#he looks divine like he's way too conventionally attractive...

[earlgodwin]

CESARE BORGIA + his wedding night ↴ THE BORGIAS (2011-2013) || 'The Wolf and the Lamb' (3.05)

[sadlittlesquish]

Hot, Wet, Sticky Sweet

Chapter one: She's got the peaches, He's got the cream

"Holy shit..."

It was all Eddie Munson could breathe out, his eyes widening at the unexpected display he pulls up to.

After carting around the Hellfire kids and driving out to the Hideout to play with Corroded Coffin the night before, he was in desperate need of filling up his van. The Indiana heat was brutal today, the end of summer deciding to go out in a fiery bang before fall.

The distorted waves coming off the broken up asphalt are a testament alone to that fact, along with the thin sheen of sweat sticking Eddie's black tank top to his back. Except now, there was a whole new reason to be sweating his ass off.

Unbeknownst to him, Hawkins High was running a local car wash at the largest gas station in the small town. At least 15 or so of his schoolmates were running the event, something about raising money for a fellow student who had been diagnosed with cancer.

All of the hottest girls in school, and some of the boys were out here today; dressed in such little amounts of clothing, it might as well have been a strip club.

None of the cheerleaders, or queen bees caught Eddie's attention no matter how typically fucking drop dead sexy they were. No, the girl his wide brown eyes lands on and can not be torn away from was one he barely knows.

He's definitely seen her around school before, a senior like him who transferred in just this year. Eddie knows next to nothing about her, other than she's one of the few kids in this Hick town that defies social convention.

The moment he laid eyes on her in his 3rd period home ec class, he was heart eyes to the extreme for her. Eddie wanted nothing more than to have an excuse to go up and talk to her, but her stoic, ice cold resting face always stopped him from approaching her. If she was a bitch then Eddie would have no way of charming her. So he stares at her from afar, hoping one day he would have the courage to talk to her.

Watching all her fellow students and their lines endlessly filling up with cars, while her lane was relatively empty, Eddie feels himself getting a little angry. He knows it's because she was not one of the conventionally attractive girls in their mini skirts and white tops raking in every man with a pulse and a car within a hundred foot radius.

This girl was what other people would say was "fat", but to Eddie she was just divine. He was half way to drooling seeing her in ripped fishnets under a modest pair of black shorts. Eddie huffs out a groan, as she lifts the hem of her soft gray AC/DC shirt that's been diy cropped. She was using the shirt to wipe away a bit of soapy water that had splashed onto her chin, and Eddie didn't have to have the wild imagination he possessed to envision the white, sudsy spray as something far more... erotic.

"Jesus..." Eddie mumbles, trying to catch his breath as he leans forward in his seat. This whole scene was definitely something straight out of one of his wildest fantasies. 

Eddie chokes back a strangled sound, torn between filling up and rushing home to whack it off to that small glimpse of his fantasy girl, or seeing if he was brave enough to bite the bullet and request her services so he can see her even closer.

She was finishing up on a little old ladies car, shocking Eddie to the core as he sees her smiling at the woman. He's still too far away to really study the full wonder of her smiling face, but it doesn't stop his cheeks from warming a bit at the sight.

"Shit," Eddie mutters, as the old lady  drives off, leaving the girls lane empty again. She immediately lets her smile fall, the same bored look on her face that Eddie usually notices her wearing. 

 Suddenly filled with a confidence he never knew existed, Eddie hits the gas. He could just go back home and take care of himself, sure. But there was something so enticing about the thought of being the only one receiving this girl's attention.

Eddie swallows nervously, making his way over to the lane, trying to look as confident as possible despite his trembling hands. 

It's now or fucking never Munson, Eddie tells himself as he gently drives his shitty van up to the girls area. He nervously fiddles with the radio, turning his music down so as not to blast her ears off as she walks over.

He raps along with the drum solo using his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to appear nonchalant even as his throat goes dry the moment she's at his window.

The tap of her black nails on the glass pulls him out of his racing thoughts, and he starts to sputter curses under his breath as he frantically goes to roll down his window.

He's surprised to see her smiling up at him, her lipstick a blood red shade that just make her brown eyes even more alluring.

"Thanks for stopping by today, would you like windows only, or the full wash?"

She has her arms crossed under the heavy swell of her chest, and Eddie swallows the whimper crawling up his throat when he realizes she's most definitely not wearing a bra.

"Um... full wash?" Eddie breathes out, his eyes growing wide as the girl's ample cleavage fills his view. He quickly swallows, doing his best to avoid staring too blatantly, though his gaze keeps sneaking over to her chest.

She was even more cute up close, and Eddie was starting to feel like he would be content just sitting here and staring at her forever. But no, they were at the carwash, so he needs to snap out of it and focus!

"So, um, you think you can handle this junker?" He finds himself asking. 

The girl sweeps her gaze over Eddie's large vehicle, her brows arching up into the soft curtain bangs framing her face. "I hope you don't mind being here for a bit, your car is probably the biggest one I'll wash all day."

God. Eddie doesn't want to see an innuendo where it shouldn't be, but he's so keyed up just from looking at her out here in such tantalizing clothes that he can't help himself.

He sputters, feels his face grow hot as his voice valiantly tries not to crack when he replies, "It's- it's not that big."

Her eyebrows raise even more, the hint of a smirk at the edge of her lips. "Really?" She drawls, and Eddie can feel his stomach twist at the way her tone drops lower, "because from where I'm standing, it looks very, very big to me."

That was it. Eddie realizes his mistake instantly, the teasing glitter in her eyes making him wish the ground would swallow him whole so she wouldn't have to see how pathetically aroused she was making him. 

At her words, his cheeks flush further with a mix of embarrassment and desire. He clears his throat softly, his mind blanking in panic. "Um... I just mean... it's a van..." 

"Well all the same, it's gonna take me a little longer to get your baby nice and clean. You can go and grab some stuff from the gas station, or wait here."

Eddie looks away for a moment, hating how fucking pervy he feels as he realizes how badly he wants to be there the whole time, catching any glimpse he possibly can to file away in the spank bank for later.

He's about to chicken out, just go grab some snacks he doesn't even want to leave her in peace to do her job, when her excited voice breaks him out of his spiral.

"Ride the Lightning, that's a fucking great album."

Eddie's eyes go wide as he looks between her and the cassette player still playing some good ole Metallica. 

His head whips around towards the girl, his eyes widening in surprise that she recognized the song title. "You like Metallica?" Eddie asks incredulously, his jaw dropping open with excitement.

She was already one of the hottest girls he had ever had more than a two second conversation with, but now she's also revealing herself to be a metalhead? He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so infatuated by a person. And god the way she says "Ride the Lightning" in her soft, husky voice was driving him crazy. 

"Oh yeah, big fan. I'm practically salivating for their next album to be released. And you bet my sweet ass I'm going to get tickets when they finally go on tour again."

She's leaning back on her heels as she continues to look up at Eddie. It's then that Eddie notices her chunky platform boots, and even with the added heel height, how short she was. Damn... now that was really fucking cute. 

"Me too! I tried getting tickets for the last few tours, but I never had the money. But this time, I swear I'm going to be first in line."

He watches as she leans back on her heels, her shorts riding up her thighs as she does so. It's damn near impossible to concentrate while staring at her, and he can feel himself growing more and more anxious for the carwash to be over with. He wants her all to himself so he can get better acquainted. 

"That's a fucking tragedy Eddie," the girl says, and for what it's worth she honestly looks like she feels bad that he had missed out. "Their last tour was life changing."

Eddie couldn't really focus on that, though, because his brain was too busy short circuiting over the fact that she actually knew his name. 

"Life changing, huh?" Eddie breathes out, still trying to process how he had become so enamored with this stranger so quickly. At her words about the last tour, he feels a twinge of bitterness at the idea of possibly missing out on this next one.

He can't help but smile a little when she says his name, feeling an intense swell of happiness that she knew he existed. "So... Do you remember my name from home ec or..." Eddie trails off, his head spinning with questions. It was such a small class, he felt it was unlikely she would have noticed him otherwise. 

"Well there's that, but you do realize you've got an infamous reputation at school right? You're always causing a scene in the cafeteria, so it's hard not to remember a guy like Eddie Munson." 

He shrugs, trying to play it cool. "Well, I like to keep things interesting. Gotta give people something to talk about besides the cheerleaders." Eddie watches her draw invisible shapes on the rim of his car window with such sappy affection that he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

"Well you definitely achieved that one, a lot of students have so many bizarre theories about you. I don't believe any of them of course, although I don't think I'd be too upset if you turned out to be a vessel for Satan like some of the more uptight kids like to say." 

Eddie can feel a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, finding her comment hilarious. He also liked the fact that she had shut down any ideas about him being the devil's vessel. He couldn't help but lean back in his seat, finding her antics charming in the most peculiar way. He clears his throat softly. "I'm guessing you're not one of the kids who thinks I'm a badass criminal mastermind either?" 

"You hang out with a bunch of freshmen who play Dungeons and Dragons with you every week in your club, so no, I don't think you're a criminal mastermind." She's teasing him, and Eddie feels the hot flush of embarrassment eat at him from her words. He was hoping that she didn't think he was lame because yeah... all of those things were true, no denying it. 

"Well... yeah, but... I've got other hobbies too. And... and..." Eddie trails off, feeling his mind suddenly blank out in embarrassment. He was trying to paint himself as more of a well adjusted person, but the truth was, playing DnD with freshman kids was pretty much the highlight of his week. He didn't know what to do with himself when his plans were disrupted on dnd nights. 

"It's alright Eddie, I'm not judging you. Well, maybe a little in a playful teasing way, but I'm not seriously making fun of you."

The girl shrugs, hoping she was able to explain herself well enough. "Sorry, sometimes I say things in a way that can seem kinda mean. I promise I'm only like, 60% bitch." 

Eddie bursts out laughing, his cheeks burning as he lets himself enjoy her teasing. She was definitely not what he was expecting when he had rolled up to the carwash.

"I mean... that's okay, I... I'm not one hundred percent innocent and pure either. Though my bitch meter is probably about... eighty percent?" He gives her a mischievous smile, trying to tease her right back. Which is hard, when he's so focused on trying not to stare intently at her boobs.

The girl looks him over, a small smile hovering on her lips as she sorts through this whole interaction they've had. "I hate to break it to you Eddie, but I don't think your bitch-o-meter is as high as you think it is." 

"Really, why do you say that?" He asks curiously. He was enjoying their banter, even if it was mildly embarrassing to have this girl know exactly how he was feeling. Still, the fact that she seemed to really like teasing him was working in his favor. He was hoping he would be given another opportunity for a flirty comment so he could reply with a good line instead of stumbling over his words.

"Because I've never seen a boy blush so much just from talking to a girl." 

Eddie's face heats up again as her words register. She couldn't possibly know just how hard he was focusing on not looking at her skin-tight top and short shorts. But he knew she definitely caught on to how quickly she was making his face turn red. 

"I'd hate to see what would have happened if you pulled up into Hannah Dawson's line--- you probably would have died the moment she leaned over your windshield, and you got a good view of her soapy chest in that little bikini she decided to wear." The girl emphasizes her words by jerking her chin in the direction of a girl washing a sleek corvette two cars down.

The girl's words cause another flash of heat to spread across Eddie's cheeks, but only for a moment. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He hadn't even remembered the names of the other girls out here, let alone what they were wearing. "Okay... you have my curiosity and my attention," he chuckles. "Tell me who else is driving me insane here, other than you." 

Her smile falters a little, a closed off aura settling over her. But it's gone as soon as it appears, and she's forcing another smile for Eddie.

"Alright, enough chit chat. I need to get your car washed so the incredibly totally real long line I have doesn't have to wait any longer."

She's joking, but as Eddie looks into his rear view mirror, he sees that no other cars had pulled up to her lane, while all the others were bumper to bumper leading out to the streets. 

"Right, right. I... do need to get my car washed." He clears his throat, the heat spreading across his cheeks again. This girl, she was just too cute. "So... I suppose I'll just wait here then. Let me know when you're done, yeah?" 

"Yeah, relax and let me know if you need any areas scrubbed extra hard."

She lifts her wet, soapy sponge triumphantly with her words and Eddie is back to feeling like a love struck idiot over her silly antics. With that, she leans in and starts soaping up the sides of his van.

"I- uh... maybe you should scrub really... hard... all over... " Eddie mumbles under his breath, doing his best to not look like an idiot as the girl leans over the hood of his car to scrub it.

Despite his attempts at looking nonchalant, there was no way she couldn't notice how he was staring at her. So he leans back against the front seat, still feeling his face burn even as she works, but also having his interest piqued. He knew she knew, and that made it almost impossible for him to look away from her. 

The girl starts with slow, long swipes, getting as much soap and water spread out for a light pre-wash. Her arms jiggle with the movement, a sight that Eddie knows a lot of boys would scoff at and mock. But Eddie can't help the heat that blooms in his belly with every movement of her soft, plump body. Her chest is swaying hypnotically, the rhythm of it making Eddie's head spin.

The moment she dips down to the bucket, the backs of her thighs and butt on full display as she wets her sponge, Eddie almost dies choking on his spit.

"F-fuck..." He manages to breathe out, the flickering heat in his belly growing. He can feel arousal and shame prickle up his spine. 

She circles around Eddie's van to get at the back, and Eddie burns shamefully as he goes to adjust the rear view mirror so he can catch any glimpse he can of her. Her brows are drawn together in concentration, her pink tongue poking out of the side of her mouth as she works.

Eddie feels himself lick at his own lips, wondering how it would feel to have her tongue touch any part of him. There's no stopping how turned on he was now, the tightness in his pants making him ache. He takes a few shallow, shuddery breaths as the girl ducks out of sight, circling to the other side of his van.

She peaks in at him through the passenger side window, giving him a cute little wave before leaning on her tiptoes to get at the windshield. A strangled groan gets caught in Eddie's throat, cut off by how fast he clamps his jaw tight so as not to cream his pants.

There was no way Eddie wasn't having the filthiest wet dream at this point, because as he watches with wide, unblinking eyes, he sees her chest press flat against the glass of his windshield.

The round, plump outline of her tits smashing and rubbing against the clear surface with every rough scrub she makes, has Eddie physically drooling in more than one place. 

All of Eddie's self control is going out the car window, his hands clinging to the front seat so tightly they almost turn white. The sight of her chest pressing against the glass makes him practically pant with arousal, and his entire body feels like a live wire. 

Eddie's shaking fingers fiddle with the volume, turning it up just enough to cover up how hard he's breathing to keep from cumming in his pants. 

He can still hear the occasional squeak of the girl's tits and her sponge rubbing vigorously on the glass, and it makes him start jiggling his leg out of pure anxious, horny energy. "Jesus H. Fucking Christ," Eddie grits out as his eyes flick back up to get another peak of her tits. The water must be cold, or she's getting stimulated from her activities, because her nipples were unmistakably hard. 

