#and lack thereof

[a-study-in-bullshit]

[ednav]

Of course I love how Benoit Blanc is so shamelessly, fabulously, himself. How he’s gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide [GNU Terry Pratchett]. How he doesn’t hide that his brain is peculiar, for better or for worse. How he picks the cases he likes.

But I also love that in Glass Onion Rian Johnson shows us that Blanc can choose to be himself because he’s protected by his privilege of rich, upper-class, white man.

Which in turn leads me to notice how in both movies Blanc uses his privilege to protect a working-class woman and a Black woman, but he always refuses to be their saviour. He just creates the conditions in which they can choose to be themselves and save themselves—and punish their oppressors.

[Edit: A couple of people pointed out that Marta is actually white, even if the Thrombeys would probably disagree. I’d add that Helen isn’t exactly working-class, she’s simply less rich than the Disruptors shitheads. Anyway: I apologise—I’ve edited the post.]

[smoosnoom]

what is the point of winter other than to break my heart

[asktheheirofslytherin]

If I had a million dollars I’d buy your looooveee

One cannot purchase what does not exist.

[puppyluver256]

There's a certain post going around where I agreed with the spirit of the message, but the way it was worded (especially the intro) felt very condescending to me, and they'd turned off replies so I can't respond to that part without putting that post on my blog and I'd rather not put something like that on my blog. Instead, I'm gonna make my own post in a hopefully less condescending tone.

Religion =/= Cult

Not all religions are high control groups, ie. cults. While many religious groups, particularly many branches of christianity, do exert very rigid control structures on their members, there are just as many who merely share core beliefs about something and truly value their members' merit as individuals. I'll admit, I'm not exactly prepped with a bunch of examples here as I'm not familiar enough with most religious groups to be able to give a definitive example, but even I can see the difference between the methodist church and, say...the mormons or jehovah's witnesses, and that's just within christianity.

Cult =/= Religion

As stated above, a cult by definition is a high-control group, and while it is more common for such a group to be centered around a god or gods, a cult does not have to be a religion. Political extremist groups, "self help" groups, academic groups...hell, you could probably make a cult out of Burger King or something. (please don't make a cult out of Burger King) I'd say state atheism counts as an atheistic cult of sorts, for one, and as an atheist myself I have nothing good to say about state atheism and would oppose it just as strongly as I would any theocracy. It's not about whether or not they agree with me on the "are there any gods" question, it's about the societal and/or legal coersion to follow beliefs that one might not necessarily have.

If you want to try and judge whether or not a group could possibly be a cult for yourself, regardless of whether it puts a deity or a charismatic human at its center, please look up actual anti-cult resources. I'd suggest giving the BITE model a once-over, even if the guy who created it may have convinced himself transgender people are a cult somehow because he came across...well, let's just say something created for a certain purpose for a specific audience that is not indicative of all transgender people and may not even have anything to do with actual gender identity to begin with. But I digress.

So to echo the sentiment of the post that inspired this, if someone tells you that they are a cult survivor, the appropriate response is not "all religions are cults, that's nothing special" wrt religious cults nor is it "how can it be a cult if it wasn't even a religion" wrt secular cults. The appropriate response could be something more along the lines of "I'm sorry that happened to you. If you need me to help you get through that, I'm here for you."

[mayhaps-a-blog]

Another thought on Good Omens, Crowley, and memory (spoilers!):

I’ve seen the theory that Crowley was also made to forget his time as an angel, and I wasn’t sure, but now that I’m rewatching it I’m coming around to it!

I need to go back and rewatch season 1 to catch his first meeting with Aziraphale as a demon, but even just what I caught while racing through season 2 and rewatching the first episode, I noticed:

1) None of the other demons seem to remember Heaven - even Beelzebub just kind of blinks when Crowley mentions the cherubs. But presumably, all of the demons - or at least most, or at least the highest-ranking ones - were once angels.

2) But Crowley mentions the cherubs from his time as an angel, presumably.

3) He also remembers his passwords for Gabriel’s file.

4) But! He does not remember Saraqael. He doesn’t remember the demon either, but given the demon remembers him and how annoying he was, I’d put that down to Crowley being contrary, or trying to forget all the awful people he had to work with.

5) There’s also how he treats Gabriel, which others have pointed out - “ask him properly”, pushing Gabriel for answers, understanding how much it hurts.

6) A lot of demons fell for other reasons, but Crowley fell for curiosity. He just wanted to ask some questions, know what it was all for! He always wanted to save the world. And he always knew Heaven was out to destroy it. If there was a blank in his mind - a blank that he knew was important to the things he loved - he’d dig. No matter how much it hurt.

