#Flippant magazine

[enchantedbook]

'Sappho Comes!' Jazz : a Flippant Magazine, January 15,1925

#Flippant magazine #jazz magazine #Illustration #magazine illustration #vintage art #art deco illustration #sappho

[courtingchaos]

It’s Just a Question

A/N: Back on my bullshit. I’ve had some really hard times with my normal writing while also finding myself in some shitty circumstances. So this is how this came about. Just a lot of feelings. Technically plus sized reader but you can do whatever you want.

18+ NSFW No Minors

“Am I pretty?”

“What?” Eddie sprays toothpaste on the mirror, he’s so quick to ask.

“Am I pretty?” You scrunch your face up over and over, drawing your eyebrows down and crinkling your eyes. Purse your lips and frown deep and finally look over at him staring at you, toothbrush hanging from his mouth and arms braced on the countertop.

“Are you pretty?” He reiterates with a deep sigh. “Of course you are, you’re gorgeous. Especially right now when your hair matches mine and we look like two electrocuted cotton balls.” He’s not flippant but he’s definitely brushing you off.

You aren’t done though. “I’m serious, and I’m not asking if you think I’m pretty. Am I pretty like…Anne Hathaway.” You pull down on your cheek and watch it bounce back, albeit slower than it did when you were 20.

“Well…you don’t even look-no.” He stops quickly and spits in the sink and rinses his toothbrush, viciously shaking his head the whole time. “This is a trap and I refuse.” He says as he leaves you in the bathroom.

“Eddie it’s not a trap it’s an honest question!”

“This is like the worm thing and I’m not doing that again!” He yells over his shoulder before closing himself in the bedroom to get dressed for work. You sigh and turn to look at your tired reflection. Your perpetual eyebags answer your question for you, and your dusting of sun damage yells it louder from the mirror.

Not pretty, subliminally average.

Standing in line at the grocery store, Eddie slumped over the handle and picking at stray grapes, you ask again only this time with a visual aid.

“Okay, I mean like this.” You shove a copy of Rolling Stone under his nose, a new pop star gracing their cover in something sheer and tight. “I meant pretty like this.” You say quietly next to him. He chews on another free grape slowly, staring at the cover and tilting his head. He doesn’t move, just slides his eyes way over to give you the look.

“You’re prettier than her.”

“What about Juno Temple?” You quip back.

“She’s shorter than you. And British, doesn’t count.” He quips right back. You huff and shove the magazine back in its slot.

“You’re not understanding me.”

“No, I am. You’re just not listening to me.” He pushes the cart up a spot and continues his easy lean. “You’re pretty like…that.” He searches the newsstand by the register and points at a baking magazine, perfectly circled apple tart dusted with sugared cinnamon and you bark a loud laugh.

“A tart Edward?”

“Don’t twist my words. I said you’re pretty like that.” He smiles, pops another grape in his mouth and starts tossing things on the conveyer belt.

Pretty like a baked good.

He’s elbow deep in the shelf of succulents, looking for something called a ‘Black Rose’.

“I know it’s in here, there’s four dead ones up top.” He’s pushing little green teardrops to the side to find his prize, a loud ‘Ha!’ when he whips his hand out, holding the little plant by its little container.

“It’s so tiny.”

“Yeah and in like six months it might not be.” He gives you a cheesy smile and sets in the cart with your other potential house plant failures. Somehow he’s managed to keep a giant flat pot of succulents alive for almost a year and every time you go to the plant store, he adds another.

“Okay, what’s its name.”

You hum at him, tapping your finger along the cart when you get distracted. A willow of a woman walks in, hair shiny like water and flowing over her thin, petite shoulders. She looks like she’s on a mission, perfectly manicured hand pointing her in the right direction when she heads for a batch of bright zinnias. Her smile painted a bright coral like the plant she picks up and places in her cart, three more following and off she billows to the next aisle full of ivy. Eddie saw it the moment you stopped listening to him listing off names. The swivel of your head and then the tapping of your finger ceasing, knuckles going white around the cart handle. He watches you watch her and he knows the question is coming before you turn back around with that frown hewn into your forehead.

“Like this.” He holds up the small succulent, barely formed petals burnished a deep purple in the afternoon sun.

“What.”

“Pretty like this.”

“You don’t even-“ You scoff and cut yourself off, heavy eye roll directed at no one while you turn away and sulk by the snake plants.

He doesn’t tell you, but he names it after you.

The Big One happens during the summer. Chrissy is engaged, and her new belle and her decide to have a joint bachelorette party, everyone invited. You know Eddie’s people, all these random characters drawn together through something you don’t quite understand. You meet Chrissy fiancé and she’s just as bubbly and sweet as Chrissy herself. Eddie gives them your gift and drops a kiss on Chrissy’s cheek and it barely bothers you.

They’d dated just out of high school. 15 years ago and before Chrissy had realized why men just never hit the spot. She floats around her party and you hang around behind Eddie while he walks the two of you around in conversation. At some point you’d gone past your standard three (3) drinks and the mango seltzers are starting to make you a little resentful.

Thankfully you catch it, excuse yourself to the bathroom and give yourself a stern stare in the mirror.

It’s not your party.

They’re just friends.

It’s not about you.

…Is it ever?

There’s a reason you stop at 3 lately, that rolling black pit of self loathing feeds on bubbly things and it’s feeding on a blonde tonight.

So when you come back you sit at a table by yourself. You tuck your hands under your thighs and admonish yourself for how wide they are. There’s a tug of war happening between your self pity and your self depreciation, a tear balancing on your lashes while you roll the wet eyes under them. Eddie finds you bent over your phone and all you can think about is how wide your shoulders must have looked from that far away.

“Hey, where’d you go?”

“I had to uh, go to the bathroom.” Your pause gives you away, just south of tipsy, and Eddie smiles, his big hand sliding under your chin to hold it between his fingers. A move that usually has you melting into his palm, but tonight?

You tug your head away and he frowns. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t think I need to be here anymore.”

“You feeling okay?”

“I’m just fine. I’m gonna get an Uber home, you stay.” You stand up and hate the feel of your clothes on you. Your hair feels too heavy and the makeup you spent an hour on is suddenly sticky and tacky and wasted on you.

“No, we’ll leave together.” Eddie has concern all over his face. He tries to give you a hand when you obviously stumble and you slap it away.

The fight only starts when you start crying, unable to control your emotions anymore. You spend the whole ride home feeling sorry for yourself, saying the most inane shit Eddie’s ever heard.

“You can’t ask me to compare you to Chrissy. That’s not fair!” He laughs humorlessly when you ask him who’s prettier. “One, it was 15 years ago! Two, I’m not doing this anymore!” He yells and it shuts you up. He can hear the click of your jaw with how quick you stop yammering on drunkenly about your thighs.

“If you want to play that game, let’s look at your past relationships, huh?”

“What relationships Eddie?!” You scream back at him. There’s a part of his being that can feel the backslide into the terrible habit of yelling to get his point across. Picked up from his father and quelled at every turn, but today you drag it out of him.

“Oh don’t start with that shit again.”

“You mean all the guys that fucked me in the dark?! Or do you mean the ones that pretended not to know me in public?”

He gets to your apartment in record time, slamming the car in park and scrambling to hold your seatbelt buckled before you can run out.

“Let me out.” Your face is red from crying and from hatred and from loathing.

“No.” He says quieter but with finality. You stare at him, waiting for him to move his hand but he won’t, keeps his fingers locked around yours.

“You’re drunk, and you’ve been in a bad mood lately.” He knows he knows he knows that was the wrong thing to say. It spilled out of his mouth before he could throw the net out for those errant words and you give him the meanest smile he’s ever seen on your face.

“A bad mood?” You nod your head like you’re agreeing but he’s bracing for impact. “A bad mood. Tell you what, when I have a fucking roster of groupies and easy boys behind me, then we can talk about my bad mood.”

“You’re mad because of people I’ve slept with?”

“Look at me Eddie!” You scream and it breaks on his name, the sob you’d been swallowing for an hour finally surfacing. “I don’t fucking look like Chrissy and I sure as fuck don’t look like Steve! You still have that picture of that stand in drummer on your profile you fucked around with! Every single one of them is-fuck! Stunning!” You finally wrench the seatbelt out of his hand and free yourself. “I look like a fucking joke when you take me places. You think I don’t see people staring?” Another mirthless laugh before you kick the door open and wobble your way out. “Make someone else laugh, Eddie.”

He watches you stomp off inside and slap the button for the elevator. There’s enough time he could get out and follow you in and upstairs and finish the yelling match and maybe get you to see straight.

But he doesn’t. His grip tightens on the steering wheel so much it creaks. He feels on the verge of tears and when you disappear behind the closing doors he punches his door and drives home too fast.

The doorbell rings and Eddie answers it without thinking. You look small in your hoodie, your hair damp and braided over your shoulder. He’s so used to you standing tall with him, a sturdy pillar he can lean on instead of always having to be the support. To see your shoulders pulled in tight makes his chest ache.

“I’m sorry I haven’t answered your texts.” You say quietly.

“I shouldn’t have yelled like that.”

“God don’t-“ you wipe at your eyes and stare at your feet. “Don’t apologize to me. I shouldn’t have gone off the fucking handle like that.”

“Maybe, but you’re obviously feeling some kind of way that you aren’t telling me about.”

“It’s the normal shit, Eddie. I just let it get to me.”

He holds the door open wider and nods his head over to the couch. “You wanna tell me about it?”

You don’t, not really. It’s going to go the way it always does with you explaining a life long loathing and the few times you see daylight out of the pit it holds you in.

“I shouldn’t have started that pretty shit.” You shake your head and clutch the pillow tighter around your middle. Eddie sits on the other side of the couch, long legs tucked up under his chin and you wish you could fold in on yourself like that. There must be a twist to your mouth or a shift of your body because Eddie sighs deeply.

“You know you don’t have to ask me that.”

“I know, but that’s not what I was asking anyways.”

“What does it matter?”

You shoot him a puzzled look. “I mean, I just want-I’d like to know if-“ you start and stop and Eddie just waits until you stop floundering.

“If I think you’re pretty, what does the rest matter?”

“It just does.” Your bottom lip wobbles and you hide it behind your fist. Eddie catches it, of course, and crawls over to you, grabbing your quivering chin and making you look up.

