#somehow is NOT rooted in misogyny????? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ickadori · 4 months

Note

Thinking bout Naoya with a male reader who gets over his own homophobia and shit while fucking him by justifying it’s not that bad if the guy’s wearing cute girly clothes.

Down for plowing another guy but only if he promises to wear a cute skirt or smth like that. Something something about getting off on emasculating other men and it being somehow “less gay” when the dick is attatched to something wearing a frilly skirt.

Idk I’m down bad and Naoya seems like he’d be pathetic like this

cws for male reader -> feminization. naobito walks in & naoya doesn’t stop. misogyny aka typical naoya. internalized homophobia.

Naoya curses the Zenin name and reveres it in the same breath — he hates his family and actively roots for their defeat in battle, but he’ll argue to his last breath about how the Zenin clan is the strongest, the most elite, how they would have long surpassed the Gojo clan if it wasn’t for that freaky, six-eyes having fuck.

The perks that come with being a Zenin are great and many; money, respect, power, women (if you’re into the pathetic things), and much more, but there’s a few drawbacks as well.

The traditions.

Those old, barbaric traditions and customs that had somehow survived into this day and age. The arranged marriages, the family practices, the rituals, the ceremonies, the taboo of same-sex coupling. That last one was especially important in the Zenin clan - Naoya had seen many a Zenin get disowned for being caught with their dick slotted up against another man’s, or some woman with her head between another woman’s legs. It wasn’t accepted under any circumstances, and even if Naoya was next in line for clan head, he’d meet the same fate if he was found with another man.

Not that he would ever be careless enough to be caught fucking a man, or that he would even fuck a man, because you weren’t really a man, not like how he was a man. You weren’t strong, you weren’t tough, you couldn’t hold a sword and you damn sure couldn’t exorcise a curse. Your body was soft where his was hard, your jaw curved where his was sharp, your skin free of scars from battle while his had a few here and there.

You cleaned and cooked - dusted the shelves and scrubbed the floors of the estate, folded the laundry and neatly put it away, tidied the bedrooms and the bathrooms, prepared his meals and brought them to him on a platter, took away his empty dishes and scrubbed them clean…just like the women and servants of the clan.

You would have made the perfect woman. You were meek, but not mute, you knew that your place was always behind a real man and you didn’t hate it, unlike the other woman who cried about it all being so unfair. Your cooking was a level above decent, you knew how to properly starch his shirts, and his room never had so much of a speck of dust floating around after you were done with it.

The only downside of you was the adam’s apple in your throat and the cock and balls between your legs - but even that could be overlooked if he dressed you well enough. A kimono with all the bells and whistles, a painted face, along with a feminine hair style and you looked no different from the women his father tried to arrange for him to marry — and when he fucked you in the solitude of his room you sounded just like them, too.

If Naoya could have you prancing around the estate in nothing but women’s lingerie and short, frilly dresses without you being executed in the front gardens he would, but he has to settle for dressing you up in the privacy of his room where prying eyes can’t see.

“This thing just really ruins the look.” Naoya mutters, his gaze trained on your cock that’s straining against the fabric of your panties. It’s a lacy red pair that’s fit snug against you, the fabric cradling a pair of plump balls and soft cock. He cups you and squeezes, ignoring the way you whine and shuffle on your feet. “Turn around.” He fondles you again before allowing you to turn, and his tongue swipes out to wet his lips as he admires the way your ass practically swallows up the fabric.

With one hand on each cheek he spreads your ass apart, a low hum sounding at the sight of your puckered hole, and he moves his thumb to circle around the rim, pulling a breathy moan from your mouth. If he were to reach forward he knows that he’d find your cock leaking and hard already, and the thought makes him snicker.

“Turn.” His palm collides with your cheek, his own cock stirring in his pants as he watches the globe of flesh ripple under his hand, and then his eyes are on the matching bralette you wear. “Your tits are getting bigger.” They’re not, obviously, but he likes the way you duck your head down and how hot your skin gets when he says it.

He meanly pinches at your nipples, pulling at the buds until they’re puffy and sore and your lashes are wet, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip to muffle your noises. He soothes them with slow rubs of his thumbs, and then he’s leaning forward to suck on them through the fabric, hands moving to grope and squeeze at your ass as he tugs you further between his spread thighs.

His cock is fully hard now, a bead of pre-cum forming at the uncut tip, and one hand leaves your ass to instead stuff venture into the drawer beside his bed. His fingers close around a small tube, and he pushes it into your hand before pulling his mouth away from your chest. “Spread yourself open for me.”

Naoya leans back on his elbows on the bed as he observes, eyes lidded as he watches you coat your fingers in lube, pull your panties down to your thighs, and move your arm behind you. “Tch.“ He can’t decide if wants to see your fingers stretching your ass open, or keep looking at the way your cock twitches and dribbles pre down to your balls. Naoya had never been interested in the sight of another man’s cock, they all paled in comparison to his own, until he had seen yours. It was small, smaller than his at least, and your balls hung close to your body, high, and it fit nicely in the palm of his hand in the rare times that he actually touched it, because he didn’t need to touch it to get you to come. The sensitive thing was spurting cum as soon as he got his cock in you.

“Naoya-Sama.” You gasp, knees buckling as you stumble forward, your lips parted due to your heavy pants as you fuck yourself with your fingers. “I’m -ah- I’m ready for you.”

“Keep going.” He ignores the impatient look on your face, instead leaning forward to wrap his hand around your length. You let out a choked moan and jerk into his fist, and he holds you still by your hip, hand freely gliding up and down your shaft. His thumb mushes down against your slit and smears your pre-cum around, and then he’s moving to squeeze at your balls, his eyebrows furrowing when he comes to the realization that he likes the weight of you in his palm.

He strokes you faster, too absorbed in the wet ‘shlick shlick’ of your cock to notice the footsteps that near his room. He’s close enough to smell you, and he breathes in the scent of the perfume that he had doused you in earlier - it’s sickeningly sweet, a scent that’s been popular among women recently, and while he had scrunched his nose up when he smelt it on them, he greedily basks in it now.

A cry of his name leaves your mouth and then you’re coming, cock twitching in his hand before spurts of cum shoot up to decorate your stomach, a bit of it dribbling over the backs of his fingers. As if in a trance, he leans forward, tongue darting out to lick a stripe up your stomach and collect your cum - it’s tangy, a bit salty, but not revolting, and he licks another broad stripe, his eyes raising to lock onto yours.

With your cum gathered on his tongue, he tugs you down until you’re straddling his lap, one hand moving to grip the back of your neck as he presses your mouths together. You suck on his tongue, matching groans leaving the both of you, and he fights to free himself from his pants, the door to his room sliding open just as his cock springs free.

“Naoya.”

“Busy.” He breaks the kiss to say, just to mash his lips right back to yours, free hand grabbing a fistful of your ass and lifting your hips. Your back is to the door, effectively hiding you away, but that doesn’t stop you from tensing in his lap as you register his father’s voice.

His fingers trail down to your hole, teeth painfully nipping at your bottom lip when he feels the shit job you did at stretching yourself out.

“What did I do to deserve having you disgraceful pigs for sons? You won’t marry the women I bring to you, but you’ll defile the servants left and right.” Naobito says, and Naoya pays him no mind, too busy focused on lining his tip up with your hole.

Your eyes widen in shock as you give a small shake of your head, and he grins into the kiss as he thrusts in with a quick snap of his hips. You yelp, forehead dropping to rest on his shoulder, and Naoya gives his father a bored as he trails his nose up and down the slope of your neck.

“Are you just gonna stand there and watch me fuck her?” Your skin burns hotter under his touch, and he pulls you impossibly closer, amusement threatening to overflow when he feels your cock plump up against his hard stomach.

“If you impregnate her, you’ll marry her, and you’ll be the shame of the Zenins’ - marrying a lowly housemaid, tch. You could never hope to be head of the clan.”

“It’s a good thing she only likes it when I put it in her ass then, isn’t it?” His fingers sink into the flesh of your ass, spreading you open so the sight of your hole fluttering around his fat cock is visible, and you whine into his shirt, hands fisting the material. “Don’t worry, old man, you won’t have to worry about any bastard kids anytime soon.”

Naoya has half a mind to spin you around and show you off to his father - show him the hard-on that you’re sporting and your flat chest, but that would cause all this to end a bit too soon, and he was growing quite a liking to you.

Naobito leaves soon after, insults spewed from drunken lips as he slams the door shut behind him, and Naoya is fucking up into you as soon as the door clicks into place. “You were squeezing around me so tight - you were scared, huh?” His back lays against the sheets as the heels of his feet dig into the mattress, hands locked around your waist to bring you down to meet his thrusts halfway.

You can’t talk past the moans leaving your mouth, but you manage a jerky nod, hands braced on his chest. “You’re so pathetic,” he groans, hands moving to pull you down so he can smack his lips against yours. The kiss is messy, tongues rubbing together and forcing drool to spill from the sides of your mouth. “Just like a woman. You need a protector, hm? A real man to keep you safe? Someone like me, yeah?”

