#the world is already full of entitled men

[grendel-menz]

I’m saying this as a butch transmasc - all transmascs need to take a step back and look at what kind of man (broad sense) they want to be. Masculinity is not about hormones or top surgery or body hair or anything surface like that, but about the role you play in the lives of women and children. Be chivalrous, be kind, prioritize their safety. Girls aren’t feeling comfortable or safe. Gender is a community role. Open the car door for your mother, tell your friends to stop weird behavior, and get over yourself.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Not How His Monday Was Supposed to Go

Bruce Wayne x plus size reader

The new Wayne Enterprises board member has had enough of Bruce’s shit.

Warnings: Bruce is a bit of an asshole and a pig, mention of a family member needing surgery, swearing, reader is a girlboss, Bruce is low-key a sub, implied smut

WC: 1.1k

Minors DNI

When you agreed to act as your father’s representative for Wayne Enterprises as he recovered from surgery, you certainly weren’t expecting the CEO of the company to stroll in three hours late, dark purple bruises littering his muscular neck, dark shades perched on the end of his nose, suit and hair ruffled. 

You huffed as he crumpled into the stupidly expensive chair at the head of the table, only four seats down from you. You had to admit he was a very handsome man, with broad shoulders and dark hair that seemed to curl perfectly around his sculpted face. He gave an air of intimidation but his bright blue eyes made him seem approachable. “So what’d I miss?”

And suddenly your attraction to the man was gone.

Every meeting that followed, Bruce would strut into the room several hours late, one time he was already there when everyone arrived but he was asleep and still wearing the same clothes as the day before. Most times, he wouldn’t even show up, but when he did, he wouldn’t contribute anything meaningful to the conversation, simply giving generic anecdotes that related to the women he had seduced.

The most aggravating thing was, you knew how intelligent he could be. Sometimes it would just slip out. He would say something profound and incredibly smart but he would quickly catch himself and wave it off with some half-hearted comment like “or whatever the senator told me last night. Though I could have heard her wrong, her mouth was quite full”. It irked you to no end, especially being the only woman serving on the board.

As the weeks dragged on and your father’s health was improving, your own mental health was going completely downhill and by the time your last day arrived, you were done with this alpha male bullshit that Bruce loved to instigate. So, as your final meeting ended, which Bruce conveniently didn’t attend, you stormed off, ready to give the man a piece of your mind.

Your heels clacked on the polished floor leading to the massive corner office he had claimed for himself. As you neared the huge dark gray doors, you paused for a moment, pulling down your pencil skinny so it sat lower down your plump thighs instead of bunching up, and making sure you didn’t have any of those dreaded button gaps around your considerable bust. 

Taking in one last deep breath, trying to will yourself not to straggle the man right as you saw him, you gave a firm knock to the door and walked in. 

Your boss was hunched over his desk, intently staring at what appeared to be blueprints. His dark Armani suit jacket was off and hanging over the back of his chair, leaving him in only a white button-up that stretched across the bulk of his muscles. 

“Mr Wayne.” He glanced up from his work and a brief look of shock flashed across his face before he steeled his expression once more.

He muttered your name as he pushed his work to the side. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” The words were polite but his tone was anything but. He sounded like a typical frat boy who felt entitled to your attentions and affections. Your face fell into a scowl.

The door shut behind you with a slam, but you did not flinch. “Mr Wayne, this visit will be anything except a pleasure.” You strode forward with all the confidence in the world, anger swirling around you. “I have sat in that boardroom for weeks watching as you indulged men far below your moral and social standing. You have let them run wild, making a fool out of not only themselves but of you and your business.”

Bruce sat back in his chair, eyes wide as he watched you get closer and closer. “And I have had enough. I can see right through you Mr Wayne. You’re a smart man, you’re compassionate and generous, and yet you still act like these worms, pretend to be like them for some dumbass reason.”

You planted your hands onto his desk and loomed over the CEO. “So no matter what you do outside of this office that might redeem your flimsy character, you still let shit like this happen here and that makes you just as bad as those little boys. Fuck you Mr Wayne. Next time I see you, I will kick you in the nuts so hard your kids will feel it.”

And with that you turned and strode out like a conquering hero before realising you forgot something. You stuck your head back into his office. “Oh and go to all your meetings like a goddamn adult.” The door slammed shut on a bewildered looking Bruce who’s pants suddenly seemed a couple sizes too small.

“Wait wait wait. So the first time mom talked to you she cussed you out and threatened to assault you!” Tim exclaimed, eyes wide with shock. Dick and Jason seemed both amused and disgusted while Damian just looked at his father with immeasurable disappointment. Bruce smirked as he watched his boys have a simultaneous meltdown. The question had been a simple one, how did their parents meet, but it seems like they weren’t ready for the answer

“Yep.” He said proudly. “And let me tell you, it was the sexiest thing she’s ever done.”

“Ugh!”

“Gross!”

“Y’all are nasty!”

“Don’t talk about our mother like that!” They all screamed at once and, like usual, came to protect your honour. But Bruce just chuckled.

“She was a powerful woman, what can I say?” 

“Was?” You cooed suddenly over his shoulder. “Who’s the one running Wayne Enterprises now?” Your sharp nails dragged along the skin top of his chest where his tight shirt didn’t cover. He shivered under your touch, his entire body going to mush.

You looked up from your now boneless husband to your sons. “Your father was a real piece of work when I first met him but I fixed him up real good.” You purred and pressed the tips of your nails into his skin.

Jason was the first to break, surprisingly. “Jesus Christ!” He cried out, slapping his hands over his ears. Then, they toppled like dominos.

Dick was positively green, Tim had a vein in his neck that looked like it was about to burst and Damian was glaring at the floor. “Go on boys, get out of here before I teach your father another lesson.” In a collective pile, they tumbled from the room, scrambling to get as far away as possible.

Bruce turned swiftly as soon as the boys were out of earshot and grabbed your hips to tug you down onto the chair with him. “Come on, Mrs Wayne, tell me how bad I’ve been.”

Request: Meets her at Wayne Co, she’s a new board member and have a few words for playboy Bruce who misses many meetings

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[mal3vol3nt]

Hey first of all, I love your blog. In a world full of Anti-Aang nonsense. Aang, Kataang and (real) Katara positivity is refreshing to see.

Secondly, Kataang is one of my favorite ships, I love the friends to lovers trope and I think they’re peak friends to lovers. However someone argued that that they don’t work as friends to lovers for a bunch a reasons, namely because we supposedly don’t see much of the friendship part of it and because of Aang acting entitled in EIP.

I personally think that (aside from maybe two episodes) Aang and Katara’s more than friendship feelings for each other were able to exist quite comfortably within their close friendship, namely because they had a strong sense of mutual respect, admiration and appreciation for each other and neither demanded that they like the other back.

What do you think?

This is the post BTW:

https://www.tumblr.com/ecoterrorist-katara/753864289132134400/kataang-friends-to-lovers?source=share

awe thank you anon <3

it’s serious business being out here defending aang and katara from ridiculously shitty fandom takes but somebody’s gotta do it 😮‍💨

——

the claim that kataang doesn’t work as friends to lovers because their friendship wasn’t made obvious enough is INSANEEE. the only way you could possibly come to that conclusion is if you didn’t even watch the show and formed all your atla opinions by reading fandom discourse on tumblr or twitter or tiktok, because the literal first 3 episodes of atla are the set up and build of their series-long friendship

BOOK 1, EPISODE 1: “The Boy in The Iceberg”

Aang: “Will you go penguin sledding with me?”

Katara: [Awkwardly] “Uh, sure… I guess.” -> they end up penguin sledding. it becomes the first thing they do together and it’s literally just them having fun and making each other laugh and smile

—

Katara: “Why are you smiling at me like that?”

Aang: “Oh I was smiling?” [Flattered, Katara smiles back]

—

Aang: “Appa and I can personally fly you to the North Pole. Katara, we’re going to find you a master!” -> knew her for a few hours at this point and was already offering to take her across the world so she could accomplish her dream of being a waterbender

—

Katara: [Happily] “I haven’t done this since I was a kid!”

Aang: “You still are a kid!”

—

Aang: “A hundred years!” [Saddened by his new discovery.] “I can’t believe it.”

Katara: [Squats beside him.] “I’m sorry, Aang. Maybe somehow there’s a bright side to all this…”

Aang: [Cheerfully.] “I did get to meet you!”

Katara: [Smiling warmly at him while offering her hand.] “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

BOOK 1, EPISODE 2: “The Avatar Returns”

Katara: [Protesting.] “Aang didn’t do anything! It was an accident!” / Aang: [Sorrowfully.] “Don’t blame Katara. I brought her there. It’s my fault.” -> selflessly defending each other

—

Katara: [Pleading.] “Grandmother, please. Don’t let Sokka do this!”

Kanna: [Gravely] “Katara, you knew going on that ship was forbidden. Sokka is right. I think it best if the airbender leaves.”

Katara: [Outraged.] “Fine! Then I’m banished too!” [Drags Aang away.] “Come on Aang, let’s go.” -> she’s only known him for a few hours at this point

—

[Zuko fires another blast at Aang, who twirls his staff once again to ward the attack off. Cut to a shot of the villagers, who cower as the flames stream through the air over their heads. Aang widens his eyes in horror at the sight of the frightened villagers and immediately ceases to defend himself.]

Aang: “If I go with you, will you promise to leave everyone alone?”

[After a brief moment of hesitation, Zuko erects himself and nods in agreement. Aang is apprehended by Zuko's men, who take his staff. Katara runs forward as they lead Aang away.]

Katara: [Sadly.] “No! Aang, don’t do this!”

Aang: [Surprisingly calm.] “Don't worry, Katara. It'll be okay.” [He gasps when he is shoved on the walkway. Katara's face contorts with sadness and fright.] “Take care of Appa for me until I get back.”

