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things happening recently!! mai developing a crush on renako in tomodachi life and in the span of 10 minutes ivan and till got married. starting subnautica 2 soon OMG i can’t wait!! almost done with my playthrough of slow damage🫡 i have so much to say about but that needs a separate post
tomodachi life is slowly becoming part of my daily routine i love it so much. lwk my island veers into crackship station but so far the pairings have been canon….
except when this happened….like wdym hyuna and mizi are fighting over sua (honestly me too). so far hyuna has not been a fan of luka
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
Fuck You.
I’m so angry you are so lucky my three weed smorking girlfriends are rubbing my shoulders to calm me down I’m so mad.
I printed out a photo of your avatar and taped it to my punching bag that I punch and I mutter your URL with every strong punch I punch you twerp…. Don’t ever Talk about Blaiz or the wicked Tat(tattoo) I drew on her ever again I Don’t wanna see you standing outside my home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again ok leave us alone this is the FINAL FUCKING WARNING
What, was that? Hmm? Come again. *Blaiz grabs my shoulder* Come on Jory, they aren’t worth it, please. * I jerk my shoulder shaking her hand off* NO! NOOOOO!!! *starts to just pummel you with my big fucking fists. With each blow I let out a furious yell. The blows come quicker and harder and the yells get louder. I’m yelling so loud and now I’m crying. BREAKING POINT. The week was hard and I can’t take anymore. I’m opening sobbing at this point while you blood gurgle. All three of my girlfriends struggle to pull me off and they finally succeed and lead me away from the goo pile that is now your body*
who even is this dude? someone needs some anger management classes.
love how he keeps reminding us that “I HAVE THREE GIRLFRIENDS”, “THEY ALL KISS ME”, and “THEY SMOKE WEED HURRP DURR”.
and let’s not forget the “Blaiz” and her “wicked tat”, or that he doesn’t “wanna see you standing outside [his] home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again”, and that this is “the FINAL FUCKING WARNING”.
“the goo pile that is now your body”
i’m dying over here, jesus
please, Jory, come challenge me to a bout of internet witticsisms; i promise, it’ll be fun.
Come again? *The bar falls silent. No one dares to make a sound, as you have just said a very poor choice of words at a very dangerous time. I remain slumped over the bar, not looking back to you. One hand limply holding an almost empty bottle, the other hand cradling my head. I repeat the question, this time louder.* Come again?! *You can hear me slur the words, the sentence sounds like a real struggle for me to get out. I’m clearly intoxicated. A bead of sweat rolls down your face as you realize you might have just fucked up in a very major way. Everyone else in the bar is pretending to not notice what is going on. The bartender idly washes a mug with a cloth. His eyes are closed and he’s muttering something to himself. A handful of people hurriedly leave. One person looks back at you, a look of sorrow on their face. They almost say something, but shake their head and cast their eyes down to the floor, and leave. But not you. You stand, petrified. A quick look at me reveals I’m still at the bar. You look to the exit, there’s still time. But there’s not, there’s not, there’s not. Your fate was sealed the moment you opened your mouth.* Mother fuck.. what did you say?! *I slowly rise from my stool and being to lumber over to you. I look a mess. My hair is unkempt, I haven’t shaved in what looks like months, there are dark heavy bags under my eyes, my shirt is stained and has holes in it, and I’m missing a shoe. But the main thing you notice is the gun tucked into my jeans, and my massive muscle arms that look like they were made for punching. You know that song about the boots that were made for walking? Yeah, it’s like that only instead of boots it’s my muscles and instead of walking it’s punching. As I drunkenly sway over to you, you think of your family… Will they mourn you, or will they try and forget this blotch of stupidity, that their child insulted the Jory publicly, ever happened to their family? Your thoughts are cut short as I now stand face to face with you. I grab your face and pull you even closer.* Playin?! There was nothing playing… no playing you fuck. No playing… it was real.. the realest thing I’ve ever know.. felt… Love. I loved them… Blaiz…. Chas-Chas… Funk… I loved all three of em… but they…*My face is wet with tears and I’m blinking constantly in vain to hold them back.* They left me… left… *Almost instantly the sadness leaves my face and is replaced with pure anger.* Playin? Playin?! *My hand leaves your face and starts to head to what you think is the gun. You close your eyes and see God looking at you, shrugging. ‘Pft, you brought this upon yourself dude.’ He says as he waves his hands at you dismissively. But instead of the gun, my hands grab yours. Your eyes jolt open and the anger is gone from my face. There is only sadness.* Left me… * I fall to the floor and sob.*
Wow, grow up. *You say before you leave the bar but are hit almost immediately from a car and are killed upon impact.*
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Characters: M!Frost Spirit/NB!Human
Content: SFW, Limited Tangibility, Fluff
Spice Level: Mild
Word Count: ~1,200
Notes: Just in time for an epic winter storm, here's a story that patrons got to read ages ago.