“Yes,” you sob out, and he doesn’t have to check to know that you’ve came again, your cum wetting his shirt. His teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder, and his eyes roll as he stuffs his cock in deep, balls tightening and stomach rolling as he fills you full of cum, nails biting into the fat of your ass as he grips it.

His body relaxes into the mattress a few moments later, lips ghosting over where his teeth have left a mark, and hands softly kneading at your ass. “You don’t need to worry about any of that trash,” he talks low against your ear, rearranging the both of you so you’re lying on your sides, his arms keeping you close. “No one but me is allowed to touch you.”

His fingers find your puffy hole, and he pushes the cum back in that’s began to leak out, earning a tired moan in return. “No harm will come to you as long as I’m around.”

#naoya x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut

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embossross · 6 months

Text

From His Mind to Hers

chapter 13 >> Chapter 14>> masterlist

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: Processing trauma from abuse and sexual violence (rape aftermath), unhealthy coping mechanisms, revenge porn, slut shaming/misogyny, suicidal ideation (sort of – threats)

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; smut (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, stalking, torture (not of y/n), murder, dubcon & abuse in c13, discussions of trauma and abuse, drug use, and more

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: 5.5k+

The janitor deserves a raise.

The floors gleam, pearlescent and buffed to a shine that threatens to serve your reflection back to you. Where you sit, elbows to knees, staring at the floor, you notice every shoe scuff and dropped luggage tag. Fleeting messes that the janitor is quick to erase from existence. A few sweeps of the mop and everything returns to its former state, beautiful and shining.

“Flight NH451 to Okinawa is now boarding,” a crystalline voice announces first in Japanese, then English, then Mandarin.

No one else has time to study the floors. Compared to the bustle of Tokyo-Narita, Haneda Airport is calmer, but all airports in your experience share an atmosphere of restrained anxiety. For many people, it’s the one time they must completely surrender any pretenses of control over their lives and accept that they are subject to the whims of weather, technical failure, fate.

You know a thing or two about that.

Fussy babies burp and cry while their older siblings fare little better. The line for the Hong Kong Express baggage check stretches around the corner, creeping forward at a pace that promises a missed flight for whichever fool arrives with only two hours to make it to their terminal. A group of college-aged girls kneel on the floor, bags spread out as they shuffle the contents around, trying to find the magic formula that will sneak them below the weight limit. Hunched like they’re already exhausted from standing for so long, an elderly couple waits in mute silence, in a place beyond words. Nearly everyone else stares at their phones, willing the minutes to pass. It’s a fair difference from the energy you’d find over in arrivals, where half the passengers are haggard from a long day of international travel and the other half sprint, energized, into the arms of waiting loved ones. It churns your stomach to think about all those people, crying through tears of joy.

It may appear like the line isn’t moving, but it’s like the Argonaut. From where you’ve sat to the side watching for the last four hours, you know an assemblage of new faces will gradually replace these, the line somehow never shorter but its components entirely new.

In all this time, not one person has taken note of the woman rooted to one spot, the perpetual observer of the thousands of people who all have better places to be.

The promise of invisibility is what drew you to the airport this morning. Amid the minutiae and petty concerns of the mob, you may as well be furniture. Surrendering to that invisibility evokes a blissful relief.

It is your natural habitat.

As a child, you mastered the art of being there and not there at the same time. You remember miserable days spent locked in your room whenever you caught so much as a sniffle. Your mother would banish you to the narrow three tatami mat room, terrified that your germs might spread and infect her.

At first, every minute would tick by with the weight of eternity. Staring at the ceiling, phlegm draining back through your sinuses and stomach in a pounding knot, you would count each tile one by one. The trick was to stretch the count as long as possible, to sit and savor each number in your mind’s eye, because you knew when you finished it would be back to one again. No windows opened to the views outside, no toys to distract you. The most the little room offered was its thin walls through which you could hear your mother move about the house, her loud laugh down the receiver of the phone, the hum of the TV. All while you shook from fever, unattended.

Time would pass so slowly in that room. Gradually, impossibly, it would slow even further as your stomach grumbled, your throat spasmed from thirst. Your mother never thought to leave you any food or water to survive those long days in that room.

The thirstier you grew, the less you could ward off the realities of the body, thoughts fixating on each ache and pain, until finally, you learned to stop your thoughts altogether. To be there and not there at once.

Then, time would resume in a sprint, a long blink and night would fall. Once the sounds of your mother’s untroubled life ceased, you would make your move. On sock-covered feet, you would slip from your prison and edge your way to the kitchen, praying for invisibility, for no one to spot your midnight heist. You never dared fetch a glass, mimicking a thief’s caution as you leaned into the sink, mouth closing around the tap, where you would turn it onto a trickle and let the life-giving water permeate your cracked lips. In those moments, you would be there, brilliantly, blindingly there in spirit, but your body remained locked away in that room.

The tricks you learned in those days in that house have served you well over the years. Invisibility sometimes feels like a curse, resigning you forever to the periphery of life, but it also greets you like an old friend when you are most in need of protection.

How traumatizing then to search for it last night and find that old friend missing. When you needed it most, the old detachment abandoned you.

Hyper-present, you suffered every moment of Hanma’s pain and perversion. Countless times, you reached for your invisibility, hoping to slip out of yourself like a specter and leave your body to Hanma’s cruel hands, but you were only left twice as terrified to find yourself trapped inside yourself. Your mind, body, and soul were devastatingly one as you experienced the certainty that Hanma would shoot you dead as he brutalized you, as he held you with the gentleness of a lover, as he…

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You know it’s him. It must be. His smell still lingers on the fine hairs of your nostrils, singeing them with the stench of bourbon that bled from his pores. In the blue-black dark, you could barely make out his features as he threatened you – a masked intruder hovering above you – but fuck if you couldn’t smell him, stinking up your once safe, sterilized bedroom.

Just thinking about it makes you want to…

With trembling fingers, you hunt through your purse until you find a wad of tissues to wipe the sweat that beads across your brow. It is swelteringly hot in Departures, a mix of the unseasonably warm weather and the heat of hundreds of bodies thronging together, their every exhale warming the room.

Searching through the mass of bodies, you find the janitor still at work, fix on the friendly lines of his face. He gives no indication that he notices the heat, the throngs of people, or anything else but his work. The janitor mops the floors, contented. Like you, he has no designs to go anywhere else.

The line moves several meters forward while you watch the janitor. Eventually, he lifts his head and notices you for the first time. The muscles in your face ache as you summon a smile. The result must be obscene or hostile because he hurriedly returns to mopping, a few half-hearted brushes just for show before he scurries away entirely.

Now, you are alone again.

You put your head between your legs and try to breathe like they suggest people having panic attacks do in the movies. The position does help chase back your rising gorge and settles your rolling stomach. It does nothing for your thoughts.

You remember when Hanma’s long fingers found your clit, how he exploited his knowledge of your body to rub you to a forced little orgasm, like he wouldn’t be content until you were made an active participant in your indignity, his forever accomplice, the Stavrogin to his Fedka.

A thundering accompanies a plane taking off from the tarmac, loud enough to chase away the memories. You watch the massive passenger plane soar north until it becomes a speck on the horizon. It will never cease to amaze you how for the hundreds of people aboard that plane, each knows exactly where they are going and why. Their destination is well and truly decided. Too late to change their minds or second-guess.

Whenever you try to think of where you will go next – because surely you can’t live in the airport departures lounge, surely someone, anyone, will eventually realize the ghost of a woman has made a home there, will recognize that you’ve overstayed your welcome, will chase you out, right? – your brain throws up nothing but roadblocks. You imagine returning to your cold, hostile apartment, and the contents of your stomach dance in protest. Your apartment is no longer a safe space.

Your phone vibrates again, and this time, you don’t have the strength to ignore it. Fished from your pocket, you stare at the characters in Shuji’s name, tracing them one by one. Your finger hovers over the button to answer.

What he did last night – did to you – is unforgivable. You may not know what happened to Haitani, but it doesn’t matter. You did not deserve that.

And that should be that. A definitive break with Hanma is the only logical next step. Everything you built together is decimated, just so much sawdust stamped beneath his paranoid feet.

But where does that leave you? You know there will be no returning to your old life? The apartment will never be safe again now that Hanma’s been inside, not since you invited him inside. It will never be clean after what happened.

And maybe you won’t be either. Something inside you is fundamentally changed. Because even now, some part of you wants to go to him. Perhaps want is the wrong word. Without the old survival tools that carried you through the years, you feel cast adrift, weaker than when Hanma found you.

Eventually, Hanma will escalate from ignored phone calls and, vulnerable as you are, will you be able to say no to his face? Worse, will you lean into him, longing for his protection from the demons he himself unleashed on your life?

You don’t take his call, but you don’t leave the airport either. Nothing can change so long as you stay here, but then again, nothing can hurt you either.

Stuck, your return to staring at the floors.