7) We know from Gabriel that even without memories, angels keep the basic idea of where they were going and what they were doing, even if they don’t know why. All Crowley had to do was know he had to remember, and pick his way through what he can dig up and hold on to. He might never get back everything - it doesn’t fit anymore - but he can get something.

All I can think about is how much worse that makes that final scene, that moment that Aziraphale walks away. Because the truth is, Aziraphale never saw Heaven at its worse - oh, he fought in the war, he went down to Earth and opposed Armageddon, but it was Crowley who looked them in the eyes as they cast him into Hellfire, it was Crowley who watched Gabriel’s trial for the crime of disagreeing with Heaven, it was Crowley who knows how it feels to be cast down just for trying to do the right thing.

And now all Crowley can do is sit and wait for it to happen to his best friend.

He saw what they did to Gabriel for disagreeing.

They could make Aziraphale forget him. All 6000 years.

And there’s nothing he can do.

[bittersweetbark]

meta - not the evil Meta - smut writing credentials

We're slowly approaching November (it's September) and that means I'll soon have been writing fanfic for a whole year.

You might have expected a "for 30 years" or something similar, as I'm indeed veray olde (47) but I actually only started to write last year. Before then I had occasionally started on something but that always stayed in my notes because unfortunately I "knew" that "I can't write" because my mother had told me so repeatedly when I was a child; repeatedly until I stopped writing.

Oh shit, this was going to be a quick write-up about the personal vantage point of experience I have for writing anal sex and now it sounds like I'm about to drop my autobiography.

So – I don't think we have to list a sex CV in order to write smut. But I'm recognising the funny divide between modern sex education sources on the internet and my pre-internet experiences.

To be honest: with the modern sex edu stuff as background I often feel that I write my pseudo-renaissance-era smut wrong when I just stick character a into character b without applying enemas and a few days of wearing larger and larger butt plugs. And sure, if I personally pursued sexual relations at this time I would be doing that. (I am still avoiding people in order to keep my mother alive and not infect her with Corona, so. I'm not doing it in the flesh at the moment because a potential sex partner would surely insist on doing dangerous things like "breathe" and I can't have that.)

But as it happens when I came of age it was the 90s aka the last years of the Middle Ages. No internet. Sex education was learning how beby is formed and gametes and stuff. So as a late teen you got all your information from the Cosmopolitan.

And Cosmo didn't actually educate, of course, it just went "SEX TIPS!" and then hinted at the exciting possibilities of what you could do with peppermint drops or poking your finger into someone's arse.

So we did that! And you can do that. I'm not saying you should. But one finger and no lube works and my first boyfriend (I don't know where HE got his education from, it wasn't Cosmo) used beer as lube - and that worked, too.

Again, I'm not saying "we did that and it didn't harm me" - I mean it didn't, but it could have. We just didn't know better. But it wasn't a disaster. There wasn't even shit involved, even though all we ever used to clean up was a wet flannel.

Just wanted to have this written up in case I ever get any "how unrealistic and dangerous" flak, so I can quietly point at it. People have been doing the nasty before you were born and knew better. I hope future generations will still have access to better information and the enshittification of the internet will not lead back to finding creative uses for beer.

[marisatomay]

I don’t know how to say this in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m advocating for casual cruelty or whatever but something that grates so much about this current social moment is how many people are incapable of saying they dislike something or someone without cooking up some higher morally correct reason for their dislike. Sometimes you just disliked a book. Sometimes you don’t “get” an actor or a musician. There’s nothing morally wrong with your girl’s fuckass boyfriend he’s literally just annoying and you’re annoyed that you have to pretend you like him when you know he’ll be history in six months. It’s fine. You don’t need to justify your dislike.

[pickled-flowers]

Sex positivity is also about not calling Ace people prude and using virgin as an insult 👍 hope that helps

[autisticmight]

something something my 2011-era ninjago oc now holds so many possibilities due to his powers. fucking. weird little guy shows up at a monastery bc he's heard about a group of people with elemental powers and hopes to learn how to control his own power BUT it turns out the power i gave him belongs to the master's estranged adopted son (who died decades ago but he doesn't know and thus still holds out hope that he will come home) and NOW i get to rotate ANOTHER relationship in my head. i made up this guy. he was just supposed to be an exploration of my gender (subconscious) and an expression of my love for my dungaree shorts i had at the time (conscious) but NO now he is a little puppet to act out complex social difficulties that haunt me

[dotty-contrarian]

i think individuals need to be more sympathetic about the difficulties of maintaining a neutral smell and clean space and body. i don't remember us being so anal about hygeine before these past few years...

