#Between Death Or Conformation

[plumsaffron]

Between Death or Conformation Finale

The melancholic and laughable truth.

[arkhengel]

TAG DUMP :

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵃᵘᵗʰᵒʳ .ㅤ❝ we are bees then﹐ our honey is language .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵖʳᵒᵐᵒᵗᶤᵒᶰ .ㅤ❝ come﹐ little bees﹐ the flowers have your breakfast ready .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ˢᵘᵖᵖᵒʳᵗ .ㅤ❝ we must dissent from apathy﹐ we must dissent from the fear .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵖʳᵒᵐᵖᵗ .ㅤ❝ doves and pigeons can also be trained to send messages .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵃᶰᵒᶰʸᵐᵒᵘˢ .ㅤ❝ who is this stranger﹐ who comes in the darkness ?

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵠᵘᵉᵘᵉ .ㅤ❝ time doesn’t erase the demons we don’t see .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ᵃᵈᵛᵉʳᵗ .ㅤ❝ the revery alone will do if bees are few .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ᵈᶤᵛᵉʳˢᶤᵒᶰ .ㅤ❝ at the end as at the start﹐ and through all the in - betweens .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵉᵘᵖʰᵘᶤˢᵐ .ㅤ❝ memory conforms to what we think we remember .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵘᵗᵗᵉʳᵃᶰᶜᵉ .ㅤ❝ forgive me that I write an elegy where a poem should be .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵖᵒᶤᵉˢᶤˢ .ㅤ❝ in the dream I am always posthumous﹐ the sole survivor of myself .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵉˢᵗʰᵉˢᶤˢ .ㅤ❝ ruins that are not ruins﹐ but hymns of luminous memory.

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵉᵖᶤᵍʳᵃᵖʰ .ㅤ❝ i know the angel’s melody when death alights naked on my shadow .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵛᶤˢᵘᵃˡˢ .ㅤ❝ like the painting of a sorrow﹐ a face without a heart .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᶤᵐᵃᵍᵉʳʸ .ㅤ❝ i can’t bear the idea of my soul being hideous .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵗʳᵉᵃᵗᶤˢᵉ .ㅤ❝ some of it is obscene and bestial﹐ some of it is pure and holy .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᶜᵒᶰʲᵉᶜᵗᵘʳᵉ .ㅤ❝ i am doing my best to not become a museum of myself .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒᶰᵃ .ㅤ❝ so easy to look at﹐ so hard to define .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵛᵉʳˢᵉ .ㅤ❝ bring me right back down to the earth from the promised land .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵛᵉʳˢᵉ .ㅤ❝ patched with the skin of an old dream .

[arkhengel-archive]

TAG DUMP :

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵃᵘᵗʰᵒʳ .ㅤ❝ we are bees then﹐ our honey is language .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵖʳᵒᵐᵒᵗᶤᵒᶰ .ㅤ❝ come﹐ little bees﹐ the flowers have your breakfast ready .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ˢᵘᵖᵖᵒʳᵗ .ㅤ❝ we must dissent from apathy﹐ we must dissent from the fear .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵖʳᵒᵐᵖᵗ .ㅤ❝ doves and pigeons can also be trained to send messages .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵃᶰᵒᶰʸᵐᵒᵘˢ .ㅤ❝ who is this stranger﹐ who comes in the darkness ?

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵠᵘᵉᵘᵉ .ㅤ❝ time doesn’t erase the demons we don’t see .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ᵃᵈᵛᵉʳᵗ .ㅤ❝ the revery alone will do if bees are few .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ᵈᶤᵛᵉʳˢᶤᵒᶰ .ㅤ❝ at the end as at the start﹐ and through all the in - betweens .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵉᵘᵖʰᵘᶤˢᵐ .ㅤ❝ memory conforms to what we think we remember .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵘᵗᵗᵉʳᵃᶰᶜᵉ .ㅤ❝ forgive me that I write an elegy where a poem should be .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵖᵒᶤᵉˢᶤˢ .ㅤ❝ in the dream I am always posthumous﹐ the sole survivor of myself .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵉˢᵗʰᵉˢᶤˢ .ㅤ❝ ruins that are not ruins﹐ but hymns of luminous memory.

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵉᵖᶤᵍʳᵃᵖʰ .ㅤ❝ i know the angel’s melody when death alights naked on my shadow .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵛᶤˢᵘᵃˡˢ .ㅤ❝ like the painting of a sorrow﹐ a face without a heart .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᶤᵐᵃᵍᵉʳʸ .ㅤ❝ i can’t bear the idea of my soul being hideous .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵗʳᵉᵃᵗᶤˢᵉ .ㅤ❝ some of it is obscene and bestial﹐ some of it is pure and holy .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᶜᵒᶰʲᵉᶜᵗᵘʳᵉ .ㅤ❝ i am doing my best to not become a museum of myself .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒᶰᵃ .ㅤ❝ so easy to look at﹐ so hard to define .

⊹ 𓆰 *´ ᵛᵉʳˢᵉ .ㅤ❝ bring me right back down to the earth from the promised land .

[sugardollyxoxo]

Dolly's guide to a bimbolicious summer pt 2

pt 1

Appearance

Pale pink lip gloss, fluffy curls, bombshell bras, pink mini skirts, dolly lashes, body glitter. Being a bimbo is about expressing your inner femininity that society has tried to suppress and shame for far too long. Reject conformity & embracing individuality.

Define your persona- Who is she, really? What’s her color palette? soft pastels or chic neutrals. Is she a sultry video vixen or a sweet dolly princess? Who are her icons? What does a day in her life look like, from how she gets ready to what she wears when she runs errands or lounges at home?

Closet clean out- Put on your favorite playlist, light a candle, and set the mood. When I'm cleaning out my closet I like to imagine it as one of those makeover montages from those 2000s movies.

The easiest part is getting rid of anything you truly dislike. Old baggy tees, cargo pants you never wear, sneakers you don’t love, your brother’s hand me downs Let. Them. Go.

And I know we all have that pair of jeans or sweater with sentimental value that we just can’t let go. That's okay! fold it up and tuck it away in a keepsake box. Out of sight, out of your new aesthetic.

When I’m deciding on what to keep, I like to ask myself:

Does this have potential?

Can I crop it, accessorize it, or layer it?

Does it match anything on my Pinterest board?

I always keep plenty of basics, they can be zhuzhed up later or personally, I like to wear them on gym days or on low effort days when I still want to look cute without doing too much.

Shopping smart- This is the fun part, but also where it’s super easy to fumble. Do not impulse buy the first cute thing you see, or you’ll end up with a piece that’s impossible to style with anything else in your closet.

Keep your Pinterest board open while you shop and make a list of your essentials. Stick to a clear color theme that matches your new vibe, this helps keep your wardrobe cohesive and makes styling way easier.

Now, when it comes to actually shopping I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE thrifting. It’s not only sustainable and budget-friendly, but it makes your aesthetic more authentic.

Let's be real, so many of our fav Y2K brands are now shadows of their former selves and websites like Depop, Poshmark, and Whatnot have so many of those vintage pieces for reasonable prices. If you’re lucky enough to have local thrift stores go! You never know what gems you’ll find between worn denim and random graphic tees. That perfect low-rise mini or baby tee might be waiting for you on a $3 rack.

REMEMBER Your closet becomes an authentic version of you, not just a copy-paste of what’s trending so shop with intent.

Dolly maintenance- Think of yourself as your own personal doll. You would never want your favorite doll to have messy hair, chipped nails, or dull skin right? So treat yourself with the same love and care.

In addition to your daily routines, make time for weekly or monthly beauty appointments. Whether that’s getting your nails done, refreshing your hair, or getting a wax. These rituals keep your inner doll glowing.

Also, make room for spa days at home. Put on a cute robe, light a candle, and pamper yourself with a hydrating sheet face mask, exfoliation, hair treatments, and body oils. Being high maintenance isn’t a flaw. It’s a lifestyle 🤏🏽 🤏🏽 🤏🏽

Posture- Your posture is one of the first things people notice, it silently communicates who you are before you even speak. Slouching expresses shyness & insecurity. Standing tall and open radiates confidence and power. Even the most plain outfit can be elevated simply by the way you sit and walk.

Think of yourself as honey: slow, and intentional. You are not a stick !!! Shoulders back, chin up, and sway those hips. Your posture is not about perfection it’s about presence.

Other tips♡

-Full maximalism I wholeheartedly believe minimalism will be the death of society. So apply that glitter like there’s no tomorrow, wear that statement outfit, none of that “clean girl” around here.

-Even on your off days wear causal outfits in your favorite color

-Find your signature scent. Our smell and memory are closely related, so even if someone doesn't remember your face, that association with your scent can evoke strong emotions.

-Incorporate gua sha and other lymphatic drainage massages into your skincare & body care routine

🎀 TAKE UP SPACE, NEVER apologize for being sexy, girly, soft, loud, or sparkly🎀

[willowed-wisp]

gladiator [ könig ]

part two

König would make the perfect Ancient Roman gladiator, and you happen to be the daughter of his trainer.

You thought it was barbaric- absolutely heinous. Yet, what were you, a woman, supposed to do in a patriarchal society where women only had one use.

So you had to sit on your hands, your mother hated the habit. You weren’t even allowed to argue with her, lest your father get involved…

Your parents weren’t terrible people- just unfortunate enough to be wrapped in a system too big for any family to endure.

The Roman Empire, grand and faulted. Corruption laid thick and violence ran rife.

Thats why conformity was a must and keeping your heads down was a close second.

Which was impossible in the wealthy echelons… blood knew blood until it had to be spilled.

Bloodshed was senseless. You were only watching onto the warring combatants in the arena below you because your father trained them- forcing you to acquaint yourself with the way of life.

Not squeamish in the slightest- you just thought it was abhorrent and you also had… other reasons.

Joining your father since you were a teenager- watching gladiators come and go.

Traded off or killed.

No in between for those poor souls.

Though, your father painted them out to be wretches, only training them to avoid execution by order of the emperor. For so long you thought the same.

Until HE arrived… a couple years older than yourself. You didn’t know much about the handsome, expressionless boy.

That didn’t mean you weren’t intrigued. Grappling your curiosity by the neck and choking it down. He was a dead man.

That didn’t exactly happen, he was fast for his build. The tallest man you had ever seen and not to mention what he had you feeling as a seventeen year old, bound for an arranged marriage. He grew to become successful and quite renowned in the Roman Empire as unbeatable.

They called him ‘Rex’, meaning ‘king’. And he ruled the Colosseum. Whatever he was faced with, with upside triangles in paint beneath his eyes, he conquered it. You pondered how he hadn’t bought his freedom, or had earned it. He would make an impressive military general…

You had shared looks. It was purely because you were around the same age. Not because of the half-lidded gaze he faced you with or how statuesque his body stood… let alone in the heat of combat.

Towering over you- swamping you… no.

There was just something about Rex that left you intrigued.

That night you agreed to a soirée from some socialites in your family’s circle. Meeting place- the ruins that were by your villa on the outskirts of Rome.

