#as much as I am loath to use this term

[fireandfolds]

them

(left: penance adair. right: amalia true. show: the nevers)

so anyway I miss them

this is literally them

[downbad4sylus]

“This mark is different”

(part 3 to “I killed you”)

synopsis: You and Sylus return to the base from the field of flowers where he shows you his horns.

content: NSFW; 18+ MDNI; smut with some plot; sylus x afab!reader; reader is MC; use of Y/N; soft!sylus; virgin!sylus (i am of the opinion that sylus wouldn’t so much as breathe near another woman who isn’t MC); virgin!reader; kissing; oral (fem receiving); p in v; soft sex; slightly rough sex; no protection (wrap it up kids); multiple orgasms; idk if this counts as monster fucking but sylus has horns and a tail; mostly proofread

word count: ~3.5k

tags: @travelerth; @midiplier; @satansdaughter123; @bookfreakk

a/n: massive thank you once again to everyone who’s read, liked, and reblogged parts 1 and 2, i genuinely can’t express how happy it makes me that so many of you have enjoyed these little stories :’) anywaayyy, in honor of the new banner and all the new spicy content (bless our game developer overlords) here is part 3 where things between you and Sylus get a little spiicccyyyy

Okay, so when Sylus asked if you wanted to go back to the base and see his horns, you might have taken him a little too literally.

What you thought was him innocently taking you to his bedroom—warning the twins on your way that he still didn’t want to be bothered—turned out to be far from that.

Which was how you found yourself currently pinned beneath him on his bed, tongues tangling and lungs screaming for air, no horns in sight. Or tail. Or wings.

You lightly pounded a fist against his chest. “Sylus…I need…to breathe…”

Sylus was loath to part from you, but did so regardless, taking the opportunity to marvel at the sight of you before him. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, chest heaving. You were beautiful, perfect, and his.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked, making sure he had your consent before he continued.

You bit your lip, and he nearly lost control then and there. How many times did he have to tell you to stop doing that?

“How far are we going?” you asked softly.

“As far as you want, sweetie,” Sylus assured. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

“I, um, haven’t really done anything before,” you confessed, turning your face away so you didn’t have to look at him.

Sure, you had a few boyfriends throughout the years but you’d never had more than a heated makeout session, it was usually the reason why those relationships ended. You weren’t a prude or anything, you were just saving yourself for when someone really special came along. Or maybe you’d unknowingly been waiting for Sylus to come along.

Sylus pinched your chin and forced your eyes back to his. “Me neither.”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your head. “Really?”

He nodded. “I’d never give myself to anyone but you.” He released your chin in favor of dragging a finger down your neck before wrapping his hand around it, careful not to choke you. “I do, however, have a very good memory.”

Your heart thundered in your chest. You wanted him. You needed him. And most importantly, you trusted him.

“Okay,” you breathed.

“Okay what, sweetie? I need you to tell me exactly what you want,” Sylus said, his thumb rubbing soothingly along the length of your neck.

“I want you, Sylus, all of you,” you said. “I want you to make me feel good.”

“Oh, Y/N, I’ll do so much better than that.”

He released your neck, trailing his large hand over your chest and down your stomach until his fingers teased the hem of your shirt.

“May I?” he asked.

You nodded. “But I get to take off yours next.”

Sylus chuckled. “Are you trying to make a deal with me right now?”

You nodded again, smiling. “For every one thing you strip off of me, I get to strip something off of you.”

His ruby-red eyes sparkled. “And those are your terms?”

“Those are my terms.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

You eagerly sat up and held your arms above your head. Sylus huffed, clearly amused by your enthusiasm, and gripped the bottom of your shirt in both his hands. In one smooth motion, he removed it, tossing it aside as his gaze roved hungrily over your now-bare skin.

When you reached for his shirt, intent on running your hands all over his delicious abs, you suddenly found yourself back against the mattress, wrists pinned to the pillows.

You blinked to find Sylus hovering above you sporting a positively wicked smile.

“Sylus! What are you doing?” you exclaimed, fighting to free your wrists.

He cocked his head. “You never said when you got to rid me of my clothes,” he drawled in that infuriatingly smug tone of his. “You need to be more specific when setting your terms, sweetie.”

Your mouth popped open. This was what you got for trying to make a deal with the King of Deals himself.

“Now, let’s get rid of this next,” he mused, trailing his fingertips along the underwire of your bra.

“How are you—“

Black-red mist enveloped your bra, tickling the skin underneath. It took only a moment for Sylus’s Evol to make quick work of it, the undergarment reduced to black and red specks of dust, leaving your upper half fully exposed.

Sylus’s pupils dilated as his hand gently cupped your breast, and you whimpered when his thumb brushed over your nipple.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “And all mine.”

He was barely touching you yet your core had already gone molten and was beginning to throb with need. You needed more of him, his hands, his lips, his tongue, his co—

A jolt of pleasure shot straight to your core, tearing a loud moan from your lips as Sylus closed his own over your neglected nipple. He continued, tongue laving and teeth biting until he switched to your other breast, giving it an equal amount of attention.

You were panting by the time he lifted his head with a quiet smack of his lips.

But Sylus was far from finished.

He kissed his way up to your neck, where he licked and sucked at your sensitive skin. You wanted to touch him, thread your fingers through his hair but he still had your wrists pinned firmly above your head with seemingly no intention of releasing them.

You cried out, your back arching as Sylus sunk his teeth into your neck.

“This mark is different,” he breathed, lapping his tongue over it to soothe the sting. “This time, I want to count how many times I can make you come before it fades.”

“Fuck Sy,” you groaned.

He trailed down again until he reached the waistband of your pants. He looked at you, one brow raised, silently asking for your consent. You nodded, straining against his hold on your wrists, desperate to bury your hands in his hair.

You nearly cried with relief when he finally removed his hand, only to have your wrists bound by his Evol instead.

“Sylus,” you whined.

He chuckled. “Be a good girl and let me have my fun first,” he said. “You’re the one who asked me to make you feel good.”

“Then stop teasing me already!”

“Mmm, very well.”

Sylus yanked off your pants, leaving you in just your underwear, which were soaked through by this point. He made quick work taking them off as well, groaning at the sight of you finally naked before him.

“So, so beautiful,” he murmured reverently as he reached out, brushing his thumb over your clit. Your hips bucked at the contact, and it was all the reaction Sylus needed before descending on you like a man starved.

Spreading your legs wide, Sylus licked your slick entrance, moaning at the taste of you on his tongue. Your back bowed off the bed, crying out in pleasure as he focused his efforts on your throbbing clit. He slung an arm across your waist and pushed you back down, keeping you locked in place, unable to escape the pleasure he was so eager to give you.

His unoccupied hand ghosted along your inner thigh, growing closer and closer to where his mouth was, until he reached your entrance and slipped a finger inside.

You moaned. “Please Sy,” you begged him. “Please let me touch you.”

Without parting from your core, Sylus’s Evol dissipated from your wrists, freeing you at last. Your hands immediately went to his head, burying your fingers in his hair.

Release tingled down your spine, the tension poised to snap. When Sylus added a second finger he nearly undid you then and there.