[soup-mother]

it's like every few months tumblr reinvents "atheists are all immoral and evil and secretly genocidal gamergate guys and also all white" like some kind of horrible cycle. and every time without failing people come to the conclusion "this is why i don't trust people who aren't at least a little bit religious". like wait till you meet a real communist and not just your vaguely"leftist" D&D buddies, you're gonna throw up and cry when you learn what materialism is.

[maranull]

anyway, Elden Ring is about love and hope

Marika burns everything she has build out of sorrow

Ranni banishes the Outer Gods and also fucks off the Lands, giving agency back to the normal beings of the Lands

Fortissax endlessly fights Death for his friend/lover

Melina burns herself and Erdtree in hopes of a better world in the hands of the Tarnished

Blaidd fights against the very reason he was created out of love for his sister

Ranni and Rykard always keep an eye on their mother, protecting her

Radahn evokes so much love from his troops that they organise a whole festival to give him a honorable death even in his madness

Radahn learns an entire new school of magic in order to still ride his favourite horse

Boc's love for his mother, his mother's love for him

How all but two endings are build on the hope that this new era (whatever it might be) will be good

Miquella attempting to create an whole new world-tree to host the forsaken and the damned

Miquella turning on the faith he was raised and even believed in to an extent, when it was unable to cure his sister's curse

The Cleanrot's loyalty to Malenia and their endurance of the Rot, only to stay in her service

Malenia marching through the entire continent in search of her brother

Finlay traveling all the way back on her own, carrying the incapacitated demigod on her back

Tanith's love for Rya

Dialos' entire questline

Edgar being driven mad after his daughter dies

Vyke embracing, to a point, the Frenzied Flame in order to save his finger maiden

or you know, that's just how I see it

[puppyluver256]

The one thing certain sections of the Pokemon fandom and fundamentalist christians can agree with.

[tsilvy]

"Crowley doesn't have Gabriel. Where would he put him?" says Aziraphale talking to Shax.

Where would he put him?

He knows. HE KNOWS. He knows that Crowley doesn't have a house anymore. That he's living in his car. But he hasn't said anything because he hasn't yet fathomed why Crowley wouldn't say anything. And he's trying to change that, too.

"You like waiting inside." Subtle, subtlest way to tell him that he knows, he understands, has noticed the telling signs. And he's saying it's very much okay for Crowley to keep staying in, whenever he wants, to consider the bookshop his place even when Aziraphale is not around.

The whole "our car", "our bookshop", "we both got plenty of use out of it". Look, I know what the common speculation about the plenty of use is, but realistically? He's heavily implying that Crowley, too, needs the bookshop. Not likes, needs. Let's spell out the analogy: I need your (our) car because I don't have my own car, the same as you need my (our) bookshop, which is my house, because you don't have your own house.

He's been dropping hints right and left that he already knows anyway, and that it's okay to ask, he'd totally say yes. And even if Crowley doesn't ask, it's still okay. He's saying yes already.

And I marvel continuously at the complexity of the character that is Aziraphale, because he can be the most infuriatingly callous bitch in the world, and then in the same breath he can be this sensitive, gentle, emotionally intelligent person who really, really loves Crowley more than he could ever put into words.

[pedrito-friskito]

hello my dear!! 🫶🏼

🌸🌸🌸

eddie with smut prompts 10 & 1 pls 🥵

hello my love!!!!

I apologize in advance for this (well, kinda but not really…)

patience (or a lack thereof) - eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 2k

warnings: the horny really jumped out on this one. drug use, cockwarming, unprotected p-in-v, fingering, dirty talk, soft dom!eddie vibes (I think)

The problem here, is that weed makes you horny.

Like…really horny.

Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem. Friday nights at Eddie’s place have a pretty repetitive flavour, and it’s one you now crave. You’ve been seeing each other nearly six months now, and your friends have all given you shit for it, but you don’t care. Fridays are for Eddie.

More specifically, Fridays are for getting stoned in Eddie’s bedroom and cumming so many times you lose count. 

By now, you’d usually be between his sheets already, two or three rounds down, a quick breather in between. But tonight, something’s thrown a wrench in your usual plans. Really, it’s your own fault — you’d shown up unannounced at Eddie’s place Wednesday night, the night he usually reserved for D&D planning. Wayne had taken an extra overnight shift, leaving the place to the two of you, and well, you made the most of it.

