#so liberal its painful

[irlgorlockwetnasty]

===WELCOME TO THE SPLASH ZONE==

Hey im Gorlock Wetnasty. Resident bisexual lizard & pround wetnasty. Im 34, i love webkins, and you best believe my brisket is undefeatable.

DO NOT INTERACT (Will permafreeze your energy for this)

o Lesbian gorlock truthers. girl what?

0

o defenders of gorlock x jeffery

o people who think the dragon episode was real.

i keep my crystals charged bitches. dont raise your defense chakras and reach nirvana with me, ugly. ill eat you.

[restricted-on-13th]

You know what's so funny about finding an old anime you watched in childhood

Then learning the main character you stan back then died in season 2?

Pain, pain fuck this gosh, fuckkkk

Then going to fanworks to heal your broken heart and finding out there's a ship with the main character's male friend and that guy is basically the 2nd mc (and apparently there's a kid in the future scenes that looks like the two of them mixed together and im just ????? Wait what the hell, if thats not a sign that its a viable ship then I dont know what is) instantly shipping them then going to read the most highest rating fic of them in ao3

Only to later sob over a Tokyo Ghoul au fic on the ship and the main character dies while his lover walks around in the aftermath of their war, wielding a weapon made from the corspe the mc while holding it like a lover and anyone who sees the guy just gets sad cause they know the implications of what went down between the couple.

Soooooooobbsss

[microwave-core]

I wish that music players on blogs still worked. If they did, I would put this on loop.

[lunar-fey]

they accepted me into the work rehab program! im significantly disabled!!! awesome!!! /genuine

[mellohd]

how it feels finally enjoying making art again after years of hating everything ive created

[steampunkedparm]

we'll never have sex always gets me at the very last line i cant express to you how much this song means to me.

[pretty-little-martyr]

transphobia is so wild man the people at my pharmacy insist on missma'am-ing me when i pick up my testosterone despite having an entire moustache and im just like .diversity win! women can have mustaches and still be women. except i fucking Know if a trans woman was picking up her E and had facial hair theyd he/him her so badly so it sucks. it always reminds me of that "i have D cups, grandpa, the waitress thinks you have dementia" post though. i have a moustache, pharmacy tech, everyone in line behind me thinks you're deranged.

[loveireandblog]

When I'm tired + when I'm sick + when I'm drunk , every feeling that I am in some way disfigured melts away cos the other stresses get strong PLUS right this has been a thing , therapy realm fr but I'll keep it concise, since I was a kid before it got insane like from "wow if I get a cut...it bleeds. And heals. Like others?" (Throw in self harm )And now oh my god the delight in seeing myself get old I'm like woahhh me toooo???? Its SO weird lol. Disassociation but also just . Fracture

[tiramissyoucake]

when do you think that viltrumite mark realized he was in love and how did he first process that??

FUCK YEAH i got carried away here im sorry, dkskfke I had some trouble thinking of this, how would he know reader? Why would he want them? Then this post came to mind.

Something tells me Mark would believe that earth is beautiful, yes. But there's too many evils persisting and leeching off it that it's dying a slow and painful death, he believes he's your liberator.

"So, where IS Viltrum?"

Mark looked up from the telescope you provided, blinking twice. "... it's... very far from here." He didn't elaborate as he leaned down to fit his eye into the glass of the telescope. "You should visit sometime, I hear humans landed on Mars?"

You shrugged as you approached him with an open bag of chips. "I think so, but if its light years away, who's to say how long till we get there?"

He hummed in response, chewing a handful of chips as he offered you the telescope. "Okay, don't move it. But this is what I wanted to show you, that twinkling above one of your constellations is a planet filled with rabid creatures resembling your blobfishes."

You restrained a laugh as you looked in, your smile warmed his heart. "Seriously? Do they like... crawl on land or something?"

"They cling to your skin and bite through flesh, hurts like hell." Mark smiled as you gave a grossed out look. "Like oversized pink leeches."

He barked out a laugh at your description, colorful. "Close enough! Sure!"

"I wonder if there's a space equivalent of sea bunnies..." You murmured, removing yourself from the telescope to glance up at him, he had a wistful expression on his face.

"... I meant what I said before."

"About earth being insignificant?" You recalled as he nodded. "All this technology, this... resilience to power through dark times, yet you haven't discovered a fraction of the vastness that I saw in these galaxies."

The way he looked up at the stars was new, usually he didn't care about them, but now? After spending time with you? It was special. "Yeah, you have to look past that, for all our arrogance, humans aren't that bad."

"Yeah, you're definitely not." You didn't notice when he glanced away from the night sky to smile in your direction.

. . .

The screaming, crying, people panicking as they scrambled to find some sort of safety penetrated the walls and shot into your eardrums no matter how much you cowered in a corner of your house, no matter how hard your palms pressed against the sides of your head. No one expected this— where were you supposed to go? One of those bunkers that have been infiltrated? Your family's home so you could die with them under one roof? Find your friends and escape to some corner of the earth? It's over. This was it.

A creaking noise, gentle but ominous, made itself known. It stood out among the muffled booming and dying screaming. Someone was here.

You covered your mouth and held back your tears, it was one of them, those things, you knew it was aliens, but from where? You had no clue, maybe it was those Flaxans Mark told you about.

"(Name)?" Mark called out, his voice soft as he glanced around. "Come out, it's safe."

Relief flooded your chest as you got up from beneath one of the furniture, hurriedly approaching him and hugging him. "Mark! You're okay— thank God you're okay!" You heaved, his arms circling you and his palm rubbing your back.

"Of course I'm okay," he smiled, taking a comforting whiff of your hair. "We can cuddle later, you have to come with me."

You blinked, confused. "What? Where? Mark—" you grew quiet as you heard a squelching noise when you separated from him, a scent quickly flooding your nose. You looked down at his clothes that were usually a pure and glossy white, a classic Viltrumite uniform, it was now stained with a disgusting red of various shades, old blood, fresh blood, mixing with soot and ash. You glanced down at your own clothes and hands, the blood staining you like a vile infection from the hug you gave him seconds ago.

"You don't have to worry." You looked up, eyes wide and lips trembling. "It's not mine."

"Wh.. What did you do..?" His expression was indescribable, lips pressed to a thin line as he stood his ground. "What I had to, what a Viltrumite has to."

Your home was already dark, the red lights seeping in from the chaos outside made him look otherwordly; some kind of demon, horseman of the apocalypse.

You took a few steps back, your body repulsed by who you assumed was a friend. "Don't look at me like that," he gritted out, approaching you. "Don't look at me like this hasn't been a long time coming, your planet was dying anyway."

"Are you insane?! This isn't your world to declare when it dies or lives!" You found your voice as the fear was replaced with betrayal and rage, disappointment infused among them.

"This is how your world was built, the rich and powerful survive while the lesser fortunate people are forced to die, everything is catered to the strongest." He lifted a bloody hand. "Right now, I'm the strongest thing on this planet-" he gestured to the outside. "-so what I say, goes."

You didn't know what to say, had you taught him that? Was that all he learned from his time on earth? In your house, among your friends, in your favorite places?

"You're killing people," you strained. "Innocent people, it's not fair— the powerful few shouldn't decide for innocent millions!"

"No, I'm liberating your world, but don't worry." He moved too quickly for you to see, using his superpowers on you always left a bad taste in his mouth, but he had to for now, restraining you like some cornered rabbit "You won't miss this planet, Viltrum will suit you better."

That was your last day on earth, cold, scared, covered in blood, and cradled by a murderer.

