A version for tumblr that can be read without opening a new tab, since plenty of people would scroll past this story otherwise.
The bravest woman on Earth.
I love her. Forever reblog.
I have the utmost respect for this woman.
please reblog. reblog the way you would reblog a picture of a hot singer, a pretty girl, a tasty meal or some nice stationary. Because this will not make your blog ‘less aesthetic’ or anything. This is important, far more important than anything I’ve mentioned before.
A teenager is in the hospital and the 41-year-old man who attacked her with a car before stabbing her is behind bars at a North Carolina jail, the Archdale Police Department reported on Facebook.
Jilted, the “obsessed” Greensboro man followed the teen and her family from church to a Taco Belland tried to run them over but missed and crashed into utility poles, WGHP reported. Upshur then got out of the car and stabbed the teenager in the back, according to the TV station.
That quote ‘women are unaware how much men hate them’ and it’s pretty apt right now.
Over the last few years I’ve spent time looking in manosphere circles and this stuff has been brewing the last few years.
There are compilation videos on YouTube by MGTOW (men going there on way) of women that they hate. Mostly tiktoks about dating and feminism. The comments are full of men who talk about how much they hate 'modern women’, they hate that were in the workforce, they hate that women have 'high standards’ for dating, the gate childless women, they hate career women, they hate single mothers, they hate religious women 'chameleons’ they call them, they hate slutty women and they hate that we can divorce now. A lot of them hate their own female relatives.
It’s a real visceral hatred. One comment was a guy saying he only spoke to women when he imagined them as an inferior being. Another said all he imagines when women speak was whether or not his dick fits in her mouth. They discuss rolling back the clock on women’s rights or talk about women causing the downfall of the west.
They lament the lack of pure women, saying even 18 year olds are 'ran through’, used up, smashed, have '1000 cock stare’, unable to pair bond, hypergamous whores. Women over 30 are dried up hags who are hysterical, bitter Karen’s destined to either die with cats and wine or divorce rape a beta.
When you look at their profiles a lot seem to normal guys. You wouldn’t spot them in the wild. And there is a lot of them. People obsess about white male republicans but a lot of them aren’t. A lot of these manosphere channels are run by black men. A lot of comments are left by Indian men who complain about Indian women getting 'tainted’ by Western feminism. Stuff like fresh and fit is a starting point but these guys get crazier the more you follow the algorithm. Some are religious but a lot aren’t. I saw a lot of 'i hate Muslims but Islam is right about women’.
There’s a black manosphere guy who films foreign women in his Uber and asks them 'why aren’t American women feminine anymore?’ and puts up the videos despite them saying they’re uncomfortable
They share tips on getting a young, untainted wife from poorer countries. A lot share videos of their trips to South America or Asia surrounded by young women (sometimes VERY young).
You also have the tradmen, who claim to care for women but also believe they are inferior and illogical, best kept at home to serve and raise babies. They will say they value women’s natural role’, but it’s telling that this role requires financial dependence and an inability to leave no matter what (these guys get angriest about divorce). These are the ones who feel most cheated that an income is no longer all a man really needs to land himself the attractive 20 something he feels he deserves.
Then you have guys really angry about the dating market, whine about Chad and Stacey, the 80/20 rule, height standards and hypergamy. They talk about living for the day women 'hit the wall’ and they can laugh at their teenage crush getting older and less attractive. I’ve seen comments where they hope women ask them out, so they can have the satisfaction of turning them down cruelly.
They can’t be normal about anything. One Brit talked about going for a walk, and said all the 30 something women he encountered looked miserable. A woman posts a video of her dog and they assume she’s fucking it (dogpill they call it, pornrot more like). A woman posts a video for women about life over 30 and they swarm the comments to say how unattractive she is and that women expire.
There are lots of alpha male type accounts on twitter, usually fronted as fitness advice for men. But there are a lot of posts about women being illogical, childlike, simple minded and often just evil. Lot of younger guys follow these and again, chat about how to bring women to heel.
I know as a woman that being aware of this is very straining for mental health. But I don’t think pretending these guys are a handful of gross yet mostly harmless trolls is a good idea. And they aren’t just cis white men in their mums basement either. The subway shooter was deep in this manosphere stuff, as was the Toronto van killer, yoga shooter and more I’m sure.
A lot talk about wanting sons, but also how they’d never ever want a daughter. The hate is that deep rooted. The she’s someone’s daughter’ isn’t going to help them see women’s humanity.
Keeping women dependent is what a lot of these guys want. And some don’t even want a wife out of it, just putting women back 'in their place’ is enough to make them happy. They love watching videos of women being upset, revel in it.
Removing the right to abortion is one step, they are already talking about repealing women’s right to vote and a lot want women out of the workplace.
Like idk what the solution is, but these guys are out there and would like to get more extreme.
I think it’s real funny how radfems don’t seem to understand that women watch porn too btw. Like the most porn-addicted person I’ve ever known was my cousin, and she’s a woman currently dating another woman lmao.
I seriously think their point of view, where women are innocent angels, is pretty misogynistic. Like, it’s so infantilizing!! “Women can’t like sexual things or watch porn, noo, they’re too busy being innocent little victim babies”, “A women couldn’t hurt a man, they’re too weak, little angels”. Even just typing that stuff out feels gross. It amazes me how radfems don’t even realize how reductive their “feminism” is.
Maybe, and let’s hear this out: we treat women as people who are capable of having their own adult likes and interests, and the personal autonomy and decision making to do terrible things. Maybe let’s not treat women as dumb, weak, little innocent little dolls who are too busy getting tricked by the patriarchy to make their own decisions and, I know to radfems this going to be surprising, we treat them like people. Wow! Such a thought! Women as human being and not as devices to be used for your own personal gain in your agenda! Wow!
And, and, here me out: let’s treat men as people instead of villainizing every man out there, so when a mad does do something absolutely awful we hold him accountable! Because saying all men are inherently evil is actually a great excuse for the men who do choose to do bad things, as is actually harmful towards women! And having high male suicide rates actually isn’t a good thing, because men (as people) can choose to be good and wonderful and kind people just as they can choose to be shitty.
It’s almost like maybe if radfems spent their time treating everyone as people and not as dehumanizing characters, they wouldn’t have an argument!
Premise: Plum Kettle, ghostwriter for a teen magazine in NYC, is just waiting to have weight-loss surgery so her “real life” can begin. In the meantime, she’s meek and practically reclusive. Then a strange young woman points her to a group of unconventional women who encourage her to live her life a different way. At the same time, a shadowy organization, identified only as “Jennifer,” starts violently striking back at sexism in society.
Thoughts: When this novel is focused on Plum’s struggles as an unusually large woman in a fatphobic society and her journey to self-acceptance, it’s on pretty solid ground. Plum does little for her current self; her days consist of working a job she dislikes, eating tasteless food, secluding herself in her apartment, and ordering clothes for her future “thin self.” It’s exciting to follow her as she comes to accept that she deserves nice clothes, good food, recognition from others, and dreams now, no matter what size she is. Unfortunately, the novel has grander ambitions that it can’t fulfill. Its attempts to address sexism as a whole often come across as juvenile at best, and horribly offensive at worst.