[Cut to a shot of the villagers looking up at the ship, Aang standing at the top of walkway. Switch to a more up-close shot of him smiling weakly, surrounded by Fire Nation soldiers.]

[Cut to shot of Katara who looks up, tears in her eyes, before changing back to a shot of Aang who now frowns as the bow rises and closes. The screen blacks out as the bow is locked into place with a thud.]

now why do yall think these shots focused specifically on katara’s reactions to aang being taken away rather than sokka’s or literally anyone else? could it be because her and aang had an already formed connection at that point, making her reactions much more pivotal? i think soooo

and i’ve seen people argue that katara was more so worried about her waterbending progress being interfered with rather than worrying for aang himself. and i have a question for the people who think that cause what??

is katara a compassionate and selfless person, or is she someone who is purely motivated by her own gain? is she someone who yearns to see the good in everyone and offers them her kindness, or is she someone who only judges others based on how they can serve her goals? cause she can’t be both

from what canon shows us, she is an insanely compassionate and selfless person. she holds so much anger yet is still able to see the human and hurt in people, even those who have wronged her and done horrific things [re: offering to heal zuko’s scar]. so when she is watching aang—the boy who has simultaneously brought her a taste of fun and hope—be taken away by the same nation that killed her mother, why would she only be worried about her waterbending progress?

BOOK 1, EPISODE 3: “The Southern Air Temple”

[In the background, Sokka is hunched over his rock, clenching his teeth together. Katara shouts calmly with a sad expression on her face. The camera slowly moves in on her.]

Katara: “Aang! I know you're upset and I know how hard it is to lose the people you love. I went through the same thing when I lost my mom.” [Diverts her eyes. Shot switches to a frontal view of Aang, his tattoos glowing and wind swirling around him; his clothes flutter in the storm. Sokka runs over to his sister in the background.] “Monk Gyatso and the other airbenders may be gone,” [Close-up of her as she looks up at him.] “but you still have a family. Sokka and I!” [Sokka opens his eyes and glances at his sister.] “We're your family now!”

this. this is the moment where aang and katara (and sokka—mind you) are permanently intertwined. they were initially able to relate on them both being benders, then it was the realization that they didn’t want to leave the other (katara protesting aang’s banishment and aang remorsefully leaving / katara going after zuko’s ship to rescue him), and now it’s their ability to relate to devastating loss. katara can relate to his grief at finding gyatso gone, and she can understand his turmoil at realizing the other airbenders were not given a more merciful fate. she does what she can to lessen his pain, at least for the moment, and tells him that despite his loss he is still not alone. he still has a place in the world with her and sokka

it is this moment that acts as the foundation for the deep connection her, aang, and sokka have throughout the entire series. they are friends and they are a found family. they care for each other on such a deep level. kanna says it herself in episode 2, “You both found him for a reason. Now your destinies are intertwined with his.”

and this connection does not lessen throughout the rest of the series, if anything, it gets stronger as they go through harrowing misadventures together and are forced into life-threatening situations where one or two of them have to work quick to save another’s life. if yall seriously think that them arguing/disagreeing or not being on the same page regarding emotional moments in their journey is a sign of their friendship not being strong then you’re actually just intentionally being obtuse

——

ive touched on my thoughts on the ember island players episode before and the whole interaction that went down between aang and katara during the intermission, but i don’t mind reiterating and maybe expanding on it a little

before i can dive in, we all gotta be in agreement that the eip play was yes, a satire meant to poke fun at the fandom, but was also an in-show racist and propaganda-filled depiction of the characters

outside of the show’s canon, aang was played by a woman to make a joke about how women always voice little boys in media. but in the show’s canon, aang being played by a woman was… say it with me, RACIST!! think about it, a play made and created for a fire nation audience chose to cast the sole survivor of a genocide their nation executed as a woman—fire nation sexism coming through hot—and portrayed him as ditzy. (and yes, i know that some male characters are often played by women because women are lighter and therefore easier to lift to portray flight—take peter pan for example—but this is clearly much more than that and i beg yall to not act obtuse in my replies/reblogs.) let’s not pretend like this casting choice wasn’t also an intentional slight at aang as not just the avatar but as an airbender. this is further emphasized when people laugh at aang being revealed as a woman. when colonizers decide to portray their victim as ditzy and incompetent in a play, don’t you think that’s a tell of the racist propaganda they’ve been fed by their nation? hmmm… i certainly think so. so when yall get mad at aang for his clear displeasure at being played by a woman, i beg yall to apply some critical thinking before just deciding to label him a sexist

katara’s character was also a racist portrayal. colonizers depicting their victim as a busty, sexualized crybaby who enters a relationship with their banished prince, and then having her vocalize that she could never be with the avatar, another victim of their colonialism, because he is like a brother to her. why do you think they would portray katara like this and have her say that specific line? could it be propaganda and some sort of racist fantasy to see a water tribe woman dress so provocatively and behave so helplessly? and then, in an effort to take another shot at aang’s legitimacy as a male (because again, aang and the airbenders did not follow normal gender conventions that were clearly present in the fire nation), they have the helpless water tribe character deny she could possibly have feelings for the likes of him and fall into the arms of fire nation royalty. hmmm, now why would colonizers perform a play where a colonized, marginalized woman enters a relationship with her colonizer? probably because it would be more entertaining—and dehumanizing—for their audience to witness a fetishized version of her entering a relationship with their prince. because regardless of his banishment, zuko is still of fire nation royalty and is, compared to aang and katara, of superior blood. give me a fucking break

i implore yall to use critical thinking when discussing why aang would have such a large reaction to a play that is consistently taking a shit on him as the avatar and, more importantly, as an airbender. cause yall do such a disservice to yourselves when you downplay aang’s reaction to him just throwing a jealous tantrum cause his character didn’t get to kiss katara’s character in the play

now onto their interaction:

BOOK 3, EPISODE 17: “The Ember Island Players”

Aang: “Katara, did you really mean what you said in there?”

Katara: “In where? What are you talking about?”

Aang: “On stage, when you said I was just like a ... brother to you, and you didn't have feelings for me.”

Katara: “I didn't say that. An actor said that.”

Aang: “But it's true, isn't it? We kissed at the Invasion, and I thought we were gonna be together. But we're not.”

Katara: “Aang, I don't know.”

Aang: “Why don't you know?”

here, aang is wanting some kind of clarification as to where katara stands on their relationship. he isn’t demanding that she feel the same as he does. he just wants to know for sure if there’s anything there considering they’ve kissed and nothing has risen from it. yes, he is obviously sad and dejected, but he is not demanding that katara return his affections. he just wants to have the conversation

(also, note how when aang brings up the actress saying that aang is like a brother to her and she has no feelings for him, katara chooses to deny that she ever said that rather than to simply take that as an opportunity to let him down had it been the actual truth. likely because it isn’t true—she does have feelings for him—but doesn’t want to take that jump yet)

Katara: “Because, we're in the middle of a war, and, we have other things to worry about. This isn't the right time.”

Aang: “Well, when is the right time?”

Katara: “Aang, I'm sorry, but right now I'm just a little confused.”

[Aang tries to kiss Katara.]

Katara: “I just said I was confused! I'm going inside.” [Exits the balcony.]

Aang: [Frustrated.] “Ugh, I'm such an idiot!” [Puts down his head on the balcony railing.]

here is where them being on two different pages becomes very obvious. aang wants clarity on their relationship whereas katara is unable to and hesitant to give him that because of everything going on around them. she is worried about the outcome of the war and doesn’t want anything to distract either of them from the bigger picture. a valid concern to have, mind you

allow me to bring up the crossroads of destiny for a moment. we all know what happened there: aang unlocked all his chakras and katara watched in awe as he, in the avatar state, rose above them all. she then watched in absolute horror and heartbreak as he was struck with lightening and fell—dead. she, in a hurry, created and rode on a large wave above the dai li to get to aang quickly, catching him in her arms and sitting brokenly on the floor, tears falling down her face. azula and zuko approached them and katara made no move to fight against them, her arms being preoccupied with aang’s body and her mind all over the place after watching her best friend die. had it not been for iroh’s interference, i’m sure it would have been the end for both aang and katara

outside while on appa, katara holds aang delicately to her as she gives him the spirit water and then proceeds to let out a sob as she hugs him to her. when aang groans, she gasps and pulls from him slightly, laying him down against appa’s fur so she can see his face. he opens his eye briefly, smiling at the sight of her and katara beams. her face is the definition of pure joy and relief

now what was the reason aang had to master the avatar state midst battle? why were his chakras not fully unlocked at that time? he left to go save her. he had been in the process of letting her go before he got distracted by the vision of her in danger and had promptly turned away. it wasnt until the battle with zuko and azula was coming to a defeat that he knew he had to master the avatar state now. which led to azula shooting him while rising in the avatar state

obviously, katara wouldn’t be aware that this happened, but the message was still clear. aang’s feelings for katara had gotten in the way of him mastering the avatar state at the safety of the eastern air temple, interfering with his destiny and leading to him mastering it whilst in the midst of battle—resulting in the death of the avatar. katara refusing to enter a relationship with aang or even to have that important conversation with him before the end of the war due to her fear that it’d be a distraction was real and valid

not only that, but katara had already watched him die before and was lucky to have the spirit water at hand. if aang were to get fatally injured anytime between then and during the battle with ozai, there’d be nothing to bring him back. he’d be gone permanently. it’s no wonder why katara was choosing to put all her energy and focus into ending the war because any distraction or moment of weakness could’ve meant the end for aang, who was the one destined to either stop the war or die trying. it was truly life or death for him, so of course katara chose to put anything not pertinent to the war ending on the back burner

aang, on the otherhand, had died during the crossroads of destiny without telling her how he felt. he was so close to leaving the world without letting her know how much he cared for her that he didn’t want to make the same mistake again. therefore, he thought it better to reveal all his cards to her which she obviously wasn’t ready for. he wanted to be in love and bask in whatever time he had with her left if the worst case scenario became reality

unfortunately, this disconnect in their approaches to what happened back in ba sing se resulted in them stepping on each other’s toes and behaving awkwardly around each other, with aang dejected at the lack of clarity on her feelings and katara avoiding the conversation due to her own confusion at the mix of her feelings—having feelings for him but also being fearful of being with him for the reasons stated above. this culminated in aang misreading the situation, as they’ve kissed spontaneously before, and kissing her during this interaction. katara gets rightfully upset, leaves, and aang groans in frustration at himself for being such an idiot

aang made a stupid, stupid mistake and no longer pursues her after this interaction. their difference in approaches to their feelings has met its culmination and now they’re at a standstill. aang does not demand—nor has he ever demanded—that katara be with him. the conversation about where they stand with each other is dropped, as now both of them must focus on sozin’s comet.