[queer-scots-geordie-dyke]

Today, January 27, 2025, marks the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau, the largest Nazi death camp, where over 1 million people were murdered in this one facility alone. The almost total annihilation of Jews in Europe during the Shoah means there are now less than 16 million left in the world, a vanishingly tiny 0.2% of the planet's population, almost half of which live in Israel.

Every passing year sees more denial, inversion, and equivocation of the heinous evils of the Holocaust, and the last year and a half has seen a truly horrific rise in antisemitism at its most cruel and vicious, and the gleeful celebration of the worst massacre of Jews since the end of the Holocaust, couched in terms of "resistance" and "freedom fighting" to deny the cold reality that the people celebrating the atrocity of October 7, 2023 are celebrating genocidal antisemites slaughtering and defiling Jewish bodies, just like the Nazis did with relish and abandon.

So, if you've ever, throughout the last year, justified, denied, or equivocated the appalling abuse and crimes against Jews around the world, joined in on wishing for the destruction of a state that houses half of the planet's Jewish population, on their own indigenous land, no less, or dehumanised and laughed at the suffering of the hostages, don't have the bare faced audacity to pretend today that you care about antisemitism or that you hate Nazis - you would have happily stood at their side and swallowed their propaganda whole, just as you've been doing for 15 months. If you’ve done nothing to show your love and support for Jews who have faced an incredibly traumatising, frightening and painful year, perhaps today is the day to commit to doing better, to being better.

Today, and every day, I stand in friendship and solidarity with the Jewish people, both in Israel and in diaspora. Never Forget ✡️💙🎗

[urstruly-ghst]

she - malleus draconia

authors note: nothing, just malleus being so soft for fem!reader

content: fem! reader

malleus draconia who can't believe you're his wife. the way you bring sunshine and joy within him, your shared love makes even the spring bloom blush.

when you both share a life after the chaos of night raven college, malleus couldn't comprehend that life could grow happier with reality. dreams, the one he weaved in his own hands, couldn't compare to the sweet reality of you.

you'd think that with him being prince, he'd be so happy to be willing to spoil you in grandeur, but malleus adores you and the mundane. when you wear your lovely dress and dance around the room, taking the time to check books in the library or when you would gift people random trinkets. its something about the way you'd tie the bow in presents, or when you're cooking the small meals he enjoys.

it was almost as if you made everything fun and full of joy. malleus would always say: "she made the mundane exciting."

proposing to you was just second nature, and so when you became his wife, it felt liberating to be allowed the notion of being your personal worshipper.

oh, how malleus adores his wife. the joys and pain of knowing such fragile human life. malleus takes in everything you offer as if its sacred. he'll take your laughter, your tears, and make them the highlight of his long life.

"my darling wife, the queen of my kingdom and heart, the reality we conquer is sweeter than anything" he'd mutter as you both stare into the stars. you smile and shake your head, unknowing that the day just turned even more heavenly for your malleus draconia.

[norristrii]

FAULT LINE.

“So stay for the night, it’ll bury the crime.” — Your relationship ended, but neither of you seem to let go. It took you multiple nights to realize what’s it all about.

pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader

warnings. angst, hurt/no comfort, mention of sexual activities, unhealthy ex relationship, Lando being dickhead and fuckboy, mention of cheating.

music. Siren Sounds by Tate Mcrae.

FROM THE START, you knew deep down that your relationship with Lando Norris was something of a modern tragedy, destined to unravel in chaos. There was an inevitability to it—a feeling you couldn't shake, no matter how many times you convinced yourself otherwise. Something about the two of you felt doomed, as if the universe itself had conspired to keep you apart.

How could he date someone like you? That question lingered in your mind more than you cared to admit, sowing tiny seeds of doubt that threatened to grow.

Everyone told you he was wrong for you. His party demeanor, his carefree lifestyle—none of it aligned with yours. You heard the whispers, the warnings, the concerned looks that came with every mention of his name. He wasn’t the type to settle down, they said. He wasn’t the type to treat you the way you deserved. But you didn’t want to believe them. You couldn’t, because to believe them would mean letting go of the image you had built of him in your mind.

For a while, you held onto hope, believing that perhaps your connection was different, special. You thought you saw sides of him that others didn’t, glimpses of vulnerability that he only showed to you. Maybe, just maybe, you could be the one to change him.

But hope has its limits, and reality eventually makes its way through even the most determined denial. At least you found out the truth—he cheated. The realization hit like a blow to the chest, knocking the wind out of you. You had seen the signs, of course. The late-night texts, the moments when he seemed distant, distracted. But you ignored them, telling yourself it was nothing, that he cared for you more than he let on.

When the truth came out, it shattered the fragile illusion you had been holding onto. You didn’t scream or cry, at least not in front of him. Instead, you stood there, numb, as he fumbled for excuses that you didn’t want to hear. The betrayal burned, the realization that you had ignored the warnings, pushed aside the doubts, only to end up here, heartbroken and questioning everything.

You knew from the beginning that it was destined to be a disaster. But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

For the first time in your life, you had done something purely for yourself. You had walked away from the chaos, from the heartbreak, from Lando Norris. It was liberating, empowering even. You told yourself you were done, that you were moving on, that you deserved better. But then, as if he could sense your newfound strength, Lando started to pull you back in.

It began with the texts—short, simple messages that carried far more weight than they should have. “I miss you,” he’d write, and you’d stare at the screen, torn between deleting the message and replying. Then came the calls, his voice on the other end of the line, soft and familiar, stirring emotions you thought you had buried. Sometimes, those calls ended with him at your doorstep, his presence filling the space you had tried so hard to make your own.

Even though you told yourself you were far from over him, the truth was undeniable. You loved him. Part of you hated him, too, for the pain he had caused, for the betrayal that had shattered your trust. But you couldn’t let him go. No matter how much you tried, no matter how many times you told yourself it was over, he had a hold on you that you couldn’t break.

If he wanted to be a casual fling, a “fuckbuddy,” as you bitterly called it in your mind, you’d let him. Because the thought of losing him again was unbearable. You’d rather have him in fragments than not at all. It was a tragic compromise, one that left you feeling hollow and conflicted, but it was the only way you knew how to keep him in your life.

Every time he came over, you told yourself it would be the last. You’d let him in, share a moment of intimacy, and then promise yourself you’d end it. But when he looked at you with those unforgettable eyes, when he smiled that devastating smile, all your resolve crumbled. He was your weakness, your addiction, and no matter how much you hated yourself for it, you couldn’t walk away.

“I have to go,” Lando said abruptly, his voice cutting through the stillness of the room. He was already moving, quickly getting up from the bed and gathering his clothes from the floor in a hurried, almost frantic manner. You lay there, still trying to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling as you watched him. The sight was all too familiar—him leaving, always leaving.

“Like always,” you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes as you sat up and began to pull on your clothes. The words were laced with bitterness, but you didn’t bother to hide it. Why should you? This wasn’t the first time, and you knew it wouldn’t be the last. He was always in a rush, always somewhere else to be, someone else to see.

There was no aftercare, no lingering moments of tenderness, no asking how you were doing. Nothing. It was as if the sex you just had evaporated the moment he decided it was time to leave. The bed still carried the warmth of his presence, but the room already felt colder, emptier.

You glanced at him as he pulled his shirt over his head, his movements quick and efficient, like he was checking off a task on a to-do list. He didn’t even look at you, didn’t notice the way your expression hardened, the way your hands trembled slightly as you buttoned your shirt.

This was the pattern, the routine you had come to expect. And yet, every time it happened, it stung just as much as the first. You told yourself you were fine with it, that you didn’t need more from him, but deep down, you knew that wasn’t true. You wanted more—more than hurried goodbyes and empty promises, more than being just another pitstop on his endless journey.