It started in November with simple shapes—stars and snowflakes on my bedroom window. Pretty, unusual, but not unheard of. I thought it was just the cold. But the shapes became patterns. Spirals and loops, fractals that shouldn't form naturally. I'd wake up and photograph them, fascinated, posting them online. Winter's being artistic this year.
In December, the patterns became letters.
HELLO
I'd stood in my pajamas, breath fogging, staring at that word crystallized across the glass. My rational mind said condensation, said coincidence. But my hand reached out anyway, fingertip hovering just above the frost.
"Hello," I'd whispered back.
The next morning: PRETTY
"The frost?" I asked the empty room, feeling foolish.
The next morning: YOU
My heart had stuttered. I'd asked "Who are you?" as if it would answer me.
But the frost had answered: JACK
We talked through the window every day after that. I'd speak to the glass, as if there were someone there listening to me, or I'd write questions in steam or breath-fog. The answers would be there the next morning. Sometimes elaborate patterns formed around the words—impossible geometries that made me ache with their beauty.
By January, the messages had become longer. More personal.
YOU LAUGH AT YOUR SHOWS EVEN WHEN ALONE. I LIKE THAT.
"You've been watching me?" I'd asked, not sure if I should be creeped out or charmed.
ONLY YOUR WINDOW. YOU SEEM HAPPY. IT MAKES ME WARM.
"Can winter spirits feel warm?"
NOT USUALLY. JUST WITH YOU.
I'd started talking to the window like he could hear me. Telling him about my day, my frustrations, my small joys. His responses began coming quicker; instead of new words the next morning, sometimes the patterns would change. It was more like a proper conversation. It felt more real.
"I think I'm falling for a winter spirit," I told my sister on the phone.
"That's either very romantic or you need therapy," she'd said. "Possibly both."
It happened in late January; I'd been crying—bad day, worse week—and I'd pressed my forehead against the cold window.
"I wish I could hug you," I'd whispered. "I wish you were here. Really here."
The frost had swirled frantically: I WISH THAT TOO
Then: THERE MIGHT BE A WAY
My heart had leapt. "What way?"
But the next morning, the window was blank. No frost. No message.
I'd waited. Days passed. Then weeks. February came with warmer weather, and still—nothing.
I'd driven myself crazy. Had I scared him away by wanting too much? By being too needy? Maybe he'd realized I was too broken, too human, too warm for someone made of winter.
March arrived with an unexpected cold front, and with it came Jack. Words covered the entire pane: I'M SORRY. CAN WE START OVER?
I'd pressed both hands to the glass. "Jack? Where have you been?"
The frost shifted: LEARNING. PRACTICING. BEING A COWARD.
"Coward about what?"
ABOUT SHOWING YOU THIS
The air in my room grew frigid. My breath came out in clouds. And then, slowly, impossibly, a hand materialized against the inside of my window—pale as snow, translucent as ice, but solid enough to press back against my palm.
I gasped.
The hand trembled, then faded. New words appeared: I CAN BECOME SOLID. PARTS OF ME. NOT ALL AT ONCE. IT'S HARD. TAKES EVERYTHING I HAVE.
"That's what you've been doing? Learning this?"
TRYING. FAILING. TRYING AGAIN. I WANTED TO SURPRISE YOU. TO BE WHAT YOU NEEDED.
