#this is a bad advert isn't it

[bogleech]

I don't know what game this is advertizing but this badly photoshopped (or bad AI?) looking outfit is so fucking funny to me. I don't mean the skimpy torso with armor everywhere else, that's an old and tired joke by now, I mean that combined with the hood and the archery and the lantern. It isn't even an oil lantern. She is here to do so some tits out nocturnal archery assassination by portable candlelight which you may note will not illuminate anything but herself

[c0smoshit]

Comfort headcanons!!

⋆ ࣪. ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤 ≫ Cloud, Zack and my bby Vincent

⋆ ࣪. 𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 ≫ none, just fluff

⋆ ࣪. 𝔸/ℕ ≫ First little fic after a while, hope you guys enjoy!!

Cloud

★ As we all know, he isn't the best comfort buddy

★ But, through all the years he had to slowly leave behind all his trauma, he definitely has softened up

★ Secretly loves the way you would fall asleep on him after bawling your eyes out

★ Obviously not much of a talker, he prefers to listen and just be there for you

★ I just love to think that it always ends up in a hours-lasting cuddling session, doesn't matter if he was the one who needed to be comforted or the other way around

"It´s fine, really" However, your puffy cheeks said otherwise as you adverted your gaze from him. Your arms hugging your body wearily, soft sniffles and of course, your ragged breathing was all you had let him see. His approach was sincere, walking slowly up to you just to place a hand on your shoulder, he sure had improved on how to just... listen over the years. "Talk to me" But still you wouldn't budge, turning your face from him, embarrassed he had to see you like this once again. So after huffing out a sigh he seemed to have been holding for quite a while now, he placed his left hand on your unoccupied shoulder and pulled you closer to him. Then you let go, ugly sobbing into his chest as you fisted his shirt. His hands trying the most soothing patterns he recalls you drawing on his back after a rough day. He would caress as tenderly as he could, not quite being used to touching a texture softer than the handle of his sword, to hear such pretty cries and not from death. "Sorry, I just-" You hiccuped after you had rambled your sorrows into the tension-filled air of your room. However, he didn't budge, muffling your priceless apologies into his chest as he opted to just hold you for however you needed him to. That was his way of showing you how much he appreciated you, everything you had done to soothe him, he will reciprocate too.

Zack

★ MAJOR comforter

★ I mean, he doesn't even have to do anything, his meere presence is just so comforting

★ He feels bad about it but he loves your face whenever you're grumpy or upset, he just finds your tear-stained cheeks so cute!

★ Oh and btw, you aren't crying more than 5 minutes when he's around

★ He would do anything to make you forget it, want some icecream? He's already bought like 10 of them. A massage? Face down lying on your mattress asap

"C'mon y/n" You felt his saddened voice ring through your ears, his hands holding your waist as you hid your face under your palms. Your cheekbones glistening and getting irritated from the saltiness of your tears, and the more he tried to sneak a peek out of the them, the worse he felt. "Look at me please" He whispered as he delicately placed his still gloved hands over yours, finally prying them off your gorgerous face. "There we go, as beautiful as I remember" You didn't know why, but at first glance, his dumb but somewhat anxious smile looking down at you made you mimic his own expression, earning a playful laugh from him. It really wasn't fair, you thought, you could never be upset around him. "What? Got something funny on my face?" He joked before swiftly moving his hands and reaching the sides of your waist, nagging your sides until he had to catch you from falling on your ass as you laughed. "You're such a dork" You giggled out after he lifted you into his arms, your feet dangling off the floor as your arms were trapped under a bear hug. Hearts beating shakily into each other the more he nuzzled into you. "Yeah, but you love it"

Vincent

★ Tbh I think he's the most compressive of the three

★ Would and will listen to you ramble for hours of necessary, he's such a hopeless romantic

★ Not a fan of physical contact but if you are, he would not complain if you wanted to cuddle with him

★ (I mean this mf is always sleeping on his coffin)

★ Will do whatever you felt more comfortable with, if you just want him to listen and be there, he will, if you want to be alone, he will leave you be (but ofc he later would be looking for you to see if you were fine)

"Who was it?" A sudden deep voice rang through your ears, making you jolt up from the floor as you looked around to spot the source of it. And of course, it was your deary sneaky vampire. "Jesus" You choked out before turning your back to him, telling him that one, he really should stop sneaking on you like that and two, of course it was nothing. Either way, as soon as he heard your pained voice he knew you required some comfort, he's been there already. The more you stepped away, the more he tried to approach you, finally getting to wrap his cold arms on your waist as your back pressed against his chest. . . . You both stayed like that for a while, rocking back and forth as he lulled you, letting you cry out your last tears before you finally felt relief, slumping down on him as sleepiness took over your features.

He huffed out what seemed a quiet laugh before dragging you back into your bed, sitting on it first as he let you nestle on his lap, your cheek pressed against his shoulder as you slowly dozed off on him. His cloack sure was comforting.

Bonus!!

"Don't let such a stupid thing get into your head dummy" "Yeah, she's right y/n" You swore you couldn't feel any warmer in that moment, the girl's you've always looked up to were sweeter than ever. And yeah, it was a stupid thing you were upset about too.

Then they both took you on one of the best improvised little dates ever, taking walks and admiring the (not-so-clean) streets of Midgar. Then Aerith took you to her house, Tifa following shortly behind you as they both giggled playfully.

A cuddling session followed closely and you were absolutely living it. Snacking on some homemade food Aerith's mom had worked on the day before and nuzzling your head onto Aerith's chest meanwhile Tifa had her arms around you for behind.

"You both are the best, really"

You sighed out, your eyes not puffy anymore as you glanced at both of them. Earning more sweet comments from the brunnete and nods from the bartender.

[cyborg-franky]

How do you think Marco would react to a crewmate who picked up his vocal tick, yoi?

I know I should be working on something that isn't Marco for once... But it's me. And as someone who accidently picks up peoples accents or speech patterns this prompt spoke to me.

Marco x GN Reader SFW

He hadn’t thought much about it the first time when you let the little yoi slip out as you replied to him. He thought you’d just said something else and he shrugged it off.

But the more time you and Marco spent together, always working side by side or even sitting having dinner with one another, well, it seemed you picked up a few of his habits. How you left your paperwork in a sloppy pile, how you noted things down, and oh, the little quirk.

“So as long as you keep taking the herbs for pain and try and keep off of it as much as possible your leg will be fine in a few days yoi!” you chirped to Ace as you handed him the pot of ground herbs with a smile. Ace stared at you before over at Marco who had definitely heard it this time. Clear as day.

Ace laughed and shook his head. “You two have literally become one, like an old married couple.” he snickered and tipped the brim of his hat in thanks before he walked away, leaving you confused.

“What did he mean by that?” you asked and folded your arms over your chest, watching the door shut behind Ace.

“I think he means your little slip-up.” Marco chuckled and rested his chin on the back of his hand, leaning on his desk and watching you, seemed you hadn’t clicked. 

As time went on the more you dropped yoi in your day-to-day conversations. Marco didn’t mind, he thought it was funny, cute in fact. His bird brain was telling him you were mimicking him because you wanted his attention, that you were trying to court him and honestly, that ruffled his feathers in the best way.

A connection his zoan was invested in.  

“Haven’t you noticed at all little bird?” Marco asked one day, leaning back in his chair, an eyebrow raised as he fixed you with a lazy smirk. “What do you mean?” you asked, shutting the book you’d been reading to give him a perplexed look in return, watching that smirk on his face grow.

“Your little slip-ups? Very flattering by the way yoi.” Marco said with a twinkle of mischief in those beautiful blue eyes of his. “Why does everyone keep saying that to me yoi-. OH,” you stared at Marco, watching as he chuckled and rolled his eyes playfully. “I think it’s cute don’t worry, you might want to stop if you don’t want the crew to keep implying things about us…”

You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks, burning the tips of your ears as you adverted your gaze, feeling silly and flustered at the same time. How long have you been doing that? You coughed, clearing your throat before being able to meet his eye again. “Maybe I like what the others are implying…”

It was his turn to act confused, the faintest hint of blush across his cheeks as he tried to hide behind his nonchalant smirk. “Oh really?”

“Yeah, is that so bad?” you asked, suddenly braver than you’d ever felt. Were you using this to confess to him? Marco reached over the desk, his hand finding yours, making your hand seem so small compared to the one rubbing across your knuckles. “Then how about dinner tonight?”

[directdogman]

Hey there's someone trying to say you said you were pro Israel on discord? They're anonymous and say you blocked them before they could get screenshots so I don't really believe them, but still :[

Mhm. Nice bit of news to wake up to, this.

Yeah, so this person's a troll and they're more than likely lying on purpose in order to try to me look bad because I blocked them on Twitter for being unpleasant, something I rarely even do and they're still seething about it. The block had nothing to do with Gaza, the person was just being annoying and I thought it'd be healthier to block and move on. I'd really prefer not to have to give this person energy, but if there's a rumor going around, I'd like to nip it in the bud, since it's very easy to disprove in this case.

To explain what this person's blathering about: Earlier this week, on a Phonegingi plush advert, this random user that doesn't follow me (and actually instructs fans of mine not to interact with them in their bio) made a dramatic QRT decrying me for posting a DT advert during a strike week, which I honestly had no clue it was, especially since my own timeline was (and still is) full of accounts posting normally.

Given that the person seemingly encountered one of my posts in the wild and ended up seething because of it + likely didn't want anything to do with me on their timeline (as their bio indicated), after thinking it over briefly, I did the healthy thing and just blocked the person + moved on. Makes sense, right? I'll admit: Even if the way the person approached me was regrettable, if I'd known it was a strike week, I'd have participated (as I'd participated in the last one), so I stopped posting teasers for the week anyway, only resuming again yesterday.

