasions. At parties or bars, always with friends, always a little drunk. You'd never admit it aloud but a part of you used to pride yourself on your restraint–you could stretch a single pack out over a month or more, until the tobacco had gone stale and the cigarettes tasted like dusty paper. Until it was less of a treat and more like a chore to get through the last few.  

Now you drop butts through the grate of your days like maybe you can fill up the emptiness with smoke.  

You sigh and light up, take a drag and let it sweep you up above the gutters.  You imagine the town might almost be pretty from up high.  Hard to tell from here.  

“Didn’t know this house had a chimney.”  

Some part of you remembers what it felt like to flinch when he got this close.  Another part remembers the way you buried your face in his back before he got up this morning.  You exhale nice and slow.  “Thought you knew everything.”  

“Now, we’ve talked about this.”  He leans against the rickety railing, white paint flaking off at the slightest disturbance.  “You know nothin’ good comes from thinkin’.”  

As a matter of fact, you’ve talked about everything already, but that’s never stopped him before.  You’ve heard all the stories sixteen times, could recount his childhood from memory one miserable year after another.  You know where he got that scar.  He knows all about your first kiss.  Eighth grade was hard for both of you for vastly different reasons.  He’s never been to your hometown but he could probably find your old house.  You’ve never met his mother, but you hate her just the same.  Favorite movie, worst fear, where were you on 9/11?  In a zombie apocalypse, he’d choose an ax.  You’d take the shotgun with exactly two shells.  It’s almost romantic, except, well.  

“Hey.”  He slams the heel of his hand against the railing and somewhere along the line, the wood splits with a crack.  “What’d I just say?”  

You look up, jarred loose from your spiral, and he’s shaking his head.  

“Damn fool.  Gimme those back.”  

He reaches out a hand and you slip one last smoke from the pack before you give it to him.  

“Lighter too, baby, c’mon.”  

You hesitate for a second, long enough he has to flex his fingers to make the point.  You hand him the lighter, keep the spare cigarette, tuck it behind your ear.

He peeks into the pack and his lip twitches. “Fuckin’ glutton.  This was full this mornin’.”  

“Sorry,” you deadpan.  

“Sure y’are.”  

You’ve had this conversation too, in just about every house on the street.  You wonder if he ever feels crazy, playing it all out over and over again.  Probably not. He's composed of repetition, a record that skips in the same place every time it's played. You feel crazy, fucking listening to it.  

You watch him work a cigarette loose, watch him hold it in his lips, watch the tendons flex across his knuckles as he lights up. For all the fucking smoke he blows, you still think he looks damn good as he exhales up towards the fading sun. One of life's little cruelties. 

“Y’know, supper ain't gonna make itself,” he says casually. Like he’s trying to piss you off.  He probably is.  

“You sure?” you shoot back, like you’re trying to piss him off.  You definitely are.  

He chuckles, unbothered. “I dunno, baby. Been wrong before.”

“Yeah?  Tell me more.” You're bold these days. Stupid. Dangerous, and not in the same way as the surgeon general's fine print. Dangerous in the present moment. Shaving seconds off your life like taking a pocketknife to a good chunk of wood. But games are more fun with two players. 

He doesn’t want to play, though.  Probably worn out from mowing all those fucking lawns.  He shrugs.  “Nothin’ more to tell.”  

“Pantry’s empty anyway,” you mutter.  The grocery list on the fridge has wrapped back on itself twice over.  He’s been cagey lately, reluctant to venture into town.  You’re down to canned goods old enough to read chapter books.  

“Guess we’ll starve.”  

“Guess so.”  You flick your rapidly shrinking cigarette and watch the ash fizzle frantically down and disappear. The chorus of crickets crescendoes to a dull roar in the silence.  

“You like these, huh?”

You're not sure what he means for a second before you realize he's talking about the cigarettes. You take another drag like you have to mull the taste over, really consider the question. He’s not a patient man, but he waits for your answer.