"Why did you disappear?"
BECAUSE THE FIRST TIME I TRIED, I MANIFESTED WRONG. SCATTERED. IT HURT. I WAS SCARED TO TRY AGAIN. SCARED TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING SO INCOMPLETE.
"You're not incomplete. Show me?"
A long pause. Then: OPEN THE WINDOW?
My hands shook as I unlatched it. Cold air rushed in, and with it, something else—a presence, a pressure, a gathering of winter itself in my room.
Slowly, a hand materialized in front of me. Pale fingers, delicate as frost, solid enough to see the whorls in the fingertips. Just a hand, floating in the air, but it was real.
"Jack," I breathed.
The fingers flexed nervously. I reached out, hesitated.
YOU CAN TOUCH. I WANT YOU TO.
I brushed my fingertip against his palm. Chilled but not as cold as I expected. Solid. Real. The hand shivered at the contact.
WARM, appeared on the window in shaky letters.
"Is that bad?"
GOOD. STRANGE. MORE.
I took the hand in both of mine. Felt the shape of it, the weight, the impossible reality of touching something that shouldn't exist. The fingers curled around mine, tentative and wondering.
"This is why you left?" I asked softly.
The hand squeezed gently. YES. I CAN DO MORE. A FACE. SHOULDERS. ARMS. BUT NEVER ALL AT ONCE. NEVER A WHOLE BODY. I WANTED TO BE COMPLETE FOR YOU.
"I don't need complete," I said. "I just need you."
The hand brought my palm up to where a face would be, pressing my warmth against cold air—and then there was a face, materializing against my hand. Sharp cheekbones, closed eyes, lips parted in concentration. Beautiful and alien and here.
His eyes opened—pale blue, almost white—and looked at me with such hope and fear that my heart broke.
"Hi," I whispered.
His lips moved, but no sound came. He frowned, and words appeared on the window: VOICE IS HARDER. SORRY.
"It's okay." I cupped his face with both hands. "This is more than okay."
He leaned into my touch, eyes closing again. The rest of him was still invisible, but I could feel the suggestion of shoulders, of presence. He was concentrating so hard he was trembling.
"You don't have to hold this," I said. "If it hurts—"
His eyes snapped open, fierce. The words practically carved themselves into the frost: WORTH IT. YOU'RE WORTH IT.
"So are you," I said, and kissed him.
His lips were cold as December, but they were solid and real and kissing me back with desperate tenderness. The hand still holding mine squeezed tight.
When we broke apart, he was fading already—face becoming translucent, hand losing definition.
SORRY. CAN'T HOLD LONG.
"How long can you manage?"
GETTING BETTER. MAYBE AN HOUR NOW?
"Then we have an hour." I smiled. "What do you want to do first?"
He managed a flicker of a smile before his face disappeared. But his hand remained, solid and sure in mine.
THIS. JUST THIS.
So we sat together in the cold room, my warm hands wrapped around his frozen one, and talked until he faded completely. But before he disappeared entirely, words bloomed across the window:
TOMORROW? I'LL TRY FOR TWO HANDS.
"Tomorrow," I agreed. "And Jack? Thank you for coming back. For trying."
THANK YOU FOR WAITING. FOR WANTING PIECES.
"I want all of you," I said. "Whatever form that takes."
In the morning, I woke to frost-words and a perfect hand-print on my window, like a promise:
PRACTICING. LOVE YOU.
I pressed my palm to the print, feeling the cold.
Some things were worth the wait.
And piece by piece, we'd figure out the rest.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~
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The nazis that you see in movies are as much a historical fantasy as vikings with horned helmets and samurai cutting people in half.
The nazis were not some vague evil that wanted to hurt people for the sake of hurting them. They had specific goals which furthered a far right agenda, and they wanted to do harm to very specific groups, (largely slavs, jews, Romani, queer people, communists/leftists, and disabled people.)
The nazis didn't use soldiers in creepy gas masks as their main imagery that they sold to the german people, they used blond haired blue eyed families. Nor did they stand up on podiums saying that would wage an endless and brutal war, they gave speeches about protecting white Christian society from degenerates just like how conservatives do today.