I'll also say: I checked my own timeline btw and looked at the accounts posting, and nobody else had anyone acting like this in their replies, even the much larger accounts. Nor did anyone else contact/reply to me in any way stating any disapproval.

Given that I've only blocked one account recently that isn't a replybot (and ofc, given the subject matter of that tweet), I'd have to assume that this is the anonymous person spreading stuff.

I'd understand where this person was coming from if maybe I'd stayed completely silent about Gaza, (which a lot of accounts I follow have) but I haven't. I had a Palestinian aid post pinned on my Twitter for weeks, I've talked about Gaza's child population and my support for South Africa's Hague suit in my discord server, I've engaged in the boycotts, wound down posting during strikes, donated a pretty substantial amount of Dialtown revenue towards sending money/esims... I have 4 bucks in my bank account right now and when my next DT check comes in, you'd better believe I'll be giving more. That's my right as a private citizen and one I'll continue to exercise.

I feel pretty uncomfortable having to put this stuff in front of me to 'prove' myself, even if some of it is public anyway. Charity should be something you do because you CARE and if it wasn't for this person, I'd have been far happier keeping a lower profile and not explicitly calling attention to my own aid, but given this ask, I feel it'd be stupid not to nip this in the bud. The majority of this information could be easily found with the tiniest amount of digging, btw, so it's not like the user couldn't have known any of this. This is the part of having a fandom that creators seldom talk about. You block one person for being a lil annoying, next thing you know, there's rumors that you support genocides! Fun.

So yeah, I'd like you to tell this person to just move on like a normal person (send them this post if you have to) and to stop spreading incorrect rumors about me out of spite. If they insist, I'm happy to pull up receipts to prove everything I've said. If they actually thought I was pro-Israel, they wouldn't be spreading it anonymously, they'd be writing another public post about the subject matter. Also if you see anyone repeating the rumor, please correct them. Thanks.

[villainousauthor]

Part one

The Villain's brow pinches together as they overlook the data they've managed to acquire so far. Nothing made sense, they've run every test they could think of to try and discover what it was that gave the Hero their regenerative abilities, to no avail.

They almost feel bad about the poking and prodding they've had to do, one blood draw after another, tissue sampling, and more. At the very least, Hero has stopped fighting them as much these past few weeks, making their work easier.

Villain turns back to where Hero sits on the exam table, their eyes adverted, seemingly focused on some spot in the corner of the room. They gently, but firmly, grab Hero by the chin and turn their head upwards.

"Open up." The Villain's voice is quiet as they grab a new swab. "I'm going to need some more of your buccal cells."

Hero doesn't resist their hold, but speaks up in the same unserious tone they always maintain. "Use normal people words, say cheek." They always seem to have some teasing thing to say to Villain, though it mostly lacks any bite. Villain assumes this is Hero's way of maintaining some sense of control in this environment, and it's not like they mind the chatter regardless.

"If you think buccal is a complex word, I'm afraid you really aren't much more than a pretty face," Villain's tone isn't serious either, as their fingers press into Hero's jaw slightly more. "Now open up."

Hero obeys without any sass now, parting their lips so Villain can swab the inside of their mouth. Villain doesn't miss the way they lean into their touch, Hero relaxing into their hold. It's a stark contrast to how things were the first few weeks here when Villain could hardly approach Hero without getting bitten or hit. Most of the early testing from those days had to be done with Hero restrained.

Now, Hero leans into them constantly, as if they're craving another person's touch. They maintain eye contact as Villain presses close, the whole situation feeling oddly intimate. Hero's skin feels almost addictingly warm, even through the Villain's cold gloves.

Pulling away and placing the swab tip into an opened tube, Villain turns away from them, hoping to show not too much emotion on their face.

They know how touch-starved and desperate for human contact Hero is, and by God they would love to indulge them, but they want to maintain at least some sort of professionalism here, despite how deeply unethical this entire thing is. Or perhaps because of how deeply unethical it is. One less sin counted against them. To tell themselves at the very least, they're not taking advantage of Hero's loneliness while in their captivity.

They look to Hero again though as they set the test tube down, and find their will slowly chipping away, as Hero watches them with those lovely eyes that make Villain want to keep them forever.

Villain sighs, taking their gloves off and approaching them again. "You make it so difficult." Villain's cold hand comes to caress their jaw, as Hero looks at them, slightly confused by their words.

"What do you mean?" They ask as Villain's thumb goes to trace their bottom lip lightly.

"I don't know how I'm supposed to let you go when this is all said and done," Their hand wraps around to their neck, sliding through Hero's hair. "Even when I've gotten what I first stole you away for, I don't think I'll ever be quite done with you."

Villain leans forward, their lips just barely hovering above Hero's. There is no mistaking the burning fire in Villain's eyes. They seem to consider their next action for a moment before pulling away hesitantly, letting go.

They clear their throat, putting back up that wall of untouchable professionalism. "That's all for now. I'll come to collect you later for another blood draw."

[sophswritingthings]

hii i'm the person who had the request about mizu having a dream about the reader!! it was so perfect, omg. this isn't any pressure to continue it or do a part 2 i just wanted to scream about how soft it made me. cause like. mizu would totally be so flustered after the fact, she can't help herself from envisioning the dream every time she looks you in the eye now like. you portray her character so well with the subtle kindness towards the reader like her not wanting them to be scared?? got me. ugh just so incredible thank you for writing it!!

pairing: mizu x fem!reader

warning(s): mizu + reader being a dumbass, swearing

a/n: AHHHH thank you!!! all the compliments are making me kick my feet 😭 and because you were so nice I have a present for youuu

summary: every time mizu looks at you; all she can see is you two together. happy. in love. one day she lets her dream slip to ringo; and you hear it.

word count: 490 words / 2,655 characters 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

at this point; she was close to tying you to a tree and leaving you there where she could never find you—let alone you find her.

but she couldn’t do that; it would hurt you, and you being hurt would in turn hurt her.

every time she saw your pretty-ass face; all she could think about was that dream.

that sweet, beautiful fucking dream.

and it was bad that she liked the dream. It was really, really bad.

the idea and the scenes she saw would keep replaying in her mind; over and over again.

every time she would even think of you, even for just a second, she’d see it over and over again.

It was like a good movie she hated watching because she didn’t like the actors.

or maybe she was just denying she might like a certain actor a little too much.

“master?”

mizu snapped out of her thoughts; glancing at ringo, he was walking right beside her.

“yes, ringo?” she rasped.

“master seems.. distracted,” he described. “you are never distracted.”

“never is a strong word, ringo,” she narrowed her eyes, watching you just up ahead. you had stopped at an herbalist’s shop. 

“than what is master so distracted about?”

worry flooded over her head; did she want to answer that question when you were probably in earshot?

no.

but maybe she needed to say something to someone; maybe than she’d stop thinking about it. and ringo was the perfect person; he was.. actually, somewhat, trustworthy with secrets.

“(y/n),” that was the first word she said, before sighing. 

“what about her?” ringo implored.

“.. her stupidly pretty eyes— and for gods fucking sake, why is she so damn nice? It’s absurd, really,” mizu paused, hearing how loud she’d really said the words.

well—fuck.

you were gazing at her, your eyes a bit wide. she couldn’t be talking about you; that was impossible.

and you honestly didn’t know, if she was talking about you, wether to take it as a compliment or an insult.

you supposed she meant it as a compliment.

“i—erm—thank you,” you murmured, gazing up at her.

she was in deep shit now. a hole she didn’t know how to dig herself out of.

“.. you’re welcome, I suppose,” she murmured back, adverted her gaze.

ringo, on the other hand stood between you two, glancing back and forth.

“(y/n), why don’t you—“

before he could finish his words, you clamped a hand over his mouth.

you smiled awkwardly at her.

she arched an eyebrow at you. what was he going to say that you so desperately didn’t want her to know?

“why can’t he—“

“—it isn’t important!” your face was ridden with a pink blush, backing away from the situation. “It just isn’t.”

“.. okay,” she conceded, not wanting to push you any further.

but she so needed to know what he was gonna say.

and why didn’t you want her to hear it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: again, my darling, thank you!! ya’ll are all so sweet it’s gonna kill me one day istg <3 also mizu is a character I can really get into and understand; seeing as we share something in common: both being half white (plus I have blue eyes too but that doesn’t really factor in). and being so hell bent on “fixing” what is wrong with her, when there’s really nothing wrong with her in the place! I just get into that so bad ahahahah. also she’s hot, so there’s that 😅

[lavenderbexlatte]

day 3: mirror sex

stray kids 1.5k words gender neutral reader insert Reader x Bang Chan NSFW

🖤 warnings: undernegotiated kink, implied consent, themes of negative body image🖤

🎂 happy bang chan day~

kinktober masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

Truly, these are the dangers of not pre-booking a place to stay.

Last-minute travel isn't usually your thing, but an unexpectedly long weekend means that there's finally time in your favorite guy's backbreaking schedule for a little getaway.

But last-minute travel, with no hotel booked, means love motels.

They're not as creepy as they sound, not usually dirty or weird. Inexpensive, yes, and usually a little older than the resorts and boutiques that most people prefer. They get a bad rap just because of the connotations, but like, people have sex in all kinds of hotels.

You think it's kind of cool, honestly. Homey, in a weird way.

The person at the front desk is a nice older lady, and she doesn't even blink as she asks if the two of you have any plans this weekend.

"Plans outside the room, I mean."

She winks. She's not subtle, but it's sweet.

And now, in the elevator, Chan is looking around in unmasked horror. Taking in the garish burgundy interior, the thinly-veiled adverts for sex workers taped to the walls.

"It's not that bad," you say.

"It'll be fine for two nights," Chan replies, sounding as if he doesn't believe that at all. "Anyway, we're only sleeping here. We'll have stuff to do."

"Oh, come on. We might as well put the place to its intended use."

Chan scoffs, as if the idea of using the sex motel for sex is ridiculous.