The puffy outline of her nipples right in Eddie's direct line of sight is the nail in the Coffin of fighting off his erection. Now his cock was painfully hard, the seam of his pants digging into the wet head in a mix of pain and pleasure so sweet that Eddie has to white knuckle grip his thigh to keep himself grounded to reality. 

Sweat is making Eddie's bangs stick to his forehead, the mix of having the AC off on this fucking miserably hot day and his arousal creating a shitty cocktail of Fuck Eddie Munson and his stupid Virgin Ass getting off on seeing a girl's tits so close. 

Eddie wants nothing more than to zip down his pants fly for a little relief, because the pain is definitely not helping him stay cool. 

"Mmm, fuck," Eddie exhales, allowing his hand to sneak surreptitiously down to palm his hot, hard length for even a fraction of relief. He hisses pleasantly at the touch, the tiny pressure from his palm makes his eyes flutter for a moment as he breathes hard through his nose. 

The girl has finished with his windshield, and Eddie almost keens with disappointment when she pulls her lovely, big tits off of the glass. White, frothy soap covers the glass which makes Eddie bite his lip. His thoughts race with images of a different kind of white creamy substance splattered all over her pretty boobs, maybe even hitting her chin like that bit of soap did earlier. 

A pathetic whimper sits in the back of Eddie's throat when his hips jerk up into his palm, unable to stop himself from how powerful the fantasy was affecting him. 

He is taken out of his half imagined day dreams by the sound of water pounding on the metal of his van. The spray of a hose distorts the view out of his windshield, making Eddie groan in frustration at not being able to see her anymore. Until the thought hits him… if he can't see her, she probably couldn't see him either. 

Guilt churns in his guts, but the hot, hard length of his cock is making his head fuzzy enough to not think straight. Eddie hates himself, but he gives in. 

The first rut of his hips brings Eddie such visceral pleasure that spots practically dance in his vision from how fucking heavenly it was. "S-shit fuck," Eddie grinds out eloquently, knowing he has very little time to enjoy this. He doesn't necessarily want to cum, just wants to enjoy this for what little time he can. 

Eddie humps desperately against his sweaty palm, the pressure hurting as much as it is helping. He wishes he could pull out his cock and feel the full heavy weight of himself in his hand. Enjoy the sticky mess of precum weeping from the head of his cock, slicking his fingers so perfectly to help him fuck his fist even faster. 

He can feel the wetness of himself through his jeans, thankful they were black otherwise anyone who looked in could see him making a pathetic, wet mess of himself in his pants. 

"So f'ckin pretty," Eddie slurs out, practically drunk off the heat pooling in his belly. He wishes he remembered her name, so he could feel the way it would vibrate in his chest and taste on his tongue as he would moan it out. 

Eddie thinks about her puffy nipples, how round and stiff they were as he grips his cock firmly to get a bit more relief. Drool fills his mouth as he wonders how good it would feel to suckle them. He knows he'd love it, knows he'd lap and kiss and suck on her tits for hours if she let him. 

He can feel the beginnings of an orgasm buzz under his skin, his breathing becoming heavy and shaky with each passing moment. The precipice is almost there, Eddie can almost reach it— 

And then the pelting sounds of the hose spraying away the soap comes to an abrupt halt. Now that there wasn't a heavy torrent of water against the windshield, the outside world was quickly coming into view and with it, the girl. 

Her shirt is soaked through, and Eddie can see the distinct outline of her chest and nipples; it's as if she wasn't even wearing a shirt. 

Wide eyed, Eddie can't tear his eyes away as the horror unfolds. She comes right up to his driver side window with a smile right as he cums violently hard in his pants. 

She gestures for Eddie to roll down his window, her smile faltering a little as she notices how heavy he's breathing and how red his face is. Eddie slams his eyes shut, humiliation burning through him, souring the euphoric hum of his orgasm. He doesn't want to roll down the window, terrified that she'll smell the cum and shame. 

But her brows are knitting together in concern and Eddie Munson isn't that much of an asshole. He silently kisses goodbye any imagined chance he might have had with her, as his shaking, sweaty hands roll down his window. 

"Hey, are you okay?" Her voice is immediately in his ear, making his sensitive nerves buzz with pleasure because Jesus fucking christ he really likes her voice. 

"Y-yeah," Eddie croaks out, cringing inwardly at himself. "Just a little hot in here with the AC off." As he talks to her, Eddie tries to discreetly adjust himself so the wetness in his pants won't be too noticeable. He feels his cum cooling on his thighs and under his ass, and he literally wants to die right about now. 

"Oh, sorry. I really tried to get it clean as fast as possible. You could have come out and enjoyed some cooler air though?" She's leaning up against Eddie's car door, her chest smooshing into the metal. 

"Yeah, I uh… I guess I could've done that huh? Got… distracted, 's a really good album after all." 

The girl laughs a little, nodding her head in agreement at Eddie's words. "Okay, fair enough. Again, I'm sorry it took so long, but she's all clean now! If you pull up to the front they're taking the donations up there." 

As embarrassed as Eddie is right now, and hoping she doesn't notice that he's sitting in a pool of his own cum, he can't help but feel a tinge of disappointment that their interaction was coming to an end. 

"Okay… yeah, um thanks. And don't worry, you could have taken all day for all I care." The words leave his mouth before he can stop them, making Eddie squeeze his eyes shut in utter mortification. 

"Enjoyed the show that much, huh?" The girl winks, but her laugh makes it clear how little she's taking this seriously. 

Oh if only you knew Eddie thinks to himself. 

"I… I no— I mean, that is I didn't not enjoy it, but I wasn't like, enjoying it in a weird way," 

She chuckles, reaching out to smoosh a finger to Eddie's lips to keep him from rambling on like that. As she leans up into his space, Eddie feels his face start burning again. Her eyes flicker between his, before lowering. 

He sees the exact moment that she notices the giant wet spot, impossible to hide even with his black jeans; her mouth parting on a sharp inhale of surprise. 

"Fuck," Eddie bites out, pulling away from her and trying in vain to hide the evidence of his shame. 

The girl's dark eyes lift up to meet Eddie's, and he's bracing himself to see hatred, disgust or even ice cold anger there. 

"You better get going Eddie, I've got another car to wash and you've got some jeans to clean." There's no maliciousness to her words, just a hint of cheeky teasing as she pulls away. 

Eddie can only bring himself to nod, before wordlessly driving forward. He sees her waving goodbye to him in the rear view mirror, and it only makes him feel worse. 

As quickly as possible, Eddie dumps whatever loose change he can into the donations box and floors it; not even caring about getting gas anymore. There was no way in hell he was getting out of the van with cum soaked pants and the hottest girl still in plain sight. 

Eddie goes to turn the volume up, blasting his music loud enough that maybe it would make his brain explode so he would never have to think about the greatest orgasm of his life followed quickly by his greatest humiliation, ever again. 

It was hours later, basking in the afterglow of another desperate, carwash girl fueled fantasy orgasm, that Eddie realizes he had never asked for her name. 

And that tomorrow morning, he was going to have to come face to face with her again in 3rd period. 

[biggestthighestgeminiest]

Here are my combined thoughts about Barbie (2023) as I saw it on the 18th and have had more time to think abt it.

Some good, some bad - overall I very much enjoyed it, laughed my ass off, cried quite a bit, was enthralled by the set and costume design, but left feeling like some things were off and perhaps not accomplished in the best way. This will all be delivered in bullet points in a very chaotic and random way and is NOT ordered in importance omg. Anyways i love media analysis and I will probably not explain this in the best way but HERE WE GO

the casting was fantastic, everyone read the assignment and lived their campiest life, margot robbie was phenomenal and ryan gosling absolutely killed me with laughter, glorious glorious

set design, costume, props,, perfection when it comes to bringing the mattel products to life. bangin'

i had that stupid fucking dog that eats and shits. i lost my mind when he came on hsdgkhakh

the message of barbie being representative of all little girls is still very lost on me. the idea brought up when barbie speaks to the teens, where they tell her that she gave them unrealistic body standards- well this never really gets resolved at all. Yes there was a diverse range of Barbies but they were all still beautiful in a conventional way that adheres to western beauty ideals. every barbie has perfect hair and skin and clothes even by the end of the movie. and yes i guess barbie is supposed to be this "above everything else" sort of divine feminine beauty but is still not representative of most young girls. as hilarious as the line narrator's line about margot robbie is, it sort of knows itself, that it is showing us the most perfect looking women, but doesn't address it at all beyond a simple joke. honestly what will mattel do beyond this? i imagine people will be more than happy with this movie so they won't have to make any big changes. i mean their "curvy" fashionista isn't close to being fat, and i don't believe they will ever make a barbie that isn't conventionally beautiful... so this movie just sort of gets to say it's about accepting yourself without actual real-life substance if that makes sense? it reminds me of that cartoon of all those diverse yet conventionally attractive models, with diverse people who don't fit those standards standing outside that box looking angrily. what's the point of the film at the end of the day when not addressing all those people left out of the conversation? also made me annoyed that cellulite was still the big thing that barbie was concerned about, like really?? it's a bad example as people are coming to embrace cellulite and it's also relatively easy to hide, i don't think they would have margot robbie have like, idk, dark under eye circles or a double chin,, idk someone say this better than me but the cellulite thing annoyed me (as someone who has loads of it!!)

the plot was BONKERS and i for one don't really care about plot holes or cartoon logic. there were some things that made me overthink about barbie lore and then i thought to myself that it doesn't really matter. the campiness of it is more important. im sure it will deter some people but again i dont mind it being silly in that way as long as it delivers on its messages and themes, which it does to a certain extent

absolutely lost it at the you are kenough shirt, ljadhkglkhd

as i said in a previous post i predicted that it was going to be the mom who was paired with barbie. i loved the idea sm and it was very heartwarming

i CRIED when barbie first sat down and watched the humans around her living their life, she was so overwhelmed by so many emotions and it was such a simple moment of show-dont-tell and man did i weep :))

i LOVED the ken bits and i did feel as though there was a bit too much ken. especially at the end. but at the same time i loved the dance sequence. its hard loving it so much yet wanting it not to have been to prevalent. i felt like it took away from the barbies a bit which goes against the whole point of the movie????

um the barbie's plans of distracting the kens was... i guess reminiscent of all these spy or superhero movies where women use their beguiling nature against men to get the upper hand? like i am woman so i will flirt with man to distract while my team escapes and hooho it works :)) it was slightly different and not overly sexy or about flirting but it still had the same undertone. like really? the best way to get the other barbies out was to continue to conform to patriarchal standards and pump the ken's egos? surely there's a better way? yes the kens are idiots and turning them against each other works but it still felt a bit icky. i guess i just find this trope annoying being like... ok i am being taken advantage of men so i will USE the thing they oppress me for against them,, idk surely surely there's another way.

also America's character's plan of kidnapping the barbies and ... using very true and very valuable feminist lines to snap them out of it felt... weird? like what she was saying was 100% true but taking them out of context and almost using them as one liners made them feel less serious???? like making women "wake up" by just telling them about how the patriarchy takes advantage of them is just... idk. like in real life women who are indoctrinated and truly believe misogynistic things won't just wake up by being told such a line. and i know the barbies are brainwashed to forget their powerful feminist backgrounds so it's not entirely comparable to the women i just mentioned but... idk it felt disingenuous. i did laugh my ass off at the guitar scene but it still had that ickiness attached like..

i would watch this movie again, no doubt about it and i will definitely pick up on new things and easter eggs etc

mattel's board did make me laugh, perfectly casted and performed but again- mattel has its name on this. they know what they are doing. they know we will love this movie and not demand any change. it will still be full of men controlling the output of production. it will still put out products that don't reflect all young people's desires. it will still make products that uphold current societal norms. so having these buffoons in the board meeting just gets soured a bit when knowing these people will still be in power in real life....

the ruth bit made me cry and no i do not care that her ghost is just around. i loved it

the marketing team knows exactly what they are doing. the huge push of promotion made me gobble up all their interviews and im sure people will be buying all the barbie products. i am yet another victim of capitalism and i will thank them for it when i inevitably buy their you are kenough sweater

again i loved this movie despite all the bad things abt it. i love being critical of the wider impact of this movie while still enoying it as a piece of media and entertainment. i needed this movie and fuck it i want to go to barbieland so bad. i know i shouldnt. i love ken and think about ken more than i do barbie which is fucked up but the movie also played into it in a way,, as described before. i mean even ryan gosling being so iconic in all the interviews is adding into this lol. how many people are posting videos of him vs videos of the actresses i wonder.

also cockring ken. BUT HE WASNT WEARING THE COCKRING SO WHATS THE POINT EVEN???

the narrator was an interesting choice, personally wasn't a huge fan of it but it did somewhat fit with the rest of the cinematic language of the story so i can't say much about it

mattel knows exactly what its doing with putting its name on this movie. i think greta did a great job despite the constraints that mattel probably put on her,, it's hard to tell if the flaws of the movie come from the corporation's infuence or from the writer and director's creative decisions, most likely it's a combo of both. again i believe that the actors and designers and production team did a fantastic job with what they had, they committed to the bit. i would have loved for the movie to have been better, but it is still a great film in my book. as said before i would watch it again and would still enjoy it despite the flaws. the himbo part of my brain can shake hands with the media literacy one and emerge with an overall positive experience, yet PLEASE do not think this is the ultimate feminist movie, it is a step in the right direction, it could have been better, and i understand if you don't like it at all. but also i dont think it would be right to blindingly love it and call it perfect bc it's not.

[candyskiez]

I continue to enable :3

Signature weapon? Embarrassing Moment(s)? Have they colored their hair?

For uh... Whichever ones you would like to talk about most right now?

woo hoo let's go!! strap in boys >:]

1. okay think of bards in the dnd and toh sense for a sec, jasper uses his lute and his staff (magic go whrrrrr). he's brilliant w his spells, but he limits himself. he could absolutely fuck someone up with say, dissonance or different keys etc. but he's unhealthily obsessed with perfection, doing magic the "correct" way, so he does like. hell do the aesthetically pleasing music. he never lets himself experiment or have "ugly" sounding music, only the pretty shit. this severely limits him. hes so obsessed with always keeping on his perfect image. the cold, calculated, unbeatable soldier. the charming right hand who youd love at parties. the brilliant taction. his magic improves so much when he lets it be messy and not cold and detached. jasper the perfect fighter could fuck you up. jasper can fuck you up without restraining himself to always keep up the image. am I making sense? I dont think I'm making sense. he basically avoided experimenting because he was terrified of messing up a new thing. even though that's how you learn. messing up is messing up in his eyes, so he limited himself. he's also good with hand to hand combat and resourceful. he just sticks himself so much into a box of not experimenting. because why start something new and be bad at it when you can stick with old things you're good at?

to be completely honest ivys more of my friends oc than mine, so I dont know them nearly as well as i know jasper. but they're an oracle! they have an axe! theyre really good with blades in general. their oracle magic is mainly not combative but they know offensive spells too. usually shit like. yk moving the ground/how metal works. they're good at what they do. although, like jasper due to the Character Foil™, they do have some self inflicted weakness. they divine in the dark because it allows for clearer visions, but it's horrible for their body. theyre fucking themselves up from unhealthy oracle habits like this and others (doing extremely intense visions on little sleep, back to back visions, etc) leaving them very sick after a difficult case (unable to see properly, loopy, unabke to differenitate visions from present), and also don't really pay too much mind to their own mental health when divining. has an extreme need to Know everything, know every single thing, or they'll lose it. I'll talk about their need to Know more soon I think.

