#pointless navel gazing

[seeminglyseph]

I just watched a video essayist going over Jennifer’s Body have to fully explain the box cutter line, and I remembered one time having to explain why yelling “kick her in the box” had been crude ringside fight banter, not just average fight banter because the people I had been talking to had all assumed I’d meant “kick her in the head”

Is “box” meaning essentially “cunt” that old fashioned? I mean I know it’s vintage, one of the oldest euphemism for a vagina. But like, what I really mean is like… does no one use it anymore? Why? It doesn’t seem like one there’d be a point in getting rid of.

And I did a bit of research and it can mean a cock too apparently depending on the context so like. Yes, due to the nature of euphemisms being vague it can technically refer to anything. But that’s never stopped anyone from using fuck, which literally can mean anything if you work hard enough. Honestly its ability to be technically genital neutral just makes it more effective? Idk. I guess the cock is usually in briefs though. Hence the box.

But either way. It is weird growing old and realizing your slang is confusing people. I don’t mind dropping vocab if it’s offensive or something, but if it’s just old I don’t really feel like I wanna alter myself… I can just be old and cringe if that’s the only problem….

[kaibacorpintern]

at the same time i've tried so hard to unpack and re-pack and unpack all the reasons why i do or don't like different ships trying to triangulate the reasons or the tropes that will yield the Algorithm of the Ideal Ship and i've failed so many times that tbh the real answer to the question of "why do you like any given ship? why do you want them to kiss??" is simply because it slaps and it came to me in a dream

[juno-infernal]

man. feels weird sharing things i write about my dead brother. there is a busybody voice in my brain insisting that to do so is narcissistic, selfish, exploitative of my brother (who cannot object for obvious reasons) and the rest of my family (who maybe would object if they knew).

i mean. it’s not like i’m trying to publish anything. and i cannot be reasonably said to be clout-chasing by posting poems/journals that will be seen by like 20 people and then forgotten. but hmm. still.

i feel tremendous guilt sometimes thinking about the way my brother, a vibrant complex whole entire person, becomes the object of my grief in my writing. how i am preoccupied with my own suffering, or with the aspects of his that most wound me. like his personhood is erased by the bigness of my sense of loss, and like it both does him a disservice and reveals something ugly about myself to put that on display.

i grapple with that feeling now only because i am conscious of the way i, in grief, have been held, comforted, and bolstered by the equally-honestly-self-absorbed writings of others on tumblr. the stuff i have written about my brother would not impress my writing professors, but maybe someone here will see in my clumsy overflow of feelings something that reminds them that they are not alone in the deep dark well of loss? does that justify my excesses? i guess i don’t know.

[memento-mariii]

Last week, I did a small but objectively kind act (took a snail that got mixed in our groceries, took it out, and set it on a leaf outside), and the fact that I live in guilt over it to this day (worrying that I might not have picked the *right* place for it and thus may be inadvertently responsible for its death) is just another proof that I have moral scrupulosity issues and that I probably can stand to worry about these things less.

[writercole]

Home Sweet Home

Summary: Once is not always enough. Words: 1250 Warnings: 18+ only. NSFW. Dead Dove, Do Not Eat!! Vaginal penetration, cum play, breeding kink, Scott has no refractory period, he's still a teasing asshole, spitting, begging. Credits: I have to credit @hederasgarden and @ryebecca for pushing me forward with this. And a very special thanks to @theharddeck and @wildbornsiren who've looked over parts 1 and 2 for me! A/N: I did not expect the response that I got from part 1 and I'm so excited to drop part 2!!

Part 2 of 3 | Part 1 found here.

After Scott’s eventful welcoming, he carried you upstairs, refusing to allow any of his cum to leak out, using his fingers to shove it back in after he set you on the bed. 

“Legs up, sweetheart,” he instructed with a smirk. “Can’t have it leak out if I’m gonna get you pregnant.”

“If we’re going out, I have to get dressed, Scott,” you whined.

“I’m going to pick out your clothes and I’m going to get you dressed and you, baby, will sit there and let gravity do the work.”

“Scott -”

“What part of that did you not understand?” His tone left little in the way of doubt that he would take things as far as he needed to get his way. 

You sighed and settled back on the mattress, allowing him to fold your legs to your chest. He pressed a delicate kiss to each of your ankles before turning away, stripping off his polo shirt as he stepped into the closet. A moment later, he stepped out holding a black dress on a hanger, a fresh white button down tossed over his shoulder. 

“A black dress?”

“Is there a problem with it?”

“Well, no, but -”

“That’s what I thought,” he said with a raise of his eyebrows. His tone left no room for argument.

You knew it was pointless to argue with him anyway. He would get his way one way or another and being a brat about it wouldn’t make your dinner any easier.

He laid the dress down on the bed beside you and slipped into his shirt, taking care to button every button while his eyes roamed your body with a smirk. Heat built in your core again as he unbuckled his belt to tuck in his shirt without breaking eye contact. 

“Scoooooott,” you whined as you squirmed under his scrutiny.

“Yes, baby?”

“Do we have to go out? We could just stay here and not have to get dressed.”

“What about dinner? It was ruined, remember?”

“We can order take out.”

“Take out doesn’t deliver this far out.”

“Scott, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you though.”

“All the more reason for me to take you on a proper date,” he insisted as he finished buckling his belt. 

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your lips, then another, before he stood again, his hands reaching for the buttons of the shirt you were wearing. He trailed his fingers down the collar to the first button, popping it open with two fingers before inching his way down to the next. 

Your heart pounded beneath your ribcage and your breathing came faster and faster as his rough fingertips dragged down the valley between your breasts. By the time he reached your navel, your pussy throbbed with need.

“Scott, please. I need you.”

He smirked as his fingers popped the last button. “You need me to do what?” he asked as he flipped the left side of the shirt open, then the right. You shuddered as the cold air pebbled your nipples. His hungry gazed set your skin on fire, his tongue darting out to lick his lips while his large hand caressed your thigh. “A gasp is not an answer, sweetheart. Words or you get nothing.” 

“Scott, please,” you panted, “you know what I need.”

“Right. You need me to get you dressed so we can go eat. I’m sorry, let’s get that going.” He reached over for the dress and you whined.

“That’s not what I mean!”