"As long as the room's clean, that's all I care about," you continue. "It's a hotel. Whatever."

"Whatever," Chan agrees tentatively.

He's still lying to himself, but he does relax a little.

When you get to your floor, things are extremely normal. Nondescript hotel decor, the faint smell of carpet cleaning solution and lemon furniture polish. Cleaner than other places you've stayed for far more money, honestly.

The room itself is at the end of the hall, which you like, for the privacy, even though there are only five or six rooms on the floor.

You let yourself into the room, and it's as clean and fresh as the rest of the hall. Again, about as good as it gets in terms of a cheap hotel.

"See?" you say.

Chan looks at you, clearly unimpressed.

"What? It's clean. I'll check for bedbugs, but other than that..."

He points upward.

There is a giant mirror stuck to the ceiling above the bed, but nowhere is perfect.

"Even that's clean," you joke.

The surface of the glass is spotless, no fingerprints and not even any dust that you can see from down here. Chan still looks unhappy. Cleanliness is obviously not his concern.

"Don't be a downer," you say.

"Why do people like that?" he grumbles.

You've set your bag down on the armchair in the corner of the room, rifling through it for your toiletries to set out in the bathroom, but you humor him without looking. "Like what?"

"The mirrors."

"In the room?" you glance at him. "Isn't that, like, the sex motel cliche? The heart shaped bed, the red lights, the mirrors?"

This room only has one of the above. Pretty tame.

"It just means you have to - I mean, you can already see your partner, why would you need-"

"You're really thinking about this," you interrupt.

He is. He really is, standing beside the bed and staring up at his own reflection pensively.

"It's so you can see yourself," you add, walking past with your armload of cosmetics.

From in the bathroom, you hear his answer, still pouty.

"Why would I wanna do that?"

Oh, here we go.

"Some people get off on it," you say.

He scoffs a laugh, humorless. You're being generous by not calling him out, here, because he's being self-deprecating. You hate that.

"I'm gonna terrify myself in the middle of the night," he says.

That might be true. He's a little bit of a scaredy-cat. But that's beside the point.

"That's not your actual problem, though," you reply, as you come back into the room proper.

He shrugs.

"Haven't you ever been curious?" you ask.

"About what I look like?" he shoots back, glancing back up at the mirror. "Done. Wow."

"I mean during."

Immediately, like flipping a switch, his ears flame pink. "Not really."

"No? Never?"

He looks at you pointedly. He knows what you're doing. You're not subtle, so that's fine.

"We should find out," you say, grinning.

It's a challenge, now.

Your gorgeous, gorgeous boy hates how he looks. That's common knowledge for anyone who's tried to get him to take a photo together, or shop for clothes, or compliment him on a new haircut. Most of your mutual friends just ignore it. But sometimes you just can't stand it.

He would never be the type to want to see himself in the mirror in the throes of passion, uninhibited. Which is exactly why he needs to give it a try.

"How easy do you think I am?" he accuses, correctly.

"I dunno." Instead of bothering him more, you flop down onto the bed yourself, feet still on the floor, staring up at your reflection. "You tell me."

The bait is laid, and like always, his insatiable ass can't help it. You two haven't had proper alone time in what feels like forever. He nudges between your knees, standing over you as you lay there on your back. You already like the look of the scene in the mirror, the way that his reflected form looms, the way it makes you look small.

"You know," Chan says, "We could put this place to its intended use."

You grin at your own words recycled. Great minds and all that.

"What an idea."

"Just an idea," he assures you.

He drops onto his knees, nudging you up the mattress to make room for himself.

You almost lose track of your own plan, once he kisses you. Hands roam, clothes are lost, the ease and comfort of something you've done so many times. For a while, it's just an encounter like all the others. His hands that know you, his warmth and presence and attention.

And then you remember, suddenly, once you're nude and he is too, and he's asking you how you want it.

"You on your back," you say, trying not to smile at your own ingeniousness and reveal the plan.

"You got it, baby."

He flips over, and he's settled fully into the pillows with you halfway onto his lap before he looks up. He looks up at the ceiling, and he realizes.

"Wait-"

"Gotcha," you smirk, settling fully on top of him.

He could very easily just knock you over and change things up, or he could ask you to stop, and of course, you would. But he doesn't. He just flushes, red again down his ears, his neck, and he covers his face with his hands.

"That's not gonna work," you say, peeling his fingers away from his eyes.

"I can't believe you tricked me," he says pitifully.

"I did no such thing," you reply. "But now that we're here, why don't we play a game?"

"Something tells me I won't like this game."

"Here's the rules," you say.

You pause long enough to rise onto your knees, to seek out his length - desperately hard, revealing that you haven't freaked him out too badly - and line him up.

"I'm gonna make us feel good. And you...have to look."

Chan pouts, putting his full lips to good use. "I'd rather look at you. Don't you want me to look at you?"

He punctuates it by running his hands up your back, hips to shoulder blades, soothing attention from gentle fingertips.

"I think you should look at yourself," you tell him.

"But-"

"Actually, no. I think you have to look at yourself," you decide.

He peeks upward. His flush deepens.

You're not sure why he doesn't like what he sees. From where you are, it's stunning. His slim body lines, the sharp cut of his face and his dark eyes against the bleached-white hotel sheets. Distractibly, biteably pink and embarrassed.

"If you don't look at yourself," you add, dropping your hips just enough so that he can feel you, "I'll stop."

He looks overdramatically betrayed, like a dog when you take their toy away to throw it. It's cute enough that you reach down to squeeze his face in your hand.

"That's the game," you say.

"Fine."

His voice is an embarrassed squeak, but that's consent, baby. You trust him enough to know that although he hates losing, he's not going to yes you to death if things are actually feeling uncool.

Permission granted, and his eyes dutifully trained on the ceiling, you ease yourself down onto his waiting length.

Curiously, once you're seated and he's swearing through his teeth, you tilt your head up to look at yourself, too. The angle isn't as good to see you, but you've got the gist of it. Your spread thighs, your arched back, the little bit of motion as you grind on top of him.

Nice.

"Don't we look good?" you ask, sweet as can be.

He nods against the pillow. "You look-"

"Not me," you tut. "You're not supposed to be looking at me."

Chan swears. You wait.

"I...I look..."

After a second, he swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Pity.

You pull back up onto your knees. His wet cock slips free.

"I told you the rules. Keep looking at you."

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Closing the Distance

Sheriff Hassan x Reader

Author's Note: I'm sorry its bad. I'm sorry this is the first I've written in this fandom. Just sorry all 'round.

Summary: Devastating news brings Sheriff Hassan and his neighbor closer together.

Warnings: Mentions of terminal illness, grief and death, brief mentions of SMUT

Crockett is small. Small enough for someone to walk from one end to the next in less than a day, small everyone to know each other by name, small enough for gossip to spread faster wildfire. It's part of why Hassan keeps his head down and his nose out of everyone’s business; small towns are close knit, they stick together, and he's already an outcast. So unless someone is explicitly breaking the law or being a public nuisance, Hassan keeps his distance. 

Even if it's hard sometimes. Even if his cute neighbor brings over dinner for him and Ali when she cooks extra or waves at him when he's getting into his car in the morning while she's having coffee on the porch. Even if he does find himself wanting to prolong their conversation when he bumps into her while picking up groceries. Hassan keeps his distance, because even if Y/n has only lived on the island for a year longer than he has, she is not an outcast.

From the bits and pieces he's been able to pick up, Y/n’s mother grew up there and then their family spent most of her summers as a child on the island. In the same quaint house across the street from his, with weather beaten porch steps, a white French door guarded by thin yellow curtains and a kitchen window that faces the street. She moved there just after her grandmother passed and her grandfather fell ill. Everyone knows her, everyone likes her, not that he can blame them – even Bev likes her, though he doubts the feeling is mutual. And that's why Hassan keeps his distance; even Y/n isn't one of them, she's one of theirs. 

So he keeps his distance.

Until he gets home from work one Friday evening just in time to see Y/n walking Sarah to her car. Before she gets in, they spend another couple minutes talking and while he doesn't want to sit in his car and stare, there's something about the dimness in her expression and the invisible weight pressing her shoulders into a solemn, downward curve that holds him there. Hassan can't recall ever seeing her like that – tired, sure, it would be impossible to be a caregiver and not feel the strain of it. But this evening is different, it's more than tired. He recognizes that look; that was how he looked when his wife reached her end. 

Hassan waits until Sarah drives off before getting out of his own car. Y/n is still standing on the sidewalk, arms hugging herself and eyes cast in the direction of the receding car. She isn't dressed to be outside, denim shorts and a thin band tee are hardly enough to combat the October chill, especially when it's been raining on and off all day, and that's how he knows she's probably avoiding heading back in. And he simply can't stand to retreat to his own house when she's looking like she's about to fall apart. 

So Hassan calls out to her. 

“Hey neighbor,” it's just enough to beckon her attention, and his tone, he hopes, gives nothing away. 

“Sheriff,” as Y/n turns to him, she tries to smile but her lips quiver and the effort doesn't reach her eyes. “Hey,” her voice cracks ever so slightly and he suddenly feels guilty about intruding on what might have been a private moment. “How are you?”

Of course she asks how he's doing when she's the one on the verge of tears. 

“Doin’ alright,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “you?”

Before anything leaves her lips, which she's pressed into a thin line, Y/n nods stiffly. “I'm….” She sniffles and Hassan steps closer until he's standing where Sarah's car had been parked. “I'm okay,” she manages softly, adverting her gaze to their feet. 

He doesn't know what prompts him – his urge to comfort her or the fact that he'd wished someone had done that for him – but Hassan reaches out to lay a hand on her shoulder, and gives it an affectionate squeeze. “You sure?”

And he swears that's like slipping the pin out of the grenade. Or more accurately, throwing a pebble at a cracked window; the tiny thing that shatters something already so fragile. 