Take, for example, Plum’s shifting attitude towards the advice column she ghostwrites for. At the beginning of the story, she’s offering empathetic, practical advice to a teen girl with an abusive home life. Towards the end, she answers another letter, from an eighteen-year-old woman who has graduated from college and is trying to decide between using her savings to go to Italy to study art or using them to pay for breast implants. Plum answers with a Sliding Doors-style reverie about what would happen in each scenario. If this young woman decides to study art in Italy, she’ll have many interesting experiences and grow as a person. If she gets breast implants, she’ll become a vapid party girl who eventually settles for a brief dental hygienist career, followed by an unfulfilling marriage to an old, unattractive, and eventually unfaithful dentist. I mean…I agree that it’s sad and infuriating that so many women feel pressured to change their appearances to the point of seeking painful, even potentially fatal surgery! I’m just not sure that “getting breast implants will automatically turn you into a bimbo and drain all meaning from your life” is actually a feminist message. I’ve read eerily similar passages from the POVs of fictional “nice guys” who are upset that their high school crush went to the prom with the quarterback instead of them. Whatever, someday Bryan will be a super-rich computer scientist with several model girlfriends and Ashley will be a dumpy mom driving her four kids around in a minivan while Jake (balding) works at his dad’s car dealership. Wait…is “Sk8r Boi” feminist?
And it gets worse! The organization known as “Jennifer” targets various men–rapists, porn moguls, etc.–but it also straight-up murders women. The most prominent victims are a porn actress (grotesquely portrayed as a CSA survivor who’s had so much on-camera sex that she had to get her vagina replaced) and the girlfriend of a Joe Francis type who publicly refuses to comply with Jennifer’s demands that she not sleep with him. You know how, during and shortly after wartime, people will sometimes publicly strip, beat, shave, and otherwise humiliate women who have slept with the enemy? You’ll be glad to know that this is actually feminist…as is Jack the Ripper. Muslims are broadly singled out as backwards misogynists who speak a “nonsense language” (for views that fundamentalist Christians also hold, but you don’t hear about them). I don’t know if Walker is a TERF; there’s a passage where Plum muses about her uterus, but a woman can have feelings about her uterus without it being a statement on all women or all uteri. However, the book is obviously SWERF-y, racist, and absolutely brutal to any woman who doesn’t toe the party line, so I don’t like those odds.
Hot Goodreads Take: “Hip-hop is singled out as the most misogynist genre,” points out one reader. I knew I forgot something!
President Daniel Ortega’s regime has outlawed 267 NGOs since 2018, including 40 women’s groups serving vulnerable groups, according to the Mesoamerican Women Human Rights Defenders Initiative. Many of them were affected by a 2020 law that forced any group receiving funds from international donors to register as a “foreign agent”.
La Corriente refused to register, arguing it was against their right of association and the Nicaraguan constitution.
“It is a policy of sweeping away any form of organisation that is not under state control. Even though we don’t have a partisan perspective, they have declared us a mortal political enemy,” Blandón said.
Since its founding in 1994, La Corriente has provided inclusive education for women and LGBTQ youth, and managed development projects. It is one of the leading voices denouncing violence against women and LGBTIQ people.
Blandón said: “Women’s groups, like other civil society organisations, do work that the state does not do, not because it is not its responsibility, but because it has not been part of its priorities.”
With their legal status revoked, La Corriente and other groups were no longer eligible for international funding, so had to shut down operations.
The prospects for women and the LGBTIQ community are bleak without these groups working on their behalf. There is no legal protection for LGBTIQ people in Nicaragua, and sexism and homophobia are widespread. In the first four months of this year, the country has reported 22 femicides (there were 71 in 2021).
kageyama tobio was only supposed to deliver the weapons to ushijima’s best customer once every two weeks. he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you—law student by day, top dancer and escort at washijo tanji’s club by night. when you ask the impossible of him, kageyama has to choose: his life or yours.
pairing: adlers underboss kageyama tobio x escort fem!reader (with hair), part one of three ; 4.8k, nsfw (18+, mdni)
warnings:depictions of sex work, mentions of violence and murder, mention of racism/slavery by an asshole character; oral (m!receiving), fingering, snowballing
thanks to:@anime-nymphand@vanille–kiss for coming up with the ideas for me and helping me look into ways to murder and dick kageyama down like friends should LOL <3 also for betaing, and vani for the amazing banner as always!
From the outside, Il Giardino looks like a regular establishment. The brick building is multi-leveled, but the place is on the first floor, filled with tables that look like they belong in an upscale Italian restaurant. The servers wear black vests and white aprons tied around their waists, serving couples on first dates that won’t go anywhere, or couples celebrating anniversaries that will probably break up later anyway.
It’s only when you ask for “the best seat in the house” that you’re taken behind the curtain leading to the kitchens. A server will take you to some stairs in the cellar, lead you down the cold and slightly dungy stairwell, and open the door to the real reason people come here: to book the escorts who dance around the poles on stage, shooting flirty smiles to old politicians and rich assholes who pay handsomely for an hour or two.
Kageyama Tobio doesn’t even have to ask anymore.
The servers at Il Giardino know who he is and why he’s there. The briefcase he brings twice a month under the guise of being a “businessman” is filled with weapons from new shipments they received the day prior. As soon as he makes it into the basement showroom, he’s ushered into Washijo Tanji’s office, and the briefcase is exchanged for cold hard cash that goes straight into his inner pockets.
“This week’s even more special,” Washijo hums as he inspects the antique pistol he purchased from the stash. “Flintlock Muff. Do you know what year it’s from, Kageyama?”
“1804 according to the records, sir,” Kageyama answers robotically. He learned very early in his tenure as Adlers’ underboss that uninformed answers wouldn’t cut it for Washijo. The John demands an audience, a conversation for his musings, unlike so many of the other big shots around Tokyo. Hoshiumi had played that part well.
At least until he was buried six feet under by the Black Jackals’ boss, with Ushijima’s blessing, of course.
“Right you are, boy,” Washijo agrees as he shines a spot of dirty iron. “The kind of weaponry that meant power back then, meant to put the slaves in their place.” He hums in gleeful thought before looking Kageyama straight in the eye. “A perfect addition to my collection.”
Kageyama’s worked with a lot of assholes in his time as Adlers’ underboss, but Washijo Tanji might just take the cake.
He gives a stiff nod and sees himself out of the old man’s office, promising to come back in two weeks like he always does. Some weeks he’ll leave right away, glad to be out of the basement establishment and back in the real world where everything isn’t covered in a neon red glow. Other weeks, he’ll linger in a back booth, staying for exactly an hour before sliding out to go back to the base. Kageyama tells Ushijima it’s because Washijo sometimes goes on tangents about the guns and won’t shut up, but that’s not the real reason.
The real reason strides out on stage not even a minute after he sits down.
You always look so pretty, no matter the hairstyle you start with. Today it’s a high ponytail that’s tied with a shiny silver band and matches the short sequin dress you have on. Kageyama knows by the end of the night, you’ll only be in panties, the rest of your clothing discarded behind you as you twirl around on the pole. Then, after your set is over, you’ll walk off stage with your head held high and one last flirtatious smile and wink to the crowd.
It’s crazy to think you’d notice someone sitting far away who only comes in once and a while, but Kageyama lets himself imagine you do. Lets himself imagine that it’s him who books you, that it’s him you walk in to see, to touch, to moan for. It’s not like he doesn’t have the money—no, he has plenty of that ever since becoming underboss of the Adlers—but he doesn’t have the time. And if he’s honest, he doesn’t have the guts to go through with it and ruin the facade of admiring from afar.
Only you do that forhim.
Tonight your eyes land right on him, and he sucks in a breath when you smile at him, as beautiful as ever. Your gaze is heavy as you keep it on him, even as you peel piece by piece off of your flimsy little outfit until you’re only left in a skimpy little thong. Your breasts jiggle as you move, hands tracing over your body as you dance to the music. It makes his breathing more labored, making him shift in his seat and forcing any fantasies about you away.
There are bills on the stage in front of you, men catcalling you from the booths near the front, but you don’t pay them any mind. Whenever your focus isn’t on climbing and twirling around the pole, it’s on him, that flirty little smile directed right at him without any reservations. When your set is over, you send a flirtatious little wink to the crowd—to him—and disappear backstage.