“Yeah,” you say finally on the tail of your exhale. “Best ones in a while.”

It’s the truth.  He's got his own brand and you like it too, but he's a fucking skinflint, and he only buys himself a pack when he's really hard up. Most of the time he scavenges off corpses and out of glove boxes. And you live off his scraps, so. 

Regretfully, you stub yours out as the flame hits the filter. Your throat is raw, tongue wrapped in the taste of tobacco. Everything in this town is racing to kill you and you wish something would win already. You can feel him watching you, now and always. 

“Somethin’ you need, sugar?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”  

He exhales with relish.  You think about the taste of smoke on his tongue and tobacco on his fingers and you grit your teeth.  He’s a vice in every sense.  

“You pissed at me?”  

What kind of question is that?  You peel a chunk of paint off the stair near your shoe.  “I’m always pissed at you.”  You mean it and you don’t and you’re braced for retribution either way, but none comes.  

“Fair enough.”  

You steal a wary glance in his direction.  He’s covered in flecks of grass.  He shed his overshirt in the heat of the day but it’s back on now, unbuttoned, the tee underneath smudged with green.  He lifts his hat, rubs his brow with the heel of his hand, tugs it back into place.  His face is a little sunburnt in spite of the thing.  

“You wanna fight?”  

You stop breathing for a second, sit very still.  He looks down at you, cocks an eyebrow.  He’s really asking.  

You think about it, really think about it.  Broken skin, broken glass.  No neighbors to scandalize.  You shake your head.  “No.”  

He shrugs, goes back to staring holes in the house across the street.  You almost want him to be disappointed, but his face is placid, expression impassive.  “Alright then.  ‘Nother time.”  

You furrow your brow, look at your shoes.  You pick at the paint, feel it slip beneath your nail like a splinter.  You’d bet five bucks you don’t have that he’ll be back to repaint these steps within the week.  It makes you want to rip them apart so he’d have more to do.  You’re not sure if he’d take that as a gift or as sabotage.  You’re not sure how you’d mean it.  

“How ‘bout we head inside, feel each other up?  See what happens?”  You look at him sharply.  He’s really asking.  “We can do it how you like it.”  

How you like it.  How do you like it?  Does he know?  Do you?

Your expression must be a funny one because he grins.  “What?  You a prude all the sudden?”  

No.  No, but.

You find the words wedged behind your teeth.  “You a gentleman all the sudden?”  

He snorts.  “C’mon now.”  He gives the railing one last yank, almost pulls it loose.  As he rounds the steps he drops his spent cigarette and crushes it underfoot.  “Scoot.”  

You make room on the stair and he sits down heavy beside you, takes up more than his fair share of space, same as always.  He smells like sun and sweat and grass and smoke.  His sleeve rides up and exposes the pink of his wrist.  He pulls it down without thinking about it.  You almost–almost–pull it back up.  

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out.  Don’t know what the fuck you want.”  

Now that's a dumb fucking thing to say. You want a thousand things.  A meal.  A clock that works.  Cable TV.  An article of clothing that doesn't reek of mothballs and someone else's fear. A normal conversation with a normal human being. Half a goddamn hour to yourself without the urge to lock the doors and set the house on fire. 

Anything.  Anything.  

“A light,” you say bitterly. 

To your surprise, he digs the lighter out of his pocket.  Holds it up to show you, like a peace offering.  He moves his boots down a step, pats his thigh.  “C’mere.” 

You straddle his lap and it’s like you’re walking in and out of a room at the same time.  Your hands find their place on either side of his chest and he’s warm to the touch like a dog lying in the sun.  His fingers play at the small of your back.  You can escape into the maze of abandoned homes or the pattern on the ceiling but you can’t slip away from those eyes at this distance.  They catch you like barbs on wire, as distant and cold as the sky.  

