#squalor motel

[grindhousecellar]

#don’t talk to me or my son ever again #jamie gillis #edit #the cassandra cat #squalor motel #Az pride kocour #when the cat comes #sunglasses #cat #grindhousecellar

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

Dark Moon | Chapter One

Pairing | yandere!Jimin x Reader

Word Count | 1,3k

Warnings | +18, explicit language, kidnapping, yandere, use of a sleep-inducing substance (not specific which one), mentions of prostitution

This fanfiction is yandere, if you don't like the genre, don't read and if you are not of age, don't read.

I don't want to hear any complaints in the comments, thank you.

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | She just wanted to escape her past, take charge of her life and break out of her steel cage, praying in God for a miracle that could change her life for good.

And her prayers were heard, but it was not the Divine that answered her.

That was certainly the devil in the guise of an angel, she thought as those corrupted and empty eyes searched her soul with extreme voracity.

He turned a sweet, false smile on her, before pushing her into the abyss.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys! Here is the spin-off of Happy Ending, I hope you like the first chapter! 🥰 I would like to warn you, Jimin in this story will not be kind and soft like Jungkook from Happy Ending, he is very cruel and selfish, he is a hard yandere

Taglist: @katherine-kookie, @dragons-flare, @m00njinnie

Taglist is open!

Chapter List - Next

2020.

Three years ago.

According to Kim Seokjin's rules, the choice of a whore was something very important. The girls chosen had to meet very specific requirements, such as not having anyone who would one day - following their disappearance - look for them. Seokjin did not want any trouble, and Jimin was not about to give him any. He took a long, deep drag from his cigarette, inhaling its bitter addiction, before blowing a thick, white cloud of smoke out the car window. He stretched his gloved hands over the steering wheel, waiting for the next move. Namjoon, at his side, checked that the situation outside was okay -nothing was moving in that neighborhood, not even the shadow of a stray cat - and this created the perfect moment. "Are you ready, Jimin?" asked the older man, beginning to prepare everything needed. The dark-haired boy's eyes sparkled, he nodded confidently as he adjusted his coat. One last glance at the clock and shortly after exactly 1 a.m. they got out of the car, long strides on the asphalt counted only by the ticking of their smart shoes. Seeing them, anyone would have said they were two well-to-do men about to attend an important event, except to glance at the squalor of the houses shrouded in darkness around them. Namjoon carried a dark briefcase in one hand; Jimin walked confidently beside him before turning into a small, narrow, grim alley.

"They have to stay here, don't they?" asked Namjoon, observing the crumbling building. "That's what they wrote," confirmed Jimin, finding the lobby door already wide open; it was a low-level Motel, it wouldn't take long. They found a guy half asleep behind the counter, the two exchanged a glance of understanding before Jimin approached the man in his forties striking him dryly in the back of the head, the latter only having a chance to let out a choked scream before passing out completely. "Thanks, man," sneered the boy, beginning to look up the names he was interested in in the register, along with the room number and corresponding key. He nodded to Namjoon when he had everything and they went up to the indicated floor. Jimin's alert and shrewd eyes immediately found what he was looking for, he pointed the door to his taller friend and together they opened it, they found the lights off, but they were trained to see even in the dark so they went straight to the two beds in the middle of the old and stale room, it was clear that such a Motel could not have all the comforts and amenities with what little they paid, there were not even cameras, it was an unsuitable and unsafe place for young girls like those asleep in those beds, Jimin thought with a grin.

Namjoon set the briefcase down on the floor, retrieving ready-made syringes from it, handed one to his friend and headed for one of the beds, Jimin chose for himself the one near the window and as the filtering neon sign light increasingly put the young girl's sleeping face on display, he inspected the young girl's face carefully, drinking in the sight of her softly parted lips and the warm breath rhythmically lowering and raising her chest. He lowered himself slightly to her neck, cautiously inhaling the light scent of roses emanating from her inviting skin. Namjoon, meanwhile, had already finished gently injecting the pinkish liquid into the other girl's arm, the substance would send her to sleep for a few hours, and Jimin should have hurried to do the same, too bad that he was merely gazing longingly at the woman, completely rapt. Namjoon noticed this and with a shade of reproach in his voice, called him to his senses. "Jimin, get a move on! Don't let your cock harden just now," he scolded him in a low, irritated tone. The young man puffed slightly, before uncorking the loaded syringe, unfortunately not accounting for the girl's light sleep, who squinted her eyelids as if disturbed by the presence looming over her with the eyes of a hawk.

She thought she was dreaming, but the figure of Jimin took a distinct and material form in her field of vision, which at first glance left her speechless.

Then a shrill scream left her throat, she tried to pull away, but Jimin was immediately on her, trying to block her, Namjoon caught up with an expletive clenched between his teeth and grabbed the girl by the shoulders, pushing her against the bed, the latter only in time to kick like a horse, managing to hit Jimin at jaw level, which pissed him off in no small measure, without any kindness or regard he stuck the needle of the syringe on her exposed thigh thanks to her pajama shorts, it penetrated the skin like butter and the girl stiffened screaming in pain, she fainted from shock without needing to wait for the injection to take effect. Namjoon let go a sigh before staring furiously at Jimin, who was touching the affected area with glacial eyes fixed on his victim. "What the fuck has gotten into you! Did you have to give her time to wake up?" he hissed, his silver hair glowing with the neon light outside, and Jimin gritted his teeth at the saintly appearance he was displaying at that moment. "I didn't think she'd wake up so easily, okay?" he blurted out, before pulling the girl's body to himself without any care, Namjoon shook his head before retrieving the other one more gently, the one had been good the whole time and he hoped the other Motel patrons hadn't heard the screams.