You grip his hair harder, moving your hips as much as his iron grip would allow, riding his face.

“Sylus,” you panted. “Sylus I’m gonna—ah.”

“Go ahead, sweetie,” Sylus said gruffly. “Come for me.”

And you did, the tension exploding as you came all over his mouth and fingers. He continued to lick and suck, his fingers pumping in and out while you rode out your high, stopping only when your body went limp beneath him.

“That’s one,” Sylus said proudly, straightening as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

You stared at the slick covering his fingers, transfixed by the way it shined in the light. Sylus noticed.

“Want a taste for yourself?” he asked.

Heat flooded your cheeks but when your eyes met his, you nodded.

“Open,” he commanded. You obeyed and Sylus slid his fingers inside your mouth. When you closed your lips around them he said, “Now suck.”

You couldn’t feel any embarrassment you were so turned on, tasting yourself as you licked and sucked Sylus’s fingers clean.

“Good girl,” Sylus purred as his withdrew his fingers. “Would you like to uphold your end of our deal now?”

You pounced on him, almost knocking you both off the bed. You tore at Sylus’s shirt, bunching it up over his torso before ripping it off his head. Without stopping to admire his physique, you rose on your knees, positioned on either side of his legs, and unbuckled his belt. The bulge in his pants made your mouth water and you wanted nothing more than to wrap your hands around his cock and wring as much pleasure out from him as he did you.

“Lift your hips,” you told Sylus.

He raised them, his chest heaving with anticipation as he watched you. You hurriedly popped the button and pulled the zipper down, then with all your might, grabbed the waistband of his pants and underwear and yanked.

Sylus’s hard cock slapped against his abdomen and you nearly abandoned undressing him at the sight of it. He was long and thick, precum leaking from his slit and onto his stomach. You wanted to touch it, taste it, feel it inside of you.

“Don’t stop now, kitten,” Sylus encouraged, his voice breathless. “You can’t leave my pants like this.”

You blinked, realizing you’d be staring at his cock, hands still gripped tight on his pants, which were only halfway down his thighs. You mumbled an apology and managed to finish stripping him, tossing his clothes aside onto the floor somewhere.

Sylus groaned as your hand wrapped around the base of his cock. “Kitten,” he panted. You dragged your hand up his length, gathering the precum at the tip before running it back down. “Hah—ah, that feels so good.”

But Sylus grabbed your wrist, stopping you.

You pouted. “I want to make you feel good too.”

He smirked. “You can do that some other time, right now, I need to be inside you.”

Sylus sat up, putting you at eye level.

Your breath caught. He was so beautiful, with his sharp, chiseled features, but what really took your breath away was the look in his eyes. He looked at you like you held his entire world in your hands. Like you were the only light shining in a life otherwise shrouded in darkness. You loved this man, and it was so heart achingly clear he loved you too.

Sylus cupped your cheek and ran his thumb over your bottom lip. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“I’ve never been so sure about anything before,” you answered him with a smile. “I love you, Sylus.”

He smiled too, a real smile, not anything like his smug ones. “I love you too, Y/N.”

He kissed you, lips pressing softly on yours. It was slow and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world to just enjoy each other. Even when your tongues met, you didn’t rush, Sylus gently pushing you down onto the mattress.

He drew back when his cock teased your entrance. “I’m going to go slow, okay? If it hurts or you need me to stop, just let me know.”

Your hands flew up to his face. “Sylus wait.”

He didn’t move a muscle.

“You said I could see your horns.”

Sylus faltered. “Sweetie, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

You shook your head. “No, I want to see them, Sy, and your wings and tail. I said I wanted all of you and I meant all of you.”

Sylus’s heart thundered in his chest, unsure whether to give in to your demands. He was sure if he protested further, he’d be able to convince you to drop it for now. In truth, though, he was nervous. Yes you had remembered your past together but you’d never seen him in his dragon form in this life. The last thing he wanted to do was scare you. He’d never recover if you saw him as the monster he truly was, you were the only one who loved him despite that very fact.

“Sylus.”

Hearing his own name tore him from his thoughts, his gaze fixing on your face.

“I love you now just as much as I did then, dragon and all,” you said firmly. “Please, I want you to be able to be yourself with me.”

Sylus hung his head and sighed, resigning to your demands. “Fine, but no wings, they’re too big for the bed.”

“Okay, I can live with that.”

Sylus huffed and brought his lips back to yours. As you kissed, black-red mist swirled at the top of Sylus’s head and at the base of his spine, revealing his scaled, black horns and tail.

He held his breath as he parted from you, bracing himself for your reaction. But when you opened your eyes, they were not filled with fear. They were filled with awe.

You lifted a hand and brushed the bottom of one of Sylus’s horns. He shivered at your touch, his tail swishing back and forth behind him.

“Are they sensitive?” you asked, ghosting your fingers up the length.

“Yes,” Sylus breathed.

You hummed thoughtfully as you angled your head, peering at his tail, then looking back at him. “You really are beautiful, Sy.”

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, moved far more than he could ever express with words that you found him beautiful, even like this.

“May I continue now?” he asked, deflecting with his usual arrogance.

You laughed and wrapped your arms around his neck. “Please.”

Sylus almost lost his self control at the relief that flooded through him. His cock was throbbing so hard it was painful, and the only way he could soothe it was to be buried deep inside your cunt.

Tail thrashing wildly, Sylus repositioned the head of his cock at your entrance, somehow even more soaked now than before. Coating himself first, he then began pushing past your folds.

You inhaled sharply at the burn as your walls stretched to accommodate his size.

“Relax, my love,” Sylus soothed, one hand trailing down toward your core. He gently circled your clit, encouraging your body to relax.

You whimpered, clenching around the head of his cock, desperate for him to fill you more despite the pain.

Taking his time, Sylus rocked his hips slowly, easing into you inch by inch all while rubbing your clit to keep you loose. By the time he bottomed out, the pain you’d felt had been long replaced by the pure pleasure of being filled with his cock.

Sylus trembled with the restraint it took to not start pounding into you, wanting your first time to be more loving and tender. There was plenty of time to take you hard and rough.

“I’m going to move now, okay?” he warned, breathing heavily.

“Yes, please,” you begged, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He groaned and rocked his hips until just his tip was left inside you, before sliding back in. You both moaned as Sylus began thrusting in earnest, his pace slow and steady.

“You feel so good, Y/N,” Sylus panted. “Just like I remember.”

You were unable to respond, too consumed by the way he moved inside you, his cock hitting you in all the right places.

As though it had a mind of its own, Sylus’s tail snaked around one of your legs, keeping it locked to his waist.

Tension building already, your nails dug into Sylus’s back as each thrust brought you closer and closer to the edge. Sylus could fell your walls fluttering around his cock, and while he wanted nothing more than to lose himself right along with you, he was determined to rip as many orgasms out of you as he could.

He picked up the pace slightly and you responded in kind, tightening your grip on him as you cried out.

“Sylus, oh fuck, don’t stop, please please please don’t stop.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He captured your lips in an impassioned kiss, sweeping his tongue into your mouth as you moaned. One hand cupped a breast, his fingers teasing your nipple before moving on the other.

