#tw: toxic masculinity

[strykingback]

"Women and children should kneel to men. That's all that they should be doing and servitude to the strong men."

[jazzstarrlight]

Razz meets Kaage

Finally after so many tooth pain breaks & junk, I finished this little comic! It's been in the works for a while.

Kaage's trips to the colony to make friends have never been successful as he gets nervous of big & loud crowds.

[aspiringwarriorlibrarian]

Every single argument of why men are superior in any way is always bullshit.

I love how this started with "hey I work crime and I've seen three sneaker related murders so yes man can and will be that fucking petty" and ended with Aaron Burr shooting Alexander Hamilton.

Like they call it honor, but call it what it is: petty drama.

[mistamysterystan]

Uncle Mullet who’s not from my universe how the FUCK did you fumble THAT bad. You’re probably bisexual who the hell cares, man.

-@formerquestionmarkmp

I DONT KNOW, ALSO WHO ARE YOU

AND NO I AINT-!! I CANT BE- I JUST CANT

[twistedheartsclub]

In The house of God

Content Warnings: 𖤐 noncon / dubcon 𖤐 obsessive yandere priest 𖤐 psychological manipulation 𖤐 religious guilt & trauma 𖤐 age gap (reader is early 20s / priest is mid-late 40s) 𖤐 virginity kink 𖤐 forced submission 𖤐 coercion / grooming themes 𖤐 heavy power imbalance 𖤐 praise kink & crying kink 𖤐 altar & confession kink 𖤐 possessive behavior masked as devotion 𖤐 sacrilegious undertones 𖤐 emotional unraveling 𖤐 hints of Stockholm syndrome 𖤐 toxic obsession presented romantically → MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

→ This is a work of dark fiction. Nothing here is an endorsement of real-life abuse or manipulation. Please consume responsibly.

His POV

She sat in the second pew.

Knees together. Back straight. Eyes lowered.

The picture of innocence—untouched, unknowing, perfect.

He hadn’t expected her.

The town was small. His transfer, quiet.

Just another priest brought in to fill a gap, a seat, a pulpit.

But then he saw her.

The preacher’s daughter.

Barely twenty. Pale blue dress brushing her knees. Her hands folded, fingers pressed in silent prayer.

She doesn’t even realize how her lips move when she prays, he thought.

As if she’s whispering to me.

Something stirred in him—old, shameful.

Something that had died long ago when he took his vows. Or… should have.

“Welcome, Father Mathias,” her father had said warmly. “We’re grateful to have you.”

He shook the man’s hand. Smiled.

And kept stealing glances at the girl beside him.

“My daughter, Y/N. She plays piano for the youth choir.”

Of course she did. Sweet. Soft-spoken. Meant for service.

Meant for obedience.

He bowed his head. “A pleasure.”

She smiled up at him, unsure and shy. And he swore his lungs forgot how to breathe.

Later, after his sermon, he watched her fingers glide over ivory keys.

Every note a prayer.

Every breath between songs a confession he hadn’t earned.

You don’t even know you’re tempting me, he thought. But you are. You are.

That night, he knelt by his bed.

But he didn’t pray.

He wrapped the rosary around his hand like a leash and whispered her name into the silence.

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

“But I think I’ve found my purpose.”

His POV

He told himself it was innocent.

Helping her turn the page. Reaching for the hymnbook.

Standing too close behind her while she played the church organ—bare legs swinging gently beneath that modest skirt.

So soft. So clean. So untouched.

He was a man of God.

But standing there, inches from the warmth of her body, the fragile rise and fall of her breath—he felt nothing divine.

Only hunger.

And then it happened.

She leaned back slightly as she played a chord, unaware.

And his groin pressed against her lower back.

She froze.

He did too.

That split-second stretched like a psalm too long.

“Oh—” she gasped, breath catching in her throat.

She went still beneath him, as if time itself had locked them in place. Her hand slipped on the keys, a sour note echoing into the chapel air.

He stepped back immediately—visibly, but not willingly.