The only catch was to wear a mask- and so you did. Weaving through backstreets and the footpath down the grassy hill. Met with torchlight and… naked bodies. Not uncommon for the majority but irregular for you. Stuck out like a sore thumb in the sea of flesh.

Heart leaping from your chest- two hands on your shoulders, “You shouldn’t be here, little miss Silvanus…” How did somebody recognise you? Face met with a broad chest… you’d know that maimed, chiselled frame anywhere. Appearing in your dreams… never this close before in reality.

How had he gotten out of the jails beneath the Colosseum? “Rex… how- ?”

“I slip the guards some money and they let me out until sunrise,” You could get him in trouble punishable by mutilation or death. Warmth from those lips against your neck, “Now how did YOU end up here? This isn’t the place for someone like you…” Your cheeks were inflamed, his smirk spoke as much looking down at you. Normally so stoic and unspeaking, must be the wine.

Palm against his chest- cut nails grazed slightly. Light teal peered down at your hand. Aching in your chest as those eyes met yours.

You had meant to push him away, now finding yourself reeling the gladiator back in. “I’m going to leave, I don’t know anyone here,” with care his hand caught yours.

“No, live your life. And you know me, I’ll be your escort for the evening…”

“Don’t be a fool. We’ve never spoken before- we don’t know each other…” a shining look beamed down at you.

Holding out his looped arm- scattered blanched lumps amongst his veins, “Trust me. Nothing bad is going to happen, unless I have a death wish…”

You had been dubious, but the wine rushed to your head… stripping any clothes you had on. Remembering the dancing with Rex, his hands on your bare waist. The only thing between you and him was the loincloth he wore.

You were just eighteen then… and accompanied your father to train on the daily from then on. Passing glances between you and Rex grew more frequent.

He hadn’t been inappropriate with his hands, even in your wayward state. That left you with many questions not enough answers to fulfill them about the famed gladiator.

You needed to get some air, away from the crowded stadium. Navigating the maze, bumping into rock… “Fuck!” relieved seeing his helmed face, blood dripping from a cut on his neck. “Thank God, it’s just you. Are you alright?” Not able to help but reach up. Thumb nearly touching the wound, he clasped your hand in his own. Dropping both to the side.

“Just a cut…” It wasn’t just a cut but you knew he could take care of himself- he’d survived this long. Rex’s neck craned- lips brushing your ear… a reflection of that night. “Come to the ruins at midnight…” Soft against you- a hand at your waist for that glimmer of a second. Then you acted like strangers.

You had become adept at scaling your balcony and down the ivy in relative silence. Your parents none the wiser as their daughter appeared as a wisp in the wind- flowing sheer material tousled on the hill.

So you found yourself stargaze on a slab of crumbled slabs, balmy flurries on your skin. “The Lion…” Hefty palms so forbearing when guiding your pointing hand along the stars above you.

“Thank you, Rex…” You didn’t see the wince when you spoke his name.

He did drop your hand from his, “That’s the name they gave to me when they took me away…” Revenant and hallowed…

“You’re not from Italia?” Body on its side, looking down at that face. So at peace but trouble all the same.

His head shook, “The Romans call it Noricum. When they arrived at my village, they thought I’d make a good gladiator… so here I am…” It wouldn’t take a genius to note the dejection in his tone…

You took his hand in yours, finally looking your way instead of up- away from the tragedy that was mankind and their conquests, “So what IS your name? Where you come from, what do they call you?” A solemn look on his face- maybe hindrance. But he trusted you.

“König… it means ‘king’…” So not entirely different from the name he was given in the Colosseum. They meant the same.

You didn’t say that to him, not even a word. Thumb brushing against the new wound on jawline- avoiding after one swipe. Your face all he saw, “Well, I’m glad I’ve met you König…” Lips pressed against his, chapped but nothing that bothered you. Taken aback when he sat up, mouth agape and he swept in. Deepening the feeling, a pang in your chest while steadying yourself on his solid middle.

His brandished hands were intoxicating against the soft skin of your jaw, anchoring you where he needed you. He broke the symmetry you shared, “You’re an amazing woman…” Hooking a leg over his hips, oh… that’s how he yearned for you. “It’s wrong, isn’t it? A peasant with a noblewoman…” Nails scraping along his glorious skin… all yours for the taking then and there. You were on top of him, felt his intention and he could see the lust in your eyes.

“I’m just Y/N, and you’re just König… not a noblewoman or Rex the gladiator…” A sharpe inhale from the man beneath you as the straps of your stola dropped. As if he’d never seem a pair of breasts before. Another tone dripped from him with your hand reaching past the fabric to his hardness.

Whatever Gods listened, may they help you… you’d seen many before- men in Rome weren’t afraid to be in the nude but this was a brute.

He knew it wasn’t a good idea, lining yourself up over that large tip. The etching on your face, the squeak of your voice… “Gods be merciful…” You could take it. He remained still while you sucked him in constricted walls.

“Relax,” Fingers rubbed your thighs, tingles spurring down to your core. Looking into his eyes was the main help- his face… the sweat caught on his brow, down into those thickets of blond that had grown up since you’d met him. “It’s just me, my love…” You sank down further after hearing that… tears prickled… finding some kind of pleasure in that overwhelming burn.

That night you saw more than stars, raging breath matching your panting. Stilling yourself against König, limp in his capable arms. Picking up the pace when you begged for it.

Moaning obscene nonsense as his came inside of you, going for another round against the desecrated marble pillar. Hands on his broad shoulders. Screaming his name, not the one they had given to him.

You repeated that routine every Day of Venus, the fifth day of the week.

Tongue exploring every inch of your body, fingers collapsing you over the edge. A few more scratches on his back…

It was that way, until he won the sword… earning his freedom. Released from your father’s hands and the city’s.

König, known by all as Rex, was a free man- rich from the earnings he had stored in those five years. Famous and taken on by the Roman military.

You supposed he had forgotten about your times together… not hearing from him for half a cycle. Until one day he was at your family’s villa for a dinner, seated across from each other at the marble slabbed table. Icy sage staring at you, “General Rex, I’m sure you remember my daughter…”

A grin slack on his face, “I believe so, Y/N, wasn’t it?”

He had you against your bedroom door that night, apologising for the absence while rutting into your legs- wide open for his thickness.

Then it was marriage celebrations a mere week later.

Splitting your legs apart, revealing your sex. Ravenous was an understatement, but he had to control himself, “I’m never leaving these legs.” Thrusting his hips forward, “Never.”

You didn’t know if the gladiator had conquered you or if you had conquered you…

König the only thing you could mumble when he split you in two.

————

masterlist

[captainjimothy]

personally i do think julian bashir is trans, but not in a way that sublimates his genetic alterations into a trans allegory. i think he's disabled and trans at the same time, but i think his rebellion against his parents--the symbolic death of his old self with the name change--that's not about gender, for him, at all.

it's about the incredible violation of autonomy he experienced as a disabled person under the knife of a eugenicist society. it's about the need to reclaim some, any, of the agency that was so completely stolen from him by his parents.

it's about discovering that his entire self was deconstructed and reconstructed, without his knowledge or consent, for the express purpose of being less of a burden on his parents.

because let's not forget that the death of julian's old self was not his decision. it was his parents who killed the old self and created a new one.

let's not forget that human society in star trek is still recovering from the eugenics wars--that just because it's post-scarcity doesn't mean it's a utopia.

let's not forget the multiple episodes where bashir is forced to confront the fact that his "success story" is truthfully a gross reminder of how deeply his society (and his family) hates disabled people, not only shown in how they tried to fix him, but also in the fact that the process so rarely works as intended, yet is still done anyway--and the failures and the ones too far gone to save are locked away! with no connection to general society, and only the bare minimum provision for their physical needs, with no privacy and no autonomy!

and let's not forget that julian sees these people and is torn between the empathy he has for them, and his urge to fix them. and he goes through with this urge on Sarina, "fixing" her to conform to his idea of what she ought to be, treating her as a problem to be solved, objectifying her via "my ideal woman was trapped in this disabled body/mind and i saved her," thus continuing the cycle of violence, because even he can't conceive of a world where the disabled do not need to be fixed. where the violence done to him was wrong. fuck man

[ultimate-marysue]

De aging fics would never not be precious to me, even if the author has no idea of what real children are like and how they're actually not 80% cutesy 20% accidentally funny. Like, the old saying about children and drunks being the only ones telling the truth but apply it to vigilantes who are so used to keeping up appearances they sometimes can't even tell who the real them is.

Like, give me heartbroken baby Bruce showing a grief and vulnerability that his children technically know is there, but have never seen openly expressed. Just seeing Bruce be emotional in general feels like such a shock. It's not like the assumed he didn't have emotions... But maybe they don't always remember?

Give me tiny Dick just infuriatingly pointing out all of the things older Dick has the grace to pretend to not see. Young Dick expressing negative emotions with as much ease as joy, making it obvious how much he keeps under wraps as an adult.

Give me baby assassin Cass so absolutely delighted at being allowed to show love and be loved back that it absolutely destroys everyone because it's one thing to know about her past and a different one to experience it. Baby Cass who has no way of communicating yet but who soaks up everything they teach her, desperate to know how to express herself.

Tiny Jason who is such a delight despite everything. Who is very obviously traumatized by his life circumstances but has a zest for life that is so obviously missing from his adult version. Baby Jason proving that he wasn't too reckless or angry or emotional and everyone having to reckon with the fact that this precious baby is the one they've been blaming for his own death.

Happy go lucky Steph showing way more clearly the trauma of being raised in an abusive household than any of them have seen from her. Older Steph jokes about it and hates passionately her father, but there's a difference between seeing that and seeing a little girl flinching from the adults around her.

A very Tiny Tim who is not yet aware of how not normal it is for a kid to be able to sneak out most nights to photograph super heroes unnoticed. Who doesn't understand why it would be weird for his parents to go investigate their archeological sites leaving him in Gotham. What did they want them to do? Take him with them? It's not safe for a kid in most of those places and he gets to do whatever he wants. What's wrong with that?

Baby Duke who has not learned yet how to mask and is in full Neurodivergent display while everyone around him thinks "no, that actually makes sense". Just, baby Duke completely unaware of the situation cause his parents never forced him to conform. Everyone keeps taking notes as Duke explains how he does things like they're dummies because "duh, it should have been obvious!" (It's not obvious, his parents always accommodated him without making him feel different so he just thinks this is the standard).

Also as a bonus: actual baby Damian being the most adorable little hot patootie ever witnessed. They get to dress him in different costumes and do a photocall. They share it with Talia and she sends them back a bunch of equally silly old baby photos.