“No? Then what did you mean?” Scott’s eyebrow cocked and his smirk grew as he looked down at you, folded in half on the bed, his shirt pooled around your frame.

“I need more.”

“More?”

“Scott, you’re doing this on purpose!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You went to MIT. You’re an engineer. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Maybe. But I love to hear you beg.” 

“Beg?”

“Yeah, baby. Beg. Beg for my cock.”

“Scott, please. Please, I need your cock. I need you to fuck me. So empty without you inside me.”

“That’s it? Just my cock? That’s all you need?”

“Please!” you cried out. His fingers trailed up and down the crease of your thighs, his thumb brushing against your bare folds gently, sending your neediness off the charts.

“Alright, alright,” he sighed as he dropped the zipper on his pants again, his cock half hard after your earlier tryst. His fist wrapped around his length and he stroked it slowly, his free hand pushing your knee down as his hips wedged your thighs open. “Look at my cock, baby. See how hard I am already? I just fucked you and I want to go again.”

“I want you to fuck me, Scott, please!” Tears formed at the corners of your eyes as you pleaded with your husband. Your core ached and throbbed, desperate for some kind of attention from someone, something, anything. 

“Oh, baby, there’s no need to cry. I’ll give you my cock. I just have to make sure you’re wet enough.” Before you could process his words, his lips parted and he spat, the warm liquid hitting your cunt. 

You moaned quietly, a delighted grin appearing on his face as he dropped his cock and stepped forward, the leaking tip pressing against your hole. In one thrust, he buried himself to the hilt. 

Your back arched as he set a harsh pace. Scott’s hands gripped your hips and pulled you down the bed, meeting his own as your body slid up and down the bed with the force. Your walls spasmed and fluttered around him as your climax hit out of nowhere. 

“Is that enough, baby?” he asked between grunts.

“More, Scott, please.”

“Want me to fill you up again?”

“Want your cum. Please.”

“I want to be leaking out of you for days, baby. I want you to feel me every time you sit down.” His pace quickened and your back arched as you hurtled towards a second release. 

“Close, Scott. So close.” 

“Then let go. I didn’t say to hold back. Not this time. I want you to come on my cock over and over and over.”

Your walls tightened around him, squeezing his throbbing cock as he spilled deep inside of you with a shout. He folded himself forward and rested his arms on either side of your head, stroking your hair gently as he pressed his lips to yours.

“Satiated?” he questioned between kisses.

“Mhmm.”

He nodded in acknowledgement before pushing himself to a standing position. Pulling out with a hiss, he tucked himself back into his pants, straightening his shirt before helping you out of his.

Your limp limbs allowed him to slide your arms into the thin straps with ease before sweeping you to a sitting position and allowing the full skirt to fall around your hips. He set your feet on the floor and took a step back, nodding in approval at the outfit. A quick tousle to your hair and he was helping you to your feet, giving you a pillar to steady yourself on. 

“Can you walk?”

“I…I think so,” you told him.

“How about I just carry you?”

“You don’t have to.”

“Maybe. But I know you need food and walking down the stairs in those shoes after everything is dangerous.”

“You’re good to me, Scott.”

“Don’t let that get out,” he joked as he swept you into his arms. “Although, no one would believe you anyway.”

[scientia-rex]

I am so not interested in philosophy. Every time my husband starts in on some topic from his undergrad degree I’m always like “hmmmmmm sounds like a bunch of navel-gazing bullshit” and this is why he’s the lawyer and I’m the doctor.

“Are people good or bad” both. It’s always both. I’m good in that I decided to be good. I’m bad in that I have explicit non-sexual fantasies about jamming shards of broken glass under Mitch McConnell’s fingernails. I’m good in that I love making my friends and loved ones happy. I’m bad in that when I get physically inconvenienced in any way I’m not far from vehicular homicide. I’m good in that I am deeply affected by the suffering of my patients. I’m bad in that I would 100% have gone into weapons research if anyone had offered me the chance. Humans are deeply complex and that fact is paradoxically simple. Bam! Philosophy achieved.

It’s so pointless to beat yourself up for not being perfect right out of the womb. (Or ever.) Good god. Meet some actual children. Think back to the days of Barbie sacrifices on altars to horrifying gods. We’re complicated and that’s okay! And none of us HAVE to be Catholic, or Mormon, or any other religion that teaches fundamental guilt. Get yourself some deprogramming. As a treat.

I suppose it’s important for some people, somewhere, to be philosophers, but I have no more interest in listening to their conversations than I do in listening to fly fishers. Equally irrelevant to me. When I talk about my own morality, both what seems innate and what is obviously constructed, I’m not judging myself for it; I don’t need to be reassured. (People seem hellbent on reassuring me.) I’m watching the river go by. As Frost said, what the river says is what I say.

[sunlightmurdock]

Ceasefire | 1.1 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

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Synopsis: Bradley Bradshaw is in San Diego, summoned to Top Gun for the first time. Commander “Hyde” Simpson is his flight instructor, and she doesn’t have time for schoolboy crushes.

Warnings: ex-husband!beausimpson, divorce, age gap (rooster is somewhere between 26-28, reader is 38), power imbalance between instructor and student aviator, swearing, slight angst at the end, smut, handjobs, oral (f receiving), fem-dom themes

…

“You can’t sleep over.” It’s less convincing the fifth time that you’ve said it, now that your jeans are on the floor and his tongue is leaving a trail of scorching fire from the valley between your breasts to the dip of your navel. Still, he agrees just as compliantly as he had the first time that you said it. It’s a soft sound of agreement, just a hum really — real words would interrupt the adventure his mouth is on, and he just can’t afford that risk.

Teeth dragging across the flesh of your bottom lip, your groan is muffled but nonetheless, it’s out there. He chuckles against your middle, hands pressing into the softness of your waist.

“I’ll leave real early.” He promises into your skin.

It’s pointless trying a sixth time. If you had really wanted him gone, you wouldn’t have finished off those beers, or let him move things upstairs. You wouldn’t be nestled in against your pillows, basking in the way the warm muscle of his tongue knowingly works its way down your body. The hair of his mustache bristles against your skin, tickling where he sucks and nips. He knows this drives you crazy. He knows exactly how you’d want him to continue, working lower until that trimmed facial hair is bristling against your clit.

“Before eight.” You tell him.