You followed him to the kitchen, your feet moving before your mind could decide why. There he was, standing by the counter, tossing his keys in his hand as if he couldn’t wait to leave. “See you later. I love you,” he said casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Every word of that sentence landed like a question in your head. See you later? Absolutely not. And I love you? Did he even mean it, or was it just something he said out of habit? It made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t quite put into words.

“Yeah, of course,” you snapped, cutting him off mid-departure. The edge in your voice was unmistakable, sharp enough to make him stop in his tracks. His hand froze on the doorknob, and he turned to face you, his brows furrowed. “What’s wrong?” he asked, stepping closer, his voice softer now.

You crossed your arms, the tension in your body rising with every step he took toward you. Oh, so now he cares? you thought bitterly. It was ironic, really. When he was cold, distant, disappearing without a second thought, it was fine. He didn’t ask how you felt, didn’t stay long enough to notice. But now, when you mirrored that same detachment, it wasn’t okay. Now, he wanted answers.

“Nothing,” you shrugged casually, your tone as indifferent as you could muster. Right, nothing was wrong. Why was he even asking that? The question felt hollow, almost laughable, given the circumstances. You turned away slightly, avoiding his gaze, as if the act of looking at him might unravel the fragile composure you were clinging to.

“You know I love you,” he said, his voice soft but insistent, as though repeating the words would make them true. But for you, they were far from the truth. You didn’t know it. How could you? Love wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like a constant tug-of-war between hope and heartbreak, between wanting more and settling for less.

“You say that only because we fuck,” you reminded him, your voice sharp and cutting. The words hung heavy in the air, a brutal truth you couldn’t hold back any longer. You knew why he said those words, why he threw them out so casually. They weren’t rooted in love; they were a reflex, a way to keep you tethered to him. And you hated that you let them work.

He looked confused, his brows furrowing as he tried to process your accusation. “That’s not true,” he started, but his voice faltered, lacking conviction. You could see the cracks in his confidence, the way your words had shaken him. For once, he didn’t have a quick comeback, didn’t know how to charm his way out of the situation.

“That is true, Lando,” you said, your laugh tinged with sarcasm, the bitterness slipping through despite your best efforts to mask it. You wished—no, you longed—for his visits to be driven by love, by something deeper, something real. But you knew better. You knew why he was here, and it wasn’t for the reasons you wanted.

“You’re here only because you’re horny,” you sighed, the words heavy with resignation. You crossed your arms, trying to steady yourself, to stand your ground even as your heart wavered. The truth was out now, hanging in the air between you like a storm cloud. You watched his expression shift, the faint flicker of confusion crossing his face.

“And if you don’t remember,” you added, your voice firmer now, “we are broken up.” The words felt like a shield, a reminder to yourself as much as to him. You weren’t supposed to be doing this, letting him back into your life, into your bed, into your heart. But here you were, caught in the same cycle, trying desperately to break free.

Lando paused, his hand still resting on the edge of the counter. His brows furrowed slightly, as if he were trying to process what you had just said. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his tone defensive, almost incredulous. It was as though the idea of his intentions being questioned had never even crossed his mind.

You shook your head, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Don’t act like you don’t know,” you said, your voice quieter now but no less resolute. “You come here, you say the things you think I want to hear, and then you leave. It’s always the same.”

For some reason, he was quiet now. Maybe because, for once, you were telling the truth he couldn’t deny. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, and it only fueled your frustration. “Oh my god, Lando!” you shouted, your voice breaking the stillness as you threw your hands in the air. “Why don’t you even try to defend yourself a bit?” Your words came out sharp and raw, laced with the bitterness of all the times he had made you feel small, unseen.

He flinched at your outburst, his gaze dropping to the floor, but his lips remained sealed for a long moment. Then, finally, he spoke. “I love you, Y/n, but it’s just not that simple.” His voice was low, almost pleading, as though he expected those words to be enough to fix the shattered pieces between you.

But they weren’t. Not anymore. You were done being nice, done bending over backward in desperation to keep something alive that was slowly killing you inside. You were done clinging to empty words and hollow promises. “Can you stop lying, Lando?” you shot back, your tone venomous, toxic in its delivery. “Can you stop lying for at least a second in your damn life?”

His head snapped up, his expression shifting between confusion and hurt. “I’m not lying,” he said quietly, but you didn’t believe him. Not a single word. His declarations of love felt cheap, as fleeting as the visits where he left you feeling more broken than before.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself for what you were about to say. The words came unfiltered, raw, and unrestrained. “I’m done,” you said, your voice firm and unwavering. “I’m done with this shit. I’m done with you.” The weight of your declaration hung heavy in the air, and for the first time, you felt a sense of clarity, as though the fog of confusion and heartbreak had finally lifted.

“What do you mean?” Lando asked, his expression shifting to one of disbelief. It was almost comical, the way he looked at you now, as if he didn’t understand English anymore. His confusion only fueled your anger, the fire burning hotter with every second he stood there, pretending not to know.

“Get off of my fucking eyes, that’s what I mean,” you snapped, your voice sharp and cutting. You wouldn’t beg again, wouldn’t plead for him to stay or try to fix what was already broken beyond repair. You were done being the one who cared more, who tried harder, who sacrificed everything for someone who gave so little in return. “You ruined everything,” you added, the words spilling out like a final blow.

“But I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said, his tone soft, almost pleading. No way. Was he joking now? The audacity of his words made your blood boil. How could he stand there, after everything he had done, and say something so utterly meaningless?

“You should have thought of that before you cheated, asshole,” you shot back, your voice dripping with venom. The truth was out now, and there was no taking it back. You weren’t holding anything in anymore, weren’t sugarcoating your pain to make him feel better. He deserved to hear it, every word, every ounce of anger and betrayal you had bottled up for far too long.

“Get out,” you said, your voice firm and steady as you pointed at the door. The finality in your tone echoed in the room, leaving no space for negotiation. Lando froze, his hand still resting by his side, as his eyes locked onto yours one last time. Those green eyes—piercing, unforgettable, the ones that had once undone you every time—met your gaze, pleading silently for a chance. But this time, you felt none of the pull that had always kept you tethered to him. This time, you resisted.

“No, just let me explain—” he began, his voice desperate, his words rushed as if he could fix everything if he only spoke fast enough. But you wouldn’t let him. You wouldn’t let him use his excuses or empty promises to worm his way back into your life.

“Get out before I call the police,” you interrupted, your voice cutting through his plea like a knife. Your words carried an unmistakable edge, final and unyielding, daring him to challenge you. You stood your ground, your hand still pointing toward the door, your expression resolute. You weren’t going to beg anymore, nor would you let yourself fall for his attempts to salvage what was already irreparably broken.

Lando hesitated, his expression shifting from desperation to something unreadable. For a moment, it seemed as though he might protest, try one more time to explain, to reason with you. But the weight of your command—the realization that you wouldn’t bend this time—settled over him, and he finally relented. Without another word, he turned away, his movements stiff and mechanical, like he was forcing himself to leave.

The sound of the door opening and closing echoed through the room, marking his departure with a harsh finality. You stood still for a moment, staring at the empty space where he had been, your chest tight with a mixture of relief and lingering pain. You had done it—made him leave, chosen yourself for once. But the victory felt bittersweet, as if closing this chapter had come at a cost you weren’t yet ready to fully comprehend.

The room was quiet now, but the silence felt different. It wasn’t suffocating, wasn’t filled with the tension of unspoken words. It was lighter, freer, and for the first time, you felt like you could breathe. You exhaled slowly, letting the weight of him, of everything he had put you through, begin to slip away.

