50 Shades of Grey was originally fanfiction based on the Twilight series, which was then published as a novel (along with 2 subsequent books). It sold over 100 million copies around the world and topped best-seller lists everywhere. It’s about to be adapted into a film, set to come out early next year.

It follows a college student named Ana Steele, who enters a relationship with a man named Christian Grey and is then introduced to a bastardised and abusive parody of BDSM culture.

While the book is paraded as erotica, the relationship between Ana and Christian is far from healthy. The core mantra of the BDSM community is “safe, sane and consensual”, and 50 Shades is anything but. None of the rules of BDSM practices (which are put in place to protect those involved) are actually upheld. Christian is controlling, manipulative, abusive, takes complete advantage of Ana, ignores safe-words, ignores consent, keeps her uneducated about the sexual practices they’re taking part in, and a multitude of other terrible things. Their relationship is completely sickening and unhealthy.

Basically, “the book is a glaring glamorisation of violence against women,” as Amy Bonomi so perfectly put it. 

It’s terrible enough that a book like this has been absorbed by people worldwide. Now, we have a film that is expected to be a huge box-office success, and will likely convince countless more young women that it’s okay not to have any autonomy in a relationship, that a man is allowed to control them entirely. It will also show many young men that women are theirs to play with and dominate, thus contributing to antiquated patriarchal values and rape culture.


Boycott this fucking movie, for the love of god. These kinds of ideas are dangerous and set us back as a society 



I look like an extremely professional fashionable woman in an Abaya. It probably took me AGES to look this professional right?image

WRONG. I’m actually wearing my onesie underneath it and you will NEVER KNOW MWAHAHAHA


Wanna know another secret? Even though i LOOK like I’m paying attention to whatever nonsense you are saying…..






(via rdjanddw)


you visit the restaurant by accident and you don’t believe in fate because this isn’t a book this isn’t a movie this isn’t anything remotely magical or set in stone this is life and you aren’t even thinking about anything besides avoiding getting soaked to the bone when you duck inside the old diner with checkerboard tiling and stools that look worn but in a way that suggests that those who sat on them had stories to tell

“we’re closed”

you’re shaking water off at the door, nearly wringing out your sweater, brown hair darker than usual and even more of a mess, and all in all you look like you climbed out of a swimming pool after being shoved in and it’s pretty pathetic and maybe that’s why when you look up there’s a slight pause before the voice adds on a casual (and amused, you swear, with slight annoyance at the fact)

“but you can stay. i stay behind late, anyway”

you’re grateful, though, you are, and you flash him a crooked sort of grin as you make your way over to the counter and plop down on a stool. maybe you’re being too friendly. a booth seat would have said a simple “thanks” but sitting on a stool, sitting this close, being face to face, all adds up to a “thank you now let’s talk”

but, what the hell

you like to talk

and the boy in front of you, tall, lanky, with blonde hair a tangled mess, strands going from light in the front, dark in the back, and beads and feathers dangling from one side, gives you a run for your money in the hair department, and you can’t really tell in the shitty lighting but you’re sure there’s a scar running down from the bridge of his nose to one cheek, and his eyes are blue, not brightly or vividly so and more subdued and steely and maybe that’s what makes them more interesting

and you’re intrigued

and you’ve been staring

and he’s noticed

and you don’t have a plate of food in front of you to look down at and fiddle with when he blinks at you, blue meeting green, slight bemusement in the arches of his brows and you can’t think of something to say why can’t you think of something to say you always have something to say. that’s what you do. but the words are stuck in your throat and your wit has ran dry. and your voice lacks some of its usual liveliness and measured pride, importance, as you finally will yourself to speak. and he wordlessly pours you some coffee that he made fresh which doesn’t help the small fluttering in your gut, the bobbing of your adam’s apple as you swallow a few times, grab the cup, nearly drain half of it even though it’s scalding

"lovely weather we’re having"

and, thankfully, nature decides to lend a helping hand and the wind picks up even more after your words, rain hitting harder, thunder rumbling

and it’s a ridiculous comment, it’s not even funny, it doesn’t even have your usual bite of sarcasm to it, it’s weak, it’s a dampened attempt at humor, your throat burns

but, even in the shitty lighting, you swear you see his lips twitch

and you decide that you want to stay as long as you can

and you decide that you’ll ask for some more coffee because it can’t hurt to ask

"pretty lovely, yeah"

and you decide that the calculated, almost languid-sounding sort of quality of his words is nice and you won’t ask for more of those but you’ll try your damn hardest to get more

and you decide already that you want to come back again some time (multiple times)

and you decide that you really, really want to see him smile

the blonde boy pours you more coffee, and you drop a twenty on the table even though you have no plans on leaving until he does, and he looks at the bill, starts to protest, but you dismiss him with a wave of your hand and words about troubling him at such a late hour

and he, oh god, he does, you didn’t think you’d see it so soon, and sure everyone loves instant gratification but the way his lips settle into a smile is almost too much and it almost makes you forget that it’s raining because his smile is sunshine. pure, raw sunshine. it’s raining. it’s thundering. you’re soaked. you feel warm

"thank you"

you both say it at the same time and you both chuckle, his quieter, yours louder, and god, this isn’t a book, this isn’t a movie, and this isn’t fate or magic

but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s something

and he’s something

and you’re going to come by again

this doesn’t even have a title (via jaclcfrost)

(via gaspetals)