A sob tumbles past her lips and without thinking, he pulls her against him. She's small enough for her head to settle against the center of his chest while he smooths his hand over her hair. Hassan knows all too well that now isn't the time for him to marvel at how well she fits in his arms, like they're two puzzle pieces just snapping into place. Despite his efforts though, the thought lingers in the back of his mind.

“He's dying,” she cries, words muffled as she keeps her face pressed to his chest, “He's dying and there's nothing else I can do for him.”

Her words make him hold her tighter, as if he's trying to keep her pieces from scattering. “I'm so sorry,” is the only thing he offers. All other words of sympathy and comfort feel wrong in the moment, so they stay like that and Hassan holds her until loud cries turn to slow tears. In fact, it isn't even him that pulls away – if it were up to him, he'd hold her until the next morning, longer if she needs it. 

“God,” wiping her cheeks hastily, Y/n sniffles, continuing bashfully, “Sorry about that. I bet you're never gonna ask anyone how they're doing ever again.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” he counters dismissively, “is there anything I can do?” 

Her smile, though genuine, is small and sad. “You've already done a lot,” Y/n assures him, “but maybe you could come in for coffee? If you have time,” she adds hastily.

He really had meant to come home and make dinner, hopefully get Ali to tell him about his day, but there's half a pizza in the fridge and he's pretty sure his son is gonna make up an excuse to not have dinner with him, the way he does every evening. Besides, he doesn't want to leave Y/n alone and another half hour can't hurt. “Coffee sounds good.”

Despite being embarrassed about her little meltdown, Y/n is enormously grateful that Hassan agrees to come in for coffee – and it's not even because of that silly little school girl crush she's been nursing since the day they met. It's because when it's just her and her grandfather in the house, she can hear his laboured breathing even in the rooms furthest from his bedroom and she's hoping that talking to the sheriff will distract her a little. 

For just a few minutes, Y/n wants to pretend that the man who's wrapped up in some of her fondest memories isn't slipping away and Sarah hasn't just told her to start making arrangements. 

His steps are soft as he follows her into the kitchen, and it takes getting there for her to remember that she's left a tray with food and medication on the table. “Shit,” she hisses softly, going to collect it off the small table.

“It's alright if you have to take that up,” Hassan says, halting in the doorway, “I can wait or….”

“No,” Y/n shakes her head as she empties a small bowl of rice cereal into the trash before grabbing a smaller bowl of applesauce to do the same with that, “This is from breakfast. He wouldn't eat it. Didn't eat dinner last night and….” When her voice starts shaking, Y/n stops herself and sets the dishes in the sink. Washing off her hands, she fixes her attention on the coffee maker. It's a nice one, the kind that comes with a milk frother. It's one of the few things that she'd brought from her apartment in the city to make life in Crockett a little more comfortable. “How do you take it?” She asks, slipping a mug into the designated place. 

“Black, two sugars,” he returns, now standing near the table with his hands stuffed into his pockets. He makes the space look small, Y/n thinks, and on a regular day it's one of the things she fancies about him. He's so big, capable of being incredibly imposing and yet the only thing she ever feels in his presence is safe. And it's not because of his uniform or the fact that he's a man of the law, it's because there's a softness about Hassan that makes her yearn to be close to him. 

It doesn't matter what everyone says about him, Y/n just doesn't see it. He doesn't say a lot, probably even less to her than everyone else on the island, but there's a kindness in his very rare smile and a sadness in his eyes that she wishes she could help with.

“We can talk about it, if you want,” Hassan offers as Y/n stirs two teaspoons of sugar into his coffee.

When Y/n turns to hand him the ceramic mug, she encourages him to sit before returning to the machine and it takes a couple minutes more to sort her thoughts out enough to address his suggestion. “I don't know if there is anything to talk about,” she admits, thumb nail flicking the edge of the tile countertop, “I knew he was terminal when I got here. It was never a matter of if, it was when. But now that its….when, I feel like it's too soon, you know?”

Hassan nods, and she knows that his agreement isn't just surface level empathy – she's heard about his wife from the gossipy folks in town. “I keep reading about all these people who grieve their parents, spouses…. grandparents before they die, because they know it's happening,” Y/n goes on, and at this point, she's rambling in hopes of making sense of her experience, “but it was never like that for me. Until now. I mean I knew he was gonna….” She can't even bring herself to say the words. 

“But you didn't think it would be like this,” it's like he's taken the words right out of her mind when he says them. “You thought he'd just go to sleep one night, it would happen and then it would be over.”

“Yeah, exactly,” collecting her mug, Y/n assumes the chair closest to Hassan, “but this is so different. He's in pain, he won't eat, barely drinks water. I know that it's best for him, so he can be…..at peace again,” her eyes start welling up again, and much to her surprise, he reaches over and rests his free hand over. Y/n can count one hand the amount of times he's touched her. Four times. 

He shook her hand when they first met and the three other times had happened that very evening.

Admittedly, it's a little confusing; she's spent so long convinced that he doesn't like her that it's hard to believe that him sitting in her kitchen isn't anything more than pity. But that hug didn't feel like pity and the sincerity in his eyes doesn't feel like that either. His thumb is caressing the side of her wrist, the roughness of his finger contrasting with the softness of his skin. 

“I understand,” he determines quietly, “I know it doesn't help-”

“It does, you have no idea how much you've helped. Just by being here.” Y/n leans in a little, and Hassan cups her cheek. 

“You shouldn't have to go through this alone,” he ghosts the apple of her cheek, “you're there for everyone, someone should be here for you.”

Her hand slides down the back of his forearm, stopping near his elbow. “I'm….” She goes to say glad, but its the wrong word, “grateful it's you. So thank you.”

“‘Course,” Hassan hums, before searching her eyes when she inches closer, “What?”

Y/n knows she's taking a pretty big risk, he's never shown any interest in her like that and she isn't quite sure that her next request has anything to do with her feelings for him. But she asks anyway. “What if I wanted to forget….just for a little while.” She leans in closer, and that time, he does too.

They're so close that Y/n can smell bits of Crockett's salty air mingling with a very subtle cologne. So close that it just takes a couple inches forward on her part for their lips to meet. He tastes like coffee, and his gray flecked beard scratches her face in the most enthralling way. Surprisingly, he reciprocates; his other hand reaches for the back of her neck as he deeps the kiss. 

Clumsily, Y/n fumbles out of her chair and into his lap, his worn jeans rubbing against her exposed thighs. The chair scrapes along the hardwood floor when he tries to get it a couple inches away from the table, but neither of them pay any mind to the noise. His large palm inches down her back to eventually slips under the hem of her t-shirt while Y/n starts fiddling with the top button of his uniform. 

“Y/n,” he mumbles her name as she pops the second button. Her reply is a hum and an attempt to press her lips to his a bit harder. The bulge in his jeans is firm against her thigh, encouraging her to suggestively grind against his crotch. “Y/n,” that time, Hassan tears his lips from hers and swiftly grabs both her wrists in on his hands, while the other stays firmly on her back – on the outside of her t-shirt. 

“You don't want to?” Because of course, on top of overwhelming grief, she has to deal with the shame rejection after she tries to jump her neighbor's bones.

“Trust me,” he heaves, glancing down between them. She can still feel his hard on through his jeans and the thought of what it might feel like without restraint causes her to shift in anticipation. “I want to. But I don't think you want to,” and before she can get an argument in, he cuts her off, “At least, not like this.”

Hassan lets her wrists go in favor of cupping her face with both hands. Leaning in until their foreheads meet, he sighs heavily. “Whatever this could be shouldn't start because you're running away from feeling something difficult.”

“I'm not-” she tries to argue, but her voice breaks, “you’re right.”

“Just….give yourself some time. And when this is over, and you're really ready – and if you still want this – I'll be waiting.” That time, when their mouths meet, the kiss is more gentle. It isn't fueled by passion or haste, it's a promise. 

When the break, Y/n slides out of his lap and goes to lean on the lip of the sink. Hiding her face in her hands, she groans loudly, “God,” she bemoans, “I feel so stupid.”

A weaker spot in the old floor creaks ever so slightly as Hassan stands and closes the short distance in a couple long strides. “Don't be,” he weans her hands off her face, holding them so he can caress her knuckles, “honestly, if you weren't crying thirty minutes ago no one would be able to pry me off you.”

His words rouse a quiet chuckle and Y/n spends another handful of seconds staring at their joined hands. “I'm gonna hold you to that,” she affirms quietly.

Hassan gives her hands a squeeze, “I'd hope so,” he glaces backwards at the window. It's starting to get dark out and there are a couple lights on over at his place, signaling that Ali is home. “I should…”

“Of course,” Y/n nods, “Yeah.”

His hands gently cup her neck and she curves her fingers over his wrists, thumbs absently stroking his skin. “If you need anything,” he lowers his head, so close the tips of their noses are almost touch, “you know where to find me.” 

After a bit of hesitance, Hassan kisses her one last time before finally letting her hands go and turning to leave. In the doorway, he turns to offer her a short wave and sad, lopsided smile before continuing towards the front door. Meanwhile, Y/n lingers at the sink, toying with her nails even as the front door clicks shut. Through the window, she watches Hassan cross the street and stroll up the front before disappearing into his house. 

And just like that, she can hear the wheezing again, and the sound of it causes her to elicit a shuddered breath. Despite her talk with the sheriff, Y/n is still unnerved by what may come within the next few days, but for the first time she isn't entirely unsure of what comes next. For a while, she'd been wondering what would come after; her grandfather is the only thing tying her to the island, but the thought of going back to the city is unnerving. Maybe now she won't have to though, at least, not for a little while longer. 

[alias71]

I'm the patriarch...