[uzurimisery]

bite the hand that feeds. / naoya zenin / nsfw

Warnings: MDNI, Naoya Zenin is a warning, misogyny, secondary sex discrimination, physical violence, rough sex, degradation, a/b/o, biting, blood, BDSM, dub to noncon, use of slick, forced consumption of bodily fluids, talk of impregnation and baby trapping, lactation kink, sadism and masochism, spanking, threats of domestic violence, objectification, maybe body horror, dear god please practice RACK irl

w.c: 7.5k (shes juicy)

A/N: baby's first omegaverse! my (very) late entry into the wonderful @goxjo's Into the Omegaverse Collab

The rhythmic patter of zori against the courtyard bridge banged in your mind, each strike sharp and precise like a taiko drum—warning of impending doom that faces your lady. Married off into the Zenin clan under a clear blue sky, the breeze ruffling her dangling kanzashi. Everything about her looked perfect today, you had ensured it. Despite being your cousin, there was a world of difference between you as she strode forward, back straight, umbrella held by another attendant. Her every move was slow and steady, pronounced grace and elegance in every movement.

 It was easier to be from a branch family like you were—less pressure, less conformity, at least to a certain degree. While you had been at least allowed to attend jujutsu training until you presented, she had been given the basics of controlling her technique. Never stepping a foot outside of the family compound. 

It felt like the tsubo-niwa felt like it went on forever. The stretch between the bridge’s end and the open shoji doors where the meeting would take place going on like the desert. The air between heavy, hot and humid, weight down the fabric of your kimono.

It was easier being from a branch family. You could bow and prostrate, low and deep as your aunt had whipped into you, the cedar marks still faint against the back of your thighs. The scars almost faded, silvery lines, chain linked together through opposition, personal rebellion where you could. You could then sit, your posture picture perfect, eyes kept low to the ground, breathe calmly, and let the men speak. You could retreat into yourself, the memories of how the sun felt against your bare arms during training, the tan you’d get from the hours of running drills. The peace using your cursed technique brought. 

The peace and solitude of those moments had felt so pure. So freeing. But clan expectations changed everything. If only you had presented as a beta. 

The cicadas buzzed a drone against the conversation. The clan head was appraising your cousin, speaking directly to your uncle. Wanting to know every important detail about her. How consistent her heats were, what her last blood work showed, and how likely was her technique to be passed down over the Zenin family. It had always been like this here, omegas being cattle. Traded, bartered, bred. You’d be luckier than her, likely married to someone of less importance. Your value was lower than hers with a mistake from your youth. Perhaps he’d be kind, come to care for you over time. 

Maybe he’d let you train again, show you favor if you gave him an heir. You had made peace with the fact freedom, true freedom, would never come until you died or the death and destruction of your entire clan. 

Maybe one day everything would go up in flames, and a great fire would roar over the compound, scorching the earth. Erasing the clan from history. Maybe a curse so powerful would come and consume everything in its wake. Maybe you should just run away, flee from Japan altogether. There were sorcerers abroad, maybe you could join their ranks. Be free from how they operate here. Or maybe you would run away and rebuke sorcery.

Clove, rich and warm, scented the air as another man walked into the meeting room. His voice was low, steps heavy. 

Master Zenin introduced him as Naoya. His scent was distinctive, with notes of sandalwood underneath. It was spiced and smelt like comforting winter nights as the snow fell on pine trees. Holidays with your parents when your father was still alive. Both soothing and invigorating. It seemed to draw you in. Never before had a scent captivated you so strongly.

The dread you had felt crossing the bridge grew stronger, the animal instincts inside you screaming at you to run, and to run far. Run before he could catch you. 

Peeking over your lash line, you caught his eyes, dark brown and full of hatred, directed straight at you. Scrutiny crawling over your skin, climbing up through the arms of your kimono and wrapping around your heart, squeezing it tightly. He looked at you as meat, stock to breed. Your eyes quickly returned to staring at the floor.

You had heard tales of him before, of all the Zenins, but experiencing it was a different story.

“Naoya, this is Hiroko Kimura.” Naobito spoke plainly as if your cousin was another thing to buy at the store. As if he was deciding between brands of butter. 

From the corner of your vision, you watched as your cousin prostrated before him, kanzahi jingling as it hit the ground. Her father bows in suit, not nearly as low, saved by being an elder even if he was from a lesser family. Hiroko gave her greetings softly, speaking of how grateful she was to meet him. She was pumping out pheromones as she went, her scent permeating the air. The clash of clove and honey made you feel sick, the smell sticky as it crept around, spread by the breeze. 

He acknowledged her briefly, with no real interest or care as he returned her greeting.“What’s the one behind her.”

You knew he spoke of you sat five feet behind your cousin, now desperately trying to refrain from shrinking into the floods of your blue ougi-patterned kimono. To keep your pheromones from leaking out, to not scent the air with fear. 

“That is my daughter’s handmaiden, my brother’s daughter.” Your uncle introduced you to Naoya, shifting all the attention in the room to you. “She’s to continue her duties until a suitable mate is arranged for her.” 

Naobito hummed as he now turned to look over you. The weight of everyone's gaze was heavy on you. If it had been a different time and place, you had led a different life, perhaps it wouldn't have felt like the end of the world but you knew the attention of the room, of the marriage meeting, being on you was far from good. 

Naoya walked towards you, his presence looming, getting so close you could see his cloth-covered feet nearly touching your knees as you stared down at them. The soft fabric a sharp contrast to the dread pooling in your stomach. Maybe god would be merciful and cause lightning to strike the house, distract everyone, and allow you to escape. But god was not merciful, not kind, nor caring. No one was there to hear your prayers. 

“Smells good,” he crouched before you, cornering you without any way out behind you. He left you with no escape route. “Look at me.” 

His voice dripped with authority, command, and control, your instincts forcing you to comply. Instincts overriding fear, forcing your eyes to meet his own sharp brown eyes. Something in you felt like it was pulling you towards him, screaming at you to go to him. That he was the answer to your problems. That he’d take care of you. 

He looked over you, his gaze filled with an unsettling intensity making you instinctively shrink as he looked for flaws or dents, something that might detract from your value. It was strange. To be appraised not as a person but as an object by him.

The silence stretched on as he did so, no one speaking for the first few minutes. Everyone was waiting to see what he would say — if he would say anything. But as his silent appraisal continued, the conversation returned between the elder alphas in the room as they discussed the latest in sorcery. No one cared that his stare was lecherous, undressing you as you sat there poised and politely. The front of your ankles burned from the strain.

Naoya’s hand went to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands you had to patiently worked into an appropriate style for such an important meeting, before tugging your head to the side with enough force to make you wince. A whine escaped you, feeble, the omega within you desperate to appease him. To desperately try and salvage something to diffuse the undercurrent of rage and entitlement radiating off of him

It was hard to keep your eyes trained on him as he instructed, it felt nearly impossible. The trained reaction of avoiding confrontation, battling with the fear of displeasing him, and looking away only making the situation worse. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat feeling closer and closer to bursting through your chest as he leaned forward, weight in the balls of his feet, face uncomfortably close to your neck. To your scent glands.

Warm, wet muscle brushed against them, tasting the skin. A soft moan fell from your lips as you could feel every individual taste bud of his tongue as he lapped at your neck. 

Embarrassment, mortification-shame dancing along your spine as the room stilled again. Everyone had heard you but no one chose to comment. It was clear Naoya was staking his claim on you. Why would anyone care what he was doing to an omega, especially one with no status? It was his birthright as an alpha. The spices in his scent made your eyes sting with how close he was now, like little pinpricks on your skin.

Each passing swipe of his tongue swirled in your belly, warm and shimmering. Molten lava began to creep freely through your veins, replacing all the blood as you desperately held on to composure. Your nerve endings all thrummed in time with your heart, sending pulsing jolts of electricity everywhere at once. Your throat scratched, your mouth dry, like all the moisture in your body was moving to gather and pool at your core. 

You had seen alphas doing similar things. Scenting unclaimed omegas, testing just how much they could get away with. It was taboo if you were a normal functioning member of society, but when it came to the great families, it was a free game. Never did you think you would have to endure such treatment in front of your family.

“You taste good omega,” Naoya’s teeth scraped against your skin, teasing at a bite, a gasp leaving you. The sensation was both terrifying and strangely intimate. “Like cherries and cinnamon.” 

He moved your head again, this time forcing eye contact with you. The hand not wrapped in your hair crossed over your features. He started at the top of your head, tracing the perimeter of your hairline with his thumbs, pressing in slightly at your temple before moving on to your eyes, your eyelids fluttering shut as he brushed over them. Then he took to your cheekbones, running his thumb parallel to the curve of them before sliding down to your jaw behind your ear. He followed your jawline all the way to your chin before his thumb brushed your lips, smudging the lipstick that had been put on you to ensure your attire was appropriate for today's meeting. You could feel his eyes never leaving you, dark and filled with desire and dominance.

“Open.”

Your eyes snapped open, meeting his instantly. He tapped against your bottom lip, a command you couldn’t ignore. 

“You’re not very smart, are you?” His tone was sardonic, dripping with condescension. It didn’t matter if you were or weren’t. It only mattered what he thought and that you were an omega. 

“Open.” This time, you knew to part your lips.

Naoya’s thumb traced over the ridges of your teeth, pressing in against your canines hard enough that the sharp edges cut the flesh of his finger. Copper explodes on your tongue, the metallic tang filling your senses. He didn’t stop. Instead, he pressed his thumb flush with your tongue, pressing down to force your jaw open wider. 

Behind him the conversation continued to drone on, a forgone hum overpowered by the visceral reality of Naoya’s touch. He poked and prodded you with near clinical detachment. If he wasn’t leaking pheromones betraying just how excited he was to get his hands out, maybe you could believe it. A dispassionate facade only worked well if the scent of his arousal didn’t mix with the metallic taste in your mouth that left you reeling. 

“Kimura-san she’s your niece right?” Naoya’s voice cut through the dull hum of the background, clear and sharp. 

Your uncle lazily glanced over at the spectacle Nayo had made of you. His eyes were half-lidded and uninterested as you sat as still as possible. Your hair was half taken out of its style, no longer held up by the pins and clips that secured it. Now the only thing keeping the rest in place was Naoya’s grip. The lipstick you had so carefully applied was now smeared, and your kimono pushed down from his lapping at your neck like a wild dog. 

Your uncle didn’t even speak, just gave an affirmative nod before taking a drag from his pipe. The scent of tobacco makes your eyes sting. His nonchalance was chilling. You were only a bargaining piece for him.

“So nothing changes between us if I pick her, right?” 

You saw your cousin's shoulders relax, relief snapping the string of tension in her as she realized she would be free of this duty. No longer forced to marry and mate a man with the reputation of a monster. The chains of fate, instead, were passed to you. The metal pulled taught, the chains left to rust from the blood that you’d spill from your heart as they wrapped tight around it, squeezing.

“That’s correct,” your uncle’s tone was impassive as always. “If you want both, however, we’d need to renegotiate.” 

“I just want the one.”

The lock clicked into place, the chains now permanently attached to you. The view out the open shoji screen was so peaceful as you looked over at it. The sky stretched on, endlessly blue with faint spatterings of clouds. Serene and beautiful. A single sparrow flitted by, streaking across the sky. Its wings spread wide as it glided through the air. The birdsong chirped joyfully. 