But with Wednesday night planning out the window, Eddie has a Saturday session and nothing prepared, which you know is not a good thing.

But weed makes you horny.

You’re sprawled out on his bed, your pants long discarded, wearing only one of Eddie’s Hellfire shirts, flipping through one of his music magazines. You’ve tried reading the book you keep in your bag, tried distracting yourself by changing the records on the player, you even tried taking a quick cat nap. Nothing has worked. The ache between your legs is ridiculous.

He’s been at it a couple hours now, and you know he takes his time when it comes to D&D. He’s meticulous with his planning, thinking out every possible outcome and coming up with a contingency for each, even having a few throwaway plans just in case his players come up with something completely outrageous. You don’t mind it at all; it’s quite the opposite actually. His passion is…sexy, in a nerdy kind of way. It just adds to his charm.

And right now, it’s not helping matters. He’s perched in his desk chair, flipping through the Dungeon Master’s Guide, a pencil between his teeth. He’s wearing an old Hawkins High Phys Ed t-shirt, sweat shorts, and his hair's a mess. Unable to stop yourself, you roll off the mattress and onto your feet, crossing the room and standing behind his chair. He makes a little noise as you gather his hair in your hand, sweeping it over his shoulder so you can fit your face in the curve of his neck.

“Eds.”

“I know, baby,” he replies, the words muffled by the pencil between his teeth. “I’m almost done, I swear. Gimme like five minutes, and then I’m all yours, yeah?”

You whine, closing your lips around his pulse. You left a nice hickey there the other night, and your cloudy mind yells at you to make it bloom against his pale skin even brighter this time. Your arms hang over his shoulders, pressing your palms against his stomach, humming into his neck.

“Eddie, please?”

Your hands move lower, one glancing across the crotch of his shorts. The pencil falls out of his mouth. “Sweetheart,” he sing-songs, a halfhearted warning. But you do it again, fixated on the way his cock twitches to attention, even with just the lightest of touches. You let your teeth graze his throat, nipping at the same spot until the bruise starts to reform. Eddie tilts his head back, a low rumble moving through his chest, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When they open again, his pupils are blown, and he lifts his hand, burying his fingers in your hair. “Someone’s needy tonight.”

“You know that weed makes me ho—”

“Weed makes your horny, I know, baby,” he finishes, dragging his nail lightly against your scalp. “I’m almost finished, I promise. Come here.”

He turns in the chair, swinging around until you’re standing between his legs. Eddie drags his hands up your thighs, the cool metal of his rings making you shiver. He’s fully hard now, shorts tented, and he hooks one thumb in the waist of your underwear, pulling it down slightly. It makes you throb.

“You can sit on my lap till I’m finished,” he says, squeezing your hips. “That make you feel better?”

Your eyes widen slightly, feeling yourself melt into his touch. “You mean…?”

“Come here,” he says again, his tone more assertive this time. He pulls your underwear down further, lifting the hem of your shirt at the same time, and swoops in, pressing a sloppy kiss to your hip. Your underwear drops to the floor and you kick the fabric away. Everything in you goes tight as he hooks his fingers in the waist of his shorts, pulling them off and settling back in his chair. The sight of his cock curving towards his belly makes your mouth fill with saliva. “You need something else first?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly. “Need me to open you up a bit, pretty girl?”

He pulls you closer, one hand back on your hip, and the other slides between your knees, moving up to the inside of your thighs. He moans when he feels out wet you are, dragging his fingers through it, pushing them past his lips a second later as he pulls your body even closer. You move quickly, lifting your legs and planting your knees on the seat either side of his hips.

Eddie grins as you lower yourself slowly, reaching around to take himself in hand, guiding his cock into your nearly dripping pussy. The feeling is overwhelming, to say the least, and you bury your face in his neck again as you sink down, your breathing coming faster as he fills you up. 

Fully seated, your first instinct is to move, rolling your hips into his, but Eddie grips your waist tightly, clucks his tongue at you. “Ah, ah, ah, not yet, sweetheart. Let me finish first, and then I’ll take care of you, alright?”

When you don’t answer right away, he lifts his hips slightly, the tip of his cock nudging at that delicious nerve inside you. “Shit.”

“Gimme five minutes, baby,” he says again. He takes your hands, draping your arms around his neck. A soft kiss is pressed to your mouth, and you have to stop yourself from chasing it, taking what he gives. “Just five minutes.”