His touch, his kiss, his cock, it was all too much.

Your back arched as you came, waves of pleasure washing over your body again and again with seemingly no end. Sylus kept moving through it, pausing when you finally slumped into the bed.

“That’s two, but we’re not finished yet, kitten,” Sylus growled.

You hardly registered his words before he was flipping you onto your stomach, a shocked oof breezing past your parted lips. He dragged your hips up so your ass was in the air, sliding his cock back into your cunt with ease. His tail slid along your ribs, then across your breasts, the hard scales rubbing on your sensitive nipples, and it pulled you flush to Sylus’s chest. On instinct, you reached back and grabbed onto both of his horns. The groan he let out was purely animalistic.

“You better hold on tight,” he whispered in your ear, the only warning you got before his cock started slamming into you.

You moaned at the delicious new angle, your body already working toward another orgasm. Admittedly, you’d been a bit nervous that Sylus was relying solely on memory from another lifetime in order to please you, and truly you would’ve been happy with whatever he’d be able to give you. But this? This was not at all what you expected.

“I won’t last much longer, kitten,” Sylus warned, his thrusts growing sloppy, “and I fully intend on bringing you with me.”

His hand slid down your abdomen, two fingers finding your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circles.

Your cunt clenched hard around his cock as you pulled on his horns, your mouth popping open in a silent cry. Sylus groaned, doubling his efforts both with his cock and his fingers.

“Sylus!” you yelled, body tensing. “Sylus, oh please.”

“Give me one more, Y/N,” he muttered. “Be a good girl and give me one more.”

Your climax slammed into you, your vision going white as the pleasure rocked your body harder than the last two. It drove Sylus straight off the cliff edge, chasing his high right alongside you, filling your cunt to the brim.

When you were both spent, Sylus collapsed on top of you, but you were too fucked out of your mind to care about his weight crushing you.

He didn’t linger on you too long though, rolling over onto his side, taking you with him as his tail was still wound around your breasts. He peppered kisses on your neck and shoulder, making you smile.

You twisted in his hold to face him, placing a chaste kiss of your own right on his lips. “I love you, Sy,” you murmured.

“I love you too, sweetie,” he replied quietly.

“Does this mean you’re my boyfriend now?” you asked, the picture of innocence.

Sylus scoffed. “I was under the impression I was much more than just your boyfriend.”

“You are, but I can’t introduce you to people as my soul-bound lover,” you protested. “We need a socially acceptable label, Sy.”

“You want to introduce me to all your little Hunter friends?”

“Yeah, as my small-business-owner-slash-fruit-stall-vendor boyfriend, Skye!”

He gave you an incredulous look, as if he couldn’t believe you were having this conversation right now. But, he’d never deny you anything. “Fine, I’ll be your boyfriend as long as you get to be my girlfriend.”

“You have to ask me first.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You have to ask me to be your girlfriend first.”

Sylus pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Y/N, my love, will you do me the honor of being my girlfriend?”

You grinned and smacked your lips against his. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Little did you know that Sylus had much bigger plans in mind than you being just his girlfriend. Fiancé was good, but wife was even better. You know, for the sake of socially acceptable labels, of course.

[bakugoushotwife]

little moon // suguru x fem!reader

a/n: hey hey hey! i know it's been forever and a day since i've uploaded, but i revamped my theme and got excited :3 plus my baby is my absolute inspiration and i felt she needed thanking for it. @suguru-getos //

warnings: yandere suguru, monkey reader, so light toxicity, kidnapping, yes you read that right shut up, complex suguru, pining, smut!! daddy kink because who am i without it, oral f!receiving, fingering, rough but loving, uhhhh i think that's it!

the sun was setting. it was his favorite time of day. or maybe least favorite. he couldn’t quite decide. despite it all, he still feels such a longing that he can’t describe. the window is open, the sky beyond melting into oranges and pinks too beautiful for a man like him to behold. the air is cold, a contrasting bitterness to the sight before him. the kotatsu keeps him warm enough to lounge in front of the window until the moon replaces the pastels he’s come to loathe. it’s how he most regularly spends his nights at this point, a peaceful moment of reflection on his day, if you could call it peaceful. 

the wind rustles the trees, his hair, his very soul it seems. he drums his fingers along his cheekbone, supporting the weight of his head in his palm. before he can contemplate the complexities of life and how he ended up staring out of a window alone, manami knocks and promptly enters. 

“sorry to disturb your peace, geto-sama.” she bows, a stack of papers under her arm, no doubt meeting notes from earlier in the day. 

“i assume it’s important.” he sighs, the orange glow casting across his skin. he looks angelic, despite his clear annoyance and displeasure. 

“nanako and mimiko found a woman that’s…afflicted.” she searches for the right word, shifting her weight from foot to foot under suguru’s intimidating gaze. 

“and? we had our purge earlier this week.” he sighs, turning his head back to the sky. it’s melding into a purple now, a deep shade that makes him feel calmer just by looking at it. 

“yes, you’re right geto-sama. the girls have brought this woman home already though, and they request your help.” she bows again, knowing that she is towing a careful line. suguru rarely denies the children, and they’ve grown old enough to abuse this weakness.

“bring them.” he sighs dramatically, jutting his chin in motion. he secretly welcomes the distraction, even if the girls were having him work after hours. it certainly beats another night replaying all of his life events to the tune of the moon. 

manami bows her head, stepping back out into the hallway. a minute or two passes, and suguru watches the door now instead of the window. manami opens the door, allowing the adopted twins and this afflicted cursed woman into the room. the energy is suffocating, a grade two curse leeching from your neck, entire body wrapped around your frame. you don’t seem so concerned however, more so confused gauging from the look on your face. 

the girls look panicked though, sensing how much of your own life force that the curse has absorbed. it’s an ugly thing, like most of them are. a disgustingly warped lizard of sorts made up of a million eyes and slimy appendages. it really doesn’t have much value in terms of developing his arsenal, moreso an annoyance to be avoided. as ugly as the creature is, it doesn’t detract from your beauty. you have a gentleness to your features, divinely feminine, some would say. your eyes are soft even as you try to harden your gaze against him. that’s cute, he thinks to himself. head still leaned against his head. you’re small, though most people are to a man of his stature and build. it’s a miracle the weight of the curse hasn’t broken your spine. you must be stronger than you look. 

“geto-sama, you have to help her!” nanako, the more vocal of his daughters says, eyes wide and pleading. there is emotion involved, which intrigues him. “she’s our friend–and i know how you feel about us being friends with monkeys but–”

“monkey?” you squawk, brow setting forward. you look at nanako with a hint of betrayal, and that makes suguru chuckle. 

“yes, monkey.” he replies. “a nickname of sorts. don’t think about it too hard.” he sighs, pushing himself to his feet. “i see you’ve befriended my children.” 

“more of an acquaintance.” you purse your lips. it is interesting. he’s never seen someone act so…boldly in front of him. correcting him, even. his nostrils flare in mild annoyance. 

“semantics. i am unconcerned with those. what are your symptoms?” he waves his hand, dismissing the girls with a nod, assuring them that he would help you and leave you unharmed. the girls back away, giving you reassuring smiles of their own. 