“Why? — It’s not even a school night.” Rooster jokes, closing his mouth around your skin, kissing tenderly. Your back twists off of the mattress, keening into the feeling on his teeth grazing the plush skin of your hip. Eyes closed and actively ruining your underwear, you still breathe out a soft chuckle.

“Because I have thirty children coming tomorrow and expecting a Bluey themed rager, and I don’t think my daughter would appreciate my boyfriend crashing her birthday party.”

His tongue halts against the band of your underwear. By the time you realise what you’ve said, Bradley has already pushed himself up and is grinning down at you.

“You just called me your boyfriend.” He points out. Sitting there with that silly little grin on his face, dog tags dangling between his sun-soaked pectorals, studying you like you belong in the Louvre.

Sandalwood and vanilla fill your nose, proving to you that at least one of your senses can take in something other than him. That pretty smile and those big brown eyes might make you feel like a schoolgirl, but at least you’ve got your wits about you enough to inhale a deep breath of those scented candles flickering away on your dresser.

If you can manage that, just the one deep breath, taking in those undertones of bergamot and cedarwood, you can manage to find your footing even under the weight of that perpetual puppy-dog look on his face.

Lifting your leg, Rooster’s gaze drops from your face, his grin stretching so wide you wonder if the corners of his mouth are aiming to meet his earlobes today. He watches with that big, dumb smile on his face as you press the tip of your toe against his washboard-esque, toned middle.

“Yeah.” Just that one word makes it so clear that you’re daring him, but, in case there was any doubt on the matter, you make it that much clearer for him. One eyebrow quirked, the corner of your mouth twitches. “I also said that I’d let you sleep in my bed tonight. Makes me think it’s your turn to do something nice, don’t you think?”

His lips part, like he’s going to answer you. That look behind his eyes tells you that he’s really thinking about it; trying to think of something witty and sexy — but that hasn’t ever been his strong suit. His whole life, he’s been putting his foot in his mouth and spitting out the wrong thing. But, he doesn’t need to form a word to give you the answer you want.

Lids lowering over darkened eyes, a low growl rumbles in his chest as he drops down onto the bed beside you and grabs hold of you, manhandling you onto him. Even when he’s got you where he wants you, your thighs hugging either side of his jaw, he doesn’t grow any more gentle.

It’s the perfect view, watching the way his eyes close in delight as he drags your soaked sex down onto his mouth. The veins in his tanned hands, snaking all the way along his forearms, up into his biceps as he clutches at your thighs. His blunt nails mark your skin as his tongue greets you.

He hums into your flesh, pulling you tight against his mouth, licking a slow line upwards, savouring your taste. Just like that, he blinks slowly and stares up at you. It would be cruel, with him working so hard, not to give him a little show. His eyes widen slightly as your fingers gently card through his curls, swiping them off of his forehead with a tender touch.

“You like that, Bradley? — Letting me make a mess on your face?”

He blinks slowly, gripping your thighs so tight he might actually leave a mark. Your mouth spills open into a sultry oh that has his cock twitching in his boxers. Your hand strokes gently along his temple, following the curve of his eye socket before it heads back for your own body.

Rooster watches you all the way, licking languidly at your sex. Your hand travels your naked torso, inching its way upward until your fingers curl into the flesh of your tit. Leaning your head back, you hum graphically and swipe your thumb over your nipple.

“That’s it, baby,” You tell him, feeling the way his talented mouth stutters. “Making me feel so good. You’re gonna be a good boy and make me cum on your mouth aren’t you?”

This time, his hands abandon your thighs. Good boy, baby. It all makes him hard, but his muscle reminds you how much of a man he is. He grabs fistfuls of your ass, squeezing the soft flesh in his hands, angling you impossibly closer against his face and burying himself in your soaked cunt.

Nose bumping into your clit, your arousal soaking his face and the deep rumble of his groan sending vibrations through your body. This is getting him off just as much as it’s getting you off and Bradley isn’t ashamed of it in the slightest. He wants you to know it.

His lips latch around your clit, those pretty brown eyes widening as you lean back and brace one hand against his abs, taking control. You rock yourself against his mouth, fingers searching across the rigid planes of his firey hot stomach for purchase.

“Keep talking.” He demands, pausing just briefly to spit out the instruction before he’s tonguing at the sensitive bud between your legs once again. This time, he keeps his attention right there, squeezing his eyes shut, groping at your ass.

A devilish smile crosses your face as you reach forwards with your free hand and grab a hold of those pretty auburn curls. He lets you guide his mouth, switching between sucking at your clit and making you jolt against his mouth, and trailing his tongue through different cycles of literature until you’re moaning his name.

“That’s it, Bradley — just a little more, you can give me a little more, can’t you?”

Of course he can, and he’s so desperate too. One of his hands abandons its quest to bruise your ass and two of his fingers are trailing through your arousal before you can even ask him for more. You’re soaked enough that they slide in easily, curling against your plush walls, twisting until he finds your g-spot.

“Oh, fuck — that’s it. Don’t stop, baby, don’t stop.” You beg him, riding his face as his fingers thrust into you, his tongue lapping eagerly at your increasingly sensitive clit. All at once, he sends you hurtling towards your orgasm, and you’re more than happy to give him all of it. He couldn’t stop now anyway. Even when you’re spent, and panting hard, trembling as you lift yourself off of his jaw, he’s following you away.

He chases you backwards until you’re planted in front of him and he’s kneeling between your legs.

“Mm, you’re such a good boy, huh?” You sit up, kissing his mouth softly, feeling the way he presses into you like he’s proud to share the taste of you that’s on his tongue. He hums happily as you card your fingers through his head. His mouth hangs open as you turn your head and kiss softly at his earlobe. “Now fuck me like one.”

You wish you could blame him for him still being here now, at ten. It’s not his fault, really. It’s just that there’s something about seeing him asleep in your bed that makes you so hot.

Physically hot, like a flush that spreads through your body and won’t go away until you’ve gotten what you wanted. Too warm from the very beginning, light peeking in from behind the heavy curtains and Rooster draped over you like a blanket — it’s becoming a cherished part of your morning routine to have to push him off of you.

After sex, Rooster always sleeps like a baby. He doesn’t even stir when you pad off to the bathroom. Your ex-husband had always been an early riser.

