#strong black woman stereotype

[princessefemmelesbian]

Transandrophobia truthers are so damn racist and white oh my fucking god y'all actually piss me the fuck off every time you tokenize Black and brown men for your stupid as fuck "mra but make it trans-inclusive" ideology created by a creepy guy with a corrective rape fetish(something I'll never let up on for as long as I live, btw). If I ever see another one of y'all say "Black and brown men face discrimination because they're seen as overly masculine and that's why masculinity in men is oppressed in this society" I will literally kill myself. Stop using Black and brown men as brownie points for your bullshit arguments about misandry being real when you don't have the slightest idea how racialized oppression works. White boys are so annoying and dumb istfg.

@punkeropercyjackson @punknicodiangelo @pinkpinkstarlet

[gibor-zolel]

Fandom: We want women with flaws! We want dynamic women! We want women who are mentally strong but still have feelings!

Sydney Adamu: *Exists*

Fandom:

[ride-thedragon]

Nettles and Race.

George is great at both analysing and subverting genre tropes. We see this with his portrayal of the Targaryens as bad white blonde powerful elf like people. Or his understanding consistently in his works that beauty doesn't equal morality. This is surface level, and he does have his shortcomings (how he portrays the Dothraki in a lot of aspects, etc) but I find it really interesting the amount of tropes and conventions he addresses and subverts with Nettles specifically in such a short span of the book. George uses specific racial imagery with Nettles that we don't see often from him, in short. Here's a list:

Implementation and Subversion

1. The most unlikely is, the most unlikely:

Oftentimes, in fantasy stories, the least likely is a white disenfranchised person. The majority of the time, it's because they are poor or treated poorly. Nettles is a black girl who is poor, orphaned, and marked for thieving, and none of that hinders her own feat of claiming a dragon or the accepting initially that she does. She's unlikely, extremely unlikely, the most unlikely choice.

2. Black girls are allowed to feel:

Nettles cries and grieves. Of all the dragonseeds, she's the only one positioned to feel remorse and loss after the Battle of Driftmark. She is foul-mouthed (though not written into the narrative) and fearless. Often times their is a need for black women to be strong (not have access to their emotions) or angry (the only emotion they're allowed because they're "loud"). Nettles is crass and sensitive. She's multifaceted.

3. White people don't center black narratives:

Typically, black characters in fantasy are centred around white protagonists. Nettles distinctly isn't when you focus on her. This is different from being impacted. To be impacted means you're a part of the plot. To have someone be centred in your narrative would be for your existence in the narrative to entirely depend on your relationship with them. You don't exist outside of them. Nettles does. She has an entire life up until she claims Sheepstealer without any intervention from the Targs, and after she leaves the main narrative of Fire and Blood, she has a life. This is even in a Targaryen history book.

4. Black girls deserve to be protected and loved:

Nettles is protected by the men around her in the narrative. Oftentimes, this is something not afforded to black characters, far less for black women in fantasy narratives, but she is protected. Not just by Daemon, who is someone who has extreme emotional stakes with her but by the men of Maidenpool and Lord Corlys. All of whom are white in the books. Nettles is protected by men unquestioningly. They may decide how to do it or have a bigger motive, but protecting her is never a question.

5. Promiscuity questioned:

Nettles is never shown to be a promiscuous character through an unbiased lens. Every time a person brings up Nettles' sex, it's through the lens of necessity or heavily implied to be a dramatic assumption. The two biggest cases, "her raising her skirts for sheep" by Septon Eustace is counteracted by the fact that she's marked as a thief and claims a dragon called Sheepstealer who she's likened to in the narrative and by Rhaenyra who is disproven from her "she seduced the prince with spells" theory by both the men of Maidenpool who don't believe her and Daemon who let's Nettles go. Anytime her promiscuity is presented, it's immediately questioned by who we are told she is.

6. White women tears:

Historically and in fiction, the tears of a white woman are enough to derail any existence of a black character permanently or are at least meant to. Black people, fictional or real, are consistently tormented with the notion of white woman tears or emotional outbursts. Their actions cause a major consequence with white women. With Rhaenyra, this would be Nettle slowing her head for her suspicions. Nettles does not and gets away from. The narrative. This is unheard of. In fantasy doesn't occur because most times, the black woman would be punished, but in fandom, this idea is also reflected in the call for Nettles to be replaced.

7. Relationship with the lead man:

Daemon, for better or worse, is the lead man of the dance. Nettles finds herself attached to him in a relationship that seems, for lack of a better word loving. They seem comfortable, happy, and he's doting towards her. They spend all their time together, and it's paralleled with his other 'living' relationships as well. She's portrayed as his last great love and in the universe, the singers say as much. Issues aside, this is rare. (Martha Jones, I'm sorry I wasn't your writer)

8. Power and Worship:

Nettles is worshipped and seems to become a Goddess in her own right at the end of her narrative departure. Nettles is viewed as a deity because of the power she claimed by herself. Revolutionary. Also it isn't some blink and you can avoid it thing. It ties into the main story of Game of Thrones and her clan, the Burned men helping Tyrion Lannister.

9. Mammy, Sapphire Jezabel ext:

Mammy: Maternal black woman. Lives to serve white people and nothing else.

Sapphire: Rude, loud, stubborn, malicious, 'dumb' black women, nothing else.

Jezabel: raw, sexual, can barely restrain their sexuality and live to tempt (white) men. Nothing else.

Not once does Nettles tie into any of these tropes without it being questioned in the narrative or simply ignored in her story. So many representations of black women, especially in fantasy, fall into the first two or friend not lover trope, help mate trope, etc. anything that justifies their existence by tying them to white characters with no other outlook. Nettles subverts this.

10. Season of the Witch:

Black witches and their history save me. Black witches and their history save. This aligns itself with African spiritually and the otherness assigned to enslaved women who practised both 'witchcraft' and medicinal herbology for lack of a better word.

Witchcraft is also often tied to the imagery of the irresistible black woman as it's almost inhuman to be that attracted to black women when white women are available.

So when it's said that Nettles is a witch, imagery similar to the justifications of white women during slavery are being invoked but not followed through because no one believes her.

11. Disposable Black Love interest

This is also a big issue across genres with black chapters. It happens with Laena in the show as well. When the plot calls for it (or in a lot of cases fans) you dispose of the black love interest in place of a white one. Nettles removal from the narrative immediately calls for both Daemon's and Aemond's removal from the narrative. She isn't disposable. She's a linchpin. Also, Daemon does not go back to Rhaenyra after Nettles leaves. He just dies.

12. Nothing Special:

Magical black negros that helps the protagonist, welcome to your tape.

The magical black negros trope is this convention within fantasy where a black character will appear only to be an aid to a white character by their use of magic. They don't exist or have a life outside this purpose. Nettles could've fallen into this trap.

The idea that she isn't Valyrian could have easily been tied with the spells angle outside Rhaenyra’s bias. Instead of that, however, we get the idea that Nettles is just smart and interesting. She's allowed to be smart and interesting. The narrative defends her being smart and interesting.

She might not be Valyrian. She might not be a witch or seductress. She might be just a really clever girl who defies the odds and conventions.

Conclusion

I think Nettles was both an active effort on George's part to defy conventions and subevert stereotypes and tropes as well as a way to question his reader's bias. Nettles is often reduced to trivial, replaceable, and minor when she's not. You just have to want to pay attention to her.

