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noroi1000 · 1 year

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could i request a gojo x yn where yn is a famous supermodel while gojo is like businessman mafia and she meets him in a part for influential ppl and some rival of gojo attack the party to catch gojo but can't do it and to save y/n gojo takes her with him in a hurry to make sure she's fine ( bro fell in love at first sight while y/n doesn't really care bcs yk very hard to be impressed type of lady ) but a plot twist in this setting sort of is that there has been cases of many murders recently and the serial killer is impossible to catch ( the killer is y/- ok yes u get it but she killed them bcs she ruined her family or sum like that so our baddie is taking revenge ) well this is a dark theme dark romance request so yep ofc there's dark content and no one knows abt y/n's past at all despite her status no matter how hard they try and gojo after taking her makes her stay with him bcs she's one of the few ppl who saw his face so for privacy purposes and gojo barely finds out abt y/n's "dark deeds" when she throws hints playfully ( she's kinda devious morally grey sort of woman ) and idk what to add much more honestly but yea a smexy romantic love story ( SUB GOJO PLEASE 🙏😍😩 ) and gojo brings her a person to kill every year on her bday bcs she feels "stabby" ( mindfuck book series ref if ykyk ) also ofc y/n continues her career as a supermodel bcs 💅🏼👠. as another personal preference don't make y/n younger as it's uncomfy to me so yeah jsjdndbdnfn

whew this was quite a lot

have a good day !

Beautiful Vengeance

cover by @blvckryx my advisor and friend

paring: Mafia boss Gojo x model reader (killer)

words: 4,7k

warnings: murders, violence, guns, some kidnaping, smut (sub Gojo/dom reader)

Your mother always wanted you to have a good life. That's why when you told her you wanted to be a model when you grow up, she supported you as much as she could. To give you what you might need to make your dreams come true.

Your career took off when you were a teenager. When you were 16, you won a modeling contest, and your name made headlines.

And because you took the victory from one person, your life was about to end...

You competing with a girl whose family was more important than yours. You won anyway thanks to your innate charm, which made you stand in the first place and people considered you a beautiful, future model.

Thanks to this, your career could continue to roll and grow. And you couldn't take that chance.

You've worked so hard. You were the pride of your parents.

But your only opponent was a spoiled female dog who after losing to you all she wanted was to get rid of you.

She was the niece of mob boss Q. A man going by the name Q, who made his living by killing people for hire, dealing drugs and weapons. Even human trafficking. His mafia teams were everywhere.

You didn't know about it until you saw a group of people enter your house.

You were in your room then, and you heard screams and sounds of fighting.

As you quickly made your way down to your parents' living room, all you saw was pools of blood covering the soft carpet.

And three people dressed in black with black masks on their faces. In their hands bloody knives that they used to make your parents lie on the floor with open but dead eyes.

You were sad. You were afraid. You lost your parents. You wanted to cry over their loss. They were everything to you. They loved you, you loved them. You could have lived with them 16 years of your life. And now... It's all over.

Or you die and join them. To shorten your suffering.

But something else popped into your mind. To make them suffer.

You could have died at their hands, or you could have gotten revenge for your parents by killing them.

And you want revenge for the destruction of your life...

So you silently walked over to the cupboard until the opponents saw you, and unscrewing the bottle you let the water flow out of the plastic, soaking the entire floor where one of the people was standing.

You smashed a nearby lamp on his head and stabbed him with the sharpened glass at the end. Throwing the damaged item onto the wet floor, you jumped back quickly, letting his body quiver with the current coursing through him.

You hit the other's neck with your elbow, pulling his head back until you heard a crack.

Such easy ways to kill someone...

You've already killed two people with your own hands. Even if the metallic, disgusting smell of blood was nauseating.

Before you were stabbed by the last man, you took the knife from the dead body, and plunged the bloody blade into his chest.

While his body was still moving, he managed to scratch your head with the tip of the knife, just above the ear. Cutting off some of your shiny hair. Making your ear and the side of your neck covered in drops of blood.

The man in front of you writhed in pain as you pushed the knife hilt towards him, holding the knife in it. Stuck in his sternum in the chest.

Even though you saw the fear of death in his eyes, you felt no regret. Even if he cried and looked at you pleadingly, you showed no mercy.

Just like they had no mercy for your parents.

As he fell to the floor, the knife fell out of his chest, staying in your hand. Covering your hands in scarlet liquid.

When he was twitching and moving away with the last strength, you just walked over to him, and sitting on his stomach, you drove the knife into his heart, slowly watching the life fade from his eyes.

You felt your pajamas soaking in warm sticky blood. However, you didn't let go of the blade as you walked over to your parents and hugged them, not caring how dirty and bloody you were. You slowly and gently closed your eyes and left the house. Heading to a place where you know where a girl used to live surrounding herself with people with "Q" marks on their clothes.

There was a calm expression on your face as you walked straight down the runway, focusing on going perfect. The flashes of the flash bouncing off your eyes. The outfit you're wearing looks so good on you. One of the collections of one of the most famous fashion designers has been selected for you. Alternating with two other models, you go out there, showing the clothes on your body for less than a minute. A then you go back to change into your next outfit, and leave when it's your next turn.

It was your job.

You like it. You are a famous model.

And you don't mind that people only look at what your body looks like.

You go to clothes exhibitions, you take part in advertisements for clothes, cosmetics, nail polishes, jewelry. You are the face of many advertisements.

A lot of people who hire you choose you because you're sexy. And there is mystery in you. And your eyes show killer sexiness.

Your pose is flawless, sophisticated.

Everyone who knew you talked about this mystery in photos and videos. Something obtained without photomontage and without any additional make-up.

And Dark Beauty when you're seen in the ads for the blood red collection. Everything from lips to nails was a rich red.

That color just reminded you of what had happened over the years of your life. You don't care as long as no one knows about it.

Besides, your revenge isn't quite complete yet.

When you were 16, you swore revenge on those who hurt your family and you. You are 23 now. You are a famous model that neither the media nor anyone knows the whole truth about.

Nobody knows anything about your childhood, nobody knows anything about your past.

"Our killer only kills those from Q? Pretty good..." the white-haired man muttered, looking at the lists of names killed by one person this month. Three people. He couldn't feel sorry for these people. Each of them had the symbol of the Q family. How could he worry about the death of his enemies?

"Gojo-san, there's going to be a fashion show party soon with Q's boss."

He looked at the man who had spoken to him.

He stood up, adjusting his white shirt, adjusting the collar. He put on a black jacket and black glasses hiding his face.

"I couldn't miss it. Let's get together, guys. Time to bust some Q's heads."

Upon arrival, Gojo sat in a chosen spot next to the raised stage for models.

Soon after, the lights all around went out. The stage was lit.

This made it difficult for them to find their target.

So they decided to wait until the main banquet and party started to catch their enemies then.

Those who hinder his mafia cannot exist. Creating a business is a daily routine for the great "Six Eyes. And when people who have contracts with him are suddenly found dead with a "Q" burned into their skin, he can't sit idly by.

When he watched the fashion show, he thought it was everything he had seen before. All models the same, with fake smiles, with everything to make them even more attractive to the viewer. In none of them, in his opinion, was one whose eyes reflected the soul. And Six Eyes draws attention to human eyes. He knows people's eyes when they show fear or anger. When they show emotion. According to him, there was nothing interesting in the eyes of these women.

Until you came out from behind the curtain, walking calmly ahead. In an elegant black dress.

Your face showed a certain coldness, but warm at the same time. Your eyes were so mysterious.

White hair caught your attention, and you looked at him once.

And then, the mysterious darkness in your eyes made his heart beat faster.

Despite your emanating true model face, coupled with a nice façade, he felt your beauty was deadly. And he liked it very much. Mysterious danger.

A beautiful cat that can scratch her claws at any time. Even to death.

His eyes sparkled behind his glasses as he felt a little blush appear on his cheeks.

It was the first time he fell in love with someone at first sight.

No... It was the first time he truly fell in love. And he didn't want to lose this chance.

That's why he memorized as many details of your face as possible to catch you at the party after the fashion show. Because he sincerely hoped you'd be there.

Even if this party here may be bloody and trashed tonight.

But the moment everyone heard a few shots and one man fell to the floor lifeless, Gojo knew that this was no time for love or fun for him.

After all, he came here to get rid of enemies in an easy way.

And the orders to anyone who came with him said only: "If you see someone from Q, shoot without hesitation. They're definitely here."

All the people panicked and started to run.

And then each of them took out a gun and started shooting at the enemies.

When the white-haired man saw that you were standing behind the curtain on the stage, without a moment's thought he ran ahead, jumped on the platform and pulled you on his shoulder, to sit behind a meter high and shoot to protect you. His goal in sight has already killed three opponents today.

"What're you-?!" You screamed as you pulled away from him.

You already had a plan to approach one of the Q's from behind and slit his throat!

And he interrupted you.

"Don't be afraid, you won't die." He said to you.

You couldn't see his eyes clearly through his glasses. But you know he's not a cop.

You are in the middle of a fight between mafias.

Arrows started raining in your direction and he then quickly pulled you in front of him, making you kneel in front of him, and he lowered your head to his chest as he bent down so they wouldn't shoot him.

As he knelt, leaning forward, you were underneath his body. That's how he protected you.

You don't know why he did it. But you guess there's a deeper meaning to it.

It was the first time anyone protected you. It was nice of him. Because that man didn't even know you. You only looked at each other once during the show. Few minutes ago!

When there were fewer shots in your direction, you crawled out from under his chest, heading around the narrow stage.

And you, too, reached into your thigh and pulled out a folding knife.

Ignoring the screams of the white-haired man behind you and the shots, you kept walking. Until you finally saw a man with a "Q" tattoo on his neck.

You literally felt the knife sharpening in your hand and you quickly walked over to him without making a sound and smashed the knife into his neck. And then to the side of the head.

You quickly pulled away and sheathed the knife to check for blood. Fortunately not.

You were pulled to your feet by the same man who tried to save you right after all the shots had stopped.

You looked at his face without glasses.

You noticed the beauty and unique vigor of the eyes.

You heard another shot.

You looked to the side to see a dark haired man firing a gun at a man who was sitting with his back against the stage to make sure he was dead. With his head on the side. Because of this, no one could see the hole in his temple and neck, which is why he died.

"That's everyone. None of them managed to escape." He said, addressing the white-haired man. "What about her? Shoot? You don't have glasses."

He pointed the barrel of the gun at you.

You'd love to fight. If only that guy's hands weren't on your shoulders.

"She saw my face, huh... It's okay. We're taking her with us." He said with a smile.

"What?!" you shouted pissed off.

"Baby, you couldn't see my face. It's not against the rules of my Mafia. No one except those closest to me has seen my face or knows my real name. According to the rules, I should kill you or lock you up so you don't tell anyone. However, killing you would be a great loss. You're so beautiful and you got me curious... I don't want to kill someone I fell in love with."

"...Hold on!" You screamed as you pushed him, but he only held you tighter.

"Come on. I just have to admit there's something mysterious about your eyes. What you show on stage is not the real you, is it?"

"Fuck off!"

"Aw, honey..." he mumbled sadly.

He started to drag you by the wrist to the car. And even though you kept leaning against you, when the other man helped him to immobilize your arms, you were put in the car and he got in right behind you. The door was closed.

You noticed the black window in front of you, separating you from the driver.

That's good. Maybe you can kill him.

When he looked away for a moment, you put your hand under your dress, pulling your knife from the belt on your thigh, and suddenly jumped into his lap, putting the blade to his throat.

"Hey, baby, this is how you repay me for helping me? Understand that these are the rules we have." He said with a smile, hands raised in front of you.

"I could handle myself." You growled.

"Such a dangerous, beautiful woman. What part is the real you?"

"Who are you?! Someone from Q?!"

"Slow down a bit. Actually, it's like I'm taking you, so I should be the one asking the questions. But okay. I'm Six Eyes. Mafia boss. And when it comes to Q, I'm their biggest adversary."

You wondered if you should trust him. He didn't seem threatening now. Also, there was no Q anywhere here.

Holding the knife to his throat, you hesitated for a moment on what to do.

This caused his hands to quickly pull you down to the seat. His both hands held your wrists while his hips touched your ass as you lay on your stomach.

"If I was from Q, I'd rather kill myself than be there. And besides, everyone from Q would pay no attention to anything. They would just tie you up, rape you, kill you, and then dump your body in a ditch. Did I do that?"

"If you tried, I'd castrate you." You growled.

"Dangerous. I like it. However..." he let go of your wrists and sat in his place, giving you space. "I don't know if you could do something for me. I must admit your ferocity and hostility is strong. But let's say I'm the Mafia boss and you're the model."

"Do not underestimate me..."

"So tell me, (y/n) (l/n), why shouldn't I underestimate you? Tell me something about you. Because you are famous, but your biography is not known by anyone."

You were locked up in the large villa that was his home for several days. Why? Because he didn't want to lock you up in your old garages. He didn't want you gagged and bound while you sat there for who knows how long.

Your relationship was closer because you liked him. However, there was still some tension between the two of you.

Him, the annoying, selfish asshole and egotist who spoke to you the way he wanted to, and always came in when you least expected it.

He was able to come to you in the bathroom while you were taking a bath.

And he joined you.