You choose to take the elevator up to your apartment, spending the better part of the ride convincing yourself that no demons will await you, so all five senses revolt when you find the hallway outside your door laden with cardboard boxes. They’re not taped up like a delivery would be, and besides, you pick your mail up from the mailroom downstairs. Peeking into one box, you see it’s filled with your old textbooks from university, the ones that should be neatly shelved and collecting dust in your bedroom.

Inside, pornographic moaning greets you. Stopped in your tracks, you almost miss the changes: the photographs in the entry hall have been removed, your shoes are missing from the alcove. There is no mess, just gaps where your life should be.

While taking an itemized inventory of what’s missing appeals to you, the lewd sounds coming from the living room force you forward. On the TV, a naked woman rides a man. She carries on like it’s the best damn dick of her life, touching her own body like something sacred as she cries out.

The woman is you, of course you can see that much, but your brain struggles to play catch up and process this baffling, foreign view of yourself. It’s almost harder to comprehend how wanton you appear in the video rather than that such a video exists in the first place.

“I think we can agree there’s no need for a scene.”

Emerging from the bedroom, Takashi’s doesn’t spare the screen a second glance. It would only take one to confirm that the woman in the video is you, and that the man is decidedly not him.

Between self-indulgent rounds of sex with Hanma, you often wondered how you would feel if Takashi discovered your affair. Secretly, you longed for guilt. A great tsunami of devotion to Takashi and the concept of monogamy would rise within you, the tears would fall, and seconds later, apologies would follow. You hoped for a scene out of the soap operas, something normal.

The reality is less fraught as you are too stunned to summon up any response at all. If only Takashi would turn the video off. Then, maybe your brain would work again. There is no room for coherent thought around the wet, slapping sounds intermixed with moans coming from the TV.

“I knew you were sleeping with patients for months now. It never bothered me too much. So, when I saw the videos, I didn’t understand at first why I was so repulsed by it. But then, I put it together. I had figured some fat, rich fuck at work offered you enough money, and I could hardly blame you for that. If a client offered me money to fuck, I’d do it, too. But watching the videos, I realized, you weren’t just fucking this yakuza creep for money, were you? You liked it.”

There is a forcefield around Takashi that repels your gaze. You can test its parameters by starting at the juts of his knees and slowly climbing upward. It’s around his neck, the first bit of exposed skin, that the forcefield kicks into effect, and you find you cannot bring your gaze higher than the hollow of his throat, and even that takes a supreme effort. You turn back to the video playing out on screen.

“So you’re leaving me, then?” you say because it must be said if things are to continue from here.

“Things are busy at work. I don’t see why my life should be disrupted when I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m sure you’ll take responsibility as the offending party and move out without a fuss.”

“That would be sensible,” you agree.

Heady with the realization that this is actually happening – you are truly breaking up with your boyfriend – you force yourself to look at him, one last look to imprint forever in your mind. Immediately, you wish you hadn’t.

Takashi looks past you to the video on screen, where the you of only a few weeks back is loudly and visibly announcing how much she likes every stroke of dick before erupting into a shaking orgasm. Lips curled as if tasting something foul, Takashi regards the woman in the video like something subhuman. You try to watch the video through his eyes, but you can’t break free from the chains of your own perspective, a fuzzy migraine cresting in your temples at the sight of Hanma’s body, memories of this pleasurable tryst weeks ago mixing with last night’s events until you feel like the edges of your brain are collapsing inward.

There is no point to torturing yourself with the video or further conversation. Ignoring the shame in your gut, you follow numbly a step behind Takashi as he finishes packing your things. Most of your meager belongings are already stacked in the hall, but still, there is something stunning about how quickly your life is packed up out of sight. After living together for eight years, you would have left such an indelible mark that only industrial strength tools could strip your essence from the walls of this place. There are a couple overlooked items: the vase of artificial flowers Shuji gifted you, a box of tissues if you care to be petty, the spoons with scalloped edges, but, functionally, your life is stripped, relegated to boxes, and pushed aside within a measly half hour.

All the while, the video plays on. When it finishes, autoplay kicks in and offers up a second to continue your humiliation. The second is slightly preferrable as you make less of a spectacle of your delirious pleasure in it, yet worse because it shows Shuji more clearly, the dragon tattoo on his back flexing as he pounds into your prone body, face crinkling in animal pleasure. You can’t stand to look at him.

These videos…the only explanation for their existence is Shuji. They’re an abomination, something that shouldn’t exist and can’t be allowed to continue to exist. The gall of their existence builds in you until you discover enough anger to break the silence that’s drawn tight between you and Takashi.

“Takashi, if I go quietly, will you please delete these videos?”

“Sure,” he agrees simply, but at their mention, Takashi then looks back to the sex tape on screen, and that same revulsion morphs the contours of his face into something unfamiliar. “I suspected it for months, and then after reading your diary, I knew it for certain, and still…seeing it? When I watched the first one, I debated if it was even real. It had to be some kind of tasteless hoax. Because that’s not you in these. You’re like a stranger. I mean, look at it,” he says, gesturing to the screen. “That’s not you. And that guy…How does touching that criminal freak not disgust you? It’s like watching a pig take a mud bath. Disgusting.”

The shelf where you once stored your medical magazines is barren. Naked. There isn’t much dust though. You had spent a few hours cleaning last Sunday. That’s good, you think, one good thing. Everything Takashi says about you is true. Your lack of fear or righteous hatred of Hanma signals a great moral failing on your part. You are a failure, Monstrous.

Spinning out in self-loathing, you stand mutely for a solid minute before your brain hooks onto a single detail and everything clicks firmly into place.

“Wait, you read my therapy diary?”

“Don’t go crying about privacy now. I could tell you were running around on me and wanted to know,” Takashi snaps.

The finer details of what you recorded in that diary escape you, but you know you frequently wrote about your conversations, encoding but not entirely skipping over references to his business. It was stupid, of course, but the diary was intended for your eyes only, an exercise in self-reflection. The same Takashi who told you he was coming into an unexpected windfall of money at work. The same Takashi who had ripped your bedroom apart, supposedly looking for signs of your infidelity. The same Takashi who had demanded details about your patients. If that same Takashi had read your diary months ago he would have known about the HKJ deal, about Haitani soliciting you, about far too much.

“You weren’t reading my diary because you were jealous. You were paid to spy on me, weren’t you?”

And you know just who paid him as well. Based of your three interactions, you should have predicted that Haitani is not a man who accepts defeat easily. He is like a river. When he can’t force his way through an obstacle, he finds a way around.

“I did what you should have done in the first place,” Takashi sneers.

It is not defensiveness, at least not as far as you can tell, that spurs Takashi to confess. In his mind, you’ve already been reduced to something subhuman, a creature undeserving of consideration let alone sympathy, someone he could justify the worst abuses against, so convinced of his own righteousness. But whatever grievance Takashi may imagine against you, nothing can compare to what Takashi cost you. If he hadn’t betrayed you to Ran, then last night…Hanma…

You think you could gouge Takashi’s eyes out and he still wouldn’t understand the hurt he caused you. Minutes prior, you felt completely extinguished, like your flames had been put out forever, but now a pilot light flickers and it’s enough to bring forth an inferno, a heat you didn’t dare hope you would ever feel again.

“How dare you! You want to lecture me about getting into bed with the yakuza when you’re climbing into the bank with one! What if you had gotten someone hurt or killed? Did you even think about what would happen to me? You’re a slimy, despicable, cowardly –”

Shouting over you as you continue to levy every imaginable invective against him, Takashi spits, “Like you’re some paragon of virtue. Were you thinking about your patients when you started screwing them? Or did you not give a fuck who you hurt? Last time I checked, they don’t let yakuza whores keep their licenses. Speaking of which, you should know I’ve already sent these videos to the Japanese Psychological Association. You can look forward to a call from the ethics board.”

The bomb drop has the desired effect. It collapses the floor beneath your feet, gobbles up the words in your mouth, and implodes the tiny sliver of security that you still clung to. A life gone in a moment.

You are going to lose your license.

No job.

No home.

No friends.

No boyfriend.

No security.

Nothing.

The last box of your things and the vase of flowers are shoved into your hands. They feel weightless in your arms. On autopilot, you accept them and Takashi’s pushing hands on your back as he shepherds you towards the door.

This is the last time you will see this apartment that you called home for so long: the warped wood that’s risen under the heat of the window, the lightbulb in the kitchen that flicks if your run the dishwasher at the same time, the dent no bigger than a thumbprint, or more accurately, a door handle in the wall from where the front door slammed into it with too much force.

You want to press pause, to slow down the moment. You would take a final photo if you could, breathe in the smell of this place and bottle it for a future date. Anything to linger for one second longer before you are cast out into the unforgiving cold.

Takashi does not take mercy on you.

“You should be thankful you don’t have a family to shame,” he hisses.

And then the door slams shut. With you on one side and your life on the other.

Everything you once were is gone forever.