“I can’t undo a lifetime of self loathing in one afternoon, but I can definitely help cut through that shit one compliment at a time.” He gives you a gentle kiss and feels the smattering of tears hit your face, his thumb coming up to wipe them away. He cradles your face till you bury it in his neck and quietly cry for a while.

You loose count of how many sorry’s you give him and he finally tells you enough with a smile. He gives you his phone and tells you to order dinner and he disappears for a few minutes in his room.

Later, after food and more talking and a quiet nap spent curled up against Eddie’s side he asks if he can take you to bed.

“Sure grampa.” He smiles at your humor, an improvement to the tears earlier. He gets you out of your Sad Clothes and you quickly get under the blankets. He wants to say something but he knows to start small.

Starts with the lights off and sheds his clothes before crawling under the blankets from the foot of the bed. It makes you laugh and wind your legs around him, a win in his book. He kisses up your legs leaving a wet trail from your ankles to your thighs before you feel your face growing hot the closer he gets to your center. When you think he might pull your underwear off he doesn’t, instead kissing up your soft stomach to your breast and it isn’t until his curls spill out from under the blanket that you can hear him murmuring against your skin. Chanting “beautiful beautiful beautiful” and laying down “I love you’s”. His nose runs along under your chin while he kisses up to your ear “so pretty so perfect”. He runs his hands up into your hair and hold you in place while he hovers, warm brown eyes staring lovingly into yours.

“You have no idea how lucky I am.”

“Eddie…”

“No, don’t start.” He kisses you long and slow and it makes you tear up in a good way. He notices them hanging in the corners of your eyes and kisses those away while you laugh at him, watery and light and he knows he’s winning. It isn’t long before he’s got you trapped under him, legs tugged up around his hips so he can fuck into you slow and deep, his fingers still carding through your hair and keeping your eyes on him.

“So good for me.”

“Keep your eyes on me baby.”

“Just me and you.”

You couldn’t close your eyes if you wanted to, anchored to his stare and his touch and the way he whispers at you such sweet things. He kisses you deep when he feels you tightening around him. Thighs pulled tight around his hips, hands grasping for his shoulders to hold him tight to you while you spasm and gasp around him. He follows soon after, dropping his head down to nuzzle into your neck.

“Sweet girl.”

“Always so good to me.”

“Love you so much.”

Eddie lets you unwind from him before he lays on his back beside you.

“Can I show you something?” He pulls you in next to him so you have to drape over his chest, tattoos swelling under his deep breath. He holds his phone over your heads and finds the photo album he was looking for. You catch a glimpse of one of you and start to turn your head into his chest before he tuts at you.

“What did we just talk about?”

Instead you give him the benefit of doubt and let him scroll through. He talks about all the photos he has of you and why he kept them. Why he took them or got them from Robin or Nancy or one of the kids on one of the many outings. He’s got pictures of sunsets and really good food and flowers and his succulent pot. There’s a skyline in the rain from a green room he was in that he tells you reminds him so much of you. Says something about composition and the rain and how it comforts him like you do and if you weren’t wrung out you’d start crying again. He scrolls for a half hour explaining every photo and why they’re all you or remind him of you and how he finds you in the things he finds beautiful.

“So yes, I do.” He grabs your chin and you melt into his touch as he pulls you in for a soft kiss. “I think you’re pretty and beautiful and stunning and I will remind you every day.” Another peck before he cradles your head against his chest.

One day, maybe, you won’t have to remind yourself that it doesn’t matter. That Eddie thinks you’re pretty and that’s all you need, but today you know it for sure and feel it for sure and it’s enough.

(Sacrifice for the read more)

#Eddie Munson fic #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson Comfort #My Work #My Fic #Eddie Munson smut

[heich0e]

"You're taking fucking forever in there."

You ignore Levi's irritated comment as you fiddle with the buckles on your shoes, too tiny to clasp easily and at a part of your ankle that requires your legs to be both tilted and bent to access them. A lethal combination in opposition to your dexterity.

"Are you sewing that dress by hand or what?"

His voice is nearer to your bedroom door now, a little bit more difficult to tune out with only the thin wood between you.

"No, my little mice helpers are doing that for me while I sing to them," you call back, but your words are light and flippant where his were heavy with the weight of his impatience.

"It wouldn't surprise me if you did have your own army of vermin with the amount of junk you've got in this apartment." You can't see Levi's face but you know he's looking around your living room with his nose crinkled in the particular way he does when he finds something distasteful.

You scoff as you finally succeed in doing up your second buckle. You lift your head so you can snap your rebuttal directly towards your closed door.

"Sorry we can't all live like minimalist monks!"

Levi snorts in reply. "I'm hardly a minimalist, I just don't accumulate needless things."

"You only own one bowl, one plate, and one mug."

You've known Levi since college, and you're fairly certain he has the same amount of possessions filling the entirety of his one-bedroom apartment that he did in his one-room dorm a decade prior. Probably the same ones, too.

"That way no one ever tries to come over for meals, it's clever."

"It's spartan."

There's a light thump on the other side of your door, and you wonder what it may have been.

"Didn't you ever read those Marie Kondo books?" Levi's voice is impossibly close now, like he's got his forehead pressed to your door. The thump makes a little more sense.

You laugh a bit to yourself as you imagine the way he's slumped against the expanse of wood, long-dressed in his suit and ready to go where you've taken your time getting ready. It's not your fault Levi showed up thirty minutes earlier than he said he would to pick you up for the company party your shared workplace was throwing that evening--though you should have expected it, given he's never been tardy to anything in the entire time the two of you had been friends.

"Can't say I did," you reply as you cross your bedroom, leaning over in your mirror to get one last close-up look at your face. You run your thumbnail against the edge of your bottom lip where your gloss was slightly ill-applied. "Why do you ask?"

"S'all that," Levi sighs, "'spark joy' bullshit. Don't keep things in your space if they don't make you happy or whatever."

You smile at your own reflection, eyes flickering to the image of your bedroom door you can see in the glass.

"And what if all my 'junk' makes me happy?"

There's some shuffling, and a moment later Levi mutters: "How can an issue of a magazine from 2010 make you happy?"

You suspect he's plucked an old copy of some fashion magazine off the stack resting on the bookshelf beside your door. You've actually been meaning to throw those away for a while, but you don't tell him that.

"How can you manage to not find happiness in anything?"

"That's not true," he argues.

"Oh yeah?" you counter, adjusting the way your necklace is resting against your collarbones. "Name something that you keep around just because it makes you happy."

"My kettle."

"Nope," you answer immediately, grabbing your purse off the end of your bed and heading towards the door, "that serves a practical, utilitarian purpose. I mean something useless that you just like. Just something you think is pretty."

You grasp the handle and pull it open, and you take Levi by surprise--he barely catches himself with a hand on either side of the door frame to keep from crashing into you.

There's a little pink mark at the centre of his brow where he'd been leaning against the door, and his eyes are wide.

"You ready to go?" you ask him, tucking your bag under your arm.

He's frozen, his expression still a little taken aback.

"What?" you ask him, suddenly self conscious. Your hands tug at the material of your dress nervously. "Should I change?"

"No," he says, soft but sure. "You look... fine."

Your face pinches.

"Fine?"

"Nice," Levi corrects himself, finally looking away. He fiddles with the stack of magazines he'd been complaining about moments prior. "You look nice."

"Wow, Ackerman, with compliments like that it's shocking that you have to take your best friend as your date to the company party and not one of the countless women I'm sure are knocking at your door."

Levi narrows his eyes, tossing you a withering look.

"You're the one who said we should go together."

"That's because I want to blackout at the open bar, and you're the only person I know who turns down a drink on the corporate dollar," you say with a bright smile.

Levi tuts in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes wandering away from you again. "Charming."

A beat of silence passes.

Levi sucks in a little breath.

"You."

"Pardon?" you ask, and not even because he said it so quietly you barely understood him, but because it doesn't quite make sense.

"Something I keep around just because I like it," Levi says, his eyes fixed so intently on the outdated magazine stack that you're surprised the pages don't burst into flames. "Just because it makes me happy..."

Your heart stutters in its rhythm, a sudden weakness in your knees you can't chalk up to the height of your heels as easily as you may have liked to.

"...Just because it's pretty."

You swallow thickly.

His eyes meet yours.

The time and space between the two of you is thick and sweet like honey, and you wade through it slowly as you fight to find your words. You swear you can almost taste it as your tongue peeks out to moisten your already glossy lips.

"We should probably go," you say quietly, reaching out to adjust the lapel of Levi's suit. If your touch lingers a moment longer than it ought to, if your fingers brush against him in a way that friends' shouldn't, neither of you says anything about it.

Levi nods and clears his throat, taking the slightest step away from you towards your front door. "We gotta get you back before midnight after all, Cinderella."

You blink, a little confused, a little dazed, a little bit of a head rush still clouding your thoughts.

"The mice, remember?" Levi offers when he sees your curious look, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Oh," you laugh, letting your head hang as you nod slightly. "Right."

The two of you make your way down to the parking lot outside of your apartment building towards Levi's car, and you watch as the lights flash when he unlocks it.

"I've got two mugs, by the way," Levi says as he pulls the driver's side door open, and you pause with your hand on the handle of your own. He looks at you over the roof of his car, his eyes suddenly firmer than you'd seen them all night. More insistent. More sure.

You tilt your head, confused.

He ducks down to slide into his seat, but not before calling back to you one last time:

"The other one is yours."

#levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi x reader #levi x you #levi ackerman #aot drabble #aot writing #writing #here u go anon idk what this is

[mariaxxxxx]

Blackberry (Steve Rogersx fem!reader)

Summary: You shouldn't have had too much to drink at that party, honey. (+18)

Warnings: 18+ ONLY/ Minors DNI, Angust, Hurt comfort, Sex, Apologies, Crying, Creampie, Passionate sex, virgin!reader, size difference, smut, soft!dom!, HEA, good ending, somnophille, slight degradation, duvious consent, menstrual sex, pregnancy, arranged marriage, inexperienced reader, abortion commented, unprotected sex (don't do that wrap this thing), kidnapping, aftercare, curse words.

series masterlist

A/N: English is not my mother tongue. I apologize for any errors.

A/N: The following chapter has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex. I ask that you carefully observe the warnings to avoid triggers.