The feel of her—warm and trembling—lingered against him like sin burned into flesh.

She turned her face slightly, eyes wide, her cheeks already flushed with something she didn’t have the language for.

“I—I’m sorry, Father,” she whispered.

Sorry.

As if she had sinned. As if she had tempted him.

He almost laughed.

She thinks it was her fault.

She thinks she made me stumble.

Oh, the thoughts that bloomed then. Rotten. Vivid.

He imagined gripping her hips and bending her right over the organ keys—each note ringing out under her sobs.

Her crying.

Begging.

The stained glass behind them catching candlelight as he forced holiness into her with every punishing thrust.

“You made me fall, little lamb,” he’d whisper.

“So now I’ll make you kneel.”

And when she broke, when she wept—

it would save him.

Because her tears wouldn’t be sadness.

They’d be worship.

She took a shaky step away. He watched her fingers tremble as she closed the hymnbook.

“Excuse me, Father…” she said, voice so small, it nearly broke him.

“You dropped this.”

He blinked.

The book lay at his feet.

He hadn’t even noticed.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

She just turned, lips parted, breath shallow—

and left the chapel.

And he stood there. Alone.

With a full, throbbing erection pressed beneath his robe.

With shame burned into him like scripture he could no longer recite.

He stepped into the confessional.

Sat in the dark.

And with his hand wrapped around himself, he imagined her on the other side—kneeling. Praying.

“Father, forgive me… I think I made you sin.”

Yes, my lamb. You did. And I’ll never let you stop.

Y/N’s POV

“Do I look alright, Mama?”

Y/N smoothed the hem of her pale blue dress again, the same one she wore to church.

Her mother smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You look like a blessing, baby. He’ll see how well we’ve raised you.”

Y/N nodded and tucked her hands neatly in her lap.

Obedient. Sweet. Graceful.

That’s what she was. That’s what she had to be.

She had spent all afternoon helping her mother with dinner—pot roast, fresh rolls, and her father’s favorite green bean casserole. Their small house smelled of warmth, of rosemary and apple pie.

But beneath it all… she felt it. A tremble in her stomach. A heaviness she couldn’t name.

It had started yesterday.

The organ bench.

The way Father Asher’s body brushed against hers—low, firm, hot through all that holy black cloth.

She’d told herself it was nothing. An accident. A crowded moment in a small chapel.

But the way he looked at her after…

Eyes that devoured.

Hands that had trembled.

And the faint, trembling hush in his voice when he said her name.

The doorbell rang.

She nearly jumped.

Her mother patted her arm. “Go let him in, darling.”

Y/N stood. Smoothed her dress one more time.

And opened the door.

Father Asher stood in the dusklight.

Crisp collar. Black shirt. A bottle of wine in one hand.

“Good evening, little lamb,” he said.

Her stomach twisted.

She smiled, like a good daughter would. “Welcome, Father.”

His eyes slid over her face. Her hair. Her neckline.

He’s looking at me the way men do in the magazines Mama says I can’t read.

“Please,” he murmured, voice warm. “Call me Asher. Just for tonight.”

She nodded and stepped aside.

His hand brushed the small of her back as he entered.

Too light to be called a touch.

Too low to be mistaken.

Dinner was warm. Conversation easy.

Her father beamed. “We’re just glad the Lord sent us someone with true discipline. A man like you.”

Asher smiled and bowed his head. “Discipline is everything, sir. Especially when temptation is so… present.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed. She lowered her eyes to her plate.

He watched her the entire meal.

How she cut her food. How she passed the salt. How her lips parted when she tasted something sweet.

Her mother asked about church renovations.

Her father spoke about scripture.

And Father Asher only watched Y/N—as if she were the only thing that existed.

After dessert, he stood. “May I speak with your daughter alone?”

Her parents exchanged a glance.

Her father smiled. “Of course. She’s always been good at receiving guidance.”

They don’t know what they’ve done.

They stepped onto the back porch. The air was thick with honeysuckle and summer dusk.

