#right to deface

[carlpotatoman]

I can't fucking delete Google from my phone. Why can't I delete Google from my phone? I fucking paid money for this shit, I don't care that you make the operating system, I don't want your shitty search engine with all this fucking AI. I want to have the right to defile and deface, BECAUSE I PAID FUCKING MONEY FOR THIS SHITTY BRICK!

You know why I buy Android phones, Google? Because it is substantially easier with Android to not get absorbed into an ecosystem that makes it difficult to use anything else.

I use Android because I could decide one day that I am bored and use my Android phone to jailbreak a 3DS. I can go online and download a .apk for your shitty video sharing platform, but without abhorrent monetization, and with dislikes returned, or I could download an .apk for an app which has been long since removed from the app store.

You are the supplier, I am the consumer, and you stop supplying when I stop consuming.

I do not want to consume your search engine, so you shouldn't be forcibly supplying it. I shouldn't have to connect my phone to a PC so I can use the thing i own in the ways which I want.

Where is our right to deface and defile? Where is our right to own what we buy? Where is the right to repair?

[c0nstantlyscreaming]

I SAW THIS IN MY SCHOOL BATHROOM BRB JUST CRYING TEARS OF JOY 🥹

of course i added one

if it’s safe, I think it would be great for you to do this too.

[bloggingboutburgers]

hi :) i see you have cool stuf about being aspec. I think you are knowledgable on qpr. I have a question about qprs.... can they be a guy and a girl? Or is it not queer enough to be considered a queerplatonic relationship? Idk, I am in situations and wanna know if it's valid

Thank you.❤️

Bruh I absolutely don't see why not.

Here's my chance to remind that queer doesn't have to equal same-sex by the way. Different-gender couples including at least one bisexual or pansexual individual are queer. Different-gender couples including at least one trans or nonbinary individual are queer. Different-gender couples including at least one asexual or aromantic individual are queer. Doesn't matter if they're "passing". The reality is that their experience is outside of the cishet/amato/allo norms, they've have to live through that, and that makes them queer. It's what they ARE, not what they SHOW.

And if due to what you are, a queerplatonic relationship is what would suit you best, who the hell would we be to gatekeep them based on gender? Idk, I think the most important thing about being in a QPR is understanding what it entails and being respectful of the nature of it, and respectful of your partner.

...Also QPRs are pretty freaking amazing so the more people who are interested in them get to experience them, the better imo

[nixthehomunculus]

someone said cybertrucks are gender neutral bathrooms

[microwavedelivery]

Guys I need a consensus no questions asked, first one or second one

[boyheros]

FORGOT ABOUT THIS IN MY DRAFTS. I was gonna post it on Maverick's birthday. Wellll anyway here we go: the circumstances of his manufacture were ahhhhhh very strange. There's a thing that happens with cloning machines sometimes where they will turn on and make some random living nonsense because base black wants to be attached to alive stuff sooooo bad. these are called Unsolicited Ejections (UEs). usually it's just like amorphous cell mess but sometimes, if you have a lovely little contaminated cloning machine, it could try and make full clones. This is very common with Maverick clones, most of them are UEs. Except for designer genetically modified ones like Elaine. Now. Elaine was "forbidden" from cloning herself for various reasons, one being her genmod, but when has Elaine everrr listened to anyone? So she gets a sample of her DNA secretly modified (by her wife actually) and goes and 'contaminates' the machine with it. To induce it into a UE. so OFFICIALLY Maverick wasn't cloned on purpose and there was no misconduct whatsoever. but when you look at him. He's clearly not Maverick Clone Standard which implies intent in cloning. But no one can do anything about it because he is a UE. good times.

[wreckedhoney]

it's fathers day so i imagine the kf fandom will be quite silent today

[theladyinwhite13]

Look I was sat school reading Gatsby and lo and behold!