The party at the Stark mansion was a success as always. The cream of society was made up of businesspeople and new candidates for a seat in the American Congress. Dresses and hats fluttered in the cool spring breeze. You devoured a bowl of sugared blackberries, leaning against the bar counter, while watching your parents talk with friends animatedly about some topic involving economics and money. For God! You were so bored not even one of your friends decided to join you in this den of ostentation and hypocrisy.

And nothing, no matter how exciting it was to be in a superhero's house, could appease the enormous boredom that consumed his insides. Not even alcohol could keep you company at this point, your father would die before allowing a drop of alcohol to wet his tongue, so you were left with sugary blackberries that proved to be a good aphrodisiac on a hot afternoon.

You swallowed the last blackberry and left the empty bowl on the counter. He walked to his mother and whispered ‘’I’m going for a walk’’ in her ear and left the room before his mother could retort. You easily dodged the hundreds of guests and headed to the farthest drinks tent where an efficient bartender was juggling. The tent was outside, near a clump of trees, away from the watchful eyes of his parents.

“A blackberry margarita, please.” You asked, leaning slightly over the ivory surface.

"Identity." He asked.

“I didn’t bring it, but I guarantee that I’m of legal age.” You smiled as convincingly as you could, but he didn't seem inclined to help you. You rolled your eyes. “I’ll give you 100 bucks for the drinks.”

The bartender looked at You in disbelief. You felt internally angry; The childish features still hadn't left his face like the cute cheeks and plump lips, and that always got him into trouble.

“Not happening, girl.”

"Please! This party is a big mess, if you know what I mean. I need to stuff my face or I’m going to go crazy.”

Again he looked at her in disbelief. He was probably one of those people who only saw parts published in gossip magazines about young heirs who got into trouble.

"It went badly."

You sighed. Your father didn't even let you bring your cell phone. It was not polite, in his opinion, for a rich girl to interrupt an important conversation because of a message.

“A straight whiskey, please.” The deep voice next to him. “And a blackberry margarita.”

Without having to present ID or leave a tip to guarantee efficient service, the man, the damn Captain America, got both orders at incredible speed. The only thing You could think about was how tall and handsome he was.

"Here." He handed her the drink. “I got the impression that you forgot your identity and are being massacred by the damn bureaucracy.”

You smiled; by the drink and the wording so changing coming from a man considered by many to be an American God.

“Thank you, Captain.” You said as you took a sip of your drink.

“Steve. Just Steve.” He said taking a generous sip of his own drink. “I hope he really is of age. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

"Right. Steve. Just Steve.” You repeated with a mischievous smile. “I promise I will show you my ID as soon as possible.”

“What’s your name, pretty girl?”

You found yourself smiling and blushing at such a flippant compliment coming from such a divine man. You told him your name.

“A beautiful and delicate name. It suits you." He took another generous sip of his Whiskey and you took advantage and drank some more of your drink. It was sweet and went down as light as water.

“How can I thank you for the drink?” You asked.

"Talk to me."

You drank more of your blackberry margarita.

"About what?"

"Anything. Just… entertain me at this boring party.”

“Anything…” You took another sip. “As long as we can help ourselves to one more of these.” You got ready for your now empty glass.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Steve said, finishing the whiskey with a hint of a smile on his lips.

At some point, between conversations and glasses of margarita, Steve convinced you to show him every corner of the mansion. You accepted, looking excited about taking a tour with such a handsome man by your side. You and Steve left the tent, avoiding curious glances and boring conversations. He showed you the room where the Avengers met, the works of art that Tony insisted on buying, the training room and finally a long corridor with similar doors. He opened one of them and you entered a large room without windows, with a large sofa in the center, a minibar, a large TV that took up the entire wall and a strange device that you thought was a stereo.

It was large, clean and richly decorated. It felt like a sanctuary for leisure time. Steve pointed to the sofa and you sat down, he went to the minibar and returned with a bottle of reddish liquid. He sat down next to her.

  “Do you want to drink more”? He reached out his hand, wrapping his long fingers around the bottleneck. He extended this to You as if it were not a trap that You were about to willingly fall into. “It’s a liqueur made with blackberries. I got it from a senator at a party at the White House. I noticed how much You like the fruit and I would like You to try it.”

You had already had too much to drink. There were glasses and more glasses of margaritas, and you already felt your body a little soft, but you couldn't refuse the proposal of a man as beautiful as that. The man who sacrificed a lot for this nation. It's just a drink, You thought. Getting drunk next to Captain America, who is a hero, is a much better idea than getting drunk alone in a mansion. And you loved blackberries.

"Yes please." You mumbled, and Steve looked so proud of your response. He poured you a generous dose of drink. You drank. It was strong and very concentrated, very different from your sweet and light margherita. You didn't care you just drank more while Steve looked at You with a big smile. Beautiful. It was a beautiful smile.

One drink turned into two, then three and four.

“You’re blushing.” He smiled, he said drinking some of the liquor. “Your first kiss wasn’t that bad.”

You didn't notice. But You started sharing very personal things with Steve; You told him how your first kiss, as a child, was a disaster with a classmate you liked. You said how it was drooling and clumsy.

"It was horrible". You made a cart.” I did it because my friends wanted it. I should have waited longer.”

You don't feel it, but your knees spread of their own accord as a warm hand, not yours, lifts your dress a little and exposes the inside of your thigh and begins to massage in gentle circles as you finish another glass, laughing hard. , the heat growing whenever he got closer.

“A girl as beautiful as you should have someone.” He says in a reprimanding tone. He was close, very close. You drank more.

“No” You laugh, louder than usual, You feel so good, so light. But you feel a wave of disappointment wash over your body when you remember that you had no one. She couldn't even remember the last time she was touched or praised by the opposite sex.

“With such a beautiful face like that, it’s hard to believe.” He smiled. “Such a beautiful body and...”

He pauses.

“And…” You encourage him to continue.

“With breasts as beautiful as yours, I’m sure everyone…” He stops, looking embarrassed, his hand on your thigh about a little more. "Forgive me. This is inappropriate.

"No." You say quickly, urgently, although more slurred than usual.” I don't mind. You can praise them.”

"No?" He asks, his voice perfectly steady, with fake surprise behind it. Had you and he already had so much to drink because he didn't seem any different? “Would you mind showing them? I would love to see."

You shake your head and mumble no. With one hand, the other held the glass of drink, You released the bows on your dress that held your breasts, You didn't wear a bra, you didn't need them to make your breasts look beautiful, something you were secretly proud of. Her breasts bounce out towards him.

Steve reaches out his hand and gives it a nice squeeze. You let out a small moan at the intimate touch.

“I want to suck your six.” He blurts out.

His smile disappears, mostly in shock at such a bold revelation. But a part, a big part, of you feels flattered that Captain America wants to play with your breasts and all you wanted at that moment was for him to touch you.

"All good." You mumble in a slurred, broken voice.

Steve pushes your body until his head is between your breasts. You feel him take a deep breath, smelling you, his right hand grabs one of your breasts. He tilts his head and wraps his lips around your closest nipple.

The sensation is strange, it tickles, cold, but it warms up quickly. You had never felt someone do it like this before, it was much more like a brief lick or a clumsy and seductive suck like many boys did. But with Steve it was different. He was grasping as if trying to extract fluid that will never come out. He moans lewdly. You drop the glass and place your hand under his blonde locks, pressing his head against your breasts.

“Steve.” You let out a moan as he takes a long nip before releasing your breasts in a wet pop.

  “Where is your glass?” He asks.

You don't respond, because you're too oblivious to pay attention to his words. His body was hot, his vision blurred and his nipples hard and sensitive. You were oblivious when you felt Steve put a full glass in your hands, he mumbled a drink and you obeyed, wanting to leave him satisfied.

You drank more. Maybe four or five or six more glasses. You do not remember. The last one ended up kind of spilled because you couldn't hold it while Steve helped you take off his dress. You feel his head being placed on a soft pillow or perhaps a cushion, You couldn't tell; his vision was blurred and his senses were weak. Warm hands slide down your legs to your panties and gently remove them. Your blurred vision is bathed in the sight of Steve shirtless on top of you. Beautiful. He was so beautiful.

You're moaning and shaking with nervousness, or at least you would be if his grip wasn't holding you in place. Her pussy burned with heat and desire, it was like rough sandpaper that moved in and out, swinging a seesaw from hell.

“It hurts.” You mutter. You were a mess and you know it, the words come out slow and slurred. Humiliation rises deeper than pleasure can reach, and disgust crawls over your skin with a sheen of sweat. He had touched her before. Stimulating your clit until you came on his long fingers, but it wasn't enough, it never would be. He was big and thick, with powerful hips that caused her great pain with each thrust.

You weren’t expecting it when he tilted his hips just to rub the fat head of his cock against your aching pussy. You moan at the small shock waves caused by the brief contact with your clit, but he smothers your moans with a wet, hot kiss, taking away your oxygen. He shoved his cock back inside her ripped hole.

He moaned against You, his mouth open panting, as if he was feeling something that You didn't. The intrusion not only stretches, but burns and hurts. Dry fiction mixes with rough movement. The tears flow, You feel the wet trail they leave on your cheeks. The disorientation left You dizzy and contained, a prisoner of your own body, but that didn't stop Him from exerting his strength against You. He was heavy. Upon noticing your whimpering, the hand that was on your hips goes up to cover your mouth, spreading tears and saliva everywhere.

“It’s okay, my love.” He said between moans. “You are so beautiful and as sweet as berries.”

The blackberries. The damn blackberries were the ones who brought her here. Steve gives another powerful thrust, preventing any further thought. You scream into his hand. He begins to fuck with desire, with strong thrusts, riding his own release. You moan, writhe, scream when a sensation begins to blossom at the tip of your toes that rises to your abdomen causing your muscles to contract slightly and then relax. Steve doesn't stay far behind, he pulls out of your pussy and with one last thrust spills all of his semen inside of you.

You are sleeping too deeply to understand, but not too deeply not to hear. You hear some loud footsteps, a door closes, before you feel someone approaching.

"Mommy." You speak as you sit up, try to open your eyes, your mind is still spinning. A great light hits your eyes and you close them quickly. Little by little you open your eyes slowly until you get used to it.

You wish your mother had killed the man who enchanted you with smiles and drinks so that you would give yourself to him, you may fear that strange conversation and the lectures, but you longed for your mother's safety and her lap. But it wasn't his mother who was sitting next to him. It was him.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He says as he brushes the strands of hair out of your face. “Your parents are a little upset now, but they will get over it little by little, you'll see. They will be happy for their little daughter who has won over the national hero and is about to walk down the aisle.”