...the gray hair. The one who's seen things, done things. The old man you've had a feeling for from the off. You will love me. I remind you of your own dad, or the one you wish he'd been. You'll always find me at the front line. I am the line. And though you know the good guys and the innocent often perish in great drama, you won't be able to help yourself. But this isn't news to you. See, I'm not talking about what you watch, I'm talking about why you watch it. The don't look, can't look, please don't let this happen. But this is gonna happen anyway. Find the characters you love and be with them. The mothers, the lovers. The fathers. Because all our stories are too short for bad characters.

Great Characters | ‘The Patriarch’ | ITV

I love everything about this advert for ITV Drama, particularly how it seems to be Fred Thursday as Endeavour sees him, not how he really is, with the emphasis on 'I am the line' and 'the fathers', which he pauses to say as though he's looking right at Morse. Fred really was the dad Endeavour wished he'd had, right up until he wasn't.

...the fathers...

And this last moment has echoes to others...

"We hold the line. If you cross it now, then there's no way back."

Thursday did cross the line in the end but it's crucial to notice that Endeavour, though devastated by that betrayal, looked in the chamber of the gun here. He absolutely made a choice to go on.

"Find the characters you love and be with them."

It really helps when Shaun Evans and Roger Allam are the actors playing those characters.

And I'm always here for Badass Fred Thursday!

[spotlightlowlife]

Charlie Hazbin done better before?

The pilot in the first minute has her, in her own words let us know she is a dreamer, she outlines her viewpoints and objective clearly, lets us know she's been trying, she gets dismissed and she ask if the problem was the world or her.

We see in visuals that she has various superiors to outclassed her.

It is obvious as to why she has to take her plans to her target audience which is the commoner and start from scratch, because what good is being born into power if you can't use it?

Again, we are just at the start.

Charlie went to the media with her pitch, we would see that she isn't well known to the public and those who know mwhi she is don't care. We see that she is unprepared, unprofessional and not assertive, she quickly becomes a laughing stock.

Charlie was excited to announce she had the famous Angeldust on side which she managed through bribery, she was happy to boast that he was in the way to being one of her success stories, which backfires in her face immediately as he just made the choice to participated in a turf war going on at that moment for no particular reason. This turf war which immediately followed the cleanse.

Nobody has anything to lose, they're use to what they have, plenty seem comfortable with and are able to gain from death and destruction, so why would trust in pushover Charlie's words that she 'beleives' they're better than they are and can move on up to sit with those who wipe them out like vermin? Because that's what everyone even wants?

It's understandable that she would get used for her hotel, the hotel itself becoming the solution and the problem.

Charlie's mother is too busy for her and her dad is disappointed in her decision making, the only words of advice we hear Charlie echo from him are to not take shit from any demon. We know she's a pushover. She's out on her own, trying and feeling increasingly defeated.

Vaggie is sensible, she tries to prevent Charlie humiliating herself and making dangerous decisions that effect everyone but Charlie is going to do as she pleases regardless, she knows this. This could prove a great example of their class and power divide, unlike those she mixes with, Charlie is hellborn powerful princess, bad reputation is hurtful and nothing more and she doesn't fear for her life.

A pampered princess from a functional supportive family who didn't have to endure earthly hardships and demise.

Now remember, the pilot may not be canon.

The first four minutes of episode one pit Charlie pretty low in establishing and fleshing out her parents, her charismatic mother who rose to power but is now a missing person a dad who was born into grandeur but faced many issues who is depressed somewhere, then Charlie came to be, she hasn't done any of the greatness expected of her for no other reason than she's their offspring and petty disrespect to her face is welcome from randos she hangs out with who haven't really been introduced and don't particularly like one another.

The groundwork is done, the unflattering advert has been released to nobody in particular and Charlie has her group of various acquaintances, there's no chemistry, the only one we can really class as a friend is Vaggie who speaks up for her in defense. Why are they all together? Anyone who watched the pilot knows.

Now she's out to save sinners and not just help any demon which the pilot left open for us, but just as her clientele narrows, we meet Adam, the ancestor of sinners, an unreasonable dudebro who outclasses her.

Most characters outclassed her on the attention front, her plot vanishes into one of many subplots immediately.

The Charlie we had was idealistic, caring, enthusiastic, driven and hardworking all in her own right, pushing her own thing, but she was far from oblivious to the challenges she faced which were getting everybody in the room to listen and guiding troubled folk to change their ways. Obstacles faced with rehab.

This Charlie, antichrist chosen one fulfilling her destiny, is just there, somewhere at back.

It may be early days technically but still, the pilot and the first four episodes of Helluva proved things can move along quickly and coherently.

We are expected to take what we remember of the pilot with us as a shortcut to knowing these characters, 'canon' or not.

[concerningwolves]

I started reading about "pay to walk" apps (apps that let you earn money or vouchers by accruing points based on steps taken) out of curiosity, and um. I've just wandered into a fucking black mirror-esque horror movie realm

Like, for the most part these apps are pretty limited in what you actually earn from them. It can take anywhere between 4 to 14 months to get even a £10 voucher, and most of them rely on advert revenue. On its own this would be more irksome than anything, but the more I read the more I'm like. Wait. This isn't right.

One I read about requires you to watch adverts of a couple minutes long simply to perform integral app functions, like "banking" the points you've earned (if you don't watch the ad you have to bank each point one at a time, which can be like a 100 points. You have to sit there tapping your phone screen repeatedly as a punishment for not watching an advert. If you don't bank the points at the end of each day you lose them). Many of these apps limit the amount of points you can earn in a day, unless you use a paid plan – and they can change the terms of of what you're actually paying for without warning. (And given how generally stingy and limited a lot of the rewards are, you'll have to exercise insanely hard to "break even"). You can earn bonus points by completing surveys, usually on health and lifestyle stuff (where is that information going? these apps promise not to sell your data, but they're sure getting information out of you in other ways....) or by playing games (which may utilize the same mechanics that make a lot of online gambling and mobile games so addictive)

But the thing that's so so bad, aside from the privacy violations and the incredibly predatory practises of encouraging people to push themselves to earn shitty rewards, when there are many apps that help gameify habit-building in healthier ways

The thing that made me break out in mental hives

Is this:

Like this is. so incredibly fucked up

Participating in weight loss challenges for money. Aiming to reach a certain weight loss goal for a jackpot prize. Betting on how much weight you'll lose.

Dear fucking god that's grim

[sephys-wrath]

Maybe these little guys should be called the "Fruit Duo"

- They are based of the ogre and Momotaro from the same folktale and are associated with one another in lore, but with Ogerpon being the good one and Pecharunt the bad

- They are (you guessed it) based on fruits as Ogerpon is an orange and Pecharunt is a peach. Maybe they both represent Scarlet and Violet respectively?

Edit: - Both's true faces are concealed and were advertized and hinted that way until their event's release (funny how Ogerpon's face is concealed in battle while Pecharunts true face isn't and vice versa in the overworld)

Another edit: - Both also have set natures, with Ogerpon's as Lonely and Pecharunt's as Timid

I know ones a Legendary and ones a Mythical and also ones gender exclusive while the other is genderless, but same thing has happened with the Lunar Duo sooo

[rowretro]

✧𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍✧

WARNINGS: none I know of

✧CHAPTER 1✧

"Hee- ever heard of a Uni called Yah leh?" y/n asked tilting her head as Heeseung frowned "You mean Yale?" "Yeah whatever it's called- do you think I can get in?" y/n asked as Heeseung sighed "look here... sweetie I think you should look for a more uhhh reachable school, y-you know- maybe film school? maybe preschool?..." Heeseung, kindly suggested as Sunghoon snickered.

"No I wanna go to Yale! all the smart people said that its a good place-" y/n pointed out as Heeseung pat her head "Oh y/n... 18 years and you haven't changed one bit." he said before walking away from her "Hoon somehow convince her to apply for an easier uni or college-" Heeseung whispered to his friend who nodded.

Well it's everyday now, since the oh so sweet, darling Sunghoon started visiting their home, Heeseung trusts him completely, their mother does, and the sweet little gullible y/n does. "Sunghoon I think I can get in! I was studied at a University once-" y/n pointed out as Sunghoon frowned.

"Ah y/n..." Sunghoon started as he ran through her dark, silky hair, her innocent, curious eyes, meeting his. Oh how goddamn vulnerable she looked, how he wanted to keep her, protect her, break her... "Yale sucks. why don't I put in a good word for you and you go to the same Uni I go to?... it's a good place" Sunghoon said, smiling down at her. "Will there be pretty boys?... I saw pretty boys on the Yale advert-" Y/n pointed out as Sunghoon sighed.

Pretty boys? when he's standing in front of her dressed in all black, his hair swept to the side revealing his forehead, that black t-shirt was perfectly fitted on him. How could she possibly want prettier than him? "Pretty boys?..." Sunghoon asked, tilting his head as y/n nodded smilling "Hee gets lots of girls in college- I think I should start dating more people too- I only ever dated one person- A clueless idiot who bangs his head everytime he rides his bike out of th garage... everytime." she repeated, still upset about her break up with Jooyeon.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes, as he put up with his peaceful act, oh how bad he wanted to end that Jooyeon... "Hey... there are many pretty boys in my college... I mean I am there." Sunghoon pointed out as y/n shrugged "Ok it'll be nice to have a familiar face in college next year, and well I do have to start in the coming months-" y/n said as she smiled up at Sunghoon.

All the better to keep an eye on her 24/7... Make sure he could gradually get her closer to him and let her innocent self fall into his trap. God she was so gullible it made it so easy for him. Sunghoon Smiled as he pat her head, seemingly friendly. "So it's your last day of school today huh?" Sunghoon asked as the girl nodded "You coming to the party tonight?" He asked as she nodded again.

When the girl left to help her mom out in the kitchen, Sunghoon was in Heeseung's room, gaming with the male. "You know the drug dealer? his ex asked me out on a date tonight- so I can't come by for your award event bro hope you don't mind-" Heeseung said. Well that just makes things better for him...