This is how you like it.  His head tipped back, looking up at you.  You run your thumb along the edge of his jaw and he almost–almost–smiles.  

He plucks the cigarette from behind your ear, flips it in his fingers.  You open your mouth.  He sets it on your tongue.  He flicks the lighter, brings it close, and when you breathe in you feel it–the poison of this place, yellow-green, permeating your lungs and all the rest of you.  No use in pretending.  No use fighting the current.  Drowning is only as hard as you make it.  

You wonder if he knows you’d come home even if he never came to find you.  Maybe that’s why he comes anyway.  Maybe that’s why you keep hiding.  So you both have something to look forward to.  Games are more fun with two players.  

It’s not worth thinking about.  Nothing good comes from thinking.  

You start to exhale and he tugs you close, sucking the smoke from your mouth, because he never can let you keep anything to yourself.  Maybe you don’t even want to. 

Your lips touch.  Tangerine thrums behind your eyes.  You’ll go to bed hungry tonight and so will he.  One shotgun, two shells.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” he murmurs.  

You’re already working his shirt off his shoulders one-handed.  “Nothing I want.”  

He laughs once, almost breathless, leans back on the stairs so you have to lean with him.  “C’mon now.”  

You toss the cigarette into the dirt to free up both hands.

[kreayshawni]

Can you do something with Pete from the Eltingville Club maybe dating headcanons or something?

of course!! thanks so much for the request (╯▽╰ )

being in a relationship with pete would include...

like most of the members, he isn't too big on public displays of affection. especially if you're in the club. but he's much more touchy in private.

he keeps things that remind him of you, like pictures, hair ties, or your favorite gum flavor.

he's the worst person ever to sleep in the same bed with, you need to have a pillow separating you guys. or else you'll either wake up on the floor cause he kicked you off by accident, or his drool in your hair.

he's crazy freaky. he'll turn anything you say into something sexual. it doesn't matter

he's so embarrassed of his family he drags you into his room IMMEDIATELY whenever you come over. his mothers too doting, and his brothers are douches.

but whenever he's around your family, he switches personalities so quick it gives you whiplash. he's a complete gentleman around them.

he loves to play fight. it's always a wrestling match between you two, and you always pretend to actually get hurt so you can sneak attack him. but he eventually stopped believing you, so good luck whenever you for real get hurt!

he calls you the cringiest nicknames ever; woman, tits, nips, babe, babygirl if he feels like messing with you.

after arguments, he doesn't really apologize. it's mainly in a condescending way, like he actually doesn't believe it hurt your feelings. if you express that he did, he'll call you too sensitive.

''y'know i didn't really mean itt.. c'mon.''

he's very awkward with comforting people. but the most he can do is give you a very short hug, and attempt to get your mind off of whatever's upsetting you.

he'll force you to watch his favorite movies with him 'cause that's the only way of bonding and showing a more lovey-dovey side of affection without feeling like a fairy. it doesn't matter if you're not into horror, either.

he does that corny thing where you pretend to yawn and stretch to put your arm around the other's shoulder.

i'd honestly like to think he starts shaking like a scared chihuahua when you ignore him for too long, but i might just be dreamingg..

if you're gothic, he fucking loves watching you get ready. he'd be on cloud 9 if you offered to do juggalo makeup for him.

he loves seeing his clothes on you. it doesn't matter what size you are, wear his jacket as a blanket!

mainly cause he's got this weird thing for scents, after showers he just needs to sniff you for a while. maybe it's cause of his surroundings that're filled with pure filth, so having something that smells nice, like you, is a necessity.

he's actually a semi-okay boyfriend once you get past the gore fetish!