“i don’t want to be alone with you.” you scoff, folding your arms with a great effort, given that the curse was likely at least as heavy as your own body weight. 

“too bad. answer, or keep the curse.” he folds his own arms, examining your features more closely. a rare beauty indeed. and he must say he’s never experienced such stubbornness, even in his children. though that can be expected of someone that has no clue what’s going on, he imagines. 

“i’ll keep whatever it is if you want to be an ass about it.” you huff. suguru rolls his eyes, sighing. 

“let me make something clear for you. i take curses. this isn’t about my caring heart, like it is for those girls. so i can help you, or you can walk away.” he gestures to the ottoman for you to sit on. 

he’s weird, you think. it’s hard to get a read on him. these phrases–monkey, curses, none of it makes sense to you. why is he in a market to take whatever these curses are? and how did you end up with one? “curses? are those like. ghosts or something?” you ask, arms still folded as you sit. irregardless of his behavior, this feeling you’ve been going through for months is wearing down your body, mind, and soul. everything hurts, all of the time. your head, neck, spine, stomach, hips—if it’s there, it hurts. your emotions have been so out of whack, so depressed and unable to eat, calling out of work and never meeting up with your friends. you need that to end. you’ve dealt with creeps before, certainly this one would be manageable too. 

“is that what you think you’ve been dealing with?” he asks, watching you go through a myriad of thoughts all at once. the question seems genuine, the earlier lilt of arrogance dialed back to a tolerable level. 

you’re still suspicious, he can see as much. “monkeys don’t see curses like we do. i would imagine you told yourself that these strange things have a perfectly reasonable explanation.” he explains, almost empathetic if it weren’t for that damned ‘nickname’ that you have a feeling is more a slur than an endearment. 

“i suppose, yeah. just thought i was getting sick, but it didn’t fade. my doctor said i have migraines, that’s it…” you hum, still well guarded as you converse with him. 

“i am sure you do. curses vary in function, the one attached to you is slowly corrupting your brain, which affects everything else. think…parasite, less ghost.” he waves his hand over your face, moving over your shoulder. he’s not actually touching you, but the threat lingers close enough to set you on edge. “you’ll feel it release from you slowly.” 

he watches the black cloudy essence crush the curse into nothing but a black orb for him to consume. his gaze bounces back to your face, the surprise and relief melting into your features like the sun dipping below the trees changes the palette of the sky. 

you can feel it, the physical weight coming off of your shoulders, but the lightness is ultimately in your head and soul—so much negativity and evil sucked from your consciousness so drastically you lose yours, body going limp and tipping off the small ottoman you were sitting on before suguru can even toss the orb aside. 

he can’t explain it exactly, add it to the list of things he struggles to understand, but he reaches out, strong arm wrapping around your waist to keep you from toppling into the floor. he’s seen many monkeys have an abject reaction to being unburdened. he hypothesizes that the excess cursed energy seeping into their own causes a chemical issue in the brain, too much to process at once. however many monkeys he’s seen pass out or vomit, he’s never felt…obligated to do anything to aid them. he did his part, curing them of their ailments. his work is done, and he can be hailed as a savior by people that really have no idea how much he hates them. he’s never even touched one–a monkey–spraying perfume even after a close encounter lest he taint his superior being. 

but now he has, and it doesn’t burn his skin like he’s convinced himself it might. he doesn’t recoil as you slump against his abdomen, and it pisses him off. this is so entirely unlike him he can hardly stand it–as he knows he will have a lengthy conversation with the moon about it this evening–yet you have such a peaceful face as you sleep. long lashes, soft lips parted just to breathe, completely softened. it’s like his heart hiccups as he drapes you over his shoulders, walking into a well furnished guest bedroom in the geto estate. 

the girls trail him as he walks with you, equally confused. suguru lays you across the bed, looking over you with another little hum. you’re big trouble for him, and he can feel that seep into his head. he’s never found a monkey girl beautiful. he’s never found any monkey tolerable at all since the start of his cult. but there is this sneaking feeling that he will be lonely again when you leave, likely tomorrow as soon as you realized you were still here. the girls nearly feel like they’re interrupting something as they watch their geto-sama peer over you much like the prince longs after sleeping beauty before he wakes her. 

he turns to them abruptly, collecting his mess of thoughts, “put her in sleeping clothes,” he walks passed them, “and don’t bring any more women to my house.” he purses his lips, leaving them with you. 

beyond himself, he instructs the rest of his family and staff to treat you well. he doesn’t…want them to run you off. for whatever reason. they each give him puzzled looks, but no one dares forget their place by asking him questions about these things. he feels…bothered on his walk back to his room. the night has set in well now, the sky just a black expanse–sparkles of life along the stars leading into the only beacon of light now; the moon. 

suguru has always felt a sort of connection to the moon, he read a poem once, when he was still in high school, and it left its mark, he supposes. the poem comes back to him now, as he crosses his legs over the tatami mat by the window, a divine sense of aloneness surrounds him. 

thou silver deity of secret night,

direct my footsteps through the woodland shade;

thou conscious witness of unknown delight, 

the lover’s guardian, and the muse’s aid!

by the pale beams i solitary rove,

to thee my tender grief confide;

serenely sweet you glid the silent grove

my friend, my goddess, and my guide…

he knows he isn’t physically alone, but his own mind feels like a monster he’d like to leave–a place he can’t possibly make sense of. a battlefield of hypocrisy and guilt and the growing feeling that no one will ever possibly understand him. satoru was as close as he had gotten–and suguru left him behind. he thinks that’s the worst part, that this is all of his own doing. the moon…the moon understands the loneliness, the complexities he can’t bare to anyone else. the moon could forgive his transgressions, his crimes, his feelings. she has heard them all before, no doubt, but he has something new to bring to the table. this burning in his veins, the heavy weight of sin. he was presented with the most beautiful girl that has ever been, surely ever would be, and by his own laws he cannot have her. he cannot indulge in this…silly crush. yes. silly little crush–and that’s all it will be.

the next morning, you wake to the smell of coffee and some sort of meat being cooked. you can hear the girls laughing, the sounds of others in soft communication–the voice of the last person you remember.

oh no. 

there’s a dull ache in the back of your head as you recount the events of last night, sitting up with an ease you haven’t experienced in months. you could sob in relief if it weren’t for the unknowns of your situation—if you were free to leave or now some monkey hostage to the man that took gentle care of you last night. you’re not wearing your clothes–and that sends a jolt of panic through you instantly. did he undress me? is that…all he did? you wonder, examining yourself. 

the girls knock–there’s two sets of knocks, anyway. they don’t wait for a reply, letting themselves in. “good morning! i hope the pajamas we picked are comfortable enough.” nanako smiles brightly, treating this as a slumber party instead of a curse intervention. 

that soothes you little, at least the strangely beautiful creep didn’t change your clothes himself. “come to breakfast!” mimiko adds, a bit shyer than her sister but just as big of a fan. they met you at a coffee shop one day, and since then you have made it a point to sit with them. they’re sweet girls, and even under these weird circumstances you don’t find yourself questioning that. 