Now, these sunny mornings are all your own. Brushing your teeth and taking time for yourself. Fixing yourself a cup of coffee before wandering back upstairs to check if the man in your bed is blinking those pretty brown eyes yet.

No. All heavy breathing and tangled sheets, he has twisted himself onto his back and is snoring softly. One hand under the pillow behind his head, the other strewn out across the side that you usually occupy.

Even better than the mornings to yourself: being the one who gets to wake him. Your mouth starts off on his knee. By the time you’re licking at his chest, nipping your way towards his mouth, he’s humming tiredly and reaching out for you.

One of his hands finds your face, smoothing your hair back softly as he blinks his eyes open. He was smiling before he had even opened his eyes, feeling the chill of the room as you had pulled the covers slowly off of him. Your warm mouth, licking and biting along the ridges of his abs as his fingers spread across the sheets.

“Shit, Hyde…” He’s already rock hard and straining against his boxers — as he wakes up most mornings, struggling not to push his hips up eagerly in search of your touch. “Can you take this off?”

Smiling at him, you compliantly peel the nightie over your head and lower your mouth. He bites his lip as you watch him through your lashes, licking at his navel. You follow his happy trail, your mouth so close to his skin that his erect cock strains against your throat through his boxers.

From the second that you’ve got your mouth wrapped around him, he hisses sharply and digs his heels into the mattress for leverage.

“That feels so good.” He pants, brows drawing together as your bob your mouth slowly along his length. Chest heaving, he almost squeezes his eyes shut but he can’t stand to tear his gaze away. Neither can you.

Never in a relationship before have you cared about pleasing a man quite like you have with Rooster. It’s hard to help, the addiction to those flushed cheeks and parted pink lips comes quickly.

He shudders as you rake your nails along his taut stomach, letting his head fall back, moaning unashamedly. He’s never afraid to let you know how good you’re making him feel.

But, you’re interrupted. Your eyes flicker up to his, his head lifting swiftly off of the pillow to stare at you with wide eyes as your phone rings through the room. He whines softly as you pull your lips off of him and lean across to grab it.

Pressing it to your ear with one hand, Bradley stares with wide open eyes as you stroke his cock with the other. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he settles back down against the pillows and exhales softly. He trusts you, sure, but he hopes this phone call is a fast one.

“Hi, how’s it going?” You smile at the sound of your friend’s voice. Bradley curls his fingers into the sheets, pressing his mouth firmly closed. He swallows thickly, watching your hand move in a twisting motion along his cock.

Your smile fades at whatever you’re being told on the phone. He whimpers under his breath. “Oh no, really?”

“Hyde.” Rooster whispers, shifting his hips uncomfortably. You take no notice.

“No, of course,” You hum, giving an understanding nod of your head as your thumb swipes through the pre-cum gathered on the tip of his cock. Bradley’s lips part and this time his mouth hangs open. Heat spreads across his cheeks. “No! It’s not your fault, you couldn’t have known that he would get sick.”

“Hyde.” Rooster whines quietly, staring at the way your hand works around his cock. The way your breasts are right in front of him and your nipples are hardened in the morning air.

“I’ll figure something out. Really it’s okay.” You promise, far more focused on the phone call than you are on the man in your bed. Rooster grits his teeth and closes his eyes. His breathing grows deeper as he tries to calm himself down long enough for your conversation to come to an end. It’s no use.

Your gaze flickers back down to him as he grabs the pillow from your side and presses it tight over his face, making you stop mid-sentence. “Totally, thanks for—“

He grunts into the pillow, jolting as he cums hard into your palm and across his stomach. Your mouth drops open, staring down at the mess he has made in your hand, lips twisting up into an amused grin.

“Letting me know. I’ll call you later.” You finish, hanging the phone up quickly and tossing it out of the way. Rooster groans hard, panting as he pushes the pillow away.

“Fuck... I tried to warn you.” He mumbles, his entire face pink now. Your mouth twitches, smiling softly as you lift your hand and lick it clean. He groans as he sits up and kisses your mouth eagerly. “What was that?”

“My friend. Her kid is sick, so they can’t make it to help set up the party. I should get up, I’ve got so much to do.” You sigh, pushing yourself out of bed and heading for the bathroom. Rooster’s hot on your heels and not just because he has to clean himself up.

“I could help.”

“I don’t want to risk you being here when the kids get home. It’s not the right time for you to meet them.” You explain, stripping out of your underwear and turning the shower on. Rooster shrugs his shoulders as he cleans himself up.

“I could call the guys, get it all done faster. We’d be out of your hair before the kids get here and you don’t have to do it yourself.” He offers. Jake and Javy — you hadn’t thought of them. The look on your face alone has him smiling. He nods, leaning forwards and kissing your mouth softly. “I’ll call them.”

Thirty minutes later, you’re pulling open the door to two of your smiling students. As they step past you, you swallow at the thought of them being in your home — Rooster is one thing but inviting the whole class home is another. They grin at you from the other side of your front door, and it’s a little too late to change your mind.

“Nice place, Hyde!” Coyote compliments as he looks around the living room. Rooster jogs down the stairs pulling his shirt over his head, stumbling into the garment. Jake shoots you a smirk.

You inhale deeply and exhale. “Alright, this party starts in three hours and we’ve got a lot to do. Javy, you’re on balloons. Jake, you’re on banners. Rooster, can you figure out the bounce house with me?”

They all give you curt nods. This isn’t the first time that they have heard you give orders, they know what to do. Standing behind you, Javy reaches behind the couch cushion and lifts Rooster’s belt from behind it. Jake’s lips quirk up into an amused smirk. Rooster presses his lips into a line. This is your kid’s big day and as much as he loves his friends, he isn’t going to let them screw around.

As you turn and walk outside, Rooster snatches it back and shoots his friends a look each. They’re left in your living room with an array of orange and blue decorations.

“Crazy that if this works out then Rooster’s going to have two kids on his hands.” Javy muses as he drops down to the couch and pulls the balloons into his lap to begin inflating them. Jake cranes his neck to stare through the window into the back yard.

“One of them’s practically a teenager too.” Jake hums as he picks the birthday girl banner up from the coffee table. “Not to mention having to deal with Cyclone on holidays and special occasions.”

