#First American Text books
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America - Prodigal Son
âIf my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land.â 2 Chronicles 7:14 When I was an undergraduate in the 80s I took American History. I learned a lot about how our country was formed. We were assigned an essay assessing what weâd learned.âŠ
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#2 Chronicles 7:14#America Apostate#America&039;s Infancy#First American Readers#First American Text books#National Day of Prayer#One Nation Under God#Prodigal Son
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"The Lady, or the Tiger" is available to read here
#short stories#short story#the lady or the tiger#frank stockton#19th century literature#english language literature#american literature#have you read this short fiction?#book polls#completed polls#links to text#shout out to all the young justice watchers who know this story because of that one episode in season 4 phantoms#that was me i was one of them i first heard this story because of phantoms and then read it in full#if you were one of them then condolences for you that you watched season 4 of young justice (and presumably season 3 too. extra condolences#/no hate if you liked that season tho i just think it was terrible
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The two books I own that are the hardest to read are American Psycho and House of Leaves. This is because one of them is a deep delve into a man's psyche and watching his life unravel deeply uncomfortable, and the other one has a six page paragraph about some guy's fucking skin care routine
#house of leaves#american psycho#third is uzumaki. that shit fuckin spooky#also house of leaves is. hhhhhhhh#rhe first thing i did when i got it was put it in front of my friends and go âopen itâ#and then they open it. and they go âwhat the fuck is thisâ and i go âhehe a book :3â#i have three bookmarks in it right now all to mark different places i am ACTIVELY reading from#colored text#eyestrain
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I love reading the studies on potential existence beyond or outside of the body. I hate how much some of those books drone on before getting to the point.
#rant#1 hit me up if you want book names#2 i read one about research on existence after death. but a philosopher wrote it :/#so despite mentionung studies he just ranted about his philosphical proof. which fine... convince another philosopher i guess :/#but as a philosophical arguement i found it Annoying and not as useful to me the reader as a#more scientist structured discussion of the research would have been.#meanwhile theres some great books featuring equations. so Mathematical proofs for a concious universe#but 1 book spends 400 pages on experiments (cool but i wouldve liked math FIRST) then 100 pages of math and explanation#another book has math only and its 90 pages and probably my favorite theory on how the universe works#then theres an overview of experiements book. in soviet union#but its from an american tourist writer :/ so at least 60% of the text is stupid tourist Description bullshit#i dont want an Exagerated journal of adventures bitch. i want to hear what the research and outcomes and equations and evidence is!!!!#and youtube lectures? a lot of good ones on ted talks and some university youtube lectures#but theyre for general audiences so they often avoid mentioning the math (since the audience wouldnt necessarily Get the mathematical theory#) which annoys me because I WANT TO SEE THEIR MATHEMATICAL THEORY#i want them to SPECIFY WHICH OF THE BOOKS THEY WROTE IS MATHEMATICAL OR PHYSICS HEAVY IN DESCRIBING THIS STUFF#i can read physics. let me!!!! let me look at ur fucking theory so i can form a better opinion on it!!!
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Didn't think the 1989 version of The Woman In Black would be scarier than the one with Dan Radcliffe in it
I was Wrong flkjdsafkldsja, but I'm delighted to have been wrong. I had missed getting scared with more practical effects/careful timing of things in the background of shots appearing and disappearing, and this one scratches that itch well.
#text post#also fun seeing how differently they interpreted the characters and how they act#personally i'm realising that the Dan version was sort of. Americanised? Which is probably something I should have realised at first watch#but it only hits now when it's like. how to explain#the casts of both versions are both amazing let's preface with that#but. the Dan version felt very Cinematic. I got scared but was also very aware I was watching An Movie during it#(it got colour-graded quite blue which isn't necessarily a bad thing but it does register in my head as Peak Cinematic for the current time#the version of the characters in this 89 version feel slightly more real? accurate to the culture they come from?#like. there's an American Openness between the ones in the Dan version#they're too open to share and hand out compliments and comments like candy they have too much of#everyone is Nice in a way that feels mildly unrealistic#and when they are mad at each other there's tension but a tension#that to me at least you don't worry abt much bc it just feels almost Already Resolved#and it does sort of just drop off and wind up that way tbh#tho I admit it's been a bit since I read the original story so my apologies if I'm misremembering that it did the same in the book#but I could swear there was more that bit of tension there#anyway it isn't that the 89 characters are all mean but they feel Actually British for lack of better words#they have moments of kindness and do have a general sense of like. yeah they care for their community but also they're getting on w/themsel#and their business and not lingering on the interactions#They're kind but not nice and they just. get on with things which is very nice#and feels more in line with the time period to me/what I expect out of a story like this#anyway speaking of Dan found out the guy playing Arthur in this also played the dad in the gross wizard franchise#which wasn't something I expected to see lol#this is my long barely an essay no one asked for and your sign to go watch the 89 version asap#it's on YT for free which is where I'm watching it so genuinely if anyone want link. I have link fjkdlsfjadlsa#I have so many more thoughts comparing and contrasting Dan to 89 but there are so many tags i'm making myself stop lmao
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jeremy irons lolita audiobook. it's so good i'm killing myself
#man i could read this book a bajillion times but irons' performance really brings something new...#the way he does the voice for the people he quotes...the way he imitates a british person doing a subpar american accent#like the book on paper. there's a dryness . you can imagine it being kind of distanced in time#but when irons is saying this stuff MAN he brings out the cruelty of that character in just the distaste in his voice.#the little mockeries when he quotes people. the eroticism that is uncomfortable and overpowering when performed aloud#and at the same time the self-righteousness and bitterness! and on and on and on...#love the kubrick adaptation but this is the sweet spot between retaining the first person character voice and having another#person in between the reader and the text#suicide tw#wise fuzz
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Why Kids Aren't Falling in Love With Reading - It's Not Just Screens
A shrinking number of kids are reading widely and voraciously for fun.
The ubiquity and allure of screens surely play a large part in thisâmost American children have smartphones by the age of 11âas does learning loss during the pandemic. But this isnât the whole story. A survey just before the pandemic by the National Assessment of Educational Progress showed that the percentages of 9- and 13-year-olds who said they read daily for fun had dropped by double digits since 1984. I recently spoke with educators and librarians about this trend, and they gave many explanations, but one of the most compellingâand depressingâis rooted in how our education system teaches kids to relate to books.
What I remember most about reading in childhood was falling in love with characters and stories; I adored Judy Blumeâs Margaret and Beverly Clearyâs Ralph S. Mouse. In New York, where I was in public elementary school in the early â80s, we did have state assessments that tested reading level and comprehension, but the focus was on reading as many books as possible and engaging emotionally with them as a way to develop the requisite skills. Now the focus on reading analytically seems to be squashing that organic enjoyment. Critical reading is an important skill, especially for a generation bombarded with information, much of it unreliable or deceptive. But this hyperfocus on analysis comes at a steep price: The love of books and storytelling is being lost.
This disregard for story starts as early as elementary school. Take this requirement from the third-grade English-language-arts Common Core standard, used widely across the U.S.: âDetermine the meaning of words and phrases as they are used in a text, distinguishing literal from nonliteral language.â There is a fun, easy way to introduce this concept: reading Peggy Parishâs classic, Amelia Bedelia, in which the eponymous maid follows commands such as âDraw the drapes when the sun comes inâ by drawing a picture of the curtains. But hereâs how one educator experienced in writing Common Coreâaligned curricula proposes this be taught: First, teachers introduce the concepts of nonliteral and figurative language. Then, kids read a single paragraph from Amelia Bedelia and answer written questions.
For anyone who knows children, this is the opposite of engaging: The best way to present an abstract idea to kids is by hooking them on a story. âNonliteral languageâ becomes a whole lot more interesting and comprehensible, especially to an 8-year-old, when theyâve gotten to laugh at Ameliaâs antics first. The process of meeting a character and following them through a series of conflicts is the fun part of reading. Jumping into a paragraph in the middle of a book is about as appealing for most kids as cleaning their room.
But as several educators explained to me, the advent of accountability laws and policies, starting with No Child Left Behind in 2001, and accompanying high-stakes assessments based on standards, be they Common Core or similar state alternatives, has put enormous pressure on instructors to teach to these tests at the expense of best practices. Jennifer LaGarde, who has more than 20 years of experience as a public-school teacher and librarian, described how one such practiceâthe class read-aloudâinvariably resulted in kids asking her for comparable titles. But read-alouds are now imperiled by the need to make sure that kids have mastered all the standards that await them in evaluation, an even more daunting task since the start of the pandemic. âThereâs a whole generation of kids who associate reading with assessment now,â LaGarde said.
By middle school, not only is there even less time for activities such as class read-alouds, but instruction also continues to center heavily on passage analysis, said LaGarde, who taught that age group. A friend recently told me that her childâs middle-school teacher had introduced To Kill a Mockingbird to the class, explaining that they would read it over a number of monthsâand might not have time to finish it. âHow can they not get to the end of To Kill a Mockingbird?â she wondered. Iâm right there with her. You canât teach kids to love reading if you donât even prioritize making it to a bookâs end. The reward comes from the emotional payoff of the storyâs climax; kids miss out on this essential feeling if they donât reach Atticus Finchâs powerful defense of Tom Robinson in the courtroom or never get to solve the mystery of Boo Radley.
... Young people should experience the intrinsic pleasure of taking a narrative journey, making an emotional connection with a character (including ones different from themselves), and wondering what will happen nextâthen finding out. This is the spell that reading casts. And, like with any magicianâs trick, picking a story apart and learning how itâs done before you have experienced its wonder risks destroying the magic.
-- article by katherine marsh, the atlantic (12 foot link, no paywall)
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i'm not seeing any posts about it here yet, but they solved the silas birchtree riddle on reddit and there's some pretty juicy lore! first, entering "paranoid" backwards nets this conspiracy board:
then, from the black letters in the corners of some of the pages people pieced together the code "connect the dots", backwards again, gets a whopping 12 page chapter about the ciphertology cult! it's...something.
so in summary, bill puppeted a guy's corpse, became a cult leader, seemingly married over a hundred people, mass-possessed his followers, tried to get them to build his portal. his lone dissenter was a spinster who made anti-bill chick tracts and started a fire. a waco-style shootout ensued, killing silas' already-rotting corpse a second time in a disturbingly detailed manner. at some point he made some of his followers drink the kool-aid too.
entering the lady's name, emmaline butternubbins, into the computer finally gets you the reward for solving all the riddles: hd wallpapers of various graphics from the book of bill. but frankly this is more interesting and fucked up to me.
(alt text under cut, wip)
[Image 1: A cluttered conspiracy board centered on Bill Cipher. Red string and pins connect various newspaper clippings, photos, drawings and pamphlets.]
[Image 2: A history-book style chapter page. Header "LESSER KNOWN AMERICAN CULTS."
"Have you ever heard of Orchard Lake, Kansas? Chances are you haven't. It was erased from every map, book, and historical record, and the US Government's official position on it is "stop calling us or we'll send a drone to your house." (I learned this the hard way.) But if you drive to the exact latitude and longitude of you'll see bullet casings, faded billboards, and bow ties strewn across the desert sands.
That's because Orchard Lake had another name before it was wiped off the record: BillVille.
CHAPTER 3: BillVille
The First Cult In History That Was Right
FIG A: A tumbillweced
As a historian of esoteric religions, I thought I'd discovered the strangest sects America had yct to offer (see "Chapter 3: Kevin's Gate") but that all changed when I found the following items tucked away in an old trunk in an estate sale on the out- skirts of Bootstrap, Missouri."]
#gravity falls#the book of bill#bill cipher#thisisnotawebsitedotcom#silas birchtree#gf spoilers#website spoilers#i feel like alex went kinda off the rails here with his anti-religion views and extensive knowledge of cults/conspiracies. in the best way#go off king#this is arguably the darkest the series has ever stooped tho with all the real world tragedies it evokes#so it makes sense it didn't make it into the book#the formatting refuses to work on this post i s2g
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My beloved is very particular about their belongings. I was surprised when we first started dating about the scrutiny their loaned objects would be placed under when returned. Their car would be checked carefully for scrapes if someone loaded a bike into it, all returned objects were carefully and thoroughly looked over. Even now if Korben has bitten something left out like a dildo theyâll carefully look it over for damage it has one tiiiny tooth dent.