“i don’t think i’m hungry.” you reply, stretching a bit, looking around the room. it was a big one, and you didn’t sleep on a futon like this geto-sama did. if he expects a warm thank you, he’s severely mistaken. “what was he talking about, monkey?”

“oh, that’s what he calls non-sorcerers.” nanako replies, sitting at the edge of your bed. and instead of that answering your question, it just gives you a million more. 

“you said sorcerer? like harry potter?” you laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the statement. how come this is your first time hearing of such a thing?

“not quite,” mimiko giggles softly. 

“some people are born with techniques. a certain set of powers that they can use to exorcise curses. everyone has cursed energy, even monke–i mean non-sorcerers, but their ce is usually what makes curses, born from the negative emotions that non-sorcerers experience.” nanako explains the gist. 

“so…monkey is a slur.” you raise a brow, really just confirming something you already knew. it made…enough sense. you felt the curse first hand, and felt the weight of its removal. 

“mm…yeah. geto-sama has fostered a..hatred for them, i suppose.” 

that sends a chill through you. hatred. what a strong word. 

“but don’t worry, geto-sama won’t hurt you. you’re making him weird. which is kinda a good thing?” mimiko offers, her smile gentle and calming. 

“just come get breakfast and coffee, you’ll have a good time.” nanako picks up your hand, pulling lightly. “you’re not kidnapped, we just wanna make sure you’re healthy! geto-sama said you passed out after he removed the curse.” 

you purse your lips in annoyance. you don’t exactly want to test the limits of this geto guy’s hospitality, especially on the heels of the revelation that he hates you—your kind–simply because you are different. you let the girls bring you to the dining room, where you see a…nice scene of people gathered around a table sharing a meal. 

“you’ve outdone yourself once again, boss!” a blond haired man says, fondly clapping the aforementioned boss on the back. he smiles at the expression of affection, chuckling his thanks. despite what you know of him, you can’t find him ugly. he is a beautiful man, soft features used sharply, long sleek hair and kind eyes, even as he looks up at you. 

“ah, our guest. please, sit.” he hums, nodding to you. he pulls out a chair, settling your spot between the women of the house. he hopes that will make you feel a bit more comfortable. you hesitantly sit, still staring at him like he was the ghost you thought haunted you. 

suguru is nothing if not intuitive and observant. you’re weary of him, and he cannot fault you for it. 

he makes your plate, and asks you how you take your coffee. you notice there’s no difference in how he treats you as opposed to the other people at the table. like you had been here the entire time and would continue to be, like he was familiar with you. he asks your name, and calls you by it—information he could have gotten from the girls. it’s a weird juxtaposition from everything you just heard. he hates you–why did he help you? he hates you–why did he make sure you slept comfortably in a bed and have your coffee just the way you want it? you aren’t able to eat much, head too preoccupied and yet hyperfocused on your surroundings. you can play nice to get out, and then this would be no issue at all. you smile at him sweetly and give him small nods of thanks, but are otherwise silent and avoidant of anything more. 

even your small smiles make his heart clench and relax like it’s spasming, and he almost wants to keep you here in his house until he can figure out why. 

but no, this is a silly crush. he needs to get you away from him, and then he will return to normal. that’s all it is. but as the girls ask when you’ll meet up next, and you respond with such warmth—such forgiveness for them even if you don’t trust him, you remind him of the moon. 

and he can’t let you go. 

you don’t take this well. you’re a fierce woman, that he knew, but also quite petty. you refuse to come out of your room or speak to him, and after one day of him bringing meals to your room, you’ve decided to keep it locked. 

you feel numb. completely at will of this man you don’t know—outside of the fact that he loathes you. maybe this is his game, his sick fun derived from jailing up ‘monkeys’ and keeping them here until he grows tired of them. some days, you hear screams from a distant hall, and you find yourself tearing up wondering if you would be next. 

he knocks on your door at the same time he always does, not even bothering to check the handle after a couple days of this same routine. he calls your name, sighing softly against the wood that separates you two. he knows it’s another flaw on a long list of them, his selfish desire to keep you. but he won’t punish you for your reactions no matter what you do or say. he’s willing to accept them if he has a chance with the moon. 

“go away.” you say, exhaustion clear in your tone. 

“i know you’re upset with me. but you haven’t eaten in two days. i want to give you space, but i will break the door down if you don’t willingly open it.” he says, the threat not thinly veiled in the slightest. 

you decide that letting him in temporarily is better than having no door at all, so you get up to unlock it. he waits a moment, understanding your anger for him. then he lets himself in, coming to sit at the end of your bed. he places the tray of food on your table—enough to last you for a few days if you decide not to allow him in again. 

“have you slept?” he asks futilely, licking his teeth when you don’t answer. the answer is clear enough, yet he waits for one, looking over you. you’re still beautiful, even if sleep deprived. “i wouldn’t hurt you. surely you understand that by now.”

“uh, you’ve locked me in your house–i don’t trust you for shit.” you hiss, eyebrows furrowed in an adorable pout he might appreciate if the situation weren’t so grisly. 

“you aren’t locked in here, i have acres of land that you could explore. you choose not to.” he replies, tilting his head to one side so he can still see your pouting face as you turn it away from him. 

“yeah bet you’d like it if i did, sack of shit.” you grumble, shaking your head, “just so you can hunt me down and put me in your torture chamber?”

he widens his eyes, surprised by the accusation. “hardly, that seems too high effort for my interests.” 

you roll your eyes. this is not the time for jokes. “i’m glad you think this is funny.” 

“i don’t, it’s quite troubling.” he admits, folding his arms as he thinks a bit. “i tend to get myself in a bit over my head.” 

“tch, clearly.” you fold your arms too, a pouting standoff. “thought you hate monkeys? what’s the point of keeping me here if this isn’t fun for you?”

“you remind me of the moon.” he replies with full earnest, eyes glossed over with a certain…truth to them that you couldn’t deny, despite every bone in your body telling you to.

“what does that even mean?” you groan, trying to stave off a little bit of blushing. god, now i’m developing stockholm syndrome, you think as you roll your eyes yet again, dismissing the possibility.

he smiles, like he did that day at breakfast what feels like forever ago. it’s almost childlike. “it means you bring me a comfort. for some reason. i have hated non-sorcerers for nearly seven years now—it’s a story i will tell another time. but you…you’ve made me acknowledge some things that deep down i already knew. hating non-sorcerers was the easiest way to deflect on the bigger issues.” 

you want to quip something witty and mean, but he looks out of the window passed you, his mind and deep brown eyes somewhat distant. “i can’t explain why, for i do not really understand it myself. that’s…why i have kept you here. i was hoping to figure out what it is about you that…challenges every thought i have.” 

you chew your lip, some part of you seemingly understanding the emotion he shows you, but the other parts of you still don’t trust it. 

“then who was screaming? i heard screaming.” you fold your arms, raising a brow. 

“oh, that was a sparring session with the girls. they’re just very very dramatic–and my curses are scary.” he hums, “my technique isn’t like theirs. it’s not a set power, more like the capacity for a lot of power. that’s what i meant when i said that i take curses, the day i met you. i consume them, and can redeploy them at will. they function under my orders, but not all of them are scary.” 

