My Favourite Genre Of Images Right Now

suck, and i cannot stress this enough, my cock to the fucking base

They are carpet bombing Rafah. The over 1.4 million Palestinians in Rafah are being targeted at what is now 4 in the morning for them. They are posting their goodbyes.

bugtesting

This is a long as fuck post for me but… Fujoshi discourse is old kinda but Pinterest comments are rancid places and there are very recent comments either not understanding what’s so bad about fujoshis or straight up in support of fujoshis so like UH:

First of all reducing queer men as a whole down to something for cishet women to obsess over and get off to is disgusting. Full stop.

Fujoshis and their ilk essentially see MLM relationships as inherently more sexual than others. A piece of media that depicts a relationship between two men or two boys with absolutely no mention of anything sexual will still be seen as sexual in nature by fujoshis simply because it was about two dudes, which feeds in to the harmful idea that queerness is inherently sexual and therefore inappropriate. Think about how, after Luca (2021) came out and everyone was talking about how obviously queer it was, there was a pushback about how headcanoning these two boys as queer at all was automatically dirty or wrong or even pedophilic because to those people being gay = having gay sex or whatever. A straight relationship wouldn’t be treated this way, because there is an understanding that being straight does not automatically equal having sex, but that same understanding is not applied to queerness.

A lot of fujoshis are drawn to MLM media or relationships because they see is as like “sinful” or scandalous, which makes it more enticing to them. I should not have to explain to you in any way how seeing gay people as sinful or wrong is homophobic.

In addition, a lot of the media fujoshis are drawn to is not just depicting MLM relationships, but depicting incredibly unhealthy or abusive MLM relationships. Fujoshis tend to like shit like CMBYN and fucking Killing Stalking, two disgusting pieces of media that I really don’t want to think about right now but depict decidedly unhealthy or straight up abusive relationships but are romanticized by fujoshis and fujoshi-type creeps. Which then feeds into the idea that queer relationships, especially MLM relationships, are abusive whether it’s emotional, physical, or sexual. CMBYN in particular also feeds into the idea that queer people are sexual predators that prey on children or teens. Both of these ideas are absolutely disgusting and deeply homophobic and fujoshis often reinforce them.

Moving on, in media where the MLM pairing isn’t actually canon, fujoshis are absolutely awful to the female characters and, if the media is a television show or movie, the real life women who play those characters. A lot of times they see an MLM ship, any MLM ship, as automatically more progressive and meaningful and good solely by being queer. Sorry for bringing up BBC Sherlock in current year, but think aggressive Johnlock shippers from the BBC Shitlock era of tumblr hating on the character of Mary Morstan before she was even introduced because she would “get in the way” of their precious queerbait ship or sending hate to Lucy Liu, an actress on a different (and better) fucking show purely for playing a woman on a Sherlock Holmes show. They acted like, because the version of Watson that Lucy Liu played was a woman, a hypothetical romance between her and Holmes wouldn’t be as meaningful or progressive because it wouldn’t be gay, despite the fact that positive representation of interracial relationships is just as meaningful as a queer relationship, even if they’re straight. The hatred sent toward Lucy Liu specifically often also descended into blatant racism. 

ALSO those same cis and often het women who fetishize and obsess over MLM ships and media are often really lesbophobic! In the average fujoshi’s mind, queer men = sexy and enticing, while queer women = unsexy and often straight up gross. The cishet woman/girl who obsesses over her precious gay ships is likely the same cishet woman/girl who is “uncomfortable” around sapphic women/girls because they- gasp!- might hit on them! The same cishet woman/girl who thinks it’s so important to read MLM fiction refuses to show that same support for sapphic fiction. To them, MLM romance is “cute”, “sweet”, “charming”, and “enticing” while sapphic romance is at best “boring” and at worst “gross”. To bring up the whole BBC Shitlock VS Elementary ordeal, how many of those Johnlock shippers who hated Elementary because it wasn’t a blatant queerbait gay would have been as supportive of a Sherlock Holmes retelling where both Watson and Holmes were women? Of a hypothetical retelling that had actual canon queer rep that was between two women instead of two men? Much to think about.

Also you will rarely ever see a fujoshi showing actual support for actual queer people. They don’t care about the real people they’re fetishizing. A fujoshi doesn’t care about queer people of all kinds that are facing bigotry and violence, a fujoshi doesn’t care about actually learning about real queer people and queer history, a fujoshi doesn’t care about supporting queer people, they only care about the fictional queer men that they use as their porn.

Anyway that’s all I can think of right now but I’m sure there are more reasons that fujoshis are the scum of the earth. Peace and love <3.