It wonât surprise anyone to learn that books theyâd loaned people had previously been returned with broken spines and dog eared pages, and now it's very important to them to maintain their things in good condition. Their things werenât treated with care and now itâs a sign of respect to them.
The first time they loaned me a book I was a little shocked that they received it back and began immediately investigating it for wear. To my chagrin there was indeed a tiny scuff at the corner where Iâd put it in my bag too hastily. They said nothing, but nothing needed to be said.
Going forward I treated each book they gave me as utterly precious. I dogear my own pages but Iâd never dare on a book that wasnât mine and on their books I elevated to special protocols, handling them as gently as possible.
When it came to books I loaned them I got them back exactly as Iâd handed them over. I had them read American Gods. They werenât totally sold and I suggested the lighthearted sequel Anansi Boys might be more up their alley. Itâs about a trickster god and his sons.
I was lounging when I got a call from my beloved. We usually texted, theyâre not a phone talker so I picked up right away.
âWhatâs wrong?â
âIâm so sorry,â they blurted.
âWhat happened? Are you okay?â
âIâm fine, but I was getting in my car, and I had a coffee and I was trying to juggle things and well-â
The silence stretched out.
âWhat?â I asked gently, afire with curiosity.
âI left your book on top of my car and I drove off. When I realized I drove back but I couldnât find it. Iâm so sorry!â
As the words sank in a laugh started rising out of me. âYou lost my book?â
âIâll buy you a new copy! It was an accident!â
âIâm not mad, itâs okay! Its just really funny, youâre always so careful.â
I then realized that they were holding themself to their own standard, beating themself up for something that to me was just a silly mishap.
âItâs really okay! Iâm not mad, you can get me a new copy.â
They did, and when I chuckle about it they still pout a little like the funny part is that they made a mistake.
But honestly the thought of someone coming upon a copy of a book about trickster gods being left in a coffee shop parking lot and taking it is the funniest part. I hope they enjoyed it.
#ramblies#funny#ffs foibles#writing#story#books#I did question posting this still as my feelings about the author have changed pretty dramatically but this is still a sweet moment
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The Forgotten History of the Worldâs First Transgender Clinic
I finished the first round of edits on my nonfiction history of trans rights today. It will publish with Norton in 2025, but I decided, because I feel so much of my community is here, to provide a bit of the introduction.
[begin sample]
The Institute for Sexual Sciences had offered safe haven to homosexuals and those we today consider transgender for nearly two decades. It had been built on scientific and humanitarian principles established at the end of the 19th century and which blossomed into the sexology of the early 20th. Founded by Magnus Hirschfeld, a Jewish homosexual, the Institute supported tolerance, feminism, diversity, and science. As a result, it became a chief target for Nazi destruction: âIt is our pride,â they declared, to strike a blow against the Institute. As for Magnus Hirschfeld, Hitler would label him the âmost dangerous Jew in Germany.â6 It was his face Hitler put on his antisemitic propaganda; his likeness that became a target; his bust committed to the flames on the Opernplatz. You have seen the images. You have watched the towering inferno that roared into the night. The burning of Hirschfeldâs library has been immortalized on film reels and in photographs, representative of the Nazi imperative, symbolic of all they would destroy. Yet few remember what they were burningâor why.
Magnus Hirschfeld had built his Institute on powerful ideas, yet in their infancy: that sex and gender characteristics existed upon a vast spectrum, that people could be born this way, and that, as with any other diversity of nature, these identities should be accepted. He would call them Intermediaries.
Intermediaries carried no stigma and no shame; these sexual and Gender nonconformists had a right to live, a right to thrive. They also had a right to joy. Science would lead the way, but this history unfolds as an interwar thrillerâpatients and physicians risking their lives to be seen and heard even as Hitler began his rise to power. Many werenât famous; their lives havenât been celebrated in fiction or film. Born into a late-nineteenth-century world steeped in the âdeep anxieties of men about the shifting work, social roles, and power of men over women,â they came into her own just as sexual science entered the crosshairs of prejudice and hate. The Instituteâs own community faced abuse, blackmail, and political machinations; they responded with secret publishing campaigns, leaflet drops, pro-homosexual propaganda, and alignments with rebel factions of Berlinâs literati. They also developed groundbreaking gender affirmation surgeries and the first hormone cocktail for supportive gender therapy.
Nothing like the Institute for Sexual Sciences had ever existed before it opened its doorsâand despite a hundred years of progress, there has been nothing like it since. Retrieving this tale has been an exercise in pursuing history at its edges and fringes, in ephemera and letters, in medal texts, in translations. Understanding why it became such a target for hatred tells us everything about our present moment, about a world that has not made peace with difference, that still refuses the light of scientific evidence most especially as it concerns sexual and reproductive rights.
[end sample]
I wanted to add a note here: so many people have come together to make this possible. Like Ralf Dose of the Magnus-Hirschfeld-Gesellschaft (Magnus Hirschfeld Archive), Berlin, and Erin Reed, American journalist and transgender rights activistâKatie Sutton, Heike Bauer. I am also deeply indebted to historian, filmmaker and formative theorist Susan Stryker for her feedback, scholarship, and encouragement all along the way. And Laura Helmuth, editor of Scientific American, whose enthusiasm for a short article helped bring the book into being. So many LGBTQ+ historians, archivists, librarians, and activists made the work possible, that its publication testifies to the power of the queer community and its dedication to preserving and celebrating history. But I ALSO want to mention you, folks here on tumblr who have watched and encouraged and supported over the 18 months it took to write it (among other books and projects). @neil-gaiman has been especially wonderful, and @always-coffee too: thank you.
The support of this community has been important as Iâve faced backlash in other quarters. Thank you, all.
NOTE: they are attempting to rebuild the lost library, and you can help: https://magnus-hirschfeld.de/archivzentrum/archive-center/
#support trans rights#trans history#trans#transgender#trans woman#trans rights#trans representation#interwar period#weimar#equality#autistic author#nonbinary#lgbtq representation#lgbtqia#book news#book#books#new books#thank you#neil gaiman#for your support
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Marichismo
Allen, a smug engineering student, finds himself seeking shelter from the storm in a museum for Latin American art. By the time it clears up it's safe to say he'll have a more than healthy appreciation for the arts.
Might've gotten away from me a tad but I think it turned out quite well! Latino Race and Cultural change, MG and language change ahead. Also a couple more people have hopped onto my Challenge since I last mentioned it! Otherwise, espero que disfrutes! -Occam
Allen was on a side of the campus heâs never quite made it a point to explore. In undergrad and in his Masters of Engineering program so far there has simply never been a need for him to venture too far from the engineering building or the architecture library. That is until his partner on a superfluous project requested he venture into the no manâs land that holds the campusâ main library, one that runs absolutely rampant with students he sees as far beneath him.
Even worse than simply venturing beyond his comfort zone, as soon as the pair have wrapped up their progress for the day, heading off on their less than merry ways, it begins to rain. As the first raindrops begin to fall, Allen scoffs at himself for being anything less than optimally prepared. Before heâs able to reflect too deeply, the snobbish student clenches his tech-filled book bag to his chest and sprints into the nearest building, apathetic to whatever space he noisily barges into.
Before his eyes can adjust to the dim light of the new space he finds himself in, Allen hears a crack of thunder as the heavens open up behind him. Sighing in relief at successfully staying dry, Allen keeps his guard up, eying the lobby of whatever building this is that heâs never deigned to step into before now. He grimaces as he finds himself in an art museum. He does not like art museums. Itâs not so much that Allen sees himself as above fine art, itâs- well no it is that. Immediately, he begins scanning the lobby for a power outlet so he may continue working while he waits out the downpour.
Head shoved under a lobby bench Allen ignores a caution sign as he forces his charger in, causing an inevitable shock that forces out a less than respectful expletive in this place of introspection. He eyes the empty room around him, slightly grinning at just how barren the lobby is. Clearly heâs not the only one apathetic to this nonsense. Shaking his hand to reawaken its nerves, he hears the clicking of footsteps against the gallery floor as a small woman walks around the corner carrying a stack of books that block her view. Allen eyes a handful of escape routes to hide from the older woman before lightning strikes once more and she trips over in shock, dropping her small stack of books, âÂĄDios Mio!â
Judgemental asshole Allen may be but heartless he is not. Setting down his bag with a sigh and a roll of the eyes, the student walks over to help the older woman gather herself. Barely avoiding reflexively chiding his elder as he offers her a hand, he helps her up. The attendant pushes a large pair of glasses up her nose and squints at him with a kind smile, âAh! Gracias, gracias mijo.â She pulls herself up on Allenâs hand and he cringes back as some kind of aftershock of static goes up his arm. Thankfully it doesnât seem to affect her. Dusting herself off, she does a double take at Allen and adjusts her glasses, âÂżQuĂ© te trae aqui hoy, mijo? (What brings you in today dear?)
Allen hesitates, blowing air as he tries to understand why this woman thinks he knows spanish. Scratching the back of his head he finally looks to see the text blazoned across the front desk, El Gustavo Ramirez Museo De Arte Latinoamericano. Putting two and two together as he is ever so proud of doing, Allen immediately apologizes for intruding. âSo sorry uh, Maâam. I didnât mean to wander into your, uh, space.â gesturing to the woman and the building around him in a manner to distinguish it not so much as beneath him but as an other. Something that is simply a bridge too far for him to gap. âThis place isnât for me so I think Iâll go ahead and step out.â Thunder peels before he can start to gather his things, immediately reminding him why he is in here at all.Â
The older woman also relents, switching to English since, despite some instinct saying otherwise, the man before her clearly speaks only english. âAh donât you worry yourself mijo. The museum is for all, para todos. Free with your student ID,â she tacks on with a wink. Allen smiles uncomfortably, baring teeth enough that it could be mistaken as a grimace.Â
He canât just tell this old lady that he hasnât a thought to spare, in his mind: waste, on the collections behind her. Still he doesnât want to make conversation indefinitely waiting for the storm to clear either. Fearful of the outlet heâs used thus far he convinces himself there must be one hiding somewhere in the exhibition hall. Heâll just pacify her with entry and go find some place in between ostentatious paintings and droll statues to insert himself and get some actual work done.
Producing his ID wordlessly, he hands it to the elderly woman and she quickly shuffles behind her desk to type his name into some registry. Handing it back with a smile she leaves her hand hanging for a shake, âWonderful to meet you Allan! Soy Lupe Carvajal. But you can call me abuelita, mijo!â Pocketing his ID with a dismissive laugh he notices not that his name is apparently misspelled on his ID card, instead he packs his charger up and shakes Lupeâs hand. âHah. Uhm, whatever you say Mrs. Carvajal.â Her hand is wrinkled and frail but surprisingly warm, as if his hand were receiving the full body experience of a hug in but a single shake.Â
âYou know Allan, I must have thought you know spanish because you look quite like my nieto, my grandson.â Allan puffs his cheeks to bite his tongue, holding a picture in his mind of what this grannyâs descendants must look like and knowing thereâs simply no permutation that lands at himself. She continues, âEs un joven fuerte! Haha!â She does a little bicep pose which allows Allan to understand exactly what she means without her translating. He shyly smiles looking down at his own thin arms and wondering why this lady seems to be mocking him. After doing her bit, Lupe moves to sit at the desk and pulls a book off her stack, âYou just let me know if you need anything mijo, si?â Allan nods and reflexively responds, âSi ab- Mrs. Carvajal.â
Odd taste in his mouth at almost calling this random woman grandmas she asked, he shakes it off and wanders into the exhibit hall, decidedly less worried about using her museumâs resources to his own ends. It has probably been over a decade since anyone was able to drag him into an art museum. Even then was he vehemently against wasting his time visiting. He just didnât get art, and not for not trying. Itâs just, aggravating that some people can get so much from some splotches of paint and he just sees a picture on some paper. Feeling himself get riled up he turns to the exhibit hoping for some distraction, which he finds in an elaborate statue of some dog. himself.Â
Allan stands beside a huichol coyote covered in beads about two feet high. Spotlighted in the dim gallery he circles it like a predator, inspecting the bright beaded beast from every angle. See this he gets. This took time, this took care. Leaning in close the warmth of the overhead light pleasantly burns the top of his head. Absorbed by the shimmering light off the beads, Allan is unaware as his hair suddenly begins to lengthen. The buzz he has always kept short for sheer manageability begins to curl over his ears, growing warm even quicker as it tints darker. Not quite black but certainly not the blonde shade he was always happy to keep despite his spending as few hours outside as possible.