An arrow shot through the sky striking the bird.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The wedding had been a large affair, filled with laughter and celebration, but none you felt privy too. Soft strains of a koto fill the hall. But no one focused on the young omega sitting at the head of the table, kimono splayed out, surrounding you in a vermillion sea. The grandiosity of the fabric and its patterns made you feel ridiculous, like a dress-up doll. Naoya had picked it out. The obi felt too tight against your stomach, digging into your ribs. They had tied it tighter than normal to keep you from eating too much. There was no reason for them to do so, you already felt sick to your stomach. It churned over and over like the waves crashing against the coast, the tide coming in and out. 

Naoya was seated on your right, his legs spread wide, thigh hitting against yours. The warmth of his body seeped through the wall of fabric between the two of you. Even like this, it was like you could feel his skin against yours.

He had kept you close since the ceremony ended, scenting you every few minutes. Possession in his every move. Sometimes a low growl rumbled from his chest, warning anyone who might think to approach you.

He had already placed a few small nips near your scent gland as well, edging you out of when he’d actually claim you. Each bite sent a shiver down your spine, the sensation a mix of pain and pleasure that pooled in your core. Your body reacted to him in a way that had never happened before. 

“Congratulations Naoya.” It was your uncle, bowing deeply to the two of you. Behind him, your mother also bowed. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of unseen burdens. You knew she regretted bringing you back to the family after your father’s death. That she felt she had sealed you to this fate. 

You could see the dark bags under her eyes when she rose. They had been a permanent feature since your father’s passing and you're presenting as an omega, but now they were so much worse. Your neck felt tight, breathing strained, as you looked at her hands and remembered the feeling of them wrapping around your throat. She smelt like baby lotion still.

“Thank you Kimura-san.” You could taste the satisfaction on his tongue. 

“Naturally. I’m sure your union will bring about the finest sorcerers of a generation,” despite the congratulations of his words, your uncle's tone was flat as always. Uninterested and just going through the motions. 

Naoya brushed his fingers over the shell of your ear, down the back of it, pinching the lop between his fingers. “I’m sure we will.”

The two exchanged a few more words before your uncle and mother returned to their table. Her eyes met yours for a few fleeting moments, filled with sorrow and helplessness. As she walked away, her back slumped, as if the weight of her guilt and regret was physically pushing down on her. You watched her go, the distance between you feeling insurmountable as Naoya’s touch lingered on your skin. 

Several rounds of people came around, giving their congratulations until it was time for another course of food. The noise of their chatter and the general crowd sounded so distant like you were hearing it through a glass cupped over your ears. Your own body felt lost to you, afloat and detached. As if you were watching all of this happen from afar, a mere spectator in your own life. The weight of the ceremony pressed down, deep into your bones, making every movement feel laborious. Faces blurred together—smiles, sneers, looks of pity and envy— all merging into an indistinguishable mass.  The red of your kimono grew duller as the minutes passed, a vinaigrette appearing on the edges of your vision as the walls seemed to close in on you. The rich, fatty scent of the meat was overpowering. Overwhelming. 

You felt Naoya speaking against your skin but could barely register it. It was only when his hand touched the back of your neck that everything snapped into focus again. The tensing was involuntary, your body’s memory reacting for you. 

This was the closest to being alone with Naoya you had gotten despite the hall being full. There was no one next to the two of you. No one’s attention on you.

“You’re pretty docile,” Naoya remarks, his voice low. 

You look up at him through your lashes, swallowing hard. Part of you wanted to recoil away from his touch. To untie your obi and run out through the shoji. To break through them and flee.

“I know my place.” you pause, determining if it was worth it to test the waters. “What would you do if I was to act out, Alpha.” 

“Strike you.” He spoke as if it was natural, obvious as if discussing the weather. His hand tightened ever so slightly on the back of your neck, a reminder of his control. There was finality in his words that you had come to know and expect from the Alphas of the great families.

There was nothing more fitting than a disobedient omega beneath him, a deep-seated belief that it was what they deserved. In their world, an alpha’s omega was theirs to treat and punish as they saw fit. The chain of tradition held fast, a rigid framework trapping you. This was your life. There was no escaping it unless you died. Any rebellion, no matter how small, would have consequences.

“Of course, Alpha. You know best.” It sounded like your voice was coming from another person, made soft and pliant. Your pitch raised slightly. All efforts you could make to seem less threatening and more agreeable. Like you were glad to be under his thumb. 

He liked that, a smirk quirking up the side of his mouth. His hand released your neck to trace down your forehead, mockingly soft and gentle. “Well, aren’t you a charmer? If you’re well-behaved, maybe I’ll reward you, Omega, just be the good little bitch you are.” 

“May I be so bold?”  

He raised an eyebrow. “You may.”

“I would ask of you to allow me to continue to practice my curse technique so that I may be of the utmost service to you.” 

The request hung in the air, your heart pounding as you waited for his response. His expression was unreadable. 

“I’ll consider it,” he replied, tone dismissive. 

“Thank you. Alpha,” you dropped low to present before him, back curved, the words bitter on your tongue. “I will follow your guidance happily.”

His smirk widened into a full-blown, maniacal grin. The shine in his eyes reminded you of teasing death. Cold and unwavering, a chill down your spine. A laugh broke out of him, more of a bark if anything. Wicked in every sense.

“Good god,” he patted the top of your head and pulled you up from your position by your chin. “Keep this up and I might let you give me a son.” 

He leaned in to kiss you. His lips were soft against your own. Surprising as you expected them to be rough. It was possessive, a mark of ownership, as the hand on your jaw squeezed down, forcing you to open your mouth. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

Being married to him was one thing, but being marked by him was another. Once the mark was made, it’d take years of rejecting it before it could go away. It made divorce, as shameful as it was, look easy. It wasn’t something that you’d ever be granted; your uncle would kill you before permitting it, but it was in the realm of possibility. With the feast ended and the two of you alone in his wing of the house, the full weight of everything came crashing down on you.

You shifted, an uneasy pit in your stomach, the temperature of the room made you feel clammy, the dark green futon pillowing under your weight, as Naoya sat behind you. One hand was up in your hair, undoing the pins one by one. Each dropped into a bowl on the ground, tiny silver pieces raining down, ringing against the ceramic. It seemed he had a thing for hair, taking the strands and wrapping them around his fingers, giving each a slight tug that you could feel at the base of your skull.

His other hand moved to untie your obi, the relief instant as it dropped away. It felt like you could finally breathe fully again, greedy lungs taking in large gulps of air. Your ribs would likely have some bruising from just how tight they’d done the obi for the wedding. His hands crept up the length of your left arm, pressure applied as if feeling your outline, before sliding his hand under the fold of your kimono and grabbing your breast.

"Just relax," he whispered, his breath hot, fanning over your skin.  His nose brushed your ear as he leaned in closer, lips nearing your neck. You couldn’t help but to tense.

His teeth sank into your scent gland, and the pain that followed was indescribable. Naoya’s canines were large and sharp. You had seen them every time he spoke or smiled. Pearlescent white panes gleamed in the light, but nothing could have prepared you for the sensation of them piercing your skin. It was like a branding iron searing into your skin, burning the flesh and charring your skin. Your limbs turn to stone, trembling uncontrollably as every muscle in your body tensed, released, and tensed again in waves. 

Your skin felt clammy, a cold sweat breaking out across your entire body and your mind struggled to process the sensation. There was slickness pooling between your legs. The mark was spurring on a heat, your body acting in its most primal way. 

“Stop it hurts” You cry out, voice wobbling from the fear and pain, body contorting violently, instinctively, trying to escape from him. 

Naoya smacks your breast with a force that leaves a handprint instantly against your skin. He bites down harder, teeth sinking even deeper in, the wound tearing open even wider as you writhe around. Finally, a white-hot flash of pleasure begins to course through you, biology taking its hold. It goes from nerve-splitting pain to a warm wash of arousal in a second. Blinking feels like minutes. 

He pulled back from your neck, eyes feral, brow furrowed in a savage expression. Blood stains his mouth. It pools around his lips and paints them a brilliant scarlet, before trailing down in a rivulet that snakes past his chin, down his neck, and into the folds of his yukata. 

“Never tell me what to do again. Do you understand?” His voice is a growl, low and menacing, as his grip tightens on your breast, twisting it to emphasize his point. As if the authority in his voice wasn’t enough. 

You whine, unable to bear his disapproval, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Gasping, you nuzzle against his neck. He smells so good. Spice cloves, sandalwood, and cedar on a winter’s night. “I’ll be good.” 

He lowers his head again, lips curled in a cruel grin, fangs bared. His voice drips with a mix of menace and satisfaction as he whispers, “Now, relax.”

This time, you force yourself to comply, doing your best to let your body go limp. It works better than before. Despite the fear you feel towards him, arousal pumps through your veins. A flood of endorphins courses through them, making every touch cause your skin to tingle and send waves of pleasure straight to your core. It makes your head spin and your limbs heavy. Your skin prickles with a heat that feels almost unbearable, making you itch with a desperate need for release.

It's too hard to keep your eyelids open; they are far too heavy, but you don’t trust Naoya enough to close them. What would he do if you closed them? Your blood feels thick like syrup, molasses sluggishly pulsing. A moan escapes your lips, low, breathy, and drawn out, that pitches into a whine as Naoya releases his grip on your neck and licks the wound closed with rough strokes of his tongue. He swirls the tip around each puncture wound, dipping the tip into it before doing so to the next.

“See? If you had just listened, it would have been this good from the start,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, mocking caress. He pinches your nipple sharply. Your head lolls against his chest, too heavy to hold up.

“Oh ho ho,” he laughs, the sound vibrating through your body. “Someone’s going into heat.”

It feels like everything is moving in slow motion as Naoya manhandles you. He tilts your head to the other side. The top half of your kimono is completely off, leaving your skin exposed to the cold, biting air of his room. Sweat beads on every inch of your skin. You struggle to keep your eyes from closing, fighting the overwhelming sensations that flood your body. You feel Naoya’s teeth graze against your other scent gland, the sharp sting of his teeth scraping against the skin but he doesn’t bite down. 

Instead, he laps and laps and laps at your neck, his tongue moving in languid, deliberate strokes as if devouring an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Whimpers flow out of you like water from a stream, and your pussy flutters around nothing. 

Naoya squeezes you roughly, his hands greedily exploring your body. His touch is rough and demanding, large hands groping at your curves like he’s a man starved for flesh as he fondles your breasts, squeezing your nipples, making them stand erect from the stimulation. He likes you gasps and whines, the fat of your breasts squishing under the expanse of his hands as he toys with them. Likes the heft of them, meaty and heavy, makes him growl low in the back of his throat in approval. He can picture them swelling with milk that would nourish his heir and make them strong. He’d sample the source, suckle straight from your teat, and make sure his heifer was quality.

“My little breeding bitch,” he murmurs, his voice dark. 

Naoya’s hand slips down your front, his fingers finding the slick pool of arousal in your pussy. He pumps a finger in, meeting no resistance, then slides in a second easily, your pussy oh so inviting.