This makes them share a look. Then, their attention turns back outside. Rooster’s got his hands on your waist — Jake and Javy can’t hear but he’s telling you that everything’s going to be okay. You’re smiling at him, leaning into his touch.

Maybe it’ll be worth it.

The three hour countdown weighs in heavy. Bradley’s determined not to let the burden fall on you, even after it takes forty minutes just to figure out how to inflate the bounce house.

“Do I sound— Woah!” Javy whoops, voice distorted and cartoonish from the helium. Jake snickers from his spot on top of a chair, pinning balloons around the doorframe in an arch of pinks, yellows and whites.

At the sound of laughter, Rooster marches into the room and scowls seriously at the two of them.

“Can you idiots behave for five seconds? Put the helium down. Damn it, Hangman! You’re supposed to be grouping them in bunches of three.”

You’ve seen Rooster in action. He’s a good pilot with the potential to be a great one. He could be a great leader, but he’s got a temper that he’s trying hard to keep under control in work. Today, you see exactly what you knew he could be.

Taking charge, ordering his friends around your house with confidence, but still a personable touch. He cares for them. He wants them to get it right. He wants to get it all right, for you, for your daughter.

“So, you’re going to bring us birthday cake as a thanks on Monday, right, Hyde?” Hangman asks, frowning in concentration as he straightens out the birthday banner. Rooster, holding the other end, peers back over his shoulder at you and smiles.

“I guess that’s the least I could do.” You answer, watching amusedly as Jake tries to tug the banner straight and Rooster fights him every step of the way. Behind you, the doorbell buzzes. “One sec.”

You trail through the house, listening to Javy singing softly along to early 2000s pop as you pass by. Twisting the door handle, your face instantly drops. Beau is standing outside, wearing his regular jeans and t-shirt combo, with a cast wrapped around his wrist.

Beau swallows as you step closer, blocking the door with your body. He raises his hands in defense.

“I’m not here to start trouble, I swear.” After snapping his own wrist like a twig trying to hit your boy toy, Beau figures he should try to lay off all the anger before the Navy sticks him in one of those therapy groups. You stare at him, waiting for him to explain himself. He’s not welcome in your home after the shit he pulled this week, and he’s not coming in without an explanation.

Truthfully, he doesn’t even know why he still rang the bell after he saw the cars in the driveway.

“I heard Lindsay couldn’t make it, I thought maybe you could use a hand… I see now that, uh… — Look, never mind. I’ll go.” Beau mumbles, already starting back towards the door. Already shaking his head. He isn’t looking at you, he’s looking at Rooster. You hadn’t even realized that Beau could see him past your shoulder. Your boyfriend, setting up his daughter’s birthday party.

He thinks back to last year. Taylor’s pirate-themed birthday party had been incredible. Beau had thought he was doing you a favour by staying out of your way. He wonders if he had asked, if you would have let him help.

Probably not. You know him well enough to know that he would have complained, and criticized — the two of you could never pull together something like this.

Beau looks over your shoulder, watching the way that your boyfriend isn’t even fazed by his presence. He’s too busy making sure that Taylor’s day is going to be special.

“Is he… — Are you going to introduce him to the kids today?” Beau stammers, eyes flickering back to you. There’s a sense of pleading in the grey of his irises. Watching you move on is one thing, but watching his children grow accustomed to someone new is something that he just isn’t prepared for.

You shoot a quick glance over your shoulder at the three guys in your living room, then back to your ex-husband.

“No, not today,” You tell him calmly. “I was thinking next weekend.”

He stares back at you. Even over the music and the guys chatting, it’s like you can hear your ex-husband’s heart thundering in his chest. But you’ve spent too long sparing his emotions to back down and change your mind about this.

“Would you like to be there for it?” You try.

Quickly, he shakes his head. His attention is back on Rooster. He studies the way that Rooster takes a moment to survey the room, then goes right back to adjusting. You’re not even watching and the kid still won’t cut corners.

“No.” Beau decides. He pushes his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and meets your gaze once again, steely and calmer than you have seen him in a while. “But I’m… okay with it. He seems like a good guy.”

You raise your brows at him.

“I’ll come back later, once the kids are here. The party looks great. You… you did great.” He tells you, voice growing low and croaky. You offer him nothing but a polite nod and watch him turn away.

…

Tags: @cherrycola27 @mak-32 @khaylin27 @stoncms @shanimallina87 @cool-ultra-nerd @angelmavmurdock @gingerbreadandpaper @mizzzpink @whisperofsong @throwinsauce @perpetuelledaydreaming @n3ssm0nique @thedroneranger @abaker74 @marantha @ghxst-heart @diamond-3 @shawnsblue

[max1461]

It's like, I enjoy history, and there are lots of other history enthusiasts here! Why don't I chat with them about history more? Well sometimes I do, but like... every post about history on here has to including some musings somewhere about like, what we can learn from it. Was this historical event good or bad? Can we implement this historical type of institution in our own society? Does the collapse of the blah-blah empire portend the collapse of America?

And it all just feels so vapid and pointless. These "lessons" are 99% of the time deepities or insight-porn, and they are likewise 99% of the unpleasant. I want to read history to hear about interesting things from the past. The details, the specific events, that's the interesting bit. I think attempts to create natural-science style generalizations or laws about history is probably futile, outside some very basic observations about like, population size and production capacity and stuff. But everyone is always trying to extract these "take aways", these fucking lessons, and figure out how to apply them to the present and to the fucking discourse du jour and whatever.

And I just feel like it makes history discussion unpleasant to engage with, it makes these things all fraught instead of just cool and interesting. And fraught for no epistemically justified reason.

You know those WW2 enthusiasts who just want to talk about all the different models of tank? I wish everyone was more like that, for every different period of history.

I'm like that, but instead of models of tank, it's languages. I like knowing about all the different languages and where and when they were spoken and what's related to what and so on. You can model me quite accurately as a WW2 tank guy but for languages.

But everyone is always trying to look at history and conclude shit, and I'm just like

you probably can't

trying makes the whole thing more unpleasant

I don't know, I think I wouldn't mind the "meta-historical navel gazing" if it was occasional, I might even like it. But it's way more frequent than could possibly be justified on the grounds of its intellectual merits or of its enjoyableness!

[vesuvianhermitcrabs]

Vesuvia Weekly: Getting Caught Watching Them Sleep

(Starring Muriel and my very own MC, Bea!!)