at the end of “Sozin’s Comet, Part 4: Avatar Aang”, katara and aang share a final kiss. before that, aang goes outside the jasmine dragon by himself to gaze upon the setting sun. katara follows after him and aang gives her a smile. the two embrace each other, opening their eyes to gaze longingly at the other before separating to look at the setting sun together. katara then turns to aang, aang turns to her in return. she leans in and kisses him, cupping his face, and aang kisses back. he leans into the kiss and katara wraps her arms around his neck

katara was the one to take the initiative in their final kiss. she was the one to start their post-series relationship, which we all know resulted in marriage and 3 children

——

kataang does fit the friends to lovers plot line since they started off as friends with intertwined destines and became more. it just so happened that they developed feelings for each other during the course of their adventures, and these feelings clashed with the realities of the war they were at the frontlines of, resulting in miscommunications and mistakes

now, you don’t have to like kataang. that’s completely fine, but to suggest that they don’t fit a trope that they’re literally the definition of is crazzyyyy. cmon, please just watch the show before forming your opinions

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Good Husbandry

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: One day in the mess hall Elvis breaks his self imposed rule of not talkin ‘bout ensuring marital satisfaction and the key to makin a woman like taking her man

Warnings: crude and dated lanaguge regarding women, marriage, sex and female pleasure

Circa: 1959

There’s a lotta talk in the army about women. No surprise really, anywhere men congregate be it barracks, backstage, manholes, urinals, studios, they tend to talk about dames. But in the army there’s an extra air of entitlement to any sorta talk about them. Women at home and women on the streets, women in magazines or on tv, all the women in their lives and, initially at least, a whole lotta talk about Elvis’ woman.

His wife.

He reiterated her honored title pointedly to any fella who started talking as if she wasn’t a married before god wife and the revered mother to his children. Anyone who took her at her photographed face value as just another woman with beautiful tits and a trim waist, a gippable ass and a generous mouth and devilishly glinting eyes that just anyone was allowed to jerk and spatter over.

That was his wife.

It was a typical sort of hazing and like all the other forms thrown his way by his fellow soldiers he had surmounted it, along with the help of good ole gentlemanly Hodge, and now when the privates and corporals and sergeants milled around and talked about the only subject worth any breath, they didn’t include Elaine Presley in the discussion.

Most times.

Now that she’s over here Continental side, and now that he’s done his duty by her and filled her full again and she’s ripening right up like the goddamn fertile minx she is, it’s made matters both better and worse. Now there’s a hostess and a soul and a kind lady to put to the face of the pretty Mrs. Presley they’ve speculated about, and it causes the better sort of men some shame to drool and wank unashamedly over her as she pops in for the occasional visit to the base. Though now she is an indisputable fixture in the social life of these men “Elaine” in all her real life glory gets thrown about quite frequently, and while often it’s in the context of her house parties and her snacks and her friendship with their women, Elvis can tell by the rush of color and the heavy silence that often follows a mention of her that they ain’t thinkin things they oughta be thinkin about another man’s wife. He knows it, he knows it because if she weren’t already his he’d have unchristian designs on her until she was. It makes him grabby and possessive and irrational and more than a little proud as each week ticks by and shows her swelling more and more in the magnificent cause of growing a second batch of his twins. She looks so happy about it the guys just know, they just know she has a grand time making them. Something her husband is doing makes her whale-like proportions and aching feet a goddamn badge of honor.

So there’s a lotta talk. They talk about women and they talk about wives and they talk about his woman and his wife. They never say her name but they speak of the anomaly, they speak of the constant struggle men have between the sweet wife at home and the back alley whores. How the sedate and respectable wives ought to be the preferred choice but the joyous and hungry alley cats can’t ever manage to keep their claws out of ‘em…their minds if not their bodies.

That’s when they bring her up without ever saying her name, but as he fiddles with his footlocker at the end of a long day before he gets to shuck off and go home to her, he hears them saying “reckon the secret is to combine the two.”

And he knows even without the use of his eyes that they’re looking at the back of his head enviously. As if god made Elaine soley, out of all the women in the world, the only hungry wife.

It’s not just whores, they talk about. There’s the other types and likelihoods. They talk a whole lot about secretaries or waitresses they met on the side, the sweet-tight-blow-naughty-dirty-tits-ass-pussy-bar-backseat-desk-lunchhour kinds of women, who made noises and told them they were good lovers, who responded with all the arched back-tits up-snatch clenched-back scratch-eyes roll-throat hoarse-enthusiasm a man could dream of, the ones who would do the things their wives wouldn't. They sigh longingly about those women, they damn them for being so addictive. It never occurs to them that their wives could be that, too, if they’d just love them into it.

Elvis would sigh and slam his foot locker closed.

Elaine was not aware of the logistics of conjugal life when he wrestled her father and got ahold of her, she was unaware that a man shoved himself inside a woman on their wedding night. She had laughed and then frowned and then gulped in fear when she realized he wasn’t kidding. When she realized what he intended to do to her.

She had been like any other woman.

But he had managed to soothe, and love and stoke her fire till she was doing the ‘shoving in’ herself a mere two hours later. His jaw had ached for days after from unhinging itself in devouring her skittish pussy all that interim, but it had been worth her slick and gentle first ride. He’d never told her that riding his face or swallowing his seed or letting him take her hot and vicious from the back was something wives did not do, that it was naughty or the “other woman’s” job.

On the contrary, all Elaine ever knew was that it was exactly what wives did, what they were fashioned by God to do. And to enjoy. The men and women who saw the enjoyment written on her face and the joy stretching her belly thought her a scientific anomaly.

But Elvis bites his lip and doesn't comment when the men talk about women. If he speaks up he doesn’t think he’ll be able to shut up. That maybe he’ll say some shit he’d rather keep private, maybe go on too long orating the perfect fit of her and the way her face scrunches and glows when he does his job right.

Elvis rarely talks about women, and never about the waitresses and fans and secretaries and starlets he’s had. He gets asked often but he laughs it off, he remembers their particulars as about as fascinating as his hand. It did the job but wasn’t the one he can’t stop thinking about, even though he woke up next to her this morning. Women mean his wife, too, so he doesn’t talk about women.

That is until today. The subject is back up like a bad penny and the naughty girls and side women are being extolled and the wives are being complained of in usual fashion. He chews in silence and jiggles his leg under the table of the cafeteria mess as he listens:

-“Well, I'm in her, right, and she says it's too much and makes me stop. Too much! Can you fucking believe? Tammy never had a problem taking me, you know?

They talk a lot about taking - about taking her, taking me, taking it.

So much talk about “taking”. They’re always dreaming of the gals who take them, Elvis supposes those fellas who don’t talk much must be happily married like him, they just eat their collards in peace while everyone else talks about those rare female unicorns who were made to “take” men.

Made for it. He’d taken a raw virgin and made her into a howling baby making machine who wears satisfaction on her face like it’s Vaseline. She takes him easy as pie and she’s a wife. It doesn’t make her a whore that she can take him, it makes her his well loved wife.

“Whadda ya mean your wife *can’t* take ya?” he waves his fork around in annoyance and the man pauses halfway through his anecdote about how his old lady for some reason freezes up and winces when he rolls on top of her and puts it in without notice.

The whole mess hall goes deathly quiet and somehow Elvis knew this would be the reaction if he ever spoke up, somehow he just knew not to but he had to go and put his foot in it. Or his mouth, that is.

“She -she’s all tight and shit.” The guy swallows and looks at his fellows and there’s various faces around the table, ones who are sympathetic, those who look condescending and those who look confused. Elvis is the later. The guy shifts in his seat at the idea of The Pelvis finally taking the bait and joining in only for it to be on the subject of his lackluster marital bed. “And look,” he goes on chuckling nervously, “I’m a nice guy, I’m not one to force the issue. She’s just all clammed up, can’t get her excited, always says I go too fast, then too slow then changes her mind and -hell, why can’t she just be easy like them waitress girls?”

“Thought Debbie had been a waitress ‘fore y'all married.” Elvis mumbles around his next bite.

“What? Well yeah, yeah, but she was different then.”

“She was different then.” Elvis imitates mockingly.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Loverboy?”

“Just wonderin the last time ya kissed her without askin for more.” he shrugs.

“I-I don’t get it.” the guy looks for backup around the mess but everyone’s rather invested and hoping that Elvis will finally start spilling whatever black magic tricks he’s got up his sleeve that made a whole nation cream themselves over his voice alone. No one intervenes.

“If ya go out an’ crank the tank in the middle of winter, then curse it for takin a little while to idle before it runs smooth, er’yone here’s gonna think yer an impatient fool, right?”

“Uh, yeah. -What have tanks got to do with my wife, Presley?”