"What are you talking about?" You say roughly, trying to get up, but the quick action made your body weaken. Steve picks you up and sits back down on the couch.

“I will take care and spoil you a lot, my love. You will see. I will fill you with gifts and love. We're gonna have a lot of fun." Steve says with a scary look on his face.

"You are crazy." You say in tears. “My parents will...”

"Do not worry about a thing." He pulls away and stands up, walking over to the minibar counter where a red bowl awaits him. He pities her and returns to You. “I'm already taking care of everything. All You need to do now is eat.”

Fear flooded your body You had already trusted that man and look what happened, but You had already seen too many documentaries and police series to know how much this type of person hated being contradicted. Maybe being his sweet, obedient girl would provide you with some benefit. With your body shaking, you stretched to see the contents of that bowl. A sound of disgust escaped his mouth when he realized they were blackberries.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #dark steve x reader #dark steve rogers #capitain america #steve rodgers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x you #captain america #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve x you #dark!steve x reader

[cleabellanov]

Jet-Skiing through Identity: a deep dive into Mobius M. Mobius (part 1) 🚤

The story started when you said hello.

Our first interaction with this character dates back almost three years now, on the 9th of June 2021. That was when the first episode of the Loki series was released.

So it goes: we see Mobius at the guiding side character, someone to follow in this vast new space the main character is suddenly thrown in. He is a calm, steady figure. However, his serious status as an analyst not cancelling a friendly character. The first ever shot in the series introduces Mobius under the sunlight. The following scenes show him speaking French to a little girl, proving a soothing behavior despite the tight situation they were in.

For someone who works at the TVA, he shows to be quite open minded. He, of course, has a very analytical mind - while still considerating he could think outside the box, whereas other of his colleagues wouldn't accept that a box exists. Even having studied variants, having a focus point is Loki, and knowing the danger it would bring to have to trust one, he still gives this variant a chance. More than that, he takes full responsability for it: when Ravonna says: "If anything goes sideways, it's on you" he responds with a relaxed "Okay".

The first impression Mobius leaves is, therefore, one of a relaxed, almost joyful one.

Although meant to be playful, his response to Loki's threat to "burn this place to the ground" with a flippant "I'll show you my office, you can start there" hints at a potential underlying dissatisfaction with his own situation within the TVA.

But that's not all, and when the easygoing dialogue doesn't work to get under Loki's skin (which couldn't have happened so easily anyway) we get to see where studying variants brought Mobius: to knowing how to manipulate through emotions, using the information at his hands. The only way to get Loki talking was to shatter the illusion he was maintaining, and Mobius knew that. Being able to see this variant for what they truly are proves his smartness, but "lack" of empathy. However, it is more of a block than a lack- for the sake of efficiency- as a consequence of not only working, but living your entire life in the TVA. As a consequence to this, great strenght is also required to keep your true nature instead of just letting it be erased by time and the utter dedication to the time keepers- the only beings allowed to tell right from wrong. Mobius proves that strenght too.

Then, in the second episode of the series, the frame narrows down: from the big scheme to a lower one. Now, a more comfortable theme seems to be growing in the atmosphere between these two characters. We can see Loki sitting with his feet on a desk, magazine in hand, having a small quarrel with Miss Minutes. This is when we find out that Mobius still has more to introduce about himself. There is something that gets him closer to the viewers: having a personal interest with no specific corrrelation with the rest of the story: jet skis.

Going on the first mission of finding the rogue Loki variant (Sylvie, as she is later called) Mobius doesn't let himself be fooled away by Loki's silver tongue, even if in attempt to give him the chance he brought him in for, he almost gets into his play. "You almost had me for a second. My ears are sharp too" Therefore, this character with a first impression of a calm guide and a comic relief isn't to be underestimated. Just because he believes in his cause (collaborating with Loki to fin his variant) it doesn't make him a fool. -> If you have to courage to believe in something impossible, you also have the strength to make it possible.

There is also a soft jelaousy in his character; and seen not only in his attitude towards Loki finding an ally in Sylvie. It's there when talking to Ravonna Renslayer about "other analysts", and the traces left by them in her office.

This might appear as a personal pride, when for Mobius, it is more like a fear: he's afraid of being abandoned or replaced. (Remember the "Who's gonna miss an old analyst with a heart of gold" from season 2?) This internalized feeling therefore translates to the jelaousy we see on screen (or the blocking of emotions once again, but we'll get to that later).

Ravonna's "I know you have a soft spot for broken things" reveales how this character always cared, maybe more than he should have. This desire to help Loki get better (spoiler: he succeeds) is rooted in his own heart, in need of the same care he is giving away. -> Look at you comforting others with the words you wish to hear.

It also grows quickly into something more, that strictly has to do with this variant, a sympathy that is not put into words, but is seen in actions.

He once again proves to be gentle with Loki, despite the latest mission not going the way he was supposed to. He's stubborn, still wanting to go his way even when there are so many others: safer, and that conform to the TVA. He wants to give Loki his daggers back (LOVE IS A DAGGER WHO?!?), clear proof that he is confident in what he is doing. While the potential consequences outweigh his previous actions , Mobius's determination stays the same.

The one unforeseen factor that disrupts his meticulously ordered plan is Loki's escape through the time door after Sylvie bombed the sacred timeline. For the first time, we see Mobius's cool crack, his frantic calls of "Loki!" echoing in vain.

#please tell me if I did any mistakes English is not my first language :) #if you liked this reblog so it can reach more people? #part 1: episodes 1-3 #mobius m mobius #loki #loki friggason #TVA #tvarchive #infinity stones #multiverse saga #infinity war #loki series #character analysis #but make it my personal one because i know this has probably been done before #tom hiddleston #owen wilson #mobius #lokius #tumblr writers

[cemetery14]

kise and akashi

kise loves to dress up akashi, they have a shopping day but its just kise picking out cloths for akashi

once kise and reo hit the same wave length of "omg akashis so pretty and looks good in everything" its over💀

akashi would probably be the nicest to Kise and entertain him when he wants to brag about something, omg what was that one scene in the fan disc where kises yelling about his magazine and akashi ingores him and goes hmm yummy burger KLJHGFDGHJK

kise: akashis the one only nice one to me :<

akashi: hmm burger

i think kise would feel comfortable enough to drop his 'pretty boy' act around akashi and show more of his apathetic side, cause no way akashi has any room to judge 💀

kise being able to speak more harshly about things and share his actual opinions around akashi, and akashi being akashi would be able to match that wave length

i just want kise and akashi to be hot assholes together

i think peope forget that kise actually a really chill person, i love that scene before kise vs aomine where kises listening to katsumatsu spill his guts than he just replies "yeah i just wanna beat aomine tho" it seems so flippant but he LISTENED than gave his pov and tahts exactly what katsuamtsu needed

i think kise would be a good person for akashi to talk to about his problems, kise doesnt have as many responsibilities as akashi but he does have an actual job and is constantly surrounded by girls who dont actually care about him so i think they can relate somewhere in there

hes also not intimidated by akashi at all, he sees akashi as a friend whos on the same level as him, i think alot about kise getting so close to akashi in the psp library scene

akashi needs more friends who arent intimated by him and just see him as a dude

they would also go crazy in a 1 on 1 💀 i wanna see kise vs akashi SO bad omg

#kuroko no basket #knb #kurokos basketball #akashi seijuro #kise ryouta

[melonba11s]

Frozen Pork (Tate Frost/FTM Strade)

Been stewing on this one for a while and finally finished it!

Strade belongs to Gatobob, Tate Frost belongs to Bileshroom, as always.

PLEASE mind the warnings for what this fic contains!

Contains: FTM Strade, Non-Con, Vaginal (performed on a trans man), Life or Death, Near Death Experience, Threat of Frostbite, forced orgasm, Belittling/slight humiliation.

Strade wasn’t a picky man when it came to his victims. Everyone had at least something small that set them apart from others, made them unique. But there was a type he tried to avoid. 

The butcher at this tiny grocery store was the type he tried to avoid. Larger than him, obviously stronger than him. Sure if he got a chance, such as him being extremely intoxicated, he’d dive for a chance to take him home, make him cry and beg. But as he was, standing tall, staring, a confident smirk on his face? No. Strade would try and grab him and end up with a mouth full of pavement. 

However… The cashier was another story. Disinterested, flipping through his magazine, giving Strade flippant answers to his questions, even managing a crass joke. He’d look real cute tied up in the basement, that glare wiped off his face and replaced by something far more wide eyed, stuttering about how he was sorry for his rudeness. 

The store would close soon. Strade could just wait outside for the cashier to leave, catching him by his car. Strade paid for his few items and left, whistling to himself as he went to his car. Opening the trunk, he threw in his bag of items, thinking of how fun the next few days were going to be. He’d just been getting the itch for a new victim too, give Ren a break. 

The only thing Strade remembered after that was the feeling of a large hand on the back of his head though, the hood of his trunk coming up to meet his gaze very fast. Whoever snuck up on him was definitely a lot bigger than him, but had somehow moved extremely quietly. 

The world was quickly fading as the ground came up to meet him next, Strade was still in too much of a shock to process any kind of emotion. Just a voice, grumbling. 

“Don’t think I don’t recognize the look you had on your face…” A pair of heavy boots came into his quickly fading view. “Vic up front, that’s my toy. Not yours.” 

And then everything faded, and it felt like only a few seconds later Strade was waking back up. 

The weather outside had been warm, it was a summer evening. It shouldn’t be this cold. His breath was fogging, his face pressed into a frigid floor that caused his hot breath to condensate on his face. He tried to push himself off the ground, but found his wrists tied together tight. Instant panic flooded Strade, as he arched his back, trying to sit up. 

Hog-tied, arching his back allowed him to get a look at his surroundings, at least for a moment. Carcasses hung from the ceiling of a walk-in freezer. Then his body rocked back forwards and Strade could only view the icy tile floor again. He tried to control his breathing, stretching his hands back to try and untie the ropes holding him. 

It was no use. They were too tight. A rage filled yell built in Strades throat as he kicked as hard as his bondage would allow, rolling onto his side. It was only now that Strade realized he’d been stripped down to his underwear. Thanks to the ice cold floor, his nipples were hard as rocks, his unkempt body hair doing nothing to keep him warm. 