2. hmmm embarrassing moment. I mean for both of them, okay in the jasper alone timeline they grew up together yeah? jasper had a habit of sleeping at the foot of ivys bed. why? because he's a clingy little bitch let him live. and ysee. ivy moves a lot in their sleep. and at one point, they started kicking around. kid jasper got kicked straight off the fucking bed, sent flying into the fucking wall, and lost his last baby tooth. yelped very loudly and promptly started painting the entire room bright fucking red. kid ivy lost their shit, grabbed him and dragged him to their caretaker and was sobbing SIR. SIR I KILLED JASPER. I KILLED HIM. HELP. while jasper was very much Not Dead. he was talking to her and telling her he's okay and covered in his own blood. he looks like he stumbled out of a fucking crime scene from losing an incisor. ivy kept his tooth as a trophy because they're like that.

3. oh jaspers hair is actually interesting! naturally brunet, but dyes it blond. jasper for a long time was very intent on being conventionally attractive. he's very reliant on outside approval. made sure every part of him fit that picture perfect attractive golden boy. him allowing himself to have his natural hair color and to look more like Himself and not solely conventionally attractive is actually a big part of yk changing character design w character arc for him. goes from perfect straight blonde hair to fluffy, long brown hair. not covering up any birth marks, wearing more comfortable clothes and actually looking like himself.

ivy dyes their hair pink. or potentially was born w it since this world is Magic, either works. they also have some funky fun design changing to reflect character development. going from long hair to a side shave, wearing glasses openly instead of just pushing through and trying to hide it (I get u ivy I have So many insecurities around my eyesight. I am projecting lmao.), more piercings, need to show her design more tbh I've gotta make more picrews of The Gang.

sorry for incoherence, it is night rn and I am bad at articulating.

[yestrday]

Aether's....stomach...ehehehehehehrhehehehehe

notes ! oh, ohhhh.... i got too far ahead of myself,, but I cant help it.. aethers tummy is so cute and so... soft...

content ! yandere, jealous aether, possessive aether, blood and biting + 692 words

to be honest, who hasn’t fantasized about the golden traveler’s smooth tummy at least once? it’s a well-known fact that the traveler has an ethereal sort of beauty about him. eyes are always on him, from adoring to downright lecherous.

aether won’t pretend to be some sort of naive idiot, either. he and lumine are used to all sorts of attention after hopping from dimension to dimension throughout the centuries. but when he comes across you— a polite-looking citizen, hiding the coy fox underneath– he quickly turns into a bashful maiden. 

when he first laid eyes on you, you were nothing short of breathtaking. nothing out of the ordinary— he can name a few dozen people more conventionally attractive than you— but the way you carry yourself just leaves him a melting puddle. polite, gentle, but once you turn your eyes on him they darken with mischief. he’s lost track of how many times you’ve slightly pushed him against the bar’s lacquer-shined countertops, breath on his neck smelling like whiskey and divine lust. your hands, bigger and coarser than his, easily wrap around his waist and grip the plush skin. even without his powers, he’s a deal stronger than the average vision-wielder but with you? honkai above, you have him wrapped around your finger.

it’s part of the job, you tell yourself. collect information and data when your boss couldn’t be bothered to do it himself. but there’s no data to be collected from aether, nothing that he hasn’t told kaeya about anyway. you just like seeing him squirm under your fingers, acting all helpless and weak when he took down a dragon (or two, three? how many does osial count anyway?).

still, a job is a job. being polite and amiable as an angel while reeling in victims through seduction is a tactic the cavalry captain has personally taught you. aether doesn’t like it. he melts when your gentle fingers graze his skin and pull away at the very last moment, but when you do the same to others, he burns with indescribable jealousy.

“oh dear,” you tease, fingers trailing up his abdomen and spreading them out. gently pushing him down into the bed he’s invited you into, aether blushes at how your hand almost covers his entire belly. “i think i left my dear boy hanging.” you press a kiss on the creamy skin and smile serenely up at him.

how…! how mean you are! aether whines and covers his face. he can’t handle how opposite your angelic smile is and your devilish touches. your lips press themselves on his stomach as you kiss and bite and prod. he shivers under your touch, getting dizzy as your heat gets to him.

“no wonder the bar has been empty this past few days,” you murmur. has it? aether then faintly remembers. oh yeah, it has. “looks like i got too carried away and made the poor hero jealous.”

“i–i dun like it…” he slurs out, pouting with bleary eyes down at you. “you shouldn’t touch ‘em like that. makes me mad. me, only me.” he sprawls out against the bed, offering his entire body for your greedy consumption. “just put your eyes on me.”

“or what?” you smile into his stomach.

“or i’ll k!ll ‘em.” he sounds so huffy and pouty, but you know damn well that he’s more than capable of that. you lightly laugh and stroke his chest through his thin top, and he convulses at every fluttering fingertip.

“what a terrifying thing for the honorary knight to say.” your teeth graze the soft skin, nibbling at the flesh until you finally bare your teeth— a tiger going in for the k!ll— and dig into the meal. his eyes shoot open as he cries out at the sudden pain, but you don’t stop, not when his pained cry trails into a sweet plea. blood spills from his fair skin and what should be pain becomes an unbearable wave of heat and pleasure. 

you grin up at your aether, his golden eyes tearily blinking down at you, blown wide and shaking.

“looks like i’ll have to tame you myself."

[vampireinterview]

It has come to my attention that some of you have not been made aware of the fact that Plato was well known for being a Destiel shipper, in addition to the fact that he also wrote some philosophical works on the side. Let me explain.

Plato was an Athenian thinker whose real name was Aristocles (Plato most likely comes from the Greek word for ‘broad”, he might have been so jacked that people nicknamed him for his wide shoulders, which is irrelevant to the topic at hand but I’m collecting receipts on my hypothesis that all hellers are physical beheamoths). His work regarding the philosophy of love can be interpreted through the lens of the Deancas love story, which can potentially lead us to discover the very essence of what makes Destiel so impactful and universal, so bear with me, I’ll make it as introductory as possible.

Plato’s Symposium is a dialogue which contains the philosopher’s basic view on what love can be. The influence of the aforementioned text has been so strong that even those of us who are blissfully unaware of its contents have heard of the concept of “platonic love”. It is with great disappointment that I have to inform you about the fact that the way in which the term is colloquially used can be considered quite removed from the core idea of what Plato’s love is supposed to be about. Commonly people utilize it to refer to a non-romantic and non-sexual emotion towards an individual. However, even though the extrasensory love was the end goal, it was never too far distanced from the earthly, carnal desire that was supposed to lay the foundation for greater experiences.

One of the most illustrative elements of the Symposium is no doubt the Love Ladder metaphor (also known as Diotima’s Ladder of Love, the Scala Amoris); Plato believes the act of loving to be a part of the process of initiation into the non-material world of ideas. Every step of the ladder helps one approach the transcendence of one’s soul, and so we can single out six steps to immortal absolutes:

1. The first step is developing an appreciation for a particular person. It’s a very much carnal (though not necessarily conventionally sexual) desire for beauty of a specific individual. According to Plato only through the love of the physical can one love the non material. The visceral infatuation with another’s body is often strongly rooted with the self-hatred of one’s own aesthetical poverty: within the carnal love we seek to find that which our own body lacks. The desire between Dean and Cas doesn’t have to be seen as strictly sexual, as the appreciation of beauty does not warrant a conventionally erotic subtext. This sort of fascination with the flesh is most noticeably highlighted in the many “eye sex” scenes in seasons 4-5, and is later brought up by Hester:

The very touch of you corrupts. When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost. 

2. The second step stems from the appreciation for all physicality derived directly from the love one has for the lover’s form. It’s fleshed out any time Dean finds beauty in the dark times, where he would have never found it before or when Cas sees humanity through the lens of the love he has for the beauty within Dean Winchester. This step is all about finding the allure in everybody, not in spite of but rather because of having fallen for a specific person’s material form.

3. The next step is a love which transcends the physical and teaches an individual to feel affection towards the souls. The attraction one can experience in relation to that which is non material is precisely what takes the function of the driving force behind both Castiel’s and Dean’s decisions in season 6 and onward (arguably even much earlier for Cas? or even Dean? Maybe we’re talking about season 4?). As evidenced by the apparent lack of attraction Dean experiences towards Jimmy himself, he must have already moved on to this stage (the Cas he loves is not just the vessel he inhabits). Castiel on the other hand feels heavily infatueted with Dean’s spiritual allure (even when he’s physically on the verge of a breakdown, he’s still beautiful, still Dean Winchester). 

4. It is only then that one can find love for the institution. If one worships souls, then one also has to worship the product of those souls: and, sure enough, loving humanity led Castiel to love its structures and ethical systems and be willing to die fighting for them. In the later seasons he exhibits fascination over all the little rules that guide an average human’s life (which is especially fleshed out in his season 7 dialogues, where he contemplates all the small details of the societal structure, ie: how important is lipstick to you?, maybe the human institutions should ban its production). Same can be said of Dean: the customs and traditions of other people are subject to his affectionate protection in the later seasons, which sets s6 and onwards Dean apart from the early seasons Dean who cared mostly about his blood relatives. The found family arc was for him a process of growing attached to the order of life which was previously foreign to him, and him learning to navigate functioning within a big family structure and an organization (the last one is physically manifested by his move from a chaotic life spent at random motels to living at the bunker, property of the institution of Men Of Letters).

5. Then comes the deep appreciation of knowledge. Now, it is widely disputed whether what Plato meant should be strictly narrowed down to just one kind of knowledge (in many English translations you might encounter the word ‘science’, though used in the ancient sense). The process of gaining knowledge is often equated with the understanding of ideas in Plato’s work, therefore we’re going to stick with that. The act of loving the process of discovering both the external and the internal world is a strong factor which pushes Dean to self examination, or the examination of the inner psyche. It is that pursuit of knowledge that is the very coronation of his entire character arc: the realization of his role within the story (”I’m not the ultimate killer”) which was directly derived from the act of loving Cas.

6. The final stage of platonic love is reaching the love of the very concept of Love. Once again, interpretations vary, but for the sake of the argument, I’ll clarify that: the discussed kind of love transcends both the body and the soul. An individual is in love with Beauty, not just one of it’s physical or spiritual manifestations. In my opinion, this stage is extremely well depicted during the 15x18 confession scene, for it is a kind of love achieved by Castiel. He is no longer just in love with the body or soul of Dean, he’s also in love with the sole idea of loving him. He quite literally states that he’s fallen in love with the idea of just being, just saying it, just falling in love. 

Upon achieving this state, he transcends his material conditions both by leaving the human world (his move to another dimension - the Empty - could be just an illustrative manifestation of the transcendental move of his essence) and giving birth to a new world order. The way in which he later on goes to rebuild Heaven and give birth to a completely new, structure of the universe is in line with a concept that Plato ties into the finale step of the Ladder - pregnancy of the soul. At one point in Symposium he describes Diotima saying that:

That in that life alone, when he looks at Beauty in the only way that Beauty can be seen--only then will it become possible for him to give birth not to images or virtue (Because he’s in touch with no images), but to true virtue (Because he is in touch with the true Beauty).

What is the christian equivalent and personification of the true idea of Virtue if not the abstract concept of Heaven? The moment Cas creates a new portrayal of Virtue he finishes the Ladder. It could also be argued that the true pregnancy of the soul was actually finished when Jack ascended to the status of God: an entity which belongs to the realm of ideas and is perfect by its very nature is birthed through Castiel’s love (which can be traced back to the feelings he has for Dean Winchester).

And it is the fact that Dean’s arc got stuck on the fifth stage of the Ladder that causes me so much pain. He dies before transcending and experiencing the non-temporal and non-relative feeling of love that one can gain only through the admiration of beauty itself. His life was cut short and his soul has already left the mortal, physical world, therefore he is forever unable to experience the feeling of loving Love and Virtue so much that his soul gives birth to an unbreakable idea.

In conclusion: if you ever see somebody say that Dean and Castiel’s relationship is platonic, just agree. It is very much so platonic in the sense that through their carnal and spiritual desires they’ve manged to (nearly, in Dean’s case) transcend their material conditions and reached the divine aspect of ideal Beauty and Virtue, rooted in a love that’s so deep that it’s perfectly able to redefine the structure of one’s existence.

tagging some people who have vaguely expressed interest in acquiring the third eye:

@cryptcas​ @futureheadnerd​ @doctorprofessorsong​ @sinnabonka​ @theangelwiththewormstache​ @absoluteheller​ @fivefeetfangirl​ 

[prophecy-is-inevitable]

Would you be willing to do a Michael x Plus Size Reader? I feel insecure sometimes, especially thinking of how perfect he looks and I worry I would be too needy for him considering he called Gallant out for his neediness. I also feel like I would call him out for his neediness too since he wants someone who understands him, assuming we knew each other well enough. Can you do something with all this? 👉🏻👈🏻

Ooph. This one is really hard for me since it’s very far out of my comfort zone, but you don’t get better without practice, right? I hope that this has turned out in a way that you like! 100% yelled at Michael when I saw that shit, too. Like, YOU KNOW ALL ABOUT NEEDINESS DON’T YOU MICHAEL LANGDON?! HUH?! Anyway...fully agree. I think it might have been a little hard for him to see his neediness mirrored in someone else and that set him off. He can be the ONLY needy one. Disclaimer: Please don’t drink antifreeze to experience Michael Langdon. Thank you!

The Two Instances of Neediness

He’d promised you safety. Above all else, he had promised that he would keep you safe and make sure you were cared for when he couldn’t be with you. It seemed only half of that promise came through.

For the last year and a half, you’d been diligently waiting for him to retrieve you from Outpost 3. Safety had been provided, as promised. The white stone and dark wood walls were kept warm for the dozen or so people that resided inside the structure. There were enough rooms and beds for everyone to have their own space. A small mercy in the grand scheme of things.

When you finally saw Michael Langdon again, he had certainly changed. The way he carried himself, the exquisiteness of his clothes, the length of his hair… Everything looked and felt different. He looked and felt like everything he was meant to be. Divine yet deadly, comforting yet cruel. He was the sweet taste of antifreeze coating your tongue, euphoric and paralyzing all at once as he snuck into your system and shut you down from the inside out.