They should have moved in complete silence inconspicuously, but Jimin did not know what silence was, evidently. They went out with a placid step, from the other doors they heard absolutely nothing. Perhaps they were not occupied rooms, or most likely no one wanted to risk their skin to go and see what had happened to the girls, it was still a bad neighborhood that one. Jimin held the unconscious body rigidly in his arms, full of lividity. When he had watched her sleep he had called her a tender little angel in his head, well he was wrong, and very wrong, too. The bitch squealed like a goose and he would have loved to stretch her neck, which Namjoon wouldn't let him do anyway, they served without the slightest bruise to the Dark Moon. They arrived at the car without further trouble, even the road had remained deserted, and loaded the bodies into the back seats. "Let's get out of here before something else happens," muttered the friend, Jimin huffed annoyed, getting back into the driver's seat. "You're making it too tragic, no one heard us," he said, earning an angry look. "Because it was a sleazy Motel, you make all that noise in a normal house and see if no one hears you."

Jimin waved a hand, as if to say that he didn't give a shit about Namjoon's worries, bit his own lower lip piercing as he drove taking semi unfamiliar roads to leave no trace of himself. It would not happen again, after all. Yes, it hardly ever happened that he got a hard cock in the middle of a kidnapping on behalf of the Dark Moon, that had been new for him as well. He cast a glance at the other girl as well, but she said absolutely nothing to him, his body seemed to be attracted to the bitch who had kicked him, this made him even more irritated. "Should we take them to the warehouse?" The warehouse was an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere, they used it to hide their equipment, but also often to torture and kill, or as in this case, keep the goods cool just long enough to make decisions about them, it was convenient and practical. "Yes, Jungkook said that Seokjin will lose time at the Dark Moon, there have been clients giving the girls trouble and he is cutting some names off the list," Namjoon replied, reading their maknae's messages. Jimin nodded, taking the last descent of that country road that would lead them straight to the warehouse.

#bts #bts fanfiction #bts yandere #jimin x reader #yandere jimin x reader #bts yandere smut #bts smut #bts smut yandere #bts yandere fanfiction #bts fanfic #jimin yandere #jimin yandere x reader #yandere bts #bts x reader #yandere bts x reader #park jimin x reader #yandere #bts gang au #bts gangster au #jimin fanfiction yandere #bts mafia au #namjoon yandere #taehyung yandere #jungkook yandere #hoseok yandere #seokjin yandere #yoongi yandere #bts fanfiction smut

[plorpl]

On my second re-watch of the series. In full brainworm mode. Struck me how stupid it is that Wilson's office is next to House's instead of near the department he runs. Wrote this to smooth it over (and make myself sad).

~1000 words, gen, set post-series

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

“Do you remember… during the remodel?”

Wilson’s voice came low from a few feet away, barely audible over the sound of the highway just outside the window. They’d stopped riding late in the day, exhausted and cranky, eaten what they had left of their stash of granola bars and beef jerky for dinner, and flopped into beds without even washing off the grime from the road.

All signs pointed to falling asleep quickly, waking up in a better mood, leaving the squalor of this roadside motel for the squalor of the next. But neither of them were asleep two hours later. Wilson had started getting generalized chest pains at night, so bad he sometimes didn’t sleep; neither of them bothered to diagnose it, to explicate. It didn’t matter. They were three months into their trip, and they wouldn’t be able to keep the pace much longer.

House wet his lips and swallowed before answering. It was dry in Arizona. Go figure.

“What about the remodel?”

A brief pause, then, “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Do you ask me questions while I’m asleep often?”

“Yeah.”

He looked over at that. Wilson was under the sheet and stiff comforter, shivering slightly. it was that kind of night, then.

“Wanna do drugs?”

It earned a smile and a nod. House sat up, rifled through his backpack, and rattled the bottle when he found it.

“You’re going to have to sit up.”

House watched him struggle a little. Wilson didn’t like being helped. He would take it when it was necessary, but before that point it tended to make him sour. They’d already bickered twenty times about the irony, so House didn’t bother making a sly remark.

He thumbed two pills out for each of them, and they swallowed them almost at the same time, House dry, Wilson with the help of a half-empty gatorade bottle on their shared nightstand. Wilson sat there for a few seconds, propped up on dingy pillows, hands clutched around his waist. His face was almost funny - clearly uncomfortable, but not as much as was called for. He looked like he’d smelled a fart, not like he'd been kept up for hours by the pains of a slow death. House wondered for the thousandth time if all that politeness and bravery and bluster was for his sake or Wilson's own.

House felt the vicodin hit his bloodstream, and his eyes slipped closed. When he opened them again, Wilson was watching him with that look of his. House’s throat clicked as he swallowed.

“Well? What about the remodel?”

“You leaned on Cuddy so hard. Tormented her for weeks.”

It had been an interesting time - demolition, fresh paint on the walls, doctors packed into temporary buildings and loaned out to other hospitals. Cuddy was beside herself for three months straight, and House had done nothing to help the matter.

“She was expecting me to hire three people. I needed the space.”

Wilson shook his head. “I'm not talking about that part. Although your office size was ridiculous. Hennings almost quit over it.”

“Hack.”

Wilson smiled again, then started to push himself back down the bed gingerly. House just watched him, figuring he’d continue the conversation if he wanted to.

Wilson tucked the covers up to his chin, sighed happily, and said, “I know it’s probably lost on you at this point, but those things make me feel good all over.”

“It’s nice, right?”

“No, I mean all over. Even the sheets feel good. Like my skin is fuzzy.”

He was clearly a little loopy, but House knew what he meant. It would took quite a dose to get House to that point.

“It’s so nice to share hobbies.”

Wilson laughed, really laughed.

“Can you come over here?” Wilson motioned to the other side of his bed with his head only. “I think I need to lay on this side for a bit.”

He started turning slowly without waiting for a response. It was the kind of anodyne request that House had never stomached from anyone but Wilson, and sometimes not even him. Lately, though he always did. It didn’t sting anymore.

He stood, stretched, and limped around the foot of the bed, rolled onto it, over the covers. He settled on his back, one hand behind his head, watching Wilson’s forehead relax as the vicodin did its work.

Wilson shifted and shivered again, but somehow House didn’t think it was the pain anymore.