You were alone now, but it didn’t feel like a loss. It felt like the start of something new—something that was yours, something that didn’t revolve around him anymore.

[toorumlk]

the importance of art and safety.

(in this period of descent into fascism)

If you're a liberal/left-leaning person like me, you have been voraciously keeping up with local, provincial/state and federal politics, and with the world news, using all avenues available to you to try and make sense of the tumultuous time were living through. And thus, with each passing day, you've probably been inundated with the F-word more and more from the news/political commentators you follow, from the images attached in the articles you read, and the academics and journalists you trust. Fascism. With the recent ruling from the UK Supreme Court saying that the legal definition of a woman is solely going to be rooted in biology and seeing the jubilant celebration surrounding it, I can’t help but feel like we just took one more monumental step in the global death march towards fascism.

I’m scared and very worried.

Of course, this isn’t really about my own personal feelings of fear because overall, I will be quite alright. I’m a bisexual, leftist woman and arts and culture person living in Canada, in a dependably liberal-to-progressive riding and city. Yes, my country has a federal election coming up and there is a chance we might (strong emphasis on ‘might’) elect a right-wing reactionary buffoon of our own in the form of Pierre Poilievre, but center and left-of-center Canadians were given a hail Mary in the new liberal party leader Mark Carney, who’s performing better in the early polls everyday. So, we might not have to worry that much at all. Yes, the cost of living is still abysmal (as my friends and I keep saying: girl, the tariffs), and going through life’s very human struggles is still excruciating but ultimately, bearable. Spring, the best season, is well on its way and the days are getting longer and you see that your neighbour’s tulip bulbs are peaking out from the soil and you’re able to go home and give your cat a big kiss on the cheek as they reward you with an annoyed and disgruntled meow.

And so you feel emotionally regulated enough to then go on your daily news binge and find that another university student in the US got black-bagged for expressing pro-Palestine views, you see images of the destruction of Gaza and the concentration prison/camps in El Salvador, and then that the boomer British lady who authored the books that have been bringing so much joy and fulfillment to your art practice donated 70 000 euros to a feminist organization that was the plaintiff fighting to disenfranchise an already marginalized minority group. And you’re left feeling quite… dirty and doom-ridden and powerless while standing in the middle of the cushy imperial core.

Your cat who was annoyed you picked them up earlier has forgiven you now, though, and is headbutting you for some catnip.

But this isn’t about me, not in the slightest. I/we know how these things go. I’m not a history buff by any means (though I really want to be) but I have a basic enough understanding of world history to know we’re already in the throes of fascism: with the targeting and scapegoating of vulnerable minorities like the trans community or the complete hatred and want for disposal of migrants – I feel a deep and suffocating grief for my fellow comrades.

This pain, I believe, is all our duties as human beings with the gift and responsibility of empathy, to feel.

I’m also hyperaware that with the downward fall into fascism comes the defunding and eventual erasure and censorship of art. Now I’m not saying my art is worthy or important enough to be censored. But I am saying we need art; we need as much of it as there can be for our emotional needs which is imperative for our survival. I don’t mean to say this in a hyperproduction/hyper consuming way, of course, we just need human artists, humane art (whatever that means to you) now more than ever.

I’m a political person, and my leftist and feminist principles and values I think show up quite plainly in my work but again, I don’t think I’m making anything radical here – my art I think is just one small piece in a greater human need to make and experience art. Therefore, I’d be remiss to say it wasn’t important. I know my work is important in that I know it means something to people. This community here for instance, or on twitter/x, Instagram or tiktok, which I feel like the luckiest person alive to have somehow conjured, that means something to me, and I’d be glaringly obtuse if I didn’t acknowledge it. So, I sincerely want you to know my art exists not only as the physical manifestation of this vocation of mine, but also as a source of safety and comfort for your senses, if you need it to be.

As much as I want to be, I’m not an activist, I’m just an artist. And my art is the one (I hope) iron-clad thing I can give to the world and the beautiful, worthy of lives of dignity, people within it. Joy and comfort aren’t a solid political program on its own and I know art consumption alone is not going to lead us to liberation, self-determination and lives of dignity. But, my god, do we still need joy, comfort and safety in the form of art to get through each day.

To my nonbinary and trans friends and siblings, I am so, so fucking sorry powers greater than us are using you as pawns for political theatre, and that so many restless people are using you as political punching bags. The world we’re living through is incredibly unfair and unjust at the moment. Your pain is our pain, none of us are free until all of us are free. So, I want you to know that my little pictures and I are here, fighting alongside you.

I know Harry Potter, the IP and the storyworld with its characters, isn’t what’s causing our dissent into fascism. And I know, realistically, I’m not the devil’s spawn for still liking it, for making cute artwork of the titular main character’s best friends for its fandom. I can’t explain in words why I feel such an affinity to this story, this very entry-level story about fighting fascism, with its anti-social megalomaniac villain and its painfully liberal/reformist politics. My pull towards it is deep, abstract, and almost spiritual, and if I could succinctly put these feelings and magnetism into words, I probably wouldn’t be making this much art like my life depended on it. And the awful truth of it is, I’ve never been more artistically fulfilled. I’m so happy while making this work and my cup becomes fuller after each drawing, I selfishly don’t want to stop. Does that make me awful?

A lot of my peers, fellow fanartists, have been considering leaving the fandom altogether and it’s left me feeling a kind of panic because, quite frankly, I don’t want to. Not until the creative reserve (which is rooted in my love and other abstract feelings for the story) within me has run dry, which it hasn’t. And after I realized this, I felt a little ashamed that I wasn’t feeling what others are also feeling, but I think the knee-jerk reaction to leave and disavow this community because of the cartoonishly mean-spirited author (who ironically made this story about love, friendship and fighting fascism) also feels hasty and reactionary. I understand the impulse, I really do. I recognize I have a vested interest in saying this, but I sincerely think we need art now more than ever, if any of my peers are reading this: your art. Thoughtful art, art that is an exercise in empathy. I’m also saying this because I feel a deep sense of responsibility to my friends (majority of whom are also queer and trans) I’ve made through our shared love of this story, to fellow fans and the people I’ve been privileged enough to have touched with my art.

This discomfort of still harboring love for this flawed but ultimately lovable and beloved story during this time of political unrest and chaos, and continuing to express my love for it by creating artwork for it… is something I will just have to live with until it’s run its course. I don’t think this is a righteous grief by any means – I think the mundanity of it is what’s making it especially annoying.

Quivering in the face of good art is I think one of the best feelings in the world, and though I sincerely believe the HP story to be good and adequate in its political and class commentary, this squirming isn’t exactly that. I’m immensely (and selfishly) resentful to JKR for being the mean-spirited bully/troll that she is, not only do I wish she weren’t a right-wing reactionary, I wish her tomfoolery didn’t make me squirm uncomfortably (the word I’m looking for here is ‘cringe’) while still genuinely enjoying this work. Nonetheless, I’m confident in my ability to engage with this story intelligently and I hope to continue to share my thoughts and love for this narrative through posts and meta/cultural analyses and many, many drawings of Ron and Hermione kissing. I am also steadfast in my political convictions, which are so much older than the just-over-a-year-old love I have for these books. My political convictions which have always been and will always continue to be pro-trans, feminist, anticapitalist and grounded in my love and empathy for people.

I don’t have all the answers to how and why we are so drawn to certain stories and characters and tribes (because fandom in a fundamental way acts like a tribe), and why we so profoundly need to keep making and keep experiencing art. Or how to even best live with the contradictions that exist within and outside of us. I’m just a young artist, still in the infancy of my career in many ways, but something in my bones is telling me this is important work, and I should keep doing it – with all its squirming discomfort, and its wonderful, beautiful fulfillment.