You watched him with a wondrous smile as he strode into the library. Your teeth sank gently into your lip in an attempt to keep from crying out his name. Surely he would still remember you. He surveyed the room with a self-satisfied smirk upon seeing the entirety of the Outpost gathered for him. When he spotted you, though, the smirk morphed into a painfully familiar look.

Eighteen months ago, you stood inside of Outpost 3 clad in nothing but your underwear following the mandatory decontamination process all new survivors had to undergo. A redhead with a pinched, strict face stared at you with a sneer, her eyes taking in every extra curve and flaw of your body. You stared right back at her with a smirk, daring her to make a single comment, when you both knew why you were there. Michael’s own people had brought you here on his behalf. Whatever this woman thought of you? It mattered for nothing in comparison to him.

Now, Michael stood at the center of the main library floor below you, gazing at you with the same sneer and furrowed brow that Venable bestowed upon you that first day. Your grey dress was plain and ill-fitting; at least if you’d been able to fashion some sort of belt or tie it could have almost looked appealing. The high bun was ridiculous and hurt your scalp something awful. Every night you let your hair out felt like a thousand bees stinging the follicles. Any alterations to the servant uniform you had been given were strictly forbidden. As was everything else.

You had been given safety, yes, but cared for? No. And now you stood there, eyes brimming with unshed tears, as he scowled hatefully at you and you could feel your heart crumbling piece by piece. Maybe he’d sent you here as a way to get rid of you. Maybe he’d found someone else, someone smarter, stronger, more conventionally beautiful. Perhaps his gaze would have been different if you had been granted the elegant drapery of the Purples. The corsets that cinched their waists and lifted their breasts gave them the perfect hourglass shape of a goddess. Your full figure would have been the very image of voluptuous and desirable then. There was no way you could bear to look at him now.

Days went by without seeing Michael. Between your work around the Outpost, your blatant avoidance of him, and his nonexistent attempts to reconnect, the opportunities were--thankfully--sparse. Conflict raged inside of you. Part of you wanted to confront him, to see what the fuck he thought he was playing at with your life and your feelings. The other part was happy to live in the questionable bliss of ignorance. You didn’t want to hear of whatever new love he’d found that superseded the love he’d claimed to have for you.

While it was easy to avoid his person, it was much, much harder to avoid his name.

“Langdon” was all anyone could talk about. How handsome he was, how skillful he must be in the bedroom. Gallant was certain that Langdon had his gorgeous blue eyes on him, and you’d never hated the hairdresser more. You hoped he choked on his cube. When his grandmother revealed that she had seen him having sex with someone, you resigned yourself to the fact that you had lost Michael for good. If he was interested in lean blond men, he certainly wasn’t interested in you anymore.

Venable assigned you to keep tabs on Gallant while he was strung up awaiting punishment. Once a day, you would throw a bucket of water over him to keep him clean. He still received his daily rations that you had to feed to him yourself since his hands were chained up. All you would have to do was shove the fork a liiiittle bit too far down his throat, and all the disparaging words he’d whispered just loud enough for you to hear behind your back, all of the times he’d tried to make you doubt your worth would all be over. There was only one man that you allowed to sow seeds of doubt in your mind. You froze mid step when that man’s voice drifted under the closed door of Gallant’s “cell”.

“I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on Earth,” his sweet voice dripped with contempt, “and you almost are.” The slow drawl of Michael Langdon’s voice continued inside of the room, bouncing tauntingly around the circular walls. “It’s not because you’re not physically attractive. It’s your neediness.” His tone of voice shifted dramatically from dulcet and slow to cutting and cold. It made you shiver, even as you felt the anger burning inside of your skin. It wasn’t for Gallant. Oh no, he could mock that shallow, conceited man all he wanted. “You’re desperation to be seen and loved. The hole you need filled isn’t in your face or your ass--it’s in your heart.”

No, your anger wasn’t on behalf of Gallant. You couldn’t help feeling he was also talking about you. How you’d often sought reassurance in him, and hoped to feel loved to validate the feelings that you felt for him, too. Above all, you were angry because you knew his words would have cut himself deeper than any other before he’s become this...this creature. Where was the man you knew and loved before the bombs fell?

“You’re pathetic.” Your lips trembled and tears burned in your eyes. The words, while not directed at you, punched the air from your lungs. Is that how he felt about you? Was that why he was avoiding you as if you had radiation sickness? The footsteps and the opening of the door didn’t register through your self-imposed turmoil. Before you knew it, the man that had been on your thoughts stood before you.

“No.” The word left your mouth before you could stop it. Your eyes narrowed at his and you stepped up, toe to toe, with his immaculately polished shoes. “You’re pathetic, Michael Langdon.” For the briefest moment, his glacial eyes melted and looked from your tears to the anger and hurt in your eyes. “You forget that I know you, Michael. Or at least I did once. No one needed love more than you, and now you weaponize that fact against someone else? Is that how you feel about everyone?” You bit into your lip as your entire body shook, the water you carried in your arms sloshing against the sides and mimicking the raging sea of emotions tearing you apart. “Is that how you feel about me?”

The answer never came. His arms remained, as always, clasped behind his back. Wide eyes narrowed dangerously to scan the surrounding halls to see if anyone was there to witness your outburst. His head bowed to yours, forehead to forehead and nose to nose, before he spoke.

“I will be conducting your interview this evening. Ms. Venable is already aware that you will not be attending dinner.”

With that, he turned on his heel and made his way down the hall in perfect, casual strides. You turned and let your back thud against the wall. The stone was cold against your back as you slid, shaking, to the floor

“What the fuck was I thinking?” You muttered to yourself several hours later when it came time to make the journey to Langdon’s office. You dreaded hearing whatever he had to say. Now he would be in the privacy of his own rooms and be able to rage against you however he saw fit.

“Come in.” Michael’s voice beckoned you before you could even lift your hand to knock. You opened the door slowly, heart heavy with dread, and kept your eyes down. Movement from his desk let you know where he was. “Now, now. No need to look so shy.” He approached you slowly, a smirk on his lips, and reached out a hand to cup your chin. “You forget that I know you, too,” he threw your words back at you.

You finally managed to lift your gaze to his and found it resting on your lips. The hardened ice of his gaze dissipated with an inquisitive tilt of his head, and your heart skipped at the familiar gesture. His warm hand on your skin, gently holding your face, brought back so many memories. The next thing you knew, he was stepping back from you and scanning your form from head to toe. The same glare and curl of his lips appeared as the first night he had arrived. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around yourself and attempted to shrink away as much as possible. He exhaled in a heavy, aggravated sigh. So he did think of you that way, too, then.

“She is going to pay for this,” he growled. Your head shot up in confusion. She who? Pay for what? Michael pressed his lips into a thin line of displeasure. “I specifically ordered that your position within the Outpost be among the elite. This is a blatant disregard for my commands. If I had known sooner… Take it off.” Mind still muddled in confusion, you simply blinked up at him. Michael gestured with his elegant, jeweled fingers curling into his upturned palm. “That ridiculous uniform. Take it off. And let down your hair. I can only imagine how uncomfortable that must be for you.”

This had to be some form of trick. You were supposed to have been a purple all along? He’d promised that you would be safe and cared for... No, he was using any trust that you had left in him against you--just like he had toyed with everyone else in the Outpost. The realization made you quickly shake your head. You were not going to expose yourself to him just so he could mock you and hurt you any further. His face fell at your refusal, and his brow furrowed.

“Please. It’s been so long. Knowing you’ve been right here with me the last few days without being able to truly speak to you has been excruciating. Please let me see you.” Oh, how you wanted to believe him. How badly you wanted to think he had missed you and desired you. When you still didn’t move, he came towards you again and forced you to back up against the door. “Perhaps you need a bit of help.”

Michael stooped down and gently captured your ankle in his grasp. He removed your shoe with the effortless tug of his hand to toss it behind him and repeated the process on the other. Next, his hands ran up the sides of your legs. Gentleness was a foreign display from this new Michael, but it was one that your Michael had used often in ascertaining his feelings for you. A soft whimper slipped past your lips from the way he carefully gathered the fabric of your plain dress.

“Look at me, my love.” The command was a gentle one that you couldn’t help but to obey. His eyes mirrored the soft, passionate pleading of his words, and the feeling in the room shifted to something much more in your favor. “How I have missed you.” Several silent tears dripped down your cheeks. It would only be a matter of time before things came crashing down. You could feel it. “Now, take your dress off for me.”

He sat back on his heels and waited, smirking up at you quite happily. Every bit of you screamed no, to remain still, not to become so vulnerable in front of him. Yet, you could still see a part of the man you knew in those glistening blue eyes. A renewed determination filled you, and you removed his hands from your dress to tug it over your head. You tossed the dress into the corner and held your arms out to him in a show of exposure so against your usual nature it was painful. If you were lucky, a pit to hell would open up beneath you and save you from the tragedy. Or perhaps you were already there.

“Is this what you wanted to see? So you could mock me for my appearance, for my neediness to be appreciated and loved for more than what everyone sees? Fuck you, Michael. There was a time that you needed to be loved more than anything. That you wanted to be loved more than anything.” Your legs shook slightly from the willpower it took not to crumple in on yourself.

“Yes.” The words came from Michael as a hiss. Still it seduced you to him like the snake of the Forbidden Tree. His eyes appraised you as he stood, wide and remembering, taking in every curve and dip of your body that made you so scared and so uncertain of anyone’s affection. “This is what I wanted to see. To see you.” Michael’s smirk grew and he placed his hands on your waist. “There are only two occasions in which neediness is not a thing to be mocked, but to be adored.” The hands on your waist pulled you against him. Another whimper blended into a moan at the feel of his warm body against you.

“The first instance is the neediness for me that drips off of you. The second,” he pushed to sigh, “is how badly I need you. To see the image of perfection that I have dreamt of every day for the last 18 months. The warmth that has been absent from the bed beside me for too long.” The gentle pressure of his hands on your sides softly moved upwards over your breasts, along the tops of your shoulders, fingers dancing along your throat, the final destination being your cheeks. Love spread over every inch of your body. His words to you were nothing but the truth. A slight tremble to his lips broke the calm composure of the man the outpost knew as Langdon, Cooperative Agent. In his place stood Michael Langdon, your Michael Langdon, and he very eagerly captured your lips in his.

Everything was conveyed in that one embrace. He still needed you as much as you needed him. It would be your little secret.

[opbackgrounds]

Hi there Sarc' ;) I am sorry if the question has already been asked but I thought it could be interesting to have your opinion about this. While I love most of the female characters in OP and think that most of them are well developed and can be truly good role models for girls I still feel that Oda sometimes has a sexist view on female characters (the jokes about the naked bath scenes for example or Kororo being considered ugly make me really uncomfortable). What do you think about it?

Ah, I wondered when I would get this question. 

When people talk about sexism in One Piece they typically are referring to two different things: How women are drawn, and how they’re treated within the narrative. While there’s some overlap here, there’s enough distinction that I want to address them as two separate points in two separate posts, because I guess I had Opinions, and by god there should be a limit to how much text one tumblr post can be expected to hold. Consider this an introduction.

Buckle up, kiddos. This is gonna be a long one. 

Nami Face Syndrome Isn’t the Problem...

An important thing to remember with Oda’s art and storytelling style is that almost everything is hyper exaggerated for effect. You don’t go into One Piece looking for realism. You don’t go into One Piece expecting the characters to act like normal people. Everything--from the art to the humor to the battles--is stretched and pulled to its absolute limit in hopes of garnering a particular reaction. When a character is sad they cry big bubbly tears with dribbles of snot coming from their nose. When they laugh their mouths take up half their face. 

And when a girl is hot, her tiddies are two great big watermelons stuck to the center of her chest.

What is often dubbed “Nami Face Syndrome” within the fandom is somewhat misleading. After all, why was Wanda, who is a literal dog that walks on two legs, decried as yet another Nami clone at her introduction? I would postulate it’s less to do with her face and more to do with the fact that from the neck down they are virtually identical, something that’s made more obvious because Wanda is literally wearing Nami’s clothes

What makes this frustrating for a lot of people, myself included, is that it’s not that Oda is incapable of drawing more diverse body types, but that he often chooses not to. Take for example the Kuja tribe

or the Charlotte family daughters (thanks to Arthur at Library of Ohara for the resource). It’s pretty clear Oda has the chops to make his women as weird as the men, and he often does! For important characters, even. And yes, as the Kokoro example given above sometimes the gonkness is brought attention to, but for others like Lola and Chiffon it’s...not. 

(more on mermaids later)

But Sarcasticles, one might protest, even Oda’s “ugly” characters have ginormous boobs! Where is my itty bitty titty committee representation >:(

To which I can only shrug. For Oda, boobs on a woman are like abs on men. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense, they’re gonna have ‘em

Seriously, Oda. What the fuck.

...So What Is?

I have a theory that’s impossible to prove, and that the problem isn’t so much Oda’s character design so much as the ratio of his male to female characters in general. It’s not that every female character is a Nami clone, but Oda has a template he uses for attractive female characters ages 16-25, the same way he uses Robin as a template for attractive women ages 26-35, which is how you get cases of mistaken identity like Viola for Robin or scenes during Reverie where one could be forgiven for thinking Nami’s supposed to be an identical triplet

 Oda does this for his men, too. It’s not as obvious because 1) Even men with similar facial features can have a wider variety body types due to Oda having a sliding scale of buffness he’s willing to attach to a pretty face and 2) There are more men. 

There are a lot more men.

In groups where the male to female ratio is more or less equal (Baroque Works, Big Mom’s kids) you get a wide variety of designs. But there’s only one female Supernova. There’s one female Warlord. CP9 only has one female agent. Only one of the Revolutionary Commanders is a woman. There are very few female background characters in crowd shots, especially among marines. Big Mom might be the only female Emperor, but she’s not young, In fact, when drawing her at age 28, Oda defaults to a much more generic “pretty girl” face before giving her much more striking, memorable features in her 40s

If you look at Oda’s male characters, the ones that are supposed to be hot are often given the same square jawline and the thin-bladed nose that at one point in time was reserved for Robin. Both Coby and Sabo had very distinctive noses before their glowups, while Ace must have had a laser treatment done on his eyebrows sometime between Alabasta and Marineford. 

But the biggest difference on the men has got to be muscle mass. The overgrown noodles of early One Piece are lost to the annals of time. Shanks alone must have gained 30 pounds of pure muscle from the time Luffy got his first bounty to his appearance at Marineford. 

Now, I will acknowledge that there is a difference between the increasing sexualization of female characters and the male power fantasy of giving Zoro bara tiddies post-timeskip. While I do think there are certain male characters specifically designed to be the Hot Dude, what I’m trying to emphasize here is that Oda works with templates for both men and women, and both of those templates have been exaggerated over time. Bigger boobs for women, more muscles for men. And when you’re only slotting for one girl in any given group, and that one girl has to be The Hot One then you’re going to have a lot of ladies that end up looking the same. 