SOMEONE RIPPED THE PAGE OFF OF A LIBRARY BOOK WHO DOES THAT. DNDJSKKEBD I'm so pissed

damn they didn’t even cover their tracks very well, like I would NEVER do that (he would never do that!) especially to the greatest novel of all time BUT IF I DID my rips would be way cleaner

[sirnica]

Don't get me wrong, I get why people in the US are annoyed by rainbow capitalism. They have many reason to be.

On the other hand, if a local company in my shitty, homophobic country made a rainbow product, or sponsored Pride, or hell, even made a supportive post, I would probably combust from joy because they see me as a human who they can cater ro and not someone sick, pervert, worthy of hate and ridicule.

[spinninganddancing]

.

[sepiasys]

God I despise this shit ngl

Like I feel chill vibes, right. But I can't deny I'm annoyed. Inconvenienced. And I know internally I could totally fuckin rage.

Idk.

This fucking bitch says they're not comfortable with me being in their room AT ALL, and that's the only way to reach the shower. Like the only good bathroom. The one downstairs is mid but only has a toilet and sink. The second upstairs is fucking filthy.

FUCKING BITCH YOU LITERALLY MADE IT SO I HAVE TO BE FILTHY. OR THE PPL AROUND ME HAVE TO BE FORCED TO CLEAN THAT SHIT. LITERALLY. AND I KNOW I'M GONNA BE THE ONE THAT ENDS UP DOING IT IF ITS DONE AT ALL BECAUSE I NEED TO NOT BE DIRTY????

Fucking bitch. Asshole. BITCH. BITCH BITCH BITCH.

Bitch bitching about me and shit.

Fuckass.

There HAS to be a better word than bitch.

Anyways yeah I havent fucking showered in like 2 weeks, only got to wash my hair like yesterday/the day before in the bathroom fucking sink 😒

LIKE BRUH.

I legit might just get myself some rags and a towel or some shit. A set. I've been considering it. Bc then I could like. Sponge bath myself or smth.

That or I get fucking wipes but that shit's stupid. But I might fuckin have to.

I GOT PERIOD UNDERWEAR SO I DIDNT HAVE TO BUY DISPOSABLE SHIT ANYMORE. FUCK Y'ALL.

[depresseddepot]

so there's a church in my town that has a pride flag flying 24/7 and there's an event in the town today and they let an lgbtq youth support group set their booth up on their lawn for free and I straight up burst into tears the second I saw it

[sayruq]

Trinity College Cambridge, the University of Cambridge's wealthiest constituent college, has decided to divest from all arms companies, Middle East Eye can reveal.This came after MEE revealed in February that Trinity had £61,735 ($78,089) invested in Israel's largest arms company, Elbit Systems, which produces 85 percent of the drones and land-based equipment used by the Israeli army. MEE also reported that the college had millions of dollars invested in other companies arming, supporting and profiting from Israel's war on Gaza. In response to this report, on 28 February the International Centre of Justice for Palestinians (ICJP), a UK-based rights group, issued a legal notice to Trinity College warning that its investments could make it potentially complicit in Israeli war crimes. The ICJP indicated in its legal notice that "officers, directors and shareholders at the college may be individually criminally liable if they maintain their investments in arms companies that are potentially complicit in Israeli war crimes and crimes against humanity". MEE has learnt from three well-informed sources close to Trinity's student union that the college council, responsible for major financial and other decisions, voted to remove Trinity's investments from arms companies in early March. According to these sources, the college decided not to announce that it would divest from arms companies after an activist defaced a 1914 portrait of Lord Arthur Balfour - who authored the infamous Balfour Declaration - inside the college on 8 March.

[livecrow]

Imagine you want to try waxing your pussy, but it turns out to be quite the challenge to actually see what the hell you're doing.

Naturally you ask your boyfriend for help.

Simon won't hear any of it, growls that he's fond of your scruff. "Like 'er jus' the way she is." Her being your snatch.

You pout and try to coax him.

No dice.

You don't give up that easily, obviously. Besides, if you have to, you'll just do it yourself even if it ends up a smidge patchy.

