#I always feel SO GUILTY thirsting over real people and not fictional ones

[miscelliteeous]

How does Wes Anderson always put together such a hot cast?

Like, take me down to the Asteroid City where the grass is sand and the men are pretty.

[slytherflynn]

The Return of Slytherflynn | Witch Weekly No. 1

Salutations, witches and wizards! Slytherflynn here. I haven’t posted on this account in a long time. My reason? Actually, there are a few. I’ll get to those soon. Today I’m going to give you an introduction to me, discuss why my exodus happened, and what this blog will consist of moving forward. Let’s jump right in!

Who Is Slytherflynn? Who else? My name’s Eden, but my last name is Flynn, hence the username. I am a Slytherin primary, Hufflepuff secondary. My patronus is a dolphin, so that’s pretty cool. I’m mixed, but live the life of a white girl because I look white and don’t care to argue with people about my DNA. I enjoy elevating underrepresented voices, and will go to any length to protect the unprotected. I’d consider myself to be a humanitarian. I know people despise labels, but I believe choosing labels wisely can give others a great insight into who you are as a person, so here are some labels I identify with: Bisexual, Androgynous, BLM Ally, Liberal, Socialist, University Student, Abuse Survivor, ADHD, Excoriation Disorder, OCD, Depression, PTSD, [an] Attachment Disorder, Social Anxiety Disorder, Tacoman, Creator. There are plenty more I could throw out there, but those in particular are important to me. Make of them what you will, but know that I am not ashamed of any of those. I am going to open a nonprofit center supporting POC Youth and connected communities in art and education, but I also want to do everything. Now that you know about me...

Who Are You? Yes, you, reading this paper! What do we have in common? Different? What makes you special, and what makes you the same? What communities are you tied to? Tell me in the replies!

My Magical Journey I grew up in a dreadfully muggle world. My mother, also a muggle, delighted in Harry Potter, as did my brothers. I was resolutely a Harry Potter hater, and thought they were too fangirly, but when Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince came out and I saw Louis Cordice portray Blaise Zabini, everything changed. I may or may not have gone off the deep end and started fangirling over him - what? He’s attractive, okay? But I did end up reeling myself in, as having unrealistic fictional crush is one thing, but thirsting for an unattainable person who probably is married with a kid by now is another, and I didn’t want to get to a point where I was fetishizing someone rather than admiring them for their skills and unique perspective on the world. He did notice my thirsting though, and thought it was funny! So no harm, no foul as far as I’m concerned. Absolute win! Anyways, after becoming a fan of him, Tumblr let me know that there was more content about Blaise Zabini in the books than the movies, so what did I do? Commit to reading all seven, because my ADHD said so and would rather do that than homework. Eventually, I started up this side blog so my main blog wouldn’t be so flooded with hp content. I have written quite a few fics, all appropriate, all probably trash because most of them were written in my junior year of high school, all available for you to read. I ought to make a masterlist for my work, now that I think about it. Anyways, you can find that content and other fun stuff under the tag #slytherflynn so check that out for some light, probably shitty reading!

Why I Left At some point, I decided not to post as much, and went from 100 to 0, real quick. I have a bunch of unfinished writing in my drafts, and I’m not really sure how to start up everything again, but I know I want to, because writing and creating is such a passion of mine, and so is Harry Potter. Part of the reason I left was because I’m a perfectionist and felt this need to make every post perfect, my feed perfectly curated, everything perfectly on time, and I ended up holding myself to a standard that I just can’t meet - no human could, not even Hermione Granger, as evidenced in Prisoner of Azkaban. It took a long time to come back to this blog because I burnt myself out, truth be told. That perfectionism carries over into every aspect of my life - I did mention I want to do everything, after all - and I ended up piling so much up that I couldn’t get all of it done. I felt guilty every time I thought about this blog, because I had so many faithful followers that I essentially abandoned without warning, and I know feeling abandoned isn’t a good feeling. That, and I still couldn’t shake the shame surrounding the fact that I wasn’t posting content every week despite my want to. I even considered deleting this blog! Sorry to anyone who was waiting for me to post hp content on my main account ( @id-rather-be-an-outsider ), I got too anxious to do that, even.