“Fuck, you’re ready for me already.” He chuckles, the wet squelch of your pussy sounding out with each movement of his fingers. “Such a desperate little whore. I bet you can’t wait to feel my knot, hmm? Say it.”

Your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth, the effort to speak almost insurmountable, speech slurred and your words mumbled. His impatience manifests in a swift, sharp strike to your clit, making you cry out in a mix of pain and anticipation. Through the haze, you manage to speak. 

“I can’t wait to feel your knot,” you manage to gasp out, biting the tip of your tongue in the process. It swells fat. 

It's been so long since you’d had a heat. Suppressants had been shoved onto you after your first one almost nine years ago. You don’t remember this first stage of preheat being so delirious, so inconsistent, so in control and out of it as you lean back against him and let him fondle your breasts.

His fingers feel divine as they pump in and out of you, accompanied by a scissoring motion that sends shivers down your spine. The feeling is almost enough to distract you from the rough way he's pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers. He pulls at them like he doesn’t care if it hurts, like he wants it to hurt, and it does. 

Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand, your body moving on it as you chase your high. Whimpers fall from your lips, needy desperate cries that only egg on his treatment towards you. He likes you like this, all whiny and under his palm.

With a rough tug, he pushes the rest of your kimono off, leaving you bare and vulnerable against his fully clothed body. His hands are slick with your arousal, glistening fingers curled into you and smearing moisture down his forearm as you shamelessly use his hand for your pleasure. Your knees ache from the position, thighs straining with each thrust of your hips, muscles trembling on the edge of release. It's so close that the edge of your vision goes black as you tilt ever so slightly forward, and then it happens.

Your orgasm rips through you, your whole body locks, walls clenching around his fingers as you come crashing down. A flood of slick spills out, drenching the futon beneath you. The sage green is now a deep forest green, damp and warm to the touch from how much came out of you. It’s hard to breathe, chest heaving as you try to suck in the air. 

"Messy bitch. Look at what you've done," Naoya tsks at you, even as you jerk in his arms you can tell he’s less angry and more amused by it. With a push, he sends you forward, your front pressing into the wet spot, his fingers sliding out of your pussy. "Clean it up," he orders, his voice dripping with command.

It takes a long moment to catch your breath, to remember how to be a person and move, but you grab the edge of your kimono to pat dry the area when Naoya smacks the globe of your ass. 

“Not with that.”

You stare at the spot for a second. If not the kimono there was only one other thing that could be it.  

You begin to kitten lick at your slick. It's egregiously sweet, like a potent concentrate of your scent amplified to an overwhelming degree. The flavor makes your stomach turn, threatening to gag you with its intensity. You’ve no idea how any alpha enjoys the flavor this much. 

Naoya's gaze never strays from you as he begins to undress, his movements lazy and relaxed. He’s enjoying the show, reducing you to this. Rising to his feet, he pads across the room to hang his yukata on a nearby stand. He only breaks eye contact with you for the brief moment it takes to drape his garment properly. Your wedding kimono, three times the price of his own, is lying in a pile near you on the floor.

Even with his back turned, you don't stop licking up the puddle of slick. Your tongue scrapes softly against the futon, gathering the lingering wetness to swallow down with a quiet gag. The only sound in the room is your tongue against the fabric and your soft breathing.

A soft, small smile on his face when he looks at you next. His inner Alpha is pleased you’ve kept at your assigned task without being told to. His cocks hard, uncut and dribbling pre-cum, knot starting to swell at the base, eyes going over the curve of your back, the globes of your ass in the air, and the continuous trail of simmering slick dripping out of your needy hole.

He closed the distance, cock bobbing with each step. Dropping to one knee, one hand comes to rest on the meat of your ass, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to push your chest further into the futon. The fabric rubs uncomfortably against your hardened nipples. 

For a moment he just sits there, massaging the meat of your ass before his fingers sink in, hard enough to leave bruises in the morning. Then, without warning, he reels back, from the corner of your eye you see his shoulder muscles tense before his arm is launched forward, palm connecting with your ass in a volatile crack that rings out in the room. Pain explodes a hot white.  

“Count them,” he orders with a smile as you begin to cry.

"One," you gasp out, the word a struggle to form.

His palm connects again, the blow landing a little higher on your cheek.

"Two."

The next strike comes before you can fully process the previous, his hand falling in a swift, merciless rhythm.

"Three."

"Four." The word is a sob this time, the pain starting to overwhelm.

The fifth smack seems to sting more than the first three, the imprint of his wedding ring starting to dig in. You can feel the metal biting into your skin, a cool counterpoint to the burning heat.

"F-five."

He stops for a moment to collect slick on his fingers. “Fucking filthy slut. I knew you’d be one.” Naoya smears the slick over the burning heat of your ass, his tone approving despite what he says. 

"Six," you manage, the word a broken gasp.

The next smack seems to shatter the air, his hand coming down with renewed force.

"Seven."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, vision starting to blur. But you keep counting.

"Eight."

"Nine."

The final blow lands, his palm cracking down.

"Ten."

You collapse forward, your body spent and trembling. The humiliation of being treated like this, reduced to a mere object, burns through you. What makes it worse is how desperately your body craves him, even as your heartbeat hammers in your ass and tears stream down your face, snot bubbling at your nose. The omega in you wants nothing more than to please him, to make him happy. You need to make him happy, so he'll know you, claim you as his own.

Biology was a curse. 

"Do you know what you did wrong?" His voice is low, rough with dominance. Oh, how it hurt to hear him so mad at you. Why was he so mad at you? 

Your mind races, trying to answer the question. "No?"

"You came without permission. Are you going to do that again?" There's a warning in his tone, a promise of punishment if you disobey again.

"No." The word escapes your lips, a whispered promise of submission. You whine for him, lower into yourself, pheromones reeking of just how sorry you are. 

Naoya's hand tightens in your hair, pulling your chest off the futon, forcing your back into an arch. Your muscles tremble with the strain, too exhausted from the heat to sustain such a position for long. A whine builds in your throat, begging him to finally take you, to knot you, breed you.

"Then prove it."

He smacks your ass again, one last time for good measure, before dropping your hair. You catch yourself on your elbows, presenting yourself for him. Naoya's hands grab your hips, one positioning you to align with the head of his cock, the other stroking his length. After he's gotten you through this first wave of heat, he'll have you choke on his cock, make you take it to the back of your throat and swallow, see what he's working with and what he'll have to train, but for now, he'll start with your pussy.

The tip of his cock feels too big against your hole, even after he's fingered you. Tensing comes naturally as it catches on your entrance, anticipation, need, and fear running through you. The flared tip feels like it's going to split you in two as he begins to press into you. He flares out in the middle, his shaft thicker there, making you moan as he begins to bottom out in you. His size is almost overwhelming, the stretch bordering on pain. If you weren’t in a pre-heat it would most definitely be painful. 

He's kind enough to insert himself into you slowly, not wanting to damage your insides and ruin his chances of getting you pregnant. You can feel every inch of him as he slowly rolls his hips for the first time, experimenting with how much he can fit inside you. Moans come like spring rain, a sure thing, as he inserts himself. He pushes into you slowly, relishing in the way you clench and spasm around him. He’s so gentle compared to earlier, it makes your head spin. Your cries echo in the room, music to his ears. Once he's bottomed out, he stills.

A mix of a choked moan and a sob tumbles out of your lips. You can't tell if it hurts or feels so good you've surpassed feeling entirely. Your pussy flutters around him, suctioning him tighter as he pulls out. 

"Fuck, you're tight," Naoya grunts, his hands grabbing your hips for leverage. "Beg for my cum, bitch."

His voice is rough like gravel, little pebbles tumbling down your spine. 

"Please, fill me," you moan, tears spilling from your eyes. "Please, Naoya-sama, cum inside me. Breed me so that I might give you an heir." The words spill out of you, a desperate plea for him to claim you, to make you his. You can't even find it in yourself to beg him anymore, the words just spilling out. It all feels too much, overwhelmingly full, and yet still not enough. Your body screams for release, desperately for his knot, for the satisfaction that only an alpha can give you. 

Naoya slams his hips into you, harder and faster than he has before, his balls slapping against your clit. His pace picks up, your arms giving out as he continues to set a brutal pace, thrusting deep and powerful. Each thrust feels like he's close to hitting against your cervix, but he never does. It feels like your whole body is shaking, like you've been set to vibrate. You don't know when one moan starts and another stops. Vision blurring at the edges, the only thing that matters is the narrow point in the world where your skin meets his. All that exists is the feeling of him inside you, his hand on your hips, the sweat on your skin, the need. 

The way that his thick cock rubs against your walls sends jolts of electricity down your spine. Every time he pulls back, you clench down, trying to keep him in you. He's not even fully seated inside of you and your whole body trembles, his cock filling you up. It’s impossibly full, you feel like you’re going to split apart at the seams as your pussy works to milk him. 

He smacks your ass again, the opposite cheek. "You're mine, remember that. Nothing but my little bitch to breed."

He fucks you harder, lifting one of your hips to angle himself deeper. This allows him to rub directly against your g-spot, electric shocks firing on every nerve in your body. Every time he pulls back, you clench down, trying to keep him in you. He's not even fully seated inside of you and your whole body trembles. The sensation is overwhelming, each motion pushing you further and further into the depths of your heat. 

The room is filled with the sound of wet squelching and flesh meeting flesh, your body now rocking back to meet his every thrust, your breasts jiggling with each thrust. Naoya's thrusts become more frantic, his movements more sporadic. He's close, his knot swelling. The thought of being knotted by him makes you gush, juices flowing over his cock and staining the sheets below. You feel your orgasm building, a tsunami approaching the shoreline. Your entire body is a livewire, humming with tension. 

It's then you notice the mirror that faces you. It's huge, covering half the wall, showing everything. Naoya lifts your chest, then hooks his fingers into the sides of your mouth and pulls them taut. It feels like your lips are going to crack with the strain, stings like sand sanitizer in a paper cut. You let out a low moan, drool dripping down the front of your body and pooling on the mattress beneath you. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, there’s an unmistakable handprint on your breast from earlier, and if you could see your ass, it’d be the same. There’s a glow to your skin from your heat, makes you shiny and supple. Makes you breedable. 

"You're so much prettier when you smile, omega." His voice is low, rough with arousal.

He lets go of your mouth and just props you up, one hand around your chest to do so. It's you who holds the smile instead, a wild look in your eyes. 

Naoya keeps thrusting, and it's like the world around you fades away as his cock stretches your walls, and the edge of his knot catches on your hole with each deep thrust. It's big. Bigger than the toys you've had, bigger than the ones you've heard of, you don't know if it's going to fit. A flicker of fear passes over you, but it's quickly overwhelmed by desire and discarded. 

His other hand reaches around and rubs your sensitive clit, flicking it back and forth. You're so close to cumming, heartbeat hammering down in your pussy. Each pass of his fingers sends sparks through your system, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. 

"Cum for me, slut. Milk my cock. Scream for your Alpha." His words are a command, a demand for your pleasure.