Again, we are living through incredibly difficult times, but we must make it through, and we will. I will keep making work that I hope is thoughtful and politically principled, and I hope you’re able to find some joy and comfort in them as I do while making them.

- nus :)

[getitoutofmymindwrites]

The falling | joel miller x f!reader, 5k

Summary: It’s a weird feeling, the moment you realize you’ve lost everything. You're falling. It is never ending, the falling, even after the moment, that exact moment, is long gone. Or you catch Joel cheating on you. The world comes crushing down.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, ANGST. That's it. Ok, bye. But seriously, angst, a whole lot of angst, alternated POVs, husband!joel, wife!reader, cheater!joel, married couple, Joel fucks another f!person, reference to sexual activity but nothing too detailed, as I said before-ANGST, excessive use of the word fuck, Joel is kind of a dick on this one, as always let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: Let me know how you feel about this lost little puppy, I know he sounds arrogant and awful, maybe I can rectify that, on a second part. If you're interested in a closure for these two, hit me in the comments! Thank you for taking the time to read anything I write! Love you all! 🥰😘

Dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

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It’s a weird feeling, the moment you realize you’ve lost everything.

Everything dear and loved and cherished and so close to your heart. Your heart itself.

You still can’t decide if it’s liberating or torturing, to have that exact moment burned in your thoughts like a Polaroid.

But the pain is real. The pain is excruciating. It spreads like vines through your whole body, starting from the pit of your stomach in the form of a bile you try to hold back, moving to your heart’s agonizing clench, licking to the ends of your numb limbs which remain obstinately immobile. It feels almost like floating, but not exactly.

You’re falling; you’re still falling as if there’s no luxurious, expensive floor underneath your feet, holding you surprisingly still up. You wait for the landing, the crush, unmoving, unblinking, not quite breathing. It is never ending, the falling, even after the moment, that exact moment, is long gone.

Your designer’s tote bag, another unnecessarily extravagant gift from your husband, drops from your hands to the floor with a loud thud.

Joel’s thrusts stop immediately and he turns his head to look behind him, while he’s on his knees, balls deep in a female body on all fours. His eyes shut tightly in something you’re not sure how to interpret, dropping his head between his shoulder blades and his palms squeeze the hips of the female body he's holding, until his fingertips go white.

And you’re just standing there, on the threshold of your bedroom, taking in the scene. It’s weird how the mind works under stressful situations. Is the absurdity of the reality that keeps you calm? Is it your brain’s reaction to protect you from collapsing? Are you shutting down right now?

You feel your eyes unable to move around and at the same time you see clearer than ever, as if you’re looking through a wide-angle lens.

You notice all of the stripped clothes, which they don’t seem hastily taken off, the way they pool on various surfaces of the room; they took their time undressing each other.

You notice the crystal tumbler of a half finished liquid, Joel’s whiskey, on his side of the nightstand; they took their time having fun.

You notice the absence of a condom on Joel’s cock as he removes himself from the female hole he was buried deep, all splayed out for him and now you; they took their time before, it seems, there is an intimacy there. This is not a stranger, this is not a first time.

Joel is calm, collected even, as he stands to his full height, grabbing his pants from the floor next to the king sized bed and putting them on. Calculated, steady movements, he looks like he’s trying to stay in control of the situation, diminish it to something else. You pray he doesn’t go down that path.

You look behind him, the female body’s gathering itself into a ball, sitting on your bed now, hands hugging it’s knees, trying to protect its nudity. Your eyes roam her form until they settle on her face. Oh, you know her. She looks -hm, there’s a mosaic of emotions behind her eyes, which are surprisingly bold to look back at you. You see shock, you see fear, you see.. satisfaction?

“Darlin’” Joel’s approaching you, crossing the ridiculously big room, with a steady pace.

His chest is heaving from the effort to regulate his breathing, he’s sweaty, his muscles all bulged from the interrupted fucking, his curls -your curls, fuck, that hurts- damp. He’s so handsome in all his disheveled form. He looks like your Joel.

Imaginary flashes of her fingertips combing through his hair are passing through your mind and you feel your esophagus contracting, a sense of a burning hot liquid moving up to your mouth. You swallow it down.

He reaches to touch your arm, don’t you dare, is all you mutter lowly, still without moving a muscle as if you do, the world will come crushing down. It already did, didn’t you get the memo? Your voice feels foreign to your ears, your tongue feels rough like sandpaper. He obeys.

When does this falling end?

“Baby-”, he tries again, while he steps forward, a condescending tone to his voice, like he’s addressing a toddler.

“Don’t-”, you roll your eyes in your head, god, he smells so good, even with the sweat someone else poured out of his skin, he smells so fucking good. He smells like your Joel. “Don’t come any closer.”

“This-” he exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, as if it’s an unnecessary effort to explain, as if you should understand; of all people, you should know, “this doesn’t mean anything-” his hand gesturing between him and the female body, “she doesn’t mean anything.” You should understand, baby, you should know.

And for the first time her eyes leave yours and land on the face of the deceiver. If this wasn’t happening to you right now, you would take pity on her pained expression. You almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Does she know that?” you ask him, your eyes never leaving her tangled form on your bed.

Joel snaps his head to her direction, narrowing his eyes in warning, “Yes, she does.”, his voice comes out strict and final, signaling there’s no room for doubt. He doesn’t sound like your Joel.

“I need you to leave.”, you breathe barely audible, your eyes still on her face; now she doesn’t know where to look, the rug pulled out from under her feet from the man she had inside her minutes ago.

His gaze is cold and indifferent, as if everything is her fault, looking still in her direction. She looks like a deer caught in the headlights, the empathetic part of your brain feels for her.

“Get your shit and get the fuck out, what are you waiting for?” he snaps at her.

“Not her, you.” you whisper, it’s impossible to speak louder, all of your energy powers your two standing feet.

He turns to look at you, shocked, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.

“Wh- what are you talking about, sweetheart?” he tries to reason with you, “We need to talk, to-”

“Joel-”, you try again and thank god he’s interrupting you, you don’t have the strength to negotiate right now. Let the dice roll. It’s all fucked, anyway.

“This is my home; I’m not leaving.” he simply states, shaking his head from side to side, staring at you expectantly.

“You’re right. This is your house.” you acknowledge, coming to a painful realization. “Everything is yours; you own everything, don’t you?”, you smile sadly, crouching down to collect you bag.

You turn on your heels and leave the residence formerly known and felt as home, behind you.

Alarm system disabled.

Joe’s hairs are rising on the nape of his neck, when he checks the alarm app notification on his phone, thinking you came back home.

It’s been an awful month without you, without being able to contact you. He knew where you were of course, he could not for the life of him leave that information escape him, but he didn’t pressure you with an unexpected visit, he knew better.

It’s been a month. That’s plenty of time. You took your time and now you’re ready to talk. You have to be, this can’t be the end of this relationship, this marriage.

He presses your number and hits call. Fuck, he’s still blocked. Maybe you forgot to unblock him, it’s ok, it doesn’t mean anything.

He checks the house’s cameras. Shit. That’s not you. What is she doing there? What the fuck is going on? Alright, he’s going back to the house.

He stands on his feet, right in the middle of a meeting with the board and just leaves them. There’s a distant muttering of where does he think he goes, what happened, what’s gotten into him, this is important for the upcoming deal, but he pays no mind to them.

He needs to talk to you.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got everything you need,” Maria facetimes you, showing around your closet via her camera. “I’m loading the suitcase to the car and I’m out of here.”

“Thank you Mar-”

“MARIA?” Joel’s voice travels through the space from the ground floor, up.