And like, them apologizing doesn't change the stuff about Steven belonging to a homophobic church and using Watcher to promote it, and it doesn't change the employees and spouses going on Personal Attacks towarda upset fans on other platforms, it doesn't change the comments of "We love when people tell us we got them through hard times " in the same video as making it so people going through hard times jo longer have access to them as a respite. Removing the paywall doesn't change them, subconsciously or consciously, thinking of poor fans as Worthless and Lesser, and unless they actively work at dismantling these notions in their minds They'll Do It Again. They showed, very clearly, that Fans Are Numbers And Not People to them. That Fans are this abstract concept of Praise and Adoration and Money that exist just to serve their endeavors. That's not something you can change your mentality around in 3 days- that's something that needs Active And Purposeful Dismantling Within The Deeper Psyche. And to be quite frank I don't believe they'll be willing to do such work, because it's not Profitable to remember that Your Audience Is Real People, Not Numbers.

tumblr staff really like pictures of grass

should we be concerned?

I think what the biggest kick in the teeth is with the watcher announcement- at least for me- is knowing that they are NOT Netflix OR Hulu. they do not have enough content to hold an entire streaming service on their back. I get why they’re doing it and that just worries me more. They’re trying to make more money to support their growing company but they just aren’t Dropout, Netflix, or Hulu. With the big buck streaming services, they have enough content beyond their original series to keep people watching (ignoring the fact that most big boy services have needed to switch gears in their monetization to keep going) but watcher does not have that. in order for this change to work even remotely on their end, they’d need to kick into high gear and make more content. Like fast. Someone else pointed out that they’ve got a “two episode per month” schedule and that absolutely will not work for a streaming service. and of course everything I’ve mentioned is on their end, not even taking into consideration how many people are very visibly angry by this. What happens when they don’t have enough people sign up? 

what a kick in the pants.

reblog for something t4t to happen to you this summer.

if you like wrestling, Stephen Amell, Alexander Ludwig, or even just good drama, watch Heels. It’s on netflix right now and the more you watch the higher the chances for season 3

it’s a good show with characters that feel real in a way not a lot of shows feel like

Burning from the Inside

Yan! Batfamily x neglected! male! meta! Reader

Prologue: House Fire

Summary: A look back in your memories of a simpler time, and how it stopped being so simple. Word Count: 1463 Reading Time: 6:09 (mins:secs) Notes: I've wanted to write a batfam fic for a while but couldn't think of an interesting spin for the reader, that is until I read a oneshot about an Ice! meta reader that I can't seem to find again (😞) and my third eye opened. This reader is low-key inspired by an oc of mine, who I actually have a pinterest board for, but I've done my best to keep y/n fairly blank for people to project onto. It may or may not come up later in the story (haven't decided) but I'm imagining y/n as a trans man and as an unreliable narrator with memory issues so. First chapter is queued to go up in a week! Warnings: written in first person, anger issues (on reader's side), descriptions of a parent dying, lots of mentions of fire, reader being tossed around in the foster system. Please comment if you think I've missed a warning!

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Rage burned under your skin constantly. When you were young, still kind and innocent, it was easier to control, it didn’t burn quite as hot. You still had a temper- your mother would end up dragging you home from school after many arguments on the playground getting too loud, but it never felt so much like drowning before. 

You were never certain of where your rage came from until an event when you were seven. The memory, clear as glass, would replay every night for that week. Whilst playing  in the front yard, you had noticed a car pull up. It was shiny and silver, that you remembered. But the woman who exited the car was more blurred by time degrading the memory. She’d smiled at you as she walked up to the front door, knocking politely without acknowledging you any more. She’d excitedly talked to your mother, giving your mom a piece of paper before your mother blew up. You’d never seen her so angry before. She’d screamed at the woman, scaring her into running back to her shiny car. 

The woman had driven off in a frenzy, the wheels kicking up dead leaves which showered over you in a confetti spray of autumn colors. Your mom had walked over and scooped you into a tight hug before pulling you inside. You didn’t play outside alone much after that. Your childhood had been normal beyond the odd moments like that.

You used to get ice cream with your mom after a particularly hard day at school, walking in the park as you shared a styrofoam bowl of slowly melting ice cream with her. You held onto that memory with an iron grip. She’d also take you to various garage sales and thrift stores, allowing you to buy the occasional toy or plushie every once in a while. It was only when you were older that you realized how tight of a budget you two had been on. You don’t worry about money much anymore. Maybe to someone who’d grown up richer your childhood sounded awful, but to you it was the golden years of your life. You’d never realized how much you valued your life in your small city with your mom, living in your tiny house at the edge of the city limits, until it was suddenly ripped away.