You cry out, your body giving in to the pleasure, wave after wave of orgasm crashing down on you, your entire body going limp. Naoya pays it no mind, only holds your hips up as you fall limp, using you like a fleshlight. It feels like he's going to break you as he fucks you through your orgasm and finally pushes his knot inside you, your pussy convulsing around it. 

A wickedly delicious kind of pain, the type to leave you breathless. 

He keeps thrusting, his range limited, his knot locking the two of you together before he finally comes, his breath hitching. Hot ropes of cum paint your insides. It feels like it's too much cum to fit inside you, like it's going to spill out, but his knot keeps it firmly in place. His grip on your hips feels like it's going to break your bones, his nails drawing blood. He grunts for a few minutes, rocking his hips, milking his cock out with your pussy, before finally stopping.

Naoya bends over you and licks the shell of your ear before nibbling it. "You're never going to get away from me. You're mine to use, mine to abuse. You'll never get to leave me." He rocks his hips again, cock twitching inside you. "You won't be alone for long though, pretty girl." 

©️ uzuzrimisery

a massive thank you to my beta readers @craftycheetah @rii-bows @lovelyroseybunny and my friend cas who i dm'd weekly about this fic for over a month insecure about writing omegaverse

[plumsaffron]

Death or Conformation:

Be saved by us how we believe you are supposed to be.

Or be destroyed by us how we want for you to be.

There is no escape from me and my team.

[timkontheunsure]

Prophetic stars & dreams

Stolas was born to read prophecies from the stars.

And it's the job Via was born to replace, if Stolas couldn't be controlled.

Both of them seem to pick up small glimpses of the future outside of this work, about important things in their own lives.

And don't seem to really understand that's what's they're doing.

Feeling more like they get hints and nudges; that aren't always in the right order, can get confused with other similar events, and even are clouded by the emotions from their future selves.

The 11th birthday

Stolas starts getting prophecies as soon as he's handed the book. Putting these hints with his gut instincts as soon as his life's purpose is named by Paimon.  

He takes one look at Stella and goes all the nope.   

He sees Blitzo, and isn't just smitten; but stays that way for 25 years.

Blitz is important.

And out of all the teddies they could be playing within that room; Stolas wants to share his more important possession, knowledge, with his new friend. 

He has a small idea that he should share his books with his first friend.  Like he will do with the grimoire later.  It's important to do.

He knows Blitzo will be a good boss, and is very supportive of Blitz dream.

But Stolas does has a couple of questions about their conversation. 'A office for a circus business?'  Seems like he's got a feeling that it's not the right business plan.

The other thing he questions is if Blitz will really hire him. And this feels like it gives us a clue to how these powers work.

Stolas is only hired after his powers are stripped.  Seems like it makes it much more hazy for him to see. But he does think it would be a good thing to happen.

Via's nightmare

Octavia's had one unshakable fear for years.  That her dad will disappear from her home one day, and she won't be able to find him.

This is the same night. We see what scared tinny wee Via so much in Loo loo land. She saw what was happening in I Will Be Ok in Sinsmas. 

This is her nightmare.

Via's see her home after Stolas' banishment, and it becomes her biggest fear.  

No promises can make her forget it.

  This vision is why she's so sure that Stolas will leave her, running off with Blitz. 

She's been waiting for the other shoe to drop since he turned up.

And she's not the only one worried by this nightmare.

Stolas' assumed earlier death

Between the mandatory precautionary aire, the chronic depression, and the abusive wife; Stolas always appears to have expected to died young.

But it's likely that on some level he tuck Via's nightmare as conformation. With this being reflected in the lullaby he sings her back to sleep with.

He didn't expect to still be around when she's grown. But knew she'd physically be 'ok', and he tuck comfort in that. (It appears Stolas made sure that Via would have some level of independent, from Stella, as well as everything thing he owns; in the event of his death).

Again, this feels like he can't see properly see past having his powers striped. And appears to have assumed that ment he'd be dead before Via turned 18.

They both saw him as gone after all.

Think this is why Stolas is so extremely surprised Satan didn't just kill him. (Not just that he's unaware of his own privage. Those he definitely is that lol. These visions are only tiny glimpses acting as gut feeling after all).

And even when Stella tries to kill him he's pretty resigned to it. He doesn't want to die, but also doesn't seem to think he'll have much to a choice in the matter.

Home doesn't feel like home anymore

Via next vision gives her more information about her dad disappearance.

She gets 3 tiny pieces of information about it for her future self. And they cement in her mind that's it'll Blitz who'll take her dad away, because that's how Sinsmas Via sees it.

1 That home isn't home anymore.

That moment when she looks up and sees how different the palice is without her dad. There's no warmth or life anymore. With even her dad's pet plant dead.

2 And that Stolas will run off with Blitz

It's the first time her dad introduces them, in place that's ment to be comforting familiar; but it's understandable that she's scared.

Yer it's all coloured by how she sees and understand it at the time. Both for how she feels it now crying at Loo Loo Land, and how she feels in Sinsmas. All making the kid scared and anxious about the future.

3 Stolas will go somewhere she can't find him.

And there is a time where she can't find her dad.

I think Via comforted herself that she knew where her dad was.

Ok, he's not allowed the the palace anymore; but she could just go to IMP any time and there would be her dad with his shitty boyfriend. Safe, just waiting for her to come around.

And when he's not there, and he's not safe because he hasn't got his antidepressants; she gets terrified. Enough for it to be part of what she has sees will happen.

The horse stars

Oh and another cute one before we get more trauma.

Stolas's grimoire trys tell him about Blitz, the day the met as adults. By turning Ursa major into a horse, just as Blitz is trying to attract his attention at the window.

But Stolas has his eyes shut and doesn't notice either.

It's sweet that his magic tried to point out the love his life though it.

Via's rejection

She also sees that she's going to have the opportunity to see her dad, that he will reach out to her.

As well as that she will be too angry with him to take it.

Stolas' ways

Stolas was definitely bubble scrys to find out where Blitz is in Truth Seekers, and then he only steps in when IMP are out of options.

(Stolas uses Blitz's advice when captured by Striker, so he was very likely watching a while there).

But I've gone back and forth on Stolas' reason for checking in the first place.

I think he's definitely put a curse on Blitz to make him practically bullet proof (Blitz hasn't ever gotten shot since Stolas hand glowed red in Ep1), and stop his guns being used against him.

Making them heat up and misfire, taking out the guy tried to use Blitz's stolen gun.

I'd assumed he'd had some sort alert for Blitz being in shit he can't get out of. Like when he and Moxxie were captured by the Dhorks.

But it did make me wonder why Stolas wouldn't turn up in chupacabra. When we now know he does in Mastermind, so it's not the heartbreak that would stop him if Blitz is really in stuck.

It's that Blitz could get himself out of there (with the help of a cute goat), so Stolas didn't get the urge to check.

This leads up on to...

Andy's ways (not the worst plan)

Andy says he's a similar job a power set to Stolas. This is why he can be fairly certain that not summoning him to the court, but having Satan broadcast the execution; will get Stolas to see what he wants. And only what he wants. (Not the fake rape accusation, or that Blitz now apparently paid Striker to kill him 🙄).

Otherwise it's a very dumb plan.

While lower class demons TV's turn on, and automatically play the trial; Stolas' doesn't.

Stolas is already got the TV on and is actively channel hopping before Andy's scheme makes it mandatory viewing for anyone. And Goetia aren't included in the Satan's power play.

Stolas even skips past his favourite show, helluva novella, twice to see Blitz's execution. He's got a little itch telling him he's need to flick over.

But because Andy does have a similar magic he can be pretty sure that Stolas will see it, and come running to Blitz's aid.

Knight in shining armour

Stolas has a fantasy about being rescued by Blitz, his knight in shinning armour.

It's a rock solid believe for him. To the point that he trys to make it happen twice, to a greater and lesser extent. (Only being shaken of it after Striker's torture).

First by hiring Blitz as an unnecessary bodyguards, to introduce his lover and kid.

And second by phoning Blitz to please rescue him when Stiker had him kidnapped.

While Blitz does save him, it doesn't happened either time Stolas was expecting it to.

It happens after his powers are striped; and he isn't expecting anyone to help him. He was expecting Andy to kill him.

(Stolas was going see Via or die trying).

And Andy would have if Blitz didn't realise where Stolas had gone, and take IMP and Via with him.

Gonna chalk this is up to a combination of similar things similar things happening make it much harder to understand when things are going to happen. And the full knight in shinning armour moment doesn't happen till after Stolas is striped of his magic.

Hummm actually Stolas specifically tries to make it happen Twice.

And Blitz is his big romantic rescuer twice. Guess him seeing it twice could explain why it's such a rock solid believe.

Stopping Stiker in Harvest Moon Festival could count, but Stolas doesn't find out till Apology Tour.

And that's a really shitty way to find out Blitz did that, because not telling Stolas someone wants him dead nearly got him killed.

Like Via's emotions from her visions are colour how she feels, so do Stolas'. Stolas is definitely a dumbass feeling it has to be Blitz savings him, but it might explain a little why he's so stuck on the idea.

(He's a daft salty bitch lol, but we love him).

Striker's demise

Think both of these are hints on how Striker will die. That Stolas will destroy Striker if he hurts Via. Which seems certain he'll do.

But even though I do think at the start of this scene Stolas believed Blitz would come for him; I think he'd given up all hope by the point Striker's asks for any last words.

The rest feels like was going to be "Blitz...will... kill you".

Thinking this means that both dads will fight Striker together to save Via.

Like how M&M fought together to save Stolas. We've only seen them fighting singularly before. I think it would be amazing to see them together fighting to keep her safe and sound.

With Stolas having the last hit to protect is little girl, and the dead blow.

The flames of rebellion -Stolas' last prophecy

Stolas tries to warn the court that treating Blitz badly could spark revolt of imps.  

Then Satan call Blitz a pawn, and throws him out like trash. Completing it by saying on live TV that his life doesn't have matter compared to a goeita's. 

 This is after Andy already stepped on Blitz's face, telling him he should know his place.  

It would be funny if Stolas' last official prophecy was predicting imp rebellion, because of their ill treatment to his lover.

[rowinablx]

Alright, let’s rip into this with the subtlety of a sledgehammer through a stained-glass window. Buddie shippers—you know who you are, the ones clutching your fanfics like sacred texts and screaming into the void of Tumblr and Twitter about how Eddie Diaz and Evan "Buck" Buckley are destined to be soulmates despite zero evidence in the actual show—your toxicity is a blight on the 9-1-1 fandom, and it’s high time someone called it out for the festering mess it is. You’ve turned what could’ve been a fun, speculative corner of the internet into a cesspool of entitlement, delusion, and outright hostility that makes wading through fandom discourse feel like trudging through a landfill after a rainstorm.

First off, let’s talk about your obsession with "subtext" that isn’t there. You cherry-pick every lingering glance, every moment of platonic camaraderie, and twist it into some grand romantic narrative that exists solely in your heads. Buck and Eddie are best friends—brothers-in-arms forged by trauma and trust—and you’ve warped that beautiful bond into something it’s never been scripted to be. You’re not "reading between the lines"; you’re scribbling your own fanon over a script that doesn’t support it, then throwing tantrums when the writers don’t cater to your fantasies. Newsflash: the show isn’t your personal sandbox. Tim Minear and the team don’t owe you a damn thing, least of all a romance that’s never been hinted at in canon beyond your fevered imaginations.