Sleep rarely ever came easy. The fire had been put out hours ago, and any warmth left from it's flames had since seeped out of the hut.

The air is cold on my bare face and hands, so I pull them under the furs and writhe around until I deem them warm enough. I know that if I shuffled just a little to the right, I could cling to Muriel and sponge off his body heat.

How does he stay so warm all the time? I wonder wistfully.

I manage to restrain myself, at least for a little longer. Last time I threw myself against him (with all the grace of a drunken wrestler) he ended up in a pile on the floor, hands covering his flushed face. I've decided that sudden physical contact in the night probably isn't the best idea, especially considering his past. Initiating it when he's awake is a completely different story, though. I squish myself into the mattress a little more to cope.

I feel around for Inanna. When I can't find her I cast a very faint light spell to seek her out. Ah. I realize she's curled up over top of the spilled contents of my yarn bucket.

Wonderful. Another sleepless night with minimal warmth and worse, no Inanna.

I turn the dim light that is hovering over my hands to Muriel. I watch the shadows move over his face, which is exceptionally content-looking in the darkness; his resting bitch face gone with the struggles of the day.

I yawn, placing my head back on the pillow. I tentatively reach out to push the hair away from his face, before stopping to run my fingers through it.

Oh.

Damn, bro is one pretty fuckin' princess.

I feel my face heat as I realize what I'm doing and immediately repress that random cheesy train of thought. Though I don't know why. We have been living together in the hut for a few months now.

The next few minutes are spent gazing into his face, thinking of what he would say if he knew this is how I spend most of my sleepless nights. I feel the light falter. I pull my hand away from his hair, before I decide to try my hand at sleeping yet again.

I hear an almost silent grunt as soon as my head hits the pillow.

"...Bea."

I'm silent for a moment, contemplating pretending to be asleep before I realize the endeavor would be pointless.

"Muriel." My voice is dry and unpleasant. I resummon the light so I can just barely make out the features of his face, which is a tiny bit scrunched up from my rude awakening.

He reaches out to cup half of my face in his hand, which is so warm I'm forced to melt a little.

Muriel looks at me for a moment before mumbling something about me being too cold and pulling me in by the waist. His arms wrap around my shoulder blades and back, and his face tentatively buries into my collarbone.

He'll definitely find a way to be embarrassed about this in the morning, I think.

...and then he's back asleep so fast it almost feels as if he was never awake at all.

I tuck my knees into my chest, shins brushing Muriel's navel.

A tiny sigh escapes me as I finally, finally feel like I can fall asleep; even if I need to wake up in a few hours anyways.

---

a/n: holy moly that was insane. i hope it's not overly out of character or anything i tried my best :'))

[seeminglyseph]

This is probably like. A weird thing to be concerned about, but like. The degree of polish and like. Quality in some of the recent entries to the V/H/S franchise sometimes is like… intimidating and feels like. I mean I don’t wanna tell people specifically to be worse at film making or anything, and it’s not like I think anyone broke rules making their entries I don’t think. But I think I mostly mean this to say towards audience members sometimes, ‘cause a lot of V/H/S is kinda *supposed* to be lower budget and experimental in comparison to blockbuster movies or whatever. That’s why the first one has that like “what the fuck?” Aspect to some of the shorts, they kinda feel like student films, because they were like… “gather some people up, get some relatively affordable equipment you can maybe rent, and go film on a rented set or out in the woods which is mostly free”

It feels cheap because it is cheap, and the cheapness makes it have that exact kind of horror vibe it was going for by being VHS. The more polished and high budget and impressive it gets, the less it feels like an experiment in cheapness.

I think there’s a really strong charm to the shorts that feel a little like “film makers create a student film” and I’m not using student film as an insult because I think there’s something really interesting and raw to the like. Sets and characters and costumes put together when you’ve got really really passionate, but broke and unpolished creators? When you’ve got like the cameras and equipment rented from the school and you’re filming it in the weird woods by your old house because you always thought they looked cool and wrote a lot of stories there anyway and now you’re trying to make one of them into a reality and the makeup person might just be your friend who spends too much money at Sephora so everyone voted them to be in charge of makeup and now they’re having a nervous breakdown because they only know how to do their own makeup and they’re looking up tutorials online for blood effects and actually really pulling it off and maybe figuring out something new about themselves.

One of the biggest personal expenses turns out to be a Cricut machine for the prop department but then the fact you don’t have to worry about carpal tunnel taking out your prop and costume department does make up for it eventually. Also someone made you a custom graphic T and you stop grumbling about the budget for a while.

Chances are also probably good you made a deal with the local produce shops to take the cabbage and melons that go bad for reduced price if you’re making a movie with violence, for all the free sound effects available online, it helps to have something live on the day. And head of cabbage or a melon works good on a low budget set.

It has been like two decades since I’ve been anywhere near even a low budget TV/Film set in Canada and I think some of these might be stage tricks instead. But still. There’s so much charm to them??? And it’s why I think a lot of horror fans love low budget horror.

(Also I should note, I was like. A youth working as an extra on a couple filming projects and took independent personal acting/filmmaking classes that taught me about aspects of the industry and tricks of the trade, but I never got super deep into anything. I saw how stuff was done and did some amateur filming projects which is how I learned how to fake things, but I never learned how big budget things were made. Everything I ever learned was cheap corner cutting for people making things on grants or for the passion of arts, not… uh. Millions or hundreds of thousands of dollars. I learned small Canadian Arts Film, not Hollywood Filmmaking. They were… not all encompassing and I am not positioning myself as an expert in anything… just… running my mouth like a know-it-all honestly.)

And like. I think most of V/H/S still accomplishes a lot of it. Praise Ratma.

It’s probably just a couple like… big sensational show stopping shorts by directors who really know how to work with their budgets more than like… any kind of change to the system. And the fact that I like it when it’s kinda messy and sloppy and shows the seams and the actors aren’t super great and the premise feels a little half baked? Not… fully bad because that “actually the cult was fake and the raid was a ploy by us, the sexy lady cops who are actually… big name sexy snuff film peddlers who’ve been profiting from all the sick twisted videos you’ve been watching and we’re gonna make out while killing you” was like. Running a full sprint into a wall, like they almost made it and then they just made a really bafflingly bad decision in the final moments to like. Completely derail that train at the station and I don’t think anyone was satisfied with how that ended.