Y/N clasped her hands. “Is something wrong, Father?”

Asher stepped close.

Too close.

“You felt it, didn’t you?” he whispered.

She blinked. “Felt… what?”

He leaned in, his lips almost at her ear. “The moment God touched us. In the chapel. On the bench.”

She shook her head, backing up. “It was an accident—”

His hand caught her wrist. Gentle. Firm. Possessive.

“Nothing of God is accidental.”

Her breath hitched.

“You’re special, Y/N. And special girls are chosen. You know that, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

He stepped back, finally letting her go. His smile was soft. Angelic.

“We’ll speak again soon. Alone.”

He kissed her knuckles like she was royalty.

And walked off into the dark.

Back inside, her father asked if everything was alright.

Y/N just smiled.

Because that’s what good girls do.

Even when they’re being hunted

Y/N’s POV

The air in the chapel was thick and heavy, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. She stepped carefully down the aisle, the hem of her cotton dress brushing her shins, her fingers wrapped tightly around her rosary.

This was supposed to bring her peace.

She used to feel safe here.

But ever since that night on the porch—since his words, his eyes, his hands—

She felt watched. Known.

Touched… even when he wasn’t there.

Her stomach twisted.

And still, she obeyed.

“Come to confession, my lamb,” he’d whispered during communion. “There’s something on your heart. I can feel it.”

She stepped into the booth. Wood creaked softly beneath her. The candlelight flickered through the lattice between them.

She didn’t speak at first.

“Little lamb…”

His voice came low, velvet-wrapped gravel. “You’ve kept your Father waiting.”

She swallowed hard. Her hands trembled.

“Bless me, Father… for I have sinned.”

The words broke in her throat.

Her breath was shallow. Her rosary nearly slipped from her fingers.

“Tell me, my sweet,” he said softly. “What have you done?”

Silence.

“Or is it what you’ve felt?”

She closed her eyes. “I think… I made you stumble.”

A long pause.

Then his voice, dark and low:

“No, my lamb. You made me fall.”

The screen between them creaked. A hand slid through the opening—not offering grace.

Demanding surrender.

“Give me your hand.”

She hesitated.

“Now.”

She obeyed.

His fingers were hot—rough. Calloused. Too strong.

He pulled her palm to his lips and kissed it slowly, reverently, like she was some sacred relic.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That warmth? That’s your fault.”

She tried to pull away. He didn’t let go.

“When I pray, I think of you.

When I fast, I hunger for you.

When I sleep, I dream of you—crying, shaking, bent over my altar like a sacrifice.”

Her knees gave out slightly, and she gripped the bench.

She whispered, “This isn’t right.”

“Right and wrong are for men.

But you… you were made for holiness.

And holiness begins with obedience.”

He stood. She could hear it—his movements, deliberate, slow.

The door to her side of the booth opened.

“Kneel.”

She didn’t move.

He grabbed her by the chin, tilting her face up until her tear-filled eyes met his.

“Kneel.”

She fell to her knees.

He stepped in front of her, the scent of him surrounding her—warm incense, sweat, and power.

His thumb brushed the corner of her lip.

“Your mouth trembles when you lie. Your tears make my soul ache.

You’re not meant to carry this guilt.”

He leaned closer.

“You’re meant to give it to me.”

His hand slid along her jaw. Down her neck. To her shoulder.

He pressed gently—not in blessing, but in control.

She gasped.

“Father… please…”

“You’re so small,” he murmured, fingers trailing along her arm, down to her wrist. “So delicate. God made you breakable… just for me.”

Suddenly, his palm landed sharply on the back of her thigh.

A slap.

Not hard. But enough.

She gasped, her hands shooting out to grip the edge of the bench.

“You were made to bend,” he said. “Say it.”

“No—”

Another slap.

“Say it, lamb.”

She sobbed. “I… I was made to bend.”

He knelt beside her, breathing hot against her temple.

“And I will be the one to shape you.”

She broke then—quietly.

No screams. Just tears, falling in silence onto the chapel floor.