Before curls can begin to crest over his forehead, his face is not spared the glare of the spotlight. Immediately as his olive eyes glaze over, absorbed into the intricate stitched patterns they begin to stain darker. The jade he has always seen in his own reflection shades darker ever so slightly. Not brown. No he doesnât have brown eyes, theyâre just hazel? His eyebrows match the suddenly darkened hair on his head as he stands staring at the beast. Not expanding to cover more of his face but growing thicker, denser. Almost as if to shade his eyes from the light. His lips thicken as a grin begins to tinge his face. Reaching up Allan feels stubble begin to prickle his chin and upper lip, as if he spent time shaving this morning.Â
Allan moans contentedly as he gives in and reaches fully into the spotlight to touch the coyote. Rules and codes of propriety fall to the wayside as he reaches beyond the realm of rationality to touch the statue of the trickster. His hands burn as they tint ever so slightly darker under the glare of the spotlight. As soon as his middle finger feels the warmth of the first bead he recoils in shock. âQ- What?!â He falls onto his ass, no time to inspect his decidedly browner hands as the commotion made immediately summons Abuelita Lupe. The elderly attendant meanders as quickly as she can into the showroom, âÂżQuĂ© pasĂł Alan?â Alan flexes his hand in shock. Whatever just happened it canât be his fault. Surely he didnât just unprompted mess with some artifact on display. âI, um? No sĂ©?â He pauses, unsure of what he just said, nonsense he thinks. âI mean um, Iâm not sure?â
Lupe goes to help him up with what little strength she can muster only for him to wave her off, sure that she would only get in the way. He finds standing takes more effort than usual as he does so with a grunt. Nervously patting him on the back, Lupe asks him if heâs alright after the spill, buzzing around him with concerned pleasantries. Alan doesn't quite hear her as he instead inspects his own body. His clothes are tighter. He stretches and pulls at them, presuming them to just be falling weird on him after the fall. But close inspection shows otherwise. Looking at his cardigan it is clearly strained by his chest and stomach. Blushing at the idea heâs put on weight, Alan crosses his arms and notices how snugly his arms fill the sleeves, how his wrists hang out further than they should, not only that but they are unmistakably darker. Not brown, but without a doubt a few shades darker than his usual porcelain tone.
Recovering from being lost in his thoughts he looks to find Lupe staring, âOh! Lo, uh sorry. Did you uh, ask me something Senora Carvajal?â Looking down at a sharper angle than he did earlier, he sees the abuela looking at his head with a tilt. âDid you do something different with your hair mijo?â eyes narrowing with concern and suspicion he thrusts his hair into his new curls. He immediately gasps in shock before reconsidering. This is how heâs always looked right?Â
Thank god his hair is naturally curly so he can just leave them as they fall without much ado. He smiles and shakes his head at Lupe and she nods happily in return. Reaching up she puts her small hand on his bicep and squeezes it, Alan can barely hear her as he is struck with just how powerful his arm seems next to her small hand as she continues, âWell I like it mijo.â With that she aways and leaves Alan be. Having the floor to himself his expression grims as he pulls out his phone to look for a picture of himself. Something is off. His mind tells him everything is normal. When he looks at his hands he sees them as they have always been right? Why would he have a buzz cut when his hair is so naturally nice? Something in his gut screams out that something unnatural is going on. His camera roll should hold proof. Going through his phone he barely holds back a gasp that would surely summon the docent back as he is immediately greeted by a folder of his own nudes.
âQue chingadoâŠâ He whispers under his breath as his face burns redder than the scarlet beads on the coyote. He didnât take these did he? Zooming in he is once more floored to see tattoos on his body. Looking down at his arm he sharply inhales as there's a sting and suddenly his wrist matches the image on his phone. Or no. Heâs had that tattoo for years?
 Aghast at himself he still feels he wouldnât have taken these photos of himself. Vain in many ways, his appearance is not one of them. He wonders if heâs been set up or hacked or something before he reminds himself no one would be able to do so without his knowledge. Heâs a pro after all. Mind going to his technical skills, his chest puffs with pride as it grows to match the one he finds in the nudes soft-core and otherwise on his phone. Alan quickly shoves it in his pocket, finding it a much tighter fit than when he retrieved it.Â
Looking around nervously, he walks close to the coyote once more. Narrowing his eyes he feels new memories come to mind from his childhood. Memories of hearing story after story of the trickster, he tilts his head as the slightest whiff of something amiss hides behind them. Staring into the eyes of the beast with suspicion the image of reading Greek mythologies by himself fades away to be replaced by his mother telling him stories from her own childhood. The coyote playing tricks and la Llorona terrorizing their little town just to make sure he stays in line. Alan smiles as he shakes out of the reverie, my mom wasn't morena was she? Headache rising as seconds pass standing near the beast he wanders away, muttering to himself without awareness, âdidnât want him in the main hall anyway.â
His hair continues to thicken and curl darker as he moves deeper into the exhibition space. Scratching at his stubble lost in thought he finds it defining itself into a goatee with a matching mustache. His phone still unlocked in his pocket shifts displays his form as he continues to change unawares. He feels himself begin to sweat intensely as his cardigan grows even tighter. His body decides to ramp up his masculinity as he starts to outright swell with muscle. His whole body twitches larger as he briefly recalls Lupe playfully flexing, âun joven fuerte!â He clicks his tongue and grins as he sees his biceps strain his sweater, almost enough to see his button up through the threads. He fights back a smirk feeling his shirt underneath hug the sides of his chest as his soldiers expand. Feeling his thicker pits start to sweat through said shirt and into the jacket he resolves to remove the cardigan.
His struggled grunts echo through the museum space as he struggles to get the cardigan off over his chest. The sound of fabric tearing rips through the room as stitches finally give way down the whole front of the garment, his pecs bursting larger into the open air. The top few buttons of his dress shirt also explode open as he is finally freed from the constricting sweater, âayy dios- fuckâŠâ He whispers to himself as he appreciates the ice cold air of the museum on his sweaty skin. The white dress shirt may as well be sheer with his sweat soaking it, allowing any gawkers to easily see tattoos running down his arm and the nipples almost poking through the shirt.
Only briefly does he wonder why heâs not self conscious about being exposed in the gallery before he notices a side-exhibition hall. âAh si, uh. The temporary exhibit,â he whispers dreamily. Keeping quiet as any respectful museum-goer does. Though he doesnât quite have the bodily awareness to mute his increasingly loud footsteps, each one growing louder as his upper body expands. He looks up to read the title of the exhibit as the sound of his shoulders widen enough to tear the back of his button up. Marichismo: Taking Back Latino Masculinity. He smirks as he finds the idea compelling, heâs uh, not hispanic of course. Nor has he ever been intrigued by âartâ in the slightest, he thinks. But something draws him deeper. Something pulls him further. Something in him begs for more.
His pants creak as he crosses the threshold into the new space, his ass expanding beyond the pale. Similarly does his crotch demand both more room and his attention as Arlad is immediately face to face with a deliberately provocative statue. The blush burning his face is just as soon hidden as his tan grows darker as heâs overwhelmed by everything in front of him. Itâs as if Tom of Finland were Chicano. Bulges beyond belief force their way out at every angle. Rigid thick mustaches hang stoic on every face as Arlad feels his own stubble grow darker, thicker, itchier.
The student is torn between instincts, just as he feels increasingly torn between two worlds. His body continues ballooning and his shirt bursts clean off, buttons scatter to the floor and sharp tears launch down his arms. He canât help but hungrily scan the floorspace as the bright lights bore into him, exposing him as if he were a piece of art on display. He looks down just in time to see his cock burst large enough to blow his zipper out which only addles his mind further, âTal vez, just a minuteâŠâ He wanders into the exhibit hall proper as his eyes finally make the jump into a rich chocolate brown. He trips over his feet, gasping as he feels them stuffed uncomfortably tight in his oxfords before kicking off the shoes altogether. Just as soon do his pants rip off and he is left almost entirely nude in this exhibit hall.
His mouth hangs open as his cock acts almost like a dowsing rod in between pieces. The language in which Arcad thinks rapidly begins to change altogether, already a bilingual medley, with each starved look at photographed vaqueros or bulge forward paintings does English drift farther away. Maintaining fluency in both of course, the man would never let that tongue take predominance over that of his madre y su madre before her. His pecs pump even larger with pride as thick curls begin itching up from his crotch. He scratches at his stomach as he smirks at his body finally getting on brand. This whole show is about displaying masculinity and he needs to be the apex. He needsâŠ
Arcad twitches as these definitive thoughts cut through the fog in which he has been going about. Why does he care so much about this place? He doesnât like art. Certainly not this uh smut. He twitches as he argues that being provocative is the point, sexualization of the male form is the point. Why could he know that? How does he know anything about this exhibit? Looking around at the photographs he sees men who are almost a parody of masculinity. Fighting back the overwhelming pervasive horniness issuing forth from balls bulging larger he takes a deep breath and ignores the temple to the male form around him.Â
Itâs impossible for him to notice as his thoughts crest fully into español. After all it simply is the language in which he has always thought, no matter what his teachers demand of him. Back to the matter at hand he is struck with the urge to create. Mierda- this exhibition really inspired him, he should really write an essay about this. Or, no. He moans and clutches at his temples as the shining lights out of sight gleam even brighter, sparkling off his sweaty muscled form as heâs racked with the pain of opposing realities. No, that isnât right. He doesnât do essays anymore. Thatâs not how he creates.Â
Memories of long hours at the lab and in dark rooms sitting at a keyboard dissipate. Haughty superiority over fields and forms he deems insignificant thankfully blast away as images of the photographs and artworks around him come to mind with an ease that makes him uneasy. Creeping in from the edges of his lived memory are other exhibits, many that he has visited, some that he has put on of his own accord.Â
Tattoos continue to drip down his arm as his treasure trail rushes onto his chest, blooming out to cover his pecs. The space in between his mustache and goatee is quickly filled, as are the entirety of his cheeks as his eyes shut even tighter. Independent muscle groups twitch as his body struggles to forge him even larger, to be more. The lengthy curls on his head fall away as his head returns to a buzz cut, this time black as the night. This time impossibly deliberate.Â
Arcadio buzzed it himself, he loved his curls. But he knew for this exhibition he had to sacrifice. Anything for his art. The phrase burns across his mind, Marichismo. It, it was his exhibition. Arcadio opens his eyes to find himself standing across from an oppressive statue staring down at him in disdain. His blood boils as his fight or flight activates. Though staying strong he just clenches his fist as his body bulges larger one last time. âPapa.â He made that statue, he isnât about to be shoved around by his own art. The feeling of confidence filling him at standing up against the domineering statue is more than he could have held within him as Allan. Reverbs of confidence go through his psyche as he finally gets it. Turning around the confidence that fills him rapidly dissipates as he sees a man posing like a dog.
He exercised complete creative control of the exhibition, but did he take this? Memories of being behind the lens of the camera dance through his mind for most of the images, this one seems obscured. He ignores the cold sudden sting of a nose ring as he leans in close to inspect it, smirking all the while. Whoâd he get to model this? Looking at the jockstrap he nods approvingly, mierda it is certainly hot though. His underwear stretches to its absolute limit as he forces his large hand down to paw his cock at the image. Looking down at his hairy forearm he gasps as he sees the tattoo on his forearm perfectly matches that of the model.Â
At that moment his underwear burst free from his body and he suddenly realizes that being nude in this space is far worse a breach of etiquette than touching that coyote. Arcadio sprints to his bag and digs around for anything he could possibly use to hide his still bulging cock at half mast. âÂĄGracias a dios!â he whispers under his breath as he wraps a towel around his waist, perfectly mimicking a photograph behind him. He smirks at the man thinking how proud Jose will be when he gets to see himself on a gallery wall. Arcadio grunts and clenches his head as memories of the man ahead of him fill his mind. Lightheaded he leans against the wall grimacing as he leads a sweaty handprint on the pristine white wall.