In the cold atmosphere, there was a sudden, slight bit of salvation as the door to the freezer opened, letting in a bit of the outside warmth in. Strade jerked his head to look over, growling in frustration at his situation. 

The grocery store butcher stood there, grinning down at him as he came in, closing the door, and sealing Strades' bit of hope, behind him. 

Anger was the only thing on Strades mind, as he let fly a string of insults in German, unable to control himself enough to put them into a language this man may understand. 

It just earned him a sharp kick in the side, pushing him back onto his stomach. 

“You seem to have a mouth on you, ‘Sha. But I can’t understand German. Why not put it in words I understand, let me really get hurt by what you’re saying?” The butcher knelt down, grabbing a fistful of Strades hair and pulling his head up, craning his neck. 

Strade grunted in pain, collecting his thoughts for only a few seconds… before spitting into the man's face. Sure, his actions probably weren’t doing him any favors in surviving or escaping unharmed but his mind was racing too much for him to think of long term. 

Rather than earning him a broken nose or another kick though, the larger man slowly wiped the spittle from his face before he began to laugh. 

“Aah, I like my pigs full of fight. Just makes ‘em squeal louder when I finally stick ‘em.” The man let go of Strades hair, standing up. 

“Now. You were telling practically everyone who stood still long enough yer name… “Strade”, right? Well. You can call me Tate. Or whatever insult leaves your mouth first, I’ve heard ‘em all.”  Tate walked in front of Strade, getting down onto his knees. 

“Now… I don’t know how you do things in your world. But this is mine. So you’re gonna follow my rules, or I’ll make this a lot more painful for you. Got it?” 

“The moment I get up out of here things will get a lot more painful for-” Strade’s first full sentence since waking up was cut off by the invasion of two fat fingers in his mouth. He bit down, but they didn’t yank back. Tate instead grinned, using his free hand to pull out a small stack of cards. 

“Bite while you can, piggy. Get my fingers good and slobbery too, maybe that will help them go in the other end.” Despite the cold air of the freezer, this was the sentence that sent Strades insides going cold. 

“Y-You wouldn’t.” Shock was evident in his tone, as Tate pulled his bloody and saliva-covered fingers from Strades mouth. Tate looked at them, then began licking the fluids off. 

“Would and will. Just seeing you rolling around and squealing like a caught pig has my dick hard as diamonds.” Strade glanced down, seeing the proof of Tate’s statement. He shrunk away as best he could now, still shaking in rage. But also fear. 

“Now.” Tate picked up a few cards, glancing at them, then holding out three. “Pick my favorite.” Strade paused, looking at the well worn cards. 

“... What do I get if I do?” Tate grunted, raising an eyebrow. 

“We’ll figure that out when we get there, Sha.” he grinned, eyes narrowing. Strade glanced back at the cards. He could refuse to play along. He wanted to refuse. But his hands were quite literally tied. 

The minutes ticked on, with Tate staring evenly at him. He did nothing to betray what card Strade should pick. 

“.... Middle.” Strade finally grunted, sweat breaking out across his forehead as Tate glanced at the deck. Then a smile lit up his face. 

“Two ‘a Spades. Heh. Even rhymes with your name, funny. But it ain’t my favorite-” Tate could barely finish the sentence before Strade was fighting with everything he had again. 

The rope was cutting into his wrists, he could feel blood trickling down them, warm at first but quickly cooling and beginning to freeze in the frigid freezer. He was screaming again, hoping for someone, anyone to show up. 

“Vic’s gone home.” Tate said, standing up. “And now that ass is mine for the claiming.” It was like he was picking up a bit too heavy of a grocery bag rather than a fully grown man. Tate easily hefted Strade up by the bonds holding his wrists and feet together. 

“Right, this position would be a bit too awkward to fuck you in. So I’m gonna have to free your legs. Is that gonna be a problem?” Before Strade could even spit out a response, he felt something sharp slide through the rope connecting his legs together. They fell to the floor and first, he tried to find some balance, his bare feet slipping against the cold metal tile. 

Then he began to kick at Tate, shouting out more threats in german. However, Tate still had his wrists bound, and held in one of his giant hands. Before he could land a good kick on him, wind was whistling through his ears. 

The wall of the freezer came to meet his forehead, and there was a sickening thud that rang through Strades ears. He thought he could feel his brain rattling around inside his skull as he was dropped to the floor, his legs kicked apart. 

“Nein…” His words came out too quiet as Tate got down on his knees. He tried to lift a leg to kick again but they were too heavy. A warm finger snuck into the waistband of his underwear. 

“No.” He tried again, trying to inch back, but the wall was behind him. 

“Don’t move too much ‘Sha, pretty sure I gave you a nice concussion there.” Tate grinned at him. From this position, Strade could really feel just how much bigger than him Tate was. His thigh was easily double the size of his own, his wide frame hiding the rest of the freezer from view as he pulled down Strades boxers. 

Tate paused for a moment, then gave a low whistle. 

“My, now that's a pretty sight to see, ain’t it?” Tate reached forward, pressing the meat of his palm against Strades pussy. 

“F-Fuck off.” The cold was starting to get to Strade, along with how dizzy he was feeling, his words coming out slurred and stuttered. 

“Nah Nah, I won’t be doing that. I said your ass was mine for the taking but I don’t mind making a last minute switch on what hole I get to use.” Tate reached down, beginning to unbutton his own pants as he pressed two fingers into Strades hole. 

It was enough of an intrusion that even in his state, it got a groan of discomfort from Strade. 

“Ah, you’re still nice and tight… Never been fucked before? Nah, you’re too handsome for that… I just bet all the other guys were fuckin’ small.” Strade grit his teeth, beginning to weakly lift his left leg for another kick. 

Tate’s spare hand landed on it, forcing it back down. A frown across his face, leaning in. 

“None of that, I won our little game, so you better just sit tight and take it…. And the more you fight, the longer we’ll be in here though. And I’m starting to get curious on how long you’ll last before you get hypothermia.” Strade swallowed now, groaning as Tate continued to force his fingers inside him. 

He was fucking freezing. His head hurt like a bitch. He wanted nothing more than to throw himself forward and tear into this man's chest like a feral boar. 

But he wanted to live too. And living meant… He swallowed apprehensively as Tate finally pulled his cock out. 

“Fuck no.” Strade managed to gasp out, his entire body stiffening so much that it actually made his head throb. 

“Admire it while you can, darlin’.” Tate laughed, pulling his fingers out of Strades barely stretched hole. “Soon enough it’ll be buried in that cunt of yours and you’ll be feeling it instead of seeing it.” 

Adrenaline was coursing through Strades veins as Tate began to line himself up. Any verbal protests died in his throat as Tate began to push himself forward. 

It was pushing all the air out of him. It felt like all of his organs were being shoved into his throat. No room for breath, no room for screams, no room for anything but Tate’s massive fucking cock. 

A tongue ran across his cheek, shaking him out of whatever stupor he had put himself in. 

“You look good crying, Sha. Tastes good too. Always liked extra salt on my meat.” Strade could only let out a strangled protest. He’d never felt so fucking full in his life, and it hurt. It stretched him so far he swore he could feel every ring of muscle in his crotch splitting under the force. 

Tate just sighed, leaning back with an almost drunk smile on his face. 

“Aah, ya took it like a champ, Sha. Love it when I can feel a guy's cervix rubbing against the tip of my cock.” Strade grit his teeth, glaring up at his captor. Any ideas of shutting up and letting him finish as fast as he could were gone, as his arms began to strain against the bindings once again. 

“Gonna, fucking-Ah!” He was cut off as Tate pulled out only to slam back into him, picking up a brutal pace. The rest of his insults only came out as pain filled groans as Tate began to laugh. 

“You’re gonna what? Cum on my huge cock like a desperate slut?” Strade blanched. 

“I’m gonna fucking KILL you!” He retorted, hating having words shoved into his unwilling mouth. 

“I don’t think you are, Sha. I think you’re gonna realize how great my cock feels.” He wouldn’t. Strade growled trying to drown out the rest of Tate’s words as he felt those fat balls slap against his ass. 

“And you’re gonna begin to beg for more.” Tate began to yell, making sure Strade couldn’t possibly ignore him. The entire time Tate had his fingers digging into Strades thighs, belly swollen and pressing against Strades clit as he leaned forward, keeping up his fast pace. 

And the cold. The fucking cold. Strade could feel his skin beginning to freeze against the freezer surfaces. Frostbite was going to set in quickly. His own tears were freezing against his cheeks, turning into shards of ice along his 5 o'Clock shadow. Every surface that Tate wasn’t touching was in stiff frozen agony. 

And he moaned. Despite everything, despite his anger, he let out a moan that he quickly bit down on, cutting off. Tate’s grin grew wider, running his tongue over Strades cheek again to lap up those frozen tears. 

“Don’t be shy, Sha. Go on, let it out.” he chuckled. Strade shook his head, trying to fight off that persistent tongue. His breath was fogging against him, condensation from it clinging to his and Tate’s chest and quickly freezing. He needed to keep moving in order to stay awake. He could feel his brain beginning to shut down from a mixture of the cold and his concussion. 

His hips jerked forward to meet Tate’s thrusts, mouth hung open as he gulped in as much air as he could. He needed to stay awake. He needed to fight back. He needed too… 

Another moan passed his lips. He needed to cum. His core was quickly heating up from the friction and feeling of sex, squirming under a man much bigger than him. He needed warmth, something Tate was providing. 

He pushed himself up against Tate as best he could. He’d been pushed to such an absolute edge he couldn’t even drum up any proper rational thoughts anymore. He needed warmth, he needed to cum, he needed to live. 

It was like he was being held underwater, the only thing he could do was struggle and gasp for air he couldn’t reach. He was aware of a large hand moving over his thigh, his hips, then back down to his crotch. 

Two fingers sliding over his clit then stroking it in tandem with the thrusts. Yes… Yes… Just a bit… 

Strade’s frozen voice cracked as he came, just as Tate began pumping him full of hot cum. Then his head fell back, his teeth grit together. 

“Sha?” a voice from far away rang in his ears. He couldn’t…. He couldn’t die… He couldn’t move. He just wanted to sleep. But if he slept he’d die. His mind was racing with half formed thoughts as the world continued to close in around him, frosting the edge of his vision. 

And then there was a rush of warm air, and he lifted his head again, just in time to see the pavement come back up to meet him for the second time that night. He threw his hands out, yowling in pain as the reddened skin, still sensitive from its time in the freezer, scraped against asphalt. 