“They both got slow warmin’ motors, man.”

The guy looks torn between brawling and asking for more explanations. “She used to -didn’t used to be this way, man, we had some good times. Used to take her out back behind the diner and she liked it. Dunno why she’s all clammed up now.”

“Well I reckon that was nice and excitin for her back then.” Elvis says, “Bein’ adventurous and defyin her mama and lettin ya fool with her.”

“You’re saying she was thinking of her mother while we-“

“-no, no not that, -look Kipper, for women more than half the hots of it is in the mind, alright? It’s in the anticipation, it’s in the motivation, it’s in the intent ya have when you finally go to take her. The suspense of the thing. That behind the diner stuff -it’s old hat now, gotta keep her ‘cited in other ways now. Half of the thrill for them is in the mind. And it’s in knowin not every touch and kiss is gonna end up with a man jackhammerin inside.”

“Well, what would ya do if a Elai-“ Kipper snaps his mouth shut and judiciously rephrases his legitimate question, “What would you do if you had a wife who was all clammed up on ya?”

Elvis pushes the peas around on his plate and contemplates that, his mouth puckers childishly and Charlie Hodge thinks that maybe he didn’t hear, or is deciding to retreat from the conversation while he’s ahead. All the men are leaning in when Elvis flicks his eyes up and he has to clear his throat a little to work up his voice in nonchalance,

“Why Kipper, I’ve only had one and that one only for a couple a’years.” he chuckles self consciously and the men join in, he milks his mouth briefly in embarrassment.

“C’mon Elvis, just…hypothetically.” another man pipes up from father down.

“What would I do with a clammed up wife?” he repeats the question like he does in his interviews, “Well, for one I’d make certain it weren’t no extracurricular matter weighin on her mind, and if, havin judged it is a uh, uh matter of distaste for relations then, well then I’d start assuring her I value her, I’d compliment her, worship her and I’d try to take her out for nice little things when I could and I’d try not to fall asleep after dinner so we could chat and I’d only ever initiate one bit of contact for a lil while.”

“What’s that?” a couple dozen voices ask, entranced.

“I’d kiss her wrists.” he shrugs, “And if after awhile of that one day ya feel the pulse jumpin under your lips, then you’ll know you’re makin progress.”

The table nods solemnly in unison before suddenly Kipper has a heavy realization settle on him. “Wait, you’re saying don’t try anything besides that? Might as well go celibate for eternity than wait for her to pounce!”

“Hmm, well,” Elvis skewers a ham cube with his fork and proceeds to chew it obnoxiously, “if ya do what I’m sayin and ya do it with patience, she’ll come round. She’ll start wantin it. Women are like horses, they can sense impatience and since they wanna please they get all skittish and they…clamp up. Even the ones who are tryin to be pleasin, they’re tryin too hard and too focused on makin ya happy, ya gotta flip the tables. First night she makes a move, you better eat her kitty out like it’s your last meal and not so much as wet your tip.”

“You’re kiddin man, you eat your wife’s beaver?”

“Breakfast of champions.” he grins cockily until it dies on his lips as he sees a couple dozen pairs of eyes glaze over at the thought of Elaine’s perfect pussy. “Anyway,” he clears his throat pointedly, “you might shock yourself and like it. Better yet if you can shock her and make her like it. And don’t ask for no returns, that’ll come later. Power of suggestion is highly powerful.”

“How’da ya mean?”

“Look,” Elvis wipes his mouth on a napkin, “you might not think about wantin a donut but then you see I’m eating a donut, then suddenly you want a donut. Power of suggestion. Now it won’t be the same donut but it’s the same craving. Lick her kitty and she might start thinking to -ya know…suck your pole. Women are a lot less stingy than men, they see ya do a nice thing and they wanna repay, just gotta make ‘em feel safe for doin it, appreciated. That sorta thing.”

“A-and that will do it?”

“It’s a start, man.” Elvis shrugs, “Suck her button for a bit, Lordy, it ain’t complicated. Her nipples, too. Make out with her for a couple nights like yer teenagers again. Ha! Look at you cats actin like you’ve never got your face up in there before, ain’t no different than slurpin watermelon off the rind.”

-“Well, fuck man, sounds kinda hot when you put it that way.”

-“yeah, any other tips?”

“Get messy.” Elvis grins, leaning back and starting to enjoy the superiority he’s being in, “Get in there, don’t just smooch her down there, suck at her, swallow her, tongue her, ya know like-“ he closes his eyes and waggles his head while making a obscenely skilled motion with his tongue that makes it blur in a whizz of pink movement that the table can generally assume has come from much practice.

Someone down the line is getting patted on the back after inhaling some cola. When Elvis opens his eyes he looks a little lost, like he really went somewhere far away in his mind for that brief second. Kipper's spoon drops and hits his plate with a clatter.

“Look, you and you and especially you-“ he points at the fellas who a years worth of communal showering has given him more knowledge of than he strictly needs, “unless you take these precautions you’re gonna hurt some poor dame ‘makin’ those things fit.” the table laughs and things start to loosen up, “Gotta grease her up, get all the blood rushin down there so she can hold -uh, take- more, best way to do it is ta lick ‘er up to a couple of orgasms first. Check ‘er lips, her mouth that is, before ya go in, if all the blood’s gone south, her lips’ll be cool to the touch.”

“Sergeant Presley!” an orderly taps him on the shoulder, ears pink from embarrassment at overhearing more than he bargained for in delivering a message, Elvis tries to give him a stalwart grin of encouragement, “Phone call for you. Says it’s your wife, she says ‘come quick, the boy just said’ -um, um” he squints at the table cloth trying to recall what the very pretty and very excited Mrs Presley had breathily charged him with relaying over the crackling receiver, “uh.”

“My son’s first words and you can’t remember?” Elvis thunders, rising from his seat without leave.

“Elvis, sit!” Hodge hisses, plucking at his elbow.

“Don’t calm me down man, I gotta know!” he pleads, flopping down in a dejected lump anyway. “Kipper, be a pal an’ ask the Colonel if I can be excused from mess, tell him it’s of the utmost urgency and this idiot can’t be trusted to carry important information.”

“Give me private lessons.” The Colonel bargains from the head of the table and Elvis gives him a disbelieving stare. “O-on women. Ya know…wives.”

“You’re shittin’me.” Elvis growls.

“Casual like,” the Colonel assures him, “off the books -just tips and date ideas and such.”

“Hey I want in, man!” another voice chirps up.

“Yeah, ain’t fair hogging the tricks all to yourself!” a corporal from Missouri objects.

“If it’s got a show an’ tell about how to take a woman with Elaine as Exhibit A, then I wanna buy tickets.” Kipper is grinning, thinking he’s real funny.

Elvis is ready to commit himself. Sometimes he despairs of mankind, he really despairs. God, why can’t the fucker just remember what his son said?

“Bubbles!” The lingering orderly recalls suddenly and Elvis swivels fully around to face him in his excitement, “It was bubbles. The word was bubbles!”

“You hear that cats? I’ve got an ed-u-cat-ed firstborn! What’s your name, my boy?” Elvis rises from his seat beaming and embraces the orderly, protocol be damned, “Colonel you’re on, so long as you agree to buy this fine fella an officer’s commission.”

“Elvis that isn’t legal anymore…” he thinks he hears Colonel begin.

None of it really matters. His son knows how to say bubbles.

[protect-daniel-james]

I have been writing! There is so much inspiration out there, and my life has been - surprisingly? - going so well lately! I just want to finish some fics before I go on holiday (Netherlands and Belgium) in two weeks.

So, what's in store? Please note that the names are not the real names, they are the names of the files I write the fics in (yes, I am no longer writing directly in drafts of AO3, it was a bit too brave and backfired a couple of times)

Daddy A in the army - this one is taking forever because it is....tough. I got the Zinky Boys book from my local library, and I will probably have to go through that for some more inspiration

His uncle was more pragmatic. “God helps those who help themselves," he said when Roman Arkadyevich brought up the topic of young men returning from their two-year service with wives, kids, apartments, and a bumaga entitling them to vacation in Bulgaria.  With that in mind, Roman Arkadyevich bought the three lucky packets of cigarettes; ready to meet Lady Luck halfway. Naturally, his packets of cigarettes were confiscated on the first day.

Pippo's wedding - this should be a short lemon-y smut because we all know the Inzaghis and we know what they are.

It’s not even ten in the morning and Simone is on his second glass of wine - it’s not a big deal, everyone around the house has already had something, right after their morning coffees, toasting to the groom’s health and happiness, but Simone stayed sober throughout the season, pedantic and precise as ever, wanting to always keep his mind clear throughout the season. Now even the small amount of alcohol, combined with the heavy humid air before the rain that was forecasted for the day, made his head swim.

Numa numa iei - because what's not to love about random EURO pairing

“Nikoushek.” Now he’s mocking him. Nikoushek is a specific memory that not everyone knew about. “Nikoushku,” he corrects him, burying his fingers in the dark roots of his hair. He wishes Adrian kept it longer, all over his head, and didn’t shave the area around his ears and nape. “You use the vocative case when addressing someone.” “Vocative case, what is that. Nikoushku,” Adrian repeats, and his eyes shine brighter than before. “I can’t even speak Romanian properly,” he jokes, before laying his head down on his captain’s bare chest. He can’t resist, and places a quick peck on the skin. He likes the contrast between the bare, hairless chest and the arms covered in tattoos of significant memories from Nicolae’s eventful life. The arms are for the world to see, to learn Nico’s birth date, see the image of his grandmother, admire the colors of the flag, read the names of his children, and get to know the sources of his motivation, Biblical, fictional, inspirational – but the chest is only for him to see.