Turning around seeing the exhibit hall as a whole he almost falls over with a rush of memories. Advanced math and the life he once lived as Allan are dust in the wind as his childhood growing up the son of first generation immigrants in San Antonio rises to take their place. Living alone with his mother before his abuela moved up from Mexico to help raise him as if he were her son. Understanding himself and the world around him as he discovered who he was and what he had to do. Finally achieving success, winning grants, booking galleries as an artist. Not too bad for a maricon eh? He winks at the statue of his father, smirking as he feels his power as a man and artist grow.
Looking down at some engineering homework scattered from his bag the last pangs of a headache buzzes through him before he shakes his head and the work is gone. The last shreds of a life he once lived dissipate. Walking out into the lobby he sees his abuelita. She smiles at the massive man before adjusting her glasses and shouting out, âÂĄAy! ÂżQuĂ© estĂĄs haciendo? ÂĄPonte algo de ropa! (What are you doing! Put some clothes on!)â Arcadio laughs and waves her off, knowing the museum is closed while he preps his exhibition for opening tomorrow.Â
His new voice is rich on his tongue as he speaks up, âEspero que les guste. La universidad no sabe lo que pagaron ÂĄja! (Hope they like it. The uni doesnât know what they paid for ha!)â His abuelita clicks her tongue, she loves her grandson more than the world but boy if he hasnât made her old beyond her years. She digs through the lost and found next to her for something that might fit her larger than life grandson and throws it at him. The man laughs and his abuelita canât help but join in the reverie. She wouldnât dream of going through his exhibit- que obsceno, que cachondo! But he could do no real wrong in her eyes. So far heâs blown her expectations out of the water with his success and she canât wait to see what Arcadio gets up to next.
#male tf#racial change#mental change#masculinization#hair growth#muscle tf#reality change#cultural change#male transformation
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My first book is available now on americanartcatalogues.com @americanartcatalogues
To accompany the release of Rappeneauâs first monograph, American Art Catalogues will present âThe Devil, Probablyâ, an exhibition of five works opening September 19th.Â
Specifications: - Softcover, with debossing on spine and back - 9 3/4 x 13 inches (24.8 x 33 cm) - 344 pages, 161 illustrations - Text by Charlie Fox @ghostwoodfox - Edition of 1,000 copies - Printed in Italy
americanartcatalogues.com
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Golden Walkway
Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Female Reader (Reader is a teacher in Jackson, has long hair.) Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: Itâs your birthday, Joel takes you out to the Tipsy Bison, kisses (and does more to) you in the rain, and takes you home to give you a gift (it's sex, the gift is sex). Also, the thought of Joel spitting whiskey in someone's mouth happened and I had to write it out. đ€·đŒââïž Warnings: smut, drinking, consent first, degradation second, followed by so much praise, hair pulling, spitting, Joel calls you a slut, fingering against a brick wall, F receiving oral, I watched that doggy style Narcos gif (for research) a lot, unprotected p in v, apocalypse birth control (pulling out), Joelâs canon age, Readerâs in her 30âs. Words: 4,300 A/N: Hi! Welcome to my first published fic. I'm currently working on a grander scale fic with these two, I hope to have the first chapter out within the next couple of weeks. I just really wanted to get this out there! Thanks for reading and a big thank you to @ohheypedrito for all of her help and also to our phones for not overheating when I send 40 texts at once with ideas for fics. Hope you enjoy, can't even blame the feralness of this on the full moon.
Edit: I posted the Masterlist for Elks, my work these two are included in.
***
âWas turning 21 as fun as theyâd show in movies back then?â Youâre cuddled in next to Joel on his couch sketching in your notebook while Joel reads a book about Native Americans that you found him. You always do this, a random question or thought to break the comfortable silence. Â
âNot for me, bought a 12 pack of Bud Light and split it on my porch with Tommy. Sarah was only a toddler then and I had work in the morning. Didnât have the money or the time to go to a bar. âCourse I donât think a lotta people did anything the way theyâd show in the movies.â
âI always wanted to have my 21st birthday at a bar, yaâ know? Wait until the clock strikes midnight and order a weird named shot.â
âWell, I reckon we could do that at the Bison tomorrow night. Might not be your 21st but Iâll get you whatever you want to drink, and the best part is you can drink before midnight.â Joel pulls you in closer and kisses your forehead, âWhat do you say, let me take you out for your birthday sweetheart.â
âYes, please,â you sigh into his shoulder, âsounds amazing.â
âWear that little blue dress I know you have hanging in your closet.â
The drinks flowing through you making you downright giddy, alcohol making you bolder, your body and your inhibitions becoming looser, your hands becoming addicted to touching Joel, first his leg, then his thigh, now his lower stomach, right at his waistband. You havenât been this tipsy in a long time, your face feeling flushed and red more from your desire than any drink youâve had tonight.
âYou better knock that off before I take you outside in the rain and fuck you against the building, darling,â Joel huffs into your ear. His fiery warning massaging your neck causing your heart rate cooled by your inebriation to pick up.Â
âSooo, keep going?â You slur back.Â
âIf thatâs what you really want,â Joel puts a forceful squeeze on your upper thigh, a layer of your dress laying between his skin and your skin. If you werenât both sitting at the bar, and maybe in one of the more darker corners of the saloon youâd surely hike your skirt up and let him learn just how bad you want him.
It feels so good to let go with him, to giggle openly at his jokes, stare at his profile as he talks with a friend or two who stop by to say hello, or place your hand on his broad back just because you want to touch his soft blue denim shirt.Â
You watch as his tongue darts out and licks the leftover whiskey off his top lip, Joelâs movements becoming a little slower thanks to the amber liquid heâs been drinking all night. Some droplets glisten on his mustache, you fight every urge inside yourself to not lean over and lick them up.Â
âItâs what I want,â you respond as you move your hand back and forth across his waistband.
âJesus Christ, Iâm about ready to throw you over my shoulder and run home,â Joel says as he takes your hand into his and pulls it away.
âNot so fast. You told me youâd fuck me in the rain, thatâs what I want for my birthday,â you whisper into his ear with a breathy giggle.
âCanât fuck you out here in public. Small town ân all, but Iâll make you feel good,â Joel takes a last swig of his drink, puts the glass down and knocks his fist on the bar to let the bartender know you two are leaving. He leans forward and drawls into your ear, âNow finish your drink if you want me to show you just how happy of a birthday I can give you.âÂ
You nod and gulp your drink down. Youâre so wet, you donât know if youâve ever been this turned on before. Joel grabs your arm with the perfect amount of pressure, youâve never been so happy to get outside into the pouring rain.Â
ââ
Itâs absolutely storming outside, your footsteps sloshing in the puddles on the ground. The rain pelting yourâs and Joelâs bodies as you walk through late night Jackson. It feels like youâre the only two people in the whole town as you make your way farther away from the bar. The bulbs of the string lights reflecting off the water gathering on the sidewalks making your path towards Joelâs house golden. You donât rush, the two of you not scared away by the downpour, the drops cooling your burning skin. Joel turns down the street before his, pulling you behind one of the storage buildings, itâs darker back here, practically pitch black thanks to the rain clouds blocking the moon and the nearest light source being three buildings down. Youâre pushed up against the brick, Joelâs hand gently cradling your head to block it from hitting the wall, heâs such a gentleman.Â
âHappy birthday baby, I need you to tell me you want this, ân youâre okay with this, I have plans for you and I need you to tell me you want it.â Joel instructs you, all you can see is his eyes and the faint lines of his facial hair, the rest of him camouflaged by the darkness surrounding the two of you.Â
âI want it, more than anything. Please,â your voice straining as you beg.Â
âTell me you want me to have my way with you,â Joel speaks into your slack mouth as he rubs his arched nose against yours.Â
âI want you to have your way with me,â you moan against his wet shirt, âso bad.â
âGood girl, now, mânot gonna fuck you here, because Iâm afraid I wonât be able to stop and I need to have you in my bed tonight.â Joel starts to move his hand down your body lifting the hem of your dress. âBut, you are going to cum for me right here.â Joel captures your mouth with his. His hand starts to trace the outline of your panties, you mew out a cry as his fingers slip through and begin to pet you right where you ache the most. His hands are so big, his fingers so long and thick, always putting the right amount of pressure, moving the way you need him to move. Joel Miller is a capable man, everyone knows that, but nobody, except for you, knows just how capable he is.Â
Joel sticks a finger in you, though his finger is thick and feels so good, you need more to fill you.Â
âAnother,â you instruct in between fevered kisses. Your pussy clenches as Joel pushes another finger in you. âYessss,â you moan out against his lips.
âThatâs my good girl, gotta get you stretched out fâme.â Joel begins to kiss his way down your chin and neck stopping at your chest, your hard nipples jutting through your wet dress. Joel takes one into his mouth, sucking the fabric and your tit deeper into his mouth. The sloppy wet sounds of Joelâs suctions making you want him more.
âAnother finger,â you shudder out. âThree? You really want it tonight, donât you?â Joel mumbles against your chest as he sticks a third finger in. It burns, it burns in the best way. Youâre ready for him, itâs what youâve been waiting for all night. You bite down on your lip as your legs begin to shake, Joel can tell youâre right on the edge and twists his fingers inside of you as he finger fucks you harder.Â
Your orgasm bursts forward your whole body going stiff as you try not to wail out into the night.
âThatâs iiiiiit baby,â Joel pulls his fingers out of you and softly pets your pussy from hole to clit.
He removes his hand from between your legs bringing it up between the two of you resting his finger tips against your lips, you open your mouth and begin to lick. His tongue meeting yours as you both clean his thick digits covered in you. He takes his hand away leaving just your mouths to taste each other. His kiss turns tender, your kiss turns desperate.
Joel pulls away resting his forehead against yours. âMy beautiful birthday girl. Letâs get you home, my giftâs not done.â
ââ
Your body practically chills with the promise of what is left to come. Joel grabs your hand and you take it depending on him to lead you to his home. Every step you take you feel your wet core heavy with lust, youâre soaked from the rain and from Joel, if you could drown like this, you would go down with the sinking ship. His house comes into view, your body tingling in anticipation at the site as the both of you speed your footsteps up in perfect agreement.Â
He throws open the gate, youâre following so close you almost trip on his heels making your way up the walkway and steps. He fumbles for his keys and unlocks the doors, you take the opportunity to run your hands all over his back and sides, rubbing the wet cloth of his shirt as it molds to his body. The door swings open and you both shuffle into his living room gasps escaping your mouths, both out of breath from your dash home and your mutual want for each other. You step out of your wet shoes and shake your hair out.Â
âTake your dress off, right now.â Joel huffs out as he tosses his keys on the console table and begins to kick his boots off.Â
You strip yourself of your baby blue frock as fast as you can. Youâve never had a reason to wear such a revealing piece of clothing. You donât know why you held onto it, let alone grabbing it from the communal clothing rack, never thinking anything, or anyone, would be worthy enough for you to dress up for. Joelâs worthy, so worthy.Â
âFeel like Iâm a little underdressed hereâŠâ your words grab Joelâs attention as he moves his hands up to his chest to begin to unbutton his denim shirt. He gets one button taken care of before he rips it open. Shame, itâs your favorite shirt, you'll have to fix it for him later. You watch as a button rolls underneath a table, before you can note where it lands, your attention turns back to Joel to find him stepping out of his jeans and underwear leaving him completely naked.Â
What a sight, what a fucking sight. Thereâs only a lamp on in the room, Joelâs body being cast in amber color and shadow, one side of him on full display glowing in the light, the other more difficult to discern. He moves forward stalking you. âNow Iâm the underdressed one here. Take them off for me,â he says as he moves to pick up a bottle of whiskey from his shelf.Â
You follow his instructions shucking your underwear down your legs and leaving them pooled at your feet.Â
âGood girl,â Joel says as he begins to walk towards you unscrewing the lid off the bottle. He stands in front of you and takes a drink. âOpen your mouth,â he orders as he grabs your hair and tips your head back. He takes another pull from the bottle, this time he raises his mouth over your mouth and begins to dribble drips of whiskey down from his mouth into yours. A moan raises from your throat, causing Joel to tighten his hold on your hair and arch your head back even more. He spits the rest of the whiskey straight into your mouth, you happily swallow his spit and liquor down. He unwinds his hands from your hair, takes another drink and kisses you, the whiskey and his tongue spilling into your mouth. Joel pulls back and takes his last swig before resting the bottle on the table. âGet upstairs.â
You donât think youâve ever run so fast in your life, tripping over your feet as you rush your way up, Joelâs naked form hunting you like prey up each step.