My love for Otohime on this blog is well known, and I want to use her as an example of what Oda can do when he works beyond this template, because it’s really freaking good  

Otohime is neither conventionally attractive nor gonk. She’s dressed in very conservative, traditional clothing and has a narrow waist and small chest. 

There are no sharp edges on Otohime. Not her eyebrows, not her jaw, and most of the time not even her hands, emphasizing her gentle nature. You don’t see it as well in this panel, but Otohime’s head is often drawn wider than her shoulders, emphasizing her frailty. Oda gives her a longer neck to compensate, and the overall effect is a very soft, willowy figure. 

Her headpiece looks like a sunburst. The audience never sees her fins, so Oda gives her a scale patterned kimono-dress-thingy (my knowledge of Japanese clothing is, uh, not good) as a visual reminder that she’s not human. The sash that circles around her head harkens back to Japanese mythology as a symbol of divinity, similar to a halo in Western culture. And fun fact: Otohime is named after a god, just like Neptune, while her goals and ideals are pure enough to be heaven-sent. 

I’m not an artist, but this is a really damn good character design. A lot of Oda’s older female characters are. Dandan, Tsuru, O-Tsuru, Shakky, Kureha, Big Mom, and Nyon are all instantly recognizable and have strong designs, even if a few of them fall into the hourglass figure that Oda often defaults to. It’s just...there aren’t that many of them.

So the question becomes why aren’t there more women, and I think the answer is because, ultimately, One Piece is a series geared at boys. While I wish there were a few more important ladies, I can understand why there aren’t. 

Note, that doesn’t mean I think it’s right or that Oda is obligated to include more women. It’s just one of the facts of the shonen manga industry at this point in time. 

A more important question, I think, is why does every younger woman have to be attractive? And why do the attractive ladies have to wear outfits that are blatant fanservice? This is something I don’t have an answer for. Oda has said on more than one occasion that he writes One Piece with his twelve year old self in mind. It could be that it’s a calculated move to appeal to his audience, in which case it’s certainly worked because said Hot Ladies are constantly used in marketing and merchandising. It’s the Hot Ladies that top the popularity charts (although, to be fair, who’s there for competition?). In the most recent chapter a new Hot Lady was introduced, and the fandom went batshit crazy for her.

Even the fans who are very vocal about how Oda sucks at drawing women. It’s interesting how that works out sometimes.

Or maybe I’m giving Oda too much credit, and he’s just horny. Not having direct access to Oda’s mind, I don’t have an answer. If I had to guess I’d say it’s a little of Column A, a little of Column B, because that’s usually how life is. 

But in a vacuum big tiddies are just a design choice. An exaggerated aesthetic, in a series full of exaggerated aesthetics. It’s when that design choice is paired with in-story comments, actions, and decisions where things really start to get heated. But that’s a whole other ball of wax, and there should be a limit to how much one tumblr post can be expected to hold. I promise I’ll get to the meat of your question next time.

Thank you so much for your patience. I really do think it’s important to start here before diving into everything else, if only because it helps keep my thoughts organized. I hope you’ve found this helpful, and if not, I hope to do better next time. 

[allsassnoclass]

kjadkga a prompt,,,, 39 (an actual open honest conversation) whatever pairing you want i am truly dying for healthy communication content -bella

for some reason this yelled MUKE at me very forcefully so. here is muke

39. an actual open honest conversation

Luke doesn't want to ask.

He knows that he has to.  This has gone on long enough, and they have to set boundaries, make things clear.  He can't spend the rest of his life staying up at night wondering what this is.  He's supposed to be an adult, not a kid too afraid of getting his feelings hurt to do what'll be best for them both in the long run.

Still, he doesn't want to ask.

Maybe it's the atmosphere.  They're both tired and sated, warm and happy, Luke's fingertips tracing a mindless pattern on Michael's arm.  He looks divine like this, soft and relaxed.  He looks unguarded.  Luke doesn't want to see his walls get put back up, like they inevitably will if he begins this conversation.  There's a reason they've been avoiding it for years, and it's not because Luke doesn't care.  He's not sure he wants to see Michael try to spare his feelings.

"Why did you hate me?" he asks instead, because it's an easier question.  Maybe he can build up to it, even if this feels more like avoidance than a stepping-stone to what he truly wants to know.

"Hm?" Michael asks, eyes flickering back open.  His breathing had just begun to get slower, and now Luke is forcing him back to consciousness.  Maybe he should have waited.

But he's waited for years.

"Why did you hate me, back when we were kids?  Before Calum made us be friends with each other?"

Before that first kiss, first time, first... everything.

Michael frowns.

"I don't know.  You were annoying, I guess."

"Come on, Mikey.  I'm being serious."

"Well why did you hate me?" he asks.  Luke pauses and puts himself in the shoes of his younger self.

"I always felt like you were either glaring at me or laughing at me, and I wasn't sure what I had done to deserve either.  Plus, you never tried.  I didn't know you cared about anything until Calum told me how much you cared about music."

Michael's frown deepens, and Luke knows he's going to pull away and probably kick up a fuss, so he runs a hand through his messy hair and scratches the back of his scalp in the way he knows Michael goes boneless for.

"I know better now, obviously.  You can be one of the most passionate people I know, and just because academia wasn't for you doesn't mean you don't care so much it hurts sometimes."

Michael sighs, heavy in the shadowed room.  There's a bruise forming near his collarbone, and Luke resists the urge to press his thumb against his handiwork.

"I think... I think I hated you because everyone else liked you, and no one else liked me."

It's Luke's turn to frown now.

"Everyone didn't like me.  I got made fun of a lot.  I was dorky and wore weird glasses sometimes and I was too quiet."

"As much as people made fun of you, they never actually hated you.  The only person at that entire school who could stand me was Calum, and that's just because we had been friends for so long already.  I was loud and annoying and I never said the right thing.  It made people hate me.  Besides, you were cute even as a teenager.  I wasn't.  You were in every girl's Myspace top eight, and even when we started the band people were calling me ugly."

"Michael--"

"Don't try to tell me that it's not true, because it is," he says.  "I know I wasn't very conventionally attractive.  I've grown into it a bit, and I don't hate my looks anymore, but I'm also not stupid."

"I never thought you were ugly," Luke says.  He doesn't know how to explain the way Michael's eyes shine, or how infectious his laugh is, or how Luke sometimes used to stare at him even before they were friends because he's always been the most interesting and beautiful thing in the room.

"You have to say that," Michael says.  "You can't call the person who just gave you an amazing orgasm ugly."

"It's true, though."

Michael smiles at him.  Luke can tell that he doesn't believe it, but at least he knows now that Luke does.  He won't be convinced tonight, but maybe Luke can work on it a bit later.

"You're cute, too," Michael says, and Luke doesn't blush, because this is a song and dance they're both used to by now, but it's still a close thing.  Michael has that kind of effect on him.  It's always startling to be the subject of all of that passion.

"Thanks," he says.  "What are we?"

Michael's smile disappears, and this is it.  Luke has just ruined everything by blurting out the one question he's been trying to ask for years.

"What do you mean?  We're Michael and Luke."

"No, Mike, what is this," he says, gesturing between them.  "I can't--I need to know.  We can't keep doing this without defining it."

"What brought this on?" he asks.

"It's been a long time coming," he says.  "You have to admit that."

"No, Luke, I don't.  What's wrong with how we're doing things now?"

"Nothing's wrong, I just need to know what this is to you."

"What's it to you?" he snaps, pulling away, and Luke feels a flare of anger.  He sits up, and Michael's eyes widen at the sudden movement.

"Stop trying to deflect!  Is it really that hard to let me know what the fuck I am to you for once in your life?"

Michael flinches away at the tone and Luke takes a deep breath.  Yelling won't help things.  He can't let Michael avoid the conversation that they both so desperately need to have, but he has to keep his head or they'll both say something they regret.

"Sorry," he says.  Michael nods and sits up slowly, leaning against the headboard and not looking at Luke.

"I don't understand why you're asking me right now.  I thought things were good with us," he says carefully, voice small.

"They are.  But Michael... we're not kids anymore.  We've been doing this for so long that I honestly don't know what I'm going to do when we stop.  I just don't want to pretend that we're going to be together forever.  I can't, which means I need a clear definition of what this is for you.  It's so easy to blur the lines when your fuck buddy is also the person who knows you best in the world, and gets along great with your mom, and keeps things interesting while you're working, and..." he doesn't want to continue, feeling like his chest has been cut open and put on display already, but they need honesty here.  They won't get anywhere without it.  "Well, what's the line between you and someone I'm in love with?"

Michael inhales sharply.  Luke keeps looking at his nails, picking idly at the polish there.  He needs to redo it, anyway.

The silence stretches on, and Luke curses himself for ending up at Michael's house instead of making Michael come to him, because he's the one who's going to be doing the walk of shame and then crying his eyes out.

"I never considered what I would do if you wanted to end it and found someone else," Michael says finally.  "I didn't think about it, because I knew it would break me.  You want to know what you are to me?  You're just about everything, Luke.  All those things that you said about me, except I know that there is no line.  You are someone I'm in love with.  I didn't want to say that and scare you away if you didn't agree."

Luke looks at him to find Michael already looking back.  His expression is scared, but also honest, like he's just handed Luke his heart and is hoping he'll keep it safe.  Luke supposes he just did.

"Oh," he says.  He reaches forward and takes one of Michael's hands in his, squeezing once.  "Does this mean--Can we date?  Officially?"

"Please," Michael breathes, and Luke doesn't know if he's ever heard a sweeter word.  He knows that they'll have a few more difficult conversations to get through, and that they'll inevitably be a slight adjustment period where they both ensure that they're on the same page, but he's okay with that.  He'll bare his soul to Michael every moment of every day if it means he gets to have a moment more with him.

[carrotsofavonlea]

Can you write about Gilbert giving flowers to Anne on her birthday in front of the whole class!

Baby’s Breath

Spring was a time of new beginnings, where the world would slowly begin to come alive again. Anne believed that her birthday being in Spring must be a reason for why she feels so connected to nature.

Miss Stacy shared her enthusiasm for the new life, and took the class outside for a change of pace. Today they would be studying the nature and the wildlife around the school house. 

They had been split into groups, Anne's consisting of Diana, Charlie Sloane, Ruby, and Gilbert. Ruby had spent the majority of the time staring at Gilbert, who was too busy making notes on the plants to pay attention. He was interested in which could be possibly used in medicine or as cures. Charlie wasn't interested in the assignment at all, instead trying to talk to Anne. But she was too enthralled by nature that she didn't even notice. Diana was left feeling rather uncomfortable, trailing behind with a moonstruck Ruby.

"Isn't he so handsome when he's focused?" Ruby whispered to Diana when Gilbert had stopped to study a particular leaf. 

"I suppose." Diana couldn't lie, of course Gilbert was conventionally attractive. But she'd never really felt anything towards him (at most, a crush lasting two weeks back when they were about 7), and especially didn't since she knew how her friend felt. But she wasn't thinking about Ruby, she was thinking about Anne. Ruby's infatuation with Gilbert was clearly a fantasy, which they allowed her to indulge as long as it didn't harm anyone. However, Anne's feelings were obviously more complex. She would refuse to acknowledge them, but Diana wasn't stupid. The way they spoke to each other, the way they glanced at each other, it was all evidence pointing towards their mutual admiration for each other, even if neither of them were willing to admit it. 

So, Diana did what any good friend would do, and tried to keep Charlie off Anne's back. It was tricky, but somehow she had managed to convince him to help her find a glove she'd "lost" (or rather sneakily hidden in her pocket to keep Charlie on a wild goose chase, thinking it would make Anne happy to see him assisting her friend). Ruby had been forced to help too, leaving Anne and Gilbert none the wiser as they broke from the group to a field of flowers.

"Aren't these just divine?" Anne ran her hand along the tops of the tall grass, admiring the hidden flowers within.

"Breathtaking." Gilbert smiled, watching her almost dance through the wildflowers.

There were small white flowers, looking like fresh snow.

"Gypsophila." Gilbert muttered to himself, lowering himself to get a better look. Anne turned around when she heard him mumble some random word.

"Sorry?" She tilted her head, looking at Gilbert crouched on the ground amongst the flowers.

"Gypsophila, it's the Latin name for Baby's Breath." He stood up, holding the flower out so she could see it.

It was pretty, a delicate flower very fitting of the name "baby". Anne could picture a bouquet of them in the arms of a new bride, or perhaps in a vase of a nursery, they seemed so innocent but promising somehow.

"Isn't it your birthday soon?" He said, pulling her out of her thoughts.

"Why? I'm surprised you even remembered."

"Ah, you think so highly of me." He laughed as he sarcastically held a hand over his heart.

She rolled her eyes, waiting for him to continue what he was going to say.

"Here," he held it out to her, "May I?"

She nodded, allowing him to take off her hat and threaded through the flower.

"Happy birthday, Anne."

She looked at the hat and couldn't help but smile. Someone had actually gifted her a flower, granted it was Gilbert but even so, no one had gifted her something like this. It was shocking how well he seemed to know her now.

They walked back to the group, Diana noticing the new flower in Anne's hat but didn't say anything other than a raised eyebrow. They joined the rest of the class back by the schoolhouse, ready to share their findings.

When the class disbanded, eager to leave, Anne stayed behind wanting to thank Miss Stacy for such a lovely class. 

"I simply love the outdoors. Who knew nature could be educational?" 

Miss Stacy nodded, well aware of Anne's enthusiasm for nature. "You certainly look like you've had fun."

"I'm sorry?"

"Gypsophila." Miss Stacy pointed to Anne's hat with a smile, "You know flowers are supposed to have meanings? Giving someone a Baby's Breath can symbolise innocence and everlasting love. Isn't that fascinating?"

Miss Stacy had said it so casually, but it left Anne feeling strange in her chest. Gilbert was busy looking down at his notebook a few feet away, acting like he wasn't listening. Did he know the meaning of the flower when he gave it to her? Or did he just give her a flower because they were friends and it was just a nice gift? But he knew the Latin name for it, just like Miss Stacy. 

Anne was left with more questions than answers, feeling both frustrated at herself and Gilbert for whatever this feeling was.

When she got home, she took the flower from her hat and pressed it within the pages of Jane Eyre. She smiled to herself, holding the book against her chest, feeling her heart beating rapidly. These new feelings were confusing but maybe it was time to start listening more to her heart.

[hotforharrison]

Unholy Divinity ch 4

Chapter 3 <-- Series Masterlist --> Chapter 5

Pairing: Harrison Osterfield/Reader/Tom Holland

Summary: Choosing to spend your eternity in heaven or hell should be easy, right? Yeah, not so much.

Word Count: 3,494

Warnings: Language & Smut

A/N: My usual chapters are 1,500-2,000-ish words long, which isn’t too long or too short, in my opinion. It’s apparently your birthday today, so have a giant (for me) chapter! I’ve been working on it on and off for most of the day.