That's why things became intimate between the two of you quickly, even though you weren't even a couple. You could just be considered friends now.

And you both liked the relationship you already had.

Nothing changed for the next two weeks.

It doesn't matter how many times you hit him with a pan until he finally let you go.

Of course he didn't because he acted like a child after being hit on the head with a pan. He pretended to cry.

You took good care of him and checked him for any head injury. Everything was fine. So you didn't have to worry.

And then he wouldn't let you get out of bed, wanting to make you feel guilty for doing it.

He was lying on your stomach, making you rub and stroke his head because it hurt. And it was your fault.

You apologized to him, and what else were you supposed to do?

It was your revenge for him locking you in here. And for skipping one of the most important performances where you were supposed to show clothes on stage. However, you couldn't complain, because as compensation for your lost money, you received from him a wardrobe worth half a year of your work. Or even more.

If only he was still good at sex, then you wouldn't complain so much. Because your partners were terrible. It's as if they couldn't do anything.

Besides, you've also been given a luxurious house that you have to live with him anyway.

"Come on. I already apologized to you..." you said, running your fingers through his white hair.

"But it hurt..." he said, pretending to cry.

"You don't even have a trace of it. There isn't even a bump on your head."

"But it still hurt...

"You've probably watched the ball through your opponents more than once, right?"

"Not at all..."

"You're in the mafia, Satoru..."

So yes, he told you his real name with the idea that you can't leave him and leave his house anyway. So your names were used by you on a daily basis.

"I've been in the mafia since my mother gave birth to me. I took it from my father... Besides, nobody ever shot me. Because I shot faster and more accurately than they did. When I was 15 I killed a spy who was looking for our weak point in our defense." He laughed, purring as your fingers swirled in his hair.

"So you had a bloody childhood too?"

"I doubt you shot anyone when you were a teenager." He laughed. "How old are you anyway?"

"I'm 23." You replied.

"Same as me! You see? We are made for each other!" He stood up suddenly, looking at you with sparkles in his eyes.

"Apparently you have a headache." You laughed as you saw him quickly lay down on top of you again. "Come on. Come, let me stroke you a little more."

"Which means you had a bloody childhood?"

"Do you really want to know? Don't you prefer that I leave my mysterious eyes?"

"You're smart and cold, or so you think. At fashion shows and commercials, you change it to a mysterious and sensual façade. However, you can care for someone else."

"I hit you with a pan. Is this supposed to be taking care of someone?"

He laughed slightly.

"It was different. Because I don't forbid you to be aggressive. I understand that you hate me. But now you're stroking and hugging me. You wash me while I wash you. We are not such enemies. Can you say we're lovers?"

"I don't know. But when I was 16, I also did something that probably no other model has ever done." You laughed.

He looked at you for a moment, analyzing what you said.

And 7 years ago, almost 10 people were murdered. And from that moment on, the murders of everyone in the Q group and family began. Starting with some of the closest ones from the family of the boss himself.

And these murders continue to this day. The murderer is impossible to catch because no one knows who he is. The gender of this person is unknown. No one knows what his goals are in these murders.

"This knife... You..." He looked at you questioningly.

"I have a knife scar under my hair. And the blood stains are washing off the skin." You said softly. "You can beat me if you know the truth now. If you think I'll be in the way or I shouldn't kill people like them. But remember that if you try, I will try to protect myself."

"You know it doesn't matter to me We may even be partners in crime. Because this is the woman I fell in love with at first sight." He hugged you, holding you tight.

Your actions for revenge are not ridiculed by him. On the contrary. He supports it.

And he promises that everyone from Q will die.

Because he fell in love with mysterious dark eyes. Eyes that from the beginning hid something murderous. So beautiful.

Just like all of you.

Your relationship was like lovers and enemies at the same time.

Or was it more like partners in crime now?

Dark lovers who don't care about the lives of their enemies. You has a mafia boss, the famous Six Eyes, wrapped around your little finger.

You guided him. His heart.

Such a powerful man was so small and sweet to you. So submissive.

That's why you could give that big little boy what he wanted.

You were still riding his cock until you were out of breath that night.

Or rather, his breath.

When you wonder if he's good at sex, you thought he was going to be average.

However, it is different.

He has a big nice dick.

It really stretches you out. It goes so deep. It hits all the best places.

You could barely feel the thin condom against his thick length as your pussy slid over him, lovingly inviting him into your tight warmth every time you lowered your hips.

His arms were bound with the string you found. It felt so good in his muscles.

He couldn't move while you scratched his arms and bit his neck.

You were riding him, making him moan. His hips pushed upward to meet your warmth. Your hand on the back was catching his balls and you were squeezing the skin in your palm. You pinched his thighs. You ran your hands over his lower abdomen, running your fingers along the veins running down his pubic bone.

Your fingernails ran over his chest, occasionally grazing his nipples.

While riding him, you massaged your clitoris to make you come faster. And you smiled as you watched as his head was thrown back as he red-faced moaned at the feeling of your pussy sucking him. His chest heaved rapidly.

His cock twitched inside you.

And then you pulled it out of you, leaving it out in the air. Only with a thin condom on it.

He moaned as your fingers tightened on the base of him, not allowing him to come.

It was his first ruined orgasm you gave him.

And you think he was always driving during sex. He was downstairs now, but he didn't protest. This guy just needed someone to dominate him the right way.

Very slowly and unbearably, you took the condom off him as the precum began to form a transparent puddle in the sperm reservoir.

Leaning down to his red cock, you kissed his head, listening as he moaned, his hips jumping as he felt a sudden touch against a sensitive part of his body.

He was so red and sensitive from a ruined orgasm. It was so cute.

You sat on his hips, and rubbed your pussy against his length, pressing his shaft against his muscular belly.

At the same time, you pulled his face down to your chest, doing something he always did when he saw you shirtless. You put his head in your breasts and he immediately started sucking on your nipples. Feeling the softness of your skin.

Soon after, he started moaning again and you stopped touching his cock again. If he wasn't tied up now, he would grab the length of it and start stroking himself to feel relieved. But alas, his hands were tied. There was nothing he could do and he was at your mercy.

You pressed your fingers against it again. Ensuring not one drop of his cum will come out of his tip. He couldn't come yet.

You want to see him throw his head back and moan when he wants to cum so much.

You sat on his cock when he didn't have a condom on, and he hissed through his teeth at the hot and tight feeling when he had nothing to separate your insides from his sensitive skin.

You grabbed the second condom and ripped open the wrapper. Only then did you get off of him, watching his wet tip drool.

You put the rubber all the way down his length, and then you sat on him again.

Warming his cock until his eyes were glassy and hazy and his face was so red.

As he threw his head back and his shoulders and hips trembled, wanting to start thrusting into you to come, you gave him some mercy.

You started jumping on top of him, smiling as you watched his heavy breathing and closed eyes.

The mighty mafia boss began to moan beneath you. And his ragged moans coupled with light sobs were the cause of his intense orgasm which was a combination of the three he was about to get. His thighs trembled as he came filling the condom inside you, the heat from his fluids pushing his sensitivity to the limit.

As you pulled him out of you, his cock fell soft against his stomach. You took the filled condom off him and tied it, putting the sticky rubber on his abs.

You lay down next to him, untying his hands, letting him pull your body against his.

Your nights together made him unable to resist you. So when you wanted to go back to your dream job, he had to agree.

Two people followed you across the city.

Even if he trusted you not to tell anyone.

He had your secret and you had his.

Little cameras in people's suits let him see what you were doing.

Well, he knew what you would do with those two.

Besides, he didn't feel sorry for them. They were two deserters who ran away from Q to join his mafia.

And he promised you that everyone who is or even was with Q will die.

That's why when he suddenly saw a pool of blood on the other side, he wasn't surprised and didn't even feel sorry for the two people.

Then he saw your face as you held the camera in one hand and your knife in the other.

"Not nice, Six Eyes ~. I don't like being followed. And we'll keep your punishment for that for later, Okay?"

When you said that, he felt a pleasant shiver that passed over his spine. And he couldn't wait for you to come home.

You were his dark queen.

His dark, beautiful queen will have her beautiful vengeance.

Because you will get everything.

Every year, on your birthday, he would take you to one place where the dirty work of killing was often done.

As a surprise, you got one or two high-ranking Q people.

Because his beautiful queen will always get what she wants.

So if you want revenge, you'll get it. In the best way for you.

You are his killer beauty. His deadly love.

#gojou satoru x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x you #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #gojo smut #gojo x reader smut #Mafia boss Gojo #jjk #jjk x you #jujustu kaisen #gojo #jjk x reader #Sub Gojo

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foone · 1 year

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Concept: fursonas with non-human senses. Not just canine "can smell better" ("My fursona has no nose." "How does she smell?" "Terrible!"), but actually different senses. (Under a readmore because big surprise, I write a lot)

Sharks who walk into a dark room and go "hey guys!" to the people about to shout "surprise!". Electroreception, yo. They can feel the electric fields in bodies. They have a good job as an electrician, because they can tell which wires are active and which aren't, without needing a tester. One of the guests is a snake who says "I told you this wouldn't work", as they can see in the dark through thermoception.

Corvids who don't watch human movies, especially not in theaters. They're just flickery slide-shows to them. Their vision is too fast, persistence of vision doesn't kick in until like 200 FPS.

I know the mantis shrimp colors aren't real (it's actually just a thing where they have extra cones to make up for not having enough brain to merge them. Like, humans have red/green/blue cones, and we see "yellow" when the red and green cones are both activated, but shrimp can't do that merging. So they have a yellow cone) but fuck it, this is fantasy. Make your fursona have access to all the forbidden colors.

Hell, have them able to see outside the "visible" spectrum! Imagine a furry working at a human-majority office who gets pulled into a meeting with her manager one day, who has to tell her that even if she's covered in fur, she can't wear a top that revealing, they have a dress code. She goes "what? But.. Sally in accounting wears that semi-transparent blouse most weeks!" and then they both come to realize that humans can't see near-IR and therefore don't realize that a lot of their clothing choices are transparent to that wavelength. The furry has just been seeing all these exposed chests and going "wow, I had heard the humans could be prudes about nudity, what with not having fur, but apparently not." and decided to join in one day. Whoops.

Hell, let them see radiation! Who needs a giger counter? They're digging through an junk shop and WHOA, shouldn't this be in the back or in a safe or something? The owner (a Shetland sheep dog) is like "what do you mean?" and they go "it's pretty radioactive, man! Can't you tell?" "uhh.. No. Why don't you put that down quickly and I'll go grab a lead bucket."

An octopus that goes to see a 3D movie but turns down the glasses. No need. They can see circularly polarized light just fine on their own.

You go over to visit a bat's warehouse to get an old computer they offered to loan you and they sheepishly (is that offensive to sheep?) admit that they never bothered installing any lighting inside. Why would they? They can see fine with echolocation. And their friend Skippy never complained, either! Mind you, they are a dolphin.

A park ranger who is a jewel beetle. They can detect fires miles away, but only if pine trees are involved. They're a firefighter in a pine tree forest, so that's fine.

A bee who keeps giving directions in terms of cardinal directions and forgetting that not everyone has an innate sense of North/South thanks to being able to sense the magnetic field of the Earth. And this is after they went to all the trouble of giving the directions in words, instead of dancing!

Tangent idea: a bee pirate who writes a pop song, and it's not until another bee hears it years later that they realize that the dance instructions in the song are actually a treasure map.

Creatures who can sense RF directly. Some of them can't even get near human-style cities, as they're "too noisy". It takes the more mundane inhabitants a while to realize they aren't talking about sound, and earplugs won't help.

Others can pull off amazing mental tricks like the Scramblers from Peter Watts' Blindsight, and the first time they get near a human city they figure out how to decode all these FM signals and within minutes they can watch TV, listen to the radio, or log onto the wifi. They're not robots or cyborgs, they're just unholy smart and frighteningly fast.

And there's no reason it should be limited to natural things... The supernatural is there as well. A furry who mentions they hate going to some human cities because they're so crowded with ancestors. It's not for a while until someone realizes that word isn't being translated exactly right, and they don't just mean "old humans". They mean the ones who lived there before, but are dead. They still see them, and are surprised that the humans can't.

Hell, how about a fursona with an asymmetric design? Different fur patterns, heterochromia, things like that. But it swaps sides from time to time. It's not an art mistake, they really do that. No one understands why until they casually point out a missing item is in the drawer of there, the locked one. Then they reach around all six sides of the drawer and pull it out. What, you can't see in four dimensions? Yeah, sometimes their body swaps left/right because they rotated through the 4th axis and inverted their body. No big deal, but they have to be careful with what food they eat sometimes. All those chiral molecules... You don't want them backwards. Fortunately they've got a pretty strong digestive system so it's not a big deal. And vodka always goes down smooth, alcohol is symmetric!

Speaking of which, fursonas with vulture-like digestive systems. They yell at their roommate for throwing out that expired meat. It's only expired by human standards, and they're just a bunch of wimps who can't handle a little putrefaction in their lunch.

And I know I said "not like canines with just better senses of smell" but there's some interesting options for having beings who can smell things humans just can't. A fursona that detects a gas leak because they can smell carbon monoxide, not just the bitterants added to help humans detect it. Or can pick up on human pheromones, although that one is often covered in werewolf media, I hear. But instead of just arousal/fertility/pregnancy, they can also be like "hey you smell different... Have you talked to your doctor about testing for diabetes? I think your a1c might be high."