“Shit, shit, shit, what am I gonna do?” Maria whispers to you turning the call to voice only.

“Just take the suitcase and leave, it’s ok, I only got personal stuff if that’s what he’s worried about. Let him check if it comes to that.”, you try to calm her down.

“Ok, ok-” Maria grabs the handle of the suitcase and moves to leave the walk-in closet.

“Hey.” Joel comes through the door to the bedroom taking in the scene. He hasn’t set foot in this room for nearly a month now.

“Hey.” Maria sounds pissed on the line.

“What are you doing here? Where's Tommy?”, Joel’s face frowns in question. “Tommy's not my keeper, his my partner. My husband, not that you would know what that means, apparently.” Maria just shrugs and moves to pass him by.

“What are you doing, what’s going on here?” he insists, blocking her way.

“I’m just collecting som-”

“How is she? Is she ok?” his voice softening when he asks about you.

“Oh, please, Joel, how is she? Really?” Maria scoffs at him. “She doesn’t want to see you, Joel or hear from you, that’s how she is.”

“Yeah, I gathered that much, thank you.” he mocks back. “Is she on the phone, can I just talk to her?” he extends his arm to reach for the phone. “Over my dead and cold body.” Maria says, pressing the phone on her chest.

His eyes are raging storms, his nostrils flaring with quiet rage. He takes a deep breath “Can you please ask her if I can talk to her, just for five minutes?”

“Why don’t you call her, Joel?” Maria taunts him, emphasizing the pronunciation of his name.

Joel just stares back at her, unfazed. Maria doesn’t move a muscle, lifting an eyebrow quizzically. Well, she did move one muscle.

Joel sighs exasperatedly “She blocked my number.”

“I wonder why that is.” Maria twists the knife, “I guess you have your answer, then.”

“Christ-” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “just- just ask her, please.”

Maria lifts the phone to her ear, rolling her eyes in frustration in the process. “Hey, Joel’s here, he’s ask-”

“Yeah, I heard everything.” you interrupt her, “No, I don’t want to talk to him.” Maria is shaking her head negatively at him as you talk, to pass the message.

Joel’s face goes cold and emotionless. “Well, tell her if she wants her belongings, she needs to come and get them herself.”

It’s been five weeks now and you can’t keep living in your best friend’s and sister in law's clothes. You’re gonna have to go and grab your stuff yourself.

Because it wasn’t enough what you’ve been through, what you’ve heard until you reached that goddamned bedroom door, what you’ve witnessed when you’ve entered, now he’s making you go back there to humiliate you. As you’re checking your calendar for your work schedule to decide on a suitable day, it hits you. You have Joel’s calendar on your phone, too. You always do, it was the only way to have some time together between his visits to work sites and board meetings and bussiness trips and fucking-behind-your-back, apparently.

And then you remember that day where you both stole some time off and decided to spend it cuddling with each other on the couch, talking nonsense and laughing at silly things and hugging and kissing and fucking all night long.

A brainstorm of thoughts run through your head instantly. How could he do that to you? He looked so happy in your arms. Maybe he was right, maybe it was nothing, maybe you should understand, you of all people, you should know. Do you need to do an STD test? How careless could he be? Where there others? Did he ever love you? Do you want to know?

Does it really matter?

You focus again on that day. He’d told you about a big deal coming up, one of the biggest in his career, if not the biggest so far and how important it was to the future of the company.

You searched frantically through his calendar until you found the date of the final meeting, the date where they’d seal the deal. Because there is no way they weren’t. If Joel wanted it so badly, he’d find a way to make it happen.

And you knew your husband, ironic as is sounds now. He was focused to a fault. He wouldn’t even check his phone that day. He’d done it every time since you were together. History indicated that he probably had other reasons, too, for not checking his phone in a timely manner, but you wouldn’t dwell on that. Not right now. Because now you had your chance.

That date was your chance.

Alarm disabled.

Joel’s phone is vibrating momentarily, not that he noticed, it was silent and tacked away in his jacket pocket, the jacket itself hanging on the back of his chair.

Don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up, don’t fuck it up, he’s chanting in his mind, under all this calm and confident demeanor, he’s sweating inside.

This is it, this is it, this is it, he repeats like a mantra, watching his opposite CEO, Leo Marks, playing with the pen between his fingers. He’s inspecting the contract again and he’s so close, so close to what he wanted. The room is silent, the long table full of seated lawyers and consultants from both sides, holding their breaths in charged expectation.

Joel knows that Marks is going to sign. He knows it. He worked for it. He convinced him, he made his vision clear as day and he lured him in. This is it. He got this.

Then your face appears in his mind. No, not today, he can’t do this today. You will have to wait. Like you always have. Joel shakes his head slightly, as if to remove you from his thoughts. His fingers get itchy, he wishes he could just check on you. Yes, he just want to check on you.

Are you alright? Are you thinking about him? Do you miss him like he does? Do you stay wide awake at night replaying the same scene over and over until you feel physically ill? Do you know that he thinks about you? Did he show you at all that night? Maybe he should have appeared at your friend’s door out of the blue. Maybe you think he doesn’t care. All he was trying to do was give you space. Respect your boundaries. Let you work everything out.

Fuck.

He reaches for his phone. He doesn’t know why. He knows his number is still blocked. He checks every night, when he's too exhausted from the lack of sleep and prays he could listen to your voice, or the soft sound of your breath when you slept next to him. But he fishes it out of his jacket pocket, anyway and then he sees it.

38 minutes ago.

Alarm disabled.

Alarm disabled. Alarm disabled. Alarm disabled, the only thought repeated in his head. He immediately searches the cameras for you but no movement is recorded right now. Maybe you already left. His heart rate spikes, his temples feel the pressure of his blood pumping violently in his veins. Cold sweat pours out of his body.

He’s squeezing his eyes shut, mentally counting all the places without cameras inside the house. What if you are still in there and he just can’t see you?

Fuck.

Mark’s voice extract him from his thoughts, “Mr. Miller, everything looks in order as we agreed.”

Joel snaps his eyes back to him, slightly irritated, “Of course it does, your legal team already did a thorough check all these months to get us here today.”

“Yes, yes,” Marks laughs entertained, “I just wanted to look it over one more time, I mean, we really are going to…”

What if you’re still there? What if this is his chance? He could always try to reach you after the deal, convince you to hear him out. Yeah, he can do that. He doesn’t need to chase you down. He can wait a little bit longer, can’t he? He can have it all, right? He was the man that had it all.

A mail pops up on his phone, a compliment note from the management of one of both your favorite hotels in Europe, thanking you for choosing their establishments for your stay, once again. Shit. You’re fleeing the fucking country? Are you fucking serious?

“..Mr. Miller?” Marks insists.

“Hm?” his eyes are glued to the screen of his phone.

“I said, before we sign, I need you to walk me through it one more time.” he demands like a little child asking for its favorite bedtime story. “I mean, this is the project of my dreams. I need your reassurance that this is as important for you as it is for us, that it’ll be your only focus for the foreseeable future.” he looks at Joel expectantly.

His only focus.

For the foreseeable future.

Fuck.

“HONEY!”. Your blood runs cold in your veins to the sound of his baritone voice. Your hand freezes over the shelf with the t-shirts, not making a sound. You didn’t take that long, why is he here? Why isn’t he in his meeting?

Joel enters the bedroom but you’re not there. Fuck, you hear the curse running softly from his lips. You don’t move, you don’t blink, you don’t breathe.

He moves to leave and check elsewhere but then he stops. You hear soft steps and you see the door of the walk-in closet opening. His wide form blocks the light from the outside, his broad shoulders almost taking up all the space of the frame.