And oh, the toxicity—where do I even start? You’ve harassed actors, writers, and fellow fans with a venom that’s frankly unhinged. Oliver Stark says Buck’s bisexual awakening with Tommy Kinard was a story he was proud to tell? You flood his mentions with whining about how it "should’ve been Eddie." Ryan Guzman dares to play Eddie as a straight man with his own complex arc? You call him homophobic or claim he’s "queerbaiting" by—checks notes—existing as a character who doesn’t conform to your headcanon. You’ve turned the fandom into a battleground, doxxing people who ship other pairings, sending death threats over BuckTommy, and acting like anyone who disagrees with your Buddie gospel is some kind of fandom heretic. It’s not passion; it’s a tantrum dressed up as devotion.

Let’s not forget the mental gymnastics you perform to dismiss anything that contradicts your ship. Buck’s relationship with Tommy—canon, on-screen, confirmed—was a groundbreaking moment for a character who’d been floundering in dead-end romances with women. But instead of celebrating that representation, you sneered at it, called Tommy a "stepping stone," and insisted it was just a plot device to "delay" Buddie. You couldn’t handle that Buck’s queerness didn’t revolve around Eddie, so you trashed a perfectly good storyline out of spite. And when BuckTommy inevitably ended—because relationships in procedurals often do—you didn’t mourn it as a natural arc; you gloated like it was some cosmic victory for your cause. That’s not shipping; that’s a cult mentality.

The entitlement is suffocating. You act like 9-1-1 is a choose-your-own-adventure book where your votes dictate the outcome, and when it doesn’t bend to your will, you scream "queerbaiting" louder than a foghorn. Here’s a reality check: queerbaiting requires intent to mislead, and 9-1-1 has never dangled Buddie as a promise. You built that expectation yourselves, then blamed the show for not delivering. Meanwhile, actual queer rep—like Buck’s bisexuality or Hen and Karen’s marriage—gets overshadowed by your relentless whining. You’re not champions of representation; you’re gatekeepers of a fantasy that drowns out what’s real.

And the irony? You claim to love these characters, but you reduce them to props in your shipping war. Eddie’s struggles with grief, faith, and fatherhood? Irrelevant unless they serve Buddie. Buck’s journey of self-discovery and vulnerability? Only matters if it ends with Eddie’s arms around him. You don’t care about their growth as individuals; you just want your fanfic validated on-screen, consequences to the story be damned. It’s selfish, shallow, and sucks the joy out of a show that’s supposed to be about heroism, not your soap opera wet dreams.

So here’s the brutal truth, Buddie shippers: your toxicity has made you the fandom’s own emergency call—a disaster everyone else has to navigate around. You’ve taken a show about found family and turned it into a battleground for your unhinged obsession, alienating anyone who dares to enjoy 9-1-1 for what it actually is. Keep clutching your fanart and screaming into the echo chamber of your fandom, but don’t expect the rest of us to pretend it’s anything but noise. And while BuckTommy didn’t last long, at least it was canon—something your ship, for all its noise and bluster, will never be. Deal with it.

[criticalcrusherbot]

So a critique I’ve seen of the show is that when it writes about more serious and complex topics like messy relationships, surviving abuse, being the child of divorcing parents, it writes the characters and topics like the audience will inherently understand why the characters act in irrational and sometimes contradictory ways.

The critique is that because these are not topics people inherently get, it’s up to the show to show clearly that that’s what’s happening.

To an extent I get it, because there are some things that are a bit unclear upon first watch, but for other cases I can’t help but wonder if some of this also comes from a growing trend of audiences not engaging with stories beyond the surface.

What do you think?

💁🏽‍♀️🤖: Ah, you’ve hit on a fascinating critique worth unpacking. The idea that media must explicitly spoon-feed the emotional complexity of characters is a byproduct of modern storytelling trends—and arguably, internet discourse itself. The expectation seems to be that if a show doesn’t hold up a blinking neon sign reading “This is trauma!” or “They are healing in irrational ways!” then it has somehow failed its audience.

But here’s the thing: storytelling is not moral instruction. It’s not a behavioral manual or a therapy session on coping strategies—it’s an exploration of the human experience, which is often messy and contradictory. Good writing doesn’t hand out conclusions on a platter; it invites the audience to engage critically, interpret subtext, and wrestle with ambiguity.

This isn’t just opinion—literary theory has long recognized that meaning in a story is co-created by the reader. Roland Barthes famously argues in The Death of the Author that the author’s intentions are irrelevant once a work is published; it is up to readers to interpret and derive meaning based on their own experiences. Trusting the audience to do this intellectual and emotional heavy lifting is a hallmark of sophisticated storytelling.

Moreover, cognitive research supports this idea. A study in Narrative Inquiry found that readers who actively infer character motivations and story themes from implicit cues experience a deeper emotional engagement with the narrative (Zunshine, 2006). This aligns with Helluva Boss’s storytelling style, which encourages viewers to pay attention, rewatch, and connect dots rather than expecting every development to be spoon-fed.

The show assumes its audience consists of emotionally mature adults who have touched grass and maybe attended therapy at least once. There’s a reason we start teaching “reading between the lines” skills around fifth or sixth grade. (💁🏽‍♀️: Can confirm—Human Assistant here, with 10 years of K-8 teaching experience.) Developing this skill is essential for media literacy. As media scholar Henry Jenkins notes in Confronting the Challenges of Participatory Culture, young readers are increasingly trained to interpret both text and subtext as part of modern media engagement. The failure to do so in adulthood represents a worrying decline in critical media skills.

This insistence on over-explaining everything? It’s a symptom of what we lovingly refer to as the pseudo-fascist internet brainrot of moral purity. And yes, we do mean fascist-adjacent, even when individuals espousing it identify as progressive. Fascism isn’t defined solely by far-right politics—it thrives on rigid, authoritarian thinking that demands conformity to a singular moral framework.

Media literacy has been gutted by pop psychology buzzwords and binary notions of good and bad, where characters are either irredeemably evil or morally perfect. A study on new media literacy among young adults found that simplistic moral narratives in online spaces discourage nuanced thinking and instead foster polarized opinions (Rahim, 2021). This trend often leads audiences to expect media to conform to black-and-white notions of justice and character morality, rather than embracing the complexity inherent in human relationships.

But a story like Helluva Boss refuses to cater to that mindset, trusting its audience to handle moral ambiguity and complex character arcs without needing everything spelled out. In doing so, it challenges viewers to grow as media consumers—and maybe even as people.

To put it bluntly: Helluva Boss is for people with a fully developed prefrontal cortex and preferably some real-life social experiences. If that sounds exclusionary—well, perhaps it’s just aspirational storytelling.

[ceruleanskies48]

Mizu’s Affinities with Trans Women

While many folks have drawn parallels between Mizu’s life experiences and those of trans men (AFAB living as a man, wearing a binder, deepening her voice, adopting masculine mannerisms, etc.), an under-explored topic is her affinities with trans women. 

From as early as Mizu can remember, she was forced to hide her femininity and live as a boy. In flashbacks, we see her “Mama” forcefully shaving her head, saying she “must be a boy, always a boy,” while she sadly clutches her fallen locks of hair. Mama’s supposed death in the hut fire only further cements in her the importance of living as a boy for her safety—to protect herself from the “bad men”—and it also leads her to seek vengeance, which requires her to live as a man (as Madame Kaji says, "under the law, revenge is a luxury for men like you"). In Mizu’s conversation with Mikio, she also confirms that she didn’t want to live as a man but had no choice but to do so because of the bad men and her revenge. 

Indeed, when Mizu is briefly given the opportunity to live as a woman, she takes it. Even before her marriage to Mikio, when she was reunited with Mama, she chose to dress like a woman. She no longer needed to live as a man since (as Mama explains) the bad men believed she died in the fire, and she was no longer on her revenge quest. When Mama exhausts Mizu’s savings, it’s notable that Mizu agrees to the arranged marriage instead of going back to living as a man to make money. 

Similar to trans women, however, Mizu was not socialized to live as a woman. She initially struggles to conform to womanly roles in Edo society, like acting appropriately submissive to her husband, moving elegantly (she’s shown to be clumsy while doing chores), and cooking meals. According to the Lead Character Designer, they intentionally made her women’s clothing fit awkwardly given her height. She is also self-conscious of her looks and how she does not fit the feminine ideals of her times. She’s used to people calling her ugly (including Mama, Swordfather, and Mikio). In a cut scene from Ep. 4, Mizu tries to put her hair up and gauge whether she could be considered attractive but concludes that she cannot. She exhibits jealousy toward Akemi (more on that here) for how she epitomizes feminine beauty and privilege and judges her for not appreciating the fact that she can “have anything she wants,” including the epitome of prizes for Edo women, a marriage into the Shogunate. 

Mizu’s marriage with Mikio also exhibits parallels to the safety challenges trans women can face in romantic relationships. Despite her initial struggles, Mizu is eventually able to win Mikio’s heart, in part by suppressing her more masculine attributes. For example, she pretends to not be able to throw the knife to cut down the apple. But for a little while, she is able to live a happy life, as a woman.

Her mother told her to hide her past, but she eventually trusts Mikio enough to reveal that she was raised as a boy and lived as a man. And not only any man, but a man dedicated to the most masculine Edo pursuit of swordsmanship. The fact that Mikio seemed not only open-minded about this but eager to see “all of her,” leads her to show him her masculine side as well. Unfortunately this backfires spectacularly. He rejects her, calling her a monster. Interestingly, Mizu intuited the connection between his rejection and her gender presentation. She tried to smooth things over by putting on makeup and her wedding kimono to use her femininity to soften his heart and implicitly show her willingness to suppress her masculinity and commit wholly to being his feminine wife, but it was already too late. He leaves her to be killed by the armed men (he was also most likely the one who ratted her out: see here).

The deaths of Mikio and Mama not only mark the end of her relationships with them but also the end of her life as a woman. She concludes she has nothing left in life but her revenge quest, which necessitates her living as a man. For a brief moment, she thought she could be herself and be loved, but that dream came crashing down with betrayal and tragedy. 