On second look, there are fewer than a dozen boxes stacked in the hall. Such a small life. You thoughtlessly heft a small, light-seeming box onto the bundle already in your arms. Dazedly, you stumble past the rest, leaving them behind with no plan for when or who will come to collect them, and even less of an idea of where you’ll send them.

There is no hurry. Nowhere to go. Yet, you too quickly find yourself pressing through the revolving doors that lead out onto the street and the blinding midday sun, which fittingly leeches the color from the world, so that everything’s cast in long shadows. On instinct, you raise a hand to shield your eyes, dropping the little you own to shatter on the sidewalk. A pitiful relief wells in you as you drop to your knees to retrieve your belongings; it is something to do.

Since Takashi cratered the foundations on which your entire existence rested, the normally persistent voice in your head – the one that would caution you against calling a taxi when a subway ticket cost less than 200 yen or would push you to stay that extra hour in university, the one that essentially kept you alive – has been traitorously silent, and so you know that you ought to figure out a place to stay for the night, to calculate how long your savings will last, and brainstorm a strategy to fight the ethics board, but you can’t keep any one thought in your head long enough to develop something concrete. Each stirring of a thought drips through the cracks between your fingers, like trying to collect water in the cup of your palm. You can’t make a plan. What you can do is kneel on the dirty sidewalk and clean up your mess.

First, you right the little box you scooped up from the hallway. Peeking inside, you see it’s mostly filled with socks and underwear. The second box that Takashi forced into your hands is less useful. Inside are shattered picture frames, the photos inside detailing the lives you shared or, at least, lived in parallel. You can’t tell if they cracked in the fall or if Takashi ritualistically broke each as a parting gift. Even less useful somehow is the vase of fake flowers Hanma gave you, now lying scattered, a collection of jagged ceramic shards.

You herd the broken pieces into a little pile, careful as you do to avoid slicing your fingertips against the sharp edges. As you delicately lift one piece, you feel out something small and round affixed to the inside. With an emotion milder than curiosity, you peel the coin-like anomaly off. Holding it to the light, you puzzle at what looks like a microchip.

And then, all you can do is laugh, as your memory offers up an old spy movie where you saw a device just like this, hidden in a flower vase. It’s a bug.

Of course, he bugged your apartment. Even a gesture as simple as gifting you flowers in apology is warped, twisted into something malicious with Hanma. He’s been laying the foundation for your downfall for months now. Just waiting to crumble you to dust in his hands.

A familiar car pulls up to the curb where you sit, laughing maniacally to yourself. You laugh harder when you spot it. Perfect fucking timing.

The window rolls down, and for one terrible second, you lock eyes with Shuji. Terrible, venomous eyes, the gaze of a viper, hidden away behind glass lenses as if without that layer of protection, he might penetrate you to your core. No, not a viper, a basilisk.

The way he’s dressed, hair perfectly coiffed and in the tailored suit that is his work uniform, offends your sensibilities. From his height advantage, he peers down at you like a scientist watching a bug through a microscope. You feel as small as a mite.

“You can spend the night at my place,” Hanma says, without so much as a greeting because he need not dignify you with niceties. A person needn’t spare a termite a hello before stepping on it.

A plane flies overhead, so low it tricks the eye for a moment, makes you think it’ll crash into the skyscrapers dotting the cityscape. You follow it with your eyes until it’s long out of sight, retracing the chemtrail it leaves in its wake. You almost forget Hanma is here, watching.

Pressed through a sigh, Hanma says your name. His voice, toneless and impossibly deep strikes you like a whip, a thousand times worse than seeing him. It is the charge you need to act.

Bursting to your feet, you leave all but your box of underwear and march determinedly in the other direction. Adrenaline courses through your veins, a jittery but appreciated focuser, and for the first time, you are able to think outside your fugue state. You will find a hotel for the night, something cheap that pays by the hour. If you walk for five minutes, you’re sure to find something.

Anything is better than Hanma’s offer.

“Get in the car.”

You ignore Hanma’s first call and his second, pretending his voice doesn’t make your hands shake so hard you fear you’ll drop the box. The Bentley keeps pace with you to the right. At the first intersection, a redlight stops the Bentley dead.

“For fuck’s sake!”

The curse is a warning before Hanma charges out of the car, arms extended as if to grab you and drag you into the cavern of his Bentley. The dark interior beckons ominously, hinting at a cacophony of horrors. To go into that car is to die.

His fingers don’t so much as graze yours before you start to scream.

Hoarse, guttural screams that turn the necks of every passerby in the area emerge from your bruised throat, a scream that must be tearing your throat apart, but you can’t feel the pain through the adrenaline rush. Heads pop out of nearby shops to see who is making such a ruckus and why. Amid the animal shrieks, the occasional curse takes place, a well-timed “motherfucker” or “waste of space.” To anyone watching, you appear unhinged. A lifetime of pain and rage unleash in one concentrated exhale of agony. If you could bottle the force behind your bellows, they would blow a hole through Hanma’s brain and vaporize what’s left. You scream in his face like you hope to erase him from existence like he did you.

Time holds no meaning now, and you think you might black out or suffer a psychotic break that blacks over just what you say or do in those precious moments of freedom. Whether Hanma is appalled by your behavior, if it makes him want to hurt, fuck, or kill you is irrelevant. Blissfully blank, you become the beast Takashi thinks you are and growl and rage and bare your teeth.

Stunned into stillness by the spectacle, Hanma’s gaze darts between you and the spectators who could intervene, but as no one steps forward to help the crazy woman having a breakdown, Hanma loses his patience.

He slaps a hand over your mouth, muffling your hysterical shrieking. His body is so much larger than yours, something you once craved, but now it crowds and bullies you toward the parked door, where the wide-open passenger door signals your doom. You go silent. You transfer every bit of energy from your throat to your body. Biting and bucking, you fight him with every ounce of strength you possess.

No amount of thrashing could overpower Hanma at full-strength, but he treats you gently with none of last night’s brutality. Kid gloves try to handle you with care as if he would never think to harm you, no not you, his precious, beloved pet. How could you even think such a thing? Unwilling to hurt you, Hanma grapples against your flailing arms for a full minute before backing off, hands tugging at his hair in frustration. He is panting though not half so hard as you are.

“Would you fucking stop!” Hanma snaps. “You should be grateful for what I did. You should –”

Whatever lovely suggestion would have topped off that sentence, you don’t wait to hear, lashing out with a closed fist before he can finish.

You aim for his cheek, but Hanma sees the blow coming, so your fist glances off his neck.

The next punch is somehow more pitiful. Powered by your righteous indignation, you throw your full-body weight behind it, but Hanma bats you aside, so that your shoulder collides into his chest and the punch dies out against the air. Hanma folds the leftover arm behind your body and pins you to his chest, so that all the bucking in the world won’t be enough to break free. He is a titanium wall of muscle and violence, and he has you in his grasp. You think you might vomit.

All the energy in your body evaporates, and you slump into his embrace.

“Finally,” Hanma mutters but without frustration. There is a hint of satisfaction there. A hint of humor at your suffering.

“Let me go,” you whisper.

“Will you behave like a good girl if I do?”

“Let me go.”

Hanma sighs, “Oh, Doc, come on. All this carrying on over limp-dick Takashi? He’s not worth it.”

“Didn’t you hear? While you were eavesdropping, didn’t you hear?” you chuckle a little, a sound strange enough that Hanma eases up on his grip, enough so that he can peer down at your face. You are both equally surprised to discover that you are crying, little matte tears slipping down your cheeks. “I didn’t just lose my boyfriend and my apartment. Oh no! I’m also going to lose my fucking license!”

“What? Why would you lose your license?” Hanma visibly startles, and on any other day, you might have enjoyed one-upping him, but not today. And never again.

“Is this what you wanted from the beginning? To lay me completely low? Did you think that when I was broke and starving, I’d have no choice but to rely on your limited generosity? To let you play with me until you get bored? Because I have nothing left to give, Hanma. I’m not even a human being anymore. I’m nothing.”

“Listen, Doc, relax. This is a panic attack. I’ll take care of Takashi and whatever he did. I’ll make it go away. You just come home with me, and I’ll take care of you and –”

“I may be nothing, but I’d rather be nothing than be with you,” you spit in his face.

His hands slacken for a moment, and you use that moment of weakness to break free.

Once more, Hanma’s hand reaches out as if to grab you, but you turn to him and with every bit of solemnity in your soul, so that the words read with all the gravity of a blood oath, you swear, “If you force me to go anywhere with you, I swear I will find a way to kill myself.”

The fingers on Hanma’s hand flex. The veins pop and strain like his body is rebelling against him, urging him to clutch, grab, cage. But then that hand falls to his side, stills.

This time, when you walk away, he doesn’t follow.