Her voice came out like a prayer. “Why is God letting this happen?”

He smiled.

“Because He gave you to me.”

And then, he stood. Stepped away.

“Come to the rectory tomorrow. Before sunset.

We’ll continue your… guidance.”

He turned and disappeared into the candlelight.

She remained on the floor, her knees bruised, her thighs tingling, her hands shaking against the wood.

Her heart thundered with shame.

Her skin burned where he had touched.

And still… some part of her ached when he walked away.

Was that sin? Or was it something else?

Y/N’s POV

The rectory was quiet.

Too quiet.

Even the candlelight seemed to flicker in warning as she stepped inside.

She shouldn’t be here.

But she had obeyed.

Because that’s what she did. What she was raised to do.

“Obedience is the foundation of faith.”

Her father’s voice echoed in her mind.

And now… so did his.

“Come to me, lamb. Before the sun sets.”

And so she had.

She stood in the center of his private study, hands folded, heart pounding so violently it made her vision blur.

Then the door closed behind her.

Locked.

She turned slowly—and he was already watching her. His collar loosened. His sleeves rolled. His dark eyes devouring her like scripture he’d been forbidden to read.

“Do you know why I brought you here?”

She didn’t answer.

He crossed the room slowly, each footstep measured, predatory.

When he stopped in front of her, she felt her breath catch—his scent wrapped around her like smoke: clove, incense, heat.

His fingers brushed her cheek.

“You look like holiness wrapped in flesh.

But I know what’s underneath.”

She whimpered when he touched her throat.

Not hard. Not yet.

Just his thumb trailing down, to the edge of her collar.

She wore the same pale dress.

“You wanted me to see you again in this.”

He smiled, voice low and reverent. “My little lamb, dressed for slaughter.”

Her tears came fast. Shameful. Silent.

“Why are you crying?” he murmured. “You’ve come to be made pure.”

His mouth found her temple—soft, shaking kisses.

“This is mercy,” he whispered. “You’ll understand soon.”

He stripped her slowly. Reverently.

Like she was sacred.

Her dress hit the floor with a soft sigh.

His hands traced her body—not kindly. Not gently.

But with possession.

He cupped her hips. Her ribs. His thumbs dragged up her spine.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear. “That’s what lambs do before the altar.”

He bent her over the confessional bench.

Not the bed. Not the floor.

Where sins were confessed.

She sobbed—once, broken and soft.

“Please, Father…”

He didn’t respond with kindness.

He gripped her wrists.

Spread her.

Pressed his weight over her, one hand tangling in her hair, the other pushing her hips down.

“You said you were ready to be saved,” he growled.

“Then open, and let me baptize you in pain.”

She felt him—hot, hard, throbbing with devotion—press against her untouched heat.

It burned.

She tried to pull away.

He pulled her back.

“This is my right,” he hissed. “God gave you to me. He put the ache in me. And you—you were born to bear it.”

She cried out when he entered her.

Her cry was sharp, echoing in the chapel like a siren.

A holy, sacred howl—raw with pain, trembling with shock.

And it made him moan.

“Yes… cry for me, little lamb. Let Him hear what He made you for.”

He filled her—completely, painfully—his body like fire against hers, like punishment and rapture in one brutal movement.

Every thrust was a sermon.

Every slap of his hips, a psalm of power.

He gripped her thighs, her hips, her throat—claiming her not with love, but with dominion.

She choked on her sobs.

On his name.

“Please… please stop…”

He didn’t.

He pressed his lips to her ear.

“It’s too late,” he whispered. “You’re already mine.”

When she went limp beneath him, when her cries softened into quiet, shaking sobs—he came.

Not just with release. But with exaltation.

He praised her.

Thanked her.

“You were made for this. For me. For God’s will.”

He collapsed over her, breathing heavily, lips still muttering broken prayers.

And she just lay there—broken. Used.

And worse…

Tied to him.

As she lay trembling, her body slick with sweat and blood and something far worse—he lifted her chin.