“I toured the oncology wing.” He spoke without opening his eyes. “Walked around my future office before the walls were put in. I remember, they put me between Greenbeck and Tom. I was mad about not getting the corner. But I didn’t say anything, of course. God forbid I actually ask for anything I want.” Wilson opened his eyes. “And then,” his voice broke, “I got to work on the first day back. Cuddy cut the ribbon, the whole shebang. I went up to my office... But it wasn’t there.”

House just watched him. It had been part of his deal with Cuddy. The primary stipulation, actually. He told her that Wilson was in on it, that he'd agreed to it, but that had been a lie. He had been too worried Wilson would veto it.

“I’ll never forget finding it,” he paused to smile, small and sad, “seeing my name on the door."

House breathed to say something, maybe sarcastic, make him laugh. Please, laugh again. He came up empty.

Wilson wet his lips and said, “I remember standing there, thinking - thinking that this might be the clearest I would ever hear it from you... Hear that you want me around. That you need me. Not for a favor. Not for a prescription, for distraction, for a laugh. Just for me, to be near to you.”

House breathed and watched his eyes through the dark - soft at the edges, earnest, alive.

“This is what you say to me when I’m asleep? Kinda fruity.”

And it did get him a laugh. A good one. House smiled back.

Wilson managed to free his arm from the covers. He laid a light hand on House’s shoulder, thumb rubbing back and forth. He got this way when he was high - tactile and sentimental. Or maybe it was the dying. Or maybe he'd always been this way, and always held it back.

House turned onto his side, facing him, ran a reciprocating hand up and down Wilson’s arm in a slow circuit. Wilson closed his eyes to the feeling.

“It’s actions,” Wilson breathed. “It’s actions that matter.”

They fell asleep like that, and woke early, and never talked about work again.

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

My other Hilson fic, also written in a fugue state

#hilson #my fics #headcanon #greg house #james wilson #house md #hate crimes md #fan fic #ficlet #fanfic #fan fiction

[deadmotelsusa]

In March 2022, Anaheim City officials shut down the Covered Wagon Motel because of “inhumane” and “deplorable” conditions. Some reported concerns involved human trafficking, prostitution, illegal drug use, and criminality. The city also cited safety violations including, open electrical wiring, water leaks, sewage problems, no smoke detectors, mold, filth, and squalor.

The Covered Wagon opened in 1961 as the Bahia Motel, a Polynesian and Googie-style lodging site. It is pictured here in the 1960s, 2000 and 2022.

#Bahia Motel #anaheim #california #then and now #deadmotelsusa

[vacantgodling]

Trick or Treat? 🦇

thank you!! you received a treat :3c

have the first 3 chapters of NAD’s outline cuz why not 🤪

CHAPTER 1 -> (POV) NYSEAH NICOLETTI

nyseah wakes up in an unfamiliar room, her memories of the night before hazy. as she stumbles out of the bed to search for her cigarettes, she opens her left eye and is struck with a wave of pain so fierce that she can barely move. it feels like burning and stabbing and crushing all at the same time. unable to find her phone, she stumbles out into the street (a motel is where she was at) and no one around stops to help her (bc this is a norm in new mananza esp when in this part of town). she makes it to an alley when she finally collapses, and passes out right as the legs of two people appear before her.

CHAPTER 2 -> (POV) DONTE MACBRIDE

don is ready to close up his p.i. services for the evening; another day with zero business. but he’s not too bothered by it. describing the run down office and its purposeful location outside of the public eye, you can sense that there’s something not quite right about the law here. right as he’s lighting up a cigar after putting up the closed sign, there’s a knock on the door. donte tells himself to leave it alone, but curiosity gets the better of him, and he opens the door. a tall, elegant, and expensively dressed man is standing before him and while don doesn’t recognize him he recognizes that the man must be someone rich, famous or important. after being bullied to allow the man inside, it’s discovered the man is a famous actor; mononymously known as leonine. leo presents him with a case, the recently deceased rising star and close friend of his, roxanne davis, and this is when you begin to learn about the tom foolery of the new mananza justice system. leo insists that he doesn’t want to pursue the culprit or take anything to trial he just wants to understand why all of this happened. after presenting don with an offer he can’t refuse (clearing all his debts and paying for him to get out of the city for good so he can retire in peace), don shakes on it. one final case.

CHAPTER 3 -> (POV) ALONA SPRINGWELL

on her way from class, alona stops back at her cushy dorm room to drop off textbooks and change into her uniform for work; a sexy but business casual secretary uniform. she remarks to herself that she’s never seen herself so adult like and despite having the job for near a month now it still feels like a dream to her to be working at the company; the largest and most extravagant conglomerate in the city. at work, we follow alona’s day to day and get a feel of how far removed this world is from the squalor that don and nyseah deal with. when alona is packing up for the night, her supervisor approaches her and asks if she can take over the night shift for a coworker who called out sick, with triple time for short notice. alona agrees readily, and settles in for the night; though why she, a secretary, should be working overnight is unusual to her. as the night carries on you begin to notice slightly weird things happening and alona thinks about odd things and rules of the job. after another worker buzzes in, alona hears a noise coming from a separate hallway that sounds like a loud thud. it startles her, and she tries to ignore it but after an hour her curiosity gets the better of her. she closes down the desk momentarily to take a short bathroom break, but instead wanders the halls for a bit (in her allotted 15 minutes) to try and locate where the thud may have come from. coming from one of the back rooms alona was told she didn’t have authorization to enter, a trail of what appears to be blood oozes on the floor leading to the door. she hurries back to the desk.

tbh i feel like these do a good job of introducing the main conflicts of what’s happening in the story and showcasing how this is a triad pov story. every chapter is gonna always rotate from nyssie, to donte, to alona but nda sounds horrible versus nad so 💀 this isn’t even the real title anyway. unless i did straight up call it “non disclosure agreement” …. which actually i might think on that….

#s: nad #ren writing

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Body Double (De Palma, 1984)

This review contains spoilers.