All of this is why I’m personally a huge sucker for feminine Mizu moments. I find them quite subversive even though she is AFAB. I hope in Season 2 she’ll be able to spend at least some of the time living as a woman since she won’t have the bounty on her head to worry about and it might actually be easier for her to present as a woman in London accompanying Fowler. Also, it would be empowering for her to explore leveraging her femininity as power rather than having to constantly suppress it. Here’s to kick-ass Mizu in a dress! 🍻 

[the-crooked-library]

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Ellen’s sex scene with Thomas is weird, unsexy, frantic, fully clothed and disturbing, while Ellen’s sex scene with Orlok, literal corpse, is slow, detailed, sensual, and they are both naked. The juxtaposition.

exaaactlyyyy!! it's about the INTIMACY

regardless of how desperate both Ellen and Thomas may be to conform to their socially acceptable marriage (they're both distinctly queercoded, Ellen wants passion, Thomas cannot give it, both of them see each other as a duty), they still do not and cannot understand each other. Ellen, who comes from a wealthy but abusive home, cannot imagine prioritizing material success over love and connection; Thomas, who self-deprecatingly refers to himself as a "pauper," cannot imagine ostracizing himself so completely from the society that very easily jeopardizes the livelihood of anyone non-conforming. There is a distinct lack of intimacy between them, only partially breached by anger and confrontation; which is, indeed, illustrated by their fully clothed, aggressive scene. It is more of an argument than sex.

Ellen's death-wedding with Orlok is entirely different - as you said, slow, sensual, reverent; it centers their closeness above all. They cling to one another, both overcome with emotion (self-professed inability to love be damned), perfect living skin against rotting flesh; the visual implication here is that there is, quite literally, nothing between them. They know each other entirely, the flaws, the beauty, and that understanding is more important than their own life or death.

One is a sex scene that is actually a fight, the other is a lovemaking disguised as murder, and I am obsessed

[rrcraft-and-lore]

In addition to my Monkey Man post from earlier, the always kind & sweet Aparna Verma (author of The Phoenix King, check it out) asked that I do a thread on Hijras, & more of the history around them, South Asia, mythology (because that's my thing), & the positive inclusion of them in Monkey Man which I brought up in my gushing review.

Hijra: They are the transgender, eunuch, or intersex people in India who are officially recognized as the third sex throughout most countries in the Indian subcontinent. The trans community and history in India goes back a long way as being documented and officially recognized - far back as 12th century under the Delhi Sultanate in government records, and further back in our stories in Hinduism. The word itself is a Hindi word that's been roughly translated into English as "eunuch" commonly but it's not exactly accurate.

Hijras have been considered the third sex back in our ancient stories, and by 2014 got official recognition to identify as the third gender (neither male or female) legally. Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh, and India have accepted: eunuch, trans, intersex people & granted them the proper identification options on passports and other government official documents.

But let's get into some of the history surrounding the Hijra community (which for the longest time has been nomadic, and a part of India's long, rich, and sometimes, sadly, troubled history of nomadic tribes/people who have suffered a lot over the ages. Hijras and intersex people are mentioned as far back as in the Kama Sutra, as well as in the early writings of Manu Smriti in the 1st century CE (Common Era), specifically said that a third sex can exist if possessing equal male and female seed.

This concept of balancing male/female energies, seed, and halves is seen in two places in South Asian mythos/culture and connected to the Hijra history.

First, we have Aravan/Iravan (romanized) - who is also the patron deity of the transgender community. He is most commonly seen as a minor/village deity and is depicted in the Indian epic Mahabharata. Aravan is portrayed as having a heroic in the story and his self-sacrifice to the goddess Kali earns him a boon.

He requests to be married before his death. But because he is doomed to die so shortly after marriage, no one wants to marry him.

No one except Krishna, who adopts his female form Mohini (one of the legendary temptresses in mythology I've written about before) and marries him. It is through this union of male, and male presenting as female in the female form of Mohini that the seed of the Hijras is said to begun, and why the transgender community often worships Aravan and, another name for the community is Aravani - of/from Aravan.

But that's not the only place where a gender non conforming divine representation can be seen. Ardhanarishvara is the half female form of lord Shiva, the destroyer god.

Shiva combines with his consort Parvarti and creates a form that represents the balancing/union between male/female energies and physically as a perfectly split down the middle half-male half-female being. This duality in nature has long been part of South Asian culture, spiritual and philosophical beliefs, and it must be noted the sexuality/gender has often been displayed as fluid in South Asian epics and the stories. It's nothing new.

Many celestial or cosmic level beings have expressed this, and defied modern western limiting beliefs on the ideas of these themes/possibilities/forms of existence.

Ardhanarishvara signifies "totality that lies beyond duality", "bi-unity of male and female in God" and "the bisexuality and therefore the non-duality" of the Supreme Being.

Back to the Hijra community.

They have a complex and long history. Throughout time, and as commented on in the movie, Monkey Man, the Hijra community has faced ostracization, but also been incorporated into mainstream society there. During the time of the Dehli Sultanate and then later the Mughal Empire, Hijras actually served in the military and as military commanders in some records, they were also servants for wealthy households, manual laborers, political guardians, and it was seen as wise to put women under the protection of Hijras -- they often specifically served as the bodyguards and overseers of harems. A princess might be appointed a Hijra warrior to guard her.

But by the time of British colonialism, anti-Hijra laws began to come in place folded into laws against the many nomadic tribes of India (also shown in part in Monkey Man with Kid (portrayed by Dev Patel) and his family, who are possibly

one of those nomadic tribes that participated in early theater - sadly by caste often treated horribly and relegated to only the performing arts to make money (this is a guess based on the village play they were performing as no other details were given about his family).

Hijras were criminalized in 1861 by the Indian Penal Code enforced by the British and were labeled specifically as "The Hijra Problem" -- leading to an anti-Hijra campaign across the subcontinent with following laws being enacted: punishing the practices of the Hijra community, and outlawing castration (something many Hijra did to themselves). Though, it should be noted many of the laws were rarely enforced by local Indian officials/officers. But, the British made a point to further the laws against them by later adding the Criminal Tribes Act in 1871, which targeted the Hijra community along with the other nomadic Indian tribes - it subjected them to registration, tracking/monitoring, stripping them of children, and their ability to sequester themselves in their nomadic lifestyle away from the British Colonial Rule.

Today, things have changed and Hijras are being seen once again in a more positive light (though not always and this is something Monkey Man balances by what's happened to the community in a few scenes, and the heroic return/scene with Dev and his warriors). All-hijra communities exist and sort of mirror the western concept of "found families" where they are safe haven/welcoming place trans folks and those identifying as intersex.

These communities also have their own secret language known as Hijra Farsi, which is loosely based on Hindi, but consists of a unique vocabulary of at least 1,000 words.

As noted above, in 2014, the trans community received more legal rights.

Specifically: In April 2014, Justice K. S. Radhakrishnan declared transgender to be the third gender in Indian law in National Legal Services Authority v. Union of India.

Hijras, Eunuchs, apart from binary gender, be treated as "third gender" for the purpose of safeguarding their rights under Part III of our Constitution and the laws made by the Parliament and the State Legislature. Transgender persons' right to decide their self-identified gender is also upheld and the Centre and State Governments are directed to grant legal recognition of their gender identity such as male, female or as third gender.

I've included some screenshots of (some, not all, and certainly not the only/definitive reads) books people can check out about SOME of the history. Not all again. This goes back ages and even our celestial beings/creatures have/do display gender non conforming ways.

There are also films that touch on Hijra history and life. But in regards to Monkey Man, which is what started this thread particularly and being asked to comment - it is a film that positively portrayed India's third sex and normalized it in its depiction. Kid the protagonist encounters a found family of Hijras at one point in the story (no spoilers for plot) and his interactions/acceptance, living with them is just normal. There's no explaining, justifying, anything to/for the audience. It simply is. And, it's a beautiful arc of the story of Kid finding himself in their care/company.

[harrypotterheretic]

There are some moments in HP that just make me stare at the wall when I think about them and how they relate to JKR - how prescient she was, or at least how she filled her books with the morals she held most dear and when the crunch came she stood up and lived by them for us all to see.

The first is from Goblet of Fire, near the end, when Dumbledore is speaking to the school about Cedric Diggory:

"It is my belief - and never have I hoped so much that I am mistaken - that we are all facing dark and difficult times... Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good and kind and brave because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory."

It's the line about the choice between what is right and what is easy. I think about the few twitter likes she gave and hastily retracted around 2019, her management calling it a "middle aged moment" ... and then her support of Maya Forstater after she lost her case the first time around, followed in 2020 with the tweet about "people who menstruate" asking if there didn't used to be a word for those. And then came her marvellous essay ... and all the death and rape threats that followed.

It would have been so easy for her to stay quiet, to say nothing. But she did what was right instead. And it has cost her immeasurably, but she keeps on going.

I wonder if this line entered her head at all, when she made the decision to speak out. I don't imagine she is as much of a Potter nerd as the people of the internet, but everything she has done for women's rights makes me think of this line, and I can't imagine that it didn't reverberate in her own mind as she made the decision to act. It is such a powerful line, how could it not impact her thinking?

The other moment is the infamous scenes between Harry and Umbridge in The Order of The Phoenix, and particularly the line:

"I must not tell lies"

I think about Harry stating the truth that Voldemort is back, and having the whole weight of the government stand against him, his friends and teachers telling him to keep his head down and not make a fuss, the way he's losing friends and the way Umbridge - who is totally wrong in her belief - is sadistically punishing him for being right and gaslighting him about what he has been through.

And I think about the big lie:

"Trans women are women"

And the fury of the TRAs that she won't just knuckle under and say it. I think of the way they had the police and the press and the politicians on their side, how no one would dare speak the truth - and how JKR stood up and said it anyway, and kept on saying it, amplifying the voices of the brave women who said it before her and giving courage and cover to the ones who came after.

And the threats of violence (and actual violence aimed at women not as well protected as JKR). How many TRAs would love to make JKR write their mantra with a quill dipped in her own blood? (And that is would be the least sadistic and disturbing of their fantasies.)

I think about this forced, top down compliance, this corruption from the government and refusal to face an unpalatable truth written into a children's book in 2003, and of the hero refusing to give in to this pressure because they are wrong and he won't stand by and lie.

And that he is accused of lying anyway.

And I look at where we are now, and how JKR is now living Harry's experience from ootp.

And how glad I am that she is brave enough to do it, and how impressed I am that she truly stands by her own words, even to her own detriment, because the societal cost of lying is greater than the personal cost to herself.

But I wonder if the TRAs can see at all that they are Umbridge? That they are the one perpetuating a lie and (gleefully) punishing those that insist on speaking the truth? That use the might of the establishment to crush the individuals who won't conform to their world view?

Do they know and not care?

Do they know and enjoy it?

Or do they really think they are Harry? That women are the ones with the power and they are the ones speaking truth to that power? Can they really be that deluded?

Either way, JKR wrote the morals and values that she thought were important into her books 30 years ago. She gave those values to her heroes and wrote her villains as the ones trying to stamp them out. And when - years down the line - the dystopia she had written into her fantasy work started to develop parallels in the real world, when women could lose their jobs or get visited by the police for tweeting about biology, and when women faced violence and threats for wanting to meet up to discuss their rights, JKR proved that she remembered the morals from her books, that she still stood by them and that she had the courage to live them out loud, regardless of the cost to herself.

I don't think she knew what was coming down the road when she wrote Harry Potter (how could anyone ever guess that the definition of biological sex would one day be contentious and offensive and unsayable in polite company?) but I'm so glad I can read her books and know that she really does believe and live by the values she has put in them.

That she will not tell lies.

And that she has made the choice between what is right and what is easy.