#hanma shuji #hanma x reader #tokyo rev smut #tokyo revengers smut #hanma smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #tokyo revengers x reader

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theotterpenguin · 7 days

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I really like the nuanced take about Zutara and why it makes some people uncomfortable and I can see both sides of it. I ship Zutara now but at first I didn’t and it made me really uncomfortable but I think it was just because of certain fan content I was coming across. Some people do portray Zutara in an extremely fetishized & creepy Stockholm syndrome way that makes Katara come off like some helpless damsel stereotype. It made me feel really gross thinking about as a young WOC but rewatching the show and seeing the true dynamic of these characters made me fall in love with them again. So I guess my feeling is that in canon i really love the dynamic but I hate the way *certain fans* twist it and refuse to acknowledge the racism & misogyny in what they’re doing

this is a complicated topic with many layers to it but first - i am sorry if you have ever felt unwelcome in the zutara fandom due to experiences with racism/misogyny.

it would be ignorant to claim that the zutara fandom is somehow uniquely unaffected by systemic racism or sexism, but it would also be disingenuous to claim that these issues only exist in certain parts of the atla fandom. racism, sexism, and general bigotry exist in every fandom due to institutionalized inequality in social structures. and to make it clear, i'm not directing this criticism towards you, anon, you are entitled to your own personal experiences, but i have seen a broader trend of people attempting to use fandom racism to moralize their position in ship wars, which is diminishing from the actual problem - the focus should be on acknowledging the existence of fandom racism/sexism, combatting implicit biases, and creating spaces that can uplift marginalized voices, rather than focusing only on optics in an attempt to gain moral high ground in a silly *fictional* ship war.

however, given all this, the reason that i am still in the zutara fandom is because i appreciate how many people in the fandom are dedicated to unpacking issues of racism and sexism and cultural insensitivity in atla's source material, which i personally haven't seen in many other sides of the fandom (that often sanitize what actually happened in the text to avoid acknowledging these issues in their favorite show). of course this is a broad generalization, but that's generally why i stick with the non-canon shipping side of the fandom because fans that are willing to stray away from canon are often less afraid to engage in critical analysis.

i also do think the zutara fandom has come a long way from the early 2000s when the show first aired. for example, when i first joined the fandom i had mixed feelings on fire lady katara, but i have since read some fanfics that have done an excellent job deconstructing some of the problematic ways that this trope could be interpreted and balancing respect for katara's cultural heritage and autonomy with the political and personal difficulties of being involved with an imperialist/colonialist nation. the fire lady katara trope, capture!fic, and other complicated topics/tropes are almost never inherently racist/sexist, but rather, their execution is what matters. and all this is not to say that issues of systemic racism/sexism do not still exist in this fandom, but it personally has not significantly negatively impacted my experience in the zutara fandom due to the wonderful content that so many other fantastic people produce, though everyone's mileage may differ with what they are comfortable with. anon, i hope that you are able to find a place in the zutara fandom for you! but i also know many people that have stepped back from other fandoms due to experiences with racism/misogyny, so i understand that decision as well.

on a final note, i think it's important to acknowledge that fandom doesn't exist in a vacuum and broader issues of racism and sexism are rooted in the media, the entertainment industry, and mainstream societal norms. while i do sometimes focus on fandom dynamics/discourse in my criticisms, i think it is equally as important to acknowledge how issues of prejudice and inequality are perpetuated through larger social structures, which is why it frustrates me when the atla fandom refuses to acknowledge the flaws of the original show, which has far more influence and social power over the general public than discourse over fandom tropes ever will. personally, i don't understand the phenomenon of holding fan-made material to a higher standard than mainstream media.

#zutara #atla #atla fandom critical #atla critical #zuko #katara #racism #sexism #and i hope it's clear that i am not condoning racism/sexism in fan material - but i do think it's hypocritical to ignore the foundations #of this that is built into the source material #anon ask #my asks #my post

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bookishfeylin · 5 months

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bestie can u elaborate why don’t u like the barbie movie (i also don’t like it but i just love giving people the opportunity to be haters)

I feel like I should preface this response with several things:

I liked PARTS of the Barbie movie. Some of the messages in it were really good, and were delivered in a hilarious way. The pure love for humanity and LIFE was very evident and I loved Barbie’s arc. I also appreciated the underlying “redpill ideology is harmful and misleads men” message.

I knew Greta Gerwig was a white woman so I did not expect much in the way of intersectional feminism or even acknowledgment that white women are often the weakest link and tend to be 'class traitors' more than any other marginalized group, so that was not my issue with the movie

It's pretty! And bright! And colorful! It was FUN!

That being said… it did not sit well with me the more I thought about it.

My main problem with the Barbie movie is that it equates Barbieland with real life patriarchy and argues that both are equally bad, when that is demonstrably not true even as shown in the movie itself. When Barbie enters our world, she is sexually harassed, assaulted, and objectified. This is... not how the Kens are treated in Barbieland. They're just... ignored. That's it. The Barbies don't mistreat the Kens, and when Ken gets hurt in the beginning of the movie while beaching the Barbies all rush around him to get him medical attention and worry over him. The Barbies aren't cruel, and they certainly aren't treating the Kens as objects. They're just... ignoring them most of the time. And before someone brings up the Kens being homeless I'd like to add that, given their attempts to build a wall in the movie, there is certainly nothing STOPPING them from building their own homes. More than that: if it really bothered them so much why didn't they ask the construction Barbies for help with making one? I'm sure they would've said yes. There is literally nothing and no one stopping the Kens from making their own houses or having their own little Ken village because the Barbies DO NOT CARE what they do. At all.

The worst Barbieland offers men is being ignored by women. And that's not nice, sure. Hence why barbie apologized at the end. But the worst patriarchy offers women is being abused, raped, indoctrinated into patriarchal religions, and murdered by men. Those two things are not the same. So not only could this movie not commit to actually making a real matriarchy that is actually as bad as patriarchy (because don't get me wrong, I don't doubt that a matriarchy in actual practice would be bad y'all), it then argues that this fictional watered down version of a matriarchy is somehow the equivalent of the much more violent real world patriarchy as a ~warning~ to women's rights advocates to not get too carried away I guess? AND REACTIONARIES STILL CAME AWAY FROM THIS MOVIE THINKING BARBIELAND WAS JUST AS BAD AS PATRIARCHY AND BEING UPSET THAT BARBIELAND RETURNED UNDER BARBIE CONTROL (despite the movie's message that Kens were still going to get rights in Barbieland and would one day have the same rights women in our world have but I digress--) And then the reactionaries felt this movie was anti-Men???

So no. I don't like this movie. The fact that a lot of normie people walked away from this movie like "Yeah! It critiqued Matriarchy AND Patriarchy! It critiqued feminism and the red pill!" indicates to me that this movie failed. The premise of this movie was inherently flawed: that women ignoring men=matriarchy=just as bad as the violence and dehumanization of patriarchy. But more than that, the fact that so many agree with this premise concerns me, and suggests that misogyny is much more deeply rooted in the human consciousness than I had expected. If women merely ignoring men and living life without centering men is viewed as matriarchy, as misandry, as "just as bad" as patriarchy, then perhaps the advocacy for women's rights was always doomed.

Sorry to end this on such a downer btw

#ask #anon #barbie movie #barbie #barbie 2023 #barbie critical #feminism #womanism

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castielslostwings · 1 year

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Please help me tell people about my book!

Hi! I'm publishing a book! It's HERE, just in time for Christmas!! It's GAY!! It's romantic!!! It's HOT! It has firefighters and background sapphic romance, and is exciting AF!!!

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"Fire & Ice": The flaming hot queer romance novel where a foray into BDSM helps two best friends find themselves, each other, and what it really means to burn. Summary: "Firefighter Tripp Truett has somehow tumbled into a whole new kind of relationship with his quirky paramedic best friend, Lee, but mutual relief from their high-stress jobs quickly develops into something more. With all the missed signals and crossed wires, can these two ever figure out that they're so much closer to being on the same page than they think?"

**************************************** About the author (info dump ahoy!!!!) :

I'm Robin, sometimes known as Wings! I'm a 36-year-old, queer, autistic, disabled mom of 2 humans and 5 senior rescue dogs, former R.N. & paramedic. I'm a hardcore fangirl and a proud fanfic writer (and reader), and while I know some people will judge me for that, I am not ashamed! I started writing as a hobby after becoming physically disabled and unable to work as an RN. Fanfic gave me an audience and an outlet, gifted me purpose and hope again. Transformative fiction is FUN! It fosters creativity and passion, heals wounds, and makes people happy. If someone wants to discredit me for that, then perhaps they aren't the audience I'm seeking.

Ultimately, I know I'm taking a risk, but since people seem to enjoy my fics, this book is my attempt to try and make ends meet through original fiction! I know some people WILL discredit me. But I'm always about being myself and speaking on what I feel matters: Fanfic should be legitimized as a creative medium. I assure you, friends—the thousands of hours I've spent on my fanworks are as REAL as it gets. The intersection of disparaging fanfic + sexism/misogyny can't be overstated—women (esp queer women)'s unpaid work is often treated as a "hobby," not worthy of uplifting. I'm here to uplift! The risk is worth it—I would have nothing without fanfic & I'm proud. Younger creators shouldn't feel shame about writing/reading fanfic. We should ALL approach it as a legitimate medium. In fact, MOST new media these days is transformative "fanwork" of SOME kind, whether it's inspired by, based on, or outright rebooting existing worlds.