Speaking of pheromones, how about fursonas that do things like ants, who automatically put down invisible scent trails and follow them? They are a pain to go hiking with, since they just assume you can follow them if they get out of sight, and you gotta remind them to slow down sometimes.

Hell, fursonas who have quorum sensing, either type. The bacteria-like type have gene expression that changes based on population density. Members of their species in the wild, in rural areas, and in urban areas have radically different phenotypes. The social insect type make decisions with an implicit silent democracy, bordering on a hive mind. They are always surprised when humans and similar want to talk out decisions. Can't they just tell what the majority want and just do that? It seems so much similar.

Speaking of which, ACTUAL HIVE MINDS. You're dating a nice worker bee and and another member of the same hive comes by and says "hello love!" and gives you a big kiss. Your partner is surprised you had any problem with this. They're the same person, basically? And they feel their love for you just as much. (obligatory A Miracle of Science reference: Mars thinks you're cute)

Combine that with insect-like lifespans for some extra weirdness: the one you're dating isn't even the one you started with. The bee-people only live a month or two, and you've been dating for nearly a year now. Hell, even when your first partner was still alive, it wasn't always the "same" bee that came by to visit. Of course, that's putting a human-like kind of perspective on if it's the same bee. To the hive-mind bees, it is. It's the same hive. They have the same mind, just in 70,000 separate bodies. So of course it's the same person. Just not the same body.

Heh. How about magnetic sense? This may be overly specific to my interests, but you hand a furry a floppy disk and they hold it for a few seconds and then hand it back. "Thanks!" "oh, don't you want it?" "oh yeah. But I already got all the data off it." "but... You didn't put it in a floppy drive?" "no? What's the point in that? I just read the flux transitions off the surface. It's not hard."

More esoteric senses, too. You're driving down California one with your partner, listing to some Decemberists and they idly go "huh, Diablo Canyon is still running? I thought they had shut it down!" You're like "what?" They point out the window at the two cooling domes. "The power plant! It's still running. Can't you taste all those neutrinos?" "uh, no." "what, really? They're quite fresh compared to the usual solar ones." "I can't 'taste' those either" "oh. Weird!"

Your plasma-lifeform boyfriend who evolved in space sometimes has dizzy spells where he nearly drives his containment vessel into a wall. "sorry, that was a big one. Those gravity waves must have been from, like, an 80-90 solar-mass black hole merger? A close one too, only a few dozen megaparsecs."

You've long since given up explaining that you have no way of detecting events that take place over 30 million light-years away.

The atemporal energy being who proposes the first time you meet. You're shocked, but they point out why? You have/are/will spent/spending (tenses are hard) over 60 years of your experience of years with them. They just don't really see how this time is different from all the times you have/will spend together. They thought humans liked this "till death do us part" ceremony, even though death has no meaning for them. They're not immortal, but their death is just like their birth (or the energy being equivalent): a discontinuity on the edges of their lifeline. They don't exist past there, just like you don't exist outside of the 3D volume of your body. So what does it matter? Besides, we've had this conversation before, or is it later? Either way.

A hive mind being who only has one body you can see, because they're actually a hive mind across themselves in different timelines. They sometimes get mixed up which version of you they're talking to, and ask odd questions like how your son is doing in college. You don't have son, or any kids for that matter. "whoops, that's the other you. Lemme... You're married to Tony, right?" "Who's Tony?" "Obviously not. Uhh, is Sarah your girlfriend?" "no? I'm not a lesbian!" "Not this you, at least. Oh, I've got it. You work at the newspaper?" "yeah. I'm an editor" "oh cool. Got it. Sorry, it's easy to get all the yous confused sometimes."

Later that week, your boss introduces you to a new reporter, Sarah Torres. You can't help but wonder of this is the Sarah another you is dating. You don't see it. But apparently another you does.

And that tangent makes me think of another one: mind reading, either full or just empathic, isn't that unusual in aliens and such, but imagine a race that doesn't go around reading minds unless given permission, but they have a persistent problem with pronouns. See, they can just tell what your gender is. And closeted trans people keep getting outed accidentally. Sometimes outed to themselves, because they call you by your "true" pronouns, not the ones you're using now.

And the same goes for orientation. Like your coworker will be like "why don't you ask out Steven on a date?" and you're like "Steven? I don't even know if he likes guys, I've never gotten any hints from him..." and they go "what? No, of course he does. Can't you tell?"

(I just invented a species with perfect gaydar. That's weird, right?)

Someone who has that ESP "there were strong emotions and events here" sense, but it goes both ways. They would never visit Hiroshima for the same reason they will never visit Chicago. They don't want to explain to you what will happen there, but they go a bit teary-eyed when you bring it up.

A species that magic tricks just don't work on, and no one can figure out why. They can't see through solid objects, they don't seem to have a super-fast vision, they can't read minds, but everytime you show them a magic trick they're like "the ball is in your hand" or "you have a fifth ace in your sleeve" or "there's another rabbit under the table". They don't even seem to realize it's supposed to be a trick. They're just slightly confused at what you're trying to do.

A species that has the equivalent of a spectroscope/chromatograph built into their body. You hand them a drink and they can list the molecules in it and their concentrations. You'd think they'd mainly be scientists, but a lot of them are bartenders. They make perfect mixed drinks (down to the nanoliter of exact composition) and they can spot a spiked drink from across the room.

A species that can taste your DNA when you touch them. They're a weird blob that rewrites their own DNA on a daily basis, and find static-DNA beings "weird and unusual" and always want to help you with that. Wouldn't you be happier if you had a couple extra arms? Maybe claws? How about switching sex? Just for the weekend, they can put you back to "normal" if you want. Or maybe you'd like to spend some time as a dog? Your two species are pretty close, evolutionary speaking. It shouldn't take more than a day or two to rewrite every cell in your body. Sometimes you "humans" are so boring. They can't imagine staying in the same form for more than a few days, and you fuckers do that for, what, up to a century? Before you "get old and die"? You know, that's a choice. They can fix that. You don't have to age, if you don't want to.

Speaking of which, species with radically different lifespans and approaches to life.

The Dragon's Egg beings occasionally give humans gifts, of books of poetry about their unrequited love for you. There's no point in responding, even if you do come to love them from their writings. By the time you have opened the first page of the book, they're dead, their children are dead, and their grandchildren are getting old.

Similarly there's a race of trees where you can be dating one for 40 years before they reveal that they've considered this just a minor flirty bit of fun. They don't get involved with humans and human-likes, they'll be gone in the blink of a century, so what's the point. You ask them their age one time and have trouble grappling with the fact that when they sprouted, your ancestors hadn't yet mastered the written language. Their still-living parent remembers visiting earth before it had any life outside the seas. You had dinner with them last Thanksgiving. They liked your broccoli casserole.

So... yeah.

#Furry #Senses #my creations

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sugarplumswan · 1 month

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One thing I find particularly insidious about female socialization is the way women internalize sexism and then go on to perpetuate it against one another. Society doesn't grant women personhood by default, it sees them as objects, and from a young age girls are told that if they want to be considered people then they have to fight for it. They have to earn it. And as long as you're likened to another woman, AKA "an object", you are failing in your own attempts at being a person. There is then an intense pressure and desperation placed on the woman to set herself apart from other women which society is eager to provide "solutions" for. Shave your legs. Slather your face in makeup. Dress this way, but not quite that way, and definitely not that way. You silly thing, that's already out of season. Are you even trying? She is constantly asked to do more to prove herself, and nothing she does is ever enough. Patriarchal society cruelly dangles it's perception of personhood in front of her like a fruit atop a branch just out of reach. The woman then grows resentful towards herself for failing to live up to the idealized image society expects of her. Her behaviours become increasingly cruel and self-punishing, thinking that everything would be fine as long as she could force herself to be a certain way, that maybe she could finally become a person with just a little bit more suffering. In actuality, the woman is already a person. She was entitled personhood by being born a human. However, her conditioning is so strong that it becomes impossible for her to see this. Under these conditions, class consciousness among women becomes very difficult. Women are raised from birth not to see women as people. They are taught to assume women are objects. And so, when the woman engages with another woman, she begins to measure herself against the other, ranking their relative "personhoods". She becomes smugly self-satisfied if she believes she comes out on top, and despairing if she concludes the other woman to be superior to her in some way. If the other is perceived to be particularly bad at the performance of personhood, the woman might feel incensed to correct her behaviours, either through passive-aggressive pity or outright cruelty. This stems from a warped desire to improve her own image by correcting the overall perception of women in general. If the other is perceived to be particularly superior, the woman might feel incensed to attack the other and bring her down to her level. This stems from a desire to punish the other for acting above her station as an object. Either way, the woman's self-loathing is such that she feels an intense need to put down other women in order to elevate herself. True solidarity among women can only come about when women stop perpetuating patterns of thought engineered by patriarchal society to keep them down. First, the woman must accept herself as a person with no conditions. Her personhood is innate and entitled to her as a human and nothing can take that away. Similarly, she cannot augment herself to be more or less of a person by engaging in certain actions or purchasing certain products. Then, she must extend this understanding to all other women. She does not have to agree with them, or even like them, but she must be able to conceptualize them as whole beings with their own personhood. She can no longer treat them as if they are empty objects to project her own insecurities onto. Only once she has done the work to accept this can she become a positive force for change within her class.

#my post #radfem #radical feminism

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 3 months

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Yandere Third Imposter: Nagito Komaeda

Dressed in the green or white space suit

Nagito is the ever-fanatic believer in the hope the crew of the Skeld brings in exploring the vastness of space

Unafraid to gush obsessively about the future that rests on their shoulders

But in the end, the future is in jeopardy as there seems to be an alien imposter

For a while Nagito moves with the majority, searching to find the ones trying to impede their hope

But a new discovery of information puts the imposter’s actions into perspective

Which pit the hope of humanity’s hope and a world that needs to remain hidden for their survival

And suddenly Nagito becomes the two-faced wild card, we all love+ know him to be

Of course, you as a crewmate are naturally put off by this development

for whatever reason he hones in on you, stalking you while babbling about his happiness for both sides

It's aggravating, so aggravating you’re completely distracted by his behavior to pick up on the underlying intention

The way he and you become alibis for the imposter

How you’re always able to corroborate Nagito’s testimony

The truth is he’s keeping you close an integral part of humanity’s hope

the kind of hope intertwined with one another+ with the imposters

Its an honor!

But he knows you might not see it that way

naturally you’re hope is birthed in your ignorance

Now on the other hand, if you’re the imposter

Suddenly hope in humanity isn’t all that important to him

Or rather he works to save humanity by mixing his hope with yours

More than happy to make little alien babies with you

But there's a problem, since he’s started helping your mission

Apparently you’ve been planning to make your fellow imposter you’re new mate

And while he may have promised not to oust either one of you, he also needs to preserve the hope you’ll have with him

By any means necessary:

You slammed the white-haired human into the wall, easily denting it with your grip around his pale little neck. Fighting the urge to hiss at him in your mother tongue as you released the illusionay colors in your optics. He may know the truth but that doesn’t mean he’s trust worthy. You wish you would’ve thought of this sooner.

“What’s you’re aim, Komaeda!? Why did you let this happen!?”

He continued to smile, unperturbed by the sheer pressure your curled fist had on his throat, More so excitedly enduring it + With simply a look you knew he couldn’t speak, you begrudgingly untightened your hold on him giving him just enough space to struggled to speak for himself.

“I-if I’m meant to-protect your our+ hope it’s important that one of you not be suspected. T-the last trial r-relied one of your testimonies to be false.”

“Yes. I’m aware but we’ve already prepared the alibi of the automated message. Why didn’t you rely on that!?”

“Then it forces them to look into our testimony even more. One of you would have been discovered eventually and as we discussed it would be him.”

“As we discussed?! We never-”

“It was without you, it was decided you’d be the one to survive.”

At this revelation you dropped him, turning away as he coughed and lovingly caressed the marks left on his neck. Facing the opposite wall with wide eyes full of horrified disbelief. Surely this was another lie…but would you’re partner truly make such a sacrifice. With your heat coming you two had prepared to build your nest on the corpses of this ship; slowly building a pack specialized in hunting the invasive species. Naturally fulfilling your innate desires and serving the people you swore to protect. Would they really make such a sacrifice? And even without the promise of conception? Were they more sentimental in there proposition before?

You felt completely blindsided–a rare thing to feel in your line of work.

“W-what a true sacrifice for hope! As promised I will be the tool for you to birth a new generation of hope!”

You turned back to him, raising your eyebrow at his declaration. He smiled to you a blush overtaking his entire face and ears, eyes swirling with a madness for hope your hope. Nagito spoke, eager to answer the silent question.

“They made me promise it! That I’d satisfy your heat and protect you and the brood that is to come.”

“R-right…”

Thats exactly what happened as Nagito reported it. Now many could say that Nagito is a liar, but he doesn’t think that word used against him is quite accurate. Failing to offer his discoveries to the symbols of hope is simply giving them an alternative guide on their journey for hope. Which is all he’s done now.

“You will reveal yourself to be the imposter.”