[itellmyselfsecrets]

“When feminists acknowledge in one breath that black women are victimized and in the same breath emphasize their strength, they imply that though black women are oppressed they manage to circumvent the damaging impact of oppression by being strong…Usually, when people talk about the “strength“ of black women they are referring to the way in which they perceive black women coping with oppression. They ignore the reality that to be strong in the face of oppression is not the same as overcoming oppression…The tendency to romanticize the black female experience that began in the feminist movement was reflected in the culture as a whole. The stereotypical image of the “strong“ black woman was no longer seen as dehumanizing, it became the new badge of black female glory…Black women were told that we should find our dignity not in liberation from sexist oppression but in how well we could adjust, adapt, and cope…No one bothered to discuss the way in which sexism operates both independently and simultaneously with racism to oppress us…The stereotypical image of the black woman as strong and powerful so dominates the consciousness of most Americans that even if a black woman is clearly conforming to sexist notions of femininity and passivity she may be characterized as tough, domineering, and strong.” - bell hooks (ain’t I a woman: black women and feminism)

[januaryembrs]

BLACK CAT GIRLFRIEND | Spencer Reid x reader

request: Hey Congratulations on the 2K! Do you think you could write something with Spencer Reid and a Reader who has lots of tattoos and/or piercings? Like she's the whole "bad girl" stereotype but Spencer and her complement each other so well and have a very sweet and mature relationship. I would love something like that.

description: the team meet Spencer's new girlfriend and she doesn't look quite like they'd imagined

word count: 1.1k

main masterlist

authors note: I officially hit 2k followers this morning!! see my post here for requesting but lets start this milestone off with a bang!! thankyou so much :))))))

Morgan had to admit, you weren’t exactly what he’d envisioned when Pretty Boy had been talking his ear off for months about the girl in his apartment building that had slipped him your number. He wasn’t judgemental, not by a longshot, but Spencer had always seemed like the type to date the preppy, library geek, or even the cutesy geneticist if Maeve had been anything to go off of. 

It’s not like you weren’t hot, he could see that you were a mile away, but you looked like you’d sooner break someone’s wrist for so much as talking to you than fall for their resident genius. 

You smiled tightly, shaking Derek’s hand with a crushing grip, as Spencer introduced you to his team, the obnoxiously loud bass almost drowning out his words as the six of you stood in the bar. 

“Nice to meet you, Spencer talks about you all the time,” You said politely, and no sooner had you let go of the man’s warm hand, two arms were thrown over your shoulders and you were tugged into a hug. 

“I’m Penelope- oh you’re so pretty, Morgan isn’t she so pretty? You should marry Spencer then you can be boyfriend girlfriend for, like, life-” The perky voice was all a jumble as the blonde pulled away, cupping your face, rubbing down your arms kindly, sweetly, like you were swallowing a warm spoon of honey. 

“Penelope, newbie rules, remember,” Emily chimed in, seeing your eyes widen at the sudden intrusion of personal space. She could see this ending with the pretty pink bows Garcia had plaited her hair in torn to shreds on the sticky floor, right next to her long barbie locks if your intimidating figure was anything to go off, “Not everyone likes hugs,”

“No, no,” You replied, smiling gently at the woman who was softer than cotton candy, “Hugs are nice,” 

“We’re going to be very best friends, I can feel it, which is funny because my tarot actually said I’d meet a strong Taurus woman- or are you a Scorpio-” Penny’s smile was dazzling, but she was soon ushered to let go of the bear like grip she had on your shoulders by a chuckling Morgan.

“Let the other kids play with her, babygirl,” He said, and you were pulled in another direction towards Emily who gave a polite handshake. 

“Nice ink,” She said with raised brows as she saw the intricate sketches that covered the back of your hands, trailing up your arm and under the band tee you wore. She knew who they were, though they only dragged up memories of her own days of thick eyeliner and rebelling against her mother. “They must have hurt like a bitch, I got one on my hip and could barely sit for one hour,” 

You snickered, nodding, seeing her eyes trailing over the ones on your ankles and knees where your ripped jeans flashed them all. 

“Bones hurt the most, though the one on my ass is up there for the worst ones,” You replied, and Penny’s brows shot into her hairline, though she giggled like a schoolgirl being told a secret.

“I think we’re gonna need to see the proof on that one,” Morgan teased flirtily, the way he always did, the way he did even with JJ who had a whole child and partner, because it was his natural state of being. 

Spencer smiled as his team warmed to you, though he was quick to pull you to him with a gentle arm around the waist. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Derek, that man was practically his brother, he’d taken bullets for the guy, but he liked having you close, even if to just remind himself that you were all his, including said tattoo on your buttcheek that he’d seen plenty of times. 

The team didn’t need to know that, but you could tell your words had reminded him of it as he pressed a shy kiss behind your ear.

He was careful to avoid the studs and links that glittered from your ear lobe, wrapping over the cartilage on your helix, though he loved to stare at them on nights where you tied your hair up and he could count every one of them. To him you were a work of art, complex and detailed with every glance he stole. You were an illustration in one of his many books, everything he imagined for himself times a million. 

“I’m going to go get a drink, do you want one?” You said, looking up at him with puppy eyes, like a lovestruck teenager, fat adoration in your gaze. It oozed out of every inch of you, and JJ thought for a moment that you looked nothing like the scary doberman woman that Spence had originally brought over to meet them. You looked in love, the saccharine, soft and dazed kind of in love. 

“Let me get it for you,” Spencer rooted around his pocket for his wallet, turning to see Morgan’s beer bottle running low, “You having another one?”

“I’m good, my man, you just sort yourself and your lady out,” Derek flashed him a thousand watt smile and clapped him on the shoulder as you entwined your fingers with his, pulling him through the cluster of people and towards the bar, “What a stud,” 

Penelope giggled again, leaning towards her adonis best friend with honeyglow cheeks, watching their genius get led like a dog on a leash. 

“Oh lover boy had got it bad,” She drawled, watching Reid, their Reid, develop an uncharacteristically protective stance as a few men at the bar shot looks up and down your body. She couldn’t blame them either, you were a sight for sore eyes. “Okay, so do I have to be the first one to point out how hot she is or have I maybe had one too many margaritas?” 

“She seems nice,” JJ chose her words carefully, still not entirely sure she would have ever put the two of you together but she saw the way Spence’s eyes got round and longing when he looked over you. He’d clearly said something to make you laugh, and an inked hand raised up to brush his chocolate curls out of his face lovingly, “She seems good for him,”

A murmur of agreement ran through the four of them, Emily taking one more sip of her martini as her eyes roved over your figure returning with something fruity and colourful, “Anyone else dying to know what’s on her ass?” 

-

[jsuisartistofthestars]

The way I'll be like "I've had distressing dreams about death/dying/destruction three nights in a row and it's really unnerving especially because I'll remember them so vividly" and ppl around my are like "Lol! They're just dreams! It's not like you're seeing the future or anything!"

...Bon did you miss the part where I said it's distressing and unnerving?

[creatingblackcharacters]

How to spot a Stereotype: An Example

Okay, so I talked about this in my Lesson 6 Stereotypes series, but I feel like people haven't quite... Understood what I meant. So I'm doing a mini lesson/application. First, I'd really appreciate it if you take the time to read the links in my posts, because that will provide you the historical and social context necessary. If you lack it, you will never be fully able to understand this. Remember, all I do here is provide the beginning steps. You have to be willing to do the rest!

One thing I constantly emphasize is that it's not the description of a character that (always) reveals an existing stereotype, but the writing! And again, until you grasp why anti-Black stereotypes are what they are, you will continue to be frustrated with how to avoid incorporating them, both in your writing and in your mindset. I'm going to use one stereotype as an example.

The Mammy Stereotype

"[Black woman character] is very fond, doting, and protective. She's like the team mom of the group."

On the surface, people who are worried about this stereotype will worry, because Black readers have long rolled their eyes and said we're tired of seeing this as one of the Only Options for Black women characters. And we are. Here's the disconnect: the attributes are not what we're tired of, but how they were utilized in the writing- often by non-Black writers!

Mammy: put simply, the caricature of the Mammy is the Black nursemaid that would take care of the Master's white children and the Mistress, prioritizing them above the well-being of herself, her own children, and her own community. She is fat and homely (so as not to attract the Master from the Mistress), unthreatening, sweet and subservient.

In other words, the only value she held was to serve white people's needs (and quench their guilt).

While the image of the Mammy herself is a strong imagery that has faded from its specific origin, I would say the modern day fan archetypes that ring of the Mammy stereotype are the Black woman character that "holds the Braincell", the "begrudgingly fond mother of the group", the canon love interest now relegated to the "mommy/mean lesbian" whose feelings are erased altogether, her new role to help the two white characters get together without acknowledgment of her own potential. She has no real story of her own, or as mentioned, has her own story stolen because "it doesn't look good with her in it" (which is its own bag of worms).