'' i love myself, i want you to love me, when i feel down, i want you above me ''

[officerfruit]

“One day there was an anonymous present sitting on my doorstep—Volume One of Capital by Karl Marx, in a brown paper bag. A joke? Serious? And who had sent it? I never found out. Late that night, naked in bed, I leafed through it. The beginning was impenetrable, I couldn’t understand it, but when I came to the part about the lives of the workers—the coal miners, the child laborers—I could feel myself suddenly breathing more slowly. How angry he was. Page after page. Then I turned back to an earlier section, and I came to a phrase that I’d heard before, a strange, upsetting, sort of ugly phrase: this was the section on “commodity fetishism,” “the fetishism of commodities.” I wanted to understand that weird-sounding phrase, but I could tell that, to understand it, your whole life would probably have to change. His explanation was very elusive. He used the example that people say, “Twenty yards of linen are worth two pounds.” People say that about every thing that it has a certain value. This is worth that. This coat, this sweater, this cup of coffee: each thing worth some quantity of money, or some number of other things—one coat, worth three sweaters, or so much money—as if that coat, suddenly appearing on the earth, contained somewhere inside itself an amount of value, like an inner soul, as if the coat were a fetish, a physical object that contains a living spirit. But what really determines the value of a coat? The coat’s price comes from its history, the history of all the people involved in making it and selling it and all the particular relationships they had. And if we buy the coat, we, too, form relationships with all those people, and yet we hide those relationships from our own awareness by pretending we live in a world where coats have no history but just fall down from heaven with prices marked inside. “I like this coat,” we say, “It’s not expensive,” as if that were a fact about the coat and not the end of a story about all the people who made it and sold it, “I like the pictures in this magazine.” A naked woman leans over a fence. A man buys a magazine and stares at her picture. The destinies of these two are linked. The man has paid the woman to take off her clothes, to lean over the fence. The photograph contains its history—the moment the woman unbuttoned her shirt, how she felt, what the photographer said. The price of the magazine is a code that describes the relationships between all these people—the woman, the man, the publisher, the photographer—who commanded, who obeyed. The cup of coffee contains the history of the peasants who picked the beans, how some of them fainted in the heat of the sun, some were beaten, some were kicked. For two days I could see the fetishism of commodities everywhere around me. It was a strange feeling. Then on the third day I lost it, it was gone, I couldn’t see it anymore.”

Wallace Shawn, The Fever (1990)

[hsslilly-blog]

⭐🦢 Wild Flowers (2019), dir. by Tina MacIntyre. Starring Claire Swanson.

The only constant throughout Anna's (Swanson) life have been her pointe shoes. As Anna mourns her mediocre career, she's finally given the chance to replace her company's prima ballerina for their production of "Swan Lake”. Just as rehearsals start, Anna's mother passes away. Struck with grief, Anna tries not to get overwhelmed by the intense pressure of the double role of Odette and Odile, all the while navigating her complex feelings on her life, her mother, and on ballet.

Here's the poster for Wild Flowers (2019), the ballet-centric movie Claire stars in, has a terrible time reliving the horrors of her childhood, and eventually wins the Academy Award for Best Actress for her portrayal of Anna Tierney.

I like making Claire’s filmography connect with her personally, be it a lot or just a little. It’s amusing to me, but I think it says a lot about Claire, her decisions in universe, her awareness of her own person, and her relationship to and with art. I go a little into Claire and ballet under the cut.

Before I turned this into a Swan Lake-themed movie, I wanted to do something with Ophelia (hence the name). Both Odette and Ophelia struggle with agency in their stories, and both drown in a lake at the end. I switched Ophelia's father dying to Anna's mother, though (like Odette's, in a way).

I chose to represent her ballerina self as her adult self — and not child Claire. 29-year-old Claire is still 12-year-old Claribel. Ballet is very important to understand her: it's a mechanism in which young girls are conditioned to desire impossible beauty standards, sexualised from a young age as a fetished ideal, and taught to see themselves as an object to be admired -- they’re art, they’re not a person. Not to mention the pressure of performance/the environment itself, and, in Claire's case, parental abuse.