“i can’t see them anyway, it doesn’t matter.” you narrow your eyes, debating on trusting that answer. 

“i haven’t held a meeting since you’ve been here. you keep my hands full even if i wished to hunt down monkeys, as you so gracefully put it.” he adds, seeing the distrust in your gaze. it was more the the fact that suguru simply hadn’t wanted to harvest more curses, only accepting donations from his rich sorcerer boosters to take care of missions that couldn’t be trusted in normal society. the idea of harming someone has become unsavory almost overnight–your very presence proving that non-sorcerers had plenty of potential and use in this world. you are lovely, smart, and warm. funny even if you’re upset, and indescribably beautiful. 

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” you assert, reaching for one of the snacks he brought in. he fights a smile. it seems you are feeling better, if you’ll eat. 

“not necessarily. i realize simple words can only go so far.” he says wisely, he’s felt that way before himself. i'm sorry and oh i feel so bad, it doesn’t mean anything if nothing changes. 

so he will change. 

that night he talks with the moon again, hoping to her that you will permit him in again tomorrow, and the day after that if he is lucky. he wants so badly to absolved of his sins, to be free of the guilt heavier than the curse he found you with. but the moon in all her glory, she truly can’t speak. she cannot do that for him, his little moon would. 

the days flow a bit easier after that. you keep your door unlocked, though you still don’t venture out like he had hoped. you’re still angry—you’ve been kidnapped–but you are slowly becoming accustomed to the day to day. suguru brings you a rotation of books, since you won’t go out to the library yourself. you told him you like poems, and he almost felt his heart soar like the pathetic love interest in a rom-com meant for idiot teenagers. 

so he brings you a book of poems, and invites you to the gazebo on the lake to read them. you don’t know why, but you accept the offer. 

“i just think poetry reads so well against a beautiful backdrop.” he smiles, an expression you’ve come to recognize as genuine. “i won’t bother, don’t worry.” he adds, tucking the well-worn book into your hands. it must be a favorite of his. his hands are big, so big his fingers touch yours in the exchange. it was incidental, but both hearts are fluttering from the contact. 

“i’ll give it a read, yeah.” you nod slightly, giving him a genuine smile of your own. he has learned the difference between them. so suguru is pleased enough to hear your answer, and he retreats to his room as promised. the window he loves to stare from has a good look of the gazebo, and as the sun sets upon it, he finds himself watching you instead of the backdrop for once. 

the gazebo is a beautiful spot. you have to walk along a small bridge across the lake to get to it, patterned benches with cozy pillows and an arrangement of candles on side tables, flames flickering slightly in the breeze. the lake is starting to ice over as winter creeps near, but you’re dressed for the occasion. best you can tell, geto is rich. he took your clothes with him to the mall to get your sizes, and now you’re the owner of multiple luxury handbags and fur coats, too expensive jumpsuits and whatever else your mind could drum up. needless to say, you’re prepared for the cold. he had wanted you to go outside and explore, after all. 

you situate yourself on the couch, adjusting a blanket over your lap. the book opens with a slight creak to the wooden bindings, but the pages are beautifully cared for. it’s a collection of poems from different authors, and you’re captured by each one of them for different reasons. some about loss, love, sense of self. the beauty of poetry is truly that it is in the eye of the beholder, a personal interpretation as powerful as the poem itself. you flip to a dog eared page, the only one in the entire book. hymn to the moon, it’s called, and you feel a tingling in your gut–you know you must read it. 

thou silver deity of secret night,

direct my footsteps through the woodland shade;

thou conscious witness of unknown delight, 

the lover’s guardian, and the muse’s aid!

by the pale beams i solitary rove,

to thee my tender grief confide;

serenely sweet you glid the silent grove

my friend, my goddess, and my guide…

you’re…captured by it. it’s beautiful, your fingers gliding upon the page as if to feel what geto feels when he reads the same words. the moon, his confidant and guardian and aid, friend, goddess and guide. and you..you remind him of such an uncapturable essence, ethereal beauty. you almost forget everything he’s done from this act of romance alone—truly no one has ever been so..poetic. 

suguru watches you from his window, legs dangling over the side. you look even smaller than usual, buried under a blanket and a thick coat, but it only brings a smile to his face. the golden rays of the sun kiss his little moon on the the path behind the trees, casting a golden glow around you that genuinely makes you look like an angel. he observes you like this until you catch him—your gaze drifting up to the window. he smiles at you softly, getting up to go make dinner. 

you come back inside when you cannot stand the cold any longer, taking off your coat by the door. suguru is setting the table, you wouldn’t think he was the head of the household based off of these actions alone, the rest of the family sitting and chatting happily. 

“oh! geto’s pet monkey, welcome!” miguel says, chuckling as if that was the funniest thing in the world. your face falls, it feels like everything that you had learned about geto had become untrue. if his family would speak to you like that–how are you being spoken of when you’re not close enough to hear? you’ve been a fool to think that you alone can shift a man’s entire worldview in just a few short weeks. 

you’re pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of a loud smack, and a grunt that follows. you realize that miguel is rubbing his cheek, an absolutely shocked expression on his features. suguru is leaned in to his face—and if he had ever looked menacing to you, he puts that to shame now. his eyes are glowering with anger, cheeks red just from emotion alone. 

“i have no pets, but if you keep it up i will make you one.” a low growl sound to his voice that puts everyone in the room on edge. he stands straighter, looking to larue and manami. “any shared expressions of doubt?” 

“well, geto-sama, she is a non-sorcerer girl and we don’t understand why you are so taken with her–” manami starts, clearly not understanding that the question was extremely sardonic. 

“excellent, get out.” he remarks simply, beckoning you closer by pulling your seat out from the table. “both of you. i don’t want to see such pathetic people. i thought my family gathered for me, and trusted my leadership. ideals change—people seldom do. if you’re not willing to accept her as someone i cherish, then i would not share space with you.” he hums, plating up food for you, and then the girls, and then larue. as miguel and manami sit there, confused—he looks around in amazement. “must i repeat myself?”

“we’re sorry, geto-sama, we didn’t mean to offend–” miguel starts, eyes shifting side to side. 