I'd been long overdue for a rewatch of this, and with the Criterion Channel including this as part of a series on erotic thrillers, and Air making cheeky use of Pino Donaggio's iconic theme, I finally followed through. Now, if somebody were to ask me what the Ultimate Movie is, there's a good chance I'd name this one off the top of my head. I don't mean the greatest movie of all time, my favourite movie, the most influential movie, what have you. But a movie where its "movie-ness" is entirely the point, its artificiality is foregrounded, a movie that makes forceful use of cinematic devices while commenting on them or at least drawing attention to their place in the narrative. And I think Body Double checks all those boxes. And if you're gonna try to list other movies that might fit the bill, even from the same director, I'm gonna ask you to put those back in your pocket because I didn't actually think about this for more than a minute.

I think the voyeurism theme is especially interesting in that the movie isn't just conflating the hero with the viewer and implicating us in his kinks and hangups (and in this respect, De Palma is very much following in the tradition of Hitchcock), but also conflating the villain with the director. The entire scenario of the movie is concocted by the villain as a scheme to kill his wife and get away with it, and he goes about this as one would make a movie. He casts for the part of the hero by preying on a down-on-his-luck actor and for the part of his wife by hiring a pornstar with a memorable warmup routine. He lures the hero with fancy production values in the form of an expensive house with a view to die for. He trains the hero's eyes where and when to look, like one might frame and edit a shot. Makeup and costumes play into his alibi.

There are multiple levels of movies within movies here, not just in the villain's scheme, but the low budget vampire movie the hero is cast in (and fired from) and two pornos, one where the hero catches on to the fact he's been played, and another where he tries to play the star of the first porno. And during the latter, not only is the voyeurism element referenced in the dialogue ("I like to watch") and the hero is guided through the experience both by another cast member (Holly Johnson of Frankie Goes to Hollywood) and the director of the porno (De Palma regular Al Israel), the climactic moment of the latter, it cuts back to a boisterously artificial scene earlier in the movie. There are layers upon layers upon layers of artificiality, and by putting them all together De Palma gives meaning to all of them. If everything in the movie is artificial, then its truths must be contained in artifice.

I will also note that while on my initial viewing, I'd probably say that I really would want to watch just the vampire movie, or maybe the music video part of the second porno, at this point I'll readily admit I'd watch all three. It's worth noting that the middle porno looks closer to the average production at the time, although if you look closely, the camera movements seem an awful lot like the fake slasher at the beginning of Blow Out, steadicamming its way from one choice window view to another. The latter porno is definitely an outlier, although one can find similarities to the production design in a Rinse Dream or Gregory Dark movie, or maybe Squalor Motel from the following year. I woudn't be surprised if some porn directors were influenced by this, De Palma makes a couple of references for those in the know. ("I have a routine that's a sure ten on the Peter-Meter.")

I think the casting of the main parts here is pretty much perfect. Craig Wasson brings a certain sympathetic dweebishness (his resemblance to a certain late night host works out in the movie's favour, surprisingly), Melanie Griffith is able to imbue both toughness and humanity into her guarded character (and is, like, next level hot to boot), Gregg Henry has a smile that is none too reassuring, and Deborah Shelton is delicate in ways that make her sympathetic (interestingly, her voice was dubbed by Helen Shaver). Plus we get Dennis Franz as the director of the horror movie and he's always a hoot. But it's interesting to ponder how the movie would have played with Annette Haven in the lead, who was the inspiration for Griffith's character but was rejected by cowardly studio heads. I actually think she would have been a bitter fit for the Shelton role with her Old Hollywood looks and poise, whereas I think of somebody more punkish like Sharon Mitchell would have been better in the Griffith role. As for the leads, maybe I'm just high off a recent viewing of Talk Dirty to Me, but the dynamic between Richard Pacheco and John Leslie in the movie think they would have nailed the Wasson and Henry roles, respectively. Throw in Robert Kerman and Bobby Astyr as the horror and porno directors, respectively (or maybe not), Gary Graver directing with some of the De Palma Lite style he brought to V: The Hot One, and boom, you've got a porno Body Double. Basically the same thing, but with actual penetration in that "Relax" scene. Also way cheaper:

"Well, films cost money."

"I got money."

"Well, then what are you doing in hard core?"

During my viewing, I was chuckling a fair bit thanks to a recent listen of LexG's podcast episode about the movie, where he complains that this would be the worst porno ever thanks to all the music video stuff and lack of a money shot, and that Griffith's character would make for a terrible pornstar given all the stuff she doesn't do.

I do think the movie's place in De Palma's career is interesting to consider. This was made after Scarface, after increasing criticism of all the excess and sex and violence in his movies, and once again, he decides to go overboard, foregrounding the porn element and bringing out a frighteningly large drill during the murder. (Amy Holden Jones beat him to the metaphor with that particular weapon in The Slumber Party Massacre, but De Palma's is bigger.) Set pieces are stretched out to comical, excruciating lengths with all kinds of complications, like a packed elevator, a vicious dog, a cord that keeps coming unplugged. (I chased my viewing with some of Brice Dellsperger's Body Double shorts, which offer amusingly lo-fi remixes of key scenes from this and other movies, and not just De Palma's, and the takes on this one emphasize the excess accordingly.) But it's also an interesting companion piece to Blow Out in particular, in part for the movies within the movie, and in part for the role filmmaking plays in the plot. Blow Out is coloured by post-Watergate pessimism and disillusionment, and the hero's trade ends up being futile in stopping the villain, serving instead as a way to process failure and tragedy. There's some of that here, as the hero at first seems to be the victim of a filmmaking scheme. But over the course of the movie, he's been co-opting those methods, eventually using them to catch the killer, beat his crippling claustrophobia, and even get the girl. During the climax, as he's being buried alive, he flashes back to the production he was fired from to once again butt heads with the director.

"I don't think I like your attitude."

"Well, I think if I get this shot, you'll like it a lot better, right?"