Juicy - finally putting on "paper" the food kink Ange/Poch fic that celebrates juiciness in all forms, good food, loving good food, loving yourself, and all the good summer Greek-Aussie-and-Argentine stereotypes together.

Juicy. He couldn’t think of a better word. There was so much under his skin - so much to touch and knead and hold onto and rub - and the excess of everything about Ange, his body, his hair, his deep voice, the smile that usually played in the corner of his lip, it all filled Mauricio’s head with a soothing sense that everything will be alright.

Lentemente - it is called this because of the Django Reinhardt song Lentemente mademoiselle, no idea *why* though. It's the Unai x Andoni bookstore!librarian!AU, it's fun and sweet and soft and pointless

“I’m sorry – I noticed you have been standing here with this specific book – “ He quickly glanced at the book’s cover, just to quench his private and nosy curiosity over the book that seemed to have captured the customer’s full attention. It looked like one of those cheap paperbacks dedicated to sensationalistic retelling of history, politics, or anything else – but the cover was nicely done in a clean, aesthetically pleasing way, showing a traditional house façade. Que disent les maisons basques? He had to smile; it didn’t seem like the most thrilling read. “ – and there is a line outside,” he finished his sentence, trying not to seem too judgemental of the book of choice. He made some calculations in his head already – he’d never seen anyone even just remotely interested in buying this book, and he certainly never sold a single copy of it. It was one of those volumes that was always there during the physical inventory and yet Andoni wanted to keep it – if nothing else, it had a nice cover and looked professionally made, which wasn’t the case for some of the faster-selling ones. It was a French-language book, which added a sense of internationalism – and it concerned a local theme, the traditional inscriptions on the lintels of rural houses. It was exactly the kind of book he liked to keep in the shop, even if it wasn’t selling well – it added a sense of rootedness to the place.

[escapethewonderland]

If tomorrow it's my turn, I wanna be the last one.

Tonight I sat down to journal but the rage I'm feeling doesn't allow me to leave those words on a piece of paper that I'll be the only one to read. I need to share this with you, in hopes of a better future.

This post is different from my usuals, it's nothing I've done before so I'm going to put trigger warnings before you continue reading.

TW: toxic relationship, d3ath, kidnapping, femicide

If you're uncomfortable reading about these topics, I kindly ask you to stop here.

It won't be coherent, it's been a hurtful week.

This isn't fiction. This is real life.

This is a story that has been all over medias in Italy for the last week.

The narrative that media (newspapers, tv news, social medias) is perpetrating is a pretty fabricated fantasy, a mirror of a patriarchal society that views women as objects, pretty, little things to be possessed, devalued of any quality or importance. We're dolls to be toyed with instead of human beings. It's a disgusting reality that we wake up everyday to and we're tired. We're fuming with a deep rooted rage that will shake this world to the ground.

Because this isn't a story of 2 young, ex lovers running away together like they want us to believe.

It's a story about Giulia, a 22 years old young woman with a brilliant future ahead waiting for her, that was brutally attacked by her ex boyfriend, kidnapped and killed.

"The good guy who would ever hurt a fly". Oh yes, he wouldn't a fly, but he did hurt a woman. A good guy doesn't profess her love for you then beat you to a pulp to drag you into his car when you try to escape. A good guy doesn't control you, a good guy isn't possessive of you to the point it becomes stalking.

None of it is love.

None of it is a good guy.

For a week we've been keeping that fickle of hope alive, that little flame resisting even after all the horrors we know women suffer at the ends of men believing they're entitled to them, like a property they paid for.

However, us women as a collective knew the truth in our hearts already, no matter how hard we tried to pray for a better outcome. She wasn't coming back. Because we've seen thousands of Giulias before her. She's the 105th victim of femicide in Italy from the beginning this year.

105.

Giulia was every single one of us girls and women. She was young, she was brilliant-she was supposed to graduate uni that same day she disappeared. She had a life ahead, full of dreams to be turned reality. She was loved deeply.

Using the past tense is a failure of our society because Giulia was supposed to be with us on this Earth to this day and many more going forward.

Her spirit will live on forever, never forgotten.

We'll burn everything for her, in her name and in the names of the other women whose lives were taken away too soon.

We'll burn everything until our world won't start to change.

I'll leave a poem down below from activist Cristina Torres Caceres that is being used a lot right now to remember Giulia and to light the fire in our raging, bleeding hearts.

Read about her, spread her name and keep her memory alive.

Giulia is us and we're Giulia.

Rest in power.

If tomorrow it's my turn, mom, if tomorrow I don't come back, destroy everything. If tomorrow it's my turn, I want to be the last one.

english source italian source

[poeticexhalations]

The Boy From the Pacific Northwest (Part I) (A romance)

There are three men in this world who truly did a number on me. Their words sliced me into pieces. Their actions made me question romance forever. They buried me for a long time. One was a monster, another, a byproduct of his environment. The last one is recent. I don’t know when, or if, I’ll ever talk about him. So we’ll start with the ladder, because although he isn’t on my radar anymore, I don't think I ever truly dove into the complexities that were our whirlwind romance. I don’t think I ever talked about him, in words or on paper. He was there, and then he was not. He left a hole in my heart that was eventually filled with other magical things. 

We’ll call him A.

I met A online. Yes, I know; dangerous. Reckless. Stupid. But that is what community does, specifically roleplaying communities where we all expose our rib cages and bones to strangers online anonymously. We tear away the flesh to reveal our deepest wants, our most fervent ideas, and our authentic selves without the restrictions of names or identities. That’s the beauty of these communities; we grow to love each other for the soul on the inside, knowing very little about each other in the real world. And A and I grew very close in a very short amount of time.

Unfortunately, A was a rebound, and he knew it. I think he took full advantage of my emotional vulnerability from another man, but I was twenty-two years old. I was aching. I needed release, and I didn’t find that release in sex. I found it in other forms of intimacy.

Writing.

And A, he was a beautiful author. He crafted stories exquisitely. Through one circumstance or another, he and I became the leaders (AKA: “The Dungeon Masters”) of a large online community of over eighty people. We were burdened, together, with the responsibility of crafting deep, complex stories about war, loss, love, friendship, loyalty, pirates, and all of that in-between. The role was thrusted on me. He volunteered to help, and was eager to share that burden.

Our late-night idea sessions went from text to phone calls. Then to FaceTimes. We learned about each other, and although I had never met him before in-person, he became my closest confidant. I’d call him when I argued with a coworker. He’d call me when his professors at the university assigned him a tedious paper. We learned more and more about each other until our phone calls became less about the stories we were writing, and more about who we were as people.

Authentic.

Survival.

Infestation, really.

Because we never, ever left each other alone. 

So who was this A? And why did he, younger than I, change me so deeply?

He came from the rain-soaked city of Seattle. He was as reckless as the waves of the Pacific ocean. He had ambitious, deep-blue eyes that danced like flickering flames at every challenge and every opportunity. Youth flowed through his veins; I was only three years older than him, already a junior in college, but he never truly grew up. At nineteen, he embraced childlike wonder (and brashness) like an expensive cologne. And unfortunately, A never knew the meaning of “wrong”; entitlement was bred into his blood. He was a byproduct of privilege and money, and what money could buy someone. 

A knew I was poor. He knew I grew up on food stamps, knew most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from antique stores and thrift shops, knew that I had to fund many of the bills for the home while my mother was sick. He claims it didn’t bother him. However, it bothered me.

Because A was an example of everything I wanted and never had; a nuclear family, two loving parents who still loved each other, a healthy relationship with his siblings, parents who paid for his tuition, didn’t have to work for his bills, and was allotted freedom to explore his identity. Meanwhile, I was attending full-time classes, working late hours, paying for the electricity, water, and gas for my home, taking my mother in and out of rehab, and trying, scraping by to find time to write poetry. I usually only had the time on the bus, the bumpy road evidence in my scribbled lines. 

It wasn’t A’s fault that my life was in shambles. He was merely a reminder of how defeated I truly was. Because his family’s money cushioned him from any real hardships. His parents created a barrier between him and the suffering of the common people. To him, love and consequence were a fleeting concept. 

But, he was handsome.

And I was lonely.

So I embraced the riddle that was our romance whole-heartedly.

A knew I wanted to experience Seattle, so he and his family invited me up there again.

And again.

And again.

Seattle. California. Spas. Theme parks. Museums. University tours. Poetry slams. Beach visits. Fancy hotels. Nice cars.

All expenses paid for vacations to the Pacific Northwest. All I had to do was smile pretty at dinners, drink the expensive wine his mother poured me, and climb between the sheets with him at night. It was something I desperately desired because for the first time in my life, I was getting a taste of many of the things I felt I had missed out on. My mother was suffering at home, but for once, I was 1500 miles away; I could avoid her wrath as she spat obscenities at me in the middle of the night in a drunken fit. I could pull on a raincoat and let A take me to the city. I could experience the true Pacific Northwest dream. 

Or so I thought.

[incrementumxmaxima]

@versalpha

Eden Lloyd was a powerful man; a renowned man who's name in the business world was synonymous and equitable to success and fortune. A man to please all, he was the face of the American Dream to those who wanted to become entrepreneurs like him and, for those of old money, he came across as having his head screwed on enough to make real waves in any scene he inserted himself into. His reputation was something of a behemoth, complete with the man to match it.

Civilians saw the muscled man with a sharp jawline, handsome and the eye of multiple beholders. Lovers saw his gargantuan cock, big balls and an ass like no other, always thanking the lord that he was, by some miracle, versatile and open to any and all parts of him being worshipped. Eden loved it that, no matter the scenario, people knew when he was present and fawned over him incessantly, both silently and verbally appreciating his muscles and physique.