Now, people often give these characters motherly (or what society deems motherly) traits: caring, sweet, protective, loving, self sacrificial. Because they want to defensively show that "they're a great person! Nothing bad! I still think they're good! I'm not racist!"

But upon learning of the stereotype, there appears this insecurity- "oh, my Black woman character has these traits, is she playing into this stereotype?" When you get to this question, what you really need to be asking yourself is:

What makes the Mammy a Mammy?

They are a tool, a utility to white people with more power.

They lack autonomy. How they feel is irrelevant, if it does not serve the white person.

Nonthreatening so as to feel "harmless" to white people who bask in her "selfless" care.

They are not allowed to show frustration or upset at their lot or at life; it is seen as a negative attribute because if they are not caring, they have no use (and may now even be considered a threat).

They will also disagree with anyone else, even to the detriment of themselves, to the benefit of the white person. This is considered "selfless", rather than sacrifice (consider that "real" Mammies were originally slaves. They probably hated every single day with the people they "cared" for, but God forbid they speak on it. To white people, they were supposedly so happy and grateful! Smile and nod!)

Notice, out of the things I listed, "strong", "protective", "intelligent", and "caring" weren't there! Because those aren't bad attributes for a Black character to have! Why would we ever suggest that?? Why would I be mad that a Black woman was any of those wonderful things to her peers? That's not the issue. The issue is that they are often used in service of usually white characters and their stories. They're a tool of the writer to coddle their white characters, versus a character that has their own inner workings and existence.

Knowing what you know now; things that would make your strong, protective, and caring Black woman character fit the Mammy stereotype can include:

If she is pushed to the side with no autonomy or inner life of her own, as the narrative centers the white characters and their needs.

If she is never shown to have any reason for acting outside of to the benefit of the white characters around her. That's the only time her presence counts.

If her disagreeing with, getting upset with, or refusing (or really, just not being "motherly") the white characters is deemed trashy by the narrative (whereas anyone else receives nuance or reason for their behavior).

If the white characters in the story treat her poorly, and it is treated as a good thing that she "stays calm" without any sort of reflection on her feelings.

You can come up with any sort of setting, plot scenario, and description of your Black woman character. But at the end of the day, what's going to make it the stereotype is how the narrative treats her, which you will only find out by writing it, and then reviewing your own work!

You're going to have to approach any stereotype this way. It's part of the *intent* thing I keep pushing 😅 if you don't intend to write a stereotype, you're going to have to actively understand what it is, which will help you actively avoid it.

[spider-xan]

Not tagging this bc it's outside the scope of the novel and getting into real life, but once again, I am frustrated with trying to explain the racial politics that complicate discussions of benevolent misogyny bc a lot of white women just won't listen to WOC who try to explain that white women are both harmed by AND benefit from - even enable - benevolent misogyny, at the expense of POC (including MOC), it just gets reduced 'But it's all equally bad for all classes of women', and I and other POC are sitting here thinking of all the times we've experienced white women confidently being racist bc 'I'm a strong, outspoken woman', and if we even so much as say, hey, can you please stop being racist?, these white women start crying and yelling for the nearest white men to save them from the ethnic~ bullies~, like, that is a VERY common way that white women are yes, being patronized and treated as lesser by white men, but also using it against POC, and that's not even getting to when it escalates to the racist police being called on Black people especially.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Anna May Wong (The Thief of Bagdad, Shanghai Express)—Wong was the first Chinese American movie star, arguably the first Asian woman to make it big in American films. Though the racism of the time often forced her into stereotypical roles, awarded Asian leading roles to white actors in yellowface, and prohibited on-screen romance between actors of different races, she delivered powerful and memorable performances. When Hollywood bigotry got to be too much, she made movies in Europe. Wong was intellectually curious, a fashion icon, and a strong advocate for authentic Asian representation in cinema. And, notably for the purposes of this tournament, absolutely gorgeous.

Josephine Baker (The Siren of the Tropics, ZouZou)— Josephine Baker was an American born actress, singer, and utter icon of the period, creating the 1920s banana skirt look. She was the first black woman to star in a major motion film. She fought in the French resistance in WWII, given a Legion of Honour, as well as refusing to perform in segregated theatres in the US. She was bisexual, a fighter, and overall an absolutely incredible woman as well as being extremely attractive.

This is round 6 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Anna May Wong propaganda:

"She so so gorgeous!! Due to Hollywood racism she was pretty limited in the roles she got to play but even despite that she’s so captivating and deserves to be known as a leading lady in her own right!! When she’s on screen in Shanghai Express I can’t look away, which is saying something because Marlene Dietrich is also in that film."

"SHE IS ON THE BACK OF QUARTERS also she was very smart and able to speak multiple languages and is a fashion icon on top of the acting/singing"

"Paved the way for Asian American actresses AND TOTAL HOTTIE!!! She broke boundaries and made it her mission to smash stereotypes of Asian women in western film (at the time, they were either protrayed them as delicate and demure or scheming and evil). In 1951, she made history with her television show The Gallery of Madame Liu-Tsong, the first-ever U.S. television show starring an Asian-American series lead (paraphrased from Wikipedia). Also, never married and rumor has it that she had an affair with Marlene Dietrich. We love a Controversial Queen!"

"She's got that Silent Era smoulder™ that I think transcends the very stereotypical roles in which she was typically cast. Also looks very hot smouldering opposite Marlene Dietrich in "Shanghai Express"; there's kiss energy there."

"Hot as hell and chronically overlooked in her time, she's truly phenomenal and absolutely stunning"

"A story of stardom unavoidably marred by Hollywood racism; Wong's early-career hype was significantly derailed by the higher-up's reluctance to have an Asian lead, and things only got worse when the Hayes code came down and she suddenly *couldn't* be shown kissing a white man--even if that white man was in yellowface. After being shoved into the Dragon Lady role one too many times, she took her career to other continents for many years. Still, she came back to America eventually, being more selective in her roles, speaking out against Asian stereotypes, and in the midst of all of this finding the time to be awarded both the title of "World's Best Dressed Woman" by Mayfair Mannequin Society of New York and an honorary doctorate by Peking University."

"Incredible beauty, incredible actress, incredible story."

"-flapper fashion ICON. look up her fits please <3 -rumors of lesbianism due to her Close Friendships with marlene dietrich & cecil cunningham, among others -leveraged her star power to criticize the racist depictions of Chinese and Asian characters in Hollywood, as well as raise money and popular support for China & Chinese refugees in the 1930s and 40s. -face card REFUSED to decline"

Josephine Baker:

Black, American-born, French dancer and singer. Phenomenal sensation, took music-halls by storm. Famous in the silent film era.

Let's talk La Revue Negre, Shuffle Along. The iconique banana outfit? But also getting a Croix de Guerre and full military honors at burial in Paris due to working with the Resistance.

She exuded sex, was a beautiful dancer, vivacious, and her silliness and humor added to her attractiveness. She looked just as good in drag too.

So I know she was more famous for other stuff than movies and her movies weren’t Hollywood but my first exposure to her was in her films so I’ve always thought of her as a film actress first and foremost. Also she was the first black woman to star in a major motion picture so I think that warrants an entry

Iconic! Just look up anything about her life. She was a fascinating woman.