He knows you won’t come back out tonight, not with the way one of the middle-aged men in the front booth waves over a server, but Kageyama wishes you would. Wishes you would do more than send him smiles or winks because then it would mean you want him as a person and not a potential client. He knows how these things operate—you’re working. Playing the game to save up for something, whether it’s family, or a kid, or just trying to survive in a world that makes it nearly impossible.
He waits another ten minutes staring at the back door, silently wondering if you’ll emerge and prove him wrong, but you don’t.
So he leaves, already counting down the days until he’s back in that basement club so he can see you again.
ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ
The next meeting with Washijo is easy. He’s pleased with the product, placing the gun on an empty holster on the wall before shooing Kageyama out for “other business.” He’s about to leave the place for the night when there’s a soft call of, “Wait!”
Kageyama turns and sees you coming right for him.
He’s not ready for this. A kill? Easy. Sneak up behind them and wrap an arm around their neck, and the victim is none the wiser. A deal? Even easier. Read the room, read the vibe, and you’ll have them wrapped under your finger in a moment. A girl? Terrifying. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to act as you come up to him with your sparkling smile and stop right in front of him.
“I was hoping I would see you today,” you tell him as you tuck your hair behind your ear.
It’s down today, flowing behind you in pretty waves, your gold-painted eyes shining in the lights. The name tag on your chest reads “Daisy”—your stage name, he already knows—and the blouse is tight around your tits, skirt even tighter around your thighs. You’re a hostess today, not a dancer, a deviation from the norm.
It takes everything in Kageyama not to stare.
“I’m… not sure why,” he answers awkwardly.
“A mysterious handsome stranger I only ever see once every two weeks? I love a good mystery.” You grin, and Kageyama wishes you wouldn’t because he feels like he’s drowning in the ocean without a life jacket. “I’ve asked around but no one knows who you are.”
“Er… you’re asking about me?”
“I’m interested,” you giggle. “Is that wrong?”
Not wrong, but dangerous. The way his cheeks are coloring, the way his heart thumps in his chest, the way he’s itching to reach into his jacket and book you right then and there. It’s all so dangerous.
“I don’t know why you would be when you have plenty of suitors.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call them suitors,” you grumble as you cross your arms over your chest. “Clients would be more apt, wouldn’t it?”
Kageyama takes a look around the area. There’s no dancer on stage yet, but a woman comes out of the backroom and he knows it won’t be long now. No one is looking this way; Washijo sits at the bar talking with another older man in a crisp suit, but his eyes flick over for just a moment before returning. It’s just you two in your own little fucked up world of unspoken truths and discreet business.
“Then you probably don’t need another.”
“I don’t need another, but I wantanother.” Your smile is genuine even with your proposition. “What’s your name?”
“Kageyama Tobio,” he answers immediately, voice barely audible over the music that now pounds out of the speakers. “Your name?”
“Daisy.”
It isn’t your voice but Washijo’s. The owner stands next to you, a pressed smile on his face, arms tight behind his back. Kageyama notices the light in your eyes go out almost immediately, your smile slipping just a little bit as the old man lifts a hand to your chin and grabs tightly.
“You should be serving drinks now. That’s your job tonight.”
“Yes, Washijo-sama,” you respond robotically, like you’ve done this song and dance thousands of times before and know exactly what he wants to hear. “I was only welcoming your esteemed guest.”
“Daisy’s my best girl,” Washijo says as he slaps your cheek a few times none-too-gently. “Always makes me a pretty penny, doesn’t she?” He laughs like he’s not talking about you selling your body to make him money. It makes Kageyama’s eyes narrow as he flicks between Washijo’s smile and your souring and tightening expression. “If you want to book her, you’ll have to—”
“I’ll do it now.” Kageyama’s response is immediate, and he knows he pissed Washijo off by the way the man glares, but he doesn’t care. He’s got more pull in this city as the Adlers’ underboss than some old John with a hard-on for weapons anyway. He stares at you and your raised eyebrows when he says, “One hour, two weeks from today. Right after our meeting is finished.”
“Okay,” you whisper, trying to suppress your grin so Washijo doesn’t see it. “Two weeks from now, Kageyama-sama.”
“Then if you’ll excuse me.”
He bows his head before he can change his mind, before he can see how pissed he made Washijo, before he can get pulled into your cute little smile even more.
ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ
No matter how many times he’s been here, Kageyama has never been in the back before. Washijo’s office sits next to the bar—chosen on purpose to keep an eye on his “merchandise”, he’s sure—so it feels strange to follow an attendant past the stage and through the steel door. The hallway looks like it could belong to a casino, a carpeted hallway housing large wooden doors that lead to private rooms labeled after flowers. Lotus, Bluebell, Tulip. Finally the attendant stops in front of a door labeled “Hyacinth”, knocks once, and bows on his way out.
“Come in,” comes your dainty voice from inside.
His heart races faster than a rabbit as he turns the handle and opens the door.
You’re dressed in a beautiful black babydoll onesie that sits tight around your breasts and hips. Overtop is a translucent pink robe, fuzzy on the ends and cascading down to the floor. It’s tied around the waist, making you look like a present made for him to unwrap. You look at him through the mirror of the vanity, turning to him with an alluring smile that makes him swallow.
“Kageyama-sama,” you murmur as you stand and show him all of you. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He isn’t sure what to say or do. He’s never done this before; agreeing to come see you was a spur of the moment decision that’s been on the forefront of his mind the last two weeks. As enticing as you look, Kageyama isn’t here for what the other men are. While the thought has crossed his mind—more times than could be considered healthy, if he’s honest—he doesn’t want to be just another client you see once every two weeks then say goodbye to.
So when you start to walk over to him, he puts his hand up and makes you falter.
“I…” He clears his throat. “I’m not here to sleep with you.”
“Hm?” The hum sounds more confused than anything. “Then—”
“I only want to talk.”
“…Talk.” You’re looking at him like he’s grown another head. “You paid for an hour to… talk to me?”
Kageyama nods stiffly, cheeks warming when you laugh. You cover your mouth to quiet yourself, apologizing for your outburst before tilting your head.
“Okay, Kageyama-sama. What would you like to talk about?”
You both sit on the bed, and Kageyama lets you do most of the talking. You’re guarded, he can tell, but he’s the exact same. It’s like the conversation is stilted, both of you dancing around anything of substance.
How’s work? Fine. The usual. What’s your favorite food? Pork cutlet. How do you spend your time? Relaxing.
Only when he asks, “What do you do during the day?” do you slip up.
“Study.”
You look immediately regretful, even more so when he asks, “What do you study?”
You take a deep breath, looking contemplative for a moment before sighing, “Law. I’m in law school.”
Well, that certainly isn’t good for him.
“How do you balance your studies and working here?”
“You have so many questions,” you murmur, leaning into him so your fingers can trail up his left thigh. It makes him swallow, chest tight when you finish: “If you want to get to know me, why don’t we do it on a more personallevel?”
You’re so close to his cock that he has to shift his thigh away to keep his composure. You follow, manicured fingers running over his inner thigh, and you’re about to trail up when he grabs onto your wrist.
“I don’t want—” He swallows. “Okay well, I do. I want you, very badly, but I don’t want—” Fuck, this is frustrating. “I’ll come back in two weeks,” he blurts out instead. “Bring your study materials.”
“What?”
“Bring your books,” he repeats slowly. “I’ll buy your time so you can study.”
“Are you insane?” is the first question you ask, eyes wide as you drink in his stoic expression. “My fee is the highest in this establishment and you’re willing to pay that so I can study?”