Once upon a time, however, Eden had wanted a very different body for himself. Now fully entrenched and in love with his Adonian body he had crafted, long ago he had wanted to be the antithesis instead; a man with a huge gut, moobs instead of pecs and gluttony and hedonism ruling his life over moderation and strictness. Trying to gain under the pretence of a dirty bulk had worked well for a few months before Eden had decided that it firmly wasn't for him. Since that day, he shifted his focus towards feeding men and letting them realise their dreams of being huge, helping them every step of the way to make it a reality. And, for a long time, it satiated him - until it didn't.

It'd been a month since he had put up the ad on a sugar baby website. It was simple, straight to the point and didn't hide or conceal his expectations out of the arrangement. Simply put, instead of company and sex in exchange for money, all Eden wanted was a young man to fatten. His own personal project, he had called it in the advertisement, the next step from what he had been doing before; helping already big guys had lost its touch and, now, he wanted to ruin a college jock. Sex wasn't off the table, but was merely an added perk for pounds well gained.

Luca had responded to the advertisement fairly quickly, indicating an interest under some hesitations. Through their conversations on the advertisement app, Eden had learnt that the idea fascinated Luca but an actual commitment to it was something he was still on the fence about. To remedy it, Eden had begun giving him half of the weekly allowance he'd be entitled to when the full conditions of the arrangement began under the pretence of giving the younger boy some time to come to a decision. In the mean time, the two could (and had) met and interacted, defiling various places close to Eden, all culminating in a meeting in a small, private café near Eden's home. It was there that Luca would give final decision and, if deciding to go for it, discuss with Eden an initial goal weight. Seeing as Luca hadn't shied away so far, Eden was cautiously optimistic.

The high-end café that he had chosen to meet at was just busy enough where their conversation was discreet but still empty enough to give allowance for Eden to initiate anything if he so chose to. Having gotten there earlier than Luca, he lounged around and nursed a black coffee until the younger boy finally took his place in front of him. Though they had met before, Eden still found himself entranced by Luca's natural boyish charm.

"Good to see you," He said, smiling, the natural charm and charisma oozing out of him. "College going well?"

[whitehotharlots]

Free Kareem

Kareem Hunt was probably the shittiest MeToo incident of the sports world. It happened over 4 years ago, which is an eternity by the standards of the today’s discourse, so let me recap what happened:

In February of 2018, two of Hunt’s friends went to a club while he stayed behind with his girlfriend in their hotel suite. The friends returned around 3 AM, and they had two very drunk and underage girls with them. Hunt did the correct thing: he told the girls to leave and had them escorted out of his suite.

The girls refused to leave. They stood outside Hunt’s suite for a half hour, screaming, failing, and pounding on the door. We know for certain this happened, because it was all captured on a security camera (full footage of this does exist, I’ve seen it, but Google has a way of burying primary evidence that contradicts popular narratives).

After approximately 20 minutes of screaming, Hunt’s girlfriend comes out of the suite to tell the girls to leave. This only intensifies the screaming and flailing. After a minute or so, one of the girls can be seen shoving Hunt’s girlfriend, who maintains her composure and goes back into the suite.

A few more minutes pass. The girls continue to pound and scream. Hunt himself comes out of the suite. He gestures toward the exit. The girls keep screaming. The same one who shoved his girlfriend now shoves Hunt. Again, he points toward the exit. The girl shoves him again, and he shoves her back, knocking her to the ground.

At this point, all but the most brain-damaged of feminists would agree that Hunt has done nothing wrong. But then he crosses a line: he raises his leg, hesitates, and gives the girl a kick, as if to accentuate that she needed to get her ass up and out of his hallway.

Now, yes, he should not have done the kick. Fine. But if you watch full video, it’s clear that he did not kick with anywhere near full force. It was more of a gesture than anything else. And, well, if an NFL running back were to kick a small woman with anything close full strength, that woman would not be able to get up and walk away.

I hold the retrograde opinions that men should be afforded some degree of dignity, and that random white women are not legally or morally entitled to enter the dwellings of black celebrities without permission. If I were the one to adjudicate this incident, I would have told the girl to go fuck herself. There’s really nothing Hunt could have done in this situation that would have escaped scrutiny. It was clear that the girl was unhinged and fully aware that she could manipulate MeToo discourse to force the black man to bend to her will: “Kareem Hunt Caught With Underage Girls Drunk in His Hotel Room” is also a bad headline, after all.

But, no, the headlines that were printed did not mention the girls’ intrusion, their initiation of physical contact with both Hunt and his girlfriend, or their statements to hotel staff about planning to exaggerate their claims so as to ruin Hunt’s career. 

9 months later, when TMZ released a very selectively edited expert of the footage, the headline read KC CHIEFS RUNNING BACK KAREEM HUNT BRUTALIZES AND KICKS WOMAN IN HOTEL VIDEO. At this point, his goose was cooked. The Chiefs threw him under the bus with alacrity, saying they weren’t going to bother digging into the specifics of the incident because they had already been contacted and Hunt (very, very understandably and justifiably) lied and said he never left the hotel room. This technicality was enough to end his tenure on the team. He was consigned to the living hell of the Cleveland Browns organization, and suspended for the first half of the following season. 

The average career in the NFL lasts just over three seasons. Running backs play the most physically taxing position in all of professional sports. The loss of a half season of pay is a massive, massive fine. But, still, that wasn’t good enough. The Root (a black-focused, Gawker-affiliated website that would have the exact same editorial content if it were owned by the KKK) ran the following headline “Cleveland Browns Sign Kareem Hunt Despite Video of Him Assaulting Woman. Kaepernick Still Banned for Kneeling.” From Vice we got “Kareem Hunt and a Sports World that Ignores Domestic Violence Victims:” a headline confirming the girls’ entitlement to a space in Hunt’s living area, regardless of not being invited and also being repeatedly told to leave. From Yahoo Sports “NFL should leave you feeling sick after recent revelations involving Kareem Hunt, Reuben Foster,” comparing Hunt to a man who appears to have actually committed domestic violence on multiple occasions. When Hunt was eventually signed by the Browns--which, again, is a punishment in and of itself--the President of the National Organization of Women used the occasion to claim that “women do not matter to the NFL,” and once more repeated the bizarre claim that he had committed “intimate partner violence” by shoving and kicking a stranger who had shoved him first. 

This, dear reader, is Intersectionality as it actually exists. It is not liberation. It is not leftist. It does not even provide protection to the groups who supposedly fall under its purview. The only goal of this wretched political movement is to divorce a person’s actions from the judgments of outsiders, to establish a hierarchy of NGO-defined victimhood statuses and provide hack journalists with a simple and unchallenagable means of sorting out the good guys from the bad guys. 

It’s not justice. It’s not an improvement over old systems. It’s a new way of being broken. It is, in short, the entirety of the modern American left.

[keepingsecretstokeepyoutk]

I’ve seen many people upset about recent events and her not being politically vocal currently. I get it. But I’m not confused by it.

She just had to cancel an entire leg of her tour because of a credible terrorist threat. I’m sure her team and the stadiums she performs at field terrorist threats on a daily basis, which makes it very significant that this one actually caused a cancelation for a full set of dates. That should tell you how extremely credible and well laid the plans were. Authorities say they were planning on killing tens of thousands of people. In my opinion, no one in their right mind would then do anything to potentially put concert goers of the rest of the tour in danger. And unfortunately, due the the delusion and violence that has *already* led to a large scale terrorist attack (!) by the far right, on the capitol (!) no less, it makes perfect sense that she wouldn’t make a political statement in this political season when tensions are only rising AND her next tour date is IN FLORIDA.

I understand that because trumpers continue to try to claim her that everyone expects her to denounce him (again) but it is exactly the right’s obsession with her that makes doing so right now so dangerous, again not just for her but for the 70,000 people at each of her concerts. Think about violent men who kill the women that reject them, who are so entitled and delusional they kill. Now think of that type of energy organizing again, (because, again, that’s the type of mindset and group of people that did January 6th) in response to the “rejection” of a woman they have deluded themselves into thinking is somehow one of them, despite earlier this year believing that she was conspiring with Biden and the NFL to indoctrinate Super Bowl viewers with liberal propaganda. I wouldn’t put anything past them, especially not a mass shooting at a Florida Taylor swift concert, full of feminists and queers.

We have a collective obsession with checking the moral purity of women who have already made their political alliances and stances clear. Unless someone is determined to think otherwise, everyone should understand where Taylor stands and how she votes. Don’t give in to the idea that women need to constantly perform their virtue to deserve peace.

In addition to all of the above, keep in mind that Taylor’s remaining US tour dates end on November 3rd, two days before the election. She may have timed that intentionally to give herself the peace of mind of keeping her fans safe at every single show, then having 2 days to make her stance clear and mobilize any fence sitting/politically apathetic fans.

I think it’s also worth remembering that her art suggests that she is already past her breaking point of sanity in regard to being a public figure. She has her plan to burn it all down and i don’t think she’ll risk the possibility of her plan getting messed up again. You can be upset about it, have your feelings, but just remember the hell that has been her entire career (beginning in childhood) and the many times she has warned the world that she is not well. She is head down, sprinting towards the exit. If all she can do is survive as she puts one foot in front of the other to escape her closet of cedar, let the damn woman be selfish in this moment. It might be what saves her life.

[justinefrischmanngf]

excerpts from Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity (chapter 4. gesture, ephemera and queer feeling) by José Esteban Muñoz

[ID: Four screenshots of text.

1: In this chapter I want to approach the idea of queerness and gesture. So much can be located in the gesture. Gesture, I argue throughout this book, signals a refusal of a certain kind of finitude. Dance is an especially valuable site for ruminations on queerness and gesture.