[youregay]

I think people get mad at trans people for pointing out aspects of cis society that are invisible to cis people. this is where much of the 'trans people reinforce crazy outdated gender stereotypes' comes from I believe. when a transfem talks about having to buy makeup, wear dresses, take up less space, etc to be seen as a woman, she's pointing out the misogyny she's experiencing and how she's dealing with it. she's not creating these standards and it's cis people who are ultimately enforcing them; sometimes violently.

transmascs are accused of 'mutilating' their 'female' bodies and reinforcing the idea that women can't be masculine or strong or have 'male' interests but if men could have visible breasts without constant mockery, harassment, and misgendering than way fewer transmascs would get top surgery in all likelihood. even cis men get shit for having breast tissue; cis men with gynecomastia get told kys, and cis male celebrities are plastered on tabloids for having 'moobs'.

truly being cis can't save you, look at what's happening in women's sports rn. being Black or brown means you're not enough of a woman and that any and all of your actions are acts of male violence. gender is performative and pointing that out doesn't magically make it true, it was already true. jkr didn't gender that woman boxer based on biology, it's literally a lie she created, she gendered her based on white supremacist patriarchal ideas of gender which say that brown women can never be as much of a woman as a white woman and that 'real' women cry and are nonviolent; only men are boxers.

this extends to nonbinary denialism as well. if cis people really believed in exclusively two 'biological' genders/sexes they wouldn't treat ostensibly binary trans people the way they do. they don't want a trans man years into medical transition to start using the women's bathroom, they want him to stop existing. his existence is an inconvenient truth to them; gender really is a performance, you just shouldn't say that.

[mjolnirswriststrap]

Super Hearing

Homelander x Reader

Word Count: 927

Summary: You forget Homelander has super hearing, while trying to explain something to your friend in a crowded coffee shop.

Warnings: None.

Masterlist

Sandra’s voice drones on and on about the way climate change is ruining everything. You sip on your tea with a disgruntled look. She promised shopping and gossip, not channel five news. Your attention is caught when the bell beside you chimes. Letting everyone know a new customer walked in.

Your eyes widen in shock, this is the last place you’d expect to see him. The Homelander, at Starbucks. It helped that he had his son with him, his eyes ,almost as wide as yours, look at the extensive menu. This must be his first time. You look at his childlike wonder and remember being 14 and ordering cake pops with Sandra.

You look across from you and your jaw drops. “Sandy! Look who it is!” You whisper. She rolls her eyes, not fond of him. “God, please let the earth swallow me whole.” She says, dramatically resting her head on the table.

“You know I can’t stand him, or any supe for that matter.” She says rolling her eyes at your excitement. “Well. You know how I feel, I respect him, the good he does far out weighs the bad. He’s earned being a cocky ass.”

Speaking of ass, you take the time to admire his, he was wearing his suit, but no cape, must be too dramatic for errands with a kid. Someone blocked your view. A stereotype of a woman stands behind him, tapping his shoulder with her bottle tanned hand and long fingernails. “Can I get a picture?” You swear her voice sounded normal but it shot hot streaks through your veins, filling you with an annoyance.

“Sure thing.” He says, plastering a fake smile on, that looked like it hurt. He leans over for the picture, keeping a foot of space between them, even though it was obvious she wanted him to wrap his arm around her for the picture. You scoff, “He’s here being a dad to Ryan, why even bother him with pictures?”.

You see as the barista throws herself at Homelander as he orders for Ryan. She’s leaned halfway over the counter, her top buttons recently undone. “Look how tense he is right now, he probably never catches a break from women.” You say, never taking your eyes off him.

“I bet he has a new one of them in his bed every night.” Sandra says, downing the rest of her black coffee. You shrug your shoulders, it was probably true, you’d be one of those girls too, if you had the chance.

Sipping your tea once more you watch as they stand at the end of the counter, not immune to restaurant wait times. “I just know those girls can’t take care of him like he needs.” You feel bad for him, “They want a big strong supe to wreck them, I bet all he wants is to be cared for, genuinely.”.

Sandra laughs at you and it breaks your attention from the tall man. “As if it would be you.” She laughs again when you shoot her a confused look. “You’re so not his type, skinny blondes seem more in his range.” She says.

Your friends words hurt, but you knew they were true. You could sit in the corner fantasizing about him all day, it wouldn’t change the fact the he would never approach a girl like you. “What’s so wrong with dreaming?” You say, giving your friend a fake laugh to let her know you wanna change conversation topics.

Sandra pulls her phone out when ‘beez in the trap’ starts filling the small Starbucks dining area. “Hello?” She says, and you take the chance to look back over to the supe. Except he’s not standing there anymore, you see Ryan waiting by the front door and before you know it, blue fills your vision. Homelander is at your table, a paper business card in his hand.

You’re dumbfounded for a minute, wondering what it could possibly be. You look up to his face and meet his eyes. They glimmer as if he didn’t expect you to dare make eye contact with him.

“Can I help you, Sir.” You say, not wanting to say the wrong thing and embarrass yourself. Sandra groans from across the table, while still having the phone pressed to her ear, you don’t owe him anything and yet here you were serving yourself up.

“I hope so, call me. That is, if you like cocky asses.” He drops the card on the table and turns towards your friend to give her a grimace, letting her know how dissatisfied he was with her. He walks away without another word. Leading Ryan out of the trendy coffee shop.

Your face turns beet red, he heard you. If he heard you calling him names, then he heard how much you want him, a glimmer of pride sparks in your chest, she was so wrong, maybe you are just his type.

Sandra slides her phone into her purse, silently fuming. “Are you serious right now? We’re supposed to be having a girls day, not picking up guys.” She says, annoyed with everything you do. You wonder if she’s even your real friend.

“We were supposed to go shopping, not sit in Starbucks and talk about ice caps melting.” You shoot back, not letting her bully you any more.

Sandra gives you a look of surprise, like she didn’t expect you to talk back to her. “I think I’m gonna go.” You say, leaving her open mouthed at the table. You had to go celebrate yourself, alone.

[theblackfemininesociety]

Girl Talk: Stop Comparing Yourself to Unrealistic Beauty Standards.

We just want all of our besties to see this video and take into account that 90% of the beauty standards and images you see that is pushed by the media isn’t real.

And this is with no shade: Jodie Joe, the face of fashion nova, has had surgery and it’s still photoshopped, altered and edited in realtime to make her look a certain way.

Stop comparing.

Stop consuming.

Stop trying to fit the mold when you were designed to break it.

Choose health and fitness over aesthetics. Prioritize your well-being, focusing on nourishing your body, staying active, and reprogram your mind to have a positive mindset.

Why?

Because true beauty radiates from within, and when you feel strong and healthy, it reflects in your confidence and energy.

Set realistic goals, celebrate your progress, and surround yourself with supportive communities that uplift and motivate you.

💌 A love letter to my BFS Ladies:

Here at BFS, while we adore sharing moodboards and celebrating outer beauty and fashion, we want to remind you that your journey in femininity and healed womanhood is about so much more. The true goal is healing, inner confidence and growth. Becoming the woman you aspire to be should transcend your outward appearance.

This journey is a mindset and a lifestyle that not only embodies the essence of a soft life but also breaks generational curses and defies stereotypes often placed upon Black women. It’s about nurturing yourself and starting a journey of self-discovery.

Your God-given superpower as a woman lies in this transformative work. Don’t just look the part—embrace the full, life-changing experience. Don’t cheat yourself from the profound growth and healing and real purpose that awaits you.

With love and inspiration,

The BFS Team 💋

Follow us on IG • Facebook • Join Our Groupchat !

[milliesdiary]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐒

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭; you’re a general's pants-wearing daughter: a skilled fighter, headstrong, and teased by others for not being feminine. during a sparring session with your friend, aemond, you two make a bet: if you win, he has to show you his eye. if he wins, you have to wear a dress — and kiss him.

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬; aemond being aemond, confessions, just some good old sweetness ✨

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; thank you so much to the amazing person who asked for this :”) i hope i could do it justice! to be as inclusive as possible, i do not mention the reader’s father’s descent. i also do not specify her skin tone, body type, eye/hair color, or hair texture ♡ 

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍’𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄.

Not like any other woman, at least. You’re strong-willed. Unshakeable. Not as naïve. 

As a child, you made mud pies, climbed trees, and kicked boys who made fun of you for acting unladylike. You would return to your parents with grime under your nails, grass stains on your pants, and a twinkle in your eyes. Blood never bothered you; you could get slashed open, bruised, and filthy, yet still make it home. 