But as he's playing the scene back in his head, he's steadily regaining his confidence, and when decides to go ahead and finish the shot, there's a sense of real triumph. "Let's do it!"

#film #movie review #body double #brian de palma

[kinmusics]

hiya! can i request a playlist for eridan ampora from homestuck? my music taste varies, but my favorite genres are rock + its subgenres! my favorite artists are muse, glass animals, grandson, red hot chili peppers, saint motel, the happy fits, younger hunger, fall out boy, and joji. the only things i don't like are the country genre and slow songs!!

Hi Eridan!! I hope you enjoy these!!! also here is my personal eridan playlist if it uh... peaks your interest 1. I’m Gonna Win - Rob Cantor

2. Laplace’s Angel (Hurt People? Hurt People!) - Will Wood

3. Dirty Imbecile - The Happy Fits

4. Knives Are Dangerous, Kid, So Cut The Theatrics! - Jhariah

5. For The Departed - Shayfer James

6. Blood // Water - grandson

7. Chateau (Feel Alright) - Djo

8. Filth and Squalor - The Dear Hunter BONUS: Ghost Ship - Blur

[Youtube] [Spotify] - Mod Magnus

#mod magnus #eridan ampora kin #eridan kin #homestuck kin #hs kin #kin playlist

[whole-wheat-trolls]

Death for taraka

These are the one word prompts from forever ago I've been sitting on waiting for the perfect time and that time is now

(Warnings for mentions of suicidal ideology)

-

You're thinking about the past again, it makes complete sense in the context of your situation, but you wish you weren't. The past is not something you live to remember, but for old times sake why don't you recall the story. Go on Taraka, tell it how you remember it.

Tell everyone the story of how you killed me.

I was still young, just a teenager... I never really felt like I was doing more than surviving back then. Part of that was Alternia I'm sure, part of that was... Me trying to 'fit in' with the neighborhood. We were all bad people, I know I said many things I wish I could take back... But it really was too late for any apologies to be said.

I guess that's why I killed you, me.

For something new to grow, the old must be utterly destroyed. Isn't that what you used to say? Scorch the earth, let it burn and replant in the ashes. How very unlike you, isn't it Taraka? There is no compassion in that sentiment, only the looming threat that nothing new grows in its wake.

The threat it never grows? I don't feel that way, I had hope that no matter what, I would grow. Grow without the dead branches, those things that no longer offer me anything. I could trim off the parts of me I hated, and leave the rest. The parts I was scared to nourish before. I could grow without the threat of you. I could.

You could what? Kill yourself without dying?

Yes... Is that so bad? You should know- how often did you think about it? How many sweeps did we waste wishing for death in that shit hole? Our mom died and we could do nothing about it.

You could have gotten yourself killed over it.

Shut up! All you ever talked about is killing yourself! You could never go through with it, I had to pick up the broken pieces and try to turn them into something again! Now you've shown up to judge me about it?

All you really did was run away, didn't you? I'm the ghost of you and even I can see, you burned that old hive down and ran away, didn't you? And for what? To live in squalor in some motel, peddling music to the few people who even give a shit? What's so much better about this?

You wouldn't understand. You didn't survive long enough. I feel like I'm living now. I would prefer this even if I was homeless, even if not a single person listened to my music. It would be nice, yeah, but at least I'm not vying for the attention of the worst people I've ever known. I'm happiest here, as the woman I've become.

Don't I haunt you? Don't you quiver at the monument to your own awfulness Taraka? Nobody else knows but you, doesn't that threaten your very own beliefs?

No. You only haunt me if I let you... right now you're just a reminder. You remind me that I've survived worse, and worse still will be on the way. If you're here... maybe I've forgotten what I needed you to teach me. I think if you are dead, and I'm alive, I've done the right thing.

#homestuck #fantroll #oc #drabble tag #tw suicide mention #Taraka #I'm trying new stuff here #having fun with Taraka #and writing her mental anguish <3 #And the version of her that literally haunts her like a ghost <3 #because it is #(I finally answered one Robin yay)

[hero-adjacent]

For decades fans have referred to the motel Faith stayed in as "crappy" "disgusting" "filthy" "rundown" "shitty" "sleazy" & "white trash central", wondering "how could they let her live in such squalor" "course she went evil in those conditions" while the writers described it as "cheap flea bag" & "rat trap."

And I'm here still asking WHERE? It looks the same as an average studio. Sunnydale Motor Inn, the sign says motel apartments. The rent is $18 per day $126 per week ($504-$558 month) for her own bedroom, bathroom, & free utilities. It has a full size bed, tv, lamps, dressers, wall art, & curtains.

Is the average BtVS fan upper class? How well off are y'all with your living arrangements to think this is the epitome of poverty?

#btvs #faith lehane

[reginaldjuice]

Music from Squalor Motel (1985) ---video booted off You Tube.

#squalor motel

[thecurse2023]

hey guys! <3 sorry 4 making this post but just wanted to say thank u for all of the donations ive gotten so far. you’ve all really kept me afloat and ive been able to safely stay somewhere for a while. 

unfortunately i have to hit the road again soon bc i cant stay here for much longer.  if you dont know, ive been trying to escape an abusive situation and ive been dealing with homelessness and living in squalor for the past few months khgjhd im a trans jewish bi boi trying to live without fearing for my life and also protect my younger brother in the process (hes 16). i was fired from my dream job in december but i dont qualify for unemployment and i also dont get any stimulus checks bc, like i mentioned before, im in an abusive situation!! i dont have control of most of my funds besides what i get from donations.

because of this, im opening my commissions! im living in out of motels and my car, so i have a 1 month turnaround for more complex pieces.

realistic portraits start at $80

realistic sketches start at $40

check out my carrd for more info <3 dm if ur interested! i only have 5 slots open as of now so be sure to check if i have any slots open

if you just want to help a pal out, heres where u can donate:

PAYPAL

KO-FI

VENMO:

whether you commission me, donate, or reblog, ur helping me and my brother out a ton and i cant thank u enough <3  peace, eddie ♡

#donation post #commissions

[sixamese-simblr]

I feel like a lot of the symbolism of the nativity doesn't translate well into the modern day to illustrate the squalor Jesus was born into. An accurate version would have him in a shopping cart in a motel's parking garage, and the first people to come visit would be people working the night shift at a local chain fast food place. None of the pastoralism of the stables and shepherds.