The sight of Joelâs bed brings a new wave of goosebumps to your skin.Â
âBend over on the bed darlin,â Joel turns on a lamp in the corner and pulls it closer. âNeed to lick and fuck you with my tongue.âÂ
You move over to Joelâs side of the bed and bend forward, your ass sitting high in the air and your face in the sheets, you inhale the smell of Joel on his sheets. You swing your hips in giddy anticipation of whatâs about to happen.Â
You feel his body lean over yours, his erection laying over your lumbar. âOkay baby, once again, need you to tell me youâre good with me having my way with your body,â he tempts into your ear.Â
âFuck, yâyes, fuck, of course I am good. So good.â
âThatâs my girl,â Joelâs heavy body lifting off of yours as he kneels between your legs. You feel his hot breaths on you where youâre aching for him the most, you widen your stance egging him on to touch you. âLook at you,â Joel licks your thigh, âso fuckinâ wet youâve spilled out into your thighs.âÂ
You scream a pleasured yell as Joelâs teeth bite down into the flesh of your thigh and sucks your skin into his mouth. The pain is perfect. He loosens his bite, kissing and licking the spot, the sensation making your body quiver.Â
âOkay baby?â
âY-y-yessss,â you answer.
âWhaddo you need sweetheart?âÂ
âLick me,â you beg out, âplease.â
ââCourse. Where do you want me to lick you?â Joel questions as he nuzzles his head against your ass cheek, giving it a small bite.
âMy pussy. Pleeeaaase,â youâd say you sound pathetic but you couldnât care less, your lust overshadowing any type of pride.
âMm, you sound so needy baby, you sound like you really need my tongue on you, huh?â His teasing drawl drives you crazy, your body wonât stop moving, absolutely radiating tensity from your want.
âPlease,â you implore, sobbing out.Â
âAlright baby,â his hands grab your cheeks and spreads them, widening his view of you. âPrettiest thing I ever seen, love your pussy.â
This act feels so depraved, everything on display for him, legs and cheeks spread wide, your pussy exhibited for him like itâs an art piece.
You literally scream into the bed, biting down on Joelâs comforter as his tongue finally meets your core. This, thiiiiiiis is what youâve been wanting all night. Joel moans against you, not being able to hold himself back as he tastes you, his fevered licks exploring your cunt, his large tongue mapping every inch of you. Heâs absolutely conquering you, the noises of his lips and tongue smacking against your wetness soundtracking his journey.Â
He can feel you getting close your hips beginning to cant as your orgasm begins to crest. You knew it wouldnât take long, between the alcohol buzz and Joelâs tongue lapping up your wetness and cum from earlier, you knew youâd be a goner.Â
âMmf, cum for me,â Joel speaks against you, his mouth full of you, too busy to pull away to clearly speak. You donât think he can get any closer to you, his tongue working your orgasm up in intensity with each swirl and dash against your clit. You feel it, itâs here. Your legs instantly collapse, thankful that the rest of your body is resting on the bed. Your eyes tightly squeeze shut and then begin to rapidly blink as your orgasm shatters through you. Joel flattens his tongue against your clit as it pulses. Youâre too turned on to make a noise, Joel stepping in for you and groaning as your juices seep out of you.Â
âDid so good baby,â Joel says leaving one last kiss on your clit before standing up behind you. You want to flip over to look at him, you havenât seen his face since you laid down on the bed. You have no energy, youâre just a shell of a woman, the only sensations you can feel is the pool of wetness in between your legs and your light inebriation.
Your attention gets pulled to the sound of Joel spitting in his hand, followed by a hiss coming out of his mouth. When you realize exactly what heâs doing, you summon the strength needed to turn over. You flip over, your back thudding on the mattress your legs still spread wide, feet resting on the floor. And thereâŠ. thereâŠ. THERE he is, standing in the middle of his room, one large hand wrapped around his hard cock softly stroking as he watches you with hooded eyes. You know you just came, but the sight makes your pussy clench with desire.Â
Joel jerks himself off as his eyes roam your exhausted form. âBeen thinking âbout this all day. You all laid out in front of me heaving for air after cumminâ all over my tongue,â slow strokes matching his lazing words. âJust about canceled our night out when you opened your door in that little blue dress, looked like you were wearing the sky, baby.âÂ
You bite your lip as all of your senses are so overtly overwhelmed by lust. The sight of Joelâs handsome face watching you, the hazel flecks in his eyes twinkling in the golden light of the lamp. The smell of the rain on your skin mixed with the heady scent of your arousal and Joelâs sheets. The taste of Joelâs whiskey tongue still in your mouth. The sound of Joelâs fist pumping along his hard cock. The feel of the aftershocks of your orgasm still quaking your body. Itâs so fucking much, you need Joel inside you. The thought of feeling him stretch you causes a whimper.
âYeah baby? Havinâ a hard time over there?â Joel stops stroking his hard length, his hand pauses on his shaft. âYou want me to fuck you now?âÂ
âPleeeease,â you keen out.Â
âAlright sweetheart.â Joel confidently strides over to you, dick still in hand. He stops right at the edge of your feet. âTurn back around ân get on all fours in the middle of the bed fâme.âÂ
You follow his instructions eager to please. The sooner you get this done, the sooner you can feel Joel enter you.Â
âGood girl,â he praises as the mattress dips lower with his weight behind you.
Your heart is pounding so loud, your whole body thrumming, you gulp down a breath of air trying to calm your need. You feel Joelâs cock brush against your ass cheek, heâs so close to fucking you.
âSweetheart, Iâm gonna fuck you real good and hard now. Happy birthday baby.â
And just like that, Joel buries his cock inside of you, youâre absolutely stretched around him. Your clit already worked over by Joelâs tongue, now your hole deliciously stinging while it flutters around his cock. He begins thrusting, tender and slow full strokes. Entering and exiting, swirling the head of his cock right at the entrance before plunging back in because he knows you love the feeling. Joelâs groans and your cries join in song as he begins to pound faster, the sound of your bodies slapping together match the rhythm.Â
âFeel so fucking good, always so perfect for me. Sâa good girl, always take it so good,â Joel grits out.Â
He grabs your hair and wraps it around his fist as he pounds into you. âNo one knows how fucking slutty you get for me behind these walls. They think youâre one of those innocent little teachers.â Joel pulls your hair harder causing a scream of ecstasy from you. âYou love this, donât you?â
You do. Itâs so rough, so different from how gentle he always is with you. It feels like a luxury to be treated this way by him.Â
âY-y-y-yes, God I love it,â you whimper.
âThatâs right. Thatâs what I like to hear. So pretty so smart. So much smarter than me, now Iâm makinâ you stupid with my cock, right baby?âÂ
Everybody knows Joel Miller as the strong, silent type, a man of few words, somebody who doesnât do chit chat. But with you in his bed naked and wailing as he slams into you, Joel Miller wonât shut up.
âDoinâ so good for me. So pretty, so perfect fâme. So wet for me.â Â
âYou made me so wet earlier, I was afraid I was going to leave a mark on the barstool.â Your words coming out as tortured weeps, so lost in your ecstasy you struggle with every word spoken.Â
âFuuuuuck.â That got him good. He pounds you even harder, the bed frame shaking violently against his wall, your body and cunt acting as if itâs the only barrier between Joel knocking a hole in the plaster. âHad I fuckinâ known I would have made you stick your face on that chair and made you lick yourself up as I fuck you against it.â
Thatâs it, thatâs the hottest thing youâve ever heard. Joelâs deep timbered accent grunting those deviant words as he grabs you and begins to roll his hips into your cunt. Your body is strung so tight and rigid in all places besides your hips and core, pumping and rolling along with Joelâs as he fucks you. Youâre close again, your panting breaths letting Joel know.Â
âBaby, if you gotta cum, cum,â his grip on your hips pressure into you.Â
âGoing ⊠going.. going to,â the only words you can say as your third orgasm radiates out of your body, your pussy is the epicenter, tingles firing through your veins, your hands fisting the blankets at your detonation. Slack jawed and fucked senseless you rally the strength to not disintegrate and fall into Joelâs bed. Your world has been shattered by Joel, but your body survives for him, your legs and arms shaking under gravity and your weight as they deal with the fallout.Â
âCâmere baby, lemme help you.â Of course he can tell youâre struggling. He reaches his hands around, clutching your stomach and pulling you up against him. Your back up against his chest, his hand seeking out your breast, the other wrapping around your torso and clutching you to him. He holds you as he fucks into you, his nose brushing against your ear as he puffs and grunts against your neck. âFucking. Love. You. So. Much.â Each word matching a thrust into you. Your hands find his and grip them, youâve never felt more loved and protected. Joel Miller has got you.
You feel the familiar shudder in Joelâs movements as he edges close to his climax. His labored breaths getting louder and more fevered against your neck. Youâre absolutely wrecked, but the angle of Joelâs cock inside of you mixed with the feeling of the shudder in his movements as he edges himself brings forth another orgasm. Words are gone, just sounds, whatever your throat can muster up and out of your mouth.Â
âThatâs it, thatâs it, thatâs it,â Joel repeats. His hands squeezing yours so tightly, his chest heaving against your back, his strong thighs straddling yours, his nose pressing into your ear. You feel his body tense as he pulls out. His release coating your pussy as his whole body surrounds you. Hot breaths huffing against the side of your face in between featherlight kisses. âLove you,â a whisper in your ear so delicate and sweet as he lets go of your hands. Your body falling forward without his support, your arms catching you before crashing down on the bed. Joel gets up with a groan as you lay yourself down on your stomach, taking the opportunity to stretch your legs out before rolling over on your side to watch Joel. He stands arms akimbo in the middle of the room. Heâd look like a Greek statue if his shoulders werenât rising and falling rapidly as he catches his breath. Heâs gorgeous and he looks just as wrecked as you feel.Â
âProbably shouldnât have gotten up as quick as I did,â he chuckles. âDamn well feel like Iâm standing in the middle of a earthquake.â You love the casual banter he puts forth seconds after being deep inside you, his cum still covering your core. This is love.Â
You smile at him, your cheek resting on your hand as a makeshift pillow. Youâre exhausted⊠the whole night and your four orgasms catching up with you. Eyes feeling heavy, matching your limbs you begin to drift off.Â
A wet sensation in between your legs jerks you awake. âSorry baby, just want to clean you up,â a whisper just as light as Joelâs tender attention as he washes you lulls you back to sleep.Â
ââ
âBaby,â Joelâs low voice gently wakes you up along with a soft kiss to your forehead.
You groan as you stretch your sore muscles under the sheet, opening your eyes to find Joel gazing down lovingly at you. Heâs backlit by the filtered morning sunlight shining in through his bedroom windows. What a way to wake up. âHappy birthday sweetheart, Iâd let you sleep all day but I need to give you my present.â His face is so bright and cheerful, a boost in your confidence provided by just how happy he looks when heâs with you.Â
âThought you gave me your present already last night,â you yawn.Â
âSweet girl, that was a present for both of us. Now come on, get up.â You grab his offered hand and reluctantly get out of bed. Joel wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug, his hands splayed across your back as you nuzzle your face in his warm chest. âHappy birthday.â
A/N: THANK YOU for reading my first ever fic. My inbox is always open. :)
#joel miller#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller x you#joel miller x reader#tlou fanfic#tlou fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfiction#joel miller/reader#pedro pascal fanfiction#the last of us fanfiction#elks#joel miller smut#joel miller fic#pedro pascal
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the devil i know
chapter one: god you've got the blackest eyes
(repost)
fic tag | fic playlist | fic masterlist
pairing(s): crossroads demon!eddie munson x fem!reader
summary: To summon a demon at a crossroads, simply cast a circle, make an offering, and recite an incantation. What happens from that point on is subject to your desire⊠and the demonâs.
cw: explicit, smut, dubcon elements, making a deal with a demon, inspired by american and european folklore, sacrilegious themes, horror, witch!reader, reader is 21+ in modern day, eddie is immortal, coercion (a bit), sex pact, marking, possessive behavior, animal death, trauma, reader is ostracized by her very religious hometown, dark comedy, tfw your accidental boyfriend is a demon who is obsessed with you bc he doesnât know how to be normal about anything ever, dead dove: do not eat
please check masterlist and individual parts for content warnings before reading. this fic contains dark themes. your media consumption is your own responsibility.
a/n: Hi folks, for the month of October this year I'm going to be reuploading all the chapters of this fic onto tumblr, this time hopefully for good. I apologize for the time that it's been taken down. Genuinely, this fic has garnered so much kindness and support and I think of it as one of my biggest accomplishments. I hope you all enjoy it just as much the second time around as the first.
ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI
Through me you pass into the city of woe, Through me you pass into eternal pain, Through me you pass among forsaken people. Justice moved my exalted creator; I was wrought by divine power, Supreme wisdom, and primal love. Before me all things created were eternal, And eternal I endure. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. -Dante Alighieri, The Inferno, Canto III
The book youâve used for ages now, since late in your junior year of high school, has only one page in it that you havenât utilized. You donât know how much faith to put in itâ youâre a little short on faith, these daysâ but, the spellbook lays it out simply, so you follow its directions to the letter.Â
To summon a demon at a crossroads, go to a place where two paths meet on the dark moon. You find peace and quiet in the woods, deep where you know no one walks at night but two paths cross in a small clearing banked with trees. Itâs your favorite place to go when you want to do a spellâ ritualâ and you donât want to be bothered. The whole thing canât be more than twenty feet across. Above the overhang of trees, thereâs no moon in the sky, only stars.
Cast a circle of protection. That took more research than just the book in your hands, but years of collecting information have given you learned knowledgeâ there are a million ways to cast a circle, and different circles for different purposes. You do your best to create one for protection. You draw a literal circle in the dirt with a stick, fill it with salt, and walk around the circle three times clockwise to cast it. You light candles to give yourself some light, and to free up your hands of the flashlight you carried to see your way through the woods.Â
Make an offering of copper. Your hand pauses on the copper dog tag in your hand. Youâd thought of just offering a penny, but you remembered reading somewhere that pennies barely contain copper anymore, and you didnât have anything else that was entirely made of the one metal.Â
You run your finger over the embossed name on it. Lacey. Your petâs old collar feels heavy in your hand as you remove the tag from the leather strap and bury it in the earth, you guess, to reach the⊠Underworld? Hell? You canât honestly say, considering the text youâre referencing only calls it the Otherworld.
Itâs a big sacrifice. Itâs personal. But, you guess, that gives it more meaning. Making a deal is personal business, and you have your reasons.
Recite the summoning incantation. A stanza of words you donât understand. You donât think itâs in Latin, but you try your best, all the same. You read them from the book before you, and feel your blood rushing in your veins as you do.
State your desire out loud in a clear voice. Well, thatâs a little more difficult. What is it that you want?
You take a breath, go to speak, and then stop. You donât know how to start. You donât know exactly how to describe your pain. You donât know how to voice your anger well enough, you just know you need to⊠you need to get it out, somehow. This is a very crucial step in the ritual, you have to do it.
âI came here to make a deal,â you speak frankly, clearly. âIâm prepared to do anything. Iâve run out of options. Iâve been hurt too many times, by too many people who didnât care what they did to me. Iâve lost everything I genuinely loved. Iâm⊠Iâm angry, and desperate, and Iâm frightened. And I feel so alone. Itâs eating me alive, and I just⊠I just want the ability to make things go my way, for once.â Good enough, you hope.
Wait for an answer.
You do. You listen intently, to the song of the leaves in the trees rustling in the slight breeze, to the crickets chirping in the grass. You wait long enough that you start to rethink your approach.Â
It could be that things will turn around if you just wait another month, or another month after that. Maybe youâll get the car back. Maybe youâll get the promotion that was given to the newbie that you trained. Maybe your ex will stop coming around your work to intimidate you. Maybe youâll get a new dog to take the place of the one that he killed. Maybe the evangelical town you live in will stop shunning you and calling you a witch, like something out of the middle ages.
Unlikely, that last one.
Just when you swear itâs a failure, that you should just pack up and leave, thatâs when a strong gust of wind rips through the clearing out of nowhere. The candles blow outâ and then, oddly enough, relight themselves. Thereâs a slight scent of smoke on the breeze, and you look around to make sure none of the candles fell over in the wind.
Theyâre all perfectly fine. Thereâs nothing amiss, it seems, until you hear a cough and movement across the clearing. You look forward, and see a pair of black combat boots in the stream of light from your flashlight. You follow the boots up to a pair of legs, clad in dark jeans, and then further up, to a torso, and a head, and a pair of sparkling eyes.
âHi.â
You stare at him, probably looking like a fish out of water with the way your mouth opens and closes. Youâd fully expected the traditional scary depiction of a demonâ maybe horns, goat hooves, et cetera. But the man that answered your call is⊠just a man. A pretty one. He has long, curly hair, which falls over his broad shoulders and stirs in the wind. His plush lips curve up in a relaxed, cocky smile, as he takes in the sight of you in return.Â
He quirks an eyebrow at you. âAre you just gonna stare at me all night?âÂ
âSorry, hi. Hello.â You shake your head. âCan you believe I honestly thought Iâve been doing it wrong this whole time?âÂ
âI can believe a lot of things. You know, thereâs a reason why the demon summoning ritual is first in that book.â His voice is soft and resonant. You get a mental image of heat waves radiating from tar-black and glowing magma, rolling slowly over lava beds. The image disappears just as soon as it flashes into your mind.
âWell, to be completely honest, I wasnât sure how I felt about making a deal with a demon first thing,â you explain, looking away shyly. âBut Iâve tried all the spells in this book and not a single one of them worked. Just seems like everything is getting worse all the time.â
He doesnât look awayâ rather, he keeps staring at you, unblinkingly. Like youâre the most fascinating creature heâs ever seen. He leans up against the tree that he appeared beside, his leather jacket falling open to reveal a shirt with a demonâs head on it. Fitting. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket.Â
âSo, now you wanna make a deal with little olâ me, huh?â He grins, a gorgeous smile that flashes bright, sharp teeth at you. He lifts a cigarette to his mouth and bites it gently between his teeth. He doesnât pull out a lighter. Instead, you watch him light up with a small flame that erupts from the tip of his thumb.Â
âDepends on who you are,â you retort, eyes following the movement of his hands. Theyâre weighed down by large, silver rings that reflect the light of the flame before it snuffs out. âWhatâs your name?â
He makes a short noise in his throat, shaking his head abruptly. He doesnât look nearly as intimidating as you feel he shouldâ more like heâs trying to warn you against something you donât want. He peers at you from beneath his wavy bangs as he pulls the cigarette from his mouth and uses it to point at you. âNames are really powerful things where I come from, babydoll. Best not to bite off more than you can chew yet. Once we cut a dealâ thatâs when you get my name.â
You make a face as you mull that over. âSo what do I call you, in the meantime? Demon daddy?âÂ
âYou could,â he chuckles. The demon rocks to the side, crossing his legs at the ankles. âIf you really wanted to. I wouldnât mind, itâs flattering.âÂ
You grunt. âI think Iâll pass on that, actually.â He tilts his head with a sicker, watching you with an amused smile while you shift in place. âSo, do Iâ I mean, you need to know what I want, right? Is that how this starts?â
âNo, I know what you want.â He exhales a stream of smoke from his nostrils. âYou want power. To get a fair shake, find your place, change your life. Defend yourself against the assholes making that life, well. A living hell.â As he spits out the words, his voice rings sharp through the trees, like the strike of a hammer on glowing metal, shooting sparks off into the air.Â
âI want to take all this pain and just⊠return to sender. Give it back to them, yâknow? I never wanted any of it,â you justify. Your voice is too small in comparison with his. âMaybe then Iâll be able to fucking breathe.â
For how little space you allow yourself to take up, he seems to consume the rest of it. He nods slowly. âThatâs a fair request, sweetheart.â
âItâs selfish, I know.â
âMaking a deal for power is inherently a selfish thing,â he shrugs. âOwn it. Iâm certainly not judging.â
You let out a shaky breath. Youâre still so nervous, being so near himâ ten feet away and growing closer every second, it seems, even though neither of you have moved. You feel like, no matter how far you pull back, the flow of fiery lava he seems to embody will keep creeping towards you until youâre burned alive.
His dark eyes glow like coals in the night as he looks you up and down, and then he quickly pushes himself away from the tree. You startle at the abrupt movement, and watch as he swings around it like Gene Kelly on a lamp post.Â
When he rounds the tree, he uses the momentum to throw himself toward your circle. You flinch, and he frowns, but continues moving toward you at a slower pace, holding his hands out innocently. âWanna know a secret? About how all this,â he twirls a finger in the air, indicating the ritual youâre in the middle of, âworks?â
You nod, gazing up at him shyly. If you felt at all powerful while casting the circle and starting the ritual, heâs managed to take the wind out of your sails. You can feel the power radiating off of him in waves.
He smirks at you. âYou make your petitionâ when you say the words in that little book,â he points at the volume at your feet, âand that petition is answered by whichever demon caters most to that desire.â He points at himself emphatically, his eyebrows raised. âMe? Infernal majesty of freaks and misfits. Iâm your demon daddy.â
You finally giggle, and it makes him smile fondly, like thatâs what heâd been gunning for all along. He backs up a step and puffs his cigarette.Â
âIâm here to help you, sweetheart.â He regards you for a second, like heâs thinking things over. âThat is, as long as you agree to my terms.â
âTerms?â You echo, but you were sort of expecting that. Nothing for nothing, right? âWhat are the terms?â
âAh, theyâre simple. Very traditional,â he waves his hand like itâs frivolous. He holds his hand out in midair, and just like how heâd conjured the flames, he produces a weathered book. It looks like a composition book that has scribbles and doodles all over the front of itâ the same demon head that adorns his shirt. âYou sign your name with your blood in my little black book, you hop on one foot with your hand on your head and pledge your undying fealty to the dark lord Kthulu, and then you meet me on the sabbath to kill a child and make them into soup.âÂ
He smiles, fluttering his eyelashes at you innocently.Â
âAre you fucking serious?â You blurt.Â
âOf course Iâm not fucking seriousâ what is this, the dark ages?â He snorts as he lowers the composition book. âNah, we donât do human sacrifice on the sabbath anymore, it was getting too difficult to evade the witch hunters.â
âWhat?â
âNothing.â He flashes you a disarming grin. You can feel yourself halfway smirking as well, incredulous but somehow enjoying his humor. Then he shakes his head and says, seriously, âNo, you do have to sign my book, though. And then meet me back here on the full moon to fuck.â
You blink at him, reeling from the whiplash of that. âYou⊠Iâm sorry?â
âI find it best not to sugarcoat it, yâknow.â He shrugs, âThink of this as a marriage, of sorts. I give you the power to smite thine enemies, live deliciously, blah blah blah, and then you meet me at the crossroads every full moon to be my whore and we fuck like bunnies all night. Simple as that.â
âThatâs far from simple.â
âIt doesnât have to be monogamous, if thatâs what youâre worried about,â he continues frankly, âexcept on the full moon. I wonât compromise about thatâ youâll be all mine, and Iâm all yours. No takesies backsies.â
âNoâ thatâs notââ You exhale, holding your hands over your eyes. âIâm just⊠not promiscuous like thatâŠâ
âSweetheart.â He waits until youâve lowered your hands to look at him, and he hums, with a saccharine smile that reminds you of the power youâd felt sweep through the clearing when he arrived. âYou wonât be the first good girl Iâve broken, and you wonât be the last. If youâre worried about promiscuity, well⊠I answered your petition. I know what goes on in that pretty head, and it barely scratches the surface of what Iâve seen and done.âÂ
The toe of his boot barely nudges the edge of your circle, and a spark crackles in the dark from the impact. The light dances in his eyes longer than it remains in the air, like they caught the spark and ignited.Â
âTrust me,â he says, drawing you in with the low register of his voice. âI can give you more than power. I can give you protection. I can give you real happiness. Karmaâs a fucking bitch, so I can be, too. This is just such a little thing in return. And who knows⊠you may even like it.â
You shiver at that, even though his presence feels hot, like his stream of lava is surrounding you, crowding you in, boiling you where you stand. Heâs rightâ you absolutely might like it.Â
Because thereâs just something magnetic between you, isnât there? You can sense it, more than any heat and any sort of primal fear you might have instinctively at his presence. Thereâs a certain pull you feel toward him, emanating even through the salt barrier on the ground.Â
You want to wrap yourself in him. Boil you alive, burn you to a crisp, destroy youâ you donât care.