I don’t think I have the most solid of a point, really, except that a lot of films are very big and polished and expensive lately. And horror is one of those last bastions of “no budget? No problem.” Mindsets. And I kinda love it for that. And I wanna see it continued. I wouldn’t mind it catching on to other genres again because too much of everything has to look and feel and seem high quality making the barrier to entry nearly impossible to pass. But, I hope V/H/S maintains its cheapness because it’s kinda integral to keeping horror accessible. It’s good, it’s fun, it’s experimental, it creates access to new voices.

Yeah going back to the early entries some of it is like “wow that’s pretty gross” but like. There’s a reason most of those characters died horrible deaths. They were shitty garbage trash people on purpose and you were supposed to hate them so when they were brutally murdered you didn’t feel too bad about being like “ohh my got holy shit” and probably doing the mix of laughing and wincing and screaming when the rapist gets his dick literally ripped off and thrown across the room you don’t really feel that terrible about your fear response also being kinda giddy and giggly.

I am overthinking this. Idk. I love this franchise. I hope it lives in cheap gritty gross weird glory forever. Anthology Horror is such a good genre.

[russanogreenstripe]

I can never truly come to hate Mass Effect 3

I wrote 1500ish words a few years ago about how a particular moment in Mass Effect 3 critically hit my feelings, and thus it forever has a lifetime pass from me. It was written fairly close to the game's original release, so I wrote it to lessen spoilers. Another post on here reminded me of this, and thought some folks might appreciate some navel-gazing about ME3.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I can never truly come to hate Mass Effect 3. Not because it’s a perfect game - far from it. I dislike elements of the game, disagree with some of the narrative choices, and scratch my head at some of the mechanics. However, I cannot foresee a future where I despise everything about the game. Despite its flaws, Mass Effect 3 earned a lifetime pass in my book thanks to a single moment where the game set me up, played me like a fiddle, and made me viscerally feel something in a way that few other games have.

To understand what this game did to me, you need to understand my experience playing Mass Effect 3. When I relate these events to you, I’m talking about my 'canon run', where I played the game for the first time. When I think of Commander Shepard and the story of Mass Effect, my run is what I think of first, regardless of other characters I played, or how other people experienced the game.

Firstly, my Commander Shepard hadn’t suffered a real loss that was the direct result of their actions. He had endured setbacks—there's points in each of the games where no matter what you do, the outcome is always set in stone. But for all those times when Shepard could make the call, it always ended in his favor. He may have worked hard to make it happen, but so far, he had always earned his happy ending. He talked down a cherished ally from an otherwise lethal conflict. He saved the Council. He had the complete loyalty of his crew. He made it through a suicide mission with no casualties. He gave a future to a dying people. He peacefully ended a war that lasted for three centuries. At the end of the day, he could rest his head knowing he made the right call and succeeded for it.

The second factor is Kai Leng. Kai Leng is an antagonist that shows up during Mass Effect 3's second act. He's specifically written as a foil to Shepard. Every time you encounter him in-game, you're at cross-purposes; one of you will succeed and the other will fail. And every time, Leng is convinced he will come out the victor, and that Shepard's efforts are in vain. He goes out of his way to tell you that he is superior in every way, and that he is your replacement. Everything you do is pointless because he will stop you, he will end you, and he will surpass you. Needless to say, I didn't like the guy. Not just because of his attitude, but because he inflicts one of those unavoidable setbacks I mentioned earlier. Just the mention of this guy was enough to make me grit my teeth in anger.

With these two things behind me, Mass Effect 3’s final act began. As it turns out, Shepard needed something to win the war he's fighting, and it’s on the homeworld of one of the franchise's most beloved characters. And it just so happens that the war finally reached that character's homeworld. So he and this beloved character made planetfall in the middle of an active warzone – one that Shepard's side is losing badly. Seeing this planet burn was a blow to both Shepard and this character who's been with him for years now. He gets to the thing he needs, and just as he's about to take it, who shows up but Lieutenant Bastard Kai Leng. Whom you fight in actual gameplay for the first time.

Except, it's not a real battle, oh no. It's one of those good ol' supposed-to-lose fights. Hilariously enough, I beat the tar out of Leng. If it were just up to game mechanics, Shepard would have ended the son of a bitch right then and there. But instead, whereas a moment ago I was pumping bullets into this guy's face, I get treated to a cutscene where Leng forces Shepard back, takes the thing Shepard needs, and makes off, practically twirling his mustache and laughing the whole way. The cutscene ends with Shepard and one of his closest allies looking out over a devastated world, fires burning and enemy forces overrunning allied positions, and everyone knows the day is lost. Shepard knows it. Your allies know it. I know it.

I – me, personally, the flesh-and-blood human holding the controller – was not prepared for this outcome. At that moment, I felt that loss so strongly that I forgot I was playing a game. Emotional investment and suspension of disbelief was at maximum. I wasn't analyzing story beats, I was navigating by pure feeling instead. I couldn't imagine how Shepard could win the war after this resounding defeat – this one loss spelled the end. As the next scene loaded, I felt myself grow cold and heavy on the inside. It felt like there was a block of ice in my chest, weighing me down and numbing me. Shepard looked defeated in the next cutscene as well; his debriefing basically confirmed everything that I was afraid of. Everything had been riding on this mission, and now all the struggle, all the sacrifice, all the effort put into winning this war was for nothing. Shepard's liaison in the army was in shock, while Shepard himself was utterly dejected.

By this point, I had been playing for hours. It was growing late, and I was ready to put the controller down. A part of me wanted to never pick it back up, because this defeat was so utterly devastating. This one loss had completely sapped my will to keep playing, because victory felt impossible.

However, if Mass Effect does anything, it trains its players well. Even the first game encourages you to make your rounds of the ship after each storyline mission, getting updates from others in the galaxy and having conversations with your crew. This trend continues all the way to Mass Effect 3, and the storyline mission I just completed. A minor NPCs I passed by onboard my ship echoed feelings of shock and defeat, like those I felt. One of them notified me of new messages on my in-game email terminal – I resolved myself to read those messages, then turn off the game.

One of the messages Shepard got was marked as coming from the planet I had just left, a high-priority message from its military command. Here is the message in its entirety, save some minor edits to prevent spoilers.