His eyes gleamed with hunger.

“You’ll confess again next week, won’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

He only smiled.

“That’s alright. You’ll be back. They always come back.”

Because he knew.

She had nowhere else to go.

[msfbgraves]

Robby was raped. Is no one going to acknowledge this, or do the dudebros only think rape happens to women?

Fuck this show.

At least one of the writers - not Hayden, I think it was Josh? - reacted that Robby's predicament wasn't meant to be read as sexual assault, though goodness knows what it was supposed to be read as. You can't consent when you're intoxicated this badly. Had this been a girl no one would have tried to 'read it differently' or gone like 'we don't know what really happened'. And often what happens with female characters too is that the scene wasn't about Robby. It was about Tory. It was sexist, even to Zara - how else could a girl try to get under another girl's skin than by using sex? That's how femme fatales are always written, and it shows that these writers have never been in the presence of a clique of mean girls. They certainly do not need to fuck your boyfriend to get at you.

But to get back to Robby: definitely assaulted and very very likely raped. But that's Robby, meant to suffer for all his father's sins. They probably think any sex is good sex for a boy, "Har, har, got your dick wet, good one!"

This messaging of CK makes it more difficult for survivors of abuse to come forward, because it tells that abusers get everything they want with no repercussions; no justice will ever be served and however much you try, some people are just meant to be victims so suck it up, who cares, you don't matter.

While the Karate Kid showed that those society overlooks can be our greatest friends and teachers, you can train to fight without hurting anyone, and hard work and dedication can bring you the respect of your peers, even your bullies, and show them there is a better path. (Since, ya know - an abuser like Kreese will turn even on their best henchmen).

Do they think that Cobra Kai would even exist to correct The Karate Kid if its message was not one people have been wanting to hear?

[b-writessometimes]

Having Patrick Bateman as a Father (Headcanons)

Warnings: Mentions of violence, murder. Unhealthy parenting dynamics, controlling behavior, emotional neglect, sexist themes prevalent. All around not a good time :(

A bit of a character study and how (at least I believe) he would treat a hypothetical child of his. Read with discretion.

[words: 1,205]

Patrick Bateman didn't initially set out to be a father.

That might lead one to believe that him having a child was an accident.  On the contrary, I think it was a pretty damn deliberate move on his end.  Like checking off an item on a grocery list.  

He was unfortunately getting on in years.  As such is the cruel bitter reality that all humans (yes, even him) had to face. 

With dwindling time and perhaps due in part to a midlife crisis, it was then that he decided now was time as any for an heir.  A predecessor.  Someone to live on in his name and blood.

Thus came along you.  

When you arrive into Patrick's life, whether by birth or by adoption, he views you in the same manner that one might view a pet.  No, that emboldens one to assume you're an entity that is separate from him.  Because in his view point, you my dear reader, are an extension of himself.

Make no mistake, you're not given the same autonomy and authority as he holds, but he does hold a certain...attachment to you.  And with attachment comes expectations.

Patrick Bateman is a strict father.  

From the moment he was pronounced your legal guardian, you've been held to the same high standards he's held himself to.  

You didn't get to start picking out your wardrobe until you were a teenager.  And even then, he has final say over what you wear (has to be designer brand, nothing less).  

Lord help you if you're his daughter; extra scrutiny will be the norm  if he deems anything you pick out 'too provocative' and 'not becoming of a respectable young lady'.  He can tolerate up to a certain amount of accessorizing until he deems so 'too over the top'.  While he can respect your initiative if you opt for more masculine attire in this ever corporate world, he doesn't want people mistaking you for a feminist.

He'd usher you to take care of yourself, be it your image, health, physical appearance, reputation, etc.  Not bothering to think how such constant chiding could affect your mental health.  Always going on about how 'you'd thank him when you're older'.  

He simultaneously treats you like a young child who doesn't know any better yet expects you to have the self control of an adult.  (Which is rich coming from him-)

Patrick Bateman is a neglectful father.