Plus, we queer folk simply deserve to see our stories in the mainstream media and to see the characters we fall in love, identify with, and root for to get their happily ever afters.

TL;DR: I'm keeping my name and history. Hopefully, I'll be successful in original fiction, but if not, I'll still be a fangirl. Please consider supporting me + other creators attempting to dip into original works. Follow or subscribe to my ko-fi for previews, updates, access to my discord community where I share exclusive content, and more: https://ko-fi.com/castielslostwings FIRE & ICE IS NOW AVAILABLE THROUGH MULTIPLE PLATFORMS! Ko-Fi subscribers will have the option to buy signed copies & merch bundles! The link to purchase will also be posted there first.

A MAJOR thank you to my friends, editors, and to everyone who in my server for supporting and encouraging me to put myself out there and try something new. Love you guys so much. <3 Thank you to @chaoticdean for the beautiful cover. Many more thank yous to come. P.S. If you are reading this and know anyone with a platform who might be interested in receiving a free copy in exchange for promo (only if they enjoy, ofc), please holler at me, I can use all the help I can get!

<3 Wings

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transmutationisms · 8 months

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i have a q which might be controversial and also im not entirely sure how to word, so forgive me. i dont consider “transandrophobia” to be a useful term since androphobia is obviously not a thing that exists; additionally, i know that transmisogyny is the term used for the specific oppression faced by trans women and is the intersection of transphobia and misogyny. my question is - do transmasc ppl also experience oppression that is an intersection of transphobia and misogyny? i have to assume they do, at least in some ways, and so what would that be called? is that also transmisogyny? how do we define that?

ok, i get why people on here sometimes define transmisogyny just as "the intersection of transphobia and misogyny" (not just you—i have seen this phrasing a lot) but i think it's a bit oversimplified and misleading and kind of based on very distant third- and fourth-hand readings of crenshaw. one thing the term 'transmisogyny' is useful for pointing out is that transfeminine people are culturally marked specifically b/c of the directionality of their gender, ie, specifically for 'becoming' women or 'choosing' womanhood. it's this that disrupts the idea that women are a) immutably distinct from men and b) specifically distinct in that they are inferior. the cultural read of transfemininity isn't just that it transgresses the border between men and women, but that it specifically does so to claim womanhood. that's construed as inherently a threat to a logic of male supremacy.

i don't think it's that helpful to haggle over 'who experiences misogyny' and as many people have said before me, to some extent it's really a pointless question because misogyny is the root of the entire patriarchal gender system we all exist in. like yeah of course transmascs also live and operate in this context. and ofc we can be and often are misgendered and perceived as women who 'want' to be men or whatever. but what the term transmisogyny points to is the specific position of being marginalised for transfemininity: for being women & claiming womanhood. obviously this is not a guiding principle in the cultural construction of the figure of the transmasc because well, that's not the directionality of our gender transgression.

i am frankly so sceptical of the idea that transmascs 'need' a special term that somehow combines transphobia + misogyny in some different way because i think this idea belies a misunderstanding of what transmisogyny conveys and how it functions (for example, transmisogyny is very useful for picking apart the ways transfems are seen as both sexual objects and sexual deviants, & how this depends on misogyny that specifically is punishing, again, the idea of gender transgression that goes in the direction of identification & expression of womanhood—transmascs can ofc be sexualised or w/e but again this is a different cultural and discursive construction because we are not being punished for gender transgression in the direction of womanhood, but rather in the direction of 'abandoning' it for manhood, which is then still assumed superior and desirable). again i think a lot of this comes from kind of a superficial understanding of intersectionality and what that framework can achieve. transmisogyny is not just stacking transphobia + misogyny on top of one another like two different sheets of paper; transmisogyny functions in specific and describable ways and arises, again, not just from hatred of gender transgression but from the specific cultural construction & directionality of transfemininity.

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bohemian-nights · 2 months

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As a WOC, I will never be able to sympathize with Rhaenyra. She’s such an over privileged and lazy person. I just can’t bring myself to sympathize with her for getting usurped because I feel like that’s mainly her fault for being lazy and thinking she’s entitled to everything.

And then we have nettles. A girl who comes from nothing. She manages to claim a wild dragon, she fights for Rhaenyra’s cause and how does Rhaenyra repay her? By trying to murder her. How can anyone sympathize with Rhaenyra over nettles? This white woman’s trauma and paranoia do not excuse her trying to kill a black woman.

So many of her Stans like to pretend they have the moral high ground while also defending Rhaenyra trying to murder nettles.

Yeah, that’s my main complaint with her and why I get so frustrated when people think I’m being mean, petty, or overly critical about her character.

Yes, she is objectively a victim of the patriarchy, but she’s also a privileged white woman who tried to exercise her privilege by attempting to commit a racially motivated hate crime against a Black woman(Nettles).

And yes she’s a fictional character, but there have been so many women throughout history who have behaved in that same exact manner. Women who despite being discriminated against based on their sex still managed to punch down and ruin real lives, separated families, and got innocents killed all at their command.

I don’t know if this was GRRM's intention, but from my perspective as a Black woman, Rhaenyra is just another reflection of that painful history. She’s not someone I can project onto and see myself in even though she’s a woman. She’s still very much just a part of the machine(just in a feminine form).

Before anyone comes for me, it’s perfectly fine if you like Rhaenyra. Again she’s fictional, but not acknowledging what she represents and how she’s both oppressed and an oppressor means that you don’t acknowledge her victims or see the importance of characters like Nettles.

And if you have a hard time acknowledging and understanding how a fictional Black woman is being victimized by a white woman I doubt you’ll have a much easier time dealing with real life victims of racial violence.

Not to mention the fact that it’s incredibly offensive to see things like Nettles should be cut because there are five other Black-ish people in a mostly white cast and she’s unimportant and people only like her because she’s Black and yet have people swear up and down they don’t have a racist bone in their body.

This isn’t even getting into the people who have literally used the n-word compared Black characters to animals, and mocked Black hair and features. Just know you guys are the same cause racism isn’t limited to spewing out slurs.

Those statements(which are solely focused on her race) are very much rooted in anti-Blackness. Those statements are the epitome of reducing someone down to just their skin color and dismissing them because of that. Nettles may be fictional, but you are using racist tropes that have been pushed on Black(that we somehow aren’t deserving of our positions in life and are only where we are because of quotas and wokeness) to trash her character.

Nettles is an incredibly interesting character. Hell, even George finds her fascinating.

Of all the secondary characters in F&B she’s the one who he wanted to write a novella about. Her story has all the tropes that people usually like. Girl from nothing who despite all odds makes it and thrives. She’s there to teach a lesson, but they don’t see her worth because she’s Black. All they see is a Black face who they think doesn’t belong since she’s not a walking stereotype.

I’m not exactly shocked by this behavior, but it’s still stlrange asf to see people who scream up and down about misogyny(which is valid) then go on and perpetuate misogynoir without blinking an eye.

#bnasks #bnask #nettles #anti rhaenyra targaryen #anti rhaenyra stans #fandom racism

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seraphimfall · 1 year

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the idea of going through all i’ve gone through— the cult religious indoctrination, the encouragement of misogyny, the violent homophobia— just to turn my back on trans people is fucking asinine.

i refuse to believe that trans people who suffer under the exact same hetero-patriarchal system are somehow “also to blame” for misogyny and homophobia.

i will never allow petty arguments rooted in reactionary rhetoric and misattributed trauma push me away from my trans brothers and sisters.

we suffered together, under the exact same system; some suffering significantly more than myself. the violence, the bigotry, the sexual assault— we all felt it together. i saw it. we saw it. our childhoods were seeped in it, like a noxious poison. we stuck together because we only had each other.

i will never allow myself to believe this lie; this lie of “they are somehow also to blame”. not after everything i saw, not after everything i went through.

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fanficapologist · 5 months

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Fire and Blood- the ancient words of House Targaryen. An interesting choice, yet completely truthful in revealing what the Valyrian’s stood for. Both words were initially seen as destructive, threatening and cruel, but upon closer inspection, this was not always the case.

Fire embodied the wrathful force of dragon fire, a fearsome power wielded by Maera's ancestors. It symbolized the fiery conquest that shaped the Seven Kingdoms under Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives. Their dragons, winged creatures of destruction, became instruments of subjugation, turning rebellious lords and resisting kingdoms into ashes. Fire echoed the unyielding strength of House Targaryen, rooted in the flames that forged their dominion over the Realm. It was a reminder of the price paid in burning ambition, of the searing path toward dominion that defined the Targaryen dynasty.