He had been haphazardly dressed again in his own clothes. He looked around, panicking, before glancing back at Tate in the doorway. Tate just grinned down at him. 

“You’re a little killer, so I figure you’ll know better than to go to the cops. Just don’t come back here again, ya hear? This is my hunting grounds.” Tate turned around, letting the back door swing close behind him. Before it shut, he waved and gave Strade one last bit of advice. 

“Get your head checked out soon, Sha.” 

Strade sat on the pavement, bruised and bleeding, in more pain than he’d ever been in his life, and paranoid. He swallowed roughly, before beginning to gulp down breath after breath of warm air, each pass serving to defrost a part of him. 

His head was pounding, he would need to get to a hospital soon… And he’d need them to also check him for frostbite. 

#boyfriend to death #strade #btd fanfic #boyfriend to death fanfic #strade btd #tate frost fanfic #tate frostbite #tate frost

[mydaroga]

Mum was a working nurse. There wasn’t a lot of money around – and she was half the family pay packet. My reaction was: ‘How are we going to get by without her money?’ When I think back on it, I think, ‘Oh God, what? Did I really say that?’ It was a terrible, logical thought which was preceded by the normal feelings of grief. It was very tough to take.

Paul McCartney, Yesterday and Today

Eight years later, Mike looked back with candour on these first few days, reflecting how he and Paul both felt the important thing was to show their cousins they weren’t ‘softies’. He referred to his brother’s comment about the money – ‘Paul made some flippant remark which sounded pretty callous at the time’ – however he also added:

Paul was far more affected by Mum’s death than any of us imagined. His very character seemed to change and for a while he seemed like a hermit. He wasn’t very nice to live with at this period, I remember. He became completely wrapped up in himself and didn’t want people breaking in on his life.

Portrait Of Paul, by Mike McCartney, Woman magazine, 21 August 1965.

Mark Lewisohn, Tune In

#oof #I've definitely been Paul though not with something this serious? #but still i get it #but also OOF what a horrible thing for those kids #paul mccartney #Mike McCartney #mark lewisohn #tune in #kris reads tune in

[fuckedupwizard]

i feel like if mari survived in yellowjackets she’d be the one to completely ignore the pact and really milk her ordeal for all it was worth. she’d be giving press interviews, magazine exclusives, have a multi-million dollar book deal, probably even a range of survival equipment, and in all her interviews she’d be super flippant like “yeah, i hunted and ate some people. it was them or me, sooo... sorry, but survival of the fittest, you know? looks like the strongest girl won”. iconic behaviour

#this is why i don't think mari is the secret 8th survivor #she would NOT be keeping quiet when money and fame is on offer #at least i doubt it #yellowjackets

[theamericanpin-up]

Alberto Vargas - Love Cries "Uncle" - April 1942 Esquire Magazine Varga Girl Gatefold Illustration – Gatefold # 17 of 63 – Verse by Phil Stack -

If you had graced a season long away There's not a doubt I would have fallen hard, Your honeyed hair and golden negligee Are down the alley of this flippant bard ... And April would have caught me in the mood For the thrills I'd find in your embrace And if you held the proper attitude I'd squire you on a wild and wooly chase; But I must let these fiery fancies die And take another rain-check on romance, I know too well how dearly one must buy The Fiddler's time when lovely ladies dance; So, kindly dim those glowing, pleading lamps - My Uncle needs My Dough for Bonds and Stamps!

#alberto vargas #april #1942 #esquire magazine #varga girl #gatefold #illustration #wwii #pin up #american pin up

[prideprejudce]

If you want to ignore previous patterns of Taylor relationship behaviour, that's down to you. What's weird to ignore is the statements her team have put out in People Magazine etc making excuses for his racism AND her involvement with him. That really doesn't fit with the narrative you've constructed (and bizarre to accuse others of inferring to much or acting like they know when you're making statements on what she 100% would be doing if circumstances were different...). All we can know about this situation is from looking at previous behaviour, looking at statements her team put in magazine, and seeing if she speaks directly about it (unlikely). You can't 100% what shed be doing in different situations, or why she ended things.

The bestie thing is weird because I'm asserting she's doing something equally bad, arguably worse then you are. Bizarre

Actually it fits the narrative perfectly. It makes total sense that her team (as an extension of herself) would try to downplay or even excuse his behavior or try to spin it in a way that makes him seem less vile than he actually is. The only issue is that this time it wasn’t working…..even diehard fans of hers knew that they couldn’t defend her against dating someone this gross. And no number of “oh he’s just an attention grabber” excuses from her team could defend his behavior. And thousands of casual fans were threatening to drop her music completely and stop buying her merch. The initial PR tactic simply didn’t work. So what do they do now? Switch to damage control PR and drop him completely.

Her team, like any good company, knew that continuing to have him involved with her life would continue to damage her revenue and alienate her fans - so they got rid of him. It’s a smart business move, and she has the best business team out there! She’s a international superstar!

idk where you think that spamming my inbox with messages with the condescending tone is getting you. I can agree that analyzing her previous relationships under a business PR perspective makes sense but as an obsessive fan who thinks that they know her by saying that “well this is just her usual rebound time” sounds flippant and dismissive of why people are so upset that about the relationship. If that’s not what you meant, then that simply doesn’t apply to you. Overall my point still stands that this woman is a business and the chances of her having a sudden epiphany that this guy is a bad person is substantially low compared to her realizing that she will quickly start losing money and fans if she continues dating him

#answered #anonymous #taylor swift critical #matty healy

[is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not]

Let's see about getting CAUGHT huh?

(OOC: Sorry this is so late! I was at work and didn't have a good amount of time to sit and type all this out without getting distracted! Enjoy! The plot thickens...) "What are you doing?" said Dieter to the shadowy figure he saw at the end of the hallway… near Theodora's room, he thought with concern. Something shadowy that vaguely resembled a holster at this distance, dangled from one of the figure's shoulders.

It was 10 meters to the end of the hallway, Dieter's heirloom M1911 had a full magazine, he'd only been able to finish half his drink, and it was very dark without the lights on. Damn it all, why now?

"Dieter," said the figure. In that moment, dozens of emotions flooded his mind. He knew that voice, but what was Melissa - oh, scheiße… it's both of them?

"General? If that's you, step over here," he said, keeping the pistol at the ready. And as he watched, the nearly nude figure of Commanding General Elizabeth Hazen stepped into the sliver of soft light coming from under the bathroom door. Not a holster, he noted with a mixture of incredulity and unexpected relief. Her bra, a dark emerald green chased with gold thread.

"You're not," he said simply, refusing to credit the thought in his head.

"And if I am?" Melissa asked, jade-feathered breasts fully in view, the anthropomorphic avian warrior clearly without shame.

"You're not fucking my sister… are you?" he asked, the question coming out almost as a plea. But he already knew the answer.

"I am," she said. At that confirmation, Dieter dropped the pistol, took a step back. Melissa walked over, putting a hand to his shoulder, heedless of . "It has been fairly obvious she and I are attracted to each other, quiaff?"

"For her, yes," he said. "General, I cannot stop you from this. But understand… my sister means a great deal to me. If you … hurt her in any way…" he said, swallowing a more pointed rejoinder in German.

"Aff, aff, Dieter, no one will know where the shovels are buried," Melissa said, jokingly flippant, which made Dieter's eye twitch. But then she continued, tone suddenly serious. "Dieter, I assure you, no harm will come to your sister. Not from me, not from our enemies on the battlefield, not from anyone who wants to hurt her. So please, put away the gun…" she said. He did not, keeping it out in front of him.

And then, behind Melissa, Dieter noticed another form stepping from the room. He knew where the figure was looking. His sister's eyes were on the pistol.

Oh, Dieter, du schwachkopf, he thought. Du richtest eine waffe auf Doras liebhaber? Das wird nie ein ende haben…

#battletech #mechwarrior #story event #ask games #glimpses of the past #oc lore

[thestarsarecool]

“I still can't cope with it. I just really don't know what I feel about that. You feel so much that you can't put it into any words. I got slagged off at the time because we all thought we had to go to work that day and I just went to work like a robot as if nothing had happened and when I was going home someone stuck a microphone in the car and said ‘What do you think about John Lennon's death?'. He wanted me to roll down the window and say 'I feel very regretful that such a maniac should mow down such a wonderful…’ and put my feelings into great language so that he could write it down as the quote of the year. But I can’t cope with stuff that easily and all I could say was 'It's a drag' and when you saw it in print - Paul McCartney Says Lennon's Murder Is 'A Drag' - it sounded just so flippant and a lot of people thought 'Ooh dear, it hasn't affected him at all. But, of course, I went home and we wept many buckets that night and many a night after. Even though we'd had our problems and our craziness, I loved him and I still do.”

— Paul McCartney, Smash Hits Magazine, Published August 13th, 1986

#this article is the origin of #fab macca wacky thumbs aloft at your service #by the way #but anyway the bits that interest me here are #I just really don't know what I feel about that #huh?? #you don't know what you feel about john dying??? #also #and many a night after #that's interesting because I don't think we have many quotes on him crying besides for the first night #bolding done my me #paul mccartney #john lennon #the beatles #beatles #my quotes

[tallerthantale]

Person showing up to a psychology subreddit: Hi I want to make a video essay publicly pathologizing a politician as NPD/ASPD based on their public statements, can you help?

Me: We don't do that here

Them: How bout I do anyway

The reddit thread got locked, but I have some Things To Say about this. Long form explanation of the Goldwater Rule, its history, its importance, and why I try to hold myself to an overbroad interpretation of it below.

Barry Goldwater was a candidate for President of the United States in 1964. During the campaign, a magazine solicited the opinions of thousands of psychiatrists with mailed polls. Of around 12,000 psychiatrists mailed, about 2,000 responded, and about 1,000 claimed he was mentally incapable of the duty of the office, with some diagnosing him with Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Barry Goldwater sued the magazine successfully. (That did not directly impact the psychiatrists, the magazine was the entity found liable.)

While many of the other 1,000 psychiatrist respondents expressed concerns about his potential negligence in the role, they declined to diagnose him with anything, since they had not interacted with him in a clinical setting, and had not been given authorization/consent to perform and publish such an evaluation. It is very likely that most of the psychiatrists who did not respond to the poll at all declined to do so for similar reasons.