It was after the official meeting, where it was decided that Nagito would be their aid. The agreed upon terms specified that with every whole-having alibi, Nagito would take the fall or he would commit obvious sabotages to further distract the crewmates. It was the call of another meeting that had you running off before Nagito and your partner.

“You will be the stepping stone for the hope of me and (Y/n)’s future as mates.”

“...mates?”

“Our kind have seasons of heightened fertility, we plan to complete our mission by then.”

“I…see…”

“What?! Having second thoughts about helping? Is your desire for hope so weak, you buckle at its glory?”

“Never! I’m ecstatic to be of service to (Y/n) a true giver of hope!”

“Right.”

Your partner had thought his palpable infatuation would ensure his loyalty to you both only to realize as the votes were casted that his future filled with hope was only filled with you. Cursing him and those insipid humans as they doomed him to a death of starvation and darkness. Constantly replaying the madness in Nagito’s eyes as he ushered you from the window, maintaining that wild-card crewmate character.

If anything Nagito Komaeda was a true imposter. Third, intent on being more than a fellow imposter.

#yandere among us #yandere x reader #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yandere x you #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere danganronpa #yandere danganronpa x reader #yandere nagito komaeda #yandere komaeda #yandere nagito #yandere nagito komaeda x reader #yandere among us danganronpa #yandere imposter #yandere third imposter

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insaniquariumfish · 10 months

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Kind of wild how the LGBT+ community went from "gender is a harmful and arbitrary social construct that is completely separate from sex and that should be done away with so people can be liberated from its oppressive nature" to "actually the concept of abolishing gender is bigoted and transphobic because people need gender or else they'll kill themselves and also gender is objectively real and innate and present from birth" in what seems like less than a decade.

Like my views as a gender abolitionist wouldn't exist if it weren't for all the "actually gender is just a social construct" discourse that used to take place. Never mind how utterly nonsense it is to claim that gender itself is fake and made up but that gender identity is real and innate. How can you innately identify as a made up social construct? If you were born and raised as the only human on a planet occupied by genderless robots, would you still feel like wearing dresses or shaving your legs or wearing cargo shorts or chugging beer at a sports bar affirmed your gender? Would you even have a conception of gender at all? No! Because it's a social construct! And if your response to this is to say, "well, I would still have sexual dysphoria, so I would still be transgender," then you are conflating sex with gender and therefore sexual dysphoria with gender dysphoria and therefore transsexual with transgender, when those are not the same thing. Another concept that I was only introduced to because of queer discourse!

It honestly feels like the queer community is shifting into some kind of bizarro backwards inverse version of itself at this point. This is far from the only example of a radical shift in the kinds of ideas that are being spread, legitimized, and accepted that I've seen. Shit that would garner praise ten years ago for being progressive and enlightened will now get you canceled for being a bigot. Things that were staples of a queer understanding of the world are now derided as hateful and phobic. And this isn't a simple case of "well the times change and what we used to see as progressive we now realize was still pretty messed up," like core and foundational ideas and concepts are being cast aside and swapped out for ones that are fundamentally incompatible with, and sometimes even the direct opposite of, them. What happened?

#lgbt #lgbtqia #queer #trans #transgender #nonbinary #genderqueer #gender #queer discussions #queer discourse #ftm #mtf #gay #gender abolition

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storiesbyrhi · 1 year

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Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence, swearing, animal death, no beta, warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: In honour and love. 2562 words.

Author’s Note: We pick up where we left off.

1986

“You’re welcome…”

Your feet were planted so solidly on the ground it was as though you’d grown roots. He took the few steps needed to almost close the space between you.

“Why… why are you helping?”

Oh.

Your body had an almost visceral reaction to his voice. It was more than a familiar sound; it felt like home. You wanted to cry. “I... I… Uh- That’s hard… to explain…”

He looked you up and down, then accepted your answer with a nod.

“I need to… need to bury him,”

“Let me,” the man moved faster than you, scooping the dog’s body up and holding it against his chest.

“Oh… No… He can’t be dumped somewhere. I need to bury him. He deserves to be honoured.” You could feel embarrassment bubble up, something you weren’t used to. It was easy to talk about the craft around witches. It was easy to hide it from humans with clever language. It was entirely illogical, but you needed him to understand what you were saying. You were afraid he’d laugh or deny you this rite.

The man looked from you to the dog. “I know where to go. If you’ll take us,”

“How… Do… Do you remember? Being a bat?”

He nodded. “I am… starting to.”

As the vampire dressed in borrowed clothes, ones that fit more poorly than the last, you picked the best apple in your fruit bowl and a piece of Apache Tear obsidian from your crystal collection, stashing them in your bag.

You checked outside the trailer for nosy neighbours. The coast was clear and you walked to your car. The man had never been in a car. He’d seen them. Knew, in theory, that he just had to sit in it. Still, it presented a challenge.

When you unlocked the passenger side door and opened it for him, he stood awkwardly for a second. “Unless it's close enough to walk?” you asked him. He shook his head and got into the car, holding the dog’s body like a security blanket.

As you drove out of Forest Hills, you stopped at the main entrance. “Which way?”

The man nodded north.

You turned the radio on to fill the silence, assuming there was no conversation to be had.

“You do not belong in this place,”

“No. I don’t,” you agreed. “I used to be. Before the town, before… this lifetime… I lived here with my sisters,”

“They are not here now,”

“No. I’m the only witch here,”

“A witch,” he repeated, nodding to himself.

“Do you know what that is?” you asked.

He looked at you, his eyesight unaffected by the night. “I… may,”

“Oh… Okay. Well. Are you remembering anything else? About what you are?”

“I need blood.”

Of course, he’d know blood. “You will die without it. Well… A kind of death. Eventually. That would be very painful for you though,”

“Yes,” he said, like he knew that. Perhaps the thirst for blood was so innate that the knowledge he’d die without it was too. “Vampire.”

The word startled you. It was still surreal. It was as if a Tasmanian tiger or woolly mammoth were to walk out in front of your car.

He was a vampire. A vampire you had helped. A vampire you had taken a living thing to, to kill. It hadn’t occurred to you until then that you could have simply healed the ridgeback. You could have healed all the animals in Hawkins Kennels, instead you took one to its early death and devoted time to a vampire.

You focused on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

“Do you know your name?” you asked, needing the conversation as a distraction. Once telling him yours, you waited, but he shook his head. “We might need to give you one. Or, at least, a nickname.”

Between your limited knowledge of the roads of Hawkins and the fact he’d only ever seen it from the sky, it took a while to locate the place he intended to bury the dog. It wasn’t unpleasant driving empty streets with him though. You wondered if it should have been.

A partially overgrown road, unpaved and a threat to your car tires, was where he lead you. As natural landmarks began to come into focus, the moon’s rays the only light for miles, you felt the growing sense that you’d been to this place before.

When your car came to a dead end, you cut the engine. “Is it far?” you asked.

The man shook his head and waited for you to open his door.

He walked in front of you, flattening a path. Over the tall grass you could see you were coming to a wooded area. You smelt the oak before hitting the edge of the trees.

“Was this a witch?” the man asked, stepping out of your way.

Before you, constructed between two tall sycamore trees was a doorway of sorts. Hundreds of branches and sticks had been used to create a near-perfect circle. They were woven and stuck together to build an arch over and under. A gateway to the woods, not one that defied science, but still an oddity seemingly supernatural in origin.

“How… how do you know this place?”

He had no answer, so he stayed silent. It was just one of many parts of the flatlands, of Hawkins, that as a bat he watched over. He liked the forest doorway though, as much as he’d ever been able to like anything.

“I think… I think I’ve been here. I think I made this,” you said, voice dropping low.

“You cannot remember?”

It made no sense. You should have been able to remember. An unsettling feeling washed over you. Someone had been tinkering in the vampire’s mind, dislodging memories and letting them freefall. Surely, you didn’t have that in common.

When you didn’t answer his question, he asked another. “Is this a place… to honour?”

The dog.

“Yes. Yeah, it is.”

You took the lead, walking through the forest gate and looking back to see what would become of a vampire crossing a witch’s threshold. Nothing. Whatever magic had been there was long gone.

Not far from the gate, you stopped. The vampire understood, carefully placing the dog on the woodland floor. He stayed knelt on the ground and began to move sticks and brush out of the way. His movements gained momentum and soon he was moving faster than your eye could read. He was a blur, then he was standing next to a deep grave, the soil of which was dark under his fingernails.

You nodded when he looked to you for approval, then he laid the dog in the ground. While the vampire buried his victim, you gathered tokens from the nature that surrounded you.

Upon the grave, you laid butterfly weed and echinacea flowers, the apple, and obsidian.

“Hel, comforter in grief,

We ask you to receive this soul.

They lived pure, good, and true.

Hel, watcher of the dead,

We ask you to receive this soul.

Go peacefully now, no lament, no sorrow, nor rue.”

Standing side-by-side with a hexed vampire, you committed the dog to the earth not with a spell but a blessing, and grieved for the oath you’d broken.

“Go now,” he spoke. “I will come soon.”

Before you could ask what he meant, the vampire had gone from your side into the night. You waited in the car for fifteen minutes, the heater blasting stuffy air onto you. When he didn’t return, you drove home alone, only to find him perched on the roof of the trailer.

“That seems very dramatic,” you told him as he followed you inside. He was silent and all but invisible out there, still it seemed even an amnesic vampire couldn’t forget to have an operatic flair.

The trailer was warm and the artificial lighting soft. When you turned to him, you could see it on his face. The colour high on his cheekbones. The red on his lips. He’d found his way back to you, by way of more death.

…

1836

He watched you while you built the gate. Although he wouldn’t reveal himself, you could feel his curious gaze. It sent electricity buzzing through you, though you would burn at the stake before admitting that to yourself.

When he felt sure no townsfolk or coven members were joining you, he sauntered through the field, parting the long grass at will.

“Little witch. Why are you playing with sticks?”

You paid him no mind, which you knew would drive him crazy. He walked through the gate and around it, poking at the branches and making noises of discontent.

“If you aren’t going to help, you can go be a nuisance to your own kind,” you warned him, a stick pointed in his direction.

He swiftly grabbed the stick, tugging it hard, pulling you into him. It was the first physical content you’d made. The stick was forgotten as his cold hands wrapped around your upper arms, your chest pressed to his. He looked down at you, bared his sharp teeth in a smile.

“You don’t want me to go. Do you?” Your blown pupils were answer enough. He grinned again. “How can I help?” he asked, voice softening as he let you go and stepped away.

“I need… more…”

“More…? Sticks?”

You nodded dumbly.

He stayed close, within your sight, and moved at the speed of a human. You steadied yourself, regained your composure, and continued with your task.

The circular doorway would allow humans and witches to pass safely through the woods. It worked like a protection spell, once through it the individual would exist within a bubble, the bubble would take them through the dense and dark forest untouchable to vampires and foes.

On the other side of the woods, your mother had created one just like it, though she preferred to work in the daylight. Your penchant for twilight walks and midnight magic had, so far, gone unnoticed by the coven. Moonlight was a strong conductor, after all.

When the doorway was complete, holding strong against push and pull, you considered sending the vampire away. Somehow though, your magic felt stronger when he stood next to you. So, he stayed.

“Bloodline magic, far and wide,

Enchant this doorway so friends may hide.

Leaf and petal, wood and stone,

Protect our friends, return them home.”

You painted a circle of salt, sage, ground black cat bone, and mud around the doorway while reciting the spell. Then stood on the opposite side to the vampire.

“I dare you to cross through,” you said to him, a coy smile warning him of your witchy mischief.

“You wouldn’t be trying to kill me, would you, little witch?”

“If I were, it would not be with sticks and stones.”

He laughed, then considered you, his head cocking to the side. “If you want me to cross through, it will not be for free.” It was obvious he wouldn’t be able to walk through the circle, but the damage he would sustain was a mystery. What price would he put on shame or pain?

You huffed and crossed your arms. “What do you want? More stolen apples that you can’t eat?”

“A kiss,” he replied.

Your expression stayed playful; you held your nerve. He didn’t miss the way your breathing hitched though.

“For that, I want more,”

“Of course, you do,” he laughed, motioning for you to continue with a wave of the hand.

“Your name. A kiss will buy me your name.”

The vampire was quite pleased with himself for having held back that detail. He had predicted it would become useful. Witches and their silly little words and silly little names. It was all so important to them.

“You have yourself a deal.”

You clapped with joy, then bowed at the gate. “Please cross this witch’s threshold,”

“Oh, I do love it when you speak so filthy,” he quipped.

Tentatively, he approached the gate, waiting to feel his skin burn or something mystical and unholy. You watched amused at his sudden caution.

“Nothing will happen until you cross through,” you told him, trying to hurry him along.

He shot you a dark look that ought to have frightened you. Instead, you giggled.

The vampire took a useless breath in and jumped off the ground. He hit the circle like it was a brick wall, then was sent on a harsh rebound from the trees and into the tall grass.

You covered your face to conceal the laughter, waiting for him to reappear, ego bruised.

The wind whistled through the air and you thought perhaps you had pushed the vampire too far. Carefully, you followed his path from the gate out the woods and to where the grass began.

“Oh, vampire!” you called sweetly.