“Money isn’t an issue for me,” he insists, sharp eyes on your slowly changing expression—morphing from confusion into something more annoyed, something more bitter. He’s seen it plenty of times at Suna’s clubs with the overly flirtatious women here, and something clicks in his brain immediately. “But it is for you, isn’t it?”
You ignore his question, eyes flitting over to the front door as if you’re expecting a knock any time now.
“Isn’t it?” He presses, hand on your wrist tightening and forcing your attention back on him.
“Who doesn’t have money problems?” You laugh, but it’s hollow and slightly forced. “I’m not the only one, Kageyama-san.”
That sounds so much better than that fake -sama bullshit from earlier.
The knock you were waiting for comes not a moment later, and you answer daintily, practiced composure as you stand up, eyes still locked on his. He follows you, fixing his coat as you set a hand on the door knob. You pause before turning it, taking a few breaths before you question,
“Two weeks?”
He nods twice and you open the door, smile on your face forced as you hand him over to the attendant waiting outside.
“Until then, Kageyama-sama.”
ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ
As soon as the gun is out of his hands and in Washijo’s collection, there’s a clap on his shoulder. Washijo’s bodyguard Saitou Akira stands next to him, his usually soft face firm as he stares down at him. Kageyama doesn’t even grace the two men with a response or an acknowledgement on his face. His expression is stoic as ever as he sits back and waits for Washijo to speak.
“You’ve taken a liking to our Daisy, I’ve noticed,” the old man drawls as he runs a hand over his clean-shaven jaw.
Kageyama can’t refute that. Every two weeks, he’s booked you and your time for an hour, letting you catch up on school work. But you always leave at least fifteen minutes (though lately it’s been nearly a half an hour) to talk to him about this and that. Kageyama has never mentioned the Adlers name, has never mentioned that his day job includes tracking down men who owe Ushijima money and beating them into submission, but he’s given you a rare glimpse into his life that he isn’t sure is a good idea.
You aptly listened to his old stories of high school sports, of being the model for his sister’s cosmetology license, of his “hat” phase when Miwa really fucked up his locks (that he’s never really forgiven her for.) In exchange, you’ve told him stories about yourself: about your hobbies, your past, your drive to create a better Japan, one that treats its people—all of its people—equally. Kageyama thinks that sounds like a pipe dream but he lets you speak anyway, because you don’t look any prettier than when you’re gushing.
“Yes, sir.”
“She’s one of the best in the business,” Washijo hums, and Kageyama pretends that business doesn’t include what you’re normally booked for. “So you’ll understand if her prices have to be increased, don’t you?”
He doesn’t, and he’s about to say he doesn’t when he hears Ushijima’s voice in his mind loud and clear: Keep our contractors happy.
Four more months. That’s how long is left in the contract, how long he has to think of a way to make Ushijima cut ties with this asshole.
“Of course,” Kageyama stoically responds, keeping his face neutral even when Washijo’s smirk could rival a sharp knife.
“Good, good, I’m glad we could do business. Tell Ushijima hello for me.”
It’s a jab, he knows. He’s only the underboss—the man sent to do his boss’s bidding. If he ever steps out of line, he’ll be gone and forgotten as easily as Hoshiumi. Kageyama doesn’t give Washijo the satisfaction of an answer. He brushes Akira’s hand off his shoulder, stands, and pays the additional fee directly to the John himself.
Then he lets the attendant take him back to the Hyacinth room without even glancing back.
You’re already there, dressed in your pretty lingerie, hair high up in a styled and curled ponytail. Your bookbag is hidden underneath the black robe you’ve started to wear under the guise of “being his favorite thing to see you in.” As soon as the door is locked, you take your normal positions: you hunched over the vanity as you pour through cases, him flicking through his phone until you say you’re finished.
“Kageyama-san,” you whisper not even 25 minutes later, and when he looks up, you’re already putting your notes and books away.
“Done?”
“Mhm.”
Usually you pull your chair over and he’ll sit on the bed so you can chat, but today you stand, untie your robe, and begin to walk over. He looks at you funny, narrowed eyes on the way you saunter over, your breasts pressed up against the lacy black bra, the matching panties highcut and showing off your legs.
“Wha—”
Your giggle cuts him off as you swing your leg, settling yourself in his lap.
“I don’t want to talk today,” you murmur as you play with the ends of his hair, and Kageyama feels like he can’t breathe, lungs as tight as his pants. “You’re paying a pretty penny for me, so why don’t you have me?”
“Even more now,” he replies, forcing himself not to touch you. Not just a client, he wants to say, want me as a man. But all he can do is stare as your confused expression twists.
“What are you talking about?”
“I had to pay an extra fee,” Kageyama says, face scrunching up to match yours. “Since you’re his favorite.”
There’s a long pause where he can see the anger in your expression, in the way your lips twist like you ate a lemon, in the way your eyebrows crease like you’re studying your law books. Then it’s gone, replaced with a light smile as you drag your fingers from his temple to his jaw, tilting his head up.
“Right,” you whisper as you lean closer, a hair’s width away from his lips. Hovering, not touching, your breath warm on his lips. His chest is tight with the need for breath when you add, “So why don’t we put your money to good use, Tobio-kun?”
Fuck.
The second you press your lips to his, he eagerly responds, a firm hand on your back pushing you against his chest. Your lips move against each other’s quickly, months of pent up want flowing in drags and tugs of lips. The little sound you let out when he pries your mouth open with his tongue rings in his mind, and he clings to you even tighter, keeping you pressed against his lap and chest. You match rolls of your tongue with rolls of your hips, your fingers quickly undoing the buttons of his dress shirt so you can push your hands inside and cling to his shoulders.
Manicured nails dig into his flesh when he bucks his hips up and you feel his hardening cock against you. You break the kiss to heave for breath, sloppy kisses trailing down the side of his neck to lick and suck at his skin, hastily tugging at his undershirt to get it out of his slacks.
“You—” He tries to say, but it’s cut off with a grunt when you grind down on him, your little whimper vibrating against his neck. “You can… slow down.”
“I can’t, actually.” He can feel you grin against his flesh, a light giggle on your lips. “You don’t know how badly I’ve been wanting you.”
Is this for real or for work? He should stop and ask, but then your fingers find his belt and he forgets all about it. Your fingers brush over the bulge in his pants as you unbutton his pants and drag the zipper down. Kageyama groans when you cup his cock through his underwear, teeth sharp on his exposed shoulder a juxtaposition to the soft way you squeeze and run your fingers over his bulge until he’s hard.
He immediately misses your warmth when you pull away from him. You settle between his legs, and he helps you drag down his pants and underwear to his ankles, hard cock springing free and bobbing against his stomach.
“It’s as pretty as you,” you compliment slyly, a grin on your lips. Kageyama nearly jerks into your touch when you grasp his cock in your hands, your thumb dragging over the tip and smearing his precum into his flesh. “I want you to say my name, Tobio-kun.”
“Daisy.”
“No,” you whisper as you lean up, your tongue following the circular pattern your thumb was just drawing. He exhales, shifting his legs even wider so you have more room. “My real name.”
You murmur it like a song, and he repeats it, the syllables sounding perfect in his rich baritone.
“Good boy,” you compliment before taking him into your mouth.
Your mouth is so warm, sucking him in as you twirl your tongue around his tip. Kageyama doesn’t know what to do with his hands; he keeps them curled up in the bedsheets and tugs when you suck hard, eyes staring up at him hard enough to make him shiver. It’s not that he’s inexperienced, but you make him feel like putty under your touch, his thighs jerking when you dig your nails into his flesh and take all of him.