Seeing the Future I’m not skilled at Divination, but I can confirm that I will be making an official return to this blog - complete with Witch Weekly articles whenever I have updates to give! I have at least one short fic finished that I’d like to create a moodboard for and post on here sometime soon. This time around, I’m only going to be posting when I really want to so I’m not putting any pressure on myself, and I’m going to open up asks for you guys to request writing for pairings (note that I do not write smut), as well as giving you guys the opportunity to submit stories - my goal for submissions is to elevate PoC and other voices the masses don’t usually hear, and I encourage those who do submit to always self-promote in their author’s note! You can find the guidelines for post submissions on my submission section :)

Goodbyes Since we are reaching the end of this article, I’m going to be officially saying goodbye to: negativity, destructively high and unrealistic expectations, anxiety, writer’s block, artist’s block, fear of under 10 notes (notes shouldn’t matter, but yakno, there’s still gonna be that part of me that knows bad writing probably won’t be getting 10 notes so it’s still... scary), fear of unfair criticisms, defensiveness... and hello to: creativity, letting our hair down, wearing our glasses, posts on the witching hour, going to bed early instead of staying up late to force out a piece, perfectly imperfect writing, pretty moodboards, and making mistakes! Hope to see you all soon with a post, and Happy Pride! My city’s official Pride month is July so I get to celebrate Pride twice, lucky me!

be loving <3 - slytherflynn

[sweetcatmintea]

He’s Only Hurting Himself

Hello hello ^u^ Back again for Flash Fiction Friday!  (I know I’ve missed some and have messages to reply to and I promise I’ll get to them soon! I’ve been running around chasing my own tail lately @A@;;) 

This is @bookenders flash fiction prize for the giveaway I did. Thanks so much for your patience and I hope you like it!

Feedback is very appreciated!

Prompt: I'd love for you to write in a style that you've always wanted to try but haven't yet, for whatever reason, on any subject! 😊

I decided to try a meaningful, future tense story

TW: Alcohol, Alcoholism, Dementia, Death, Brief mentions of illness, Sad

Words: 1351

____

A long day, a deep sigh, sinking slowly into the battered and overstuffed couch cushions, an icy beer safely in hand. The children were asleep, the day was close to over. He leaned back, letting the tiredness seep from his pores. The tv flashed one program or another, whichever was required to complete the Thursday ritual. Weekday programs never really caught his interest. His wife, lovely, his rock, was invested in the prime-time dramas, so he sat while she watched. He toyed with the bottle, briefly rolling it in his palm, absently drawing out the anticipation. The first crack was always the sweetest. Bitter bubbles scratched the building itch in his throat. A sip, then a mouthful, then a new bottle, then he woke up. Friday repeat.

He could say he loved the malty flavour in the evening, that he was a man of taste, sampling the local beverages. He could say a lot of things. He was beginning to think the longing was a problem, but he would never say that. It was his body after all. His choices weren’t hurting anyone but himself. There were issues beneath the surface – aren’t there always? Maybe it was the stress, maybe a simple need to placate the thirst, maybe his childhood came into play. He didn’t need help. He told his wife so many times. His pride wouldn’t allow it. So what if he went a little over sometimes? Everyone has their vices. At least he was a happy drunk.

So he sank into his favourite chair, air warm and beer cold. The children were asleep, and his wife was watching the weekday program. He knew he wouldn’t remember the rest of the night but that doesn’t stop him from raising the bottle. He took a sip.

What he doesn’t know is that there will always be enough money for alcohol, even when the pantry is slim. That his wife, lovely, his rock, is left alone when he comes home, her words falling into nothing so often she stops talking.

He couldn’t imagine that, a few weeks from now, his son will be preparing for an important recital. He will be so excited. Months of practice all leading up to the big performance. The struggles, the triumphs. His son can’t wait to show his parents how hard he worked. And then he will slip. Ankle broken and heart shattered, he will wait in the emergency room with his mother. His father will be too drunk to come to him. He will never be able to look at the man the same way. He will forgive him, but the stain of abandonment will never come out. Bottles collect to dampen the failure. He hates the noise.

A few years later, the man’s daughter will come to him. She’ll be laughing, burnt red from the sports festival and waving a blue ribbon in triumph. She’ll be so proud, telling him that she’s going to be the best in the world at the javelin throw. He will agree, as any parent would. As long as she’s happy, that will be the future he wants for her. When she starts feeling unwell on the drive home, it’s chalked up to heat exhaustion. An ice block, water, and an early night to fox her tiredness. He and his wife discuss their worries over drinks while their kids are in bed. Heat stroke is a genuine concern but it was a stable of growing up here. She should be fine in a few days.