His voice came from all around you. All-encompassing whispers of, “Little witch, little witch, little witch!”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

The whispering stopped. You walked into the tall grass and found him lying on his back, casually lounging.

“Have you come to shower me in kisses?” he asked, fluttering his long eyelashes as you.

You knelt next to him, leaning over so your arms were either side of his head. “Give me your name,” you demanded, eye to eye with him.

“When I was born into this world, my mother named me Edward,” he said so casually, like it had never been a secret.

“Edward,” you repeated, a tone in your voice that made him smile.

“Are you disappointed? Would Molech suit better? Abaddon? Paimon? Or perhaps Lucifer Morningstar is what you expected?”

You looked down at him and saw through the shallow humour. “There’s a boy in the village. His name is Robert. It means bright star. His mother calls him Bobby and he answers when she calls,”

“Are you trying to distract me with a lesson?”

“Edward is of Old English origin. It means both fortune and guardianship. Which, in your case, does not fit quite right.” You didn’t reveal that his name was relatively new in human history, leading you to conclude he was not an Ancient vampire.

“Do your arms tire, Amabel? May I take this weight from you?” With vampire speed, he sat up, pulling you over him, your legs straddling his lap.

The game was fun. You held your arms out straight, letting them lean on his shoulders. “My assertion is that like Bobby, you will answer to a different name. I think I will call you… Eddie.”

You half expected him to argue. Instead, he smiled tenderly and snaked his arms around you. “You can call me whatever you want, little witch.”

Eddie listened to your heart, how it began to beat faster as you leaned down and ran the tip of your nose against his. His lips touched yours, his cool to your earthy warmth. You had kissed witches and humans and a few fae folk too. Nothing… absolutely nothing compared.

You rolled your hips against him, begging to be held tighter, instead he maintained the space between you, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against yours.

“What are we going to do?” he asked, in a moment of honest vulnerability.

Willing yourself not to cry, you left his sorrow unanswered and instead, leaned in to kiss him again.

End Note: Not me agonising over US English versus Australian. The Grimoire and timeline have been updated (links at top of post). Reblogs encourage me to keep writing! And, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Fic Taglist: @kaitebugg03 @paranoidmunson @munsonsbait @idkidknemore @paprikaquinn @stardustworlds @loz-brooke @wyverntatty @vintagehellfire @dark-academia-slut @scarletwitchwhore @becks1002 @mrsdollardog @heyndrix @luceneraium @rosaline-black @devilinthepalemoonlite @goldencherriess @iamwhisperingstars @wiltedwonderland @blueywrites @breezybeesposts @jadehowlettthewolf @spikesvamp79 @foreveranexpatsposts @tortoiseshellspells @wingedpeachjudgegiant @stardustmunson @live-love-be-unique @fangirling-4-ever @reanimated-alice @b-irock @gh0stlybunnie @myown-worstenemy-2003 @woozzz @cyberxlust @hiscrimsonangel @buckysbarne @m00nlight101 @word-wytch

All Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @sweetpeapod @thorfemmes @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @mel-the-fangirl

#Mine #Burning Yarrow #Eddie Munson #Vampire!Eddie #Vampire!Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson/You #Witch!Reader

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eatmangoesnekkid · 11 months

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The most powerful being on the planet is a fully intuned sexual being; Someone who is fully intuned with their sensuality, sexuality, and thereby their ability to consciously and deliberately create.

In order to operate at a higher-than-average level, you have to release the need to judge yourself. Not judging or regretting any part of your journey, but experiencing and honoring every aspect is the secret to moving beyond a bored, shrunken sense of of self and coming into your full, phat, creative, joy-filled, sensuous, juicy aliveness so that you can create your new life narratives. Back in 2010, I left my leadership job in Atlanta and started to work 3 days a week as an art model for a professor and his students.

Calling in this well-paid position allowed me more space to spend 4-6 hours, 5 days a week in a forest alone. Spending that much alone time in a forest felt like the truth (the universe/love) was breathing me. Animating me. I would get so “high” naturally and become one with all that is, all there was, so there was less density and judgment about anything left in me, you see. You don't have to spend that much time in a forest to begin to feel how releasing judgement is a sacred keycode for living in a healthy magical existence. If the harmony feels right, allow yourself (your cells) to receive this. Judging everything on the planet as 'this is good/that is bad, this is right/that is wrong' actually takes up a lot of space in your body. However, discernment for what is true for you, is not judging but a kind of maturity.

To access the creative power that naturally and innately lives in your body, this magical divine energy that has been depressed (or pressed down into your body) and is now showing up or "manifesting" as aches and joint pain, fibroids, heavy periods, mold, candida, fibromyalgia, weight gain, rapid weight loss, overfunctioning, or addictions, is about creating more space within. Your developing spaciousness is key. What or who is taking up so much space in your body and life that you can't create new body and life narratives?

I started to sense years ago that maturing in my womanhood was not about constantly shopping, wearing dresses, overconsuming, or materialism but doing the solid meticulous real embodiment work that opens up a natural unrepressed sensuality that you and I both need in order to access our dormant pressed down divine gifts and power. When you are living in relationship to your divine energy, you no longer NEED to walk around in your human body with low-grade anxiety, low-grade depression, lack of fulfillment, constantly busy, constantly fighting and raging, or constantly running into the next thing because you are running away from yourself, your actual cells. You start to become clearly aware that you are something different from "normal" --like alien/angelic and intuition, foresight, secrets of the universe, manifestation, resilience, joy, aliveness, sexuality, and the deliberate creation come easier for us because you have accessed your real self beyond thepattern/programming. A heart opening frequency. In as much as prehistoric times, the Universe and our Ancestors passed down now forgotten stories and the lost arts of telepathy, tongues, prophecy, levitation, healing hands, etc. that some people still can not fathom are real. The beauty of this existence that we are all part of is that we can wake up those memories or realizations that life is incredibly mysterious and magical and anything is possible.

This melody of love work is intimate, mature, and takes you deep into your gorgeous body. Shadow work. Unconscious work. Breathwork. Movement. Breast care. Pussy work.

Holding gratitude for all your experiences, whatever they may be, is the first step to emotional maturity and its magical awakening. Trusting your choices eliminates the need to blame or shame another or feel victimized and allows us to actually be in the position of creator/God//supreme creator consciousness. Dare we to stop fighting and start feeling and twirling in spirals through life’s beautiful, and sometimes painful and messy initiations….and become whole and human again. --India Ame'ye, Author

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tadpolesonalgae · 11 months

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Dark!Amarantha x Human!reader: Her New Whore[***]

A/N: man, I caved at the end, I’M SORRY.

Warnings: Noncon/dubcon, some specklings of Greek Mythology, pussy-eating, face-sitting, manipulation I guess, corruption kink? 6.4K words

Summary: After the Wall fell, the High Queen easily seized control of the human lands. Every month, a name is picked from the largest cluster of houses—the closest any of your kind have to a city. You manage to keep your head down for long enough, until your sister’s name is read aloud, condemning her—and inevitably the family she’s made—to a tragedy.

“Cynthia.”

You freeze. Eyes slide to the matching pair beside your own, locking onto her widened gaze. No. There’s mirrored terror streaking your faces, and already people are taking precautionary steps back, making sure to distance themselves from the damned.

The guards don’t even have to search for her, the steadily widening circle around your sister condemns her itself. And sure enough, clawed hands are gripping her upper arms, already beginning to drag her away, and you lunge at her, only to be shoved back. You crash to the mud, dress dirtying as the wet cold bites at you, already setting in. “Cynthia…!” You rasp, throat wet with tears, chest tight with grief. “Cynthia!” You scream, pushing up from the dirt, stumbling after your sister as she’s flung to the foot of a stage.

The High Queens’s eyes are sharp, and piercing into her with a strange look. Your sister shrinks beneath the cold, ancient eyes, hands wrapping around herself, as though it will give her a modicum of safety against the innately powerful fae. Her blood red lips open, permanently set in a cruel, hateful twist, as she intends on beginning her riddle. You scramble forward, pushing through the crowd that has gathered eagerly to watch, delighting in her misery. Because they get to live another day.

You race forward, kneeling by your sister’s side, throwing your arms over her protectively, keeping her tight to your form. “I’ve got you,” you murmur, fingers trembling. “You’re safe, I’m here, Cynth.” She presses against your side, shaking badly, cowering before the High Queen. Amarantha watches, her words halting as she takes in the act of disobedience. No one else has dared interrupt a ceremony.

You swallow, meeting her icy, taunting gaze. “Please…” you manage, voice cracking. “Please— She’s my sister, please.” The tears fall and you know you need to do better. “I beseech you, my Queen. Please. She has a family—a husband and children.” You release Cynthia, pushing away from her as you bow, pressing your hands into the mud and lowering your head in derogatory supplication. “Take—… Take me in her stead. I beg you.” Salty tears wet the earth as you shake, Cynthia weeping by your side, copying your movement, and it pains you to see her like this. Splattered with mud. Cowering before a tyrant.

“Rise.”

Immediately, you follow the command, raising beneath her amused gaze. Her long nails click against the temporary throne. She’s no longer watching Cynthia, her eyes have moved to you. “What walks on four feet in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three at night?” Terrified relief slides down your spine. She’s directing the riddle at you—not Cynthia. You could weep.

Her brow narrows, “behead the first one.”

Your eyes widen as her soldiers come forward. Cynthia grasps onto you and you to her: nails slicing into thin, worn fabric. “No! Please, my Queen! Please!” You scream, holding your sister tight as the creatures tug away from you. She’s torn from your arms, and you thrash, trying to reach her. You turn your head to the female sat atop her throne born of bloodshed, “my Queen! She’s my sister, please!” The tears are streaming down your cheeks as you writhe against the talons that slice into your skin.

Cynthia is shoved to her knees, more mud saturating the already wet fabric of her dress. The High Queen’s eyes are on yours, paying the torture of your sister no mind, as if it hardly even registers to her. You can’t look away from her.

A guard raises his blade, and ire blazes inside of you, fury at the injustice. Rage at how they’re about to cleave the gentle slope of her neck in two, sever it from her body, then leave her to rot in the piss-coated mud.

“Stop.”

Your breath catches, your chest stilling as the blade halts it’s slicing. The High Queen rises from her throne. A metallic smell crackles in the air and a rug rolls down the steps of the stage—her shoes will remain clean of the filth. She comes to a stop in front of you, and you’re petrified. The Queen, The Conquerer, is stood one pace away from you, and you’re staring into her eyes—holding her gaze as if your life depends on it.

“Release her.”

You’re close enough you can see the shape of the words cutting through her blood-red mouth clearly. Her soldiers release you, so suddenly that you crash to the floor, on your knees before her. You make no move to shift from the placement.

Slowly, she pulls the fabric of her orchid coloured gown upward, revealing a pale ankle, leading up to a creamy thigh—perfect skin. She’s flawless. The High Queen raises her foot slightly, a silent command. Your cheeks flush with hatred. Her lips lift at the edges, her eyes flicking from Cynthia, then back to you. You hang your head in shame, but blink away the tears. If she’s giving you a way to save your sister, you’ll take it.

Reluctantly, you begin to lean forward, but stop. You crane your neck to look at the High Queen, icy gaze piercing down on you. “I do this…and you’ll let my sister go?” You aren’t foolish enough to phrase it as an order. “Indeed.”

“You won’t harm her? Ever?” Her lip curls, a sign she’s already tiring of you, but you need to make sure. “Insolent,” she growls as she glares down at you. It’s difficult not to shrink from her. “If you give yourself to me—” your breath catches, “—and follow through, she will be released instantaneously. Unharmed.”

The word rings through you. Unharmed. She’ll be okay. She can return to her girls, and her husband. She’ll live.

“Whether she remains that way…” she grins, cruelty lighting her eyes, “…is up to you.” You feel the blood drain from your face. Brutality sparks in her gaze as she taps your chin provocatively with the tip of her shoe. “Make your choice, human.”

You refuse to cry. You won’t. Not in front of her.

So you grit your teeth, steel your spine, and settle your lips on the point of her shoe.

————

She didn’t waste a second—by the end of the day, you’d been shoved into the arms of one of her beasts, a weightless sensation had overtaken you, and then your surroundings had completely shifted, the air slightly tinged with a strange metallic scent. You’d been walked through cavernous hallways lit solely by flames that sent shadows flickering along the walls.

Then you were brought to a large chamber, dragged across the smooth stone floor, and tossed onto a wide, circular bed that was lined with various fur blankets and beautifully embroidered duvets. Atop lay a circular instrument, thick, opaque fabric hanging down like curtains to seal the bed from the rest of the room. They were dark velvet, such a deep red they were nearly black, with small tassels weighting the material at the edges.

An unknown amount of time later, another creature enters, dropping new clothes on the bed—night robes—for you to change into. Its eyes run over you with intrigue and barely masked hunger. You manage a quiet thank-you, along with a small dip of your head before it’s stalking from the chamber. You decide it would be best to follow their implied instructions, thankfully left by yourself while you bathe and clothe yourself.

Heat flushes your cheeks as you lift the fabric to the strange lights. It’s almost completely sheer, a failed imitation of clothing. Hardly a breath of thread. You double…triple check the pile, but there are no underthings to keep you hidden. You drop the material as if it’s stung you, taking a step away from where you had dropped it—beside the bathing pool.