Tom stalked toward you, chocolate gaze piercing, not unlike a mighty predator approaching its helpless prey.

When he reached the edge of the bed, his fingers moved to deftly undo his button down, eyes not leaving you for even a moment.

Underneath his shirt, he was powerfully built, more so than you’d previously assumed. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to get your hands on his toned body. He was more conventionally attractive than any man you ever thought you’d end up with before you died.

You’d consider yourself a very lucky lady, if he weren’t the king of hell and all that implies, and if your mind wouldn’t stop returning to Harrison and how part of you wished Tom hadn’t interrupted, how most of you wished they’d both just stayed.

You continued to watch as Tom toed off his black oxfords and socks, slowing down his disrobing as he reached his slacks. You stared as he popped the button and unzipped them, both nervously and eagerly wondering what he was hiding beneath them.

You were pretty sure he was taking pity on you when he shoved both his pants and silk boxers simultaneously down his thighs, until they fell and pooled around his bare feet. Although you’d been staring, you couldn’t help but avert your eyes. For some reason, it was difficult to bring yourself to look at his completely nude form before you.

“Go ahead and look, darling. Let me ruin you for Harrison,” he urged you.

You took him in, eyes eventually settling on his erection where it rested against his flat stomach. You didn’t have any real life basis for comparison, but it was a little intimidating, not unlike Tom himself.

You swallowed. “How do you know you’re ruining me for Harrison?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he replied.

Your eyes widened. “Were you two, uh…”

He laughed. “No, nothing like that. We were roommates, and sometimes you don’t have the best discretion when you’re drunk and have a girl over,” he explained.

“Wait, there are roommates and alcohol and hookups in heaven?” you asked, wondering what other misconceptions you had about heaven.

“No, when we were alive,” he clarified.

You were surprised. “So you knew each other before you went to heaven?”

“He didn’t tell you? We were inseparable, even died and ended up in purgatory together at the hands of a drunk driver one night when we were on our way home after a concert,” he explained.

“No, he didn’t tell me. I just assumed you met in the afterlife doing, well, whatever it is angels do in heaven,” you said.

“But enough about Harrison and heaven. Tell me what you want, love -- anything at all, it’s yours for the taking,” he offered.

“I’m kind of scared,” you admitted, dropping your gaze to the duvet.

The bed dipped beside you, and a finger underneath your chin tipped your head up, your eyes meeting his again.

“Tell me what you’re afraid of, all of it,” he requested.

You swallowed heavily. “I’m afraid it will hurt.”

“I’m not going to lie to you. It might hurt,” he told you, “but I promise that I’m going to make you feel so good that it won’t be a big deal.”

You nodded.

“What else are you afraid of?” he asked.

You took a deep breath. “You’re absolutely sure I won’t automatically go to hell for doing this with you?”

He huffed a laugh. “Trust me when I say sex isn’t a one way ticket to hell.”

“Even sex with the king of hell? That seems somehow...worse,” you finished.

A smile crossed his face as he shook his head. “That’s part of the appeal for you, though, isn’t it? No one more forbidden in the afterlife than the king of hell.”

“Maybe a little,” you admitted quietly.

“You’re actually quite naughty underneath that pure exterior, aren’t you? Wanting all sorts of things a good girl like you shouldn’t even be thinking about,” he ventured.

Your stomach twisted into knots. “I’m, well, I’m not sure I’d say that.”

“You might not say it, but that doesn’t make it untrue,” he pointed out, somehow looking even deeper into your eyes. “I bet if I got my hand in your pretty little panties right now that you’d already be soaked from the mere thought of me taking you, without so much as a single kiss.”

If you were being honest, he wasn’t wrong. None of what he said was wrong.

He ignored your silence and continued speaking. “But as much as I’d like to kiss you breathless, I’m not going to, at least not right now. I was completely serious when I told you that I want my lovers to beg me to take them. I can tell you’re intimidated by me, maybe even a bit scared of me, and I don’t trust that you’d tell me to stop while I’m distracted. It’s true, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

You wondered if his king of hell powers, if he had any, included mind reading, with as much as he seemed to know what was going through your head. You found yourself unable to form words, so you simply nodded.

“I won’t completely deny myself, though,” he told you.

He closed the small gap between your lips, pressing his to yours, fingers moving from your chin to brush softly against the side of your face. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you parted them without hesitation, granting him entry. You were nearly a completely passive party to his thorough and passionate exploration of your mouth.

Making out with Tom was completely different from making out with Harrison, like night and day, or rather king of hell and angel.

When you kissed Harrison, neither one of you dominated. It was just a gentle and comfortable ebb and flow that went on and on, your arousal increasingly gradually to the point of desperation.

Tom had no compunctions about taking exactly what he wanted, exactly how he wanted it, with your explicit consent. Your arousal spiked quickly with him. He filled you with an insatiable desire for something less sweet and more primal, to be taken and possessed, fucked and filled.

He eventually broke the kiss, and you were surprised that he didn’t seem entirely unaffected by it, nothing like it was just another kiss in a long line of kisses for the king of hell.

After Tom composed himself again, his fingers traced the bare skin of your stomach below your top where it had ridden up.

“Do you want to?” you asked.

“Do I want to what?” he responded. “Use your words, darling.”

For some reason, his phrasing and tone aggravated you. Although it was entirely true that you were inexperienced and definitely a little scared, you didn’t need to be coddled like a child.

You decided not to ‘use your words,’ and batted Tom’s hand away with a roll of your eyes to tug your top over your head and toss it on the floor, followed by your bra soon after. Fueled even further by your annoyance with the king of hell, you hopped up off the bed and quickly shucked your pants and panties, too, plopping back down on the bed completely nude.

He licked his lips as he looked at you lustfully. “That struck a nerve, didn’t it, love? I think I rather like you feisty.”

You smirked at him, heart absolutely pounding in your chest with nervousness despite your bravado. “Well, now you’ve got me, your pristine and untouched and coveted prize, naked and at your disposal. What are you going to do about it?”

He chuckled. “Patience, my dear. Good things come to those who wait. Your slight trembling is a tell of how you really feel, by the way. I know you’re still just as scared and intimidated as you were a few minutes ago.”

You didn’t realize you were trembling, but noticed when he pointed it out. “You asked me what I wanted earlier. I really do want you to touch me. I want to know what it’s like when it’s someone else’s hand instead of always just mine.”

“That I can do,” he told you, tracing your lips with a fingertip.

You curled your tongue around it and sucked lightly on the digit.

He grinned. “Not completely naive, are you, sweetheart?”

You gave his finger a final swipe with your tongue, before responding, “I don’t know when you died, but there’s plenty of porn on the internet.”

“Yes, I’m well-aware of internet porn,” he said, as his now wet finger trailed its way down your body, leaving a slick trail in its wake. “Time passes differently here.”

You nodded, watching while he moved his finger from the valley between your breasts over the curve of one, until it reached the nipple.

He spread the remaining dampness over the sensitive nub, swirling his finger around it, before he leaned in and blew on it.

You gasped at the pleasurable chill it sent down your spine that also made you pulse with want between your legs.

His finger trailed down farther, over your ribs, down your belly, until it was just above your mons. Then, it stopped.

You looked at him expectantly, his eyes still on your face, gauging your reactions. “Why did you stop?”

“Giving you the chance to change your mind,” he replied. “I know I’m the king of hell, and you probably have some...less than positive assumptions about me because of that, but I don’t want anything we do together to be something you regret.”

“It won’t be. I still want this, still want you,” you told him.

He nodded and his finger finished its journey over your mons, slipping between your folds. “Christ, you’re so fucking wet.”

“Well, yeah, I want you,” you repeated.

He smiled as he swirled a few circles around your clit with his finger, before dipping lower toward your entrance, stroking over it a couple times. “Can I?”

“Please,” you responded.

His long, slender finger pressed into you slowly to the knuckle. “So hot, and wet, and tight for me. You’re going to feel fucking divine around my cock, darling. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please give that to me,” you told him a bit breathlessly, feeling more desperate than you had before.

“Someone’s eager.” He chuckled. “But not yet.”

You couldn’t help the whine that escaped your throat at that.

“Soon,” he reassured you. “I haven’t even made you cum.”

A second finger carefully joined the first, stretching you a bit more, and his thumb rubbed your clit this time.

You bucked your hips against his hand in an effort to get more stimulation, but he immediately put a stop to that and pinned you down effortlessly with one hand. His apparent physical strength was another turn-on. You wondered if Harrison was the same.

“You need to stay still for now. I don’t want to hurt you,” he explained.

You sighed and nodded, still thoroughly enjoying what you were being given, even if you did want more.

“Do you want another finger?” he asked, apparently deciding to compromise.

You paused for a moment. You hadn’t ever had three fingers inside yourself before, but you wanted Tom’s dick, and that was definitely bigger than three of his fingers. “Go ahead.”

He gently and carefully worked a third finger into you, eyes on yours. “Let me know if it’s too much.”

“It’s not,” you told him. It was definitely a lot, and your orgasm was pushed a bit further away while you got used to it, but you were pretty sure that everything was going to be a lot at first.

It didn’t take long for the pleasure building inside you to start increasing again, his thumb moving a bit faster when he sensed you getting close.

“Go on, cum for me, love.”

That was the last little bit you needed to reach your climax. He lifted his hand from where it held you down so you could move your hips through your lengthy high, shaking against him and crying out his name.

He withdrew his hand from between your thighs when the aftershocks subsided, and you were left more relaxed and somewhat sated.

You stared as he made a show of cleaning his fingers with his tongue.

He smirked. “Do you want me to eat your pretty pussy, sweetheart?”

Your face flushed at his words, and you swallowed before eventually finding your voice again. “Yeah.”

“I promise I’ll give you my mouth, and tongue, and fingers, leave you screaming until you’re too hoarse to make another sound,” he told you.

“But?” you added quietly.

“But I’m still not sure you’d speak up if you didn’t like what I was doing, and I’m not going to be one of your regrets,” he finished.

“I understand,” you said, and you did.

You found yourself wondering if there was a story behind his insistence that he doesn’t want you to regret anything you shared with him, wondering if he’d even tell you if there were, wondering how such a strangely considerate lover became the king of hell, wondering so many things that you weren’t sure you’d ever get an answer to.

“I won’t offer you my mouth right now, but I can offer you my fingers if you want me to make you cum again. I’ll make you cum as many times as you’d like. If Harrison returns before we’re done, I can tell him to leave. Or you’d probably rather I ask him to stay.” His eyes twinkled mischievously.

The thought of Harrison joining the two of you sent an obvious shiver through your body, raising goosebumps on your bare skin, and you already knew Tom was going to latch onto that and make you squirm.

He chuckled. “You know, you could probably convince him to do almost anything. I know him, and I saw the way he looked at you when he left earlier, like a lovesick puppy. As I told you before, a little ménage wouldn’t bother me, even if it was with him. Not when it makes you look and react like that.”

His words sent a new wave of arousal pulsing between your thighs, spreading through you. There was so much you wanted to do that you hadn’t yet, but the only thing you could really focus on was your need to be filled. “I want you now. Please, Tom.”

“That really gets you off, doesn’t it?” he commented, amused. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

You spread your legs to make room for him between. He climbed on top of you and positioned his erection against your entrance.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” you responded.

He pushed forward slowly, but steadily.

You hissed when he finally breached your body, immediately stilling. The ache of the stretch was intense. You wished you’d done more while you were alive to prepare yourself for this moment.

He brushed away a few stray tears that you didn’t realize had fallen. “Let me know if you want to stop, or when you’re ready for me to move.”

The ache faded as much as you thought it was going to while he was still inside you, and you didn’t want to make him wait forever. “Go ahead.”

His struggle not to move faster as he continued burying himself in you was obvious. The ache didn’t increased so you didn’t stop his progress. He sighed in relief when your bodies were finally flush and paused again. “How are you doing?”

“You’re really, uh, big,” you answered.

He huffed a laugh. “You’d be surprised.”

“Surprised by what?” you asked, confused.

“You’ll see,” he told you.

“I’m confused, but okay?” you said.

He changed the subject. “Would you like me to move now?”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” you responded.

He rocked himself in and out, lengthening his thrusts gradually until he was almost completely withdrawing before he moved back in.

The ache faded away into nothing but a sensation of fullness and pleasure. You enjoyed the way he slickly slid in and out, how he occasionally brushed a spot inside you that sent sparks of pleasure down your spine, something to explore later.

When you rolled your hips back against him tentatively, seeing what felt best, he moaned loudly and slipped a hand between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing it. “I’m getting close, and I want you to cum with me.”

You were already partially there, from just being fucked. The added stimulation of his finger working your clit sent you over the edge quickly.

Even though you knew he wanted to watch your face, you moved your lips against his to kiss him as you climaxed. Instead of the passionate kiss you imagined, you ended up clacking slightly against his teeth and awkwardly moaning into each other’s mouths.

As you came down, the thought of the difference between the movie moment you imagined and reality sent you into a fit of giggles.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Tom exclaimed. “Don’t do that! It’s really sensitive right now.”

You couldn’t stop laughing, and he pulled out to plop down beside you, obviously disgruntled.

“I was trying to have an intimate moment with you,” he huffed.

“Sorry,” you apologized, rolling onto your side to face him.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“Movie kisses aren’t reality kisses,” you replied.

“They’re not,” he agreed. “I’ll kiss you more soon. I don’t want my sweet darling feeling neglected. I just had to be sure, at least this time.”

“No regrets here,” you reassured him.

Relief was apparent on his face.

You cuddled against him, not sure if he was actually into that or not. When he tugged you closer, you smiled. “Will you ever tell me more about you?”

“If you join me in hell, I’ll tell you everything you ask.” His tone was obviously teasing. “Otherwise, you’ll just be left wondering.”

“I guess you have to convince me somehow,” you said lightly.

“Damn. I was hoping I just convinced you with my dick.”

“I do have to say you’re the best I’ve ever had,” you told him, trying not to laugh and ultimately failing.

He laughed, too. “Tell me that again after you have boring angel sex with Harrison, if he doesn’t go off too early to even get inside you.”

“It’s not his fault. It had been a long time for him, since he last…” you trailed off.

“You asked to know more about me. I’ll let you in on a little secret, if you promise not to tell Harrison,” he said.

“My lips are sealed,” you promised.

“I’d bet a lot on it being just as long for me as it had been for him, and I didn’t cum early.”

“What about all your consorts?” you asked.

He laughed. “You mean the ones I made up?”

Your eyes widened. “Why?”

“I wanted to impress you, bring you back down to hell with me,” he told you. “I didn’t get to be or continue to be king of hell by having a constant orgy. I started out a fallen angel like the rest of them and worked my ass off to get where I am today.”