For as relentlessly controlling as the man is, he can be like a ghost that haunts you.  Present?  Yes, but not fully there.

Sure he takes care of you financially: gives you a lavish roof over your head,  pays for all your valuable expenses, takes you out to dinner, which he argues is more than some fathers do.

While he may be right in that sense, it's really not worth a damn when said father has the emotional capacity of a rock.  When you cried as a toddler it wasn't him who rubbed away at your tears to assure you everything was okay, it was more often than not, whatever nanny he hired.  

When you were stuck on a math problem for homework, you know you could never bother him with such a trivial matter, and thus hit the books for answers.

When you began learning to drive, it for certain wasn't your father with his busy schedule who taught you.  It was a paid driving instructor who was only doing so for a fat paycheck.

When asked to describe you in public, he'd say what a wonderful child you are.  What a blessing you are to his life.  How lucky he is to have you.

When you ask him to remember your birthday, he tosses you an expensive gift as a form of amends for not being there at your last one.

How he twists the strings of your life yet can barely bother to check in on you emotionally is an irony worthy to write home about.

While on the outside you seem to have it all, the truth is, your connection to your father is about as hollow and bleak as his monochromatic penthouse.

Now onto the big questions:

Do you know about his 'personal' hobbies?

I would argue: yes.  Now did he plan to tell you?  Not if he could help it.  But with any curious child, you would inevitably stumble upon somewhere you weren't supposed to go or witness something that you really shouldn't have.  

What happens afterwards is up to you.  Though knowing the twisted upbringing you've been brought into?  It wouldn't concern you much.  Just as long as your dad kept his illegal hobbies to himself and didn't rope you into it.  

It's easy enough to ignore the faint crimson stains in the hardwood floor, how you occasionally see guest visit only to never see them walk out the door.  Maybe it's best to simply turn up your earbuds extra loud during the night.

Would he ever kill you?

As morbidly inclined as I am to say 'yes' I have to disagree here. You being his child in essence means your an extension of Patrick himself.  

He would view killing you in the same vein as an artist destroying their own painting, of an author burning his own novel.  Not guilty per say, but a profound twisted feeling in his gut that he can't quite name. It would be akin to cutting off a limb.  So damn easy on somebody else, but excruciating painful because its his own.

(That and, being the person closest to you, he'd be suspect #1.  So there's that.) 

What does he expect of your future?

He expects success and nothing less.  Now, surprise surprise, he ends up being somewhat lenient whether you choose to follow his footsteps as CEO.  Afterall, Pierce & Pierce isn't what it used to be.  Even someone as out of touch as Patrick can see that.  

The world is changing.  But don't think for a second that it means you have free reign over your future.  He's allowing you a bit of leash here but in the end, he's still the one still holding it.  

If you're born as male, he'll expect some typically-masculine career path.  Preferably business or the like.  He's okay about sports since he knows there comes a high risk of injury but also high reward with public notoriety.  If you choose some science or engineering job, he'd prefer you not to ruin your posture by being hunched over a computer all day but if it makes him look good if you graduate from a fancy tech school, so be it.

As a woman, he'll allow you a little more wiggle room, but still strict nonetheless.  The only occupation of the 'arts' he might take seriously is if you're a fashion designer or a professional ballerina.  (He finds the particular style of dance to be quite elegant, like that of a mechanical doll come to life).  

And if you stray from the set expectations he has for you?  You better have a will of steel.  Because if there's one thing that he values even above you, is maintaining an public image worthy of envy. 

Can't have you soiling that with your 'hopes and dreams'. 