2: This proto-homophobic attack made me sit down and think about my movement, to figure out what it was about the way I moved that elicited such mockery and such palpable contempt from a room full of males. I wanted to, needed to know: what was it about my body and the way I moved it through the world that was so off, so different? I studied movement from then on, watching the way in which women walked and the way in which men walked. I looked at the ways in which men steered a sidewalk and tried to understand how women did it so differently. I noticed a stiffness in the men around me and a lack of stiffness in the women next to them. I studied all this and applied it to my own body. I began a project of butching up, even though that is not what I understood it to be back then.

3: That butching-up practice had a serious effect on me. Today I am not often accused of flaming. I am considered mildly butch for a gay man of my age. Yet the older I get, the more I enjoy camping it up with my nellier friends. And now I can only enjoy performing masculinity in the company of my butch female friends because something about being boys with them feels weirdly liberating. I take further pleasure in talking about being a guy with one of my friends, who is currently crossing and becoming a man. As I notice his voice deepen, his body bulk up, and his already butch mannerism continue to evolve, I feel some kind of sweet revenge on gender.

4: [...] the way in which one's queerness will always render one lost to a world of heterosexual imperatives, codes, and laws. To accept loss is to accept queerness — or more accurately, to accept the loss of heteronormativity, authorization, and entitlement. To be lost is not to hide in a closet or to perform a simple (ontological) disappearing act; it is to veer away from from heterosexuality's path. Freedmen escaping slavery got lost too, and this is a salient reverberation between queerness and racialization. At this historical moment, one that can be described as being characterized by encroaching assimilationist ideology in the mainstream gay and lesbian movement, some gays and lesbians want to be found on a normative map of the world. Being lost, in this particular queer sense, is to relinquish one's role (and subsequent privilege) in the heteronormative order. The dispossessed are appropriately adept at critiquing possession as illogical. To accept the way in which one is lost is to be also found and not found in a particularly queer fashion. /end ID]

[magnoliamyrrh]

believing in female solidarity and class conciousness and sisterhood while dealing with western feminists is actually a nightmare lmao

im so tired of making an effort, i truly am. im so tired. im tired of feeling like i have to teach Basic Empathy and Caring abt Others and Class Conciousness 101. im tired of being the only one whose making an effort in this relation. im so tired of it being the case that its only the westerners who lose their little marbles over whatever feminist points i may be be trying to make, and they somehow don't understand the irony in them prepetually calling so many nonwestern feminists fascists or whatever the fuck else. yes yes, indian feminists are just stupid for trying to ban pornography and surrogacy, please enlighten them. south korean women are just evil brainwashed bitches, that's why they're radical separatists - south asia in general having a separatist and radical wave is for no reason whatsoever theyre just nazis lmao. african feminists, so many of them, are white supremecists for not exactly parroting your western bullshit, yup yup this makes sense. islamic feminists are "suspicious" lmao for the language we use in our writings (analysis of material reality). lets completely ignore that the feministms of the nonwestern world call for the abolition of prostitution. balkan sex trafficking victims, which are most prostitutes and child prostitues in the west, spending years speaking out against all this and trying to change laws? naaah we know nothing, we dont know nothing at all, the well of westerners who have no idea what theyre talking abt will englighten us abt that, while calling for the death of women who dont agree with their sex work bullshit lmao. we also have a bad habit of joking abt unifying and killing men and killing sex tourists, we should probably stop that bc its real offensive and scary to the westerners too

all this god damn endless performative sharade about LiSteN to WoMen of CoLour and LisTen to ThIrd WoRld WoMen and liSten to NonWeSteRn WoMen and poOr woMen and SeX TrAffIcking ViCtiMs (wait nvm they dont even say that now, bc only "sex workers" exist to them, ever) et fucking cetera. yea lmao. they dont actually give a shit about marginalized women though

god help us. how the hell is the cognitive dissonance of this whole situation not hitting them exactly? with. literally basically any other feminist on this planet but the liberal/mainstream westerners you can hold an actual conversation and discourse and understand each other. everyone but them and their postmodern brainrot understands this is a class struggle and understands the root of the opression of the female sex. "ThErES nO UnIvErSalLiTy BetWeEN wOmEn" just shut it already jfc. the fact that we can have international conversations on our struggles basically already proves there is - its only you who cant get what planet youre living on, with the endless relativity and individualism and choice and language politiquing and patriarchal bootlicking

i know, because ive been doing it for years. and ive been watching the feminist movements of the nonwestern world for years. i also know the only reason why on this blog i Can actually for the most part say things without being crucified is bc most of yall arent western or white or both

and apart from the ones who outright lose their mind or feel incredibly comfortable speaking over you or talking down to you - dont rly know how they havent choked on the entitlement yet -maybe they're just fucking lost and too far gone. but. even the rest. who are less hostile or just privileged and dont know better. im just tired, just tired.

the internet is chock full of the opinions of nonwestern women on feminism. the internet is chock full of the accounts of sex trafficking victims, of child prostitues, of prostitutes, of experts on human trafficking. its fucking full of it. and its on tv, and sometimes in newspapers. god fucking damn it so much has been written on this, so much has been done on this, so many efforts movements organizations documentaries whatever the fuck. spains laws were changed by our trafficked women but somehow its like this fact doesn't exist to the westenrs, or the have the gull to explain that, actually, they're wrong.

it is of absolutely no pleasure of me at all to educate the western "feminists" on shit they could educate themselves on in approximately 10 fucking minutes if theyd bother to do a google search and give a shit, actually give a shit and maybe, for fucking once, realize theyre not always right and the center of the world. its of no pleasure to me at all to have to keep my cool and be nice enough that whatever i say isnt just dismissed, because if youre too fucking angry over god damn sexual slavery you're just an evil crazy irrational bitch. im tired. whatever the hell i say has been said by so many before, so many times, for so long, but its like its been said to a wall or yelled out into space

sometimes i wonder what the hell we must even do for it to even matter. rationality and calmness hasnt helped. anger hasn't helped. detailed accounts of what its Actually like to be trafficked or a child prostitute or a prostitute or a sex slave, havent helped. we have bore our pain and sorrows and trauma and soul and so often it doesn't mean a single god damn thing to them. what. what needs to happen. should we just start having mental breakdowns and screaming our throaths raw infront of them? no, they will not care or understand even then. should we show them what the sexual slavery of children actually looks like - except wait, theres undercover journalism and documentaries and accounts written on this. it matters not. it matters not. Whats next? Interpretive dance?? What else we got, should we maybe just start trying to communicate through telepathic waves?? i wonder if some of them are simply doomed to be deaf and blind and unfeeling

im tired of making the effort, and im tired of reaching across the isle hoping that at least some of them can change their minds and give a shit and open their eyes to whats actually happening, and how detached their "feminism" is from the rest of ours. im tired of having to explain to the western women whose ideology is responsable for, lmao, our peoples sexual slavery, that this shit is real bad, and lmao in actuality imperialism, but having to do it nicely enough while They are x30 times more hostile with Me. lord. if youre going to call me a fascist and cancel me irl, if were just throwing words around, can i just start calling them slavers? except thats not going to get us anywhere, except no matter how many times i want to just snap, i know that doing so as badly as i want to to their face isnt going to get anything done

. and.what choice do i have, really? i cant simply leave the western feminists to their bullshit. because what they think becomes law in their own damn countries and then affects us, it becomes international law as well because it is their country who lead the international community. the bullshit that they think, actually, unfortunately direcly affects us. and not only that, but it affects the women and girl-children most vulnerable and opressed in their own countries, whom are still our sisters whose pain and saftey i am concerned with. so i cant just leave them to it, and there is little choice then to not educate, or not try to at least try to reach across the isle. theres little choice but to have the hope that some of them can care and understand, and that some is better than nothing and worth it and a start..... even with how fucking tired and fed up i am and how i wish i wouldnt have to keep bearing my god damn suffering just so theyd get it, im still. frankly so willing to do it with someone who is actually willing to listen and change. i dont believe in canceling people forever, and i have the hope and knowledge that changing one persons mind is a ripple effect, for then they change anothers mind, and on and on

i just wish. theyd at least meet me halfway. im tired of making the effort to still see them as sisters and women whose struggles i care about, while for the most part they could give less of a shit

[cantsayidont]

March 2022. An intermittently amusing but frequently infuriating Ellen Rapoport sitcom, launched on HBO Max and then switched to STARZ for its second season, MINX is set in the early '70s and follows the misadventures of an idealistic white woman named Joyce Pritchard (Ophelia Lovibond), who reluctantly transforms her plan for an intellectual feminist women's magazine into a high-profile adult magazine for women, published by good-natured sleazebag Doug Renetti (Jake Johnson), who sees it as a weird but potentially viable addition to his existing magazine line. Joyce is deeply uncomfortable with Doug's world of nude centerfolds and sex toy ads, but as the magazine takes off, she finds she loves being famous — and enjoys taking advantage of her position of power over attractive, often none-too-bright men. Meanwhile, Doug's long-suffering Black girlfriend cum business manager Tina (Idara Victor) wants more respect; gay photographer/art director Richie (Oscar Montoya) struggles with his aspirations to do something better — and editorial directives not to make a magazine full of naked men seem too gay; and Joyce's married older sister Shelly (Lennon Parham), who resents Joyce for leading a kind of life she never got a chance to experience, has an unexpected affair with former nude model Bambi (Jessica Lowe) that leads to a midlife gay awakening.

Like the earlier G.L.O.W. streaming series (which it strongly resembles in structure and tone), MINX wants to be titillating, but its smug middle-class disapproval of porn and sex work is like a millstone around its neck: It's willing to concede that Doug and Tina, who are strictly on the business side, are pretty savvy, but it stubbornly refuses to entertain the notion that anyone who poses for or performs in porn could harbor any real intellect — the male models are all hunkier versions of Lenny from OF MICE AND MEN, and even Bambi, who's arguably the show's most likable character, is presented as a kind of idiot savant. Moreover, the show walks a weird line of expecting the audience to laugh at Joyce's second-wave feminist priggishness while also presuming that she's ultimately right, morally if not practically, in ways the narrative doesn't really support. The problem with Joyce is not that she's a feminist buzzkill, but that she's an entitled, classist snob who struggles to conceal her obvious contempt for anyone she considers her social or intellectual inferior (and who becomes an increasingly terrible boss as the magazine takes off). However, for the show to really engage with why Joyce is terrible would require the writers to reexamine their own prejudices, which they're obviously unwilling to do.