"Isn't your sister meant to go to a party tonight?... Jooyeon will be performing with his little band" Sunghoon oh-so innocently pointed out as Heeseung's eyes widen in shock, he choked on his beer as he turned to Hoon "No fucking way she's going there, fuck-" Heeseung complained, downing his beer. "The event is next week- I'm completely free today-" Sunghoon pointed out as Heeseung handed him a beer bottle "Hey you know you're like the brother i never had right?" He asked as Sunghoon snickered "I'll accompany your sister at the party~" Sunghoon said as Heeseung smiled at him, the 2 going back to their game.

✧𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍✧

[karasukarei]

Wind Breaker x Abema Collab video

To celebrate Wind Breaker airing on Abema as well, there was a collab video made with the 6 main cast on their tik tok! For some reason I can't find it there, but some kind soul uploaded it onto twitter (thank youuuuu)

(edit: the twitter reupload got taken down, but I found most of it on this official tiktok)

I'm going to take some liberties with the translation, because they're playing this rhythm game that isn't very well known in the west.

Script

All: All will be purged by Boufuurin! (t/n: in reference to Boufuurin's motto)

Umemiya: Mike test, testing 1, 2, 3, 3, 2, 1, hmm, which switch should I press?

Umemiya: Eh?? It's already on?! You should've said so earlier!

Umemiya: Hello to the people in Shibuya! I'm Boufuurin's primo, Umemiya Hajime!

Umemiya: Let's see, there's a lot of people we're meeting for the first time, so let's properly introduce ourselves! Let's start from Sakura!

Sakura: Sa-Sakura Haruka! I'm the guy who'll become the top [of Boufuurin]! Remember that!

Sugishita: I'll crush you!

Umemiya: Haha, we've got some strong first years this year! Sugishita your turn ok?

Sugishita: Fuurin High School first year Sugishita Kyoutarou.

Nirei: I'm Nirei Akihiko! I'll get stronger from here on!

Suo: Suo Hayato here! Nice to meet you!

Hiiragi: One of the Four Kings of Boufuurin, captain of Tamonshuu, Hiiragi Touma!

Umemiya: Everyone did well with their introductions!

Umemiya: Since this is a rare chance, let's play a game! The topic is Sakura's strengths!

Sakura: Huh?! (t/n: very very big "HUH")

Umemiya: Let's start, *clap clap*

Nirei: He's strong!

All: *clap clap*

Sugishita: ... He's loud.

All: *clap clap*

Suo: Hmm, he's cute.

All: *clap clap*

Umemiya: The way he eats food makes it look delicious!

All: *clap clap*

Hiiragi: Not bad. (t/n: thanks @/bluapapilio!)

Suo: Ahaha, Sakura, your face is so red

Sakura: SHUT UP!!

Hiiragi: Don't fight... My stomach hurts...

Umemiya: That's a wrap!! Please look forward to Wind Breaker and Abema!

Umemiya: Great, we're done! Let's go grab a bite!

Hiiragi: The sound is still on!

(the rest is just an advert for watching on Abema so I'm lazy to translate lmao)

[archer-kacey]

Secrets of the Machine (Bendysplaining)

(Full disclosure: both of the computers I have access to WILL NOT TRIGGER THE LIGHTNING CUTSCENE therefore making B:SOTM unplayable for me! Watched a couple walkthroughs to get the gist of things. I found ONE easter egg on my own lol.)

Secrets of the Machine is so out of place to me, seeming almost unpolished. I'll give it a fair shake and go over the pros and cons, but if you want a short Bendy game to play, PLEASE play Boris and the Dark Survival, not this.

Pros:

This very important bird that makes me well up inside with a positive emotion.

Ragtime Guffie. Cute character that I feel has a charm similar to the original Bendy cast. I wouldn't have been surprised to see this guy walking around in BATIM back in the day.

This screenshot I can use for memes:

This ONE scene/"jumpscare" was executed well:

The Goofy ahh can dispenser laugh

My personal favorite, this random ass arrow outside that you can follow into the darkness for about a minute until you're spat back out by the entrance arch (useless):

And last but not least, the inclusion of Gaskette and an insanely niche nod to Nightmare Run?

FIrst off, Gaskette looks killer (pun intended):

And secondly, there are at least a couple hands around the map that open and close when you click them in a very similar fashion to a hand that could be found on the menu of Nightmare Run. I was actually excited about this! (Why they didn't they just go full ham with the Nightmare Run characters for this game?)

Cons:

The first glaring issue I have is *checks watch* the FOUR Bendy advertisements thrown into the game??? What???

I'm not mad about hyping people up, but it is............LAZY?? What was the point of this? These ALL could've been Tweets!!

In fact, Lone Wolf's Announcement nearly WAS a Tweet!!

I would feel differently if the presentation was better, but you literally throw a can at some flippable....plates(?) around a screen at random and get still images. I understand that this game is meant to be small like BATDS, but BATDS was more polished, more fun, and didn't throw four adverts in as gameplay/easter eggs.

This is also gives me a Bad Feeling because if you're willing to make your smaller content into a glorified advertisement, what are you going to do with your mainline games? How are you going to treat your content? Are you going to let things cook or serve it to us raw?

ALSO...

Riley.

Riley's story itself is fine. Not amazing, not awful. Riley's parents die in a car accident when she's six. She starts drawing disturbing content, and the school counselor catches wind of this and brings it up to her guardian. Riley goes to work for JDS at the same age as Buddy (17), and is subsequently fired for drawing more disturbing material pertaining to the accident.

While it sounds cliché, the way it was presented in-game was fine. There are obviously things that could be improved, but the point here isn't the story itself.

Let me ask the audience of this post a question.

Where the hell is Lacie Benton?

Or, more broadly, why aren't M+M fleshing out characters that have been with us since *checks watch* 2017?

I'm struggling not to start doing the Macarena, because adding new characters and slowly abandoning the old ones works in direct contrast with "caring about the lore", AKA what this franchise was built on, and it's something M+M like to bring up. When you remove that backbone, everything else falls apart. When you neglect the old characters, you're neglecting the heart of the franchise.

Riley having her story isolated to one game seems to be a blessing in disguise, I'll admit. However, this is ALL just BATIM: Red Flags. Disappointed, but not surprised. Scared for the future of this franchise, but trying to stay optimistic.

[scariercnidaria]

CRIME & PUNISHMENT: THE CULPABILITY OF THE FAMILY, PSYCHIATRY AND THE STATE

before we begin i would like to give a brief trigger warning for discussions of mental health, violence and crime including abuse and sexual assault, and misogyny. I have tried not to linger gratuitously on any one subject but they are mentioned, unavoidably so.

If you are forced (as I am) or otherwise choose to listen to local radio for long enough now, you will eventually hear an advert by my local police. The contents of the advert, it's more like a PSA, but they are something like the following... ohh when you see violent crime, it affects all of us. It affects all of us, it's very bad when violent crime goes on. Please report violent crime to the police, the police who will definitely do something about it. These are *our* streets, and you can help take them back. Report it to the police, who never commit violent crime themselves.

These are our streets. It was that bit that stuck out to me the most. These aren't their streets. The advert positions the listener in opposition to these outsider-criminals. Is inline with the typical conservative view of crime and also criminals being something that spontaneously and inevitably appears in a society, almost as if through abiogenesis, and the only thing to be done is to take a tough stance on law and order. Be tough on crime, whatever that means.

Of course the PSA was explicitly and specifically calling out for action against violent crime. I think most Marxists come to the table already having come to an understanding of the social nature of certain nonviolent crimes. Ask a communist or more broadly an anarchist what their views on shoplifting are and they should say its cool and based-- its not praxis and it's not moral but it doesn't have to be, it's simply a fact of life that not everyone will have the money to pay for things under capital.

Sometimes the liberal-progressive will agree with you up to a point where they hit you with the "no bc actually the companies take it out of their employees wages so youre not actually hurting the man" at which point you hit them back with the "that's illegal for them to do that" to which "yeah they do it anyway" and now the liberal has demonstrated an understanding of the contradictions of bourgeois law, so congratulations, but the crux of the matter is that shoplifting isn't praxis so it doesn't matter.

The tory kind of crime culture is something that must be combatted and sometimes goes overlooked by communists. But it is eminently important to certain layers of the population and must be addressed. Mostly petit bourgeois and their neighbourhood watch it must be said - but for those who are drinking deep from the law and order Kool Aid on lawbreakers/troublemakers/whathaveyou, they really care about it and we need to be able to explain our position in a way that isn't just whatabouting the white collar criminals in the banks and government.

Because while it may be true that wage theft is more impactful to the average person than robbery it still doesn't assuage the fears of those to whom we might propose, for some point far along in the future, to "abolish the prison industrial complex" or "stateless society" and hear "anarchy! anarchy!". The cult of law and order must be dismantled, brick by brick.

So: on violent crime. I want to return to a phrase I mentioned earlier; the "outsider criminal". This is a common distortion of reality, and pure idealism with no material base. Take any category of violent crime and largely you will find that it is far more likely for abuses to have been committed by people known to the victim than by a stranger. Most kidnappings are by one of the parents over custody disputes. Most severe cases of child abuse, torture and exploitation occur in isolated family units. Most rapes are committed by a friend, acquaintance or partner.

Flying in the face of reality, the fearmongering over the unknown emerged in 1979 beginning with the kidnapping of Etan Patz and followed by a spate of high-profile child kidnapping cases. CBS Evening News in 1982 informed the American public that "up to 50000 children were being kidnapped by strangers each year", a number that journalists, social psychologists and government officials had assured the public was highly inflated by the mid 1980s. But a hysterical wave had already overtaken the American people.

There was the perception that society was becoming increasingly unsafe, and something had to be done about it. But in reality by the end of the 1970s the crime rate was already falling. At the same time, deindustrialisation battered New York and some two million white Americans fled the city for the suburbs.