So there you are, full winnie the poohing it on the living room couch, trying to contort yourself this way and that, armed with the waxing strips and a hand mirror. Just trying to get the right angle. The whole spectacle right in front of an unamused Simon.

You spread your knees wide, as wide as you can, to prop up your pussy. Mash your tummy and thighs out of the way, spread your lips out, grunting and whining all the way with exertion while you fumble with the wrapper. You're almost ready to just say "fuck it" and go in completely blind—

You should have been more suspicious when Simon gives in, when he marches over and grunts a short "fine". When manhandles you into an even more uncomfortable and exposed position he finds more suitable.

After the first couple of strips your ready to throw up your white flag and forget about the whole thing. When you tell him as much and try to wriggle out from under him—

Simon just laughs meanly.

"You wanted it, now we're gonna see it through, aren't we?"

Simon'd enjoy your squeals and teary eyes. Every jolt of your body trying to escape the pain your subjecting it to.

"Serves you right for tryin' to deface my sweet'eart."

For how much it hurts, you don't have the awareness to realize he'd actually doing it all somewhat carefully. Each strip layed in the right direction, smoothed down with enough pressure, ripped off in one quick motion. Hell, he even rubs the skin to soothe the sting while he peels the next strip.

...Rubs your pussy. Soothing circles into your heated, plump mons and outer lips that you could almost read as apologetic. He wasn't feeling hardly any sympathy for you, though. No, it was for her.

On the next strip your startled when his thumb actually grazes your clit, while the rest of his palm pulls the skin taught.

You wondered if it was just a slip, but alas. Nothing Simon does is ever an accident.

The traitor peeked out from the hood in interest. Every other strip after that has him stroking your pearl mercilessly, like his own worry stone.

The hot ripping pain melds with pleasure, it isn't long at all before your keening and dripping under his ministrations. It was inevitable.

Simon sounded so put out. Sighing, tisking that you're, "Sloppy fuckin' wet. Strip isn't gonna stick now, is it?" as if you're an idiot, trying to be difficult purpose.

As he chastises you, he crams two thick fingers in your hole, like he's trying to stem a bleeding wound. It punches the air out of your lungs. He tells you you're gonna ruin it, that they'll have to start all over if you keep this up.

He's about as done as he's gonna be, considering your drippy cunt. "Look at 'er. Poor thing's cryin', isn't she?" He coos to your crotch.

Simon turns back to you but his tone isn't sweet, he barks at you to stop squirmin', unless you want him to you fuck you while your still oll raw and stingin'. Since that's clearly what you want now.

He's always givin' you want you want, huh? You're spoiled rotten.

[meanbossart]

Based on the latest art/the famous graveyard scene, or at least my version of it. CW: The usual durge-isms. Astarion's sense of humor.

The graveyard is appropriately silent - there isn’t a proverbial soul to be seen as you stroll through the headstones with lazy strides. You’re so often in a rush to get from one place to the next, how novel it is to meander.

You wonder if either of your souls could tick up the counter; Astarion, a corpse-walking, and yourself something else entirely.

His head, battered and bruised as the rest of your bodies scans through the names etched on their respective places of rest, uncharacteristically quiet ever since you left the Inn. You’re worried. It’s been a dreadful day, and now he’s brought you here - you speak. “Are we defacing any graves tonight?”

Astarion humors you with a stiff grin - no, he says, then he changes it to a maybe, and then he asks you to be patient. His eyes land on a simple stone, half-sunken into the dry ground and overtaken by weeds and vines - a small thing forgotten amidst drunkards and urchins in a dark corner of the dead’s park. He sighs, pushes up his sleeves and snaps the foliage away with his own hands, dusts off the shallow writing and rubs the grime off on his knees - standing back a few feet to look over at his handwork. You squint to read his full name off the rock.

“Ancunin?”

 “Astarion Ancunin.” He scoffs. “I haven’t seen this in… Well, in centuries. I was beginning to wonder if I had an em somewhere in there.”