Maybe it was because of your father — a stubborn general hardened by war, with a sharp way of speaking and a stern sentiment. He taught you the way of the sword at the age of 9, and instilled you with a sense of discipline. Not once did he try to force you into the stereotypes of being a woman; the fancy clothes, the manners, the expectation to give birth at any chance possible. 

That’s just not you. 

You're not the kind of girl who crumbles beneath the weight of insults, who loses her mind, who cries. You give the same treatment to those who hurt you. You are Bloody Mary, the venomous spider, the wicked snake. You are a creature that can wander through flames without getting burned.

So no, you are not like the other women.

And the townsfolk are always willing to remind you.

The second you step onto the training grounds, all eyes are on you, and there’s an intense discomfort at how they look you up and down.

They are taking in your appearance; your black flowy cape, leather pants, and the tunic cinched at your waist to match. It’s not the style they are used to seeing, comprised of silk dresses and chiffon gowns. 

People gossip about how you could steal the hearts of every man in Westeros if you just put on a skirt — if you sat with your legs crossed, prim and proper. If you smiled more often. 

“Such a waste of a pretty girl,” they whisper.

How stupid.

You shrug away their stares and try to focus on something else.

It’s a beautiful day, perfect for sparring; the November sunlight veils the world in a golden shawl, and the cool air is sweet as a mandarin. The temperature has risen enough so that you can train without getting numb or going home with an earache from the wind.

You’re more than ready for a fight, to get your hands soiled and feel sweat bead down your face. 

Walking over to a table where swords and blades of all kinds are spread along the surface, you feel that familiar rush of excitement. You’re about to grab a dagger until you hear someone call your name. 

It’s Ser Criston. He walks over, armor clicking with every stride and gleaming in the autumn sun, only to stop beside you. “I was waiting for when I would see you again. Have you come to train?” 

“Of course,” you say simply. “Did you expect any less?”

“Maybe not,” the knight replies, an accepting expression on his face. He knows that you enjoy playing dirty. 

Luckily, you and Ser Cristin get along. He is outside a lot of the time helping to train the others, so it was not unusual that you both talked from time to time. You aren’t sure if he is bothered by your lack of femininity, but he never mentions it, so you do not mind him.

You focus your attention back to the blades, picking up a particularly sharp sword. You weigh it in your hands; the grey metal is dense and heavy, brand new. Your reflection stares back at you in the steel. Ser Criston catches your hum of satisfaction. 

“That sword was gilded just days ago. A work of art,” He nods.

“Indeed it is,” you agree. Then you smile knowingly at him. “Is there anyone I can spar with?”

Ser Criston responds with a curt nod. Admiration dances in his brown eyes; he’s definitely not like the others. “Plenty.” 

Eager, you follow Ser Criston to the patch of land reserved for sword fighting. People are gathered in a circle around two men who are already sparring; the crowd cheers, made up of men who are desperate to make a good impression and women who have come to watch.

You glance at the pair of individuals who are currently engaged in a duel, following their sharp steps as they parry each other’s hits. You remain near the back of the crowd, bringing the tip of your sword to the ground and resting both hands on the hilt. 

You’re trying to act casual — but you’re actually itching for your turn. Impatient.

The fight turns out to be pretty boring. You’re able to guess every move before it’s done and correct every miscalculated block inside your head. It might be unfair to judge them so harshly; you’re a skilled fighter and have trained for years. The advantage is yours. 

But you also can’t bring yourself to care. These are the same men who boast about their power despite being weak.

You’re genuinely relieved when one of the men knocks the other down, leveling their sword at their opponent’s face. The people around you clap for awhile, and then the crowd slowly breaks apart as some leave to continue their duties. 

It’s fine; you don’t need the validation of a crowd during a match.

“Alright,” you say gruffly, ripping your sword from the dirt and skirting through the gaps of people, stepping onto the sandy soil of the sparring area. You turn to face a few of the trainees’ expectant faces. They are waiting for you to choose someone, though all of them seem pathetic. Might as well get it over with.

“Would you like to duel?” You finally ask a man toward the front.

For a second, he remains still. And then he smiles; fucking smirks like he’s a serpent and you’re a lamb ensnared between its teeth. He thinks you’re an easy opponent, all because you’re a woman. 

Beating him is going to feel good, you think. Beating all of them.

Balancing the sword in a hand, you spit into the dirt just to spite him — which is successful in making multiple people cringe. Good. You have to bite back a smile and prepare yourself for your opponent’s first strike. 

And you were right, of course.

They’re all useless, each more powerless than the last. There’s no challenge, no threat. Not even child’s play with any of them. You have more than half of your competitors on their asses before they even get an opportunity to attack, making every clang of your sword against another seem meaningless.

You ought to take pride in it, thinking back to their breathy chuckles as they whispered about how deluded you were. How unwomanly.

But you don’t. You don't feel prideful, self satisfied, or any emotion of fulfillment. It’s too easy. 

The blows from your adversary are repetitive, almost as if he is rehearsing a list of strategies. The movements are easy to predict, giving you the upper hand. It’s not difficult to knock him on the ground, sweeping his legs out from beneath him with a blow that you wish he would have jumped over.

There is someone who definitely would have dodged it, though.

The enigma, the cunning raven, the Prince — Aemond Targaryen. The one man who doesn’t judge you or stare condescendingly. The only person who you consider an equal, an acquaintance. 

Aemond is a man of honor. His eye is the shade of lavender, and every syllable that falls from his tongue is sliced apart by the sharp quirk of his lips. High cheekbones, fair skin, an eyepatch making a home over a scar that sits where his eyelid once was. 

A dark serpent. 

Just as you struggle with your identity, he does, too. You are aware of Aemond’s lack of restraint, lack of faith, lack of fear, and his internal conflict. You know why the man is the way he is.

Aemond had told you what happened once, after you had finished having a nice conversation with his nephews. It’s tragic: when a person doesn't feel valued as a member of a family, they develop a sort of outcast mentality. Childhood experiences of neglect paves the way for lifelong isolation, and as a result, Aemond withdrew. He started spending time alone.

But out of every person in the world, he chose to keep a spot open for you. It’s an honor, really.

The man you are sparring with gives in, standing to his feet with a grunt of humiliation and shooting you a glare. You return it with one of your own, ready to pick another opponent, and then—

“You have been busy, I see,” A familiar voice says.

You turn toward the sound of it, the lull and the accent — only to be met with Aemond standing in the front of the crowd. You size him up, sword dangling at your side. 

Aemond’s arms are crossed behind his back in a casual fashion, head held high with interest. His white hair is in a half-up half-down style, the ends flowing over his broad shoulders like a silk scarf.

“My Prince.” There’s no stopping the grin that blooms on your lips. As embarrassing as it is to admit, you always find excitement in his presence. “Dare I ask how long you have been watching?” 

“Long enough.” Aemond is silent as he scans you up and down; there’s not a single streak of dirt on you, nor a single cut. He takes notice. “Pray tell: how many men have you made fools of?” 

“I don’t know,” you dramatically sigh, acting indifferent. You retreat from the center of the sparring ground to stand in front of him. “I have not had the luxury to count. I was too busy winning.”

Aemond exhales a sharp breath from his nose — his way of conveying amusement — and slightly tilts his head. “It seems that they have not prepared themselves for a woman of your caliber.” 

It’s a compliment; a bit cheeky, yes, but a compliment nonetheless. It has you rocking back and forth on your heels in anticipation. “A woman of my caliber? I must say, My Prince, I am flattered.” 

“I would not say it unless it were true.” 

“Well, if it is of any comfort, you are not like any man I have ever known," you jibe. "You're like a character in a folktale. Someone from a history book.”  

"The prince, I presume." 

"No, you're the dragon. A magnificently evil dragon." Your tone becomes teasing. “How could anyone lead a regular life with a beast like you?”

“I should inquire the same, My Lady.”

“You just don’t understand a woman that dares to be different, that’s all.”

Aemond lets out a simple ‘hmm’ at that. You slap him in the arm playfully and he doesn’t flinch. He only graces you with the tiniest smirk.