The room is filled with his harsh breaths and your sucking sounds as you work him, head bobbing up and down quickly. When you hollow your cheeks, it makes him grunt and lean back on one hand, the other coming to grip your ponytail. You moan when he tugs, rewarding him with another harsh suck that makes him jerk into your mouth. Your fingers ghost over his balls, squeezing and fondling while you suck, and Kageyama feels like a teenager again—ready to blow any second if you keep sucking like that.
Kageyama gets lost in the pleasure, lost in the way you pump his cock when you need to breathe then immediately go back down on him like you can’t get enough. He can’t either, your mouth intoxicating and making him wonder if your pussy is just as good, if it’s just as tight and warm. The thought of being inside you spikes heat in his stomach, his balls tightening and spine tingling as his orgasm looms. He warns you with a low moan of your name, but you only suck harder, tongue running over the slit of his head until cum spurts out and fills your mouth completely.
He doesn’t realize he’s holding your head down until you tap his thigh a few times, then he immediately untangles his fingers from your ponytail with a quiet sorry.
“You can spit it out.”
But you don’t.
You climb into his lap again, slotting your mouth against his and feeding him his own cum. It’s strange and Kageyama is pretty sure he hates the way he tastes, but it mixes with your scent and your taste, and he kisses you back anyway, tangling your tongues together with urgency. You both swallow, shallow breaths panting against each other’s mouths, your nails raking down his undershirt-covered stomach with a whine.
“Touch me, Tobio-kun,” you whisper as you grind against his limp cock, flush high on your cheekbones signaling how much you want him.
He complies immediately, fixing your hips so you’re straddling him, high enough where he can lift your bra and start flicking over your nipples. You moan, fingers curling in his hair and tugging when he starts to suck, when his fingers start to wander over the wet crotch of your panties. Holy shit, you’re soaked, all from just sucking his dick. He’s able to push one finger into you no problem, and after a few strokes, he adds another. It makes you groan, grinding down onto his hand as he keeps sucking on your nipples, tongue dancing all over your skin as he switches between both.
You cry out lightly when his thumb finds your clit, and your pussy spasms around his fingers. His cock jumps at the tightness, already ready to be buried deep inside of you to drag along your walls, but he doesn’t stop fucking you with his fingers. You look too good on top of him, sound so good whimpering his name, that he wants to make you cum over and over and remind you who is giving you the pleasure. Not some broke loser, not some nasty John. Him.
Your cunt is so loud, pussy squelching as he scissors his fingers, lips and tongue dragging all over your chest. He can’t mark you—not with your job and the clients he’s sure will be seen when he’s gone—but he can pretend he’s the only one you have, leaving a trail of his saliva all over you as if saying that no one else can touch you. When you shudder and tug at his hair, he knows you’re close and he speeds up, curling just right. His breaths are hot against your chest, cock half-hard and twitching, begging to be in your cunt and—
There’s a sharp knock on the door, and a loud swear on your lips.
“No, don’t, don’t stop, please,” you whine above him, clinging to his hair as you hump against his hand. “So close, so close—”
“Come on,” he urges against your neck, fingers working even faster. You’re right there, squeezing him so tightly that he feels like he’sthe one about to cum, but—
Another knock on the door, an annoyed huff of your stage name, and you’re climbing off his lap with frustrated tears in your eyes and a scratch in your throat.
“Coming.”
You take a moment to catch your breath, watching him fumble to get dressed again and hide the bulge in his pants, before you swallow.
“Two weeks,” you whisper. Kageyama hates it. It’s broken, needy, and he’s about to pay for another three hours of your time so he can satisfy you and never have to hear it again.
But the third knock on the door seals his doom.
“Two weeks,” he repeats before exiting the room, fire burning in his veins long after he leaves Il Giardinobehind.
Genre: Romance, Smut, Angst. Notes: This is part of my first kiss collab!check out everyone’s work hehe also I hope you guys enjoy this series I love it a lot. Warnings: 18+, readers surname is 'Warner’, controlling father, lovesick!reader, virgin!reader, pining, steamy first kiss, prohibition era, alcohol, smoking, speakeasy setting, 1920s dialogue & slang, misogyny, slut shaming. Words:13.4k
Imagination is an amusing invention from one’s very own mind; but as you look at Ruthie, you don’t believe that is what is at play here. Your friendship with Ms. Ruthie Goodwin began a mere four years ago, and yet, you remember it as a bolt of lightning cracking into each of your hearts as you realised she would be your best friend from your very first interaction. The amount of time is short, yes, but you’re both young. And all friendships begin somewhere. But in this very moment as she drives your father’s beloved Gold Bug Speedster; you are sure you’ve never seen a happier expression on her honeyed features.
i have lost hope for this world, especially gen z. a video is doing the rounds on tiktok with more than 13m views, mocking AH testimony about the abuse she endured from JD. this is so horrifying, outside of the JD/AH situation, this is undoing years of work of trying to make it easier for victims of abuse come forward and feel safe and strong. how on earth will any woman (or man) of DV or DA feel safe or confident to come forth? how can tiktok allow these videos to stay up? this is so harmful and depressing. JD fans say that AH is making it harder for abuse victims to come forward, but it was at a low before that anyway. their public abuse of AH and mocking her testimony is so harmful to women, especially in a month where R v W is at threat. society truly hates women and yet so many women are joining in with the misogyny. we live in hell.
I’m looking at screenshots of this horde of furious girls and women destroying Joss Whedon on twitter and it’s so great
Motherfucker you knew you were a misogynist and a fraud in 2002 when you wrote the autobiographical Buffy episode about Andrew the filmmaker fetishizing the pain and hero stories of the house full of women who despise him, and now it’s finally coming crashing down on you and happening in real life.
I sincerely hope some of those girls calling him a piece of shit and a trash can and demanding, “fight me” shook him; this has been his deepest fear about his behavior towards women for over a decade now, but he hasn’t made a change, and he’s always known on some level that he deserves to be hated for it.
BUFFY: Are you still filming me? Stop. ANDREW: But it’s a valuable record. A-an important document for the ages. ‘A Slayer in Action.’ BUFFY: ‘A Nerd in Pain.’ Would they like that? Cause we could do that.
BUFFY: When your blood pours out it might save the world. What do you think about that? Does it buy it all back? Are you redeemed? ANDREW: No.
Ugh ok ok I actually have a ridiculous amount of words about this (hi ocelot, can I post those emails from 2012??) But I wanted to say that this… idk. This has been a long time coming for Joss and it’s absolutely a bed he made for himself, and it makes me gratified on a brutal visceral level to see it coming back to bite him, but a lot of that anger is watching an artist I loved curdle into his own self-hate and turn into the kind of awful man he used to write about. Joss…Joss has had a recurrent fantasy of self-loathing and shame about his treatment of female characters and actresses that started, afaik, in season 6 of Buffy, with the introduction of the three nerd villains Warren, Jonathan, and Andrew.
The initial patriarchal villains of the Buffyverse were men who abused women using either brute strength or political power: Angelus, the Watchers, the Mayor. The three nerds introduced another kind of misogynistic male antagonist that grew to dominate and completely consume Joss’s work in the 00s: the nerdy, story-obsessed guy who used his intelligence and mastery of technology to abuse and control strong, heroic women. Nerdy men who, like Joss, either created or tampered with the women they wanted total control over, either by building androids or altering existing women, usually via invasive medical torture. Joss the writer invents the character of Buffy while having workplace clashes with her actress Sarah Michelle Gellar; Andrew, Warren, and Jonathan drug their girlfriends into compliance and create the BuffyBot to obey their will. This villain character would show up again and again in Joss’ later works: the scientist who had, thanks to his technical and storytelling skills, been given custody by higher powers over women who would normally be far out of their range of influence. And, uncomfortably, all of the actors cast for these roles bore a striking physical resemblance to Joss.