[marshmellowtea]

ouggggh chris learning to cover up his sensitivity with anger instead of tears cuz that was more ~socially acceptable~ for a little boy when he was growing up 💔

[imallyoursssss]

put a pretty collar around my neck

tie my hands and legs

keep me on a leash

let me be your cute little puppy

[terrence-silver]

How would Terry in all eras teach his sons to respect their mother (beloved)

Look, whenever in doubt, I tend to go for Terry Silver approaching things through the lenses of a (toxic?) military structure, or in this case;

Mother (beloved) is the flag in the middle of the base camp. If someone captures it, disrespects it, steals it, tramples upon it or even touches it --- looks at it for too long --- means the collective has lost and losing is unacceptable through Terry Silver's viewpoint of things. If your flag is captured, the battle is over. And is that acceptable? No. I don't think it is. The group moral is gone, squashed, destroyed and that fact demands strict and immediate retaliation. Revenge. Such are the rules of life and warfare and such are the rules his figurative sons defend what's theirs with --- in this case, their mom. Each other. Their family. Their dojo. Their ambitions. Their schemes. You name it! Beloved's the flag fluttering on a pole, metaphorically speaking, in the middle of basecamp and if you allow someone to take what's yours from your own territory and from underneath your own nose without putting up a fight, you'll be losing every day of your life, always and forever, because how's anyone ever going to esteem or fear you for losing? How are you going to be able to esteem yourself? So, guess what? Best never lose. And if you do, you better go out there and vanquish, cheat, lie, deceive, do whatever it takes to defend your flag and fix things back to the way they're supposed to be by any means necessary. No mercy. In fact, I can envision Terry holding a speech somewhat like this to his sons, word for word. You can even very much read this tirade in his voice.

So, it's safe to say he'd not only teach them to respect their mother.

He'd teach them to kill for their mother.

[the-kuzusouda-hideyhole]

To me, a fundamental part of what makes Kuzusouda work as a relationship is acceptance of themselves and each other.

Both Fuyuhiko and Kazuichi seem to experience struggles with toxic masculinity, one way or another, with Fuyuhiko feeling shame over his short stature, baby face and love of sweets, and Kazuichi over-compensating for his social awkwardness (likely a result of autism!) by presenting himself to look more intimidating. These struggles would intensify if they were LGBT+.

While I personally headcanon Kazuichi as bisexual, I do think there's merit to the idea that he is gay and that his infatuation with Sonia is the result of comphet. He likely played up his crush on her for all it's worth in a misguided attempt to convince himself and his peers that he is straight – that he is "normal."

Fuyuhiko, meanwhile, would be so deep in denial over who he really is that he would lash out at anyone who's more confident in their identities, especially their queer and/or GNC identities. This is especially prone to occurring pre-character development, before he begins to have a more cordial relationship with his classmates.

Fuyuhiko and Kazuichi getting to know each other on a deeper level, and realising their shared struggles with toxic masculinity and internalised homophobia, would serve as an important step for them to overcome those issues and learn to love themselves for who they are. The process would be long and arduous, that's for sure, but it'd be worth it in the end.

I can just imagine the end of a fic or something where all this character development has taken place, where Kazuichi has returned to his natural appearance and Fuyuhiko has softened up a little more, and they're just happily snuggled up eating candy together. Actually, come to think of it, that sounds like a good idea for a piece of fanart...

[enypneion-aa]

i keep thinking about ailun and his arc of unlearning everything his father had taught him because the abuse he went through had affected him to a point that he harbors both negative and positive emotions towards him, but there is also a lot to unlearn behavior wise. there is an internalized messages about weakness, shame and expectations that his father gave him. it taught him that affection or validation is only given conditionally or that love must be earned by enduring pain or mistreatment. these ingrained beliefs made it incredibly difficult to trust, to be vulnerable or even to feel deserving of kindness and respect in any of his relationships, both personal and political. there was also the challenge of detangling identity from what’s been taught. for ailun, a father’s role is pivotal in shaping his self - image and confidence, but in the context of his abuse, their relationship distorted self - understanding. he struggled to find his own identities, especially since he's been told (implicitly AND explicitly) that he's not enough and that he should be a certain way. this struggle was only intensified when unlearning as it required him to let go of the need for approval that has been deeply embedded since childhood. it's such a long process but !!!!

[goobtacular]

Be warned, longish mini essay about the Netflix Daredevil show from someone who hasn't finished season 1.