Good. You opened this message. This isn't actually [alien] military command. They're busy tending to what's left of their planet. So you survived our fight on [Planet]. You're not as weak as I thought. But never forget that your best wasn't good enough to stop me. Now an entire planet is dying because you lacked the strength to win. The legend of Shepard needs to be re-written. I hope I'm there for the last chapter. It ends with your death. -KL

In that moment, I physically experienced that heavy feeling, that numbness, that block of ice in my chest melt away. This is no hyperbole – it literally felt like melted ice draining away, weight and coldness leaving my body. In its place, a fire of uncontrolled rage ignited that I had never felt before. I was frothing with anger. I was so mad I couldn't form words, instead making noises of anguish and rage. Eventually I did speak, but I could only express profanities and swears. I think the first actual sentence I could make was “I'm going to stick his head on a pike!” I stayed mad for hours afterwards, continuing to play the game, motivated by nothing but rage.

If Bioware hadn't built me up just to knock me down at that moment, I don't think I would have continued playing. It was a master stroke, building on my investment in the series - the feelings and perceptions from across three games and literally hundreds of hours of playtime - to completely blindside me. To some, the message from Kai Leng might feel contrived or over-the-top. But in that moment, I was fully invested in the game and experienced levels of emotion that I could not have had without that interactive experience. Few games have that strong of an impact on me, and those are the ones I treasure. And because of that undiluted emotion I got to experience, Mass Effect 3 will forever be one of the most important games I ever played.

[transmutationisms]

idk if you’ve ever talked about kendall and guilt on here but i’m curious to know your thoughts! i’m endlessly fascinated by him as a character and endlessly fascinated by your writing

yeah i touched on this in the ask below, but i think kendall's sense of guilt is deeply tied up with his general feelings of inadequacy, emptiness, etc. it's the flip-side of having a massive ego with no deeper sense of self. kendall tends to think of himself in binary terms: he's good because he's not logan, or he's evil because he can never escape logan's blood. because kendall doesn't know much about himself beyond his relationship with logan, he can switch rapidly between these ideas, bouncing from a euphoric self-righteousness directly into the pits of self-loathing despair. i don't think guilt is an inherently unproductive emotion, but when combined with kendall's extreme navel-gazing and simultaneous emotional need to stake his identity on belief in his own goodness, guilt becomes less a spur to change his behaviour and more a tool of endless, pointless psychic self-flagellation. kendall can't really conceptualise a way of changing internally, so instead the self-flagellation tends to be externalised into his desire to martyr himself, hence his shoplifting (a toothless effort to provoke disciplinary punishment) or his repeated half-hearted efforts to kill himself in public. he desperately wants to be a good person but has no deeper sense of what that means, so when he's confronted with the possibility that he's done something shitty, the guilt tends to rise up instead. he doesn't know how to change because he's trapped by his own self-obsession, which is not remotely the same as self-awareness. ultimately as long as he still lacks a solid internal identity and defines himself solely by external validation, he's going to continue to be susceptible to these types of dramatic binary shifts in self-perception and deep-seated feelings of worthlessness and guilt that threaten to rise up at any moment. paradoxically, of course, his desire to avoid confronting these feelings (because he's afraid they will turn out to be true) is part of what stops him from developing that deeper sense of self in the first place.

[lesbiancosimaniehaus]

Whenever I see tweets that are like “I’m still processing 2019” because they can’t believe time passes or whatever, I like to think that maybe if that person spent a minute or two on productive introspection and not just mindless media consumption and pointless navel gazing they could catch up with their own lives.

[dasha-aibo]

Death of the author is a stupid AF concept, because with enough navel-gazing you can extrapolate ANY meaning from ANY text. People have claimed that statements as innocuous as "I like dogs" are racist and sexist, because dogs at some point were used to hunt black people and cats are associated with femininity.

It's the most self-absorbed exercise in pointless posturing imaginable and if you are gleefully partaking in it, I AM judging you

[cantsayidont]

CHESTNUT (2023): Wistful but tedious and ultimately pointless indie drama, written and directed by Jac Cron, about a romantic triangle between a recent college grad named Annie (Natalia Dyer), who is preparing to move to Los Angeles to take a new job, and two people she meets in a bar one night: a woman named Tyler (Rachel Keller), whose obvious but fitful attraction to Annie never seems to coalesce beyond the occasional drunken makeout, and Tyler's friend Danny (Danny Ramirez), with whom Tyler eventually claims to be in love, although Annie is never sure if he reciprocates Tyler's interest or not.

Like a Sofia Coppola film or the navel-gazing indie comics of the '90s and early '00s, CHESTNUT mistakes meticulous observation of minor incidents for story. The interactions between the characters are credible enough, but the characters are VERY thin, nothing really happens, and there's so little at stake that there's no reason to care. Annie becomes just invested enough to get her feelings hurt, but she and Tyler barely know each other (and Danny even less), she's leaving town in a few days no matter what, and it's hard to imagine that in six months any of them will give the whole business any further thought — not what you'd call riveting drama. The last straw is the irritating tinkling piano score, an arthouse cliché that had got on my last nerve by the time the credits rolled. CONTAINS LESBIANS? Annie is bisexual, and Tyler probably is as well, although she's reluctant to acknowledge it. VERDICT: Polished for a first feature, but it just doesn't add up to anything.

[jianghuchild]

the most interesting thing i can do (a sister poem about joy)

a companion piece to an unpublished poem by @vyther16

~

i don’t like writing

poetry, because i never have anything

interesting

to say

~

i don’t have capital T

Trauma, or Grief, or even 

Pain

~

all i can write are

limericks and

silly haikus and—if

i try hard enough—

navel-gazing pointless bullshit about Identity

~

but here is the thing

that i am realizing: pain is

boring

and evil so utterly

uninteresting

~

i can write poems, after all

if the poem is about how pretty

i am, when my hair falls

just right and i look in the

mirror with love

~

i can write poems, after all

if it’s about my silly 

internet friends—the way we 

scream like groupies

around each other on ao3

~

i can write poems, after all

if i write about my sister

spending over a hundred bucks

to get us the second-cheapest seats

at a three-hour long chinese comedy show

~

i can write poems, if i just

delete the first half of this one