When Joss aired “Storyteller”, I was surprised and impressed. It was penned by Jane Espenson, Buffy’s strongest staff writer, and was a story about Andrew the Joss doppelganger filming the house of potential Slayers for a series he called “Buffy, Slayer of the Vampyres.” A major theme of “Storyteller” was Andrew’s intrusive use of the Buffy cast’s personal lives and pain to make a good story, his refusal to acknowledge their privacy, and possibly, as Anya kept insisting, to use his videos as masturbation material. It seemed like a huge moment of self- awareness and self-reflection about the relationship Joss had to the real and fictional women who worked for him, especially given the conflicts he had at the time with actresses like Charisma Carpenter over her character Cordelia and personal bodily autonomy (pregnancy). It was self-critical and raw and I was incredibly proud of Joss for being willing to go there in such a public way.
Buffy ended, and Andrew redeemed himself, but the misogynist-nerd-self-loathing metastory intensified. One of the aspects of the Three Nerds villain arc that had always made me profoundly uncomfortable was the way Joss positioned the boys’ nerdy pursuits and lack of traditional masculinity– not just their treatment of women– as something inherently repulsive. Viewers were supposed to be disgusted by the sight of three dorky boys nerding out over Star Wars figurines. Buffy and the house full of potential slayers call Andrew vile names for being a nerd, not in response to his behavior; by the end of his run, I felt the urge to protect Andrew, not from the girls, but from Joss, who was clearly using him as a punching bag onto which he was projecting his own self-loathing. (Eventually Joss was quoted saying that Andrew was, as had been hinted, gay, but would remain in the closet indefinitely “because it’s funny,” something that horrified and enraged fans, but which Joss seemed to view, appallingly, as as an ultimate emasculation.)
The next major Joss project was Dollhouse, with evil scientist and Joss lookalike Topher Brink programming, manipulating, and violating various women into playacting roles he’d scripted for them. It was such a blatant story about Joss and his actresses it was difficult to watch. Like, My Feminism Is Just An Excuse To Exploit Hot Actresses, I Am Such A Disgusting Creature!!! Coming soon to the CW! His next project, the webseries I Am So Horrible And My Feminism Is A Sham, featuring NPH as the Joss stand-in, was similarly cringeworthy.
A big outlier here is Wash, from Firefly and Serenity, who almost fit the pattern, but not quite, and that “not quite” was enough of a problem that, like the similar character Oz, he had to be written out of the story. Alan Tudyk had the same general physical resemblance to Joss and the same dress sense as Andrew, Topher, and Billy Horrible. His dinosaur theater sessions looked and sounded like the action figure games the Trio played, and the blurb for Joss’s media company, Mutant Enemy. But unlike all the other nerdy blond men of the Whedonverse, Wash was in a equal and loving relationship with the strong soldier woman he adored. Other characters in the series were preoccupied with the traditional gender role imbalance in Wash and Zoe’s marriage and questioned whether Wash felt emasculated by his wife being stronger than he was, but both Wash and Zoe were completely above and untouched by it. She was a warrior woman and she was married to a dorky guy who told stories and who wasn’t the most physically powerful man on her crew. She could have broken him in half with her pinky and they loved and respected each other and had a happy, healthy marriage. This was, somehow, too much for Joss to handle, and so Wash had to die.
When venting about Joss I want to say that the problem isn’t that Joss was always terrible, or that all of his work was tainted or had a poisonous message from the beginning. It wasn’t; Buffy was and still is incredibly important; it had the kind of powerful emotional intelligence that burrows into your heart and stays there and I think it still stands by itself, years later. Buffy still stands. Charles Gunn still stands. Anya still stands. When my mother passed away last year, I watched “The Body” like a ritual, and I know I’m not the only person to have done something similar. That canon isn’t going anywhere.
The problem is that at some point in his career, Joss became so intent on the masochistic fantasy of being hated by strong women for being a nerd that he spent a decade writing stories about violating those women to ensure they would hate him. I wish Joss had ended that obsession with “Storyteller.” I wish he had talked about the feelings that made him want to make “Dollhouse” with his therapist and tried to make things right with Charisma Carpenter instead of turning those particular personal demons into a bad TV show. I wish the ideas of intimacy and equality weren’t so threatening to him that he had to write men like Oz and Wash out of existence instead of trying to evolve into them. I wish he hadn’t let himself fall into that pit of destructive self-loathing back in 2002, and I wish he hadn’t stayed there so long that he started to turn that hate outward onto the women he perceived as loathing and rejecting him. I wish he hadn’t turned, in twenty years, from the man who wanted to see the blonde girl in the horror movie survive and thrive into the rich bastard who thought it was funny to call Natasha Romanoff a cunt on IMAX and who called her a monster for being the victim of medical abuse. I’m still laughing angrily at Joss being driven off twitter by a mob of angry, betrayed female fans, because wow does he ever deserve it, but man, Joss. It didn’t have to be that way.
I think this is the best summation of the Joss Whedon issue that I’ve seen thus far.
I’ve discussed modern incel virgin Xiao with a high-promiscuity darling like camgirl but please consider… modern incel virgin Kazuha
//major slutshaming/overall sexist, mentions of depression/mental health, choking
———————————-
Kazuha would be the epitome of the nice boy. Not the “nice guy” that’s not actually nice and is super demanding… he’s genuinely sweet, he doesn’t do things with expectations of getting pussy for it. Maybe hopes, but not expectations. He’s not going to get sour and upset when he doesn’t get it (after all, it’s never worked before), he hides his disappointment with a smile. But… while he’s not gruff and sort of abrasive like other sexually frustrated young men might be, he’s still not the absolute most socially apt person in the world. How else is he supposed to get it? His plan seems like the best possible plan. If you’re nice enough to someone, they will like you, and want to help you back, right? He’s not like those hateful people that blame their problems on others… especially not girls! Girls are so good and sweet, he thinks… he’s one of those guys that pedestalizes them, thinks you can do no wrong (and will that much more disappointed when that illusion is shattered).
The thing is, his sweetness attracts toxicity. You know someone you can step on and take advantage of when you see it, and you lock your target pretty quickly after meeting him. He’s basically the boy that gets “friend zoned,” and you very much intentionally string him along knowing he will never do anything in retaliation. He’s the epitome of a non-threatening guy. You can see the way he stutters and twitches when he speaks to you, the nervousness in his body language. It’s like he’s asking to be used.
Kazuha doesn’t expect anything in return for how nice he is to you. He’s not going to get mad that you didn’t suck his dick for holding the door for you or whatever meme-tier reaction you’d joke about from the nice guy trope. In fact, he does a lot for you, just because he wants to. Your car breaks down and he drives you everywhere you need to go until it’s fixed (or he volunteers to drive you everywhere if he finds out you don’t have one), wakes up early just to come pick you up and take you to your classes or work. He takes you out sometimes and pays for your food and convinces himself the relationship is going somewhere. He sends you homework answers if you’re in school, sometimes just does it for you. You text him saying you’re in a “situation” and need $100 without providing an explanation and he just sends it. He sends you good morning and good night texts, keeps a little heart emoji next to your contact name.
You practically gut his heart out like a fish when you have him pick you up from a house at 3 in the morning… A “friend” (that you went to visit for some reason at midnight), you tell him, and he chooses to believe it because he desperately wants to. You can go to whatever venue of your choice, be it lively nightclubs or house parties with friends (he understands not being invited, he doesn’t know any of them), get blackout drunk and when you call him, he will come get you. Can’t have you driving, so of course he’ll get you.
And because he is so so so so nice, he won’t… do anything. He will take you home as promised. And since you passed out in his passenger seat, he’ll fish your keys out of your bag, pick you up and take you inside, lay you on your bed, check your forehead to make sure you don’t have alcohol poisoning, and then leave.