His amusement dies down.

“I had to punch a hole in the coffin and claw my way through six feet of dirt.

“He must’ve had someone come and smooth out the ground- Cazador, I mean. He was waiting for me here, when I finally surfaced.”

The vampire's eyes have risen from his name. He looks past the rows of gravestones and into the brick walls that surround them, sight glazed over, face drained from feeling. His words, so victorious in choice, just bear a numb uncertainty. He is so tired. “From that day on I was his. Until now.”

You shake your head. “You were never his. Everything he had, he took by force.”

“Maybe. But he did take it. And I can’t get it back.” Astarion shoots you an assertive scowl. “There’s nothing left of the person I was anymore. Just a name on a rock. I need to figure out who I am now - and what I want.”

You struggle to reach out to him. For the thing which he mourns. His words, when they echo within your own, perforated skull, sound to you like a statement of freedom, a relief; you’ve also left behind the person you were, and there is nothing there worth lamenting.

Astarion is different. As vague as his recollection of the past may be, or as favorably as you believe things have turned out for the both of you, eventually - you can’t help but feel like he would still trade it for a do-over. You don’t have it in you to ask if he would be willing to do it even if it meant your absence.

You know the answer.

You try to make your peace with it.

This person that your lover longs for, you didn’t know them, and you didn’t love them. But you do now; and so, you find yourself wanting for nothing.

“What is it that you want right now?”

“You.”

He’s caught in his own lack of hesitation, sullen face brought back to life by a small look of bemusement, of surprise. “I want you. Not just now, I… You were by my side through all of it - the bloodlust as well as the misery. You’ve shown yourself to be patient. And caring.” His words are staggered by chortles. “You are so sweet to me. A shock, frankly, given the most recent discoveries. I often wonder if this was always part of your nature, or just a happy consequence of your… ah”

Astarion’s finger prods uncertain around his own curly head of hair, prompting laughter to rumble up your throat. “Incident.” 

“Perhaps.” You’ve never wondered such things and you never will. “You’re beginning to sound awfully sweet yourself, mister concussion.”

He groans in response, reaching the short distance over to the throbbing bruise on the top of his forehead, next to his temple. It was a close call today, perhaps the closest yet - or you only felt the ever more desperate given what was on the line this time. “Anyway, I should probably fix this.”

You watch as Astarion crouches down in the dirt. With a small dagger he had tucked away in his waistband, he gets to work scratching irregular lines into his neglected headstone.

Astarion Ancunin

His father’s pride, his mother’s starlight, his friend’s joy.

229 NR - 268 NR.

He makes an addition below the numbers.

468 NR.

“Is that the year?”

“Yes.”

He pauses, then proceeds a little less confidently.  “... At least… I think so?”

You both exchange clueless looks before breaking into an ugly cacophony of snorts, Astarion leans with his hand on his memorial and hangs his head down in feigned exasperation, shoulders jerking. You kneel, joining him on top of his undisturbed plot. The vampire shakes his head “It doesn’t matter. I’ve been dead to the world long enough - whatever year it is now, I plan on living it. And I’m not letting anything stand in the way of that.”

He puffs his chest and breathes a lone sight - no subsequent following and no former to speak of. His body sits back onto his shins, hands fall limp on top of his thighs “Not him, not the sun, not some giant brain, and certainly not…

“Come here.”

There was less than a foot between your bodies that the elf now closed. He cups your jaw between his thumb and his pointer-finger, you feel a gentle pressure on your neck as Astarion uses you to leverage himself over - your mouths lock, you feel a scabbed-over cut on his otherwise soft bottom lip, a hard lump that splits and leaks into your gums. You turn,, grab onto him tight - hot palms on the cold nape underneath the collar of his shirt and chest against chest, a sore nose-bridge buried into his gaunt cheek. Your faces break apart and he presses his brow to yours, a passionate kiss turns into a tight embrace. 

You take a long whiff of the crook of his neck “You’ve got me in a kind of way I can’t begin to make sense of.”