There was a lot of discourse about the situation at the time, as it was already generally understood that diagnosing a person would require them to first be your patient, and publicly expressing that diagnosis if it had been properly made would break medical privacy. The psychiatrists who diagnosed were considered to have majorly harmed the reputation of the field of psychiatry by doing so.

The controversy around Barry Goldwater and the magazine article prompted the American Psychiatric Association to formalize a specific ethics principle, dubbed the Goldwater Rule. I'll circle back to the exact phrasing later, but the gist is don't publicly diagnose people you haven't clinically evaluated.

Psychiatric evaluations are not about vibes. I don't mean that to be flippant about people who are learning to pick up on certain vibes for their personal safety. Noticing dangerous patterns and keeping yourself safe from them is very important, and depends on making quick judgements that won't hold up to scientific scrutiny. I'm not trying to take the validity of those judgements away from anyone. But it is very important to remember that the social responsibilities of leaving a risky date early are negligible compared to the social responsibilities of publicly pathologizing people for the views, and a person being mentally ill, and a person being dangerous are two very different (though not mutually exclusive) things.

An exploitative person with an unmanaged personality disorder and an exploitative person who is mentally healthy are going to end up exploiting people in very similar ways, because they are both doing what works, because it is what works. Shutting down exploitation is more readily accomplished by learning to be more resistant to the strategies of exploitation that exist in your local communities and developing communities that prevent enabling than it is accomplished by running regular roll to detect dangerous mental illness checks. That is going to false positive a ton of vulnerable people, and false negative the perpetrators with the highest willfulness to their exploitation.

There are of course people who are exploitative and mentally ill. But when looking at diagnostic criteria, you are looking to see the thing across several aspects of a person's life. When looking at the public statements of a public figure, you really aren't getting enough information to make those calls. You really aren't even seeing a good indication of what they are like professionally, since most of the content you are likely to be looking at is specifically crafted to a PR strategy. Public statements are highly performative, especially statements from politicians.

I think a lot of the pro pathologizing public figures people are likely to argue that they are looking at statements people make against their own interest, or bad campaign moves, ect... But I'm going to push back on that, because a lot of those supposed blunders and gaffs of certain politicians don't result in those people loosing political support. The cruelty is the point. You might look at something a politician does, and be disgusted by it, and have a whole rant in mind about how no one could possibly support them after they've done this. And yet...

I'll put it directly. Absent clinical evaluation, there is no way to tell the difference between a politician who acts like a narcissist in their public statements because they have a personality disorder they aren't managing, and a politician who acts like an unmanaged narcissist in their public statements because it is a successful political strategy to do that. As much as you may think that it shouldn't be a successful political strategy... I regret to inform you that it is. That doesn't mean I think all politicians who seem narcissistic are putting it on because it works, I'm saying scientifically speaking we can't know which politicians are which based off their public statements.

I expect there are people who are going to argue that anyone who would cynically act like a narcissist for their own political advantage with no regard to the harm that causes would necessarily be some kind of mentally ill. Emphatically, with all of my being: No, that is not in fact correct. Don't infantilize the assholes of the world by assuming they are impaired by an illness. There absolutely are people that with full, unimpaired clarity of mind will choose to cause harm. Those choices are well within the capacity of mentally healthy human behavior. Mentally healthy does not equal morally good.

Now it's been a few decades since the Goldwater Rule has been put into place, and there has been a resurgence of discourse surrounding it since the orange elephant in the room started winning elections. There is a general attitude in many psychology circles of, sure we can't really formally know without an evaluation but... COME ON. It starts feeling pedantic past a certain point. Personally I see a lot of actors and in my mind I'm thinking, that one's clearly ADHD as fuck. People can't help but form opinions, even when we know we don't have enough information for them to be solid. Experts don't have a switch that stops those processes. For me, the way I navigate that is to partition my personal opinion from my professional opinion.

Lets walk through what that partition looks like in practice. Say someone asks me in person if I think an actor, we'll call him Nathan, has ADHD. If the person asking knows me, knows I have academic knowledge of psychology, and that is why they are asking me, my first response will be that my professional opinion is to not have an opinion on that. I haven't evaluated him in a clinical setting, and it's not my area anyway, nor am I certified to offer diagnoses. I can say that it is my personal opinion that he sure does seem to have some off the charts ADHD energy going on, and add that he described himself as having ADD, but it wasn't clear if it was a joke.

If I'm in a small talk scenario with someone who doesn't know my education, I'll probably just skip to the personal opinion. Likewise, if it's in conversation with someone who knows me well enough that they don't need the reminder of my professional opinion, I may skip to the personal one.

HOWEVER. Things get very different when the conversation isn't private / in person / anonymous. If I'm on a public facing social media platform where I have identified myself as a person with academic knowledge of psychology, I'm going to be a lot more strict about what personal opinions I share. That's because the distinction between [a professional opinion] and [a personal opinion of a (former) professional] gets pretty squiggly.

I can label things my personal opinion all I like, it doesn't change the fact that they were formed in the context of specialized knowledge, and there is no way for me to accurately reconstruct if would have reached that same opinion without that knowledge. The result is that I'm going to end up treating my personal opinion as having more weight than the personal opinion of a layperson even if I intend not to, and an audience will likely treat my personal opinion as having more weight than a leypersons, even if they intend not to.

The best way I have to navigate that is to not publicly express opinions about the psychology of public figures on an online account that claims psychology expert knowledge beyond things like, I think this sentence was serious, I think that sentence was a joke. Honestly even some of those I'll stay away from if there are major implications connected to it. On average I probably stay too far out of things TBH, but that's because the lines are murky, there slopes are slippery, and you never know when an isolated observation shared in the name of encouraging respect might turn out to have massive snowballing implications. (I did (not here), it does, I'm having a lot of feelings about it.)

There are a number of instances where I do have very strong personal opinions. If I absolutely cannot help but vent my opinion into the void, I can do that anonymously, or with a username where people don't know I have a psychology background, or I can do that venting in person where it doesn't end up in the public discourse. My limits with myself about publishing opinions with psychology expertise attached to them are not limits on having those opinions or expressing them to anyone.

Expecting people with specialized knowledge to never have personal opinions or share them with friends and family would be unduly burdensome. I will pretty readily discuss my personal opinions on public figures privately with friends, even the ones that will never go online in any form. Expecting people with expert knowledge of psychology to not publicly psychoanalyze public figures in their capacity as a person with that knowledge is different, and not overly burdensome in my opinion.

So, we have the Goldwater Rule. There are a number of limitations on the literal rule's usefulness though. It is far more narrow than the version I hold myself to. To get into that we're going to need to understand just how specific the letter of the rule is. The actual Goldwater Rule is a section of the ethical code of the American Psychiatric Association. It states:

"On occasion psychiatrists are asked for an opinion about an individual who is in the light of public attention or who has disclosed information about himself/herself through public media. In such circumstances, a psychiatrist may share with the public his or her expertise about psychiatric issues in general. However, it is unethical for a psychiatrist to offer a professional opinion unless he or she has conducted an examination and has been granted proper authorization for such a statement."

The actual Goldwater Rule 1) Only applies to psychiatrists who are members of the American Psychiatric Association, 2) Only applies to professional opinions, 3) Is a general ethical principle, not an actual "rule."

To emphasize and clarify that last point, several members of the American Psychiatric Association have publicly pathologized and diagnosed a particular politician as having narcissistic personality disorder in the past decade, on the basis of their authority as a mental health professionals, and seen no repercussions for it beyond criticism. Amusingly one also expressed a professional opinion against that diagnosis, which is equally in violation of the rule. (Also no consequences.) The rule just means that it is the opinion of the association that doing the thing is unethical. It doesn't mean the association is going to do anything about it if their members decide to do the unethical thing anyway.

To emphasize the first point, there are other countries. Shocking I know. But also, within the United States, there are several associations of mental health professionals, and people who are / were research psychologists may not be members of any of them. (Hi, I'm the problem it's me.)

Most of the large associations have similar rules, with a similar attitude on enforcement. The rules exit so that if individuals incur some kind of civil liability or public scrutiny, the associations can point at the rules to distance themselves from responsibility. The associations are really not interested in pursuing action around ethical violations, even far more serious ones, unless criminal activity is involved.

Some associations deliberately don't have Goldwater Rules. The most potentially valid of these are organizations of forensic psychologists, who are often tasked with evaluating people who are compelled by a court to submit to evaluation (which despite being in person is not a clinical setting), or tasked with profiling people who are not available for evaluation. The reports from these evaluations, due to their role in the legal process, will often become public facing at some point. Forensic psychologists have many ethical rules of their own, and are mostly very strict about holding to them. Even without having a Goldwater Rule, they don't tend to do anything that goes against the spirit of it. They also have specialized training on what sorts of extra-clinical evidence can be used for what purpose. A forensic psychologist isn't going to look at a video of someone working customer service and diagnose them as a pathological people pleaser on the basis of that video.

The psychoanalysts are a different question. While I think modern psychoanalysis is very important and does get some things right some times, it is a field with a troubled history, and it wanders into the territory of philosophy often. They do not have the same scientific rigor as other branches of psychiatrists. The American Psychoanalytic Association does not have a version of the Goldwater Rule. At most they have a preference that members don't make major controversies for the organization. Quite a lot of them go against the spirit of the Goldwater Rule, and this causes some confusion with people who don't realize (or forget) that there are multiple professional associations of American psychiatrists.

Psychoanalysts are often particularly fixated on the challenges of personality disorders, and the metaphorical 'second hand smoke' that many of the people with them cause. There legitimately is a need for the general public to be more informed of the warning signs of certain patterns of behavior. I personally think those conversations can happen without publicly pathologizing public figures. I also think better arguments can be made that a political candidate is a bad option that don't rely on misapplying the weight of an improper diagnosis.

Body language experts... are not mental health professionals. I would also not describe most of them as scientists. It's not that you can't get information from analyzing body language, there are ways to do it. The issue is that the way you can do it is extremely labor intensive and very limited as to conclusions.

When I worked on a proper body language study, there were several different people who each went through and marked reference points on people's faces while they were having a conversation, with no audio, frame by frame. Each section of video was marked by multiple people, none of whom knew anything about the people in the video, or what they were saying. Statistical software was used to check that the different people marking the videos were consistent in identifying the facial reference points. From there, you could make some claims about what general expressions people had at what time and then line that up with the words they were saying. Can it say why they had that expression? No. Can it say if the expression is genuine? No. Can it say if the words they are saying are deceptive? No. It might have some predictive value as to when people are more or less comfortable, but not why.