Yet, despite the initial chaos, fire could be healing and purifying. Maera had read that in the year following Aegon’s Conquest, the crops in Westeros had grown three times as big, and that less crops were becoming subject to disease and decay. In her interpretation, fire symbolized renewal and rejuvenation. The flames, once agents of conquest, became catalysts for new life. The purifying aspects of fire, as witnessed in the fertile lands that emerged from the ashes, spoke to Maera of a transformative force, capable of healing wounds and fostering growth. It was a perspective that transcended the destructive history, embracing the idea that from destruction, there could emerge a fertile ground for new beginnings.

The flames could also bring solace as Maera recalled how the hearth in her chambers seemed to always be alight. The fire would flicker with hues of orange, gold, and red, casting a gentle glow that illuminated the room. The crackling sounds formed a comforting symphony, echoing the rhythm of their shared moments.

Recalling times with Aemond, she enjoyed how they would sit for hours by the hearth, the warmth enveloping them in a serene cocoon. Silently reading, they found comfort in the companionable silence, interrupted only by the occasional soft rustling of turning pages. Aemond’s fingers traced delicate patterns on her hand, a simple yet reassuring gesture that spoke volumes in their shared sanctuary by the fire.

Helaena, who was known to always see the best in things, also saw fire as a marvellous creation that could be used in a way that would achieve greater outcomes. When they were younger, Maera recalled her friend educating her on how some species of butterfly benefited from forest fires. This was because the fires created open spaces and new growth, providing favorable conditions for certain plants that served as host plants for butterfly larvae. In fact, one year, when Helaena was pregnant with the twins, Maera somehow managed to procure some of the larvae for her dear friend as a nameday present.

Blood appeared to be a more complex element, yet Maera had come into contact with it more frequently than fire during her time in the world. The blood from the animals she had slain during a hunt held a primal significance. Once the meat was cooked, it became a source of sustenance for her family, ensuring their health and satiating their hunger. In this context, blood was a vital and nourishing force, connecting the family to the cycle of life.

The blood she witnessed on her new siblings, born fresh from her stepmother’s womb, held a profound significance. It symbolized the continuity of life, the bond within her family, and the promise of a future generation. The arrival of new blood into the world brought a sense of renewal, growth, and the perpetuation of House Wylde’s legacy.

Maera's experience with her first Moon's Blood, at the age of sixteen marked a significant transition into womanhood. Despite the pain and mess, it symbolized her ability to bring forth life into the world, connecting her to the timeless cycle of creation. This natural and biological occurrence connected her to the generations of women who had come before her, creating a shared experience that transcended time and bound them together.

On her wedding night, the blood on the sheets following the consummation of her marriage with Aemond was a societal marker of purity and untouched innocence in the eyes of the Gods, a notion that Maera found to be somewhat absurd. Despite her reservations about these traditional expectations, she acknowledged the weight that such rituals carried in the eyes of those around her, and how the blood mixed with her husband’s seed on the sheets marked the formal beginning of her marital journey and the merging of her life with Aemond’s.

Her encounter with blood changed in the two moons following her marriage to the One-Eyed Prince. Maera had experienced her womb bleeding since the wedding, about a fortnight after the consummation. However, instead of her usual five to seven days of using rags to collect and dispose her Moons Blood, the bleeding only lasted for a day, with the occasional cramping in the weeks that followed.

Maera’s reluctance to consult the Maester stemmed from a blend of stubbornness and a desire not to appear foolish or uninformed about the changes her body underwent after marriage. Assuming these alterations were a normal part of a woman’s experience, possibly linked to regular intimacy with her husband, Maera chose to keep her observations to herself.

Yet, the presence of blood was not always seen as a positive. In her training sessions with the sword, the cuts on her flesh symbolized mistakes and were accompanied by the sharp sting of acknowledgment. Each drop of blood mirrored a momentary lapse in her skill, urging her to better herself. Blood also brought forth scars – reminders etched into her skin. Not all scars were viewed fondly; some carried the weight of missteps and lessons learned.

A few months previously, when Maera had forced herself into Helaena’s room after Aegon had barricaded her in there, the blood on the sheets indicated that the Queen had been raped by the King; her own husband, her brother, simply because he could. From that blood came trauma, pain and confusion for Helaena, as well as a new life beginning to grow within the Queen. And all Maera could do was comfort her friend , and help her pick up the pieces afterwards to ensure Helaena could continue on.

However there were times that Maera could not always do that. Sometimes the pain was just too much to bear, and a friend’s embrace or comforting words would not erase the horror that had been inflicted. Such a night was when the word ‘blood’ came to have another meaning; the name of a man who would take something precious from the Greens, alongside his accomplice, Cheese.

The evening had began much like any other. As twilight draped its gentle hues over the Red Keep, a serene ambience enveloped the ancient fortress. The towering spires and stone walls, adorned with the remnants of the day's sunlight, cast long shadows across the courtyards. The air whispered with the subtle transition from the vibrant hues of the day to the muted tones of night.

Within Maera and Aemond's chambers, the soft glow of candles and the flickering light of a hearth created a warm and intimate atmosphere. The furnishings, draped in rich fabrics, seemed to absorb the twilight's colors, casting a cozy and inviting spell upon the chamber. Past the grand windows, the sky painted a canvas of purples and golds, mirroring the quiet transition within the walls of the castle.

Prince Aemond, the Master of Coin, sat at his imposing writing desk, a commanding figure engrossed in the meticulous task of crafting reports and ledgers. His long silver-white hair cascaded over his shoulders, framing a face marked by sharp contours, his eye patch concealing his sapphire, and a firm jaw set in concentration. His long, slender fingers, deftly holding a quill, danced across the parchment, weaving lines of ink into intricate financial reports. The ledgers sprawled open beside him, bearing the weight of the realm's economic intricacies.

Aemond’s violet eye occasionally shifted from his work to glance at his wife, who stood gracefully by the window in a simple black cotton dress adorned with golden threading. Her long, dark, curly hair cascaded freely down her back, with a distinctive silver streak woven into the locks.

As the ambient light highlighted the rich hues of the room, Maera stood before her easel, engrossed in putting the finishing touches on her dragon egg painting. Her green eyes, filled with artistic determination, were fixed intently on the canvas, capturing the essence of the dragon egg with each precise stroke, adding the extra details of depth and dimension to the portrait before she gifted it to Helaena and the children.

The sudden commotion in the corridors sent a ripple of tension through the air, causing both Aemond and Maera to instinctively shift their focus towards the door. The distant echoes of men yelling created an eerie symphony, interwoven with the hurried footsteps that echoed in the passageways. The unmistakable sound of clattering armor intensified the atmosphere within their chamber, casting a shadow of uncertainty.As the noise grew closer, the room seemed to hold its breath, the anticipation palpable. Aemond, with his sharp violet eye, glanced at Maera, while her green eyes reflected a mix of concern and caution.

The Prince rose from his writing desk with a cautious demeanor, his posture reflecting a subtle tension as a look of concern etched across his features.

“Stay here,” he ordered Maera, along with a measured gesture of his hand. Silently, he walked to the wall, fingers deftly securing his sword and sheathing it into his belt. His purposeful strides carried him out of the room, leaving Maera with a sense of suspense and a room filled with unanswered questions.

Maera carefully placed her paintbrushes and sponges into a silver bowl filled with water, the shades of purple and grey swirling together in the liquid. As anxiety crept into her stomach, she wiped her hands on a damp cloth, her senses heightened by the unsettling atmosphere.

The cacophony outside intensified, and above the tumult, a heavy wooden door creaked open along the corridor. Queen Alicent’s voice, tinged with urgency, sliced through the air, and the frantic quality heightened the tension in the room. Just as the uneasiness settled in, a heart-wrenching scream, unmistakably Helaena’s, shattered the air—a mournful, piercing cry that left Maera with an unsettling sense of foreboding.

Maera's instincts kicked in before her mind could fully process the unfolding situation. In a swift motion, her hand snatched her dagger from the wall, and her body propelled her forward with urgency. The corridor blurred as she ran, the rhythmic pounding of her footsteps echoing the anxiety that churned within her.

Her thoughts were a whirlwind of concern for Helaena, coupled with worry for Aemond, who had ventured toward the disturbance ahead of her. Every step she took heightened her own unease, her breath quickening and heart pounding in sync with her hastening pace. The unknown lay ahead, and Maera, driven by a mixture of fear and determination, pressed on toward the source of the commotion.

As Maera pressed forward, the torchlight flickered ominously against the cold stone walls, casting an eerie shadow against a lifeless pile near the stone wall. Her green eyes wandered to the mass, focusing on it until the chilling sight became clear- two guardsmen, their lifeless bodies sprawled on the stone floor, throats brutally slit. A gasp escaped her lips, but her determination propelled her forward, guided by the anguished cries of Helaena echoing through the corridors.

Finally reaching the entrance to Alicent’s chambers, Maera’s path was blocked by a tumultuous sea of armored guards, their expressions grave and their weapons drawn. Undeterred, Maera wove through the throng, demanding passage with a command that bespoke her status as a Targaryen princess. Yet, before she could breach the doorway, a force halted her, a firm grip seizing her arm.