Nazis weren't atheists or pagans. They were deeply Christian and Christianity was part of their ideology just like it is for modern conservatives. They spoke at lengths about defending their Christian nation from godless leftism. The ones who hated the catholic church hated it for protestant reasons. Nazi occultism was fringe within the party and never expected to become mainstream, and those occultists were still Christian, none of them ever claimed to be Satanists or Asatru.
Nazis were also not queer or disabled. They killed those groups, before they had a chance to kill almost anyone else actually. Despite the amount of disabled nazis or queer/queer coded nazis you'll see in movies and on TV, in reality they were very cishet and very able bodied. There was one high ranking nazi early on who was gay and the other nazis killed him for that. Saying the nazis were gay or disabled makes about as much sense as saying they were Jewish.
The nazis weren't mentally ill. As previously mentioned they hated disabled people, and this unquestionably included anyone neurodivergent. When the surviving nazi war criminals were given psychological tests after the war, they were shown to be some of the most neurotypical people out there.
The nazis weren't socialists. Full stop. They hated socialists. They got elected on hating socialists. They killed socialists. Hating all forms of lefitsm was a big part of their ideology, and especially a big part of how they sold themselves.
The nazis were not the supervillians you see on screen, not because they didn't do horrible things in real life, they most certainly did, but because they weren't that vague apolitical evil that exists for white American action heros to fight. They did horrible things because they had a right wing authoritarian political ideology, an ideology that is fundamentally the same as what most of the modern right wing believes.
in my post abt tumblr's porn ads I said something like "I don't care much about the fact that I'm seeing porn rather than that we as users can't post it but advertisers can". and a few people have reblogged with tags like "I DO care about seeing porn/I don't want to see it and I shouldn't have to/I also don't care but would love not to flashbang people" all of which are true and fair. but friends, colleagues. I put that line in there to keep swerfs away from the post. it is all too easy for anything which is ostensibly complaining about porn to be dragged into that sphere and lauded as proof that the world is porn addicted and degenerate.
I am a porn creator who considers porn & sex a significant part of my artistic expression. when I say I'm not bothered by seeing porn on dash, I mean ideally I would be seeing much more of it from real people. but even if this wasn't the case, I consider the naked body a neutral object to look at - it doesn't disturb me and I am concerned at the amount of people who seem disturbed at seeing any amount of nudity on their screen.
so let me be more explicit. the problem with the porn ads is not the porn, it's the ads. it's the fact that advertisers can post things that users can't. it's the inability to filter out the content because it is an ad and is not beholden to the same TOS or labelling rules as users are. it's the fact that many of the ads are for AI services, showing AI generated skinny white women (further pushing the needle on the extreme fascistic, white supremacist body image issues people are developing) in lieu of paying real life sex workers.
it's cool and fine that you would prefer not to see explicit porn in your day-to-day life. but you need to know that repeatedly, compulsively reinforcing this desire when I'm trying to talk about a problem of capitalism and censorship of expression does in fact position you nearer to the censors than it does to me and other sex workers.
i can't see my mutual's boobs on tumblr. i also can't see a sex worker's boobs on tumblr. but if Age Of Elf War Gambling Scam wants to show me digital elf titty, i will see those titties seventy times in a row, and if i complain i will be told to buy a paid subscription to tumblr.
porn isn't the problem, consent is. advertisers telling us we can't show our tits OR avoid seeing theirs is an incredibly stupid situation to be in.
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OMG i started watching gachiakuta after work and i really like it! as of now i just finished ep 5 of the anime and WOWIE. maybe it’s just the subtle themes of environmentalism, ofc classism, and humans relationships to little trinkets but it is so good so far. i can’t lie looking back on it rudo is lwk giving deku if he had a stable father figure (all might does NOT count)
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I'm so fascinated by people who seem to believe that analyzing media is somehow taking the joy out of it. Like. Do you not enjoy thinking? Does taking stuff apart and figuring out how it works not give you a hit of dopamine? And you get mad when you see people having fun in this way? What a sad, miserable way to engage with the world.