I think the similarities between Daredevil and Kingpin go hard. Both have very similar motivations and backstories. Ironically, Kingpin has a more traditionally good backstory. His harsh taskmaster was his father, and he rose to defend his mother, killing him in the process. But throughout the whole process, the torment of his father's rule, and dealing with the aftermath, he is in the company of his mother.

There is one thread throughout Wilson Fisk's life: he always has a companion. Not someone who can order him around, not always someone he can order, but always someone he is above in some way, and always someone who plays the role his mother did. Before he meets Vanessa, he has his assistant who chooses his meals, plans his itinerary, and is part of every difficult choice or conversation he must have.

Even Vanessa is, unfortunately, put into that mothering role, playing to the more traditional gender roles and even taking on the burden of the emotional turmoil his troubled past gives him. As long as he has his mother or a replacement, Wilson knows he's not a monster, and he can rationalize any sacrifice, usually on behalf of others. His decision to become a public figure is entirely out of his comfort zone, but also something he wouldn't have done if his assistant and Vanessa hadn't plotted to aid him in his turmoil. Functionally performing emotional labor on his behalf.

Daredevils, Mathew Murdock's, upbringing contrasts this. He had a loving, supportive father who had a violent career. Upon the death of his father to crime, he turns to another, harsher, violent father figure who abandons him when he gets attached. Every time someone fills a paternal role, they leave him. And there seem to have never been any takers for a maternal role. Instead, the influences on his life have always been highly masculine, sometimes soft, but always masculine.

In some respects, it seems as though Matt is a success story for toxic masculinity. He's a superhero and a lawyer, he's exceptionally romantically successful, he never lets anyone in, and he solves every problem as alone as he can with the strength of his body and his moral character. He suffers because of this, but even his downfalls still echo the toxic masculinity that's consumed his life.

But for all that, Matt and Wilson come at it from different angles, paternal and maternal, and they ultimately arrive at the same destination. They're both violent men trying to save Hell's kitchen through violent means. The only difference is the extremes they are willing to go to. And even then, Wilson is quite a bit older than Matt, and I'd be willing to believe a middle-aged Daredevil might kill.

Certainly, Kingpin's methodology is more classically villainous, but it is only Daredevil's superhuman abilities that allow him the moral high ground. They remove his ability to mistakenly target innocents, an advantage Wilson does not have.

It strikes me as interesting that the main difference between the two characters is what flavor of toxicity they were molded by: Wilson by a toxic level of support, by people egging him on when it might be time for introspection and pushing him forward when he turns inward and considers stopping. And Matt, by toxic masculinity, pushing him on even when he really should rest—not providing him the support he needed to heal from the trauma of his father's death or Stick's abandonment or even the emotional toll his vigilante career took. Forcing him to bottle everything up and 'stay strong' not to disappoint others, mostly Stick.

That's why I think, ultimately, neither should be doing what they're doing. Kingpin for, I think obvious reasons, he's doing just real bad stuff with vaguely good intentions, and Daredevil for less apparent reasons. He is doing good, and as Matt, I think his choices are solid, but as Daredevil, he's straight up using beating up people as a way to deal with his trauma. It's incredibly unhealthy and even if the violence doesn't take him out, he's still leaning on it to support him emotionally. I fear he can't stop, even if he wanted to. After all, if he did, he'd have to face his demons like the rest of us.

They're just two men running from their problems, and I guess I can't fault them for that. Wouldn't all of us if we could?

[n1nthrule]

thinking about that exercise machine in narrator's apartment (especially from a genderbent au perspective) makes me sob. she's forcing herself to go through routine exercise to be appealing to Society and she can't even do it! fighting is symbolic of worshipping her own body and utilising it for her happiness and nobody elses!!!!

[gay-aunt-jackie]

To feel a SINGLE punch from your opponent and say… “nah, you gotta be a man” .. is mad funny to me. I’m sorry

[strykingback]

"Who are you? You sound like a weak man with no training."

"I'll have you know that I was well trained."

"By Weak Men..."