Ser Arryk's presence materialized, his bloodshot hazel eyes revealing the distress that gripped him. Disheveled, his typically neat hair hinted at the turmoil of the situation. His grip was a plea, and his words were both desperate and earnest as they tumbled from his mouth. “Please, Princess, do not go in there.”

In her protector’s eyes, Maera found a reflection of her own rising fear, a disconcerting deviation from his usual resolute demeanor. The desperation for answers fueled her determination to press forward. Despite Ser Arryk's plea, Maera, driven by an unyielding force to be with her sister-in-law and husband, wrenched her arm free. As she crossed the threshold into the chamber, her senses were assaulted by a scene that would haunt her. Time seemed to pause, and the world crumbled around her as the harsh reality of the situation unfolded before her eyes.

The air hung heavy with the scent of tragedy, a stifling reminder that the familiar tranquility of the Keep had been brutally shattered. Blood adorned the stone walls and floor like a gruesome tapestry, stark against the pale background. The chamber's furniture lay in disarray, a silent testament to the violence that had unfolded.

Queen Alicent, once regal and composed, now sat at a table, trembling and disheveled. Her auburn hair cascaded wildly around her, framing eyes filled with tears. Lord Commander Criston Cole, the embodiment of concern, hovered beside her, providing a semblance of comfort in the midst of the chaos.

A toppled wardrobe revealed an entrance to hidden tunnels, guarded by vigilant men with swords drawn. Maera's emerald eyes swept the room, capturing the tumultuous scene. Aemond, a force of fury, stood a few feet away from his mother. His violet eye ablaze with a righteous anger as silver strands of hair fell rebelliously around his face, matching the tumultuous storm within. The one-eyed Prince was unleashing a verbal torrent upon one of the Kingsguard, the deep bellow of his voice demanding answers, his words akin to a dragon's roar.

Amidst the chaos, the sound of a cry reached Maera's ears, drawing her attention to little Maelor. The two-year-old, innocent and frightened, was being cradled by a nursemaid. The woman's tear-streaked face reflected the horror that had unfolded. She tried to soothe Maelor, wiping away the blood stains on his face while her own hands trembled with fear. Maera's heart clenched at the sight, relieved that there seemed to be no visible injury on the child.

Little Jaehaera, her silver curls matted with crimson stains, stood eerily silent, her gaze fixed on a point unknown. The four-year-old's vacant stare stood in stark contrast to her brother's cries. Physically unharmed, yet emotionally distant, Jaehaera seemed lost in the commotion. Maera heard in the conversations going on around her that the King had been found unharmed in his own chambers, and was to remain heavily under guard. The chatter also revealed that Lord Otto, Lord Larys, Ser Tyland, Maester Orwyle and Maera’s own father, Lord Jasper were discovered alive and well. But there was a name missing from that list. A small presence with a a gleeful voice, full of energy and enthusiasm. Jaehaerys. Where was Jaehaerys?

Following Jaehaera's gaze, Maera's eyes landed on Helaena. Kneeling on the floor in front of the hearth, Helaena's screams and sobs echoed through the room, a tormenting lament that cut through all other voices in the chambers. Cradling something in her arms, the source of her devastation, remained obscured by her figure and shadows of the fire, leaving a haunting mystery in the air.

As Maera approached her best friend, the hushed gravity of the room intensified, an unspoken understanding that this moment held a profound weight. Maera furrowed her brows in concern as she cautiously reached out, placing a hand on Helaena's shoulder. The room seemed to collectively hold its breath. Helaena, gripped by an unfathomable distress, tensed at the touch. Her neck whipped around to face Maera, revealing an olive green dress now stained with an overwhelming amount of blood and remnants of flesh.

The room seemed to darken around Maera as she cast her eyes downward and fixated on the grotesque and unholy abomination before her, wanting to look away, but finding it impossible to. Blood-soaked and lifeless, the small body of Jaehaerys lay cradled in Helaena's trembling arms, mutilated and broken, missing his head.

The ghastly reality of what had occurred that night came crashing down on Maera, her breathing catching in her throat before letting out a horrified sob. The sight etched itself into her memory, a haunting image that would forever change the course of their lives. In that harrowing moment, a suffocating wave of shock overcame Maera. Her body, once a vessel of warmth and life, was now gripped by a rapid heartbeat, cold beads of dread forming a chilling sweat on her skin. The horror before her drained the color from her face, leaving it pallid, a canvas of disbelief painted in shades of despair.

The weight of the scene, the gruesome reality of a headless child cradled in Helaena's arms, pressed upon her like a leaden shroud. As she stared at the unthinkable, the physical sensations of grief and trauma manifested within her, a whirlwind of emotions too overwhelming to articulate. Helaena's purple eyes pleaded with Maera, a silent desperation that resonated through the anguished wails.

In that instant, it became clear that the pain was not confined to a single soul; it reverberated through the room, through the very core of the Red Keep. The world blurred before Maera's eyes, and, unable to bear the weight of the tragedy, she succumbed to the darkness, the overwhelming despair pulling her into unconsciousness.

In the disorienting haze of awakening, Maera jolted upright in her bed. The inky blackness outside the window hinted at the passage of many hours, shrouding the chambers in a cloak of night. As her eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight flickering in the room, Maera surveyed her surroundings. The darkness seemed to cling to the air, and a wet rag on her forehead slipped off as she moved.

Aemond, silent and watchful, sat at the foot of the bed. His one eye, a lone sentinel in the shadows, was fixed on her. In that fragile moment, with reality settling upon her like a heavy cloak, Maera dared to hope that the horrifying scene she had witnessed was nothing more than a cruel dream. But the air, heavy with unspoken sorrow, seemed to whisper a truth that shattered that fragile hope.

Her husband’s violet eye bore the weight of a myriad of emotions – grief, anger, and an underlying vulnerability. His usually stoic demeanor cracked, revealing the profound impact of the tragedy. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on his sharp features, emphasizing the lines etched by the night's events.

“Jaehaerys…” Maera uttered, as if it were a prayer. Perhaps it was. A plea to the Gods that they would take all of this horror away.

At the sound of his nephew’s name, Aemond furrowed his brow and tensing his jaw, inhaling deeply before rising from the bed, fists clenched at his side. “Two men got in through the tunnels.” He paused, as if trying to process the next words himself. “They made Helaena choose which one of her sons should die.”

A disorienting mix of emotions overwhelmed Maera—fear, sorrow, and an indignant rage that simmered beneath the surface. At the thought of her friend suffering so, panic gripped Maera, and she attempted to rise from the bed, her heart pounding. The room spun, and a dizzy spell overcame her. Aemond swiftly moved to her side, his strong presence steadying her.

“You need to rest,” Aemond urged gently, his gaze filled with concern as he guided her back into the bed. Tears welled in Maera’s eyes as she lay back, the weight of grief and disbelief settling upon her.

The Prince remained at Maera’s side, sitting next to her on the bed and silently offering his support in the face of a tragedy that had shattered the contentment they had found with one another in the short time of marriage they shared.

Aemond's silence finally broke, his voice edged with restrained anger, "This is my whore half-sister’s doing."

Without looking at him, Maera questioned, "How can you be sure?"

Aemond, through gritted teeth, explained, "The Maester was called to give milk of the poppy to soothe Helaena's hysteria. I have never seen anybody scream so much. Before she fell asleep, she managed to tell us the words the men spoke to her."

Pausing for a moment, Aemond's intense gaze prompted Maera to look up at him. He stated solemnly, "A son for a son."

Maera, with a sniff, tried to steady her breath as she attempted to process the information. They had never spoken about it properly, but she knew that Rhaenyra would exact revenge for her beloved son, Lucerys. Aemond had drew first blood by killing the boy who took his eye, thus formally beginning the war between the Blacks and the Greens. What Maera did not expect was that Rhaenyra, a fellow mother, would do something so cruel to Helaena, her own sister, who was innocent in all of this.

In a gesture that spoke volumes, Aemond reached out, his fingers intertwining tightly with hers. It was a silent pact, an unspoken agreement to weather the storm together. The strength in the clasp belied the fragility beneath, as if any other form of affection might unravel his tightly held composure, exposing the raw grief at the loss of his nephew. Determination flared in his eyes as he declared, "They will not get away with this. Before the Gods, I swear, we will get our revenge,” he promised firmly, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of her hand.

Maera furrowed her brows, nodding with a clenched jaw. "With Fire and Blood," she affirmed, their shared resolve cutting through the sorrow that hung in the air, a pledge to avenge the loss of their nephew and confront the shadows of House Targaryen’s tangled and complicated history.

Notes: I’m back! Sorry I had a really difficult week in the real world but the writing bug struck and here we are. This is the start of some major events in the story, and there will be more jumps forward in time. My heart breaks for Helaena 💔 and unfortunately it’s going to get worse. I just want to wrap her up in a blanket and put her in my pocket.

Tags: @blue-serendipity @manipulatixe @shesjustanothergeek @watercolorskyy @marvelescvpe

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

#maera wylde #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #chapters #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #hotd helaena #house targaryen #house wylde

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