#nonsims #ramblings #religion tw #christianity tw #yes I may be atheist but as a cultural christian I still have opinions

[nikkeisimmer]

The fun of writing text based JAG Fanfiction: and the subtleties of writing humour into the story.

*******************************

"I know..,let's go get some two litres and some ice and go find ourselves our temporary home until our condo finishes.

2200hrs EST; Motel 6, Reston, VA

"Well this looks like a typically seedy motel." Animal said to Meg "looks like your typical get away to have a sordid affair."

"Luckily we're not having an affair." Meg smirked at him.

"In this drug infested den of iniquity?" Animal muttered, "I would have hoped for the Sheraton."

"Sheraton doesn't have monthly rates." Meg informed him. "This was the cheapest at 600 a mo. Wanna go see the next cheapest?"

"How about we pick the one that's the lowest that looks like a decent hotel, doesn't look like the location for a snuff film and that the local mafia doesn't use to dump bodies off in the dumpster?"

"And that you don't have to wear an armored vest and tote an M-16A3 to go out and get the mail?" Meg smirked.

"Something like that..."

Some shadow detached himself from the darkness and took a step towards them. In one motion Animal moved Meg behind him and drew his Beretta, the distinct snap of the safety coming off, as Animal warned him, "Think again, pal, there's one in the chamber and it's got your name on it if you take another step." The shadow stopped and stepped away melting back into the shadows as Meg reached into her purse withdrawing her own Beretta. Animal waited until she got back into her car. And then he got back into his car, he pulled out after her.

2224hrs EST, Gantry Manor Hotel, Reston, VA

Tosh and Meg didn't bother going to see number two since one could see its condition on the picture clearly; these first two offerings on the list having been squalor pits. They went directly to the next one on the list and this, surprisingly, was the third which inexplicably looked a far sight better than the other ones; the one they'd seen and the one they took a pass on.

The parking lot was lit though rather empty and there was an actual lobby and a concierge desk with someone actually working the front. The site looked like it was nicely landscaped and the building looked somewhat modern as if it was built recently during the mid-eighties. And Animal was surprised that there wasn't anyone coming to this place.

"Why is this one so low on the list?"

Meg looked at the list and the description then back at him, "Indian burial ground; reputedly, it's haunted..."

"NEXT!"

2240hrs EST Middlegate Hotel, Reston VA

"No termites, no lice, no other live vermin, no Caspar the Friendly Spook?"

Animal twisted the tap. "No running water..."

"Shit!"

2330hrs, MCB Quantico, Quantico, VA.

"So, married couple, need accommodations halfway between Norfolk and Falls Church. You're both service, you're both Navy and you need use of one suite in VOQ for two maybe four months depending on off-base accommodations completing... Does that sum it up right about now?" Marine Major General Graham O'Callaghan grinned. "Well, you, Commander, Lieutenant Commander, are in luck. I have a suite that has kitchen, bathroom, one bedroom and will fit the bill for however long you two may need it until your off-base accommodation is complete. You will have to as any other, be willing to wear your uniform when you are on base as per NAVUNIREGS, so that Marine personnel can identify you on sight as Navy personnel allowed on this base at my discretion."

"Yes, Sir!"

"Civilian attire is perfectly fine within the VOQ."

"Aye, sir!"

"You may, in order to save money, partake in your meals at the chow hall with Marine officers. Military service uniform is required when doing so. "

"Aye, sir!"

"Civilian Attire may be worn when going off base and coming on base when your direct route is to your VOQ quarters."

"Aye, Sir!"

"You will check-in with sentries on leaving for work and upon return.

"Aye, Sir!"

"Fair enough." The major general nodded. "Lieutenant Judson, find these fine Navy officers their quarters at the VOQ!"

"SIR YES, SIR!" The Marine First Lieutenant snapped to attention, "follow me, sir, ma'am." They walked over to the VOQ and the Lieutenant settled them into the quarters along with Animal and Meg having to move their vehicle to the parking lot at the VOQ.

#non-Sims #jag fanfic #jag fanfiction #meg austin #Meg and Tosh #jag

[rockislandadultreads]

New in True Crime: Books Published in 2021 (so far)

The Babysitter: My Summers with a Serial Killer by Liza Rodman, Jennifer Jordan

Growing up on Cape Cod in the 1960s, Liza Rodman was a lonely little girl. During the summers, while her mother worked days in a local motel and danced most nights in the Provincetown bars, her babysitter—the kind, handsome handyman at the motel where her mother worked—took her and her sister on adventures in his truck. But there was one thing she didn’t know; their babysitter was a serial killer. Some of his victims were buried—in pieces—right there, in his garden in the woods. Though Tony Costa’s gruesome case made screaming headlines in 1969 and beyond, Liza never made the connection between her friendly babysitter and the infamous killer of numerous women, including four in Massachusetts, until decades later. Haunted by nightmares and horrified by what she learned, Liza became obsessed with the case. Now, she and cowriter Jennifer Jordan reveal the chilling and unforgettable true story of a charming but brutal psychopath through the eyes of a young girl who once called him her friend.

Everything Is Fine: A Memoir by Vince Granata

In this extraordinarily moving memoir about grief, mental illness, and the bonds of family, a writer delves into the tragedy of his mother’s violent death at the hands of his brother who struggled with schizophrenia. Perfect for fans of An Unquiet Mind and The Bright Hour.

Vince Granata remembers standing in front of his suburban home in Connecticut the day his mother and father returned from the hospital with his three new siblings in tow. He had just finished scrawling their names in orange chalk on the driveway: Christopher, Timothy, and Elizabeth.