And with the social-cultural backdrop manufactured by the bourgeois news media it was nevertheless responded to with bulked-up policing at the same time as austerity. The Reagan administration gained consent to build a number of new prisons in California the number of prisons doubled in the decade of the 1980s, where previously it had taken 70 years to construct even half of that number).

These prisons did nothing for crime; the most obvious trend observable was that as the number of prisons increases, there are a greater number of prisons. They were an abject failure in their stated mission, but highly lucrative for shareholders.

Of course there are the social impetuses around the experience of being incarcerated that make recidivism more likely; the "networking opportunities" that lead to disorganised, petty criminals coming into contact and making connection with more experienced, organised criminals on the inside.

The skills decay, "gaps in employment" and legal discrimination faced by those with arrest records once they are on the outside. The disenfranchisement of felons. The income lost while incarcerated or stolen by police upon arrest, or spent on legal fees that must be recouped sooner rather than later. But often the psychological effects can be side-stepped by our movement.

There is perhaps a tendency to focus on certain kinds of offender (property crimes, non-violent drug offences), which is easy but tired, and can provide opponents with a "gotcha!" when confronting us with the question, for example, "what do we do about murderers and pedophiles?"

Of course the quick answer is that Leninists are not for the immediate abolishment of all carceral systems (but people did get paid in the gulags, so it isn't slave labour like usamerican prisons). But rhetorically that can feel like backpedalling, and it is useful to be able to explain the full and complex picture of crime in current society.

On the other-hand, there is also a tendency to shoehorn every single violent crime into the category of "mental health concern" while downplaying ideology as a factor. The western individualist petit-bourgeois centre cannot comprehend having a cause that one is willing to die or kill for. This incredulity serves to tourniquet both arms of politics: the courage and conviction of Aaron Bushnell's self-immolation is minimised, the ideology driving it reduced to fine print beside a suicide hotline, and the vile stochastic terrorism of far-right demagogues and incel forums are obscured behind lone-actors reacting to "male loneliness".

The case of right wing terrorism is particularly prevalent, because right wing terrorism itself is particularly prevalent at the moment. Conversely, in the era of the 70s when left-wing terrorism had its day in the sun bourgeois demagogues had no trouble denouncing the dangerous radicalism of the anarchist and Maoist coalitions. Meanwhile at present we see the woobification of mass murderers like Elliot Rodger or Kyle Rittenhouse or the Columbine shooters Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris as misunderstood, victims of bullying, merely suicidal in their pre-actions instead of the fermenting Hitlerites that from their journals it is clear that they were.

It was Sue Klebold, in fact, Dylan Klebold's mother, who was the one to launch a media campaign in the wake to have her son painted as a victim. It was her book-- a NYT Bestseller-- and years later the TED talks too that were major contributors to this brand of disinformation. I don't think I need to tell comrades here that there are plenty of mentally ill people who are not violent, who are violent only against themselves, or who are violent in ways that are not better explained by an ideology that encourages the dehumanisation of other people.

This is not to do a "no true mad person" fallacy on it-- as in certain cases perhaps mental illness will be the framework through which someone's actions are best understood-- but pathologising categories of action as default, far from turning them into something able to be treated, lends itself to helplessness in prevention. In the cases of far-right terrorism, it is the ideology that is the catalyst.

The class instincts of the bourgeoisie will always be to protect their own, over the out-group. Capitalism sublimates other identities below the class-instinct, such that even women become defenders of misogyny, POC of racism, gay people of homophobia; all of whom by this mechanism defenders of capital. It is not necessarily *in*conceivable why; in a survival situation it is much more helpful to be a member of the bourgeoisie than a member of a proletarianised minority group, this ought to be clear.

But dialling the extremity of our cases back some, and revisiting a recent phenomenom in greater depth: what is this so-called epidemic of "male loneliness" but a different expression of capitalist alienation as Marx described all those years ago? If not the very same? Of course the solution to this problem is, in that case not a consolidation of the patriarchy-- expecting women to bear the brunt of violence is itself a kind of interpersonal reformism. Like "oh, if women don't like these men they should enter relationships with them and try to push them left from the ground up". To suggest that would be as ridiculous as suggesting the same for proletarians in collaborationist parties.

In a similar vein, it is clearly nonsense to suggest that it is the bourgeoisie who gets the shortest (or even an equally short) end of the stick under capitalism, as it would be to suggest that men get a shorter or equally short end of the stick under patriarchy.

Alienation does not compare to exploitation. Alienation precludes connection, fulfillment, wellbeing; but such a condition is not the sole burden of the exploiter (the proletariat experiences alienation from their labour far more acutely than the bourgeoisie; the women who the alienated men around them are unable to connect with suffer at least as much from that particular disconnect as the men do. Of course there are unique experiences, and to every party the suffering felt is real-- this is not being said to dismiss it).

But to recognise this fact is not identity politics, it is a recognition of the material realities and contradictions of capitalism and the various compounding and nuanced oppressions that reinforce it in order to create as an accurate a picture as possible of the Hydra we are facing. To deny men the ability for consciousness, on the other hand, to use their own experiences and relate that suffering to the broader ailments of society, and to subsequently divide the struggle on any lines other than class-- the superidentity through which all other forms of oppression express a material form, however, most certainly is.

The exact contradiction faced by working class men which leads to their alienation from each other and the rest of society is the combined experience of having a foot up when it comes to the patriarchy, while simultaneously being crushed under the boot of capitalism in their experience as labourers.

This contradiction will, depending on the man and the environment in which he finds himself, go one of two ways: either a redoubling of the patriarchy, which may compensate his individual lack of control in the professional sphere but represent a concession to bourgeois ideology that can only feed-back into greater alienation from his fellow humans, entitlement to the women around him; a rotting cope that cannot resolve, will not save him and will change nothing for his children. Or in the realisation of his position under capitalism, as in class consciousness. Only the latter is capable of providing a way forward.

Patriarchy serves capitalism historically as the commodification of women and their confinement to the domestic sphere provides a vast well of labour that is able to go unpaid, labour that is vital for the reproduction of the next generation of proletarians and used to be reflected in the wages of the husband.

Then came the proletarianisation of women (which is perhaps a misnomer-- certain layers of women, the poorest, among whom was particularly black and immigrant women, had always been working) and perhaps moreso with the right of women to open up their own bank accounts independent of a husband-- and thus accumulate their own capital, have their own inheritors. This of course was a progressive step as opposed to the formal slavery of women that came before. Now they were free to enter into wage slavery as the men were.

This-- the feminist 2nd wave-- and the rise of what we colloquially think of as liberal ideology (not the classical liberalism of for example Thomas Hobbes or Steven Crowder) was correlated with the decline of the family unit, a pattern that is real, and correctly identified as real by reactionaries but wrongfully attributed to the aforementioned ideological developments. In reality it was the greed of employers at the potentiality of a new and untapped source of labour in women that finally overrode the antiquated prejudices of the bourgeoisie, as they realised they'd be able to pay women less and pit the now even more saturated labour market against each other to drive wages down.

However, it soon became impossible to support a family on a single income as it had been throughout the 50s and 60s.

This, being the precursor to as reactionaries identify it "the degeneration of the family", was not-- as reactionaries identify it-- the fault of women but of manifold factors, including: the deindustrialisation ongoing since the 50s in places such as Detroit as auto manufacturers left or soon to go on in New York state, and the north of England and in Wales under Thatcher here at home-- which was in turn driven by the emigration of these manufacturing jobs to newly open and exploitable markets in the global south, the declawing of the unions, the inevitable slowdown of the post-war boom, and the market organisation of labour in the first place.

These developments were bound to place even more stress on what was already a fundamentally fragile social unit in the first place-- the nuclear family.

Even prior to it's decline and the successes of 1st and 2nd wave feminism, the nuclear family had been a tenuous and unstable building block on which to structure a society. Marx wrote of the flaws of bourgeois marriage-- community of women, union based on accumulation, the consequent alienation-- which had been evident even in his day.

And on the eve of what we may consider the old order overturned, the sunset decades of traditional Americana in the 1950s and early 60s, there was still the stereotype of the valium-addled housewife & mother and the disciplinarian salaryman husband & father.

But such a structure can only ever reflect the conditions of the society in which it exists; this society is of course the dictatorships of the liberal bourgeoisie and all its flaws. The contradictions between the "united front" of the parents over the children, while the mother/wife is exploited in the domestic, and in marriage generally, and finds dominion over the children, the husband/father too is exploited in his work, and finds dominion over the wife.

It is this that was promised implicitly to young men, and this that the more reactionary layers of them wish to RETVRN to, yet is impossible under the current conditions-- even if women were willing to enter into relationships with them. Every "trad" influencer you see online is being kept afloat by egregious generational wealth.

And the structure is one absolutely primed for abuses. "Nuclear" is an apt metaphor, the power struggle between the subatomic forces will necessarily lead to conflict and reckoning, fission and decay. The disenfranchised child is sole property of their parents, the wife property of her husband. Both husband and wife chained by bureaucratic and financial pressures and obligations that may not inherently cause but facillitate and exacerbate abuses, and forces each party to endure past the point when individually and free of constraint they would choose to leave.

When exploitation of a child occurs outside of the immediate family it is usually by trusted adults wielding social (or actual) capital. On the occasion it is perpetrated by a stranger, it is always the lack of agency felt or experienced by the child that is preyed upon and manipulated.

It is with this understanding of the family that we must approach one of the dominant paradigms in contemporaneous psychiatry-- that is, the parental blame game-- and its incompleteness.

It might surprise you now for me to say that I do not believe the family's flaws to be an adequate explainer of mental illness on their own.

Other than the biological approach, this is perhaps the framework of psychotherapy one is most likely to encounter. Not for no reason-- it is inarguable that the actions of caregivers during developmental years have a profound effect on later wellbeing. It just so happens that under capitalism and especially western individualism (which is an ideological cornerstone of capitalism itself) the purview of "caregiver" is reduced to the role of primary and secondary, of most commonly mother and father. That the onus for raising a whole human being-- multiple, even-- should fall on just two individuals is not a natural law but a result of current cultural conditions. It takes a village to raise a child, after all.