It took you a moment to respond. “Why did you come for me, then?”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but my kingdom is stable now. I have much more free time, more than I’ve ever had, and absolutely no one to spend it with. That phrase, ‘it’s lonely at the top?’ It’s entirely true,” he admitted. “I handpicked you and waited. Then, of all the angels that could have been selected to retrieve you for heaven, it was Harrison. Any of the rest would have known better than to cross me and just left to let me have you, and we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”

You hugged him tighter against you. “Thank you for trusting me. I’m glad you told me.”

“I really thought you should know the truth, before you made your decision, but please don’t tell Harrison.” His tone was verging on begging.

“I won’t say a word to him,” you promised, and completely meant it.

“Anyway, I should probably leave now, before he gets back. I promised the two of you privacy, and I’ll give you that.” He kissed the top of your head and moved to get up.

You tugged him back down. “Please don’t leave. It’s so quiet and lonely here when neither of you are around. There’s nothing, not even a single book. I hate it.”

“Just let me get dressed. I’ll stay here with you until Harrison gets back,” he offered, getting up from the bed to grab his clothes.

You were surprised he didn’t try to convince you to join him in hell again, but he was apparently full of surprises.

tag list: @sarcasticsagittarius1998 @adayasgeorgia @moorehollandplz @thollandss @dasexydevitt13 @imagine-lovebug @relise-thefury @strang-ersclub @hollandisapuppy @goldenpeaxh @eeyore101247 @unholyhaz @definitely-not-black-cat

[nezclaw]

i’m not particularly eloquent except on rare occasions, and it’s been said before by others much clearly, but Good Omens? Amazing.

I am an asexual possibly aromantic person. I roll my eyes at romantic depictions in media. They’re (almost) always so cliched and forced. There’s no good reason for these people to be together, usually. There’s no chemistry. The relationship is extremely shallow (and white, and straight, and ‘conventionally attractive’). Or it’s like, okay, here are the two leads and over the course of the seasons they end up falling in love and having sex. Which isn’t bad, per say, but it’s treated as the pinnacle of the relationship and i just wonder “why”.

And the same goes for shipping. The vast majority of the time I see ships and go “huh. Okay.” because I don’t really see anything different about the way the characters involved interact with each other. I’m not saying shipping is bad, mind you. You can ship whoever you want and I won’t stop you (although I may give you a hard side-eye if you’re shipping a literal child (ie 16 and under) and adult or someone with their abuser). It’s not my job to stop you.

Good Omens, though... Good Omens is the standard we should hold romantic depictions to. There is no question that they are in love, despite the fact that they never outright say it. (Really, the musical score makes sure of that.) It’s the little gestures, the way Aziraphale’s face lights up, the Arrangement, the way Crowley keeps trying to get Aziraphale to go away with him, and then gets upset when he thinks Aziraphale died, how they threaten to not talk to or think about each other when something goes wrong, and the threat actually works (At least for Aziraphale). The fact that they even make that threat speaks volumes to what they mean to each other.

And yet. There’s no sex between them. No gratuitous making out. None of the usual shorthands used to indicate to the audience that “yes these two are in love, really.” It’s very much a reverse of the typical approach, and it’s so nice to see. It’s extremely affirming. It’s no wonder so many people on my dashboard are posting Good Omens. It’s exactly the queer romance we needed to see. Because it is queer. Neil has said that they don’t have human gender, since they are divine beings. They present as male, but they’re as male as the Gems from Steven Universe are female. Maybe less, even, since Crowley has presented as female before and I don’t remember any gems presenting male although I could be wrong. And I’m not talking just about the scenes with the nanny, which some have tried to argue is transphobic because man in a dress (even though I didn’t really see that as the joke, it read more as “Evil Mary Poppins”.) (If he had tried to seduce someone while dressed like that that would be a different story) but it’s been confirmed that he was wearing women’s clothing while watching the crucifixion.

I uh.... kinda forgot where i was going with this, but Good Omens is important. It has touched so many queer folk, and particularly those for whom representation is nonexistent. Asexuals, aromantics, and anyone who falls under that umbrella; people who are genderfluid, nonbinary, agender, transgender, intersex; they don’t get even the scant representation that lesbian and gay people get. (at least i don’t think so. and i’m not sure where bisexuals and pansexuals fall on that range) And, as an aroace myself, we  need that representation too. People need to see what a loving, non-sexual relationship looks like.

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

Headcanon character ask: Sam Winchester - 17. Scars

hunting’s hazardous enough as it is; for sam and dean winchester, who’ve been doing this non-stop for most of their lives, it means they collect injuries and scars like others collect clothes for their wardrobe. given how dangerous their childhood was and how we’ve seen them horrifically injured several times right from s1, it’s a miracle that neither of them have been permanently injured/scarred yet. i always like to imagine the various actors who cultivated these two to be the stars of their puppet show apocalypse–be they azazel’s minions or angels or whoever–intervened whenever it seemed like one or the other might die or receive an injury that would’ve maimed them. at least in the first five seasons, there’s an in-universe explanation for the fact that sam and dean are big, strong, robust and flawless-looking men: demons and angels are vain af, and prefer to occupy strong, able, conventionally attractive bodies although honestly they could possess a 90 year old grandma and it wouldn’t make a damn difference in terms of their strength or ability. besides, sam and dean are earthly monuments to the opposing leaders in the upcoming apocalypse, after all.

anyway. i digress. sam may not have all that many visible scars/injuries, but the Life takes a toll on a person both physically and mentally. his soles are a mess of scabs and healed blisters from shoving his gigantic feet into cheap, ill-fitting shoes. his fingers are ever-so-crooked from multiple healed breaks. there’s a constellation of healed bullet wounds on his torso, and his hair hides several jagged scars on his scalp. thin white scars litter his limbs from a thousand small lacerations; small discoloured patches cover the skin of his hands from multiple burns. ( “wow,” amelia had remarked once, looking at them, “you must be a terrible cook.” sam, thinking of gravedirt and smelling burning flesh, had said nothing.) there’s a disconcertingly large scar from a healed stab wound in the small of his back, but sam doesn’t like to think about that. there was a time when sam worried about these things; a time when he thought to use makeup to cover all of this on his bare skin under the hot california sun, but it’s been a long, long time since he’s had to worry about that.

the after-effects that worry sam the most are more insidious and less visible: the way his knees start to creak before he turns thirty; how he gets fatigued much faster than he used to, or how alarmingly his reflexes have slowed down. too many hits to the head over the years means that often his thoughts are muddled and treacle-slow: it always feels like he’s just put the scattered pieces of his mind together just in time for another blow to knock them loose again. he’s still pretty good, but the sharpness and near-photographic memory that had netted him a stanford scholarship and a ‘walking encyclopedia’ moniker is simply gone. (as someone whose only value in the family business–as it had seemed sometimes–was as a ‘researcher’ this frightens him greatly in some dark corner of his mind.) there are countless mornings when he wakes up with his joints so swollen or limbs so bruised that he can’t get out of bed for a long time. the cabinet under his bathroom sink is full of neatly-labelled and segregated bottles of painkillers, anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxants. they even work, sometimes.

this is all on the surface, of course. sam has been torn apart on levels much deeper than just his physical body: he’s had to exist as just body, just mind, and just soul at several points in his lifetime, and each time he’s been put together with angelic grace, or divine will, or demonic power. when castiel looks at sam, he sees a shining lattice of multiple energies holding him together. with each passing day, as the powers of hell and heaven diminish greatly, so does the brightness of that patchwork system. castiel fears that one day those repairs will give out altogether and take sam with them, but sam has persevered far longer than castiel had ever dared hope.

so sam’s a patchwork of human, demon and angel and almost all scar tissue, but there’s also something ineffably, uniquely sam that continues to hold all the parts of him together even in the wake of the fall of heaven, hell and earth. and that, castiel thinks, is what will save them all.

-

( headcanon prompts! )

[byjayr-blog]

Divine Femininity, Power of Her Aura - Ella.

I’ve been in the arts and music industry for about 4 years or so now, and inevitably saw how the rise of women in the creative industry hasn’t been getting as much attention, so I’ve decided to start a series based on women all around the world who are in the creative industry. I ask them to share their story with me (and you :) ) as to how they got to where they are today. The series will introduce a new divine woman once a month, as my first post to this series I’d like to introduce July’s divine woman my friend Ella.  

Ella is a Fashion Model currently based in Montreal, I’ve asked her to share her story with me, enjoy.

byjayr - Walk me through your story, and can you recount any specific pivotal moments (as much description as you can remember on where you were and how you were feeling)?

Ella - My story is a long one. I guess it’s not just one story at all, there’s a lot of events and challenges that have led me to where I am today. For this interview I’m going to specifically talk about the part of my story that concerns the journey I’ve been on regarding my physical appearance & health.

I’m not really sure how to start this, so I guess I’ll start at the baseline. I was a happy person. Grew up without financial burdens in a suburban white family. I kept honours in all of my classes at school, loved theatre, had very high muscle strength for my size from ballet & gymnastics, was super fit and healthy, conventionally attractive person. Everything changed in November of 2011 when I had to become a tough bag of knuckle and grit, being flown by air ambulance to Halifax for an extremely rare auto-immune disease (Rapidly Progressive Glomerulonephritis) that had given me stage 5 (end stage) kidney failure. I was a young body filled with dreams but my body disagreed with me. You lose a lot of trust in yourself when your own body turns on you.

For the first three months or so of my sickness I was undergoing chemotherapy as a method of trying to suppress and reboot my immune system in order to get my kidneys to work again. During this time, I had huge diet restrictions (basically all I could eat was white bread, gummy bears and water) and became extremely malnourished. On top of that, I was on high dose steroids with horrible side effects, making me extremely weak. All I know is that I spent the last hours of 2011 sitting on the floor, staring at my legs, being astonished by skinny they were. I was strangely proud of how undernourished and skeletal they were, I had always wished I had the will power to intentionally be that skinny- but that’s another story. Both physically and mentally my functions were imbecilic. That night I blacked out and received the a blood transfusion that saved my life, but gave me a rash from hell. Physically, you honestly couldn’t recognize me.

The transfusion helped me in gaining my strength back from the months of crawling on the ground like a helpless baby. Despite my new found dividend of health, everything I was going through at this point made me ugly. Chemotherapy had taken away my thick, luscious locks of strawberry blonde, it took away all of my fingernails and toenails. The rash that covered me head to toe was gruesome. My entire body kept shedding it’s skin like a snake, leaving behind fragile pink tender skin that wasn’t even ready to be exposed to air. I felt like an unflattering cardboard cutout of an ugly caricature of myself.

I stopped leaving the house for a solid chunk of my precious time.  Alone and sad, waiting for the day I could finally close my eyes for the last time. I don’t think I saw anyone but my family and my friend Mia for at least three months. No photos exist of this time. Evidently this made it hard for me to keep up with my then “boyfriend”. In fact, I remember him asking if I’d take him back when I recovered, but all I said was “I’m not getting better”, and proceeded to ignore him. I couldn’t accept that he had the nerve to still adore me, I was so painstakingly un-sexual. How dare he want to kiss me. I knew I was no longer the girl who was all the perfect fashion, and eventually I really started to mourn for myself. I would never be glamorous, I thought, but at this point I desperately sought being able to be something completely ordinary and unremarkable. Staring at my familiar, tragic limbs- I believed my cold pink hands would never again feel pretty.

One very vivid memory I always think about is when I left to go to the mall for the first time since being sick. I slathered on a coat of the makeup watching actual centimetre parcels of skin peel like a million meaty sunburns that oozed out makeup. I started peeling and picking off the scabs but the more I peeled the more I bled. I came to the conclusion that I would have to peel off my entire face if I wanted to even out the texture of it, so I gave up. I slathered it in vaseline to glue the drooping flakes back onto my face in attempts to mimmic a smoothness and then used half the bottle of foundation to even out the colour. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror for what felt like hours. My face was the texture of a golfball; but more uneven and porous. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t even close to me. Even my eyes had grown so passive, my lids that were once a flirting device batted still- but with their sparsely fallen out lashes they were so dim, so dead.

By late February of 2012, they realized my kidneys just weren’t going to start working from the chemotherapy. They stopped the chemo and I was put on peritoneal dialysis. In a nut shell, that means they put a tube in my belly, the tube connected to a machine every night at home and ran for 8-12 hours, depending on what the circumstances were. Essentially, dialysis does the work for your kidneys, but its more of a temporary thing, and as I found out the hard way, it has lots of complications. Years went by and I had plenty of brushes with death. Plenty more stories to be told about that. But this story is about the growing pains of my confidence & beauty, not my psychical pain.

It’s 2019 and it’s been five and a half years since I received my life saving kidney transplant. My mind has a weird complex built up around how I see myself in the mirror. I often find myself comparing myself to who I was before I ever got sick. I have this way of idealizing who I was before the sickness came, and I’m always seeing the world through rose coloured lenses when I think about my childhood. Sometimes I take a look at myself in the mirror and it’s really hard. I’m so quick to notice how frayed I am at the edges like I’m some kind of hand-me-down lace. Sometimes I just feel like all of my bones are too old for me, that they creak like a dusty house full of empty photo albums because I lost so much opportunity to fill them up with all the teenage  memories I had to miss out on. People tell my all of these experiences make me strong but for the most part I just find myself thinking they make me heavy. I had to grow up too fast and it hurts. It hurts but it’s going to be okay. The ocean is fucking heavy, mountains are fucking heavy, but they’re so perfect and beautiful and that’s all I should be seeing about myself too.

Today I feel secure, complex, and empowered. Maybe I won’t tomorrow, but taking things day by day is the best way I’ve learned to navigate through this world. There will always be people who take me for face value & my looks alone. It takes serious courage to love yourself in a world, in an infrastructure strategically set up to make people who have suffered trauma feel isolated, unworthy, and heavy. The caliber of experience I have endured has done nothing but expand my emotional intelligence, even if it isolates me. Our dominant culture is filled with violent myths. Break them.

J - What inspired you to do what you love?

E - The internet, contemporary situations, and people I surround myself with can be a source of inspiration/influence, but they can also be a huge form of intimidation/comparison. I used to try so hard to impress people but ultimately it just created huge insecurity blocks. Seeing other people competing for acceptance is toxic. I think it’s important to keep some things to yourself. Deconstruct the social construct of what “talent” is. You don’t have to cater to other people. The world doesn’t have to be this finite, limited space you think it is. Don’t let people devalue your creative ability and worth just because they don’t understand it. It’s their loss. My mom is the biggest loner I know and she inspires me every day. I think I work best alone and I get that from her. Maybe this sounds selfish to you but I think that more than anything, I inspire myself. My life has been one dark struggle after another and somehow I crawl my way out of it every time. I’m strong enough now to realize that being alone isn’t a bad thing at all. Isolation breeds individuality. Once I realized that, the world became a safer place for me.

J - What do you find yourself daydreaming about, and can you recount a specific daydream you’ve been having lately?