âOr⊠is it that you donât like this body?â He wonders aloud, striding backward two steps. He turns, his hand lifting his seemingly ever-burning cigarette to his lips. âFiguresâ yâknow, I can be anything you want me to be, babydoll.â
Confused, you watch as he transforms in front of you. In the length of two steps while he paces across the clearing, his face and body stretches and contorts, until youâre not staring at the same visage anymore. He stops, and he turns to you with his palms up, like heâs waiting for your approval.Â
Youâre looking at Tom fucking Cruise.Â
âOh, no, absolutely not,â you shake your head vehemently, scowling. You wave your hands demandingly, âPut it back. You were so hot beforeâ please, please go back to the way you were.â
The demon grins and turns his head, throwing the cigarette away. His hair grows back to its previous length, his face morphing as if made of clay until you meet the same pretty smile youâve come to enjoy looking at.Â
He chuckles, grabbing a lock of his hair and drawing it across his lips. âYou think Iâm hot?â
âOf course,â you murmur, but you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he can hear it. His eyes are embers, blazing at you from beneath his bangs. âIs that what you normally look like? Is that your true form?â
He makes an iffy sound. âItâs what I looked like when I was human. My true form has more horns and unhinged jaws and claws and all that. You wouldnât like it.â
âI thought you said you could read my mind. Do you know how much monster porn Iâve consumed? Thatâs hot as shit to me,â you argue, and he snaps his head towards you in surprise. You point at yourself. âFreak and misfit.â
He laughs, and it sounds like the roaring of an out of control fire, burning up everything in its path. He kicks his heel on the ground and steps up to your circle again. âI like you, baby. I really do. What do you say?â
âHow do I know that I can trust you?â you ask, an annoying lump forming in your throat with the question. Youâve been burned before by people far less powerful than this demon, yet who still hold so much power over you. However much they have.
âYou canât,â he answers, more honestly than most would. He tilts his head with a crooked smile. âNot to get all preachy on you, but even if I wasnât a demon⊠trust is built, not a given. âThe devil you know,â right? Better than the one that you donât.â
âYeah,â you agree, your voice coming out breathy and winded the longer you gaze up into his eyes.
âTrust me to be⊠intense, I guess,â he shrugs. âAnd probably impulsive. But Iâll always deliver on our deal. Be my witch, my wife, my whoreâ whatever you want to call it, but be mine. I think weâll have so much fun together.â
âYeah, I thinkâ I think I will.â Youâre nodding, and his smile grows with yours. âI want to.â
âLet me in, sweetheart.â
Your toe scuffs the boundary on the ground, breaking the circle. Immediately, your senses are assaulted by smoke, not just the tobacco heâs been smoking but the scent of a wildfire, of cities burned to ashes, of desolation and destruction and pyroclastic flow and roaring, exploding volcanoes.Â
Your demon crosses the line youâd drawn on the ground with ease, producing the worn composition book in his hand again. The cover reads Hellfire Club in chicken scratch handwriting.Â
âAre there others?â You ask, prompted by the word Club on the front as he flips open the book to a middle page. An agreement is already written out in red ink. âDo you have more than one, umâŠâ
âConsort?â He whispers in your ear. Goosebumps rise on your skin, and your stomach flutters. âNot for a long time. Iâm very picky about my partners. They have to be just as much of a freak as I am.â
Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, although the admission makes you feel⊠better, in a way. You squint in the dark, but with the exception of the candles around your circle, thereâs nothing to allow you to properly read whatâs written on the page.Â
He sighs, shifting on his feet beside you. âAre you one of those people whoâll read the whole contract?â
âAbsolutely I am,â you hum. The book feels heavier in your hands than it should. âCan you give me a light?â
âJesus Christ.â He produces a flame from his forefinger just as you turn to give him a confused look.Â
âShouldnât you, like⊠evaporate after saying that?â
In the yellow glow of the flame, he just blinks at you, looking amused. âThings arenât as black and white as you think they are, believe me.â
You snatch his wrist and yank his arm closer to the page. His body collides with yours, and he grunts in your ear as he wraps his other arm around you, embracing you from behind. Youâre engulfed in the scent of smoke and the heat of his flames, impossibly hot and comforting all the same.Â
His hair brushes your shoulder as you read his contract. Itâs just a few lines, but the weight they hold will seal your fate.Â
The agreement made this night of the dark moon shall henceforth be enacted from the signing of this document, that hereby renders the human partyâs soul bound to the infernal party. Witness that the first party must appear before the second party each full moon to lay in matrimonial fashion, and that in return the first party shall be protected and given the powers of the second from here until the humanâs mortal passing.Â
âAww, thatâs sweet,â you coo, tracing the red ink with your fingers.Â
The demon over your shoulder rolls his eyes. âItâs a fucking pre-nup.â
âDoesnât seem like a fair trade, though, does it?â You murmur. âI mean, I get the power to change my circumstances and you getâ whatâ sex once a month?â
His hand tightens on your waist, and you pause. You turn your head to look at him, and his eyes flicker dangerously, so close to yours. They arenât just glowing coals- this close, you can see the small details. You can see the swirling, the churning of lava within them.
âItâs not just sex, is it?â
âWhat do you think making a deal with a demon entails, sweetheart? Read the fine print.â
You look back at the page. There are no other words on it, save for the ones youâve already read. âI donâtâŠ?â
âItâs your soul, honey,â he mutters, pointing at the word. His mouth is muffled against your shoulder as he peers over it. âI wonât ask anything of you other than the sex, as long as you live. But right now, youâre offering up your soul. And once your life is up, you get to be just like me. Understand?â
âI⊠yeah. I understand.â You let go of his wrist, but pause over the pages of the book. âI donât have anything to sign with.â
Wordlessly, the demon takes your hand. You let him caress your wrist, feeling your pulse with his thumb. Then, before you realize whatâs happening, a sharp sting makes you yelp as he cuts your skin with his pointed thumbnail.Â
He shushes you, letting the blood well up on your skin. âI did say you needed to sign with blood.â
Your voice shakes when you hold your dripping wrist over the page. âI thought you said you were joking.â
âNot about the book. Rules of the trade, I canât change it.â Your blood splatters the notebook, dripping into the crease of the page. Once heâs satisfied, he lifts your wrist to his mouth and closes his lips around the small wound. It heals in a heartbeat.Â
âIs that it, then?â You ask, mesmerized by the sight and feeling of his mouth on your skin. âDonât you have to sign?â
Your demon kisses your wrist gently, his lips soft, inviting. âThis is going to hurt,â he warns, and you nod. The heat of his breath makes your skin tingle, all your nerves on high alert.Â
But then that tingling turns into a burn, that turns into a searing pain. You feel like your skin is on fire, an invisible hot brand held against your wrist. You cry out as he holds you close, letting you bury your face into his neck, holding you up as your knees threaten to buckle.Â
âSuch a good girl,â he murmurs to you as you whimper. He holds your arm as the pain fades into a throbbing ache, cradles your hand against his cheek as he coos into your hair. âYouâre so strong. Not many people can handle my mark, you know. Fate works in funny ways.â
Your demon holds you until you can stand on your own, until your breathing evens out and you can compose yourself. He shushes you quietly, rocking you from side-to-side with a soothing hand stroking your head. Then he holds your face, and kisses your tear stained cheeks. The touch of his lips stokes at flames beneath your skin.
âIâll look forward to our time together, little witch,â he whispers. And with a quick, chaste kiss to your lips, he disappears entirely.Â
You stay in the circle for a while, clutching your throbbing wrist and crying frustrated tears. You wonder if you made the right decision, and yet, you donât understand why you just want him to come back. You miss the comfort of his presence, even if you donât know enough about him to justify it. All he did was hurt your arm and take your blood and kiss away your tears and make you a witch.Â
Itâs too late to go back on your decision now. Thereâs an all-encompassing fire you can feel burning in your veins, emitting from the pulsating wound on your wrist. His power. His fire.Â
You pull your hand away from your wrist to finally inspect the mark that he branded you with, declaring you his in the same chicken scratch that had been on the cover of his book. Itâs small enough that a well placed bracelet would cover it, but you donât know that youâll want to.
Eddie.
Your demonâs name is Eddie.
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#tdik!fic#stranger things#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#demon!eddie#demon!eddie munson#stranger things fanfic#roses*
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Taylor Swift is a Female Rage icon? Get a Grip.
Iâve just received word that Taylor Swift is calling her show âFemale Rage: The Musical.â Here is my very much pissed off response to that nonsense: Â
The phrase, Female Rage has an intimately rich history: Â
Some of the first accounts of female rage dates to the Italian renaissance. To be clear, women in those days were not allowed to become painters- the arts were seen as the domain of men. They did not believe that women have rich inner lives capable of delivering the type of artistic innovation with which renaissance men were obsessed. Â
However, rebels abounded, through the might of their fucking rage. Several women created some of the most compellingly emotional paintings Iâve ever fucking seen. They did it without permission, without financial support, and often under the threat of punishment. They did it as a protest. In paintings like âTimoclea Killing Her Rapistâ by Elisabetta Sirani (1659), and another by Artemisia Gentileschi âSlaying of Holofernesâ (1612) as it depicts the bravery of Judith as she slayed a traveling warlord out to rape Judith and enslave her city. The painting often is referred to as a way Artemisia was envisioning herself as slaying her rapist. These paintings were used against these women as proof that they were unfeminine- and far too angry.  Both these women suffered immensely for their audacity to call attention to the violation men perpetrated on them. Female Rage bleeds off these paintings- bleeds right through to the bone-deep acknowledgement of the injustice women faced being barred from the arts and having their humanity violated in such a sick way. Both women were hated- and considered far too angry.