“no, that’s exactly what you meant. you two are jealous, and i have no room for that in my home.” he says, jaw clenching. “so remove yourselves. before i do it for you.” 

you are bewildered. in the days that you’ve spent with suguru, you’ve learned that this found family of his is of the utmost importance, all people that have sworn their loyalty to him. to see him dismantle them in front of you—for you—is something that never crossed your mind. 

to question him is a disgrace to the trust that they have built, the way he sees it. to belittle someone he clearly cares about right in front of him–he couldn’t trust that they wouldn’t do it again when he wasn’t around. and without trust, there is nothing. that’s what makes him work tirelessly for yours. it is the cornerstone of love, and the pinnacle of a bond. 

the two of them leave, and their absence is not dwelled upon. suguru will not miss people who disrespect you–and by definition, him. the girls are excited to have more time to talk about themselves anyhow. you eat, listening to them talk and every so often throwing in your own comments and opinions–which suguru admires–and you find yourself a lot more comfortable in his presence as time passes. 

as the weeks tick by, suguru grows on you more and more. he’s already captivating—a beautiful and strong man, one with questionable sanity, clearly, but one that cares for you. that much is clear. he starts spending more time in your room, as you force him to endure your k-dramas—he just simply won’t admit that he likes them, but he certainly does ask a lot of questions for someone who couldn’t be bothered—and even letting him lounge with you as you play videogames or read in silence. it is comfortable. you notice how good he smells, the body heat that seems to radiate from him always. you notice crinkles by the corner of his eyes that weren’t there a few months ago. you find yourself falling asleep against him, his hand finding your hip as you lay together and talk. you have such a wealth of knowledge, a perspective on life he has come to adore. you think differently, and it challenges his way of thinking too, for the better. he eventually tells you the tale of how he became a monkey hater, and never presents it as if you should feel sorry for him or even really empathize with the situation. 

but you do. and you have such a way about you, a way of understanding without condoning his mistakes. you don’t react with disgust or fear, like you really should, because the months that you’ve spent with him have shown you the person he is inside, and now who he’s becoming outside. you trust that growth. there have been no cult meetings—the only screams those of joy as he spars and chases the girls around with various curses. he has stood up for you and honored every boundary you have made, even though he really doesn’t have to. he knows he can’t possibly compensate for the damage he has done, but he hopes to atone. to be lighter, after telling you this. 

you reach your hand out for his face, your touch so light and gentle he knows he doesn’t deserve it. and you look at him as if he didn’t just admit all of the terrible crimes he’s committed for selfish reasons, for his own tortured soul. you look at him with forgiveness. 

“and this is why you are my little moon.” he remarks, resting his hand on yours. 

do not be remiss, you are not suguru’s keeper. when your grandmother fell ill, suguru traveled with you to see her, investigating to ensure she had the best care there was to be had and paying nurses under the table to get the matriarch better food. he sits there, day and night with you, urging your parents to go home and get some rest. urging you to sleep on the cot and he would stay up and make sure that the nurses do their job, he’s very bossy like that. he’s very intuitive as always, so on days you feel like nothing—he makes sure he turns it into something. even if it is something as small as dinner in your room with him so you don’t have to sit with everyone else, letting you be as distant or as close to him as you need to be. he always knows just what to say, just how much pressure to hold you with, always offering a night out or a bath and massage at the perfect times. 

he knows you. very well. and he loves you. very much. 

then, he finally kisses you. when he feels the moment come, as you name stars for him under the gazebo, the need to hold your face and press his lips against yours it too much to resist. so he doesn’t. his long fingers cup your chin, but reach all the way to your jaw. he turns your face, and he’s already so close you can barely process your heartbeat jumping up into your throat as his lips crash onto yours, the passion of which you’ve never experienced before. spring has warmed the evening air, but you still lean into his warmth–hands pulling him closer until his hair tickles your shoulders. you feel the rumble in his chest as he hums, tilting his head to deepen the connection, his warm tongue sliding over your bottom lip to ask permission for more. 

you let him, feeling a bubbling spark in your stomach that cannot be ignored. his scent wafts into all your senses, his hands sliding down to your thighs to pull you into his lap. he breaks the kiss to let you breathe, and with all the intention of stopping there—but the needy look in your eyes quickly snaps any resolve he has left. oh this is a look he will remember even with dementia in his old, bedridden days. “tell me that i can have you.” he whispers, his mouth pressing sloppy kisses along your jaw and neck, the desperation clear in the way his hands tremble on your waist. you nod, mouth parting as his saliva on your skin sets your nerves ablaze, but he just nips sharply. “with words…”

“you…you can have me, suguru...” you reply, breathless from the casual dominance he exerts, his semi tucked against your ass. he smiles with your gleeful agreement, sliding you back onto the bench, pressing against you until he’s over you completely, giving you another series of lengthy kisses, suckling your bottom lip in between forcing his own tongue into your mouth for you to suckle back. his hands make quick work of his own robes–his physique bared to you. he’s so big—so strong, every muscle ripples as he tosses the clothes over his shoulder, his lips swollen and glossy and eyes lust-blown black. when his fingers curl under your shirt—you remember you’re on the gazebo in the middle of the lake, has he no shame? 

as if on cue, he shakes his head, tilting your chin down to look at him. “this is my lake, no wandering eyes.” he promises, kissing up your exposed stomach in a path to your breasts, removing your shirt entirely. he smirks excitedly. “no bra? has my little moon been so eager without my noticing?” 

you feel your breath hitch with every press of his lips, the open air kissing you just as gently as he does. his hand slides down, cupping your waiting heat over your shorts, a little growl of excitement slipping past his lips as he leans over for a nipple, swallowing up your pert bud with fast flicks of his tongue, eyes aimed upward to get your reactions. 

you gasp shakily, shoulders writhing from his knowledgeable touches, the sensation on your nipples alone has you clenching around nothing. he swaps to the other side, letting his fingers toy with the slickened tissue, grinning mischievously up at you. “i know i certainly have been. you’re so tempting…” his chest heaves, the rough edge to his usual gentle tone only making your pussy pang harder. 

then his fingers are hooking in your shorts and underwear, pulling them off in one graceful motion. “oh goddamn..” he sighs, his fat thumb sliding over your clit and down the lips, truly just admiring his sweet pussy. 

“stop that~” you blush, embarrassed from his words, the adoration is clear enough in his face for you to know he isn’t teasing, but so is the sternness that you’re used to. 

“shhh, don’t tell me how to worship my little moon.” he smirks, dragging his slickened thumb across his tongue slowly, keeping your eyes on him. he groans audibly, adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “we’re going to have a problem.” he slides back, leaning his head between your legs. his long hair tickles the insides, a needy warm breath fanning over your slick heat. he latches onto your clit, purring like a cat. 

heat flushes through your cheeks, your stomach does flips from the feeling, the tip of his tongue pushing back the hood so he gets full access to your raw nerves underneath, the sensation nearly making you drool. he spells his name against you, two fat fingers poking at your hole. 

“ah-hah–” you gasp, the stretch of just his fingers is enough to earn filthy moans, and he can’t wait to cram his cock into this wet, welcoming cavern. it makes him twitch before he’s even freed himself, mouth hard at work as he slowly slides his digits in and out. you’re clenching around them, grabbing the cushions close to your body to ground you. he takes that as a good sign, flattening his tongue into kitten licks on your clit, watching it swell from his eager attention with a smirk. those noises, your gasps and moans and your tugging on his hair—it’s just going to ensure he fucks you within an inch of your life. 

his fingers speed up, curling into the spot that makes you see stars as if he’s done this a million times before, like he has the map to your pleasure. your eyes roll back, and you choke out a cry of his name, chased with, “daddy daddy please—oh–” before you’re completely done for, pussy shuddering around his fingers that sends you muttering pleas for him to stop, fingers pumping you through the earth shattering feeling he gives you. his cock has its own heartbeat, and he has to free him–suckling remnants off his fingers like it’s his life’s water. he’s pulling his pants down, breathing heavy as he stares at you so perfectly splayed out and pre-ruined for him. 

you can hardly catch your own breath, his gaze pinning you still. he’s so intense, such a puzzle of emotions swirling in his dark eyes; love, excitement—something a little darker. the all consuming need to feel you wrapped around him. his cock springs free, slapping his toned abs, leaving a dribble of precum sliding down them. he’s so big, yet again–so girthy and perfectly angled to hit every single spot inside you, angry veins running along the shaft leading into a leaky red tip. it steals whatever breath you have left, but he won’t give you much time to doubt yourself. his hands scoop under your thighs, pulling you down the couch—legs draped over his arms as he bottoms out inside you, all in under a second. your vision blacks out, white sparkles flaring like a staticky television. you’re so so full, you can feel him in your throat, you think. he waits, the mercy a small reprieve at the end of his grace. he’s been far too patient, waiting for you to love him back all of this time. “god, you’re so perfect.” he shakes his head in disbelief, thumb again dragging around your clit to help you acclimate to him easier. 