Twenty-three years later, Vince was a thousand miles away when he received shocking news that would change his life—his younger brother, Tim, propelled by unchecked schizophrenia, had killed their mother in their childhood home. Not only devastated by the grief of losing his mother, Vince is consumed by the act itself, so incomprehensible that it overshadows every happy memory of life growing up in a seemingly idyllic middle-class family.

In an extraordinary feat of willpower, he decides to examine the disease that irrecoverably changed his family’s destiny and piece together his brother’s story. In this vibrant combination of personal memoir and journalism, Vince begins the painstaking process of recovering the image of his remarkable mother and salvaging the love for his brother as he faces trial for their mother’s murder.

Written in stark, precise, and beautiful prose, Everything Is Fine is a powerful and reaffirming portrait of loss and forgiveness.

Smalltime: A Story of My Family and the Mob by Russell Shorto

Smalltime is a riveting American immigrant story that travels back to Risorgimento Sicily, to the ancient, dusty, hill-town home of Antonino Sciotto, the author’s great-grandfather, who leaves his wife and children in grinding poverty for a new life—and wife—in a Pennsylvania mining town. It’s a tale of Italian Americans living in squalor and prejudice, and of the rise of Russ, who, like thousands of other young men, created a copy of the American establishment that excluded him. Smalltime draws an intimate portrait of a mobster and his wife, sudden riches, and the toll a lawless life takes on one family. But Smalltime is something more. The author enlists his ailing father—Tony, the mobster’s son—as his partner in the search for their troubled patriarch. As secrets are revealed and Tony’s health deteriorates, the book become an urgent and intimate exploration of three generations of the American immigrant experience. Moving, wryly funny, and richly detailed, Smalltime is an irresistible memoir by a masterful writer of historical narrative.

Covered with Night: A Story of Murder and Indigenous Justice in Early America by Nicole Eustace

On the eve of a major treaty conference between Iroquois leaders and European colonists in the distant summer of 1722, two white fur traders attacked an Indigenous hunter and left him for dead near Conestoga, Pennsylvania. Though virtually forgotten today, this act of brutality set into motion a remarkable series of criminal investigations and cross-cultural negotiations that challenged the definition of justice in early America. In Covered with Night, leading historian Nicole Eustace reconstructs the crime and its aftermath, bringing us into the overlapping worlds of white colonists and Indigenous peoples in this formative period. As she shows, the murder of the Indigenous man set the entire mid-Atlantic on edge, with many believing war was imminent. Isolated killings often flared into colonial wars in North America, and colonists now anticipated a vengeful Indigenous uprising. Frantic efforts to resolve the case ignited a dramatic, far-reaching debate between Native American forms of justice—centered on community, forgiveness, and reparations—and an ideology of harsh reprisal, unique to the colonies and based on British law, which called for the killers’ swift execution.

#nonfiction #non-fiction #nonfiction books #history #true crime #mobsters #murder #serial killer #serial killers #murderinos #crime #mental health #memoir #autobiography #to read #tbr #booklr #Book Recommendations #reading recommendations #library #summer reading

[invincible-selfxmade-punk]

There and Back Again: Going back home

My hometown is a lot bigger than the place I currently live in and it's not just bigger in population, it's spread out it sprawls from miles but there's nothing there. There is nothing but street after street and miles and miles of abandoned, boarded-up, and decaying buildings. All of them are relics of a time when the oil field was booming and people actually stayed and made families there.

The oilfield picked up in the 2010’a again, but no one seemed to put down roots. They chase the money, leaving homes, pets, and friends scattered in their wake. There are hundreds of abandoned auto garages, abandoned wholesale dealers, empty boarded-up motels, theaters and stores, parks where no one plays in anymore.

This is nothing new. When I was a child and Mom would drive up 2nd Street to my grandmother's house, we would pass this old garage. At one time it was called the Elite but all the letters had been worn off of the name painted on the side, so the only thing visible was E,l, t,e. For 40 years I thought it was the El Te garage, before going back and reconciling what was left of the sign with my childhood memories.

The place where my grandmother's house used to be is overgrown with willow trees-- or what look like willow trees at 45 mph. Nature has completely reclaimed it and you could not tell any buildings were ever there.

That's another thing I was astounded at: how much greener the place looked than the last few times I came there. The area I live in now is baked to a cruise after osp with a few scraggly weeds breaking through the dried cracked up soil. In my hometown I passed houses with yards full of deep green grass.

There is a sadness that falls on me like a damp blanket whenever I come and whenever I leave again. Like a young person committing suicide, my town had so much potential. but it gave up and died.

But to the untrained eye, my hometown, while abandoned, is absolutely verdant.

The They Call Me Big Deuce EP, the solo effort from a rather young rapper who’d founded HollywoodUndead, is the perfect soundtrack for any time I go back. The inner-city rap stuff goes well with the sprawling squalor and squandered potential that permeates the air.

Yes, my hometown is like a young girl that dies at her own hands during puberty: glorious potential and beauty forever lost with only memories and relics remaining. It is a harbinger that consumes whole families like my sister Terri’: her husband and daughter committing suicide 15 years apart, and in the meantime she loses weight, sanity, lung function and the will to live. Her meth addicted, ex-convict youngest daughter left to carry on alone, causing everyone, including herself, to wonder why out of everyone, she survived.

My sister’s death lives in the majority of the lyrics of that album. Highway 87 runs the length of town from the turn off outside of town that leads to the house I grew up in, to the business my grandfather built and left to my father,that died with me when I left town in search of something better, and finally running out of town and past the cemetery where Mom, Dad, my paternal grandparents, and my beloved niece LeAnn are all buried. I would dive the length of that highway from end to end screaming out the lyrics of Sometimes at the top of my lungs, as full of angst and confusion at 45 as I ever was at 15.