“Insolent humans.”

You yelp, spinning around. The High Queen has snuck up on you, silently entering the bathing chamber. You hadn’t even heard the snick of the curtain rings slide back into place. Your hands fly to cover your naked body, stumbling back in fright. You slip, squeezing your eyes tight as you fall backward—into the pool.

When you surface, you hear her laughing, like the ringing of silver bells, warm and amused. You shiver. “I forget how uncoordinated you all are,” she grins, that cursed crimson like a blood-red slash across her mouth. Slowly, you back away in the lagoon-like pit, distancing yourself while keeping your arms across your chest.

A dainty nail points to you, then curls as she beckons you forward. “Come here.” Your arms tighten around yourself, and you’re sure that if the water wasn’t there, your legs would have given out. Her lips twitches, as if knowing exactly what she’s doing to you. “You’ve hardly been here for half a day,” she growls in warning, “and you’re already testing my rather generous patience.”

You tremble, but begin to move toward her. Her growls settle as you draw near, stopping at what you believe to be a safe distance. She almost laughs at your naïveté. She settles by the edge of the pool, “closer.” Her teeth are bared beneath the superficially gentle smile, eyes gleaming with harmful glee as you shudder, but follow her orders.

She spared your sister. She spared your sister. She spared your sister. You can do this for Cynthia. Cynthia and her girls. Cynthia and her husband. For Cynthia, you’ll manage. The High Queen’s hand raises from the carved stone, and you flinch when he cups your cheek, eyes piercing down at you: half-submerged in the pool, the water reaching just above your midriff. “There you go,” she drawls, lips quirking at the terror in your eyes. Her thumb brushes your cheek and you tremble, her sharp nails scraping beneath your lash line, as if poised to dig into the soft flesh that would rupture beneath her claw.

The High Queen must have read it across your features, as she grins wickedly, “your Cynthia is alive.” You don’t allow yourself a moment to relax, not with the Queen of the fae so close. Her brow rises, “no words of thanks? No offers to appease me?” You swallow, inhaling quietly. “Thank you, my Queen,” you manage, voice cracking from fear.

Her hand lowers, and you still as her thumb brushes over your lip, and you wonder if she’ll tear it from your body. She merely lays a surprisingly soft pat to your cheek, her eyes flicking to the mesh robe, untouched, by the pools edge. “Put it on,” she orders, quietly. You double check all of your chest is covered—as much as you can, anyway—before meeting her gaze. “My Queen?” You ask, uncertain. She wants you to wear to robe while in the water? Or to get out, dry, and then adorn it? Her fingers clasp the sheer fabric, bringing it within your reach, “did I stutter?” Her lips are still up-tilted, but ice is beginning to frost in the depth of her eyes.

With a trembling hand, you reach forward, taking the robe from her hand. Your fingers brush, and you flinch, preparing to be hit, squeezing you eyes shut. She merely watches you, marks your reaction with quiet anger. “Put. It. On.” Her voice has dropped, and you flush with shame as you lower your arms to adorn yourself in the dress. Despite being underwater, you push it down, allowing it to rest at your ankles.

The High Queen smiles, though it’s lacking something. “Keep up the obedience and you’ll be just fine.” She gets to her feet, flashing you a snippet of smooth skin as she stands and you feel dirty for looking. Instinctively, you falter a step backward, at last easing a small breath of relief.

It’s cut short as her fingers drop to the buttons of her dress, slowly unpinning them, revealing small glimpses of her porcelain skin beneath. You hurriedly turn away as she undresses, cheeks ablaze as you catch sight of her sleeve descending over a creamy shoulder. You can hear the soft wisps of chiffon falling to the floor, and flashes of soft and supple skin whisper through your mind. You pinch your forearm hard, just one mark among many.

Amarantha scowls at your turned back. Foolish human dignity. Do you not understand she could slice you up in seconds, sink her teeth into the soft flesh of your throat? She swallows, licking her lips as a slow smile lifts her edges.

Silently, she descends into the lagoon, allowing the peacefully warm water to lap over her skin. Prowling up behind your unaware form. The sweetest prey.

Your breath catches as her arms wrap around your waist, pulling your back flush against her front, and you feel the soft pressure of her breasts. She’s naked. She’s completely bare. Your mind short circuits, fire heating your body, licking over you like it’s a phantom touch. Her fingers dancing over your skin, her lips feathering over your own, her—

You dig your nails into your forearm. It must be some faerie magic. Your mind must not be your own to have such horrifically impure thoughts in it. A quiet sound of fear drags from your throat as she noses a space beneath the shell of your ear. “My Queen…?” You stammer, “what—…what are you doing?” Each breath that falls from your lips is wracked with a silent tremor.

She laughs against your skin and you subtly try to squirm away from her. Her arms wrap tighter. “You live such short lives,” she croons, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “yet you deprive yourself of the pleasures the Mother has provided.” A shiver spider-walks down your spine, her fingers beginning to trace circular patterns over the base of your sternum.

“It’s a sin,” you rasp, voice failing you under duress. “It’s an equivalent exchange. Pleasure of unity for the pain of reproduction. My Queen.” You hurriedly add on the title, a way to soften your brazen defence. “If it’s a sin, why are you craving it so badly? The mother wouldn’t wish for her creations to suffer,” she whispers, and her fingers raise higher, dancing beneath the swell of your breasts.

You turn your head, and Amarantha greedily drinks in your mortal beauty. “Is that why you spared her? My sister?” There’s a devastating spark of hope in your eye, looking to her for answer. She blinks, and you quietly await her response. “I spared Cynthia because you promised yourself to me.” Her eyes pierce into you, “equivalent exchange and all that. A life for a life. However fleeting, or pitiful.”

Your brow narrows in hurt, “our lives may be short, my Queen, but it gives us meaning. We are to make the best of ourselves, however slim our chances. It is the beauty of being human.” She smiles, settling her chin on your shoulder, feeling you stiffen. “You are, indeed, quite beautiful.”

You don’t know how to respond. Is it a concealed taunt you don’t understand? Is she using her faerie tongue to deceive you in some way? You can’t figure it out. “You…remember her name, my Queen.” She laughs, but it lacks amusement. “It is not a difficult name to remember. Neither is your bond with her.” She seems sad. A quiet wash of anguish fleeting across her gaze.

And maybe she’d been gentle enough with you, been so unexpected that you reached out. You’ve been raised that it’s a woman’s role to reach out and help others—always. Why would she be any different. You move your hands from where they’ve been suspended above the water, gingerly settling them overtop hers. “Why not?” You murmur, watching her.

The High Queen’s eyes drop to your fingers, and for a moment you’re concerned she’ll see it as an affront—for a human to touch a faerie. But they entwine with your own, keeping as much of you close to as much of her as she can. “My sister was murdered by a human. Tortured and murdered. For weeks.” She hears the quiet gasp you release, and raises her gaze to your own, shocked and wide.

“Her name was Clythia, and I cared for her more than anything. More than I should have let myself.” Her eyes seem to regain their sharpness as they drink in your features. Her arms tighten around your rib cage, “I will not be making that mistake again.” Her words are clipped; pained. You squeeze her hand, “isn’t it lonely?” Her eyes are narrow on you, a quiet warning, but allowing you to proceed. You gulp and you’re certain she can hear it. “As an immortal. With no clear end to your life? You should find yourself a love, take a husband, and—”

She snarls, lip curling back from her teeth, muscle rippling; power thrumming. Your body freezes in response, but she spins you round, roughly. Her nails dig into your hips, pulling you tight against her.

It’s so much worse.

You can see her. See the pale skin of her collar bones, the smooth skin of her shoulders, the feminine swell of her breasts, pressing against your own—

“A husband?” She snarls, watching with fury as you cower, trying to shrink away from her. Your hands land hesitantly—even as you’re terrified—over the top of her chest, attempting to push away. “I treat you as I have, and you tell me to find a husband?”

“I’m—I’m sorry—… I simply mean—” She snarls again, more viciously, cutting you off as she grips you tighter, walking you backward in the pool.

Initially, you’d been wary about bathing, not knowing how deep the pool went. You knew the depth was more staggering at the back, and being unable to swim, you’d kept far from it.

You shove your feet onto the floor, but it’s rough, and bites at the soft pads. She’s so powerfully fae, and has no trouble shoving you further and further back to that drowning depth. “My Queen!” You cry, reaching for her but she keep you at arms length. The water gets deeper, rising over your chest, and you know you’re right over the precipice. “Please! I can’t swim!” You panic, “please, my Queen! I didn’t mean to offend!”

The High Queen shoves you away, sending you off into the deep. That terror again engulfs you as you begin sinking. Your eyes go wide, latching onto her own beseechingly, just before the water’s surface swallows you. It’s suddenly no longer comforting—the peaceful warmth. It feels as the air before a storm, hot and humid, too still to be safe.

You thrash, not knowing how fast you’re descending, but you claw about. Maybe if you can reach that edge again, you can pull yourself up. You stretch out your hands, and they find the ledge. Rough and hewn, but it’s there. You could cry. But then you feel as she presses the heel of her foot down, digging your fingers into the rock and you cry out, releasing precious air as you lose your grip.

You try again, this time taking hold of her ankle, tightly—even if it enrages her. But she holds still, allowing you to touch her as you begin to pull yourself to the surface. Your lungs are burning as you reach her thigh and your hand freezes, realising where you’re going to have to go past. You take too long, strength seeping from your arms as you begin to lose conscious. You practically feel her growl thunder through the water as a force lifts you from the depths.

When you break the surface, your religious worries are far from the front of your mind. Your arms snake over her shoulders, clinging desperately as you splutter, hauling yourself over her arm as you gulp down air, tears of panic spilling over your cheeks. Your legs wrap over her hips, circling tight in fear.

Before you’ve even had the time to regulate your breath, her hand is tightening in your wet hair, pulling you back just enough for her to glare into your eyes. “I’m sorry,” you rasp, tears streaming over your already wet cheeks. “Please,” you plead, brows curving upward, “please don’t kill her.”

The High Queen’s eyes do not soften as she pulls back from the ledge, carrying you up into shallower water. You daren’t tear your eyes away for fear she’ll have a change of heart. “I hold you as I do,” she seethes, “I treat you as one of my own, instead of one of those humans. I touch you as I do— cherish you as I do—” Your lower back presses against the hewn rock of the pool, and you attempt to unwrap your legs from her hips. Her grip tightens and she snarls up at you. “—and you think a husband would please me?”

You keep your lips pressed tight, deciding it wise to not speak anymore. But her eyes pierce into your own, commanding you to respond. Whatever you say, it could be you last. “What would please you, my Queen?” You stammer, softly, trying to banish the tremors from your arms.

Her eyes flicker for a moment, and then her mouth is crushing down onto your own. You seize up, paralysed as one arm snakes up your back, between your shoulder blades, making your back curve, pressing your breasts to her own. You’re all but naked before her, save for the sheer fabric that clings to you relentlessly. A whimper claws up your throat at the sudden move.

She pulls away, eyes dragging from your mouth up to your own.

Then she’s returning, lips warring over your own, teeth biting, tongue slashing as she dominates your mouth. One hand grips your ass while the other tightens around the nape of your neck, crushing you against her, pressing between your thighs as she devours you. She gets lost in your flavour, raising both her hands to cup your jaw, pinning you to the pool’s wall with her lower body.

Her grip slackens as she takes you in, breathing shakily.

You take your chance.

You slam your hands down on the pool’s ledge, lifting yourself out as you kick away from her, panting as you scramble back. You tumble over the lip of the lagoon, falling down onto the smooth rock of the bathing chamber. The High Queen snarls from the pool and your eyes go wide as she heaves herself out of the water with such ease.

Immediately you’re scrambling back, flipping onto your front to crawl away, to stumble to your legs but she catches you on the threshold of the two rooms. Her arm wraps around your hips, once again pulling your back flush against her chest as her hand snakes up your front, gripping your throat. “I thought you wanted to protect your sister?” She snarls, so close to your ear you feel the scrape of her teeth.

You simply writhe in her grip, terror spinning and spinning until you feel dizzy. “You’re okay if she dies?” The High Queen growls, gripping tighter, and you choke. “Maybe I’ll make you watch when I kill her. Nice and slow.” You shake your head vehemently, colours swimming as you splutter. Your fingers claw at her hand but she holds fast, so much stronger than you could ever handle.

Then, she’s picking you up from the floor, your legs pulling to your chest, kicking wildly in attempts to disorientate her. It’s a pitiful attempt. She sets you on your feet before the opening to her bed, turning you around roughly. Then power crackles in the air and you’re completely dry, as if neither of you had even stepped foot in the bathing chamber.

With a hard shove, you’re falling backward, sitting on the circular mattress, clothed in only the sheer fabric and nothing else—no undergarments to conceal you from her hungry and furious gaze. You start crawling backward, but she only laughs, as if delighted by your actions. You understand why when you hit the edge of the bed. Your back collides with something solid, despite it being curtains. She laughs at your confusion. “There’s a barrier around the mattress. Once you have entered, you cannot exit unless I permit it.”

You’re trapped.