His daughter’s skin tans golden while she stays tired and dizzy. The vomiting sends them to a GP. He makes sure he is present this time. He will wish he wasn’t. The diagnosis is troubling, but unlikely. They’ll have to run some tests just to rule it out. The tests are positive. They determine acute liver failure four days before her fifteenth birthday.

Donors will be scarce. She’s on the waitlist but her blood type is a complication. She’s always been the spitting image of her mother, sharing only two traits with her father – his oak brown eyes and his O- blood. He will offer his liver. He will offer over and over and over. Take it, take the while thing if you can salvage one piece, please, take my liver. The check box glares back

🔲 No active substance abuse

In the twist of a cap, she’s gone.

He will never recover. Night after night, he will drink his sorrows, drowning his wife in the process. The final straw, an ultimatum. Sober up or be alone. He can’t lose anyone else. The pain is too much. It will be hard, one of the hardest things he will ever do, but he will sink into that old couch, son in college, and the tv playing the weekday program. He will share a tea with his wife. The house feels empty.

It’s sad when the damage is invisible, the result inevitable. Wrinkles will set in a little earlier than expected. Grey overtaking blond. Sometimes he forgets his appointments. Old age, they laugh. His wife will age much more gracefully. There’s a tiredness in her eyes, one that she hasn’t been able to shake for years now. But she’s still beautiful. The crow’s feet set in beside them, deepening with every smile. It’s one of his favourite features. Sometimes, he gets irritable. He will yell without meaning to. He was never really one to yell. She smiles less.

When he panics in the shopping centre, she will know something is wrong. He was lost, scared, frail. She will see the diagnosis before the doctor says it, his face a written apology. Dementia. She will hold herself together well, all things considered. He will not. The road paved for him was one that terrified him. With each detail the doctor will paint, he wishes he could look anywhere else. Ten years to lose himself. Ten years to die. His son will come home immediately. They will get through this. One day at a time, they’ll be ok. The promise was made in the late evening, the family holding each other on the old comfortable couch, tv playing the weekday program in the background.

Confusion will come more and more. Week and disoriented, he will struggle as the days blur on. One morning in the early spring, he approaches his wife in tears. He can’t remember the feel of her hand on his cheek. She will hold him tight and cry.

Time becomes fuzzy. He will shift between selves. On good days, he will be him. On bad days, he is angry. He yells and storms, drinks and swears. He hates the old woman who pleads with him to stop. On terrible days he begs the strange man to let him see his boy. He’s so proud of his son. He hasn’t seen him in so long. He doesn’t want to miss his recital. He’s so, so happy when his wife visits him. She’s older now. He doesn’t know when that happened. But she will still be so beautiful. He loves the crinkles around her eyes. Sometimes, he will remember he needs to pick up his daughter from the sports festival. She always tries so hard, you know. The old woman and the strange man cry when he tells them.

He will die. Quietly, in his sleep. The disease finally corroding his brain stem, stopping his heart. The guilty relief tears his wife apart. She stands at his grave, praying he finds peace. She will spend her entire life waiting for him to get better.

His son is hollow. He will have been for a long time. In the quiet evening when work is done, he will pour another glass of wine. He doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.

There is no way the man could predict all of this as he takes another sip of his beer. His wife, lovely, his rock, gives him a worried look. He smiles and kisses her cheek. A few beers weren’t hurting anyone. Besides, he was a happy drunk.

-----

To be real for a second, Australia has a really prevalent drinking culture. It makes me worry about both the people getting drunk on the regular and the people around them. This story is in no way intended to shame people who drink, it’s supposed to highlight the false belief ‘it’s fine if I harm myself because it doesn’t hurt others’. 

----- 

Tag list

@snobbysnekboi, @inkovert, @kainablue, @i-rove-rock-n-roll, and @goblin-writer

[chiisana-sukima]

Hi, Luke; I’m Chii. I’m a multishipper and a fandom granny. I ship both destiel and wincest. Irl I’m a nurse and have worked with many survivors of sexual and family violence over the years. I’m also an incest/rape survivor myself. I’m telling you all this because I want you to know that when I say there are some misconceptions (as well as some valid points) in your tweets, it’s not about ship wars for me. Wincest will never be canon-- which is as it should be-- and I don’t really care that much about whether destiel becomes canon or not. For me, your tweet thread is about how to best live in a world where sexual violence is horrible but common.

