#what a nasty shock

[persistentplums]

Brock being domestic is funny but also it comes from discipline that he obviously has as someone with his job/profession/life that works great. For Doc who definitely doesn’t have that but decided I’m going to have kids and do Christmas cards and all these family stuff makes me think Doc entertains the idea of domestic life while Brock is actually like more than okay to do it under the guise of work but I think out of the two Brock enjoys it (eventually, ik that family photo must’ve been hilariously annoying to get done)

I always think how Brock before leaving them goes “I’m not your family, I’m your body guard” and it’s the one time Rusty and him overlap in a single trait of lying to themselves. For all of good Brock has there’s still a reason though never said why he sticks to Rusty which is boggling to literally everyone and I think that it’s because Rusty is a person who gets the nasty part of everything including who Brock is and in turn the one thing Brock has shame about Rusty could really not care about.

I think Brock and Rusty entire ability to exist together so well is that in actuality they have more things in common, they take turn entertaining the idea of super scientist and hero for each other and it’s not such a wild thing to entertain because it is fundamentally true. Brock does hero agency stuff and Doc does super science it’s true, but they get something about each other that all that time shows itself to: the stuff people tell themselves to get thorough life, prideful traits, insecurities, that deep deep down want of something you’re ashamed of

I just think it’s so silly how these two weirdly are each other exception sorta ride or die bc they get each other and are the same

[edwardsissyhandsthtdanceslikeabb]

Blink Twice is an encapsulation of dubiousness to me, not only in the thinking it inspires, but in the layers you’re left grappling with, and then the inferences one has to resonate with after that.

and nothing evidences that more than the intangible nature of the disturbing angle to me, as its muddied in the layers of complication and nuance that lurk beneath. i mean the movie itself paints over the tragedies with cynicism, is entirely dedicated to weaponizing intuition and comfort against you.

i’d never read it as disturbed, and it too, never lets you mourn in turn. bc its insane at its inception, warped by frida’s fanatical infatuation with slater, bordering preying, a reverence for one's kill. and lures us with psychedelic, sugary visuals, with the indulgence – on food, luxury, substances. on billionaire brainrot fodder, perpetuating their power, craving proximity. inviting it into our homes, our heads. the movie *wants* you, most of all, to understand frida’s hunger. and its that thirst i most resonate with, not for a lack of empathy, or even technical prowess, but the basal intrigue it cemented in me instead.

bc it’s a movie that’s nearly primal for me. it scents cycles and desensitization, roles and autonomy, a self-infliction of decay, and disorients you before you’re allowed a proper lungful. there are only questions. shifts. a russian doll of detail and poison, and the inviolability that invoked, ironically only ever paralyzed my thinking, serving creative rot, over any epiphanies or nuance i could hope to be enlightened to.

the animalistic cruelty of desire is not there to be contextualized, but understood. felt. a relationship as inextricable as frida and slater’s. with slater likely parasitizing her algorithm, wielding his techbro power to further entrap her. like how we routinely indulge in the same. you rewind the movie, and pick out signs of danger, slater snickering at frida praising her memory, the supposed water he drinks and its snake-venom hue, the recurring jingling of a necklace, and like frida, have the fantasy demystified, wonder how there was *ever* an illusion of safety.

so watching an analysis video which posits that slater smokes the venom, that he indulges all suffering except his own, just as frida remembers the doctor’s blinks of warning, while burying the suffering they foresee, that they have seen, is watching frida emulate slater, and slater her.

it’s the movie’s thesis statement: there is no healing, there is no forgiveness, only embrace, only numbness, apathy. and when a stray tear glistens on slater’s face, he mourns not for the men, for paternalistic, patriarchal dominance, but for his friend. the only one he claims. he mourns their intimacy, their unity — grieves the good time™. a good time unattainable within trauma, within memory.

yet this pleasure, love, are perverted into captivity, and all i ended up thinking of was: “i love you means you’re never ever, ever getting rid of me.” that slater thinks he knows best, thinks he’s doing good by unburdening her, yet scars her all the same.

as bodies are made immaterial to him, dispossessed of sanctity or autonomy and so their desecration harmless. as slater makes frida a conduit for physical harm while lavishing her emotionally, and yet also exploiting their bond, feeding on their closeness for the labor of love and pain it provides. bc the one thing he needs, the one thing he cannot sacrifice, is her closeness, her intimacy, as it validates his ethos of forgetfulness, reflects it back at him. thusly, frida is reduced to a vessel of experience just as he was, just as he reduces himself to, oversaturated in good times™.

good times masquerading as truth, which slater exposes a latent contempt for, as he emasculates the remaining boy for his cowardice, his complacency, despite his glaringly disoriented, unaware state. regardless of any violation he too may have suffered, when we’d seen him scooting away from another man on the ground, enfeebled and vulnerated. in spite of slater’s aggrievement by his own lapses in memory, his own embracing of that which violated him, and violated also, those he cares abt. but slater is relieved of any loneliness by this flagelattory camaraderie, of the perpetual loss of significance, when frida remains a fixture in his suffering, when she constantly violates her boundaries too.

and we too strain our boundaries, test our empathy with the narratives we are inclined to accept. frida the girlboss or frida the fallen angel? akin to the tests slater sets for her, handing her clarity just to see what she dares remember. the good time™, the willing participant, the indulged, or the languished? seeing if she’s really forgiven, or rather, forgotten instead, drawn to indulgence despite how its hurt her. when she endangers jess in turn, desperate to feel valued, to *feel* power — in it all, is the powerstruggle.

and yet, also a relationship, as jess protects frida despite it all, and frida wakes up to the deception bc of her love for jess. while the island, the staff, embrace frida as if she has always been, will find her way around just as she will find a way to enlightenment, handed venom as if it were benign, as if the island itself wanted her freed. pests, predators, turned to salvation, just as poison becomes a cure. the cure. and when the island has been said to be the garden of eden, enlightenment is truly then, the original sin. the genesis of awareness.

and thusly, frida reclaims power by hurting him, fed his own poison. frida now the snake, frida refusing to leave the island still. denied healing, alienated from it, and so stuck still. bound. bound too, as we watched them enjoy every intimacy except the physical, sharing the pain and trauma they’d been subjected to with a nearly ironic a-sexuality, transcendent of it. with slater seeing her as his best friend. exempt from death and equally so from release.

and that twisted, appropriative bond, the repurposing of trauma, and so feeling a sick sense of ownership over it, love for it, are equally present in frida keeping him from death.

her newfound, bleach white luxury, the disappearing stains and panopticon of elitism, are not horrific until they are, and you either embrace it, or you let it hurt. and frida, red rabbit running, red rabbit caught in slater’s sick, trivializing game, already likened to livestock by her name, decided to become the hunter instead. made high on the chase.

unlike slater who provides and subjects experiences onto others, now there is frida who takes and caters experiences for herself. all congratulatory. all good.

thusly, the movie is the trip, it’s delusion and entanglement and the self-eating snake, and trying to sterilize that is as futile as it is sacrilegious.

[copia]

saw the first panel and thought "nice imagery of a shadowed cross on top of a bloodied rope. i wonder if this will involve the ironically cruel and violent acts of a supposedly godly figure" then there's a blood-splattered clerical collar and bam next page upside down crucifixion

[bi-writes]

I generally don’t leave asks because I don’t know what to say 🧍 but always so much on the mind . Been trying to compliment/ let the authors I read know I love their work so much more often.

I’ve seen recently in my feed that you don’t know what people liked/enjoyed about the MOB series and you’ve been getting asked more about what the next chapter is going to be. I for one love you writing in general . My first fic I read of yours was the MOB fics but it made me read the rest of your content - it’s the one thing I enjoy about tumbler for fics and as well it made me follow you for you yourself !

I constantly see you on my feed and I enjoy every single thing I see ! Your personality shines through and always gets a smile or giggle out of me :> It sucks that people have been rude to you, and I hope you realize you aren’t those things they say to you or whatever else they mention :/ . I’m just glad you posted your works to tumbler for others to read and enjoy . I hope you get the same enjoyment from hearing all of the praise I know people have for you as they do from your writings.

Much love from an avid follower/ lurker that enjoys you for you 🫶

hi. i'm so happy you're here and enjoying my stuff. i love getting messages like this, it's like immediate validation, i love it so much.

i'm gonna try and be better about keeping negative things off my blog. it's a very innate reaction i have i think to defend myself, mostly because i believe i'm a good, open-minded, and (unless provoked) kind person, and i don't think i'm someone who deserves to be told what to do or how to behave or to just allow people to say nasty things to me or call me honestly horrible things.

but i really like how this blog feels like a little community, and i'm so glad that i could make you laugh outside of what i write. i hope you stick around, and i'm glad i can be some sense of entertainment for you.

[secondstar-acorn]

not to be angry on main but to the person who was very loudly complaining about "just for once" and started making fun of me for handing out bracelets in the queue for starkid. why the fuck were you there

[beeben]

Everything i hear about h bomber guy makes me hate him

[pnsge]

"unrequited_love.png"

[narrie]

also i hope jordan peterson gets punched in the face one of these days

[la-cocotte-de-paris]

Imagine wasting your time and energy shitting on other people's preferences

[slingbees]

not sure why i have to say this but there shouldnt be any transphobes following me, thanks

[ladyeternal178]

Thank you for distilling all this out because it was all in my head but not all in one place.

I will be theorizing about this for the next several years, or until @neil-gaiman gives us an answer in S3, whichever comes first.

Something something the way that Crowley introduced himself to Aziraphale the first time they met in the garden and reacted as if they had never met before. Something about him later behaving as if he did actually have those memories of their time in Heaven together and trying to pass it off as being someone different now. Something about Heaven's way of punishing angels that go against the plan by erasing their memories. Something about Crowley seeing Gabriel without his memory and saying "ask him properly." Something about "remember it now" "it hurts, to remember. my head isn't built for that" "I know. Do it anyway"

Something about "I know. Looking at where the furniture isn't"

Something about I know

[domesticated-whores]

lord give me the strength to put up with a cishet man that's seemingly not been in a serious relationship for at least 5 years--

[wainawtmai]

thinking of satoru dating mean!reader who absolutely despises any sort of pda. All of his students wonder how he’d even managed to woo you when you dodged his kisses, cringed at his excessive compliments, and shooed him away every time he tried to hug you like the touch-obsessed bug he was. It was a wonder that you guys were together.

…well, it was kind of hard to brush him off when he was balls deep inside you.

“fuuuck, you’re taking me so well, baby.” satoru moans, that stupidly pretty grin on his lips as he watches your pussy absolutely swallow up the length of his cock. You tremble from the feeling, struggling to bite back your moans as his thick cock thrusts up into you. You hate the way the sound of his voice makes your body buzz with heat, a mix of embarrassment and lust that you both hate and love.

“so wet and ready for me all the time, aren’t you?” you know part of him does it to get a rise out of you, the sadistic little shit liked watching you squirm and sputter, all flustered at the sound of his voice.

and as per usual, you told yourself you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, “S-Shut up.” you mean for it to come off as a warning but it sounds more like a pitiful whine. You can’t help it with the way he thrusts up into you, mouthing sloppy kisses into your skin in between his sinful words.

“you know you love me.” he sings into your ear, “You loveee the way my cock fills you up, don’t deny it, baby.” as if to further emphasize his point he brings his hands to the meat of your ass, prying you further open and drilling into you, fucking into that spot that drove you insane. You couldn’t even try to hide your disgusting moans and whimpers, nails digging into the skin of his arms as you tried and failed to fight the pleasure.

“what did I say,” he sing-songs, bringing a hand to your clit and rubbing at it with quick circles, “I’ve turned you into such a pretty mess.” of course he still has that Cheshire-sized grin on his face, his crystal eyes mesmerized by the sight of your grinding hips and the slickness you leave along his cock with each thrust he makes into your throbbing pussy. Listening to the desperate little sounds you swore you didn’t make when he pressed a finger to your clit. Rendered absolutely useless. He loved seeing you like this.

“so pretty.” satoru moans, his voice slightly slurring with pleasure, “so—fuck—g-gorgeous all fucked out for me.”

you mustered up what was left of your strength to slap a hand over his lips, silencing him as you shuddered from your orgasm. “shut up, s-satoru.”

But you could see that look in his eyes: framed by those annoyingly pretty white lashes, blue and mischievous—or at least more so than usual. He brought his own hand to your weakening one, pulling your fingers into his mouth and sucking on them with a loud whorish moan, all the while still pounding into you.

“Mnghfuck you, satoru.” You garble, whimpering with overstimulation despite still grinding down against his cock in time with his thrusts, you hated how much he knew you loved being overstimulated, the freaky fuck.

He only hummed in response, too occupied with your fingers to respond, tounging at them like the slut he was, practically deep-throating your index and middle finger. You could feel his chest rumble with amused laughter as he watched you fall apart once again, your skin tingling with the shock of your double orgasm. He followed you soon after, aquamarine eyes rolling into his head as he practically gagged on your fingers, emptying himself into you with a long, drawn out moan.

You tiredly pull your fingers out of his mouth, slightly missing the warmth, and practically fell on top of him. But before your eyes could flutter closed, you felt satoru throb, your cheeks heating as you remember the nasty fucker also had a thing for overstimulation. Of course he did.

You swear as he thrusts into you, fucking his milky cum dripping between your thighs back into you. And despite how much you tell yourself his words were annoying, his murmurs of imagining your fingers as your clit as he sucked at them, drove you to the edge all over again.

Maybe you didn’t hate it.

[longbeachgp]

I wish I could care more about the implications or whatever that this will have for the rest of the season, unfortunately I do consume eff one in a way that makes me enjoy messy shit like this so .

[s0dium]

Warning: Male masturbation, fantasizing

Sukuna Ryomen cannot believe that he is jacking off to fucking you.

Why? Because your fucking detestable, vexing, a god damn nasty woman who didn't know her fucking place. But here he is, unable to shake the intrusive thoughts of you that invade his mind. The more he tries to push them away, the more persistent they become. His desire mingles with his hatred and his hatred only fuels his desires which makes fantasies even more intense and uncontrollable.

So here he is, hidden in his throne room, dark blue kimono untied and open as he guides his hand up and down his length. His mind is buzzing, hazy with pleasure, hazy from the thought of you.

A wave of warmth washes over him as thoughts of you flood your mind. His mind mulls over the details of what you were wearing when he saw you today, the tight cloth of your shirt around your breasts, the skirt that barely hung over your ass. Such a slut. You were probably trying to turn him on werent you? But Jesus, how would your skin feel? It looks so plush, so smooth like silk. Sukuna speeds up his rhythm. His breath hitches, and a slow, contented smile curls his lips.

He closes his eyes, allowing the memory of your voice to envelop him. It's as if he can feel your breath against his ear, whispering dirty things that only makes pre cum dribble from his tip.

"Cum in me" You would probably beg.

"Fuck me please." He groans.

He is so close but its not enough. He needs sicker fantasies and dirtier thoughts to bring him over the edge.

How would you look ontop of him? What if he bent you over his knee and fingered your tight hole? Could he fold you up and fuck you in a mating press? Could you take him? Probably not. But he's close now, he can taste his orgasm on his lips.

How about if he fucked you from behind and came on your cute face? What would your pussy feel like gripping him? How would your plush breasts feel in his hands?

Sukuana's hips stutter into his fist and thick ropes of cum coat his hand. The pleasure makes his legs and mind go numb and he’s left panting, groaning from the after shocks.

He wants to know, Jesus, he wants to know.

[wekillitwithfire]

i think that more authors and show runners need to stop being afraid of people not finding their main characters attractive (leigh bardugo has this problem imo, especially in her book Hell Bent it's. pretty pervasive.)