“Please,” you whimper, watching as she climbs onto the bed, the curtain shutting behind her, sealing you in a cocoon of dark red light. “Please, my Queen. This is wrong!” She simply grins, prowling closer until her hand wraps around your ankle. You don’t even try to resist as she drags you beneath her, caging you in. “There’s nothing wrong about enjoying the pleasures of life,” she snarls down at you. You shake your head weakly, “no…the first time…” Tears roll down your cheeks and she stills. “The first time should be with someone you love!” You scream at her with a fury you don’t recognise.

Her eyes change, something indiscernible flashing across her features. “Pleasure is for…for man and woman,” you cry, reciting the words that have been flung at you since you came of age. “They couple…and the woman bares his children…and—…and he works! While—…while she stays at home…raising his children, in his house, for him!” You’re sobbing, wanting to scream and kick and just lash out in some way. “It’s the wife’s duty— My duty, to serve my husband one day. And that is…that is how it should be…” you trail off, crying as you push away tears with your fists.

Her hands strangle your wrists, roughly pushing them aside as she glares down at you with renewed ferocity. “So insufferably human.”

“And you’re insufferably cruel…” you weep, though the words lack any bite. “Yes,” she snarls, “I am.” You peer up at her through teary eyes. “And do you see me crying? Do you see me being forced into something I don’t want? Do you see me serving a man in the way you believe is a duty?” You stare at her, lower lip trembling as you manage to shake your head.

“No. You don’t. Because I am High Queen of Prythian. I rule over this land. It is mine. The food, the country, the people. They’re mine. Just like you are mine. At the end of the day I do not submit to a husband, or a father, or a brother. Because I am my own keeper.” She practically spits the last part, dripping with venom as she glares down at you.

Your brow narrows at her anger. The anger that isn’t directed at you, not this rage. Not really.

Her hand again wraps around your throat as she lifts your head from the sheets. “I can fuck you better than a man ever could. Than anyone.” You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut as you struggle as much as you can. “Open your eyes.” You refuse, screwing them shut tighter. “Open your damned eyes before I pluck them from your skull.”

Tears roll as they land on her, working every silent plea you can into your gaze. You would beg on your knees for her to stop. For her to leave Cynthia alive. “That’s more like it,” she breathes, hand loosening around your throat, allowing you to gulp down air. “Now, let me show you what you’ve been missing out on.”

Her mouth reattaches to your own, but it’s softer. Until her teeth nip at your lower lip. You flinch, and it spurs her on, canines tugging relentlessly until you whimper. “Touch me,” she commands, between kisses, “pull me closer.” You remain how you are, hands paralysed at your sides as she pulls you apart. “Reciprocate or I swear on Clythia I will shred your sister alive. Piece by piece.”

You’re trembling, shaking and on the verge of shattering, but you manage to wrap your arms around her neck, parting your thighs to hug her hips. “Now touch me like you mean it. I’m giving you one damned chance.” The snarl is more beast than faerie, but it’s for Cynthia. For Cynthia, you will put everything the High Queen has done aside. For Cynthia, you will commit this sin, that will damn you far below hell. For your sister, you will give in to those desires that have caused the crescent shaped indents in your forearms.

Your vision blurs as you shove it all away, and follow her commands.

Your mouth opens, tongue dancing with her own as she grips your hair, yanking it. A growl of innate satisfaction thunders through her chest and her free hand lands atop your breast, palming it. You want to scream, but force a moan instead. You doubt you’d be able to pull yourself back together if you started screaming.

She thumbs your nipple, and her mouth leaves your own, nipping and licking at your neck as she works lower, ignoring the quiet tears that roll back into your hair, dampening the bed. Her teeth sink into the junction of your throat and shoulder, biting down and you know it’ll bruise. It’s her way of claiming you. To have her scent entwined with yours isn’t enough. She needs to have her bite marks littering your skin, to have bruises of her fingertips blossoming over your neck, hips, thighs— everywhere she can.

Quicker than you can think, she’s tugging the erotically teasing dress up your thighs and over your head, baring you to her. The High Queen doesn’t waste a second: her mouth latches over your nipple, just over your heart, and this time you don’t have to force it. Pleasure sings through you, lighting you up as your back arches. As much as you hate it, as much as you know it’s a sin, it feels undeniably good.

You don’t want her to stop, you realise.

It brings a new wave of emotion looming in the background of your mind. But you cannot allow it to crest. So instead you thread your fingers through her beautiful silky hair, so soft to the touch, encouraging her. She growls with pleasure as she goes lower, sucking bruises into the skin of your stomach as she descends, leaving a trail of obscenity until she reaches between your thighs.

“My Queen…” you whimper earnestly, knowing what she’s planning. “That’s—” She snarls, teeth scraping over your inner thigh.

“Are you trying to stop me?” And you can hear the threatening displeasure coating the question. You hurriedly shake your head, flushing in shame. She shouldn’t be seeing you like this. It should be a man. But you meet her eyes and undeniable arousal flows through you and the possessiveness. Had anyone ever displayed such a strong instinct to protect you? Bordering on fanatic obsession. Infatuation.

“I’d feel…guilty. Not doing anything, I mean,” you manage. As soon as the words have left your tongue you realise their truth. Nausea roils in your stomach. How sick are you? Could you ever be forgiven? A dark laugh breaks you from your spiralling thoughts and it sends another wave of heat rushing between your legs. You’re practically aching for her.

“Not so innocent after all,” she drawls, and you flush.

“I simply mean—”

“I know what you said.” She snarls, crawling up your body until she’s over you, her deep red hair hanging like the deep red curtains trapping you on the bed. “You want to have your mouth between my legs, don’t you?” Shame sparks in your chest, licking between your thighs as your eyes dart away from her. She grips your jaw, forcing you to look at her. “Say it. Let me hear you beg for it. Beg for me to mount your tongue, like an animal in heat,” she snarls.

For Cynthia, you can do it. For Cynthia—

Fuck Cynthia.

“Please,” you beg, that religious yarn the priests had twisted tight, now unraveling at an alarming pace. “Please, my Queen. I need to know. Let me know what if feels like. What you taste like.” Her eyes roll as she lowers her face to the crook of your neck, burying against you, nosing at the skin as she laps over the erogenous area. Your back arches and you wish you could resist her. Wish you could return to your discipline, and your unruffled life before she came along with her chaos and her fury and her devastating beauty.

“That’s it,” she pants, pleasure flushing her cheeks. “Look at you,” she hisses, “already settling so well into your new role.” And then she’s prowling further up your body, swinging a leg over your head and your arms have already wrapped snuggly over the elegant sweep of her hips. You tug against her but she doesn’t move, keeps herself suspended above you, teasingly. You can’t stand it.

Your nails bite into the flesh of her waist and she keens, hands pushing your thighs apart. When her eyes land on your glistening heat, she growls. You’re hers. “Now, now,” she croons, “see how far you’ve come already? Dying for a taste of a female.” Your hips buck, urging her to devour you, set her mouth on you, anything. “My Queen, please. I need you. Mother above, I need you so badly.” She just laughs.

“Maybe I should punish you for taking so long to come around, hm? Maybe I should bring you to the edge, and suspend you there. Maybe I should—”

You take initiative. Your grip tightens as you raise your mouth to her cunt, lapping all over her, pressing against her hole. Anywhere you want, really. She snarls, but it’s full of pleasure and feminine satisfaction. The High Queen decides she’ll punish you later. Right now, she has you, and she’s in no mood to deny herself of you. Not after so long. She shifts her weight back at the same time she sets her mouth on you and you moan.

Her wet heat encases your mouth, and you groan as you feel her tongue lap over your centre. You flinch when her teeth nip a deliciously sensitive spot between your legs and you follow it on her, locating the small bud. You place a gentle lick to it, and her hips grind over you. Perfect. You focus on that mark, abusing it over and over, occasionally raising your tongue to her entrance, needing to refresh her flavour before diving back down.

Moans echo throughout the room and you feel a tightness in the pit of your belly. “My Queen,” you stammer, confused. She snarls, shutting you up, but the coil tightens— but it feels so good. Like an itch you can’t quite scratch. You just need her to find a spot, a spot that will just get you. Her tongue flicks over that bud and pleasure rushes your veins. You bury your face between her legs as you desperately nip, flick, suck and fuck all of her, memorising her taste as you bathe in the euphoria.

You feel her fluttering on your tongue moments later, your own high triggering hers as she sits upright, shoving you down into the soft mattress. You don’t even try to escape. You relish in her scent, in the wet heat of her, the way she encompasses you as she rides your face, moans spilling from her mouth until she’s ready to leave.

As she lifts from you, you notice threads of slick attaching your mouth to her, and you moan at the sight, already desperate for another taste, but she shifts. And her mouth is over your own. She’s ravenous, tongue licking and lapping, teeth nipping and biting as she drinks down your moans until she’s rolling off you.

Her arms circle possessively around your waist as she tugs you against her. “You’re mine,” she hisses down at you, and no matter how much it goes against the teachings, you can’t bring yourself to repent. She’s sunk her claws into you, and they run deep. Even if you wanted to, she wouldn’t let you go. You nod, pressing against her, melting into her possessive warmth.

She snarls, looking down at you. “You’ll stay here. In my bed. Warming it for me.” You nod again, and as the pleasure fades, as the adrenaline seeps from your blood, that familiar primordial dread begins to surface. You’ve promised yourself to her. You’re bound together. And you have no hope of escaping.

She bares her teeth and you hurriedly reply. “Yes, my Queen.” Her eyes soften ever so slightly. “Amarantha. I want you to call me Amarantha.” Your cheeks flush and you take the time to appreciate her beauty. The glow about her skin, the softness of her lips, the ferocity in her eyes. You feel safe. But maybe that’s just her power as High Queen. Maybe she’s gotten you so far under her spell you’ll never see her commit wrong.

“Amarantha,” you repeat, softly. A small, sane part of you screams at your compliance. But you’re too enchanted by her otherworldly beauty to pay it the necessary attention. To realise what you’ve done. What’s she’s done to you.

You reach forward, pressing your lips against hers, revelling in the plushness of them. You moan, and she’s never heard a sweeter sound. She’ll never let you leave her side. She’ll take you round on a leash if she has to, with chains decorating your wrists and ankles. Anything to ensure you stay at her side at all times. Because she’s never met someone she recognises so instinctually. Like a warped mirror.

If Clythia hadn’t been killed, if the High Queen hadn’t lost that part of herself in the war five hundred years ago, would she be as beautiful as you? She doubts it. You’re perfect. Living perfection. Crafted for her.

Her perfect new whore.

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

#Amarantha #amarantha x f!reader #[***]#dark! fic #dark! Amarantha #dark! Amarantha x f!reader #Amarantha smut #June #Amarantha x f!reader smut #dark! Amarantha x f!reader smut

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thedeviltohisangel · 1 month

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post war fluff: major john egan physically can not keep his eyes off spook. she’s across the room talking to marge, so are his eyes. shes looking in the mirror deciding what to wear to family dinner with his parents, he’s leaning back on their bed watching. she’s fast asleep in their bed with their baby, he’s gonna be up all night enamored by the sight.

LITERALLY OBSESSED WITH THIS!!

He is so in love with her. Cannot believe that she is really his and that he is really hers.

John is always being caught with heart eyes around his wife. And he innately is always able to find her.

Marge meets them in Texas so she can be with Gale as soon as the plane lands. She thinks it would be fitting if the four of them go to the social club they were at in ep 1. She drags Cass to the jukebox to whisper away from the boys. John is CRANING his neck to keep an eye on her. I would imagine a lot of this also stems from thinking he is going to lose her still. That this is just an illusion and someone is going to make a sound and he will be back in his bunk and she will be gone.

I 100% HC THAT JOHN LOVES WATCHING CASS GET READY. IT IS ART IN MOTION FOR HIM. He is always telling her that he is attracted to her in anything (or nothing) and that he doesn't need all the extras. But Cass is truly girly girl at heart. Is sick of wearing her uniform for the past however many years and wants to dress up. The image of John lounging on their bed with a cigarette and his shirt unbuttoned while he watches her compare earrings or delicately put on her mascara...

Any mentions of their babies will get me so emotional. At night, even though they are exhausted, they are so fucking happy. Maybe Gale is sick and he only wants his mom. Refuses to sleep in his own bed. Cries when John tries to comfort him. But he settles as soon as he is resting against her chest. Cass has fallen asleep sitting up on her side of the bed, Gale finally at peace. John strokes his little ear (he will forever be amazed he and Cass made an actual human) and lets Cass fall against his chest. He holds them both as they sleep. Content to watch.

Until Penelope decides she needs some attention too.

#masters of the air #john egan #mota #masters of the air fanfiction #john egan fanfiction #john egan x oc #john egan x reader #answered #cass and bucky

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butch-reidentified · 1 year

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I notice articles of Radfems' teaming up with conservatives to curb trans activists. I thought radfems are left-leaning. Why do radfems team up with the right wingers if that's the case?

This is going to be long but contain a lot of very important information people need to understand about the radfem perspective on gender compared to both the conservative one and the genderist one.

I don't personally know any radfem who would ever do this so the simple answer is I can't tell you why someone would bc I've never even witnessed it, let alone gotten to ask their reasoning. People who call themselves gender critical and get called TERF aren't necessarily radfems. Radical feminism is by definition a left wing ideology. If you were active on radblr, you would see frequent posts calling out conservative women who try to act all buddy-buddy with radfems re: trans stuff. We on radblr do not tolerate that or their presence - at least not in the corner of radblr where I exist. I block right wing blogs on sight.