One of the most important things I learned in therapy is that I can’t know what’s going on inside other people’s heads. I can guess, but my guesses will often be wrong, and in general the best way to find out other people’s internal states is to ask them. Of course, people *do* lie, but going through life assuming that large groups of people are lying about their own thoughts and emotions is a painful and unnecessarily difficult way to live. It’s isolating and erodes trust.

I can only know with surety my own reasons for shipping wincest, but for example, I have several friends who ship wincest and are also ace and not into sex at all, let alone a specific kind of sex. For me to assume they’re in a longterm campaign of fooling either themselves or me is just not a very happy way to conduct my relationships. And as for myself, I’ve been a sexually active adult for 35 years. I have a rape kink a mile wide. I like guns and knives and when the brave heroes get hurt and cry. If I was into incest, I would know it and I wouldn’t be ashamed to admit it. I like wincest for reasons not related to sex. If you want to know what they are, just ask.

This is 100% true. And the converse is also true. Incest survivors who find discussion of a fictional incestuous relationship triggering deserve to have their needs met to the *exact* same extent that survivors who find discussion of a fictional incestuous relationship helpful or healing do. From a utilitarian perspective there is no way to choose between the needs of one group and the needs of the other, because there’s no way to know which group is more numerous, or even whether numbers are the relevant deciding factor or not.

The needs of the two groups are sometimes incompatible, and in so far as the compromise solution you’re asking for is tagging and avoidance of triggering content by those triggered, I agree with you. Twitter is notoriously hard to tag formally on (as I see you’re already discovering), but if a single written mention of the triggering content in a tweet stream is sufficient, then yes, that’s definitely a reasonable compromise to advocate for.

Here’s where I think we have very different perspectives. I have kinks too, and I go to kink spaces to pursue them, but wincest, for me, is not about “thirsting over my guilty pleasure”. It’s about my life and my whole self being a part of the human community and deserving of celebration and dignity.

I’m not ashamed that I’ve been victimized, and I’m not ashamed I love(d) the father who victimized me. He’s a horrible person and I love him anyway, because human beings are designed to love. No human relationship is either entirely healthy or unhealthy, and no major ship in SPN is either. It’s frankly not for you or any other person to draw the line over how much unhealthiness is enough that one can’t talk about the good parts of a relationship anymore. That’s for each individual to decide for themselves.

When you tell me that people in a (fictional) relationship can murder and torture and beat each other and make all kinds of other horrible choices and mistakes and still be worthy of celebration, but if they commit (fictional, consensual, adult) incest, then they can only be celebrated in “private kink communities”, you’re telling me my life has been outside the pale- that the crime committed against me is so shameful I shouldn’t be allowed to speak of it in public, and the fact that I love my father is worse than loving someone who, for example, killed large numbers of his brothers and sisters (as Castiel fictionally did) would be.

I want to believe that’s what we all want, but frankly I don’t. I’ve seen too many people complaining that AO3-- a privately run community created with the express purpose of being a safe space for authors to write whatever kind of kinky shit they want, and readers to read it-- shouldn’t host darkships or underage ships or ships that some fans consider racist.

So I’m asking you to ask your friends who are anti-wincest. Ask them if tagging is good enough, or if they think I shouldn’t post certain appropriately tagged “bad” thoughts and feelings on tumblr or twitter or AO3 or multiship discords at all. And I’m asking you to consider that some of the people-- not necessarily your friends, but definitely someone-- who says tagging isn’t enough will inevitably eventually come for you too. Because no matter how ashamed you are of your “guilty” thoughts and feelings, no matter how closely you hold them to your chest, if you share them with one other person they’re not secret anymore. As Audre Lorde famously said:

“My silences had not protected me. Your silence will not protect you. But for every real word spoken, for every attempt I had ever made to speak those truths for which I am still seeking, I had made contact with other women while we examined the words to fit a world in which we all believed, bridging our differences.”    

You’re a dude ofc, but I feel that way about you too. From one kinky person to another, all my best to you. I hope you’re doing well and being good to yourself. And I always try to assume, whenever I have discussions about violence, that the person on the other side could be a survivor too; so if that’s the case, especially my wishes for your good health and happiness around those issues too.