Astarion’s hand becomes entangled with the hair at the back of your skull. “I love you too.”

You feel it. The desperation and the future echo of his cracking ribs, the hot, vivid flashes of your digits prying apart bone and reaching into the cavity of his heart - you can’t be close enough to him. You can never step into his skin and he can never leap down your throat. An anxious feeling sinks into your gut as you realise that there is one thing that you still want; even in your waking hours of clarity, even in crystalline sanity, even in moments like these, ones that you hold sacred and wish to shield from depravity.

He murmurs into the side of your face. “Lets have sex. Right here.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to beg?”

The playfulness in his tone is brief. He feels it in your tense shoulders and stiff back - you aren’t teasing him.

You only pull away enough so you can look at him, hands remain latched to his waist. “I’m still afraid of what I might do.”

“I understand.” He doesn’t seem disappointed, only sobered. “Well that puts a slight damper on my plans. No matter.”

“You can help yourself once you’ve tied me up for the night.”

“If I wanted to make love to a rabid mastiff I’d go find a new maniac to lord over me.”

“We could still just… Stay here a while. Together.”

You come off a little pleading. Astarion’s eyes squint when he smiles - “Yes, I… I think I’d like that.”

It’s a little clumsy, the way you sway apart and try to find your footing on the gravel, how your hands slide down each other’s elbows and then lock tightly at the fingers, refusing to let go, new amateur joints; as if men like yourselves who’ve more battles than many do in entire lifetimes couldn’t dream of standing up without the leverage - it’s ridiculous. You’re like little children bumbling to your feet, giggling, trying to catch each other staring as you dangle your locked hands over gravestones and step over rogue bouquets blown by wind.

Everything is fine, everything is well. Your future is certain as is your happily ever after - whatever it may imply. You peruse the cemetery, mocking the dead for the names their parents have given them, their uninspired eulogies and whether or not their dirt happened to smell of piss - you make up stories about the lives they lived and both the horrific or the banal circumstances in which they died. Astarion skips up the stairs to the coffin-maker’s abode, overlooking the scenery - he calls for you to come admire your kingdom, death prince. You laugh, and he laughs, and it all seems so awfully benign.

“That will be king for you soon.”

“Oh, gods - get away from me.”

He knows you aren’t serious. This world has brought you too much joy for you to end it. There hasn’t ever been a moment where you were tempted to do your fathers bidding.

But there’s been moments where you questioned what other choices you had.

Not tonight, however.

Astarion rolls his eyes and takes the hand you reach out to him with. You are yanked towards the paved terrace up the stairs, and you pull him into yourself in a lazy sway by the balustrades. “We will figure something out” You say.

“As always,” Astarion confirms with an emphatic nod of the head, but his gaze is low - he stares at your moving feet. Hand-in-hand and hand-on-hip he’s picked up on what you’re doing; “It’s - left forward, right back, close left, close right, right?”

“That is only if you’re leading.”

“Well then, I guess I’m leading.”

“Be my guest.” 

He places a hand on your waist, you put yours on his deltoid, your boots bump into each other on occasion as you both waltz over uneven stone tiles, first with careful attention until you’ve caught yourselves in a sound-less rhythm. When you raise your eyes you find your partner-in-dance staring on with a rivalling smirk.

“So, you remember how to ballroom dance, yet haven’t got a clue about your own name?”

You ask if that disappoints him, Astarion assures you to the contrary. You both rehearse a dance for an event you will never be going to, and you enjoy every second of it.

[the-most-humble-blog]

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION --> <div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta bat-file="89_rewatch_glitch"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="BLACKSITE_VHS_CORRUPTION_001:BATMAN_SAID_MF" EFFECT: Mandela Effect escalation, memory bleedthrough, cinematic delirium </script>

🦇 THAT TIME BATMAN CALLED THE JOKER A MOTHERF*CKER

---

Let me take you back.