No, no, not leave, in fact, he will stay there all night, he decides, just to make sure you’re okay. Make you breakfast, since you probably have a hangover. Stay for a while after you wake up making sure you’re okay until your grumbling and glaring makes it clear you want your alone time (and he understands that! No worries, he’s not offended!). Then he can leave. He already emailed his professor or boss to inform them he had something that was a priority to take care of and would be coming in late, so it’s all good.
After all, it’s the least he can do for you, considering how much you do for him. You… Text him sometimes. Maybe one word or so, he just laughs it off, you’re just a short texter is all. You also… Say thanks for all the favors he does for you. Text him a “ty” when he drops everything on the spot to send you the answers to a document you needed for work or school, and mumble some thanks when you get out of the car, but it’s understandable that you say it quietly, since you usually call your friends when you’re in the car with him and don’t actually talk to him. But, ah… you do a lot for him overall. Really.
It’s… quite pathetic, really. So much so that people who know and watch you both pity him, it’s so obvious he’s head over heels and that you could care less. He’s the type of boy to desperately be like “haha we really look like a couple here!” to a photo of you standing next to each other, to tag you and post pictures of you on every social media outlet available to him while your accounts seem to indicate you don’t know he exists.
And sure, yeah, every time he’s taken to the internet to ask forums of strangers for relationship advice he gets relentlessly bullied, called a simp and a cuck, endless disheartening replies like ‘omg she’s not gonna fuck you dude’ and‘she’s using you bro’ and similar things… but they don’t know you. They automatically assume you’re a bad person, he knows that’s not true. If you were, then perhaps that conclusion would be correct, but they’re jumping to conclusions because they don’t know you’re not like that. He helps you because he loves you, and you really do appreciate it, and you like him too, you wouldn’t spend so much time with him if you didn’t…
Besides, helping you rids him off all the guilt he has from what he sees as such grave offenses against you. He’s a thief, after all… he really did intend to return the panties he stole, but he just hasn’t had an opportunity, you started locking your windows and now he can’t get back inside. Now he’s overcome with shame and guilt every single night after he’s cum on them again, he feels so guilty he has to wait a whole half an hour before he can get hard again (as opposed to the usual wait of a mere few minutes). Besides, even worse, now the smell is fading and he can’t go swap it out for another pair. He’s left to just miserably rut into his pillows longing for that same smell again, the poor thing. Wishing you were with him. Thinking about how you’re just busy, otherwise you would be, because you do like him.
He can only maintain it all for so long. Lying to himself and pretending you care. He knows deep down how disposable he is to you.
So at first, when he inevitably forces himself to face the obvious fact that you date and sleep around with a bunch of people who aren’t him… well, that’s okay. They probably knew you first. You’re not overlooking him, it’s just first come first serve… and you’re so pretty and kind, of course you know a ton of people.
…Or they might have pressured you into it. Yes, he likes that thought better – ah, rather, he thinks that’s more likely. He hates people who do things like that. Not because their aggression and initiative is robbing him of something that should rightfully be his – no, not that, he’s not… entitled like that… nor because it shatters his delusion of having his perfectly pureanduntouched love – no, that’s a horrible attitude to have, that way of thinking is outdated and unrealistic, he tells himself… it’s just that he hates to think you’re being made to do something you don’t want to do… especially for, you know, someone who’s not him.
And you go to nightclubs and things like that, but you’re just having fun with your girl friends, you don’t go to get laid or anything like that… maybe that just happens sometimes, you don’t seek it out though… and you probably don’t want to do it with those guys either, they’re just manipulative and pressure you, and you’re just so sweet you can’t say no. How horrible.
But still, you’re at the age where it’s normal, you’re not ready to settle down yet, right? That’s what he keeps telling himself, it would be wrong to be jealous. It’s… the current year, of course you have your freedoms and it’s socially accepted and that’s good, he keeps reminding himself that that’s good… you can sleep around as much as you want… it doesn’t bother him one bit. He doesn’t lay awake at night trying to push the mental images of you moaning and naked for other guys out of his head. He’s a very open-minded person who would never have such an archaic way of viewing things, as to be be upset over it. Never.
And when you mention starting up onlyfans or something… he just kinda smiles, swallows, his hands’ grip on the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles go white. It’s… not that he’s against such a thing conceptually, no, he thinks it’s a great idea! He’s not bothered by the idea of you being naked for thousands of guys to see with permanent records on the internet. B-but… that can go badly you know? Jobs and doxxing and stuff… better to just avoid it, he says. He uses everything his mind can think of to scare you out of the idea. What about crazy stalkers? Someone using images for revenge? You need to be more careful and not follow through with such crazy ideas! It’s for yoursake that he thinks it’s a bad idea, that’s all. Thankfully, he seems to talk you out of it.
That leaves him uneasy for weeks, but what really ends up pushing him over the edge is a rare, rare occurrence in which heneeds something. He got locked out of his own place, and since he lives alone, only you can help him, since he knows you have a spare key (he told you you could come visit at any time, but you’ve just been too busy to do so yet, he assumes). He texts you, but… you don’t answer. He calls you but you let the phone ring. He texts and texts and tries everything he can, but he gets no response from you until hours later, when you finally call him back, audibly intoxicated and not very concerned for his well-being, you sound more annoyed than anything.
You promise to get a ride or pay for an app to ride there, finally show up a grand total of six hours after he was stuck outside… he’s just been waiting all this time. But… he was the one who inconvenienced you, right? So he can’t be mad, he thinks. He smiles and thanks you for your help. And likewise, when you’re so tired you ask if you can crash there, he doesn’t mind at all. Sure. He’ll let you sleep in his bed, he says, and you assume that means he’s taking the couch.
It’s not until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep that he starts to let his mind wander to some darker thoughts… but he’s startled out of it when your phone vibrates. A contact with a seemingly male name, but the message on the lock screen cuts off way to soon for him to make sense of the first few words.
It’s not snooping, it’s just making sure the message isn’t too important. That’s why he uses your thumb to open your phone. You’re really passed out, don’t even twitch as he does so. He’s just checking. Just going to look for a second and make sure that it’s not a family emergency or your boss. Just for a second.
Two. Three. Four. Five seconds. It wasn’t your family. Just someone asking if you wanted to come over tonight… ‘again.’He finds his thumb scrolling on its own. Just skimming through, since there’s a lot of messages. You have a lot more friends than he realized. Friends. They have to be friends… it’s not like you’re the type of person to be sleeping around with more than one guy, even though these are all male names and all left with their last messages to you being anything from hearts to explicitly detailed comments to suggestive reminders and questions about next time. But you’re not the type of person to have casual sex on your own volition, even. Maybe you have out of pressure, but you’d never seek it out. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! He’s a totally open-minded guy, he doesn’t think badly of that sort of thing, it’s your body and your freedom and all but… but… he just… doesn’t think you’d do that. Hopes you didn’t. Knows you wouldn’t.
But the proof otherwise is right in front of his eyes. It makes him feel nauseous. His brain struggles to rationalize.
But rationalize he does. He understands. So stupid of him, he’s been a terrible friend to have not noticed!
You’redepressed.Or, in some other way, just not in a good state of mind.Yes, you must be having a bad time of things recently and not been feeling good. That explains everything, why you’re engaging in behaviors that are so… out of character… out of the character he knows you really have. You’re depressed about something, or perhaps in general, and are seeking out chemical highs and physical pleasures and cheap validation to make yourself feel better. To fill the void in her heart, such are the words that come to his mind, how poetic.