In philosophy, also as early as the 15th century, an example of female rage is a philosophical text, often hailed as one of the first feminists works in the western world, written by Christine de Pizan titled The City of Ladies (1405). She wrote in protest on the state of women- writing that âmen who have slandered the opposite sex out of envy have usually know women who were cleverer and more virtuous than they areâ (âThe City of Ladiesâ). People mocked her all her life- but she stood fast to her convictions. She was widowed at a young age with children to feed and the men wouldnât let women have jobs! She wrote this book and sold it so that she could feed her family- and to protest the treatment of women as lesser than men. Her work was called aggressive and unkempt- they said she was far too angry.Â
In the 18th century, a young Mary Wollstonecraft wrote, A Vindication of the Right of Women ( 1792) upon learning that the civil rights won in the French Revolution did not extend to women! She wrote in protest of the unjust ways other philosophers (like Rousseau) spoke about the state of women- as if they were lesser. She wrote to advocate for womenâs right to education, which they did not yet have the right to! She wrote to advocate for the advancement of womenâs ability to have their own property and their own lives! The reception of this text, by the general public, lead to a campaign against Wollstonecraft- calling her âaggressiveâ and far too angry. Â
Moving into modernity, the 1960âs, and into literary examples, Maya Angelou publishes I know why the caged Bird Sings (1969) in which she discusses the fraught youth of a girl unprotected in the world. It beautifully, and heart-wrenchingly, described growing up in the American South during the 1930âs as it subjected her to the intersection of racism and sexism. The story is an autobiographical account of her own childhood, which explains how patriarchal social standards nearly destroyed her life. Upon the reception of her book, men mostly called it âoverly emotionalâ and far too angry. Maya Angelou persisted. She did not back down from the honesty with which she shared her life- the raw, painful truth. With Literature, she regained a voice in the world. Â
Interwoven into each of the examples I have pulled out here, is the underlying rage of women who want to be seen as human beings, with souls, dreams and hopes, yet are not seen as full members of society at the behest of men. They take all that rage, building up in their souls, and shift it to create something beautiful: positive change. Each of these cases, I have outlined above, made remarkable strides for the women as a whole- we still feel the impact of their work today. They were so god-damn passionate, so full of righteous anger, it burst out into heart-stopping, culture-shifting art. Feminine rage is therefore grounded in experiences of injustice and abuse- yet marked too by its ability to advocate for women's rights. It cannot be historically transmogrified away from these issues- though Taylor Swift is doing her best to assert female rage as pitifully dull, full of self-deprecation, and sadness over simply being single or losing money. She trivializes the seriousness with which women have pled their cases of real, painful injustice and suffering to the masses time and time again. The examples above deal with subjects of rape, governmental tyranny, and issues of patriarchally inspired social conditioning to accept women as less human than men. It is a deadly serious topic, one in which women have raised their goddamn voices for centuries to decry- and say instead, âI am human, I matter, and men have no right to violate my mind, body, or soul.â Â
The depictions of female rage over the last few centuries, crossing through many cultures, is an array of outright anger, fearsome rage, and into utter despair. The one unyielding, solid underpinning, however, is that the texts are depicting the complete agency of the women in question. The one uniting aspect of female rage is that it must be a reaction to injustice; instead of how male depictions of female rage function, (think Ophelia), the women are the agents of their art with female made- female rage. They push forth the meaning through their own will- not as subjects of male desires or abuses, but as their own selves. That is what makes the phrase so empowering. They are showing their souls as a form of protest to the men who treat women like we have no soul to speak of. Â
Taylor Swiftâs so-called female rage is a farce in comparison. Letâs look at an example: âMad Womanâ (2020). I pull this example, and not something from her TTPD set, because this is one of the earliest examples of her using the phrase female rage to describe her dumb music. (Taylor Swift talking about "mad woman" | folklore : the long pond studio sessions (youtube.com) Â
The lyrics from âMad Womanâ read âEvery time you call me crazy, I get more crazy/... And when you say I seem angry, I get more angryâ Â
How exactly is agreeing with someone that you are âcrazyâ a type of female rage in which sheâs protesting the patriarchy. The patriarchy has a long history of calling women âinsaneâ if they do not behave according to the will of men. So, how is her agreeing with the people calling her crazy- at all subversive in the way that artworks, typically associated with concept of female rage, are subversive. What is she protesting? NOTHING. Â
Then later, she agrees, again, that she's âangry.â The issue I draw here is that sheâs not actually explicating anything within the music itself that sheâs angry about- she just keeps saying she's angry over and over, thus the line falls flat. The only thing this anger connects to is the idea of someone calling her angry- which then makes her agree that she is... angry. So, despite it being convoluted, itâs also just not actually making any kind of identifiable point about society or the patriarchy- so again, I beg, what on Earth makes this count as Female Rage? Â
In essence, she is doing the opposite of what the examples above showcase. In letting an outside, presumably male, figure tell Taylor Swift what she is feeling, and her explicit acceptance of feeling âcrazyâ and âangry,â she is ultimately corroborating the patriarchy not protesting it. Her center of agency comes from assignment of feelings outside of herself and her intrinsic agreement with that assignment; whereas female rage is truly contingent on the internal state, required as within our own selves, of female agency. As I stated above, the women making female rage art must have an explicit agency throughout the work. Taylor Swiftâs song simply does not measure up to this standard. Â
Her finishing remarks corroborates the fact that she's agreeing with this patriarchal standard of a "mad" or crazy woman:
"No one likes a mad woman/ You made her like that"
Again, this line outsources agency through saying "you made her like that" thus removing any possibility of this song being legitimate female rage. There is simply no agency assigned to the woman in the song- nor does the song ever explicitly comment on a social issue or protestation of some grievous injury to women's personhood.
She honestly not even being clever- she's just rhyming the word âcrazyâ with âcrazy.â Then later rhyming âangryâ with âangry.â Groundbreaking stuff here. Â
Perhaps Taylor Swift is angry, in âMad Woman,â but it is not the same type of rage established in the philosophical concept of female rage of which art historians, philosophers, and literary critics speak. Instead, it is the rage of a businesswoman that got a bad deal- but it is not Female Rage as scholars would identify it. In âMad Womanâ I fear her anger is shallow, and only centered on material loss- through damaging business deals or bad business partners. She is not, however, discussing what someone like Christine de Pizan was discussing by making a case for the concept that woman also have souls like men do. In her book, she had to argue that women have souls, because men were unconvinced of that. Do you see the difference? I am saying that Swiftâs concerns are purely monetary and material, whereas true examples of female rage center on injustice done against their personhood- as affront to human rights. Clearly, both things can make someone mad- but Iâd argue the violation of human rights is more serious- thus more deserving of the title âFemale Rage.â Â
Simply put, Taylor Swift is not talking about anything serious, or specific, enough to launch her into the halls of fame for "Female Rage" art. She's mad, sure, but she's mad the way a CEO gets mad about losing a million dollars. She's not mad about women's position in society- or even just in the music industry.
She does this a lot. The album of âReputationâ was described as female rage. Songs in âFolkloreâ were described as female rage. Now, sheâs using the term to describe TTPD, which is the most self-centered, ego-driven music Iâve heard in a long time.
Comparing the injustice, and complete subjugation, of womenâs lives- to being dumped by a man or getting a bad deal- wherein she is still one of the most powerful women of the planet- is not only laughable, but offensive.Â
#anti taylor swift#taylor swift critical#ex swiftie#mad woman#folklore#maya angelou#christine de pizan#artemisia gentileschi#mary wollstonecraft#Elisabetta Sirani#art history#books and literature#feminist#feminism#female rage#taylor swift#activism#toxic swifties#toxic taylor swift#philosophy#fuck Rousseau#I'm a professional Taylor Swift Critic
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that kind of love never dies | chapter one
summary: the one where barbara thinks about an act of rebellion.
pairing: jake x mc
word count: 1.3K
warnings: tkolnd takes place after the events of episode 10; cover images found on pinterest; english is not my first language.
authorâs note: even though she lives in the usa, my main character, barbara, is brazilian. i added terms and expressions that we use in our country, as well as cultural elements, to this fanfic. the words that appear in portuguese are highlighted and you can contact me if you have any questions.
masterlist
Barbara was sprawled out on the dorm carpet, reading a Lucy Maud Montgomery novel she found by chance in the university library, when her cell phone began vibrating on the nightstand. Without wasting time, she closed the book and got up, waiting to hear from her roommate, Meera, but, when Barbara swiped her finger across the lock screen, she found some text messages from an unknown number.
i would like to invite you again to eat something at that chinese restaurant
if you want to meet me, just show up there tomorrow
i'll be waiting for you :)
Her head started to throb just at the possibility of it being who she was imagining, but she quickly pushed the thought away.
Jake wouldn't put himself in danger like that.
After everything that happened in Grimrock, Duskwood's chief of police, Alan Bloomgate, personally went after her to conduct the interrogation, and, more than once, made it very clear that it was best for her to stay away from her new friends for a while. He didn't go into detail when he told her about what happened at the Ironsplinter Mine, but he confirmed that Richy was alive â despite having some serious injuries â and that Jake had fled from the FBI agents during the confusion caused by the explosion.
All the messages she sent and received during that time became evidence. Barbara had what it took to close Hannah Donfort's case literally in the palm of her hand, including the kidnapper's confession.
Consequently, she also had the means that could lead the people who were after Jake straight to him.
She was interrogated by the FBI countless times for months, until Alan decided to intervene and convinced her to hand over her cell phone to them in exchange for her old life. Since then, Barbara has not been part of the joint investigation. Or at least that's what they say â she's too smart to really believe that.
For a few seconds, she considered the chance that it was someone trying to play a trick on her. The video Lilly Donfort posted accusing her of kidnapping had gone viral across the Columbia University campus. Even her grandmother, who lived in the interior of Brazil, found out about her involvement with a hacker wanted by the North American government. However, no one else knew about the brief conversation they had about the chinese restaurant.
Except, of course, the FBI.
Without a doubt, it was a trap. Barbara felt her face turn red. It seemed that solving an old international murder case, giving up her privacy, being forced to abandon her group of friends and possibly cheating on the guy she was in love with was not enough. She also needed to act as bait when it was convenient.
Barbara huffed, irritated. Little did they know that Jake had no contact. Their partnership in crime had ended almost a year ago.
Still, there was no reason to decline the invitation. She could very well take advantage of the opportunity to tell some truths to those nosy agents, and as a bonus she would have an excuse to go to Germany without Alan being able to question her too openly.
Her lips lifted into a smile as the plan emerged in her mind.
After going through customs at Zurich Airport, picking up luggage and going to an exchange office to exchange some notes, only an hour and fifteen minutes by car separated Barbara from Duskwood. Luckily, there were several yellow taxis forming a line next to the sidewalk, because it would be a nightmare to have to deal with someone trying to compete for the same vehicle as her.
She walked out of the lounge, pulling her hot pink rolling suitcase, and turned on her smartphone to announce on the family's group chat that she had arrived safely. But before she could check her contact list to see if her parents were online, she collided with a young man's broad chest.
She jumped away from him, apologizing â or at least trying to â in german. He laughed softly, grabbing her arm to stop her from tripping over herself, and for a moment, Barbara forgot to even breathe. The young man seemed to be a few years older than her, he was tall, had dark hair and prominent round eyes that resembled the curve of a teardrop, he was wearing a white sweatshirt with a hood and black jeans.
âI'm sorry, I didn't see you.â He spoke in english, with a slight accent.
âNo problem, it was my fault.â Barbara quickly straightened up, realizing that she had somehow stared too long.
The young man analyzed her from head to toe with amusement before bending down and picking up the cell phone that had flown out of her hand during the impact.
âI believe this is yours.â He joked, handing the device to her.
âThank you.â
He nodded curtly and turned, making his way through the travelers entering and exiting the airport, as silent as a wraith.
She was inexplicably disappointed to see him leave, however she had more important things to deal with. Then, she handed the luggage to the driver to put in the trunk and got into the taxi, giving the address of the Gates Hotel, on the outskirts of Duskwood.
Barbara ran across the room, feeling the cold floor beneath her feet. She was considerably late, but as far as she remembered, she had never arrived on time to participate in the interrogations, so whoever was waiting for her at the restaurant wouldn't mind too much. She put on a black strapless dress, put on her highest heels and curled her wet hair with her fingers, leaving a small trail of water on the floor.
Through an opening in the peach curtains, she noticed that the rain had picked up outside, beating violently against the window pane. She cursed under her breath, hoping someone at the front desk could lend her an umbrella, and before Barbara could procrastinate her meeting with the FBI Special Agent any further, she took one last look at the floor mirror near the entrance hall, realizing that she was dressed for revenge.
âSomeone would definitely approve of that.â
Smiling to herself, she went down a small flight of stairs to the ground floor, where the girl at the reception was reading a magazine with Nicholas Galitzine's photo on the cover.
âHow can I help you?â She asked in english, without taking her eyes off the celebrity gossip.
âHey, how you doin'? Could you lend me an umbrella, please?â
âOf course.â She said, reaching for the object under the counter and handing it to her. âA fee of two euros will be added to your room bill.â Barbara sighed, surprised, as she mentally converted the currency. âWhat?â The receptionist looked up, frowning. âDid you think it would be free?â
âNo, obviously not.â Barbara lied, smiling politely.
âReturn it by midnight or I will have to charge the full value of the item.â The girl announced, turning her attention to the magazine. Then she added: âNice dress.â
âOkay, I'll pay when I check out.â She assured, walking towards the glass doors while opening her rented umbrella. âAnd thank you.â
âHave fun, Cinderella!â
Barbara regretted walking out the door as soon as she set foot on the sidewalk. Not just because of the rain, but because of the wind blowing your hair back. In any case, she had come too far to give up, and despite the storm, she could see the lights of the chinese restaurant through the blue haze a few meters ahead, on the other side of the street.
Before she could take another step, someone grabbed her arm and turned her around.
âWhat?â She blinked in amazement at the handsome young man she had met at the airport.
âCome with me.â He said, pulling her away from the hotel entrance.
âYou are crazy? I do not know you!â Barbara shouted, dropping the umbrella near her feet. The rain completely drenched them both in moments. âMe solta!â
âBarbara, please.â He asked, breathing short.
The sadness in his voice stopped her struggling.
âHow do youâŠ?â She gasped, eyes wide. âJake?â
taglist: @daniiiworlds; @labemquarts; @deinily
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