A child that is unisolated, is listened to and taken seriously, who is and has always been free to leave a situation in which they are uncomfortable, and who has a wide network of support that is simply not feasible under capitalist alienised-atomised living, is far more difficult if not impossible to victimise. There is a reason that Engels included childcare and early childhood education in his Principles of Communism, there is a reason the Bolsheviks instituted those, as well as freedom of divorce and abortion, almost as soon as they came to power.

That the blame should be placed entirely on one or both of the parental unit is not just a convenient scapegoat for the bourgeois influences out of the parents' control, but a fundamentally unhelpful tactic especially in reaching certain layers of the proletariat who come to the table with an understanding that their parents had done the best that they could in raising them, given the circumstances, and will not hear badly against them.

In a not insignificant number of cases this is not an incorrect one-- they may not consciously realise it but those circumstances of course are capitalism. "Man makes his own choices but does not do so in conditions of his choosing" - this was Marx's conception of human nature. It is the pedestal on which nuclear parenthood is placed which lends itself to disappointment.

But think as well of the bourgeois child, who grows up with all the advantages of wealth and none of the traumas of poverty. They are sooner raised by a nanny or governess than their own family, with the influence of the parents elevated to a non-presence hanging over the entire childhood. What does the child learn but that love and care is a commodity to be bought and sold, hired from the underclass?

Capital is substitute for connection. Perhaps in this way-- and in the simultaneous recognition of the lie of meritocracy-- it can be understood that capitalism does not merely reward sociopathy (which would imply that individual traits have any bearing of the makeup of executive boards), but *breeds* it.

It is not necessary for us to distinguish between whether or not an individual member of the bourgeoisie is "really" ASPD (the clinical term for sociopathy) or NPD (Narcissitic Personality Disorder). It is also not necessary to particularly worry about the stigmatising effects of "mis"-using such labels in such a way, as these labels were invented in the first place to stigmatise people displaying certain groups of behaviour.

(The technique for remembering which PD cluster is which is still "Mad, *Bad*, Sad", after all. It is difficult, knowing this, to believe the puported scientific non-bias of psychiatry as a practise, given the sweeping moral condemnation of some of its most vulnerable patients. It is impossible to destigmatise the word "narcissist"; it's like naming it "Irredeemable Abusive Asshole Disorder" and then being surprised when people throw it around as a pejorative against anyone they don't like. If they gave a shit they would have called it what it is, which is "essentially CPTSD but we don't like your coping mechanisms and we would rather discard you as a person entirely than attempt to understand the nuances". But I digress:).

For the members of the bourgeoisie whose actions may be described as sociopathic from the outside, they are functionally the same and might as well be called as much. I would indeed suspect, however, that a significant proportion of "sociopaths" among high level executives may not be so in the strictly clinical sense; diagnostic criteria and treatment for personality disorders still tend to operate off the assumption that once personality has developed it becomes intrinsic and unable to be meaningfully improved-- such was the original conceit of the distinction between Axis I and Axis II (major psychiatric VS personality disorders) in the DSM-- but more recent findings challenge this assumption. Through the dialectic-- the process of development of human thought-- we also understand that the self as everything is constantly in motion.

These informal sociopaths in executive positions, therefore, may better have their condition (and "condition" here as in the non-clinical sense) explained by various "ism"s-- classism that allows them to dehumanise their employees, sexism that allows them to dehumanise their wives and pay women employees less for the same work, racism that allows them to dehumanise their constituents or, in the case of redlining bankers, hopeful borrowers. Their own bourgeois ideology above all that allows them to justify it all to themselves: through meritocracy, through bootstraps-isms, through trickle-down economics, through American and broader western exceptionalism, through plain straight denial-- this particular magical thinking, *this* disconnect from reality, is not termed psychotic by the status quo.

Culturally we see certain allowances made for yet more aspects of bourgeois ideology too. Believing in aliens, or ghosts, or angel-number universal energy is considered cause for psychiatric concern. Believing in God is not. As Marxists we understand that all of these are idealism, but liberal ideology is unable to reconcile the contradiction.

With the pathologisation of discrete actions, which had started with suicide (of which there is still declared to never be a logical reasoning behind, even in the wake of Aaron Bushnell's protest, even in less clear cases where the Samaritans themselves recognise something called "Shit Life Syndrome", from which suicide could be construed a protest against the conditions of capitalism itself) and which has not yet extended to religiosity in general, it has yet diffused across all manner of behaviour-- some perhaps genuinely useful as markers of psychological processes that are more difficult to measure, as in sensory avoidance for one. But increasingly many others rendered completely meaningless by pop-psych content farms, according to whom for example sleeping in the foetal position is a potential sign of autism.

This is formal logic. That one or even several peripheral or correlationary traits makes a disorder. In reality, even mental illness adheres to at least one part of the dialectic. Many symptoms are common across disorders and many symptoms express themselves subclinically (in a non-disordered way). It is the presence of a sufficient quantity of symptoms that turns into the quality of "having" a "disorder".

It is the formal logician that sees their friend's breakup and instantly diagnoses the other party as a narcissist, no matter how small the action given as evidence. And it is the formal logician who is unable to see that this "narcissist" in reality suffers very little in his other interpersonal relationships, and it is simply the misogyny he has learned throughout his life that is the cause of conflict in his romantic relationships.

Look through the DSM and the ICD and you will not find a single disorder for which misogyny, or racism, or homophobia, or transphobia, or any other kind of bigotry is a symptom. They are, however, symptoms of capitalism-- and of class society generally.

You will, however, find disorders of which anti-authoritarianism are symptoms-- as in Oppositional Defiance Disorder, or ODD, which is varyingly just either ADHD or PTSD, primarily applied to black children or other children more likely to be considered aggressive, and attempting to challenge the diagnosis in any way is considered yet another symptom.

The Cluster B personality disorders also tend to get slapped on the record of patients that are considered difficult. A major consequence of psychotic disorders are that you de-facto lose the ability to argue for your own experiences (you are, after all, delusional). Genuine concerns over their own safety and desire to have locks on the door in the (real) case of a schizophrenic rape survivor in a women's shelter are brushed off as paranoia.

Any Marxist considering "Anti-Social Personality Disorder" must take into account exactly *which* society the personality is deemed to be "anti", especially given that the diagnostic criteria requires "disregard for the law-" *bourgeois* law "-and repeated criminal behaviour prior to the age of 18".

People with Narcissitic Personality Disorder are generally unlikely to seek treatment for it and it instead tends to be identified during treatment for comorbidities-- most commonly Substance Use Disorders, which itself straddles the line between crime and illness.

Crime for the homeless addict, or the single mother caught with a gram of weed in her nightstand, or the line cook on their eighth 10-hour shift in a row. Illness for the celebrity at private rehab, or the white suburban mother on enough Prozac to kill a horse, or the rich partyboy on college track. "Irrational", perhaps, in all cases; never a thought given to the conditions that make constant intoxication preferable to the throbbing mental illness of capitalism.

The line between crime and mental illness is, generally, less distinct than you might think. Treatment for psychotic disorders differs very little from incarceration. Institutionalisation is functionally the same as arrest-- except it is generally even more traumatising ("oh you believe that people are plotting to come get you and take you away, so we've arranged for a group of people to come get you and take you away")−− and you don't even have the right to a trial.

Science under capitalism is and always will be subject to the hegemony of the bourgeoisie. It is for that reason that treatment is restricted to that which will get you back to work the quickest. This is usually drug therapy instead of talking therapies, which require greater skill (and therefore are more expensive to train and produce) and take longer to show effects. In USAmerica at least it is also the case that doctors essentially receive sponsorships from pharmaceutical companies in exchange for prescribing a quota of a specific drug, whether or not it is in the patient's best interest.

I feel obligated to include The Mark Fisher Quote in here somewhere, but I won't dwell on it; "If it is true that low levels of serotonin cause depression, it still has to be determined *what causes low levels of serotonin*?"

The cases of depression and anxiety have been repeated ad nauseum. Schizophrenia is often thrown out as a counterargument by those championing what is essentially biological determinism, but even schizophrenia expresses itself less severely and less violently in less individualistic societies.

Schizophrenia at present requires family therapy anyway, for the people around the sufferer to adjust their behaviour and learn how to approach delusions. The most humane treatment for schizophrenia is still a wide support network such that interpersonal conflict can be spread out and it does not become a trigger. People should not have to endure neurological damage and seizures from taking enough meds to be productive in order to have the right to life. In all cases it is the alienation that kills you. The bid for human connection that is rejected or dismissed that leads to self-destruction.

What would persecutory delusions look like under a dictatorship of the proletariat? Without special bodies of armed men that *do* have the power to take you away? Of religious persecution in a society that has moved past the need for religion? Of grandiosity in a world where the category of celebrity does not exist?

When the punishment for doing worse is not unemployment and homelessess, perhaps suddenly recovery is not so impossible.

--

Liberal ideologues through their flattening of the entire scope of criminality, including and especially violent crime, into "mental illness", and mental illness onto the family, fail to see the forest for the trees. This is unsurprising, and par for the course with liberalism.

Right wing ideologues, on the other hand, blame crime and criminality on "not enough family", or "not the right kind of family". They believe that all that is necessary is for the correct values to be instilled in a child. But poverty is as with all things the great exacerbater. In reality it is not some metaphysical human need for a present father that makes a two-parent household superior, but the advantages of *two* potential streams of income, of *two* extended families, of greater options for childcare. This could be achieved as easily by two women or two men as by one man and one woman, but we need not stop there; it would be achieved even easier with proper social support, with the abolition of poverty, with a shorter working day, with communism.