It’s fucking torture. Five minutes feels like five hours. Every tiny movement makes the pleasure spark, but it’s just shy of not enough, leaving you wanting more and more and more. If it’s driving Eddie just as crazy, he doesn’t let it show, giving you a broad grin when you settle deeper into his lap, resting your forehead against the dip of his shoulder. 

Finally — fucking finally — he flips his notebook closed, tosses his pen aside, and puts his hands on you. He grabs your hips again, guiding you along him, and the sudden movement sets your whole body alight. You toss your head back, your mouth dropping open as he lifts you up, pulls you back down. He fills you so perfectly, leaning in to suck a mark at your collar.

“There she is,” he murmurs, dragging the tip of his nose along the underside of your jaw. “C’mon, my needy girl, tell me how bad you want it.”

Eddie slides his hands under the hem of your shirt, fingers tapping along your rib cage. Your fingers chase his, reaching for the edge of the fabric, pulling it up and over your head. You toss it away, and Eddie groans, instantly lowering his head, scraping his teeth along your tits, your nipples pebbling at his attention. Your hips roll, dragging yourself along his cock, the pleasure making your eyes roll back.

“Look at you,” he moans, sucking a bruise beside your nipple, his other hand coming up to toy with the other. “You just need to be fucked so bad, don’t you?”

“Eds, please,” you manage to mumble out, a whine trapped high in your throat. You can feel how wet you are, the slick glide of your thighs against his. He grins, pulling his face from your chest, tilting his head back so his nose pokes yours.

“Almost there,” he says, his voice goading. “Use your words. Tell me.”

“Eddie—”

“Tell me specifically,” he mutters, pinching your chin in one hand, rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip, “how bad you want it.”

You start babbling. His request opens the floodgates. Your words are in time to the movement of your hips, and Eddie is grinning like the devil he is. Please, Eddie, I want it so bad, I want you so bad, fuck me please, I want it hard, want it fast, wanna feel you tomorrow. Please, please, please, please, please.

He gives you what you want.

You squeal when he scoops his hands under your thighs, lifting you as he moves out of the chair, keeping himself buried inside you. He aims for the bed, you think, but gets thrown off course, and instead you end up sprawled on the floor of his room. He hikes your legs over his hips, grabs your waist and pulls you down onto him with every thrust.

Back arching against the floor, you’re climbing higher and higher, and the weed buzzing in your veins only makes it that much more thrilling. You’re probably going to have carpet burn on your ass, but you don’t fucking care.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Eddie coos, and when your thigh starts to shake, he drops a hand between your legs, tracing his fingers over where he’s disappearing inside you before drawing a perfect circle around your clit. “Give it to me.”

You nearly shout his name as you cum, and Eddie rides you through it, his own orgasm not far behind. He pulls out at the last second, cums hot against your stomach, and flops down on the floor beside you. His hand lingers, tracing the curve of your tits, making them peak harder just for him. You curl your hand around the back of his neck, keeping him close while you catch your breath.

“You alright, baby?” he asks, dropping his jaw to kiss your shoulder, still petting his hand across your chest. “You want a pillow or something?”

You shake your head no. “Just…don’t move yet.”

Eddie chuckles, teeth nipping at your skin. “Okay, baby.”

Your body is caught between begging for more and tapping out for the night, but you think you know where the scales are about to tip. Especially if he keeps touching you like that. Your mind whirls, eyes fluttering open so you can look at him.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur.

Eddie hums the affirmative, sitting up slightly to pull his shirt over his head. He uses it to clean his cum from your stomach and leans over you slightly, mouthing at your tits again. “Anything, baby.”

“Why didn’t you ever make a move on me before,” you ask, “when we were in high school?”

He tilts his head, lifting one brow with his lips still latched to your skin. “Why do you ask?”

“Just realizing how much mind-blowing sex I missed out on,” you reply.

Eddie chuckles. “I wanted to make a move. I really wanted to, trust me. But you had a thing for jocks back then, if I remember correctly.” He bites at you again, softly, dropping his chin to your chest. You can feel his hand roaming lower, glancing over your knees and thighs. Your legs part slightly, letting him in again, your blood spiking when his fingers trace the inside of your thigh. “It sucked, honestly. You have no idea how much I hated seeing someone else touch you, when I wanted it to be me.”

The tips of his fingers prod at you, curling just slightly. “But now you can,” you tell him, your voice turning breathy again, back arching as he pushes his fingers deeper, scrapes his teeth against your nipple.

“Now I can,” he agrees, “and I’m never gonna stop.”