MINX remains watchable mostly on the strength of its supporting characters — Tina, Richie, Bambi, and Shelly are more interesting and far more appealing than Joyce — but it would be nice if the show were less eager to make them the punchline of the joke. The show also further strains goodwill with the unwelcome addition of the intolerable Elizabeth Perkins as a wealthy widow who becomes the new owner of Doug's publishing empire (an insufferable rich bitch completely indistinguishable from the insufferable rich bitch Perkins played in the second season of the agonizing comedy-mystery THE AFTERPARTY), a character whose narrative function is make the tug-of-war between Joyce and Doug largely irrelevant and to add an additional layer of smug white lady entitlement to a storyline already top-heavy with it.

[sondering]

[      havana rose liu  +  twenty seven  +  non-binary  +  they/she      ]      the  city  of  new  york  welcomes  alberta 'birdie' huang  to  the  social  season  of  1887,  the  cousin  of  the astor family.  known  to  be  effervescent  and  creative,  their  rumored  capricious and  entitled tendencies  might  prove  to  be  their  unmaking.  the  street  musicians  often  string  along  a  tune  that  sounds  like  c'est si bon  by  eartha kitt  whenever  they  are  near,  hoping  for  a  coin  or  two  as  a  reward.  unbeknown  to  their  peers,  birdie  views  the  social  season  as  a playing field  but  when  holding  a  secret  such  as  they have no intention of returning to california,  it  would  be  best  to  keep  their  opinions  to  themselves. 

basic statistics :

full name : xiang huang ( 翔 黄).

alternatively : alberta huang.

nicknames or aliases : they are best known as birdie; they often use the alias robin stanford for their work.

age : twenty - seven.

date of birth : february 10th 1860.

occupation : socialite, heiress, artist.

parents : changyin 'chuck' huang (51), railroad tycoon and executive of the central pacific railroad + bernadette 'bernie' astor (48), daughter of the patriarch of the new york astor family.

siblings : charles (17), john (15), amaranthe (12), iris (10), indigo (10).

other familial relationships : montgomery astor ( maternal cousin ).

marital status : unmarried.

sexuality : bisexual.

the secret :

sacramento means a cage they have no interest in being contained in. they have delayed taking on the mantle of the family business for years, and all they want to is to run away from it - - the perfect escape comes in the form of the astor power in the city, and her own heavy wallet. since last season, they have began to rent a studio in which they receive guests to have their likeliness painted; due to the secrecy of it all, they have worn an alias when showing off their work, but it has not yet risen to the kind of sucess they'd need to convince themselves and their parents that this could be a way of life. this season must change this.

thoughts on high society :

birdie takes nothing too serious, and high society is nothing different. they only see what benefits them - - as an astor cousin, child one of the richest men in america, they have a leeway to their arrogance and indulgence and they use it as they see fit. they adore the socialization aspect of it all, and often search for subjects for their work amongst the people of the ton.

headcanons :

when chuck huang first went to new york, in the 50s, he may have went into the season expecting to land himself a wife, but he certainly didn’t expect to meet and fall for an astor. only the very fresh second generation of an immigrant family made rich by the gold rush, it was unlikely he would be the best fit for an astor daughter, yet bernie would always tell their story as a love story. for why else would she leave new york and go all the way to california? it was a new world, in all senses of the world. she had to acclimate to her husband’s state, culture, life.

thankfully, the affection they had for one another grew into respect and a partnership that would only grow chuck’s prospects though it was for his own self that he gained the one that would make him famous all around america: the central pacific railroad along with three friends, chuck became known to carry the project to build the first transcontinental railroad in northern america, a railroad that would cover from east to west. it was chuck who would hammer in the golden spike along the way; once it was driven in, and quickly removed, it would be returned to the huang home in sacramento, not the first and definitely not the last of their gilded objects around the lavish home.

birdie was born way before their father would come in renown. their home was already lavish and great, however, becoming of the huang name — and so was the child. named xiang, an auspicious name chosen by her grandfather, she was meant to soar high as the heir to such a great fortune. right away, bernie, her mother, refused to ever call the child xiang — she called her birdie, instead. isn’t it all the same? possible insensitivity would be washed away as the name became her own, even before her chinese name, or the english name attached to her school papers. that’s what she was: just birdie. they’ve always liked it better this way.

with so much wealth and influence on the tip of their fingers, birdie grew spoiled and indulged to ridiculous standards. all she wanted, she got; she had the opportunity to try horse riding, learn arithmetics, pick whatever language her heart desired, dance and paint and sing and all of that. to their mother’s dismay, most of the things they did, they did in the most basic of fashions but, at the very least, they did it enthusiastically which, theri father said, was a good thing. one needs to keep their spirits high in this world, even in front of failure, chuck would tell them. and so they did.

the one thing birdie liked above all was art. from finger painting, to sketching, to designing the most intricate paintings with oil, that was their calling in life. yet, the eldest by at least a decade, it was obvious that the huang family name would weight on their shoulders. instead of artistic pursuits, they were encouraged to take on practical ones, learn of engineering and architecture and railroads and all things they did not care about — railroads for them only mattered because it lead them to trains, and trains lead them to trips and trips lead them to wherever they wanted, far from their parents.

from the time they were old enough, they would go to spend the seasons in new york. their debut went splendid — at least four offers of marriage they laughed about; thankfully, their father was picky enough to allow her yet this one another fortune. whenever they’re in the city, they stay with their cousins, the astor, and never fail to enjoy what society has to offer. new york is better in every way to california, that they are certain of, and, as their university studies come to its end even as they try to drag it out, birdie thinks that they may just have to find a way to root them here instead of there, somehow.

connections :

astor acquaintaces, people they have met in former seasons

people who travel around!

muses - people who have sat for her or who have comissioned in the past or will be painted now!!

perhaps someone who wishes to take advantage of them or dislikes their carefree manner?

lovers - they are rather fickle hearted but are drawn to beauty so there's always the possibility of some flings and affairs over the years

[shinebrightlikeanarwhal]

I have smt for your au world where Kenneth is intersex and has a child with big strong hot man

So one day Kenneths overly abusive family who he left in his past came to visit, just out of nowhere (way to ruin the holidays!)

There really confused about the baby he's holding, being the dicks they are while Kenneth's partner is just hiding in a bedroom

There already talking about how beautiful the child is gonna be and how to marry them off! Disgusting people, but theres another "surprise".

One of Kenneth's family members, like a fancy aunt or entitled sister, has a bratty 16 year old girl with her, who obviously isn't part of the family. She looks nothing like them!

"Since you were too much of a bug to marry off your son, I helped you"

Travis is never coming home: a trilogy.

First they have the nerve to break in with no consent. Kenneth being a victim is scared to tell them that though. Then they start making gross remarks on his baby. His partner is pretty much trapped in his personal bathroom. Now they’re marrying HIS son off without his consent OR Travis.

He knows how violent his family can get so he doesn’t speak on it. He would probably talk over it and put distance between himself and Travis. Allude that Travis no longer lives there.

But jokes on him, his abusers kept tags on them. Travis ran off not too long ago because some man moved in. The PI never got a full backstory on who the partner is but that’s no longer the others concern. They got two kids to widen their connections with. Just need to find the oldest and ship him off with the brat they found.

An argument breaks out however when the girl starts making demands of Kenneth and he can’t fulfill them as he’s caring for his baby. Of course the men that came thought it funny to try and ask where his wife is? How come she hasn’t greeted them yet. Kenneth, sick of them, tells them she died. A ghost cant care for a baby. That shuts them up for a bit before the same girl still demands Kenneth to put the whining baby away so he can get her things. There’s no way in hell that thing is staying in his home.

Of course the old bastards are furious and try to strong arm him into it. Luckily, Kenneth’s partner phoned the police and used Kenneth’s emergency code for the officer. (The cult leader will need urgency so he has a code if ever he is endangered).

Sal, who’s been pen palling with Philip, tells them everything that happened.

These crazy out of towners were hooting and hollering. Some weird girl was screaming that she would tell her father and that the Phelps will be ruined. Apparently the family had been stalked ever since Kenneth ran off.

I highly doubt Larry wasn’t watching some snooty girl walk in and some feral bitch get carried out in cuffs. With how she talked and condemned the town he was glad she was getting carried out. That girl was insane.

[kellychapell]

Today someone told me that I will always miss/want women and will never be content with my male partner. That I'll miss the curves, the softness, full breasts, longer hair.

This person is not alone in her opinion, not alone in voicing it to me. Why do they feel entitled to force their point of view my way, I really don't know. The funny thing is that most of the people who share this opinion are LGBT themselves.

I should feel connected whit them, a sense of belonging when I 'm with them. But every passing day I feel more distant, detached.

There are women who are flatboards, who have calloused hands, short hair. There are men with soft hands, full lips, low on body hair. They are no less men/women for being that way.

I don't miss certain body parts. I'm with someone for their essence as a person, no for their appearance. And I think that's what confuses my so called friends. I don't fit in their boxes. The boxes that they created because the rest of the world already think we don't fit.

I'm not fem, or butch, not top ou bottom, I'm content with myself and my partner. I'm not in constant longing for what I don't have, not on my body, not on other people's bodies.

They don't know what to think of me, yet they already think too much.

And I no longer know what to do with them