The prince does not enjoy being touched, though the aversion seems to disappear when it comes to you. He can tell; he knows by how he does not scowl at the idea of your hand on his shoulder, or cringe at the feeling of your arm brushing against his. You do not give off negative energy. 

Perhaps this is why you have remained in contact with each other; you don’t judge one another for the things you are and for the things you can’t be. Somewhere, deep down, you both think the same thing: take me as I am, or watch my back as I go.

You know of Aemond’s true nature, and he realizes yours.

Much like him, you cannot be picked and thrown away like a flower or an old manuscript. You are a hurricane: ferocious, unflinching, and authentic. A dagger that will slice through the flesh of anyone who dares to cross you.

Though he will not publicly admit it, your spunkiness delights him.

“Come then,” Aemond says. 

You’re confused at his words — unsure of what he’s talking about — before he saunters to the center of the sparring circle. He brandishes his sword from a holster wrapped around his hip, the metal screeching into the air. “We have yet to train together. Demonstrate your skills to me.” 

It’s true. In the years you’ve known him, you have never once challenged each other. You know what Aemond is capable of though, so it’s intimidating. It’s probably the main reason you have never asked to spar. 

Maybe it’s time to change that; you’re not about to back down from a fight. It would hurt your pride too much. 

“Fine,” you agree, slinking forward to stand before him in the training area.

There’s so much you want to know about Aemond, you notice. So much that you’d like to learn. Your gaze is focused on his face, and his eye, and then that eyepatch — and you realize that he has never showed you what’s underneath the leather.

You’ve heard the rumors: how the socket has been replaced by a sapphire, a deep, saturated blue that reflects the light at every angle. You wish so badly to see it. For him to trust you with the imperfect parts of him. 

It gives you an idea.

“I will spar with you,” you begin, maintaining a serious tone in your voice. “But only if we make a bet.” 

The look on Aemond's face changes from being neutral to intrigued. He slices the earth open by shoving his sword into the soil. “And what would that be, My Lady?”

“If I win,” you quip, “you must show me your eye.”

The silence is deafening.

Aemond frowns then. You’re scared for a second; scared that you went too far and bit off more than you could chew.

Looking back on the past can be very frustrating. You have to let it go, you want to tell his younger self, clapping him on the back. If you did that, he might get angry. Or maybe cry. Maybe you would, too. 

You open your mouth to revoke the words, yet close it just as quick, unable to get a single syllable out. 

But then he speaks.

“Then it shall be,” Aemond says firmly. He leans his weight on his sword, crossing one ankle over the other. You aren’t sure if he actually doesn’t care or if he’s just hiding his anger. He’s always been an expert at keeping his emotions at bay. “If that is what you wish.” 

Relief is a godsend in that moment. You fix your surprised expression into one that is more calm. “…And if you win?”

Aemond seems to think it over.

Finally, he decides on something; with the mischief that glints in that one eye, you know it’s going to be less than satisfactory. “I propose you wear a dress for an entire day.”  

“What? There’s no way—“

“And kiss me.”

Your mouth drops open in surprise. 

Is this how he plans on winning? By threatening you with something so strange in the hopes that you will give up before you started? Like hell you’re going to kiss him. Fuck that. “You cannot be serious.”

“But I am,” he says coolly. Taunting. 

In that moment, you consider your options. One, you could retreat. Two, you could fight him and win, effectively seeing the thing he hides most. Third, you could lose, and have to wear a dress, and…

The thought has you reeling. But, at the same time, you do not want to run away from a challenge. You never have. And never, ever will. 

You’ll just have to win.

“It is settled then,” you nod, trying to remain composed. Your voice wavers a bit; if Aemond notices, he does not comment on it.

Aemond’s mouth creeps into the slightest smile. He tears his sword from the earth and spins it in the air with a flick of his wrist. “Whenever you are ready, then,” he deadpans.

“I have been ready,” you tease, stepping sideways as you both begin to circle each other. Your footsteps are light and airy in a silent prowl, a show of the expertise your father passed to you. “Are you?” 

“The first to hold the other at sword-point wins,” Aemond states, ignoring your question. There’s a sharpness to his words as he tries to draw a reaction from you. Provoke you. “I hope you do not hold back.”

“You must think lowly of me, My Prince,” You retort. “I would never do such a thing. Are you worried that I am going to beat you at your own game?”

Aemond licks his lips, fixing you with a predatory stare; it looks as if he wants to use his canines to rip apart the air, the world, your body that stands before him.

It urges you into action.

You lunge with your sword, but Aemond knocks it to the side with ease, spinning his own in a hand and making a swipe at you.

You don’t hesitate to deflect it — once, twice, three times — before parrying another of his blows. You manage to hit Aemond’s sword particularly hard the fourth time, and you catch a glint of surprise in his eye.

You take a quick step back, before confidently transferring your blade from one hand to the other without breaking eye contact. Your head is buzzing with exhilaration.

“Did you think it would be that simple?” You grin arrogantly. “As a man who studies the way of the sword, I thought you would be more of a challenge.”

To your chagrin, Aemond doesn’t gift you with a reaction. His profile remains composed, although there is a fire in his eye; he has finally found someone who tests him. 

You are about to say something else before he lunges for you.

Aemond is fast and skilled, the swiftness of his steps impressive, with a strength in his arms that could send you to the ground if you gave him an opening. With every clash of your swords, you know he’s evaluating your endurance, your attacks, the likelihood of you slashing him with your blade.

However, Aemond is not attempting to boast his power; not like the other trainees who argue like idiots about whose sword is the sharpest or who has the best balance. That’s what you like about him.

Aemond’s jaw is set and confidence keeps his chin held high, even as you deliver another strike to his blade. Your attention is drawn to the way his knuckles are white from the grip on his sword; veins protrude from the pretty skin of his hands, emphasizing the slender length of his fingers.

Focus.

Strike. Block. Dodge. Slash again. You score another hit, but Aemond follows it immediately with a jab at your chest, which has you losing your balance. You respond with a stab at his side, though he dodges it. 

This dance of blades feels like it lasts forever; if it were anyone else, you probably would have won by now. Every second feels like a minute, each one longer than the last. 

Just before a leap, Aemond tightens his grip on the weapon’s hilt. Before you can react and fix your stance, the sword swings towards your feet, his speed and skill working together to knock you off-balance. You land on your back in the dirt, your blade flying somewhere.

You’re fast, yes. But he is faster.

Quickly you try lift yourself up and grapple for it, but suddenly Aemond pushes you back down. He straddles you, careful not to place his entire weight on your body, and then the pointed edge of his blade is at your throat.

You’ve lost.

Aemond lets out a breathy pant, a wicked grin on his lips — it sends a chill branching down your spine, all the way to your feet. Spite coils in your chest, your nerves trembling with adrenaline, and you see the thrill of the fight reflected in Aemond’s eye.

You are both the same in that way.

“You do put up quite a fight,” Aemond jests, his tone low and deep. You let both arms lay flat across the ground, every breath labored as your heart punches the inside of your ribcage. “Though I am afraid it was not enough.”

You've never experienced energy like this before. You’re trapped underneath him which is exciting in a strange way. You respond with sarcasm in an attempt to hide your embarrassment.

“You offer to spar with a woman only to fling her into the dirt,” you pant. “How polite of you.”

“And you spar with a dragon.” Up close, Aemond’s iris is a startling violet, and the pupil reflects streaks of shadow and light. He’s agonizingly gorgeous. It makes you feel warm. “Is that not what you called me?”

“You are a man of the most preposterous kind.”

“And yet you still wallow in my company.”

There’s nothing you can really say about that. In a final act of defiance, you stare him down as long as possible; in this small way, you feel undefeated. “You can release me now.”

Aemond hums in acknowledgment, letting his sword hang at his side and slowly standing. In a rare act, the prince offers a hand for you to take, but you slap it away. He is entertained by your glare. “You never fail to reject kindness when it is given.”

“Kindness does not serve me.”

Aemond is amused at your annoyance. He spins his sword between his fingers before sheathing it back into its holster, and you pick up your sword to pass it to an observing knight. When you turn back around, Aemond is staring at you. “What?”