It’s 1989. You’ve just popped that Blockbuster rental copy of Batman into the VCR. Tim Burton. Michael Keaton. Jack F*cking Nicholson. You’re 7 years old, wide-eyed, unsupervised, and this isn’t just a movie — it’s a holy document. A rite of passage. A VHS scroll of Gotham scripture.

You’re deep into it. The museum scene just passed — Joker’s dancing to Prince, defacing priceless art, and trying to woo Vicki Vale with homicidal paint fumes.

Batman busts through the skylight, grabs the girl, batarangs a couple of goons into trauma therapy, and disappears into the night like a cryptid with a grappling hook addiction.

You’re hooked.

But nothing — nothing — prepares you for what happens next.

Bruce is in the Batcave.

He’s running files. Pulling receipts. Zoom-enhancing like a 1989 hacker-savant on high-octane vengeance. And then — he remembers it.

Remembers something Joker said as a homicidal bar off the dome.

> “You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?”

That line. That cursed little nursery rhyme Joker drops before he shoots people in the face with Looney Tunes handguns.

And Bruce pauses.

The air gets thick. He flashes back to that alley. The pearls. The scream. The muzzle flash that turned him from boy to bat.

That line — it’s not just villain shtick. It’s the password to his origin trauma.

Fast forward.

Final act. Cathedral. Joker’s dragging Vicki Vale up what feels like 7,000 haunted stairs. Batman’s in pursuit, pissed, bleeding, emotionally cooked.

The belfry showdown begins.

And here it is.

The moment.

You swear it happened.

Batman grabs Joker by the collar, throws him into a pile of gothic architecture, and rasps out in his Michael Keaton bat-growl:

> “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker.”

Not “scum.” Not “joker.” Not “you killed my parents.”

Motherfucker.

You paused the tape.

You rewound it.

You called your cousin in from the hallway.

> “Did you hear that? He said motherfucker.”

Your cousin shrugs. Your mom yells at you for rewinding too much. Your sibling’s trying to fix the tracking on the VCR.

But deep in your soul?

You know what you heard.

Except…

That line?

Doesn’t exist.

Nowhere in the actual script. Not in deleted scenes. Not in director’s commentary. Not even in the weird foreign dub where Joker laughs in French.

But you remember it.

You remember it.

Clear as day.

That’s how powerful Batman (1989) was.

It didn’t just tell you a story. It installed a glitch in your cortex. A false memory so emotionally potent that it warped VHS playback and left you with cinematic PTSD.

And don’t even get me started on the Joker’s line about rhubarb.

> “Never rub another man’s rhubarb.”

What?

Why?

What does that mean?

We don’t know. We didn’t know then. We still don’t.

But it was iconic. It felt important. It felt like… prophecy.

Let’s be real.

Michael Keaton was unhinged Batman before Bale made it method. Before Pattinson made it depressive. Before Clooney added nipples.

This Batman said “You wanna get nuts? Let’s get nuts,” like a man who eats drywall and challenges demons to bare-knuckle therapy.

So yes.

You remember him saying “motherfucker.” Because it felt earned.

Batman had been holding it in for 90 minutes. For 30 years. For his entire goddamn inner child.

And when he said it? You felt seen.

Mandela Effect?

Maybe.

Or maybe you just had the unrated cut that played only in your head.

And maybe that’s the only cut that matters.

Sleep well.

And if you ever catch a rerun of Batman (1989), turn the volume up. Right at the belfry fight.

And listen closely.

> If you hear it… > If you hear that raspy growl say > “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker…”

You’re not crazy.

You’re just remembering the Bat-F-bomb Timeline that VHS tried to erase.

🦇 Reblog if you swear you heard Batman say “motherf*cker.” 🕰️ Reblog if your childhood memories came with static lines and tracking issues. 🃏 Reblog if Joker’s rhubarb line lives rent-free in your frontal lobe.

💥 Reblog if you’re 91% sure this happened… and 9% willing to fistfight over it.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [AUTO-GLITCH IN: 91% CERTAINTY] -->