He looks disheveled, his baby blue shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned at the top, his hair a mess, like he kept combing his fingers through them. You don’t dare meet his eyes though. You keep your gaze as far as his chin goes, concentrating on the bare patch there. His sole presence electrifies you like he’s already touched you. Your whole body feels on fire and frozen simultaneously. God, you missed him.

“I was calling for you.”, he breathes out and you can feel his fear pulsing through his body. He’s scared you’re gonna run. That’s why he doesn’t leave his spot, blocking the door.

“I know.”

“Were you hiding from me?” his brows are furrowed in a seemingly pained expression from what your peripheral vision could help you understand.

“No, I just chose not to answer you.”, you lower your head, looking at your feet.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” you say hastily, but he’s waiting for a real answer. You breathe deeply, “It- it felt too domestic, you calling for me, me answering back, like how we were before.” He nods, biting his bottom lip. “What are you doing here, Joel?”

“In our house?” the edges of his lips are slightly turned up, his head tilting to one side.

“No, this is your house as you said yourself.”

“Darlin’, you know I didn’t mean it like that..” he sighs in regret, his head deepening in his shoulder blades in an effort to attract your gaze upwards.

“But you’re right.”

“I built it for you.” his voice soft, like it’s a secret meant to stay that way.

“Hm.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” his brows raise in genuine surprise.

“Nothing, forget it.”

“No, tell me.”

“You first.”

He looks perplexed, he forgot your question.

“What are you doing here, right now, Joel?”

“I got the alarm notification and.. it was the only way I could talk to you, honey..”

“But- your meeting-”

He searches your eyes, although you refuse to look at him, analysing your confused expression and it hits him. He smiles in understanding, nodding his head. “So, you chose today on purpose..”

You don’t respond, you keep looking everywhere but his eyes.

He laughs through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “Did you really think that I wouldn’t drop everything to come and see you?”

“I really did.”

He gasps in disbelief, almost offended.

“Baby, look at me, please; look at me..” he pleads with you softly. You close your eyes as if in fear you would obey, your chin trembling from the effort to remain calm.

“Baby, look at me. I want you to look at me, now.” he presses in a more authoritative way. He thought he could order you around? Break you?

“No.” you shake your head.

Joel calls you by your name but before he has a chance to spit another soft command-

“I SAID NO!” you open your eyes, targeting them to his chest, tears spilling uncontrollably now. You can see from your periphery the look of shock on his face, because you’ve never yelled before. Ever.

“Why, sweetheart?”, he retreats back to his soft side.

“Because that’s exactly what you want. And you can’t always get what you want, Joel, not anymore.” You can’t hold back your tongue now.

“Jesus Christ,” you grit through your teeth, “what do you want from me, hm?” your eyes keep dancing around his face but never on his eyes. He looks dumbfounded, his lips part slightly but you don’t wait for an answer. “What else do you want? Is this some kind of ego thing? You expected me to shout and break things and hit you and tell you to leave her and come back to me? Because your ego is safe, Joel, if that’s what you worry about. I didn’t leave you, you did that first when you went behind my back. So, you walked out on me and not the other way around. Happy? Ready to go on with your life?” You’re grabbing the shelf where your hand previously rested so hard, trying to steady yourself.

For the first time Joel is speechless. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t find the words to defend himself, to convince you about his feelings, to soothe you at the very least. He begins to have a glimpse of how he appears in your eyes right now. How much damage he’s done, even before that night. How much ground he’s lost over time.

“Darlin', I just wa-” he begins softly, almost like walking on eggshells, but your body visibly tenses, you jaw shuts tight, your eyes rolling back in your head.

“Stop, just stop! Stop saying what you want! Stop making this about you! Don’t you see? You keep asking me for what you want! Have you stopped for a second, just a second, to think what I want? What I need? I don’t- I don’t recognize you anymore.”

“I-” he closes his eyes in distress, “I love you.” His last retreat. He’s trying anything that could help him. He doesn’t get it. He can’t. He’s not capable. But he used to be. He was the most empathetic person you knew. What the fuck happened?

Your eyes snap though the open closet door at his admision and on to the perfectly made bed.

His gaze follows yours behind his back and shakes his head once more in regret.

“It really didn’t mean-”

“Joel-” you warn him, “have some self respect and don’t say what I think you’re about to say. At least have the guts to admit exactly what you did, I’d appreciate it more.”

He exhales heavily, you’re not giving him an opening to fix this. You’re hanging onto every word he mutters. Not a single one of them is left unparsed and he's not used to that. He knows that if he does not control his anger right now, it's game over.

Heavy silence is hanging between you, each one lost on their thoughts.

“Do you know when you really lost me, Joel?”, you ask him eventually.

Half an hour ago he would swear he had all the answers, but now? Now he sees he’s in the deep, so he stays quiet, searching your eyes that still won't reach his, for answers.

“You lost me when you humiliated her in front of me.”

His face goes white, shocked, he can’t believe his ears. His mouth opens and closes but he makes no sound, how on earth does he respond to that?

“You still don’t get it, do you?”, you pinch the bridge of your nose exasperatedly. “You valued her enough to endanger our wedding, you valued her enough to bring her to our own house, to our bed, Joel; you valued her enough to fuck her raw, to let her know that you were unhappy with me, before I had a chance to realize it myself-”, Joel interrupts you almost panicked “I’m not un-” and for the first time your eyes pierce his in such an anguish that the words die in his throat. “-and then you just diminished her like she was nothing, just to prove a point to me. While she was naked, vulnerable on our bed. And trust me, this is not me defending her, she is as responsible for this as you, but you’re the one I married, not her. I expected better from you, Joel, not her.”

Now he’s the one averting his eyes from you, looking down on his overpriced shoes, his demeanor defeated, this is not the Joel you know anymore.

“And what was the point, Joel? Hm? What? That she means nothing? Then why were you with her? Why did you choose her? Why did you spend your precious time on nothing, while I had to make an appointment to see you? That’s what you did with me, too? I mean nothing, too? Just a warm hole to fuck when convenient?” he snaps his head back to you, shaking it in denial frantically, his eyes blown wide and red from all the emotional stress you push onto him.

“But I guess I got my answer about a month ago, hm?” It’s one of those moments that epiphanies hit you as you speak uncontrollably, you just can’t stop your mind from running wild, your mouth from spilling bile, your heart from pounding so hard in your chest, your ears start to ring, your grasp on the shelf tightening even more for balance.

“And that tells me a lot about who you really are. It’s not just about the fucking, Joel, Jesus-, -for the brilliant man I know you to be, you’re stumbling through your blindest moment.”, you shake your head in disappointment, tears still running freely down your face, licking your jawline and falling like a waterfall to the carpeted floor. You feel so done, you find it pointless to explain any further.

“I- I don’t know you, Joel, I don’t know who you are anymore. Maybe I never did,” you conclude, “maybe you’re right,” you slowly nod to yourself, “and everything is my fault after all.” you whisper, not sure if you want him to hear that part.

He did. “I never said that it was your fault, baby. When did I ever say that?” his face is contorted in pain, “None of this is your fault, none of it, you hear me?” he wants so desperately to cross the fucking room and hold you tight, crush all your pain and insecurities and self hatred under an asphyxiating hug. He also knows that he won't make even two steps before you flee, or step back from him and he can’t for the life of him witness that. Because that’s how much he needs you. He prefers you standing there, where he can see you, where he can have you, even if you wither and die under the enormous trauma he’s putting you through.

“So stupid.. I was- I am so stupid..” you’re repeating to yourself almost deliriously, rubbing your fingers on your forehead.