Claire was forced to go on pointe shoes before the recommended age (she was 9), and she also developed a case of Sever's disease; then, she gets a very bad injury around the time she's 13, which is when her father steps in and takes her out of ballet. Claire continues to be pretty active through her teenage years/adulthood, though (cheerleading, tennis, rollerblading, performing, etc.) which contributes to her pain. She doesn't know about her medical history, as I've said before, so she just endures it.

I don't want to be a downer! It's not all sad. I think the process of making this movie is important for Claire to start thinking about her childhood. It helps her see things clearer. It'll take her some years to fully make peace with Claribel, but she'll get there.

[zaunbinary]

“linke can’t be homophobic he made the main couple lesbians!” ah yes, men, historically known for respecting sapphic women and relationships and not just treating them like a fetish.

[future-crab]

It's been said before, it will be said again, but it's still worth saying: the fact that art centering on straight romance is allowed to just be bad, but art with queer romance in it always has to be indicative of A Serious Problem With the Way We Tell Queer Stories makes being a queer person making queer art deeply stressful

[libraryleopard]

YA contemporary coming-of-age graphic novel

When sixteen-year-old Phoebe Zito moves to a new school in Los Angeles after recently coming out as a trans girl, she's taken under the wing of popular girl girl Mackenzie, who decides to teach Phoebe how to survive and thrive as a girl in high school

Thrust into a new world of dating and social dynamics, Phoebe must figure out where her heart lays and how to stay true to herself

[velvet-games]

shipping jayvik out of spite now smh

[paranoianist]

How it feels to be a Alice Oseman fan who hates heartstopper

[crazylittlejester]

my hot take for the day is that I trust the average straight man more than straight women who romance astarion with their twink elf male tav who’s been modded to the extreme

[lelianasbong]

"If they ask for a sacrifice, let's make it a virgin. Young and hot-blooded!"

"I want to wake up beside a handsome virgin every morning, but life doesn't give us what we want."

[youreonmymind37]

I brought my sister and I a flight tickets to NYC, luxury hotel and a Broadway show. She was so grateful that she packed-out my favorite lingerie in her carry bag. No one know who we are in Manhattan. We got to french kissed in the Village. Hold hands in the Met. Go shopping for fetish clothes. We danced real-close in several clubs.

I brought-up the question of living together as a couple. She was laughing at my proposal in our suite. She was stunning with your red hair, green eyes and tight body. “Who you marry me?” I said with tension.

“Wha—-“ Ruby whispered.

Our parents passed-away. Our relatives are don’t know us.

“C’mon, Rob, that the booze taking,” Rudy tried to laugh it off.

“We have different surnames, Ruby,” I scooped her body against me, “I don’t a couple of crooked bureaucrats who will do anything that I say.”

She melted in my arms. “Yes, my love,” said my sister, “Yes.”

We spent the whole night and the dawn making love. Dom brother and submissive sister fucked each other. We playing a fetish games where our insane amount of organism. Our incestuous relationship ramped-up to our marriage.

Next morning, our waiter brought in champagne and breakfast. “My fiancée said ‘yes’ to my proposal!”

We lay in bed. Ruby cuddled me and whispered to my ear, “I like that you called me ‘my fiancée’, my brother.”

[pathetic-tboy]

not to get discoursey on the nsfw account but you do realize both "chasers fetishizing trans women for penises they may/may not have/want to use is wrong and should be warned against to young vunerable insecure trans women" and "some trans women feel indifferent or even positive about their genitals/using them during sex and/or might not want bottom surgery and theyre still equally trans women to the trans women who do have bottom dysphoria or have/want bottom surgery and also deserve protection from chasers" can both be true right? i just dont think its fair to try to erase those members of the community because they might not align with your standards for "real" or "safe" trans women who "deserve" to be trans and safe from chasers ykwim? am i making sense?

[harrowing-of-hell]

i'm so tired of lesbian identity discourse you mfers are making me soo fucking sick