He blames himself for this. He should have noticed something was wrong with you earlier. He should have helped. He feels guilty. This isn’t like you, no, he may not have known you for very long or ever really spent time with you outside of helping you, but he knows this isn’t the kind of person you are! Not that it’s bad, no, he reminds himself he’s not one of those awful people that frowns upon such things, it’s just… not in character for you. You want love, but you can’t obtain it, or have a mental block keeping you from seeking it out. You want to be in a loving relationship, that’s what everyone wants, right? But instead, you feel guilty for pursuing that or something, so you just seek out a cheap imitation of love instead… yes, yes, that all makes perfect sense.
You do care. It’s not that you don’t like him, it’s not that you’re using him, it’s just… you can be a little inconsiderate at times. Selfish. That’s all. But you’re not trying to be selfish, it’s just that thinking of others doesn’t cross your mind because you’re too depressed about something to think about things like that, you’re too consumed by your thoughts. Too lonely. He can’t allow you to be suffering like that on your own!
And now he sees how many signs you’ve been showing, all those little cries for help. He was so stupid to have been waiting on you to make a move, it’s obvious you were trying to prompt him to do so. Yes, all those times you asked to sleep at his place, all those times you were just pretending to be passed out in his car, those were all… invitations, he just was too dense to understand. Sigh. He could beat himself up for missing that opportunity. You’re uncomfortable asking him outright, so you do so subtly. It makes sense now.
But he swallows, he scratches at his throat, he clenches his jaw and fists. He can’t swallow down that seed of negative emotion in his gut. Anger. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. He tells himself over and over. But part of him can’t help but feel mad.But it’s not your fault! You’re probably emotionally damaged, and that’s why you’ve never tried to pursue a relationship outright. Too hurt from all the bad people in your life.
And that’s okay. He can help give you a little push. Make that step for you. He’ll have to make that step for you because you just can’t fucking do it yourself, huh. He’s not good enough for you, is that it? After everything he did?
He has to pause, take a deep breath, collect himself. Remind himself not to be mad at you, no matter how much he wants to be, no matter how strong the twisting, tight feeling in his chest is becoming. He can’t be mad. You deserve empathy and compassion.
And forgiveness. Because what you did was wrong. Ignoring him. Tossing him aside. Sleeping with other men when you were clearly in a relationship with him, even in your own head, and quite obviously to everyone around you. It was wrong. A transgression. He’ll forgive you, but it was still wrong. And you should be sorry.
And you will be sorry.
He knows that people in bad states of mental health tend to say things they don’t mean. That’s why the tape is there on your mouth, to prevent you from saying anything to him you might regret and feel bad about later. He doesn’t want to contribute to whatever complex of self-loathing you might have going on. He tells you so, when your groggy eyes finally open, when you panic at the sight of him straddling your body, looming over you on the bed, you tug against the restraints tying your wrists to the headboard.
He knows you might overreact there too, see. You’re in this… spiral of self-destructive behaviors, and if he calls you out on it, you might feel embarrassed, get defensive, try and hit him. That’s all. But he made it as comfortable as he could, using tape there as well, and not metal. He makes sure to ask if it’s pinching your skin though. Just nod or shake your head.
He apologizes to you first. Says he understands now. He should have noticed before. There were so many red flags! After all, you were… so mean to him lately, ignoring him more, backhanded insults, looks of disgust, not returning as many texts as you used to. If only he’d known that it was just a defense mechanism! It would have saved him a lot of hurt feelings too, but more importantly, he could have helped you sooner.
And he knows you’ll be resistant, people in need of intervention usually are, they lash out against the very people trying to help them. He knows you think you want to go to school or work or wherever your daily routine takes you, but he won’t allow that. Clearly, that has been a source of unneeded stress – and undoubtedly, that’s where you’ve been meeting these guys that take advantage of your poor decision making and manipulate you into sex. He knows. He read them all. You’re so naive, to not see how they’re using you! Sure, you can claim it’s “consensual,” but can it really be called that? You’re so lacking in self awareness that you don’t even realize the real reason you’re doing it! You want someone who will really love you. You want him. He knows you just don’t get it, you think that the multitudes of casual hookups is what you want, but it’s not. You’ll see. You’ll be so much happier with this. They were taking advantage of you. He knows you would never, ever consent to something like that if you were in your right state of mind… which is why you definitely aren’t. So just trust him. He’ll make you happy. He’ll take care of your every need. You don’t have to do a thing. See, even those people that dare call themselves “doctors” wouldn’t give you what you really need… only he can do that.
But he’s still so, so, so sweet about it. Kissing your mouth through the tape and saying it will be okay. Just let him have this. You’ll feel so good. You’re trembling so badly. But you’re certainly not afraid of this since you decided to go out and be a fucking whore – ah… what he meant to say was, since you’ve had experience… even though that’s not your fault.It’swrong, but not your fault. So really, what this means just confirms his suspicions… you could only be trembling out of fear, and what you’re really afraid of is intimacy,vulnerability. You’re scared of this with someone you really love, someone who cares about you… it’ll all be okay. He’ll keep kissing your face and holding you so close throughout.
You’re still so tight. It feels so good. Hah, see, all those guys on the internet that told him it would feel loose were wrong, it’s so good. So good he forgets to keep rambling about helping you. So good he loses himself in the feeling, so good he forgets he intended to be super slow and gentle. Well, whatever, passionate gets the message across better anyway, doesn’t it? So it’s okay that he just lets loose, digs his fingers into your hips to pull you closer with each slam of his hips. It’s okay that he gives in to those darker urges, the ones he’s always felt ashamed of and tried to keep at bay, lurking beneath his gentle demeanor and laid-back smile and soft-spoken voice. Wrapping a hand around your throat. Somehow, his face looks like the same soft, sweet boy as always, the only trace of the sadism beneath is the faintest glimmer in his eye. Likewise, the way he speaks seems so soft, and yet his words – you’re so pretty like this – seem so wrong as he’s gripping his hand hard, watching your eyes go wide and your body writhe with the deprivation. So beautiful. Breathtaking. He was afraid to come out to you about liking this (he imagined the scenario in his head many times, planning out how to go about it once you were dating), though you’d find it weird or creepy, but the way you clench down on him when he tightens his grip (ignoring the unrelated other muscle spasms throughout your entire body) tells him you enjoy it. Just like all those girls in the porn he watched, the ones he sought out specifically because they looked like you.
Yes, you do enjoy it all. The way your little cries and moans underneath the tape made him shudder, the way you clench down, the way you finally, finally spams and convulse underneath him, milking him dry at the same time. He’s glad. He tells you you have to keep the tape on a while longer, but reassures you that there’s nothing wrong and that he’s so glad this all worked out for you two. He tells you you did so good. You made him so happy.
And he will make you happy, too. You just need to give it time.
misogyny is so weird like. it is complex and hard to deal with but people who don’t experience it think it’s so simple like. i’ve heard a lot of cis women say they get catcalled all the time, get sexualized all the time, and that sucks but…… misogyny is a lot more than that because i’ve been catcalled only once and i’ve never felt overly sexualized but i’ve still been extensively affected by misogyny. i used to hate being a girl so much. i was a tomboy and the boys i hung out with always bullied me for wanting to play sports with them. whenever i get a sports injury, all my cis girl and transmasc friends first reaction is “hope you feel better” and the reaction of all the cis boys at my school is “wait, you play sports?” i was groomed when i was 12 and say sorry CONSTANTLY because i’ve learned to be as small as i can, especially when cis boys are around or it’s mostly cis guys in the room. and it sucks because i feel like i’ll never be a “real” victim of misogyny just because i’m not attractive enough to be sexualized by sexist men.
If you ever question whether or not misogyny is dead, go read the comments under any The Vagina Monologues video on YouTube and bask in the knowledge toxic masculinity is alive and well.