“This isn’t you, sweetheart, you don’t talk like that, don’t- don’t do that to yourself.” Joel tries to bring you back.

“But this is you, isn’t it, Joel? The real you?” you bite back. “This isn’t me, really? How do you like the new me, Joel? Do you take pride on your creation?” you laugh bitterly at him. “Yeah, how you’d always call me? Polite little thing? Sweetheart?” you’re infuriated now, a rise fighting to explode through you. “How does it feel, Joel? To know you’re responsible for changing someone to their core? To know you had that much power over them?”

Joel’s shaking his head once again in desperation, hot tears spilling from his eyes, god, had he ever cried before? this is not a battle he can win, he sees that now. The damage is too great. What on earth was he thinking?

“Please, please honey, can we just take a breather, sit down and talk about everything?” he pleads with you, a last thread of hope shinning in his red rimmed eyes.

“Take a breather..” you mutter through your teeth, “you mean the breather you took while you were fucking someone else instead of talking to me?”, Joel shuts his eyes in defeat, there’s nothing he can say anymore. “I think you got it backwards, Joel.”

You take a steadying breath and command your legs internally to hold on a little while longer and move forward; clothes, suitcase, life left behind.

“Don’t contact me again, unless is via your legal team.” is the last bullet that hits Joel’s chest, right through his broken heart.

| next

[nanamiskentos]

touch me there! gojo satoru. minors dni.

prologue. who knew that the strongest man to walk the earth, the closest thing humanity had to a god, was this weak just from your touch?

warnings. handjób, óverstimulation (m. receiving) and gojo being a slút for you

mp3. touch, touch, touch. thought about you way too much! — touch, katseye (2024)

a/n. made my own gifs for this one! i actually really enjoyed that 😭 today i learnt the difference between a web-dl file and a remux file. gifmakers are so strong...

you know that gojo's power is an indomitable force, and with a snap of his fingers, mountains would crumble, the seas could part, and the skies themselves would darken in his wake. no mortal, no force of the heavens above, no...nothing can touch him or shake his resolve. or at least that's what people say when they whisper about him. when other sorcerers point and wonder what it must be like to be the most unshakeable man on the planet.

well you've had your hand around his pale berry-pink cock for an hour, and you can say with full clarity of mind that there is one thing that can undo the divine power that is satoru gojo.

his thick shaft is slick with pre-cum, and the skin is smooth yet taut, supple and throbbing. his head has fallen back in exhaustion, frustrated from your teasing just as he gets so close to his release. hates how you draw your hand back suddenly leaving him high and dry, and aching furiously

but its just not enough for you yet, and he sees something soo godly within you right now. how is it that you've just undone him so easily, had him squirming and shaking like a whore?

he thinks its your nails that have him so delirious, for they reach for the underside of his cock and gently grasp his heavy balls, so painful that they ache, running the light tips of your fingers over the folded skin

"baby - please, no more. i don't think i can - can," and he's twitching under your touch. and yet despite his words you see the flush of amusement still dancing on his face, red brushing over his cheeks and leaving a rosy dawn behind on his gorgeous face

"ohh, satoru, so messy today aren'tcha?" and he bucks his hips up at the way you just purr out his name, a staccato tempo of him fucking himself up into your clenched fist, absolutely leaking a thin, milky fluid that leaves the both of you dizzy

its intoxicating for you too, starting at the base of his cock right where light curls of pale hair tickle at your knuckles. then you slowly drag your hand up, until your thumb comes to rest on the fat mushroom tip, a glowy-red as you lovingly run the digit back and forth, drinking in at how gojo is practically whining, chest heaving and littered with the marks and bruises left from your adoring teeth

but the killing blow, the one that leaves him feeling like he's been cleaved in half (too soon?) is when you dip your hands to the moist sheen between your legs, the slick gloss that has gathered from you, coating your fingers liberally. and how you use that same hand, still covered in your arousal to pump him more furiously

in the end, he's got tears pricking his eyes when he reaches his climax, beading in the corners of his brilliant blue gaze, weepy and leaking. and you're left to marvel at how thick, white seed shoots out and plasters all over your hand, over your torso as you had been leaning over him and before you can blink, he's beaming up at you, muttering about sensitivity but still positioning your hips right above his freshly milked cock for round two, no, three? four?

[maddie-sometimes-maggie]

Oh my…it’s already been 6 months since I had FFS. I think it’s time for “that” post. The before and after results. This is a long one…

In late October 2024 I had Facial Feminization Surgery. I’ve tried to be transparent (ha) here that I’ve had this surgery. Unfortunately, the reality is that many of us may need to get procedures like this to feel comfortable with our bodies. Is it necessary for everyone? No, you can transition to whatever makes YOU comfortable and at peace with your body. For me, FFS is what I needed to help me achieve that. I worked really really hard to get this surgery and I want to share my experience.

So as a background, I began medically transitioning at 31, and inherited my family’s very masculine facial structures. AMAB or AFAB, most in my blood family have strong masculine features and hormonal imbalances. Longterm T exposure didn’t help me at all either. Looking back at old pictures before my FFS is really hard now. It’s hard to believe that is ME.

I feel it is important to share the magic that FFS can accomplish. E is amazing but it can’t change bones all that much. I believe it is really important to compare our changes with everything over time in our journeys. Many of these photos before FFS were during my first year medically transitioning. No matter what hairstyles or makeup techniques I tried, nothing could hide the insecurities that FFS would eventually take away. For a while I tried to convince myself I didn’t need surgeries…but I knew I’d never be happy without it. I jumped at the opportunity to get it when I found out my insurance covered it.

Then came October. It was a brutal recovery. I have a very low tolerance to pain. However, I never felt any of this was impossible and I was very much supported by my doctors. The recovery was challenging for other reasons too. It limited my ability to eat for a bit and I was really uncomfortable for a couple weeks. I had a constant feeling of disorientation during the first week as my vision is pretty bad and without being able to put my contacts in I was practically blind. The nausea also was debilitating at times. This isn’t what happens to everyone but this is what experienced.

My jaw was also severely limited. It was mostly because of the inside the mouth incision to contour the chin and jaw. I could barely open my mouth. By the end of November I could eat sushi by squishing it with a spoon. By late December I could eat small sandwiches and most of my mobility returned. The swelling also took a while to go down. I’d say by February, four months later, I felt that most of the swelling had disappeared or was on its way out. Today, some swelling remains in my chin and my nose.

The liberation and freedom of expression FFS gave to a face like mine has been truly life saving. My style has changed rather dramatically. My brows are now lifted and I no longer make them higher, in fact I just keep them clean, thin them a little, and highlight in tinted gel and maybe add a little red to them. I also can finally do eye shadow, which is was one of my most anticipated aspects of this surgery. I also just feel liberated from my parents. I had a really rough upbringing and no longer being defined by my father’s forehead or my mother’s chin brings me so much peace.

Not pictured is my presence. I’ve heard countless people tell me that I’m happier, more comfortable, and more outgoing than I was before my surgery. I used to calculate my every move so people wouldn’t see my brow bone or an unflattering masculine angle. I don’t worry at all about that anymore. I truly am free. I am just me regardless of the angle. People see this in public too. I’m consistently given the male gaze or they try to make conversation with me. I catch women looking at my hair and outfits all the time. I pass very well.

So now I sit here at six months. And I’m absolutely thrilled with my results. If you are on the fence, and it’s accessible to you, I highly recommend to get FFS if it will help you achieve greater peace and comfort with your mind and body. I went to a surgeon in NYC, and would be happy to share the details if you’d like. I also would be able to answer questions about the whole process of getting and recovering from FFS. I hope this has been helpful to you!

This is my 6 month result: