#which is also the foundation of their relationship

[grison-in-space]

for some concrete examples...

in a world without systemic sexual oppression, you are not going to get a bunch of extremely popular genres of relationship that currently draw in readers. for example, arranged marriages came to exist because families consolidate power via alliances and mergers with other families, and this is represented by producing children that literally are born from both families. this does not work if the two heirs in an arranged marriage are reproductively incompatible. so how does a society with no homophobia whatsoever grapple with this? does it have different rules about inherited property? do the people reproduce differently?

many normative ideas around romance and sexuality rely heavily on gender roles when it comes to who does what and whose role will be what within a relationship. by definition, queer people and our relationships do not fit within these roles. Do these ideas exist within this homophobia-free society? Are gender roles as we recognize them a thing there? If so, how is gender communicated if at all? do we also have a society free from misogyny in this world? What would that even look like?

how are power structures consolidated in this world, anyway? how are children raised? who does the bulk of that raising? how do queer couples produce children if there is no one who is happy to lend a useful womb? how are children born and who has access to children? children come from somewhere; if children are adopted, where are their biological parents and kin networks? are those networks disrupted, and why and how is that happening?

these are questions that are foundational to the world in which we live. if you want to write a world without homophobia, you have to understand how much homophobia derives from either violations of a gendered hierarchy in our society or from the devaluation of people who can't or won't produce children to please a family. a world without these pressures however is almost unimaginably different from our own, and I do not think that's what the "I just want to write queer people as normal" attitude is going for. just a hunch.

I know previously people took issue with me describing a lot of queernorm fiction as feeling assimilative and reimagining queerness as an aesthetic variety of straightness but man a lot of that stuff really does frame it as an inarguable positive that the characters are "no longer gay" that they live and behave as "normal people", and that "gender or sexuality is entirely incidental and not a plot point" in a way i find really alienating. You know, like, this is the common language when talking about it:

again i don't think it's wrong for people to read or write stuff like this, but I do find it a bit irking that it's often treated as the inherently more empathetic and desirable way to write queerness...

[deeplyridiculouslyinlove]

An initial list of things I despise about the big decision in 03x08. Major spoilers.

- Siuan’s entire arc is now one of failure. Without her role mentoring Egwene, she fails entirely in her mission and we just watch her be incompetent for three seasons. Her entire role is now incompetent girlfriend to Moiraine.

- Related to the above, she only becomes Amyrlin because of the Black Ajah?? Fuck that.

- Siuan saying “I would die to save her” like the stakes are each other and not the WORLD?! Moiraine would NOT die to save Siuan if it would be bad for the Dragon and Siuan was supposed to be like that too - that’s literally the whole foundation of their relationship.

- Siuan dying to motivate Moiraine also takes away from Moiraine! She should be able to find that motivation in herself!!

- The choice to kill Siuan in such a graphic way so that the last shot we see of her is dehumanizing and horrifying. If she *has* to die (which she doesn’t, she could be stilled and sent away somewhere until the very end of the show) does she not at least deserve a dignified death?

- The fact that her death happens amid three really hectic plot points so you don’t even get to sit with it.

[biancadoes1]

FAVE ANON HERE 🤍

First things first -

“OMG VIP MEET AND GREET TSWIFT TICKETS FOR HER NEXT TOUR 😱😱😱” - I consider this a binding contract. You might understand that more BIANCA if you did your LSAT studying. 😉

Now to matters at hand -

I hear people have been checking in with Bianca to see where I stand these days. You can all rest assured that I am firmly planted in the same place you last heard from me. The same place I’ve been firmly planted since last summer. While I’ve had some slight shifts over time in my “whys” or “hows” of the current situation, I never doubt my “what” and for that matter I actually have a fairly solid “why and how” theory that I’ve been continuously throwing around since last summer and every month it seems to grow more solid in its foundation.

Did my vague-ness of that last paragraph confuse you? Simple terms: N & L are together. And why is it so secret? Well that’s a theory for me to know and you to maybe find out one day. That’s it. Those close to me know what the theory is.

It all comes down to knowing how to keep things in the group chat. 😏

With that being said, I have an observation of the fandom that I need to make express. People talk crap about the Jackholes and Tif & Co for being “stalkers” or “invasive” and “not respecting privacy” but why are we not casting as much ire on the Lukolas who are exhibiting the exact same behavior. The ones who are so desperate to “break the news” that they run to Twitter or TikTok or Tumblr to post something without thinking it through. The ones who are seeing research in discord servers and posting to their platforms. The ones who are delivering news of a personal nature about Nicola or Luke on their blogs without blinking an eye - and most importantly - reporting it as fact without any of us ever knowing that it is actually fact.

I understand that you online platform is your own personal forum and no one here is trying to police you but I implore everyone to take a step back and look in the mirror. This behavior is no different from the Jackholes and if you support it than I never wanna hear you talk down on Tif and her friends again.

While I’m on the subject of talking down - can we cut the crap on the Nicola hate? I’m sorry but Jake is gay. I’m also sorry but Jake is her friend and he’s not a character that will be written off the show. If he face “triggers” you or causes a “jumpscare” please unfollow him and his friends. And no, Nicola is not a bad person when you see her hanging out with them. There is nothing wrong with a “single” 38 year old woman having friends in their mid 20s. Let’s be honest, at this point most of yall are spewing hate at her because you believe something about her that certain online creators are stating as fact and so it’s hurting your brain to see her out and about so often. THIS IS WHY WE DONT BLINDLY BELIEVE THEORIES. And regardless, it’s her life. If it bothers you that much then please move on from the fandom.

The amount of judgment in this fandom from people regarding who Nic and Luke hang around. I would like each of you to submit the following: a detailed history of your romantic relationships, a detailed history or your friendships, and a picture of yourself (not a pfp of Nic or Luke). Once I’ve reviewed all that, I will decide if you have the credentials to judge at the level in which you do.

That’s enough rambling for now and I’m sure after this some of you will never wanna hear from me ever again. But what can I say - I call it like i see it and i tell it like it is.

For now, I’m just gonna sit back and let the chips fall as they may. All will be revealed in due time and tbh none of this is worth getting upset over. I’ve faced way harder in the past 6 months. 😉🥴 I just need some of you to remember that this isn’t a reality show required to keep you entertained on a regular schedule so it may be wise to pick up some other hobbies in the meantime.

As for me, you can catch me with my nose in the Polin fanfic when I’m not working my real person job and dealing with a slew of current personal issues. If it’s fantasy you’re looking to involve yourself in, than maybe head over to AO3. What’s even crazier is that there are even tons of fics about Pen and Colin being pregnant, you know if that’s the kind of story you’re looking to live in everyday. 😏

Ok well that’s it. 😘

xoxo

Fave anon has returned 🎉🎉🎉

[last-starry-sky]

this hungry thing inside me - pt. 1

price x reader - gaz x reader

[MDNI - NSFW - MIND THE WARNINGS: 4.7k, established relationship (price and reader are married), domestication/traditional gender roles, price is a good man but occasionally a terrible husband, relationship problems, arguments, mentions of manipulation, alcohol and smoking mentions, infidelity, dry-humping, kissing, biting, dirty talk, begging, fingering, oral, edging, reader is assuming the worst of her husband through-out most of this part with minimal self-reflection so have fun with that!]

Title is from THIS poem - also, happy 600 followers to me! 🥳

It’s a tragedy in three acts.

You love your husband and you know he loves you. That was given, unquestionable, the foundation you built upon. You wouldn’t have married him if that wasn’t true. That was the form of the first tragedy. Somewhere along the way, in the long years growing more and more familiar with each other, of planning your futures, of just living life, you grew complacent. Bored.

The walls of the nice little house his promotion had bought for the two of you was meant to be your freedom. That’s how he had framed it.

“Know you didn’t have to work anymore if you don’t want, love. Can do whatever you please now,” your husband had said soothingly that first night as he held you in his arms once the passion between you had cooled to a simmer. “Take care of me ‘n the house,” he paused before continuing, “kids, too,” he said with a small laugh, “when we finally get around to makin’ ‘em.” There was a long pause between you. You watched as the gauzy curtains blew lazily in and out. You house breathing in the cool summer night air. “Won’t have to worry over you when I’m away. I’ll know you’ll be here, safe,” he mumbled, a bristly smooch tickled your ear, making you smile. “I’ll be home more now, too.”

“Promise?” you whispered into the dim, blue light of your bedroom. The fumes of new paint wafted up from downstairs. The smell of new beginnings, of hope. He squeezed your hand.

He promised.

You took his offer but, just like any offer that seemed too good to be true, there were catches. You had kept up your end. You quit your job, taking up typical housewife activities: cooking homemade meals, scrubbing baseboards, going for early morning walks followed by falling asleep on the couch to some trash afternoon TV drama. All the usual things. It was John that couldn’t keep his end. While you tore through novels trying to keep from texting him for the fifth time when he would be home, he was just gone.

His new position kept him busy with confidential work most of the time, which also kept him on base. Strangely, you could have dealt with that. You could have grown used to feeling him slip in bed late at night and leave before breakfast the next morning. His job was important to him. He was respected. Most importantly, it afforded you a life most would cut their arm off to have. So, you tried to be patient. Grateful, you told yourself. You should be grateful for the snippets of time you were able to share. Even though he was dog-tired most of the time, spending long hours relaxing on the couch or sprawled across your bed.

You let yourself become a new thing entirely: soft and plain and domesticated. John, though, John remained the same. He still returned home with rough hands and skin tanned from days under an aggressive, blinding sun. Black grease and gun powder wore into the cracks around his eyes, and, most worrying to you, scars collected across his body. He told you when you met that men in his line of work had to be half-crazy to make it; adrenaline junkies, nomads, and it hurt you that he still lived like that. He was your husband, but he was a warrior too. A man without a home; without a reason to live.

You stopped doing things together almost entirely. You cooked dinners for one and ate them alone. You went to the shops alone. You worked out and wandered the city alone. As John put so eloquently in one of your arguments: “You’ve all the time in the world to do that shite when I’m not here. Why are you nagging me on my days off?”

An image came to mind when he said that. The image of the ball-and-chain, of the frazzled, ungrateful housewife, seared into your mind with his words. It rattled you so much that the argument stopped right there, dropping it as you walked away into the kitchen, leaving him alone in the living room. You didn’t want to be that to him. Couldn’t stand even thinking of it. If that’s how he felt, you told yourself, then . . . then you would stop nagging him. It was a bitter pill, but you swallowed it because you loved him. You cared about what he thought of you. The last thing you wanted was to drive him away now with your petty little problems. You loved your husband, you told yourself as you lay awake in the dark, so you pulled away. You threw away your “honey do” list. You deleted websites saved with holiday plans. You did your part. You stopped bothering him.

John relegated himself to the guest bedroom that night while you waited upstairs, wiping away the bitter, intermittent, tears that streaked down your face. You waited for the sound of his footsteps as they creaked up the stairs, for the door hinge to whine, announcing his entry. If he was good at anything these days, he was good at apologizing.Not with words, naturally, but physically. What John lacked in social skills he made up for with stamina and determination. It was hard to continue a fight with his face between your legs and you couldn’t stay angry for long at a man who could chain together orgasms like he was pulling taffy. Fucked out and sated, you would wake the next morning all the more forgiving and happy.

There was a creak downstairs. Footsteps. The TV turning off. Your heart began to race the second you heard it. You lay still in bed, facing the window as you continued to listen. More footsteps, but they were toward the front of the house. The opposite of where he should be heading. Shuffling. Soft thumping. The shuffling of a coat. The jingle of keys. You held your breath in the quiet dark, unwilling to face the truth of what your senses clearly told you was happening.

The door opened then closed softly. The deadbolt slid into place. Then, silence. Dreaded, nerve-fraying, silence. A few minutes later, long after you knew he had left, your phone vibrated at your side. A message from John. The first one you’d received unprompted in a long time.

“Lads invited me out for a drink. Be back later.”

-

Action and reaction. That’s the form of the second tragedy.

What’s the saying? “Don’t get mad, get even.” Whatever it was, you thought as you artfully lined your eyes, that was your new mantra. You stared into the vanity mirror and saw a new woman staring back at you. Not the old you, not the happy, professional woman always smiling next to her buff, military husband. No, you were a different animal entirely now. Newborn from the cocoon of the drab, boring housewife he’d transformed you into. You were reformed from months of dishpan hands and laying about on the couch. You would no longer allow yourself to crumble away, mentally and physically. You blotted your lipstick and gave yourself one last look in the mirror before you stood up.

If John couldn’t see how hot his own wife was, then you weren’t going to waste your time chasing after his attention anymore.

You wouldn’t lie. You felt guilty as hell the first few times you went out alone. Guilty that you’d left the little bubble of safety he’d constructed for you. The one he’d abandoned you in and visited rarely. Guilty that you left your wedding band and engagement rings in your jewelry box. Guilty that you were having fun on your own, letting the alcohol melt away the awkwardness of standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers in a strange bar. The music was good though, and so was the beer. You remember snippets of conversations, carrying on with the bartender, whomever was seated next to you, the girls fixing their makeup in the bathroom. You felt young again. Carefree and untethered. You remember leaving, walking home along the dark streets. The thick, syrupy, ball of happiness you’d built all night suddenly plunged into cold water, forming a hard, cracked surface as you steeled yourself at the front door.

John could be in there, you thought. He could be angry. Worried. Disappointed.

You pushed the door open. The empty hook where his coat usually hung and the space where his shoes sat in the hall the first two places your eyes nervously landed on. Empty, you saw. Still gone. Still alone. You checked your phone for the hundredth time that night just to be sure you hadn’t missed a call or text. Nothing. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. You had gotten away with it.

Was that a stupid way to look at it? Absolutely. The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous you felt. You were a grown woman. You could go out without your goddamn absentee husband’s permission. So, you did. You tried to make yourself irregular, harder to track. Random times, days of the week, always a different bar in a different part of the city. Sometimes you even hopped on the train to see what the adjoining towns had to offer. You always came back at the end of the night though, giddy with alcohol and buzzing with excitement, but home. A drip of guilt rolled down your spine. Yours and John’s home.

Still, before you left you would stand in the hall, hand still on the doorknob, keys in your other hand. This was the first hurdle, something within you told you. A part of you that knew better, probably, expected more. A part of you that looked and acted a hell of a lot like your husband. It asked you: If you had known where this road would lead you, this journey of revenge and self-discovery, would you have still done it?

You finally answered that question when you let your first hookup take you back to his place. In between sloppy kisses laced with the alcohol you’d let him buy you and the nicotine he’d shotgunned down your throat in the alley outside, you’d managed to string two brain cells together to tell him enough. He’d agreed quickly. Being under the same influences as you plus the aching erection he pressed against your jeaned thigh, it was a no-brainer.

You followed him back to his apartment, a nice little flat only a few blocks away, wrapped around him the whole way. It wasn’t until then that you realized how much touch you craved. John had been distant since his promotion. Sex had become less spontaneous, less fun. His lingering touches disappeared and the almost daily lovemaking had slowed from a stream, to a drizzle, to drops, before shutting off entirely. Now that you had another man, and a stranger at that, returning your nuzzles against his chest with loving strokes of strong, rough fingers through your hair, you could have sang. Could have cried.

He asked you what you wanted once he got you inside. Deliriously fuzzy and half-drunk, you were confident. You asked him to undress you and he followed your instruction without question. You closed your eyes and drank in the feel of his calloused palms against your skin: the way he reverently kissed your neck when he tossed your blouse to the floor, how he squeezed your ass in both hands after peeling your pants down your thighs.

“Bet your pussy tastes as good as you look, luv,” he breathed in your ear as he ground his trapped cock against the soaked silk of your panties. You whined, pulling him out of your neck by his short curly hair to stick your tongue down his throat. You couldn’t remember the last time John had talked to you like that and fuck me if you couldn’t get used to it.

“’s that what you want?” you slurred, hands roaming boldly up under his shirt. He had a gorgeous body from what you could feel; all planes of hard muscle from his groin up to some nicely defined pectorals. His biceps bulged under the grip of your wandering hands, making you flush as he groaned. His fingers wound in the fabric hugging your hips, threatening to use just an ounce of that strength to rip them away, to be done with it already.

“I want . . .” he said, lingering to a pause as he pulled away. His brown eyes half closed as he ran his hands appreciatively up your curves. Even in the weak city light, mostly blocked out by haphazardly-drawn blinds, you could see the warm brown of his skin. His hands stopped under your bra. Whatever thought preoccupied his mind until then had run through, prompting him to lean back in and place a kiss on your clavicle.

“Want whatever you want,” he said as he pulled away, trailing a line of kisses back up your neck. You were putty in his hands, uselessly moaning, pinned between him and the wall as you let him touch you as he pleased. “I’s just . . .” he trailed off again, hand swiping up your clothed pussy, making you squeak. “You’re actin’ like you haven’t been touched in years, luv,” he breathed against your ear with a biting kiss. God did you wish he wasn’t so bloody close to the truth.

You thought you saw sparks behind your eyes as he hitched your leg up around his hip. He effortlessly supported you, letting you wind your arms around his neck.

“Can’t have that,” he said soft yet authoritative, pressing a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. The tickle of his mustache faintly reminded you of John. You whined, rocking forward, searching blindly for pressure; for any relief for the need throbbing hot and wet between your thighs. He kissed your cheek, then your nose.

“Now now,” he soothed gently, a hand cupping your flushed cheek. “Stay with me. Tell me what you want,” capping his sentence with a kiss that sucked your top lip between his teeth. You groaned at the difference between the sharp pain of his teeth as they nipped again and again at your lip and his bubblegum-soft words filling your head. The way he held you so sure and strong but wouldn’t take anything from you. Not until he was told.

You didn’t think they made guys like him anymore. Your half-drunk brain swirled as he paused, the two of you breathing the same air. How the hell had you gotten so lucky?

“Kyle,” you breathed, light and airy. Your arms flexed around his neck, pulling him closer. “I’m so close,” you whined pitifully, eyebrows pressing together. “However you want to do it, just please,” you trailed off with another whine. His hands pressed divots into the soft flesh of your hips, a small betrayal of his slipping control. You sucked in a shuddering breath, willing yourself to continue; to get it all out. “Then . . . then I want you to fuck me,” you rambled out, tears welling up every time you blinked. He looked down on you with dark satisfaction, a pleased hum vibrating between his lips. “I need it. Fuck, do I need it, Kyle. Whatever you want. I can take it,” you begged against his lips, voice cracking. “Promise.”

-

You walked home wrapped in a daze, only noticing Kyle had left you a few blocks later. It took another block or so to piece everything together: he’d kissed the top of your head, squeezed your shoulders in a hug, asked you something you barely remembered, then pushed you forward across the crosswalk alone. You looked around, strands of sweaty hair itching at your skin. From the landmarks and style of houses you guessed you were near your own neighborhood. The functioning part of your brain kept your body walking on autopilot, forcing yourself forward. The rest of your mind was still occupied, reliving the wonderful night you’d just passed with him. With Kyle.

He’d given you exactly what you’d wanted, no further begging required. Pinned between the wall and his warm body, his strong fingers had efficiently worked an embarrassingly quick orgasm out of you. Boneless and panting against the cool wall, he’d chuckled into your neck; leaving little love bites as he waited for you to come down from your high.

“’s all you got, luv?” he’d goaded, gently stroking your already sweat-slicked thighs, “Tappin’ out already or are’y ready f’ more?”

Your hands around his neck weakly grabbed at his head, nails barely catching the close shaved curls at his nape. It was only now that you realized he must have been acting, just letting you think you’d pulled his head out of your neck in order to speak face-to-face.

“More,” you’d groaned, no bite left to your voice, as both of his hands palmed your ass to lift you away from the wall, “Need it.”

The street names became more and more familiar as the sun broke through the clouds, scattering the early morning fog. Around and around you traveled until you came to the familiar turn that marked your road. Your quaint, quiet little street lay in front of you. Thankfully, it was far too early on the weekend for anyone to be up and about. Every house you passed still had their curtains drawn, windows dark. As you drew closer to your home you instinctively reached for your house keys, finding them right where they always were, tucked safely in the first pocket of your purse. Your purse, you thought, your keys. He had made sure you had everything before you left.

Your stomach flip-flopped as you paused on your front step, key in hand halfway to the lock. He had been far too wonderful to just be a one-night thing. You blushed as you shoved your key in the lock with a shaking hand. The phantom of a thought crossed your mind that this could be yours and his house. He could be coming home to you. As you opened the door and crossed the threshold, you snuffed out the thought. Breathing in the familiar air of yours and John’s home; scented with his favorite laundry detergent, the mix of his colognes and your perfumes, the faint smell of lavender wicking into the stale air from the oil diffuser, it felt almost sacrilegious to think of another man like that.

It was just a one-time thing, you told yourself. Just a fling and nothing more.

You shook your head at yourself as you stripped off your jacket and shoes, your purse discarded haphazardly on the table. You checked the space where John’s jacket and shoes usually were. Still gone. The house was untouched from how you had left it last night. Strangely, it didn’t bother you that you had slept with another man. You searched your heart for guilt as you robotically went about your usual routine, but it just wasn’t there. You should have stopped right there, questioned yourself, maybe even called your husband to work through what should have been a turning point; a huge breach to the contract of your relationship. You didn’t, though. In that moment, you just couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

John had hurt you. He was growing more and more emotionally distant by the day. He had cut you off from your friends and family when he moved you out here and then severed your last tie to the outside world when he convinced you to stop working. You had been such a fucking fool to fall into his trap. You had nothing and he had everything. Money, power, control, it was all in his hands. Fuck him, you told yourself as you pushed open the door to the downstairs bathroom; the one John used when he slept in the guest bedroom. He did this to himself, you fumed. He deserves it.Deserves to be hurt for once.

Kyle, though, Kyle had cared about you.

You struck the invasive thoughts from your mind as you shut yourself in the tiny, tile-lined bathroom. You needed to take a shower, to wash him from you and be done with this petty journey of revenge. You needed to be cleansed of the outside world to return purified into this one again. Stripping off your clothes, though, you were struck with the sinking reminder that it wouldn’t be the easy task you’d imagined. Your thighs were marred with irritated red blotches and tiny, almost imperceptible, semicircles of dents. Plain evidence of the bites your fling had scattered around your sex.

He’d stopped to do that every so often; pulling away just as he’d worked you to that delicious, spiraling peak right before you tipped over into bliss. The wet heat of his tongue on your clit replaced with sharp nips of teeth that had you begging please let me cum please please, Kyle, please.

The band of his arm was iron-fast around your middle, his hands strong around your thighs. He had you right where he wanted and seemed more than satisfied to keep you there for the time being. He bit at the skin of your mons, right above your clit; right where you really wanted him. Through your squirms and whines, he simply held you down and shushed you quietly – soft and gentle kisses replacing bites as your pleasure receded – until your pleas faded into sighs and his bedroom fell silent once more.

You scrubbed shampoo through your hair, unaware how long you’d been standing under the cool spray. You rinsed and quickly worked conditioner through the ends of your hair before slathering yourself with body wash, intent on finishing your shower before the last of the hot water ran out. You couldn’t afford to stand in the stall any longer: daydreaming about how many times he brought you right up to that blissful high before cruelly pulling away just to work you back up again. You needed to wash him off of you. His heady, slightly sweet, cologne. The smoke and nicotine that decidedly wasn’t your husband’s cigars. Needed every particle that wasn’t your own, normal smell gone before-

There was a sound from somewhere in the house: the shuffling and clicking of something achingly familiar. You shut the water off in a panic. Over the dripping from the shower head you could barely hear it. The front door closing. The little sounds continued: shoes dropping onto the boot tray, keys jangling as they clattered against the counter, a jacket softly shuffling as it was dropped over a chair and not on it’s place on the empty hook in the hall. Everything added up to only one possibility: John was home.

Fuck, you swore over and over as you scrambled out of the shower; at yourself, at him, at the guy who fucked your brains out last night, at god. Someone had to be to blame for the royal mess you were in. You toweled yourself semi-dry in a whirlwind, stopping only to listen with baited breath for where John was, what he was doing. Nothing unusual, from what you could hear beyond the bathroom. You wiped off the mirror, glaring back at the misty reflection that greeted you like you were both Medusa and Perseus. You checked both sides of your neck quickly. No redness. No bites. You breathed a sigh of relief that somehow wasn’t relieving at all. Still, you grabbed John’s ugly plaid robe off the back of the door and rolled the collar up until it dusted your jaw. You couldn’t be too careful.

Chucking your towel in the bin with your clothes, you finally made your exit. With an extravagant plume of steam following you, you opened the door intending to quickly steal upstairs where you could dress and avoid your husband for the rest of the day. He was waiting for you though. Eyes soft and full of love, slouching lazily against the back of the couch to catch you as soon as the door opened.

“There she is,” he purred, gathering you in the inescapable embrace of his arms. You let out a gasp at his suddenness as he kissed the wet crown of your head, a hum of satisfaction on his lips. “There’s my lovey,” he said stroking down your back, as if he was trying to convince you this is how he was, how it always was. “How was the shower? Relaxing?” he asked, loosening his grip. You took your opportunity, possibly the only one he would give you, and slithered out of his grasp.

“Fine!” you called behind you as you thudded up the stairs.

You didn’t stop running until the door to the master bedroom slammed shut behind you. You lay your back against it; panting and heart hammering in your chest as you waited. John didn’t follow you. You heard him walk around downstairs; making something to eat in the kitchen before turning on the TV. He probably thinks you’re still mad at him, you told yourself. Good. You dressed in your usual lounging-about-the-house clothes while inspecting the rest of your body for any errant love-bites or marks you might have missed before slipping back downstairs.

You and John shared a terse, awkward morning. You floated around each other, never lingering too long in each other’s presence. If you entered a room, he left it. Beyond that, he followed his usual routine: laundering his bag of gross gym-clothes, making up the guest bed, paper, lunch, out for a smoke, a football match. It wasn’t until he wandered in the kitchen while you were making dinner for the both of you – by force of habit – that he spoke to you again.

“’m sorry f’ how I’ve been lately,” he said laying his large hands on the stone counter top behind you, the one he wanted, his shoulders squared forward. His apology was a shock, making you pause at the food in the pan you were stirring. You looked back at him, waiting for something else. What else, you didn’t know. You suspect he didn’t know either, because his pale blue eyes plead with you to shore up the difference, finish his own apology because he’s not good with words, love, go on ‘n make this right to yourself.

You turned back to your mushrooms sizzling in the thickening gravy. Silence fell for only a moment before John sighed behind you.

“I know it’s hard, love. Trust me, I know,” he said, the counter creaking as he leaned against it.

You steeled your back; not answering, not turning around. Oh, he knew what it was like to be left alone now? That was rich. He was the one always leaving you. Promising you he would be around more once you got married, once you bought the house, once he got his promotion. Promises, promises, promises. How much longer would it go on? When would you be able to believe him? Once you had your first child? Your third? In five, ten, fifteen years? Or would you be a widow by then?

His hands skimming your hips interrupted your stewing. He groaned as he pressed himself to your back, a gentle kiss ghosting your ear. “Miss you so bad, love. Miss bein’ home with you.”

Miss you. Miss you. Miss you. You thought, body drawn taught and dangerous under his wandering hands. So easy to be missed, John, when you’re never fucking here.

You clicked off the burner, shoving the bubbling skillet of gravy away as you slipped out of your husband’s arms for the second time today. He didn’t fight to keep you there. You knew what he was planning, knew all of his old tricks already. He would butter you up with soft words and half-apologies, pour you a few glasses of wine while watching your favorite movie for once before whisking you upstairs to make it all better in bed between your thighs. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. Everything would be back to how he liked it: his nice, pliant wife happily tucked away in his bungalow while he was out saving the world. If even that was true.

You weren’t out of the kitchen before John was sputtering, “But what about-”

“Not hungry anymore,” you muttered, tears spilling down your cheeks as you ran back upstairs, emotions rapidly fraying apart. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t let him touch you. Not now.

Not anymore.

-

[sweetpapercroissant]

i don’t get the appeal of an incest ship if you’re only ever going to focus on the good romantic feelings and not the icky negative ones. the resentment the feeling of being trapped shackled wanting out and away from the person who knows so much too much about you since before you even knew to not allow it but at the same time you can’t imagine living in a world without them being away is like tearing a limb a piece of your soul you will never again be complete without them. no one else will ever understand you the way they do no one else will ever get so deep under your skin and you may hate it but you hate the thought of them not being there even more you can’t stand to see anyone else get to a part of them you didn’t and even worse when they get it before you. you push and you push and you push but when they let go it’s like you’re free falling and it doesn’t matter how far away you run you will never be far enough away because you carry them inside you everywhere you go. you tell yourself you want nothing more than to get away but they’re the only home you will ever have and you won’t ever let anyone get that close you’re already moulded to only fit in perfectly with them and you didn’t have a choice but this is who you are. there’s nothing you could do to make them let you go but there’s nothing you could do to make them let you go. you want to be so close to them you want to merge your bodies into one you hate how crowded you feel when they’re in the same room like they’re sucking in all the air and there isn’t any left for you and you want to get away so you can just breathe but you don’t even want to breathe in the air that hasn’t passed through their lungs first you hate that you feel this way you wish you could claw it out of your veins but then who would you be without it without them you want so much and it’s so ugly and you’re ashamed of how raw that need is how you want every part the good the bad the human you wish none of this had ever happened you feel dirty you never even had a chance to find something else be something else but then you look over and you love them so much so much and when it comes down to it nothing else was ever going to be enough for you anyway.

[inkskinned]

in internet posts it is easy to cut them out of your life. they are hurting you! they aren't listening to you!

they held your hair back. they lent you lipstick. they held your hand at the train station and got you home safe. they rounded on your bully, got loud, said get fucked, spitting-mad in your defense.

they also cut the hair off again. told you that you should really think twice before wearing something like that. took you for granted. took your insecurities and threw them in your face again.

you know logically it should be easy. all the internet advice comments always read it will feel better. like an equation - if a person is rotten, you just remove them. you pull the tooth that's hurting.

but it was never a big flare-up moment. you don't live in a sitcom. they never tried to take your boyfriend or steal from your apartment. they showed up to birthdays and they wrote songs about you and bring you water without you asking. once you found out they carry an emergency inhaler for you, even though you haven't had an asthma attack in years - just in case.

where is the line? people fuck up. sometimes they fuck up badly. sometimes people have raw personalities, like a powerline, and being around them is dangerous. addicting. sometimes they can't help themselves, but you know they're trying. sometimes they are just rough-around-the-edges. sometimes they don't even realize how they sounded when they said that. sometimes it's just - you've both loved each other for so long now, the way this thing hurts goes back to the root.

and that's the fucked up part. you have pushed your fingers against the sweetheart of memory. things these days are electric, tense, harrowing. they didn't used to be. there were a lot of good days in there. sometimes you want to just close your eyes and say can this be over yet? do we still need to be fighting?

doing that would give up any chance you get of getting an apology, but you don't always know that you need an apology, you love them. once they flaked on your birthday party. once they told you to get over it, people are always dying. they also let you crash on their couch for a week after the breakup, handfeeding you when you were so sad you couldn't eat. they are also judgmental about everything, occasionally react to banal statements with an attitude that is weird and fiery. they also love you like a lighthouse sometimes, so strong they cut the storm like lightning.

but the problem is that you might be storm. you might be the thing that needs breaking. what if you are two forces who are desperately, horribly drawn to each other, shaped by the other person's passions, and both good for each other and bad in equal measure.

what if you're both just people, and you're no saint neither.

just cut them off! swallowing the saltwater, you catch yourself in the mirror. you've been shaking more than usual. there's an ache in you that is oblique, loud, impossible to soothe. is this what it looks like? when life is "easier"?

your mouth will always have a hole, is the thing, if you remove the tooth.

[aroaceleovaldez]

i am once again thinking about Percy and Annabeth and their respective relationships with their step-parents, particularly how the other views the other's dynamic with their step-parents.

Because there's a really interesting subtle thing that we see which is when Annabeth talks about her step-mom to Percy, Percy's assumption is that Annabeth's step-mom is like Gabe. He just presumes that because that's what's familiar with him and based on his own experiences he assumes their situations are similar.

But then when Percy actually meets Annabeth's step-mom (and her dad) he realizes their situations aren't at all the same. He was expecting another Gabe, but instead he just found a genuinely caring family that was just struggling to find their footing with one another.

The interesting thing is that this implies an inverse - especially with what we know about how Percy and Annabeth describe their experiences. Percy doesn't really talk about Gabe ever. To anyone. Grover knows the whole picture there but he's basically the only one of Percy's friends who does. As far as we know, unless Grover told her at some point, Annabeth doesn't know about Gabe. She knows he was a jerk, but Percy out loud doesn't ever really get into details about it. She knows they didn't get along and eventually Gabe disappeared and Percy basically never spoke of it again. Presumably, Annabeth thinks Percy's dynamic with Gabe was like her dynamic with her step-mom, like how Percy had thought their situations were the same. Especially given we know Percy assumed their situations were the same and likely spoke about it as such if it ever came up.

Like. That's such an interesting tiny aspect of their dynamic that never gets touched upon. Annabeth likely doesn't know about this very core traumatic experience Percy endured before they met because she's operating under the assumption that their family just was a little rocky like hers was.

[lloydfrontera]

the way lloyd will mourn being single and complain about how unfair life is by making some guys extremely handsome. all while being followed around by literally the hottest guy in the world who's hopelessly devoted to him and who has already planned on spending the rest of his life at his side. like. ok. fuck me i guess

[delicatebatharmony]

Who was Tim's Robin? Who was Duke's Robin?

No, no, no. This is all we need to worry about:

Teen Titans (2003) #92

[thelilylav]

I’ve gotta admit as much as I know Darabella is a flawed ship (and some of the ppl who are anti for it have legit criticisms I love y’all for pointing it out cause it frustrates the hell out of me too trust) they’ll always just kind of be it for me.

Because as much as it was an “I can fix him” trope, as much as Rosabella could be selfish and Daring’s flaws got cranked up to 1000, she was also the first person to look at him after his destiny, the thing he dedicated his life to, failed, when people were questioning him as a prince and putting pressure on his and Apple’s relationship and tell him that, like, maybe it would be alright? Maybe this wasn’t his destiny, and maybe that was okay.

And the part that really gets me? She’s the first person after this happens to tell him that it doesn’t matter what’s on the outside, which as much as you can like other Daring ships or him whatever he desperately needed to hear. Not even cause he was selfish, that’s not what I’m saying, but bc he placed his whole identity on this image that people concocted for him based on him appearing the perfect prince. He was handsome, he was talented, and he was handsome! So who cares about him as a person?

Idk man. You spend four seasons (I watch the specials on Netflix so that’s why four idk if it’s three to some ppl or whatever tho) watching him be praised for his looks, watching girls fawn over him, and of course he enjoys it so nobody really questions how much he enjoys it. And then you get this girl, this girl who owes him nothing, this girl who (contrary to popular belief apparently) has a life of her own and people she cares about outside of him, and she’s nice to him. And she’s the first person after everything happens to just be nice to him, for the sake of being nice. Something about that will always hit different for me

[mcytegg]

ngl watching this one vod has permanently altered my brain chemistry. like i didnt realize ro and planet had trust like That throughout s5. its esp obvious during the void arc when it was "WE dont trust you", and not I dont trust you or He does not trust you. no wonder planet kept defending ro even after everyone else had given up on her bc her betraying seemed inevitable..........

[invasive]

Labru (shrug) I just might like it

[alamari-chibi]

life is so weird

[littlespoonevan]

ngl I personally find it incredibly weird how many people on the internet are so staunchly against syd and carmy falling in love because ‘there aren’t enough male/female friendships on tv’ when there are characters with less chemistry and less potential than them that’ve been shoved together and shipped over and over for literal decades

[laugtherhyena]

I AM HERE with a short fic or whatever.

-

"Look, I don't think you're ruined."

Kizuna ran her fingers over the faded scar on her stomach. It had been so many years since her best friend told her that, but it kept her going.

Her beauty had stopped meaning so much to her after that. She stopped wearing so much makeup. She stopped with the intense skin care routines and let her skin wrinkle and blemish. The moment she got her first gray hair, she accepted it.

Hell, she didn't even care about the stretch marks that appeared on her thighs and belly. It was natural, and she loved it.

If Kanata had taught her anything, it was that it was okay to not be perfect. She didn't have to struggle up the mountain to reach her mother's expectations, and that... that's what mattered most to her.

"Kizuna!," Ayame called from down the hall, "are you just about ready? It's Akira's wedding today, we gotta get there early!"

The pinkette tore her gaze from the mirror, a sorrowful sigh escaping her lips. "I'm coming, dear! Just tying up my hair!"

Ayame grunted playfully at that, but no more was said.

"Kanata," Kizuna whispered to the mirror after a bit, "i hope you're proud of me. I've changed, I've become better... your sacrifice wasn't for nothing. Thank you for believing in me."

And then she headed on her way, to celebrate something-- someone-- that she was most proud of.

Her daughter.

-

Thats all i got okay byebye

SCREAMING AND CRYING AND GOING INSANE MAN I LOVE THIS SO MUCH‼️‼️

Like wow i don't even know what to say, the way you wrote Kizuna accepting the effects of aging without trying to hide them or look younger all because of how much Kanata helped her get through this kind of mindset, and how she's still very dear to her even tho she's been dead for a long time now,, that's just so sweet

Akira being someone she's so proud of is awesome too because i love picturing Kizuna wanting to be the best mother she can to her even if she screws up at times. Knowing first hand how it is to grow up with shitty parents, she wants to give her something she didn't had growing up :]

[dullahandyke]

and like sidenote if i can make a post with a target audience of zero. i feel like fhsy was to d20 what aa3 was to ace attorney but aa3 pulled it off better for reasons i cannot explain