“You owe me a debt.”

There was the bet; you’d almost forgot. Gods, you were going to have to wear a dress for a day, and — and…  

“Regretting your choices now?” The taught line of Aemond’s mouth evolves into a smile, coy and demure.

“No — no, of course not,” you snap. The words don’t come out as calm as you need them to, and it’s all because of him; he has a way of being frustrating. Always doing something to make you tighten your fists. But as much as you would like to blame him, it was your idea. You reap what you sow. “I never break a promise.”

“Good,” comes Aemond’s response. You both stare at each other for a bit, and then you realize: he’s waiting for you to kiss him. For real. Right here, right now.

“What is wrong, little bird?” He teases. “Do not fly away from me now.”

“I—“ you start, unsure of what to do. A split-second decision is made. “I am not doing this here.” 

Before Aemond can say anything, you are grabbing him by the arm and tugging him along. You pull him past clusters of townsfolk, ignoring their curious stares and keeping your gaze forward. He does not resist you.

After peering around an empty alley and inspecting it for any stragglers, you drag him into the stony darkness and nearly slam him against the wall. It’s not on purpose; you’re just reacting to the aftershocks of adrenaline. 

You need to be alone to do something like this. 

You’re so close to Aemond now that you’re breathing the same air as him, nearly pressed against his chest. You can smell his jasmine shampoo, can feel the warmth radiating from his body. You try to slow your breathing: in and out, to clear your head and push every doubt away.

When you find the courage to look straight at Aemond, you find that he’s already gazing at you. 

The light is dim, though you can still make out his profile. You expect his violet eye to be full of mirth, akin to a wild animal staring back at its prey — but what Aemond offers you is righteous and noble. It causes you to prickle with eagerness and anxiety. 

“Do not look at me like that,” you mumble.

“In what way?”

“That way.” You don’t even know what you’re referring to. You just want him to stop staring; it’s burning you up from the inside. “You always act like this when you feel like you have won.”

Aemond’s smirk grows before your eyes. His gaze flickers to the sliver of space between you, and then back to your face. “Sometimes I feel that you know me better than I know myself.” 

You would let out a sneer if you weren’t so terrified; you need to uphold your side of the bet. You know it. And you definitely don’t want to give him the chance to tease you for your hesitation. 

“Maybe I do,” you breathe. Then, grappling with every single piece of boldness you can find, you press your lips upon Aemond’s. 

The kiss is resolute — there’s no way you were going to half-ass it — and you fall into him roughly, slamming each emotion you feel onto his mouth. He tenses a little, but then his hands rise to your arms, thumbs pressing into the sleeves of your tunic.

And then it’s over. 

You break away from Aemond, almost shocked at yourself. Did that really just happen? Your blood pressure is through the roof, pulse thumping like a war drum.

You stare at him, and he stares right on back, both of you saying nothing. You can't look away, as frightened as you are. His expression is soft. So soft that it scares you, yet his eye darkens with interest.

You try to make a joke out of it, to rid yourself of this awkward feeling.

“With the way you are looking at me, My Prince, I would assume you actually like me,” you jest. It doesn’t work. Your brain is mush and the words are flimsy. Gods, you feel overheated. 

Aemond only blinks, those silver lashes fluttering against his cheeks. It seems like he has come to a realization, and you don’t know what that is. He’s testing the waters; waiting to see if you will run away.

“And what then, My Lady?” he finally replies.

Your body gets hotter in an instant. The implications behind his words are enthralling, holding you in a death grip and making it impossible to speak. You’re searching for something to say, anything, but come up empty handed. Part of you is glad when he fills the silence. 

“I must admit,” Aemond says slowly. “There is a certain quality to you. You seem unbreakable.” 

“You know that’s not true,” you whisper.

“Perhaps,” he says. “Though there are times where I am not so certain.”

“Aemond…” 

“Tell me: what do you think of me?” Aemond suddenly asks. It’s not commanding, not a demand. It just feels…personal. You’re not sure how else to describe it, the sound of him speaking so softly. Your ears are accustomed to your father's stern instructions and peoples’ jeers of your boyish antics. His tone sultry, he asks, “Do I make you nervous?” 

“No—you don’t make me nervous,” you stutter. It’s hard to look him in the eye as the lie comes from your lips. “I do not really think of you much, honestly.”

“Hm.” Whether or not Aemond knows you’re lying, you have no idea. “You would be astonished then if you knew the ways I have thought about you.” 

“What do you mean?”

Aemond takes in your expression, gaze flitting down to your mouth and then back up to your eyes. “Would you like to know?”

“Yes,” you say automatically. You’re not sure why you’re hoping for something more — something other than just empty insults and jests. Almost as if he knows what you’re thinking, Aemond leans in. His lips brush against your ear as he speaks.

“You are alluring when you ache for chaos. The flesh of your opponents are beneath your nails and their blood stains your teeth, and I can see you are a woman on fire.” His voice just above a whisper, breath hot against your cheek. “We are both made of flame. You have stolen my attention, my love.”

My love. He has never called you that before.

And it’s in this very second that you have an epiphany. How could you not have noticed it earlier? Felt it? How did you ignore the passion whenever this man talked, the warmth he conjured within you, how grateful you were that he treated you differently than others? 

Aemond has feelings for you. And judging by how you are instantly filled with a massive amount of satisfaction, happiness, and excitement, you hold affections for him too.

But what is love, anyway? It must be the imprints someone creates inside of you—bruises, scars, gashes. Maybe he had maimed you in the same way, except you turned a blind eye to it. Truthfully, you never even thought you would experience something like this. 

After all, love makes humans do terrible things, and you do not consider yourself to be that bloodthirsty. So much of it is violent; there’s the desire to be split apart, defiled, twisted, and reinvented by another person. 

You have seen lovers approach one another in a wolflike manner, ravenous and feral for their attention. People who challenge their love get dragged in between them and flayed open without mercy. It’s terrifying, though it’s not watching the wolves tear others apart that scares you. 

It’s knowing that you would do that for him.

Aemond boldly stares you down. “You are unaware to the extent I defend myself and my sentiments. How you manage to get the truth from me is rather peculiar.”

He suddenly reaches out and touches your cheek; he does it slowly, almost as if you are a beast trapped in a snare and he might scare you away. 

Then Aemond moves his thumb to the corner of your mouth, before skimming it over your bottom lip and pulling it down slightly. He stares down at the inside of your lip — the sensitive, shiny flesh — wishing that he could brand his name there. If anyone tried to entertain you after, you could simply tug your lip down and show them who you belonged to.

This is not a simple bet anymore. 

The urge to kiss Aemond again breaks free from within your system. Against your control, the impulse expresses itself in dirty thoughts that invade the most intimate parts of your body.

Quickly, you grab Aemond’s wrist and tug his hand away so you can press your lips to his once more.

“I hate you,” you breathe against him, holding his face between your hands as your noses brush together. “I hate you so much.” 

Aemond retaliates accordingly; the way he licks into your mouth sends a shiver that ricochets throughout your body. He’s hot. So, so hot. His fingers cup the back of your neck to keep you close as your hands fly away from his face to hold every inch of him possible. 

Aemond’s chest is warm, and his lips are scorching when he trails them over the corner of your mouth and then down your throat. You let your fingers roam to his hair, exploring the softness of each strand that drapes over his shoulder blades.

Aemond knows he’s getting a reaction out of you, that you are starting to feel the prickle of lust. It’s humiliating. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing you can be riled up so easily. It is not like Aemond would give in to your primal desires anyway; he cares too much about duty, about honor. The man follows house tradition — marriage comes before anything else. He is just toying with you now.

You break apart from him, something he surprisingly allows. You want to tell him that you love him, just so he knows. If only you had the ability to articulate such things. 

“Is this all you wanted?” You ask instead. “A kiss from me?”

Aemond places his hands on your elbows to coax you back a bit further; he wishes to see you entirely. His hand then rises to your cheek, where his thumb strokes at the underside of your jaw. “I did not want just a kiss, darling,” he reassures. 