E - I want to be somewhere new. I’m so tired of Montreal. I dream of being somewhere  where absolutely nobody knows my name or where I’m from or how I got there. I don’t want to talk about myself. I want to learn about other people. To get inspired by them. Lately I’ve been working on music lots. It’s something I’m really passionate about and I can’t wait to share it with people who are open to listening. All I daydream about is being somewhere warm and somewhere exciting. The last few years have been really hard on me. I struggle with a lot of issues that I’m not going to delve into right now, but my biggest dream is just to be happy. To be able to look at myself and be proud, and to make my friends & family proud too. Life moves really fast and I’m making lots of changes. Things are changing for the better, I have to believe they will. <3

Thank you Ella for sharing your inspirational and moving story! <3

Come back next month to see August’s Divine Femininity. :) 

[hazelandglasz]

(Art AUs) Date AU with Sterek (and I'm very proud I'm limiting myself to one prompt here :P)

Date AU: I’m on a blind date and the guy/gal starts ranting about how “art isn’t a viable form of work, and how it’s not needed in schools” and you just walked up and schooled them while serving us our food order about how important art is in society, and left your number on my plate written in mustard.

You know what, I have a ton of prompts waiting for me but this is just too funny to pass up so here goes (with Derek as the poor blind date) - I changed it a little, I hope you don’t mind ;)

On AO3

The moment Whatshisface rolls his eyes in disgust is the only moment of the evening when Derek can understand why Erica thought they would be a good match.

Yes, eurgh indeed. Derek isn’t sure they are “eurghing” for the same thing, though.

The man is exuding “elitist” and “spoiled” from every pore, and though he could be seen as conventionally attractive, his personnality is quickly turning him into the ugliest of gargoyles in Derek’s eyes.

“Can you believe this?”

With extreme difficulty, if “this” refers to this date. “Hm?”

“This,” Snobby McSnotty says, pointing at the highlighted dish on the menu. “They want us to pay extra for a pizza under the pretext of supporting the neighborhood’s school Arts program.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Derek says, not only because he knows it will bring this sham of a date to a shorter shelf life, but also because, well, he does believe Arts in school are an important part of the social fabric and the way children grow into adults.

Exhibit A, Mr Douche in front of him who probably stayed in a corner for all of his art classes as a child.

“You’re playing cute,” Dumbass says with a smirk. “But we both know that Arts in schools are about as useful as a degree on a pretty girl, am I right?”

“Most definitely not.”

“Oh, come on, Daryl–”

“Derek.”

“Yes, right. Derek,” the man says, leaning forward as if trying to pull Derek into a confidential mood–as if–, “Art can be fun, sure, but it’s not, like, essential.”

“Ahem.”

Derek looks up and the first smile of the evening blossoms on his face at the sight of his waiter.

For starters, Mr. White Crisp Shirt pushes every button on Derek’s crush control panel.

For seconds, he is glaring daggers at Mr. Douchy Pants and that is almost enough to make him Derek’s best friend.

“We haven’t decided yet.” Jackass says to the waiter without even looking at him.

The waiter, whose name can’t possibly be what is written on his nametag–what kind of name is Stiles anyway–squints even harder.

“It will be just a moment, thank you,” Derek adds, trying to distance himself from his date’s behavior.

This softens Stiles’ demeanor a little, but he still scoffs at Jerkface’s back as he leaves them.

“Some manners won’t kill you, you know,” Derek says, his eyes firmly on the menu.

“I don’t have to, it’s his job.”

“Oh my God.”

“What? Like you’re such a posterchild for manners?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Jerkface snorts. “Right. So under all those muscles and glares, you’re telling me that there is a softie with a heart of gold, who frames children’s drawings and is polite to everybody?”

“I don’t see how one is incompatible with the other.” Derek tries really hard to control his temper. “And as a matter of fact, yes, I frame my nephews’ art to hang around my house.” He pauses to take a sip of his wine. “Not that you’ll get to see it or anything.”

Behind him, Derek swears he hears someone snorting and attempting to hide it under a cough. In front of him, Jerkface Supreme merely smirks. “Playing hard to get, uh?”

“Nope, predicting the end of the evening.”

“See, that’s why Arts are not useful to kids–nay, why it’s a bad influence.”

“Oh wow.”

“By giving a disproportionate place to Art, you developed a sense of superiority over other people.”

“Because that is not condescending at all.”

Derek agrees with that sentence, almost said it himself, but their waiter is back and is glaring at Douche McJerky.

“Who asked for your opinion?”

“No one, but that hasn’t stopped you, now, has it,” Stiles says, putting down a bottle of water and leaning over the table. “Now, whether you want to hear it or not, get ready for some knowledge being dropped into the void between your ears.”

“How dare–”

“Tut-tut,” Stiles cuts him, a finger pressed to his lips.

Derek leans back in his chair, glass of wine in hand as he pulls the mini plate of appetizers toward himself. This gonna be good.

“First of all, asshole, art is important in school because it gives children an outlet, a way of getting rid of their anxiety, their surplus of emotions instead of resorting to violence.”

“B–”

“Second of all, art is important later in education because it allows for creativity, world building, all things useful in all aspects of life. It develops the brain in ways other curriculum cannot, and studies show that students engaged in arts perform better. Wouldn’t you like that, to perform better?”

Behind Stiles’ hand–and Derek does notice that it is a very nice hand indeed–DoucheCanoe glares and frowns, and turns a very unattractive shade of puce.

“Third of all, having regular Art classes help the children to develop their motor skills and their visual-spatial skills. It supports a critical view of the world, and helps them being prepared to tackle different points of view.”

“That’s rubbish,” Annoyance in Human Form says, pushing Stiles away before he can get to point number four, “and I demand to see your manager.”

Stiles pauses, and his lips slowly but surely stretch into a smirk.

A devilish smirk, the kind that sends delicious shivers down Derek’s spine.

“I am the manager.”

Oh this is priceless.

“What-but–you’re a kid.”

Stiles beams at him. “Why, thank you, I moisturize daily, and I have good genes. Now scram.”

Derek’s date opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, before snatching his jacket to storm out.

Stiles brushes his hands like he got rid of some particularly nasty vermin before turning to Derek, his smile turning apologetic and, dare he say it, shy.

“I am sorry I ruined your date, but it didn’t look like a very promising one.”

“You saved my evening,” Derek says with a crooked smile. “Did you have more fine points in favor of the arts?”

“I sure do.”

“Would you care to share them with me?”

Stiles’ cheeks turn a blotchy pink, from the high of his cheekbones to his neck. Derek kind of wants to follow it under Stiles’ crisp white shirt.

He blames the wine.

(It’s not the wine.)

“I–I’d love to.” Stiles waves at someone, another waiter who silently brings a large plate of pasta, covered in a red sauce that smells divine. “I’m Stiles, manager of this restaurant.”

Derek smiles. “I’m Derek, art teacher.”

Stiles’ laughter lasts for a while, enough to give Derek a need to see how this sound would feel against his skin.

(He finds out two weeks later.)

[spacestationtrustfund]

DTC Les Mis

Because I can’t shut up about this wonderful production. (And because @pilferingapples is a horrible enabler. :P)

I was watching the Dallas Theatre Centre’s 2014 production of Les Mis again today, and as always crying a lot over how brilliantly Liesl Tommy adapted the musical for the modern day.

The thing about Dallas Les Mis that hits home particularly perfectly for me is that every situation feels real. The abuse of the workers, the lovely ladies, the prisoners, the students, the children -- it’s all the same stuff we see on the news. And the characters are all people I’ve seen before.

Caveat: I grew up in one of the poorest parts of London, with a working class family; I’m mixed-race, queer, not cis, and not male. Watching DTC LM is oftentimes physically painful because of how real it feels.

I’m going to break this down into bullet points so that I can pretend I’m organised.

The police.

Javert is a white cop, immaculately dressed, hidden behind sunglasses and a perfect, protecting uniform. Valjean is a brown prisoner, dressed in filthy rags, humiliated and treated like he’s less than human. Javert hardly even looks at him -- he doesn’t respect Valjean enough to treat him like a human being. This is not new. This is a story that we see on the news nearly every day. This is a story that every community that’s not white and wealthy has. Arrested for stealing a mouthful of bread, and given a nineteen-year sentence: this is not fiction; this is reality.

I have seen people like this. Every time Javert came on stage, I thought of them. The way he’s dressed, the way he carries himself, the way he interacts with the prisoners -- Javert is representative of the police force, and it’s not in a good way.

When Javert sings “Stars,” it’s not just about his crisis of faith. It’s a song about how his original belief (the law) has been damaged by a new idea. The fact that a prisoner, a criminal, a brown Muslim man, has saved his life is literally too much for him to handle. Because he doesn’t see the prisoners as human beings.

It’s sickening and it’s real.

THIS SCENE. The cops are dressed in full riot gear, complete with helmets and batons and pistols and bulletproof vests. The opening scene shows a black-clad cop beating an unarmed prisoner, who repeatedly tries to protect himself by covering his face, cries out in pain and begs for the abuse to stop, only to be kicked and told to shut up. The prisoner curls up on the ground, arms over his face, huddled in a ball, while the cop beats him with a baton.

This is not fiction. I don’t know how many times I can say it. I’ve cried more times watching DTC LM than I have watching any other production (which is saying something). This is something I’ve seen happen, something people I know have had happen to them. The prison-industrial complex and police brutality are not fictitious. It’s painfully, agonisingly real.

Fantine.

Fantine looks like this:

She’s a woman of colour. She’s not conventionally attractive. She’s not skinny. She’s not well-dressed. She’s the face of society.

Most productions put her in an ethereal white dress that makes her look angelic. She often has blonde hair and pale skin. She’s delicate and romantic and beautiful.

But here she’s not like that.

The Lovely Ladies are mostly women of colour, and most of them look similar to Fantine. These are the single mothers, the women regularly going to food banks, the women working three jobs, the people considered a drain on society, a burden. They do the jobs that no one else will: cleaning, cooking, selling their bodies.

There are millions of women like this in the world today, who have stories similar to Fantine’s. This is not fiction.

Look at the body language in this scene: he’s leaning forwards, aggressive, getting right in her personal space. She’s shrinking down into herself, eyes lowered, trying not to be noticeable. Because he’s white, and a man, and she’s neither of those things. Because she doesn’t have the control. Because she can’t refuse for fear of being imprisoned, raped, beaten. Because she has a daughter who needs her.

She’s not easy to care about. She’s the woman you see in cheap dollar stores whose Food Stamps card gets denied. She’s the woman you see in Goodwill, buying cheap clothes. She’s the woman who takes the bus even when it means she has to wait, or to walk from station to station, or to leave hours before she needs to be at her destination. She’s the woman you pity. She’s real.

Cosette, les Thénardier and baby Eponine.

I have seen women exactly like Mme Thénardier. Her gaudy clothes, her over-exaggerated movements, her voice, her body language, the way she walks. The way she coos over Eponine but shuns Cosette. Les Thénardier are representatives of real people, people you might actually encounter. I’ve seen her on public transport, clutching her plastic grocery bags. Loitering outside a dollar store, smoking, mascara overdone. Yelling at her children to stop doing something, then turning around and being saccharine sweet when they obey.

Even baby Eponine looks like the kids I used to play with in the streets while our parents were either working or sleeping. Everything about les Thénardier is familiar because it’s real.

M. Thénardier, with his patched and colourful clothes, his sneeringly jovial attitude, his loud voice and overwhelming presence -- he’s easily recognisable. I’ve seen people just like him, time and time again.

The ABC.

Watching the police attacking the barricade has been too much to watch many times, and I’ve had to pause the video and do something else until I stop shaking. It doesn’t just look real, it feels real.

The Amis are students, university-age, young and hopeful and bright. They’re diverse, determined, and deliberate. And the police slaughter them.

I know these people. I am one of them. I have been to protests and marches and demonstrations where the cops attacked unprovoked, where riot police were called on groups of unarmed kids, where we were arrested even if everything we were doing was legal. This isn’t fiction.

Enjolras and Marius, respectively. They’re kids. They’re in their mid-twenties at most. They’re my age.

They’re fighting to change the system, and they’re killed for it.

In the original novel and subsequent musical adaptation, it’s often difficult to understand the point of the revolution without prior background knowledge of the politics of the mid-1800s. But in DTC’s production, the students hold signs with familiar slogans -- FAIR WAGES 4 ALL. PEOPLE BEFORE PROFIT. They are modern, they are relevant, they are this generation.

And they die for what they believe in.

It’s not just a story.

Eponine.

Marius and Eponine are a sharp contrast. Look at how he’s dressed (suit, tie, jacket, slacks), how his hair and beard are obviously trimmed, how he looks professional and respectable. And look at her -- her braids, her too-thin blouse, her cut-off jean shorts, her bracelets, her jacket. I dressed like her for years.

And she moves like she’s something feral. She’s grown up in poverty, having to fight tooth and nail for what she wants. She’s willing to bite and kick and scream. The world has abused her, and it shows.

She’s been abused, but she fights. And the converse is also true: she fights, but she’s abused.

You know those posters you sometimes see at the checkout lanes in grocery stores, or the adverts on the television, the ones that show pictures of children who need housing or food or some other resource? Eponine isn’t cutesy like that. She isn’t the adorable, doe-eyed child whom you could help, with a donation of just 25 cents, because every little thing helps! She’s bruised and battered and vicious. She’s wild.

She’s not easy to care for.

Marius.

Marius after the barricades -- injured, traumatised, trapped. He doesn’t know how he escaped, he doesn’t feel at home with his grandfather, he isn’t comfortable in his own skin. When he sings “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables,” it’s heartbreaking.

He is A UNIVERSITY STUDENT. He’s in his early twenties, and he’s been caught up in the middle of a massacre. No fucking wonder he has PTSD; his friends have been murdered.)

Marius and Cosette are absolutely adorable. (This isn’t quite relevant, but I felt it was necessary to say anyway. LOOK AT THEM.)

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And the end -- oh god, the end. Police in full riot gear shooting down unarmed students and children with machine guns. Gavroche, who looks to be about eleven in this production, is shot with machine gun fire.

They’re just kids. They’re just kids.

Haven’t you seen this on the news? Is it familiar yet? These are the same stories that have been told over and over. Except in Les Mis, it’s fictionalised.

But the characters could be real people. They’re not romantic (or Romantic) heroes and villains from the nineteenth century -- you can’t sweep under the rug their morality issues by claiming that things were different then! This is the present day. This is today. This is happening right now.

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I’ll end this with the author’s prefix from the novel itself (translation mine):

So long as there shall exist, by laws and means, a social damnation artificially creating hell on earth, and confounding divine destiny with human fatality; so long as the three problems of the age, the degradation of man by poverty, the degradation of the woman by hunger, the atrophy of the child by night, will not be solved; so long as in some areas social asphyxia is possible; in other words, and from a still wider point of view, so long as there will remain on earth ignorance and misery, books of the nature of this one will not be useless.

It’s not useless yet.

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[Pictures from here. DTC LM video here. My other posts about this production here. I also recommend reading this post by @pilferingapples for a similar discussion.]