The reason the frames are marked 'blind' as to the people in the video and what they are saying is the inevitability of body language impressions being influenced by confirmation bias. When we already have an opinion of what is happening, that will massively impact what we perceive in ways that are not internally observable to us. The only way to solve the influence of those opinions is if we shield ourselves from having any knowledge or context of any kind.

You may notice that internet body language experts do not do any of this shielding. They know the context, they've read up on the people, they have a sense of public opinion, they are listening to the words, they aren't running stats software on individually marked frames processed by independent teams. From a position of information, they notice things that stand out and highlight them. I don't begrudge them the freedom to do that, but I do begrudge them framing it as a scientific analysis, it is not. People absolutely can form opinions about people based on their body language and tone. Those opinions are valid as personal opinions, but they are not scientifically valid professional opinions, and it is unethical for them to be presented that way.

Neither the psychoanalyst association members making public comments nor the body language experts are literally violating the literal Goldwater Rule. It doesn't have jurisdiction over them. I would argue they are violating the spirit of the rule, but they have clearly already decided that they don't care, and even if it did have jurisdiction over them it wouldn't be enforced anyway.

HOWEVER, the lack of inclination of the management of professional associations to enforce the rule, and the lack of some associations formally having the rule, should not be mistaken for an indication of the consensus opinion of psychologists. Within the field of psychology, the publicly vocal psychoanalysts and body language experts are judged very harshly for violating the spirit of the rule. We learn the Goldwater Rule in undergrad, and it is expected to apply in spirit to everyone with so much as a BA, sometimes to everyone who has taken an individual course. Online psychology forums generally have enforced Goldwater Rules, and they aren't limited in scope to people who have formal education or association membership. You cant go to one of those forums, pathologize a public figure, then argue your ban on the grounds that you don't have credentials.

There are several different reasons that the literal Goldwater Rule does not apply to me. My background is research, not mental healthcare. I'm not currently in any of the professional associations. I have no professional capacity to offer a clinical diagnosis, and most of the psychoanalyzing I'd be inclined to do wouldn't involve any kind of pathologizing. Even so, I hold myself to a broadened spirit of the Goldwater Rule because it is not scientifically valid to evaluate people off of public statements and normally observed body language even if you aren't diagnosing anything, and even if you aren't representing yourself to be a practitioner, speaking with an air of educational authority tends to give people the impression that the vibe of authority is valid, even if you put up disclaimers.

The reasons that it's not scientifically valid to analyze people off of public statements don't become less of an issue if you are an amateur enthusiast making videos about your pet theories, or calling your pathologizing 'subclinical'. An amateur can't be said to be falling short of their professional obligations, or the dignity of a degree they don't have, but it is still a project doomed by the fact that a public figure's public facing behavior is not representative of what they are generally like. You might as well be analyzing an actor based off of a video of their character.

Even non-political celebrities are essentially in character as their professional persona when they are making public appearances. It's a sort of 'being in character as yourself' thing that most autists in the audience can probably relate to. (Along with people who have worked customer service). Even if you took a person who isn't a public figure, and put them into a political debate, there is a set of performative patterns they would enter into for the purposes of that debate because those patterns are an effective strategy. Many of those debate strategies overlap with pathologically manipulative behavior, because those are the strategies that work.

Outside of clinical / forensic context, you can't disambiguate which people are willfully engaging in toxic behavior that works because it's useful, which people are tacitly engaging in toxic behavior that is useful on autopilot because their awareness is impaired by mental illness, and which people are both of the above at the same time, actively undoing the progress that develops awareness because it hurts their feelings to know what they are doing but they aren't willing to stop. The second two cases are mentally ill. The first one isn't.

I am not arguing that the general public shouldn't analyze the behavior and statements of public figures. Please do. You can do that without bringing mental health pathology into it. You can talk about how their body language reads to you without calling it an analysis.

I'm saying engaging in commentary about public figures with a clinical psychological framing that doesn't have diagnostic validity then falling back on a lack of formal certification to justify using diagnostic comments that lack diagnostic validity is trying to have it both ways. It's arguing 'it's fine for me to present my ley opinion as a knowledgeable medical opinion because I don't have medical training and my viewers know that. It doesn't matter that the people I'm quoting with medical training broke the diagnostic rules and gave invalid professional opinions, because no one fired them for it.'

The questions at play here when considering pathologizing public figures are not if the American Psychological Association is going to come after the Dark Triad fandom and associates for breaking the Goldwater Rule. The issue is that people are representing themselves as educating people about psychology, and then dodging the ethical principles of the field by representing themselves as not knowledgeable enough for the ethical principles to apply. What I'm saying is, if you aren't knowledgeable enough for the ethical principles to apply to you in spirit, don't represent yourself to be educating people. Critique the behavior of public figures without making it about mental health.

I'm not saying you need formal education or certification to be knowledgeable, but the knowledge incurs the responsibility. Make a decision if your level of psychological knowledge is respectable enough to be educational and is therefore socially accountable to ethical standards, or neither of those things. You don't get to have one without the other.

I think people get a bit hopped up on the idea that they have a mission to inform the public about the dangers of narcissists in politics. This frustrates me because warnings about demagogues and strong men have been around far longer than personality disorder diagnoses have. I'm not saying the disorders didn't exist back then, I'm saying there is long running civic discourse about not electing people who act like demagogues which doesn't rely on improper mental health assessments. A mentally healthy strong man is just as dangerous, if not more so.

We need to focus on building more civically responsible voting populations, because obviously that long running discourse hasn't solved the issue, but I don't think playing pin the narcissist label on the politician is solving it either. Even if it could be done accurately, and a purge of people with personality disorders from politics was successful, and we decide we are ok with it purging ethical people with personality disorders they are managing as collateral damage or find a way to filter them out, that doesn't solve the demagogue problem.

It is a political strategy that works. As long as it works, it will be used. It is naïve to think that mentally healthy people wouldn't use it cynically. I will emphasize again, and will as long as I live, intensely unethical behavior is well within the range of mentally healthy behavior.

Voltaire wrote: "if God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him"

I propose: "If the narcissistic demagogue didn't exist, it would be strategic to invent him"

#psychology #us politics #dark triad #cluster b #politics #narcissism #goldwater rule #get to know me

[victusinveritas]

Sappho comes! Jazz - a flippant magazine. January 15, 1925.

#sapphism

[demi-shoggoth]

2022 Reading Log, pt 18

86. Lost Cities Ancient Tombs, edited by Ann R. Williams. This is a National Geographic collection of short (3-6 page) essays about archaeological discoveries of note, arranged chronologically from oldest to youngest (in real time, not time of discovery, so the first chapter is about stem humans and one of the last is about the Titanic). Some of these are sites I’m familiar with, or even have read whole books about (would recommend Lost City of the Monkey God), but I definitely learned some stuff. Like how the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem is actually built where Constantine thought Jesus’ tomb was, and about the Nok terra-cotta of Nigeria. A lot of the book frames archaeology in a “not just gold and jewels, but let’s tell you about the gold and jewels” way, and many of the chapters lament the existence of looting and the disruptive and destructive archaeology of previous generations. The book is fine, but not something I see myself revisiting—sort of a classier version of a bathroom reader.

87. Girly Drinks by Mallory O’Meara. This is the feminist history of alcohol, and I’m happy to report that it is an inclusive history. O’Meara’s thesis is that all drinks are girly drinks, because women have just as much right to alcohol, and have been as vital to its development, as men. She repeatedly discusses how patriarchal cultures have sought to limit women’s access to alcohol as a way of controlling their access to the public sphere as well as their behavior, and that such laws have more strongly impacted lower class women of ethnic minorities. This summary makes it sound preachy, when it is anything but; the book is a fun and fast read, with lots of jokes and asides that make it pleasant without seeming flippant. I learned a lot from this (who knew Hildegard von Bingen was an early proponent of hops in beer?), and quite enjoyed it. As a side note, it’s kind of unfair how attractive the author is.

88. Subterranea by Chris Finch. Similar, but more narrow in theme, to Lost Cities Ancient Tombs. This one has short articles (3-5 pages) with photos and maps about various caves, tunnels, bunkers and other below-ground affairs. There are a few archeological sites, as well as purely natural caves and ones of recent construction, like the fortified bunkers below Helsinki and the newly opening sinkholes in Guatemala  City. The maps are gorgeous, and definitely the highlight of the book. Honestly, I thought the stuff about natural caves and their features (biotic and abiotic, and the history of their exploration) was the strongest material, and it’s front-loaded to the first chapter.

89. Creature Compendium by Richard J. LeBlanc Jr. The goal of the Old School Renaissance movement in RPG design is to make games that feel and play like early editions of D&D. Most of them miss the mark, but this book feels like it fell out of a portal from 1978 or so. It feels specifically like a compilation of monsters from Dragon Magazine in the Basic D&D/AD&D 1e days—and it has stats that are compatible with both of those systems to boot! This may very well by my favorite OSR monster book, and I have read quite a few of them. About half of the monsters in this book are conversions from or inspired by folklore and world mythology, which is a design philosophy I greatly appreciate. And it’s Pay What You Want on Drive Thru RPG, so what are you waiting for?

90. Wacky and Wonderful Misconceptions about our Universe by Geoffrey Kirby. The author tells us in the foreword that this is something of a retirement project—he’s a professional astronomer, but he’s eighty as of the time of writing and his eyesight is failing. The book is organized in order of the orbits within the solar system, starting with the sun and working outward. It covers crank and crackpot ideas, as well as strange ideas by professional scientists both obscure and well known (Kepler’s turn toward mysticism and the Tycho Brahe model of the solar system are covered, for example), and what science actually says about the various bodies of the solar system. It ends on something of a “wacky and wonderful” note, as the author ends the book seemingly supporting the extraterrestrial spacecraft model of UFO sightings, despite repeatedly talking about how there’s no evidence for the extraterrestrial spacecraft model. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. I would suggest skipping, or at least skimming, the introduction. It’s written more as an abstract than a conventional introduction, and so covers most of the weird ideas that are fleshed out further in the text itself. If you would rather be surprised, skip it.

#reading log #astronomy #planetary science #monster book #feminism #alcohol #archeology #caves #anthropology #gender envy