“And for how long have you been thinking like this?” You steel yourself and continue more quietly. “How long have you loved me?”

“Since the boar hunt,” Aemond says without hesitation. “You begged your mother to let you join, and a girl said you might as well be a townsboy. You tackled her to the ground.”

“But that was the day we met.”

“It was.”

“…That is…quite a long time.”

Aemond only hums at that. The confession makes your heart flutter and threaten it to stop; you swallow down his words, grateful, and then try to collect yourself. You clear your throat. “My Prince—”

“Aemond,” he corrects. 

“Aemond. I need you to know something.” 

“And what is that, my love?”

“You can’t sweet talk me into wearing a dress. I will not do it.”  

“You will.” 

Damn it. He is really not going to give this up.

“I hope you burn in the Seven Hells,” you mutter. It’s a joke, of course. You can’t really be mad at him. 

Aemond’s lips threaten to twitch into a smile. An emotion akin to pride rests in his eye. “I shall only go if you accompany me there.”

And maybe, just maybe, you were meant to burn together. Whatever your destiny is, one thing becomes very clear:

You will ruin him, and he will love you for it.

[ifyouknowmenahyoudontt]

the marauders fandom is the PERFECT exemple of performative activism.

yall make such a strong point about sexuality thinking it’s doing something while completely erasing the characters personality.

i don’t CARE that regulus black is gay in your eyes what matters is that HE WAS A PUREBLOOD SUPREMACIST. you use sexuality as a shield in a way that’s so counterproductive.

the point of all of this was to make barely existent characters deeper and more complex but it went off to make everyone dumbed down stereotypical version of barely themselves.

we all hate jkr right? but some of you go around erasing the only political aspect of the books for the sake of your little fetishized gay twink story.

you think you are so different from the rest of hp fans because you make characters gay but you ignore the racial and gender stereotypes aspects of everything. as a woman and a NON WHITE woman hearing people talking about their favourite ships and characters is WILD.

all of you put such an importance on being respectful to peoples opinions but only when it comes to sexuality. the moment someone criticizes your love for canonically racist little assholes that did so much damage instead of deepening characters that ARE CANONICALLY WHAT YOU MAKE FANON INTO you freak out and call them names.

the fight for the LGBTQ+ community is not singular. it goes hand in hand with many other fights like for racial equality and gender equality.

before you comment “ LeT pEOplE liVe” or “ In My HeadCaNonS theYre nOT liKE THAT” i don’t care about the me.me.me speech

i care about what you make popular. what had taken over the fandom and what is being seen by the younger audience that you make seem as normal

[vampirememory]

Intuitive PAC: What is your next partner's appearance?

Hi guys! Here is a simpler, intuitive pick a card today about what your next partner's appearance may be.

Now go ahead and pick a pile 💖🎻🪿

Disclaimer; remember that people are very vast & unique, meaning that there's a chance that this reading won't resonate. Just make sure you use discernment and let go what doesn't resonate 💖.

Also, the PAC's intentions was to be for your next partner, but it is possible to ask for your future spouse/there is a possibility they may be your future spouse, but take what resonates as it's different for everyone.

Pile one is the silver & pink tiara, pile two is "baby", pile three is the hello kitty radio, and pile four is a heart.

Pile One

♡ Brown hair and blue eyes.

♡ Somewhat of a shaggy hairstyle. Their hair may touch slightly below the ears (regardless of gender). Might have a blue or teal streak in their hair or previously had one (or will have one in the future).

♡ Baggy clothes, streetwear. Might also have somewhat of an interest in cyberpunk.

♡ May have a unique facial feature (ex: uniquely placed freckles, moles, or skin dis/coloration). Might also have acne marks or scars that you find to be attractive.

♡ I'm seeing paler skin, although darker skin is a possibility. I'm seeing that you find their skin very attractive regardless. Their skin has somewhat of a natural glow. Vitiligo may be in the picture.

♡ Taller, more lanky (regardless of gender).

♡ This is the shortest pile, spirit/the universe/whoever you believe in may not want you to know specifics about this person.

Pile Two

♡ Muscle man. Might have somewhat of an appearance of those strong guys from circuses ? (Unsure of the name, but a very stereotypical, burly & muscular man with a full beard/mustache and tattoo combo).

♡ Might have lengthy hair. Their hair may reach past their hips.

♡ I keep seeing/hearing body hair, they have a lot of it (I'm seeing this regardless of gender. Women may feel more comfortable letting their body hair grow OR may constantly be complaining about it/shaving it. She might shave in some areas and not shave in others (ex: regularly shave her legs, but her arms are unshaved)). Might have something characteristic like sideburns or a unibrow (ladies w a unibrow: btw I love you you're so pretty ily genuinely)

♡ Brown hair or darker colored hair.

♡ This particular person might be Asian, specifically hearing Middle Eastern or South Asia (Pakistan? India?). Also possibly Egypt or North African.

♡ They have medium toned skin. Obviously, the countries listed are a lovely spectrum of skintones and there is not one particular skin tone for one region, but they are more than likely brown versus being white or black.

♡ lovely voice I heard, not particularly a physical characteristic but you'll love their voice.

♡ might have very nice...feet? You'll like their feet, something about them is lovely in a foot model way but also sturdy, or they may have a certain gait or way of walking you find to be attractive.

♡ may smell distinctly of roses or some other flower, like jasmine. A very pungent, beautiful flower that you don't forget (I'm being reminded of night-flowering jasmine, which in my household is known as "lady of the night").

♡ People here are more than likely asking for a woman. If you're trying to find out about a dude, they might have a goatee ?? They may appear to have somewhat more feminine traits; his eyelashes are beautiful holy shit !!!!

♡ lovely, lovely eyes. May be very dark but you almost get lost in them, very beautiful. Or they can be a unique shade of brown or green, you love them regardless.

Pile Three

♡ excellently fashioned. Specifically said. You might really like their fashion taste. Best dressed (being brought to the best dressed game on animal jam, they may model or just have top notch fashion, always on top of trends or may wear things that are classy, chic).

♡ may be genetically French. Not seeing them being from France (obviously if you are in Europe this is more likely, take what resonates), but a similar appearance to Pile One's person.

♡ stronger, square jawline.

♡ I'm being brought to an image of some tiktoker, but his female version for videos? She usually has freckles from the filter & longer brown hair.

♡ might dress in blue a lot or blue is their favorite color.

♡ pale af. Nothing wrong with pale people but they're pale lol. Whatever you consider pale is them.

♡ might be well off, as seen with the first choice, might come from old money OR they might be a tiktoker and making bank (infinite money glitch was the exact phrasing).

♡ might look very good in gold jewelry, they dont think silver isn't really their color BUT I'm seeing that they probably have a cool/green/blue undertone.

♡ very nice nails, regardless of gender they always look very nice.

♡ might be tall, 6'0-6'4

Pile Four

♡ darker skin, brown locs

♡ might have colorful extensions, you'll find their hair style very beautiful and unique, "fresh"

♡ lemony fresh, might have somewhat of a fresh & clean feel to their essence and appearance

♡ bluish brown vest, might like wearing vests or layering their clothes. Somewhat of an academia look.

♡ might wear glasses or might have contacts, might change out the color occasionally just for fun.

♡ might own a pair of pink contacts

♡ aura is very friendly and "fruitful", they have a really nice aura to them that shines in their physical appearance.

♡ skin, nice skin.

♡ has very nice teeth, they might be eerily perfect. Whatever you consider to be nice or perfect teeth for a partner is what they'll have.

♡ if you've been manifesting or trying to script a perfect partner, they might be the exact replication of your desires.

♡ "fantasia", something important for someone out there.

♡ "ET" (the song), women might somewhat have a similar appearance to Katy Perry, or this person might embody the music video in some way. Fringe & chrome.

♡ high cheekbones with fuller cheeks.

Thank you so much for reading! As usual, feel free to check out my masterpost with more readings, or you can support me by purchasing a reading by clicking here. Thanks for the support, let me know which pile you picked and if it resonated or not :)!