Contrary to popular trans belief, we don't agree with conservatives on trans matters either. Where conservatives want to reinforce gender, maintain the existence of gender, and are bioessentialist (a term genderists use incorrectly btw*) by nature of their predominantly Christian beliefs, radfems are gender atheists and abolitionists.

*Bioessentialism doesn't mean "vagina = woman, penis = man." It refers to the belief that women (aka female humans) are genetically/inherently nurturing, caregivers, emotional, sensitive, intuitive, quiet, physically weak, like pink and princesses and flowery dresses, etc., and that men are genetically/inherently strong, resilient, tough, outdoorsy, aggressive/violent, stoic, rational, leaders, like trucks and mud and red meat, etc.

While bioessentialism is the belief that all these stereotypes are innate, these stereotypes themselves are what make up gender. "Gender stereotypes" and "Gender roles" are redundant phrases. Gender *is* just stereotypes based on sex. Male aka "amab" people are expected to adhere to the truck-loving, tough, aggressive, stereotypes mentioned above. Those stereotypes are placed based on their physical body - the male body - not placed on them because of their INTERNAL "gender identity." For proof, look no further than the baby gifts an expecting mother receives after finding out the sex of her unborn child: they are not random, gender-neutral gifts, they're blue pajamas with dinosaurs on them because boy.

Radfems want to eliminate gender. We view sex as a neutral biological fact, like your height, foot width, or hair or eye color.

Imagine if, before a baby is born, doctors tested its future hair color, and that information was believed to determine everything about the child. Oh, it's a brunette! So it will be opinionated, love playing with building blocks, enjoy science, and its favorite color will be green! Oh, a blond? Well, better get it yellow EVERYTHING covered in butterflies, and order some craft supplies (blonds are just naturally more creative than brunettes, of course). Be prepared... blonds are soft and sensitive and moody. They're very artistic but struggle to keep up in math and science classes, and are so indecisive!

This is what gender is. A massive, all-encompassing set of traits that are assigned to one sex or the other, designed explicitly by patriarchy to maintain the oppression of the female sex. It defines everything, starting with how people treat you before you're even born, including who you will be expected to be all your life forever, up to what jobs you're likely to get and how much you'll be paid. Society has decided that which type of gametes your body is designed to produce (whether or not you successfully produce them is utterly irrelevant to what your body is DESIGNED genetically to do) determines every last thing about your life. There's a stronger argument for astrology than gender.

So conservatives want to perpetuate gender, keep males doing all those things I listed (which we call "masculinity") and females doing all those things I listed (often called "femininity"). Radfems want gender gone. We want your sex to be no more relevant to your life than your height or hair color. We believe that regardless of whether your body is structured to produce large gametes or small ones says absolutely fucking nothing about who you are, what you are capable of, your likes or dislikes, your intelligence, or anything else.

So, no. I would sooner die than team up with conservatives. We have nothing in common. You are by definition NOT radical feminist if you support gender and will team up with those who do, just to ~own the trains~. That isn't a no true Scotsman, it's just how definitions work.

I am not against trans people. I am 100% in favor of safety and protection for trans people. I simply don't view gender the same way many trans people (specifically those we call genderists or TRAs) do. I don't believe in an internal gender identity any more than I believe in an internal hair color identity. I do, however, believe in EVERY human's fundamental rights to bodily autonomy, healthcare, self-expression, non-discrimination, etc. I believe clothes and toys and hobbies and occupations and likes and dislikes and skills and weaknesses all have zero to do with your sex.

This is my struggle with gender identity ideology: nobody has been able to answer the most fundamental defining question I have about it. If, as many trans activists claim, their gender identity has nothing to do with clothing, nothing to do with haircut, nothing to do with being hairy vs shaven, nothing to do with personality traits, nothing to do with likes and dislikes, nothing to do with whether you prefer dolls or hotwheels, nothing to do with all those stereotypes I mentioned... but it's also not simply a descriptor for one's sex, what is left? What remains to give gender meaning? What is a boy/man or girl/woman? Without referencing any sex stereotypes or sexed body parts, how do you know which one you are?

If anyone could give me a genuine, logical answer to this, an explanation for gender identity that has nothing to do with sex stereotypes and makes concrete sense, on God I would become the biggest TRA on earth.

Because I don't believe that gender is anything more than sexist stereotypes, the idea of gender identity is incompatible with my values. Because I view sex as a simple biological fact which should be as neutral as hair color, I don't think it makes sense to believe one can fully and truly change sex. If you dye your hair blond, the roots will still grow in the original brown color determined by your genetics. You may be able to appear as a blond and convince some people you are naturally blond, but it doesn't *actually* change the reality.

I believe there are people with physical sex dysphoria, like myself and my best friend, for whom medical transition is in many cases beneficial (it was for me) in alleviating those odd "phantom sex characteristic," very neurological-seeming symptoms. But while having a double mastectomy did help the sensations, it didn't turn me into a male human (man), and I have certainly never wanted to be one. My best friend lives a life where everyone perceives her to be female, though she was born male, simply because the medical process she went through to alleviate those neurological sensations resulted in people perceiving her as female (passing). Her "social transition" was not intentional or gender related, just an incidental byproduct of the medical one. It was simply easier, and probably safer, to assimilate into social womanhood than to tell everyone she's actually male despite appearing female, though she still does not have a gender identity, does not wear makeup or skirts or perform femininity, and couldn't care less about pronouns - I use "she" because that's how my brain naturally perceives her. Outside of this concrete, material, neurologically plausible view of sex dysphoria (which still has nothing inherently related to *gender* about it), I don't understand what it means to be trans.

Radfems want both sexes to be utterly free to be whoever they are, without being influenced/socialized into gendered (aka sex-stereotypical) behaviors and preferences. We want males comfortable & safe wearing flowery sundresses and crying often and being homemakers if they wish, and females under zero societal pressure to shave, wear makeup, etc., and totally free to speak their minds and wear cargo shorts without so much as a sideways glance. Conservatives want males to be "masculine" and females to be "feminine," whereas we want "masculine" and "feminine" to be as absurd concepts as "blondian" and "brunettian" sound. Fundamentally, radfems & conservatives exist in opposition.

Anyone who has an issue with trans people, and for whom that issue is so important they'll team up with conservatives just to fight the trans movement, has utterly lost sight of the goal of feminism (if they were feminist to begin with), which is female liberation. Radfems believe gender abolition is a crucial step toward female liberation; working with people who want to enforce gender such as conservatives would be working against our own interests.

I've been on radblr a few years and never seen anyone team up with conservatives. Whoever you've heard about in the news, idk who they are, but I fully condemn cooperation with the right wing and assure you that is not something your standard radfem will tolerate. Much like how most trans people feel about Caitlyn Jenner.

#mine #ask #anon ask #anon #radblr #radfem #radfem safe #gender critical transsexual #gender critical #gender identity #gender ideology #radical feminism #gender abolitionist #gender abolition #trans ideology #trans identity #what is a woman #sex vs gender #what we believe

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rosestars · 25 days

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On Fame and Normalcy as Context for Critique of TTPD It's surprising for me to see critiques of the album that essentially say, "We all know she's extremely rich and famous, so why is she pretending to be having the human experience?" Because this album reaches us within the real-world context of Swift's fame, we can't help but see her experiencing that fame out of the corner of our eye as we listen. But I'd argue that we need to ignore that glimmer over there and focus instead on how the songs make us feel and what they are saying within their own context—to consider the album on its own terms as a work of art.

In our culture, fame and wealth represent a kind of transcendence. One of the reasons prosperity gospel works so well is that the ideology of the last century has solidified the conflation of attaining wealth and attaining heaven—which was previously considered a mythological,* posthumous state. What surprises me about these critiques of Swift's work is that they don't seem to be able to question this inner ontology.

The lesson should be that her continued focus on the subject matter at hand reveals a truth about life—as all great art does: nothing saves you from the mundane experience of being a human, nothing removes precarious emotions and irrational, unobtainable desires. These are the burdens we all bear, they are the landscapes we all walk through. At the bottom of art is the desire to establish, I think, a shared humanity. In which the artist can express their humanity and reflect the audience's humanity back to them. With a receptive audience—and I believe the Swifties are a receptive audience—the artist can see their humanity reflected back in the shared humanity experienced by their audience.

I'm skeptical of serious or intellectual (as opposed to political or social) art critique in general because it essentially investigates and unpicks whether a work of art has accurately explained the human experience. Honestly, what the fuck is up with that? The experience is what it is, what comes out of a human is an accurate human experience.

The continued resistance to seeing Swift as a human woman is a resistance to letting go of the idea that success can end suffering, which is an innate, built-in feature of having a human form.

I think the impulse to see Swift as a god on the part of some of her fans is also tied to this resistance. It's completely natural to see god in the sublime—an impossibly high waterfall laced with rainbows; a mountain view on a clear, bright morning; black storm clouds like a floating city in the summer sunlight—and Swift's presence and her work is sublime. But to place the onus of the sublime on Swift alone is also unfair to her as a human being who will, inevitably, experience the quotidian, petty, and disappointing like the rest of us. The roots of the sublime, for Swift, and for her fans, have always been firmly planted in the mundane.

I'd like to enter into evidence the lines, All my friends smell like weed or little babies and You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate / We declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratched your head / You fall asleep / Like a tattooed golden retriever and Now I'm down bad crying at the gym.

Swift has become more and more comfortable with, and skilled at, reporting from the front lines of being inside an average moment. Not a moment so sparkly that you're [dancing] in a storm in [your] best dress / Fearless. Not a moment that you're willing yourself to capture it, remember it! Not even a moment as romantic as dancing round the kitchen in the refrigerator light. It's not rare, but the narrator's there, we're there, and it's real and true in a way that poeticizing it any further would obscure.

To be an artist, Swift must be a person, as all artists must—it's our burden to be (maybe) more human than everyone else because it's our role to connect people to their shared humanity. Artists have to be open to the whole world of experience like a tide pool that lets things flow in and lets them flow out again.** Therefore, it's imperative to engage with The Tortured Poets Department as if it was written by a human woman who is an artist and not by Taylor Swift the brand, the star, the god.

It's this aspect of the her, the work itself, that is immortal and transcendent. To reference "Clara Bow" and it's allusion to the passage of female stardom, I'd like to say that Stevie Nicks (also referenced in the song along with the eponymous actress) may not be the sensation that she once was, but decades after her public "peak" Nicks' work has played a pivotal role in the development of my sonic tastes (via the way her style has inspired artists like Swift herself), my self-image, and my emotional world. Nicks' fame is not gone, it's just underground living in the subconscious of thousands of listeners like me who treasure every sublime and mundane artistic decision she made years ago.

I hate to make the parallel, but I will anyway because I love this text: Meditations by Marcus Aurelius—yes, the one that every philosophy bro in your life has told you to read—was a journal that Aurelius kept around 161 to 180 AD. The man was the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, the biggest deal, the apotheosis of then-contemporary manhood. And his journal is filled with pep talks and frustrations, urging himself to get his shit together, to get out of bed on time, to stay resilient to conflict and criticism. Normal, everyday human stuff.

He writes, "At dawn, when you have trouble getting out of bed, tell yourself: 'I have to go to work—as a human being. What do I have to complain of, if I’m going to do what I was born for—the things I was brought into the world to do? Or is this what I was created for? To huddle under the blankets and stay warm?'

So you were born to feel 'nice'? Instead of doing things and experiencing them? Don’t you see the plants, the birds, the ants and spiders and bees going about their individual tasks, putting the world in order, as best they can? And you’re not willing to do your job as a human being? Why aren’t you running to do what your nature demands?

You don’t love yourself enough. Or you’d love your nature too, and what it demands of you.”

Swift, hopefully, will continue to fix her quill, fountain pen, or glitter gel pen on her pedestrian experiences and inner feelings, expressing them as stories about other similarly flawed, confused, boring, passionate, loving, ambitious, sad, supportive, imaginative, foolish characters through her music. After all, she must continue to go to work, as a human being, just like the rest of us. And in sharing that work with the world as a human woman—not a god or an icon—we get the gift of experiencing a unique facet of our shared humanity in all its messiness and strangeness and contradiction and paradox and inadequacy and wonder.

I want you to know / I'm a mirrorball / I'll show you every version of yourself tonight.

More TTPD reflections under {#an experiential read of the tortured poets department} follow along!

Notes

*Mythological here referring to the mythology-as-worldview/ontology/truth that's upheld by religion or folk spiritual belief systems.

** This is a metaphor from Anne Lamott in this podcast episode: https://www.cathyheller.com/2021/03/how-to-quiet-your-inner-critic-stop-procrastinating-on-your-dreams-anne-lamott/ (a perfect listen for any artist who feels too sensitive for this world)

#taylor swift #the tortured poets department #the tortured poets department: the anthology #poetry #ttpd #an experiential read of the tortured poets department #ttpd spoilers #this became very long #i have far too many feelings about this #the way you look at other artists reflects the way you see yourself as an artist #we have to question the way we see taylor because it shows us how we see ourselves #mirrorball #clara bow #down bad #florida!!!

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