Sometimes I feel like I'm falling in this mes Somehow I still feel so upset Sometimes I feel like the world was gonna end Somehow I feel like i was wrong

There is FM 700 that goes around the past the hospital where my mom and sister died, where I would spend a week with pneumonia right after Terri’s death, laying naked under that crappy hospital gown, tubes running everywhere, too weak to even use the restroom on my own with the lyrics:I took my whole fan base back, I managed to get myself back up, Back to rappin' looped in a never ending stream through my head until I was able to be released.

FM 700 also took me to my first teaching job at, what 30 years previous had been the best school in town, but now was deep in the hood. It took a good 7-8 minutes to traverse the town every morning and the song I chose to fortify myself with as Blood on my Hands.

I got blood on my hands And these streets keep gettin' colder But I won't stop for nothing, no Forty four, man, tuck them gone There's blood on my hands And these streets keep gettin' colder But this time it's me and Truth, we gettin' down Cause in the land of the deaI wear the crown

I would come screeching into the parking lot at 7:15 am, my baby gangsta rap mixing with the hardcore rap booming from the cars of tattooed, packing, gang member, drug addict and dealer parents, screaming and cussing at their kids among the cacophony of rape, robbery and murder coming from everyone else’s speakers. My HHR pumping out Deuce seemed positively quaint.

After work I would start to unwind with the Foo Fighters and I would cruise down 3rd street as far as it would go,then turn around and come back up 3rd, turning on to the North Side where I would eat dinner at the Spanish Inn and then cruise 87 again, this time listening to Breaking Through, trying to remember every time over the last 40 years that Terri and I had hung out, and how she and her daughter LeAnn were the only two people who ever had my back for so many years. But most of the time grief clogged the pipeline of my memories, and all I could do was roll the windows down, throw my head back and sing:

Fight, fight with me We'll make it through, through again now I see Where I'm gone Gone to find my home Lonely Crawling through these dark walls Finding hope if hope still existsF But I can see the things you put me through I felt this way, I felt this way for so long And all the pain I felt in this life Gone in this

Five years later as I write this, I still feel it all.

My sister has no grave. She was cremated and who knows what was done with her ashes. I leave town with one more drive down 3rd street. I take one more look at Lou’s Bar, drive past the pile of rubble I always called the El Te garage, the huge building with washed burgundy paint where you can still make out the words STEREO WAREHOUSE, the old skating rink, the rock house where my best friend used to live. When I was a child across from Mimi’s house was a huge, green piece of land rimmed by a bright white fence. Outside was a sign with a Hereford cow painted on it. Five years ago, when I left town, the fence was still there, the sign was faded and there was a Confederate flag waving defiantly in the wind. When I left this time,there was nothing there but mesquite trees.

You would think it would be liberating to take to I-20 West, and watch my hometown disappear in the rearview mirror. Leaving feels as sad and empty as arriving does. I am leaving a handful of friends, many graves, ghosts and memories. and my niece, whom for better or worse i mos the last connection to my mom and sister.

The End

#essay #home #family #Deuce #travel #going home #death #loss #grieving #abandoned #west texas #spilled ink #Call Me Big Deuce

[watching-pictures-move]

Put On Your Raincoats | Dream Lovers (Christy, 1980)

I’ve seen a couple of Kim Christy’s movies now, and what’s mostly stood out to me is their fluidity. For the most part it’s been in terms of the sexual content featured. In movies like Squalor Motel, True Crimes of Passion and Divine Atrocities, you get relatively vanilla scenes alongside more fetishistic scenes, sliding between the two almost seamlessly. It’s additionally worth noting that the latter was presented without the mean-spirited charge that it often depicted with in this era, where from my experience a lot of the BDSM content was relegated to roughies. Christy’s films are also of interest for having both cis and trans performers, and the movies I’ve seen have mostly lacked the demeaning presentation that pornography featuring trans performers often have. (I do see a lot of Christy’s movies have a certain slur in the title, so I don’t know if the ones I watched are the exceptions.) To be honest, vintage trans pornography is a blind spot for me, and I’d love to learn about Christy as a filmmaker (both artistically and in the context of the industry), although there doesn’t seem to be much information available. I’ve read an interview in The Advocate and a blog post, which don’t seem to entirely line up or offer a comprehensive picture. I can only hope the Rialto Report manages to do an interview some day, or we get some snazzy, featurette-laden releases from the likes of Vinegar Syndrome.

There is some of that fluidity here, but it’s less in the sexual content (which I’d say is pretty vanilla, aside from a few interesting accents to certain scenes) than in the overall atmosphere. As you can tell from the title, there is a certain dreamlike quality to the film, established early on from the first scene, which features Sulka masturbating in bed and then going down on the strange, masked man she finds in her bathroom, only for it to turn out to be a dream. Or was it? Sulka heads down to the club she owns, where couplings blend into other couplings, and eventually converge into a group sex scene. The aggressive cross-cutting breaks down the barriers between the scenes. Props and images recur, bringing the movie’s reality into question. Photonegative effects and superimpositions lend them a psychedelic charge. And the atmospheric electronic soundtrack, which invites comparisons with Tim Krog’s score for The Boogeyman, drapes the proceedings in an inviting mood.

There’s a lot that I liked about this, but I don’t know if the movie gave me enough to chew on. There’s very little in terms of plot or characterization. Sulka I found an interesting presence in Divine Atrocities, where the dominatrix archetype she played gave her enough of a character to make an impact, while the role she plays here isn’t well defined enough to give her much to work with. Yes, she’s the club owner, but that doesn’t translate to a particularly authoritative or assured character. Squalor Motel had a sense of camp and True Crimes of Passion had a private detective framing device, both of which gave a bit more narrative meat to hang their sex scenes on. In their absence, I’m not sure Christy’s aesthetic execution was tight enough to hold my attention at feature length, although I did appreciate that like Squalor Motel, this tries to tie its sense of erotic charge to the setting, even if it does it less surely.

Anyway, the movie is far from an unpleasant sit, and there’s definitely stuff to like here, I just wish there was more. If you’re going to dive into the work of Kim Christy, don’t go with this first.

#film #movie review #put on your raincoats #dream lovers #kim christy