i’ve said this before, but i like frozen better than tangled and i do not understand why it raises such a viscous debate.
as far as im concerned i think it all comes down to a matter of personal taste. i do not think either film is inherently better than the other, and i think many people are just mad because of the media oversaturation of frozen as opposed to problems with the movie itself.
Pairing: Jughead x Reader, Jughead x Betty Word Count: 3,759 Warnings: I swear, mentions of drug and alcohol use. Them’s fightin’ words. I also did not proofread :) because I am Trashlord Quill :) Summary: Jughead and Reader reconnect at Southside High where he notices that she’s wearing a very familiar leather jacket. It’s not long until he has a jacket of his own. A/N: Part four yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas. My love for this story is slowly being re-ignited. How about yours????
I don’t believe in saints They never make mistakes I know it’s not my place Who am I to tell you that you need to change?
She’s sitting on the sagging couch with her weight balanced on her right hip pretending to pay attention to a hockey game on the 32” tv screen screen sitting in the corner. Across the small living room The Man is relaxed in his reclining chair wearing his lucky jersey and loosely holding his first beer of the day. She can tell his heart isn’t in the game. As much as he pretends not to care, she knows that he is listening just as hard as she is for the crunch of gravel beneath tires.
Sean Cafferty has been a foster parent for almost two decades and is known as The Man, short for The Man of Few Words. Y/N hasn’t figured out if her foster father doesn’t have much to say or if he’s just too tired after work to waste his breath on words that have no real purpose being said.
What she has figured out is that The Man is utterly devoted to his wife and that his aloofness towards her was not an indicator of his feelings. He shows people how he cares with small actions that could go unnoticed for days: a hinge that no longer squeaks, a flower on her bedside table, a plush toy on her bookshelf. She would feel invisible and then he’d do something to show that he saw her: hiding her vegetables in his napkin, giving her a cookie before dinner, and plugging in the heating pad when she has cramps. The Man of Few Words has one catch phrase and it was “call me when you get there” the implied so I know that you’re safe goes unspoken.
Ahlis couldn’t help but smile as she busied herself in picking a weapon from the training rack. Did he wish to assure her before they began their spar, ‘just for the hell of it’? Ahlis opted out of her usual, more ornate, staff she carried with her on her journeys and instead took up an ordinary quarterstaff. It felt solid and worn in her hands, with good balance and strength in the wood.
Aymeric was excellent swordsman, better than most she had known thus far; the staff was her only option if she wished to last more than five seconds against him. Ahlis turned and twirled the weapon in her hands, more as a very quick warm up and to test the feel of the staff in her hands than as a display of skill.
“Let’s make a wager, shall we?” Ahlis offered, the thrill of knowing she was about to cross weapons with him growing in her chest. “If I win, none of that birch syrup you put in your tea for a whole week.”
She was grinning now, as if she was trying to toy with the man now. Wasn’t she going to take this at least a little bit seriously?
And what, pray tell, would she have to do if Ser Aymeric won their little bout instead?
I see posts like this one going around all the time.
You know what? My kink is not their trauma! Their trauma is not something that I am capable of writing anything about. Their trauma isn’t fetishizable by a stranger who knows nothing of them, I cannot draw or write content that has anything to do with them in the slightest.
Fuck off with this self centered bullshit. There is not a goddamn thing about their life that I could write about, knowing nothing of them and having zero connection to them and theirs. I write MY shit, for ME, and I generously share MY content and put my fucking art out there for strangers to goggle at despite how vulnerable that could make me.
I feel for people coping with trauma, I really do. I celebrate every social and technological advancement that allows people to to avoid and to find content according to their personal needs. But when people start content policing, effectively accusing total strangers who’s life and history they know nothing about of participating in their personal abuse, is when my boundaries are radically disrespected. It’s a major reason why @youarenotdamaged even needs to exist for goodness sake!
Here’s the thing, Internet Rando, you’re right! Your trauma is not my kink! I’m glad we agree. In fact, my work has nothing to do with you. I say this with all the love in the world: It’s not about you. Get over yourself.