You’d been sitting in class, scribbling away at the margins of your notebook as the teacher droned on and on. Math was your least favorite subject since the teacher had the most monotonous voice ever. You’d only glanced out the window for a moment, staring at the birds in the trees, when the teacher was interrupted by a knock at the door. You watched as your math teacher walked to the door and opened it for an officer. Something like this would usually become the talk of the lunch period, concerned hushed voices slowly graduating into whispery gossiping over the course of a meal. So you’d watched intently as the officer spoke in a low, almost inaudible, tone to the teacher, who turned and locked eyes with you specifically. Your heart began to race as your teacher gestured for you- not another student, not anyone else- to come over. Your heartbeat had pounded in your ears as you got up, already hearing the concerned “what’s going on”s and “is everything okay”s from your classmates. Your teacher had an expression on their face that you couldn’t quite grasp in the moment. Later on, however, you’d later categorize it as something between sorrow and despair. It wasn’t the last time you saw that expression that day.

The officer had gently guided you into the hall where an administrator was waiting. Your worry shapeshifted into nervousness. You couldn’t remember doing anything horrible that’d warrant a police officer being there. Nervous that you’d be expelled over something you couldn’t remember, you began rambling apologies to the administrator, grasping at every single wrong thing you could remember doing. The man had just smiled and looked down at you with something akin to pity- the memory of that pitying expression made your skin crawl- and stopped your rambling with a single gesture. Then, the cop spoke. And the world you’d known shattered into bits.

The words came in bits and pieces as your brain struggled to adjust to this new reality you’d been thrown into. 

Your mother. House fire. The cop was sorry.

That was the thing that always stuck out to you. The apologies from people; as if they’d been the ones to start the fire. It still felt like molten sugar on a burn wound when people responded with “I’m so sorry for your loss”, even so many years later. It seemed like this one tragedy had suddenly changed everyone’s perception of you, reshaping you into the poor boy who was orphaned at the age of 11. 

That week (maybe it was a month, the specifics were hazy) turned into a blur as the world seemed to spin faster and faster around you. Suddenly, you were pulled from school and talking to social workers who had their own shiny cars, you were passed from adult to adult in a frantic bid for control over the situation your small city’s government found itself in. You remembered dizzy days in a guidance counselor’s office, then being rushed to a group home, then to a foster family, then another foster family further away, and again and again. Each time you were re-homed like a bad gift, you found yourself further and further from your little home town you’d loved. You don’t remember anything beyond the crushing weight of your mother being gone.

The only clear memory you have of that time was when a foster family took pity on you and drove you back home, to town. They brought you to the burnt-out remains of your old home. Neither member of the couple could hold you back when you ran towards the charred skeleton of the house. You remember crying and sobbing as hands pulled you away from the remains of the house, your own hands tightly grasping the one thing you’d managed to grab- a small book. You’d been shoved back into the car whilst hugging the book to your chest. Later, when you’d managed the courage to read that plain black book, you’d found that it was your mother’s journal. 

Maybe it was the fact that things had slowed to a more comprehensible speed, or maybe it was because you had something of your mother’s now, but you remembered more from this time period. In fact, you even remembered the foster family you’d been staying with when it happened. They were a sweet couple with a daughter not much younger than you. They’d given you your space, acting unsure and awkward whenever they interacted with you. They’d almost seemed relieved when the social worker came to retrieve you once again, as if having a grieving little boy in their house was equivalent to living with a nuclear bomb. The social worker didn’t need to prompt you at all to gather up your very few belongings and get in her car. You’d leaned your head against the window as she talked about your new home, barely paying attention. She’d talked about how “they” (you didn’t remember who “they” were. Maybe it was the police) had tried to find your father but had been unable, until he came forward himself. That deep anger flared up, flames licking at the bones of your rib cage as you kept it in. So he waltzes out of your life before you’re even born, ignores your existence for 11 whole years, and then struts back in as if nothing happened? The thought made you want to hit something. Someone. It made you want to hurt him. You’d clenched your fist and gritted your teeth as you tuned out the rest of the social worker’s speech.

Then, sooner than you’d wanted, you were in a hallway in one of the many community centers you’d been in, standing across from an elderly man wearing a suit. The fire that made you want to scream and bite and claw like a feral dog was quenched for a minute. Surely this couldn’t be your father, he was far too old. You couldn’t punch him- he’d fall over and die! You simply stood still as the man walked forward and gave a little bow. His voice was posh and his accent was clearly British, not unlike the period dramas your mom used to watch. 

“You, young man, must be (Y/N). Pleasure to meet you, my name is Alfred Pennyworth.”

He’d never know, but with that simple introduction, Alfred Pennyworth changed your world a second time.