“so beautiful, so warm, my little moon. so mine.” the last bit comes out in his signature low rasp, his hands wrapping to the top of your thighs as he starts to move. your vision hadn’t fully returned to you, your head so light you wonder if there’s still a brain up there. you thought this would be the pinnacle of your pleasure, until you feel the veins of his cock stroking against your walls like he was designed to fit in there, his eyes closing in a moment of bliss. you’re perfect. he’s never told a lie, and he wouldn’t start now. his hips roll slowly, leaning back a bit so he could watch how you swallow him up so well. he knows it’s a tall task, but you were built for him specifically—of course you’re taking him brilliantly. “fuck—feel the way you’re squeezing me?” 

“nghhh, daddy—so big!” you manage, tongue lolling out a bit as you struggle to speak at all. “feels–s’good–!” 

he chuckles fondly, reaching for your hands to hold, intertwining fingers. that provides him new leverage, fucking into you at the same time as he pulls you into it, brushing against your cervix in a way that makes himself moan nearly as loud as you do, squeezing your hands every time he reaches the hilt. “but you’re taking daddy so well, little moon. you feel so good..” 

you’re wrapped around him like a vice, and his cock jumps inside you as he leans in closer, needing to swallow up those delicious moans, kissing at your open mouth as your breaths mingle together, a soft chorus of skin meeting skin and needy pants. you feel split open and sewed back together for him, the pleasure far outweighing any pain from taking someone so huge. his sweet kisses to your mouth and face remind you that he’s got you, that he will take care of you–and your pussy is sent to fluttering spells again—the thread stretching dangerously thin. 

“mm, i feel it too, darling. i feel it too—cum for me. show daddy how much you love it.” his hair drapes around your face, like a curtain of darkness, building a world between just the two of you. looking up into his wildly proud eyes snaps that thread, and your head is shaking—powerful screams of his name reigning supreme. his head falls back to drown in that, to drown in you entirely. the way you sound, the way you feel, the way you smell—he’s addicted to it all. he erupts inside, cock jumping against your tight walls, still fluttering from aftershocks. he rolls his hips slowly, letting you feel the hot ropes of his seed decorating your insides, only stopping when he’s afraid you may have passed out, your mewls and whimpers so soft. “that’s it…that’s my good girl~” 

you clench around your connection just from the praise, nodding eagerly. he smiles, leaning over with more kisses and gentle touches, your old shirt recycled into your cleaning cloth, catching the mess as he slides out of you with an audible loss of suction around him. he kisses along your collarbones, pecking the bends of your knees, ankles—he’s everywhere and it feels so good you could fall asleep right here, wiped of any energy and most likely the ability to walk on your own. “my little moon, you are perfection..i love you endlessly.” he hums, tucking his robes around you, letting you lay against him under the cooling night sky. he’s in no rush to go inside, the moment so perfect. he can hear your breaths slow, feel you nestle as close to him as you physically can be, your little groans and whines music to his ears. he pets down your back, drawing shapes against the light sheen of sweat coating you with a content heart and smile. 

he looks up to the moon, “i can wear a genuine smile now.” he says aloud, pressing more kisses to your face until he takes you to his bedroom for an expertly timed bath and massage, as always.

[tonkatsubowl]

truth to be told, it takes a lot for aventurine to fully trust someone, let alone loving them.

the man had already lost so much, including his own sense of self. to be stabbed in his back, to be betrayed, to be mocked and used and made fun of—he was used to it. it would take aventurine a while for him to feel comfortable being vulnerable with someone, considering he didn't trust anyone in particular.

though the man wore a gorgeous smile, wandering through the streets of penacony, it wasn't a genuine smile, but a mask he put up. expensive clothing, his beautiful countenance and the abundance of money he liked to toss around... it was just a mask he put up. it was also for the sake of his own reputation, too. especially when you were directly under diamond herself.

the main suspect of his suffering. and the cause of his success. a double edged sword that he walked upon. his own life was theirs. a mere toy, a mere chess piece to gamble with.

...but when he met you, he was confused. afraid, even. but he put up a fake smile, some flirtatious words here and there, but the man did not trust you, nor did he believe you would be willing to stay by his side for an eternity for aeons know what.

when he met you, you were kind, understanding. you were a little stubborn, too, and humorous. you never failed to have aventurine laugh at your cute little jokes, and you never failed to protect him, whether it was against the ipc's mocking him in his name, or against nightmare infested monsters that dared to consume his flesh within a dream.

he was terrified of you.

he didn't know what you were doing to him.

every time he saw you, he felt... weak. vulnerable around you. and he hated it. he loathed it. he hated everything about how you were making him feel, as though you were a curse that came to haunt him due to the sins of his past.

every time he saw you, his heart began to palpitate, his chest aching. and it got worse whenever he saw you so happy with someone else. but... maybe you were better off with someone? everyone kept leaving him, after all, whether it was death or it was simply due to some gambling... game-thing. a business transaction, even.

but you stayed.

you stayed throughout the hardships he faced.

why?

just why?

why, of all people, did you want to stay with him? a once upon a time slave, now a business man specializing in manipulation, gambling (an addiction, to put it), and flirtatious words to soothe the mind so he could win his way.

even through everything, you were still here. that was when he decided to seek out a certain doctor.

he sat across from him, forcing a smile across his lips, but the doctor could see it. the mask that aventurine donned himself with.

"you're in love."

aventurine's eyes looked up to the other, "you must be misreading your books like usual."

"you came here... to me, for your thoughts."

aventurine chuckled to himself, nervously, even.

"love? i haven't heard that word in ages."

"it is a complicated thing. especially with how you can be, gambler. a man who is unpredictable, keen to the eye, and... well, unfamiliar with the positive things."

aventurine cleared his throat, toying with the golden coin in his hand. he purses his lips, his mask wearing off for a moment.

"...now, dr. ratio, i am not doubting your knowledge and intelligence, don't get me wrong. i just don't believe that it truly is such a strange thing called... love."

the genius sighed, "you complained to me the other day that you couldn't stand seeing (y/n) talking to others, smiling and laughing. i recall that i was not assigned to be your therapist, here. the rest should be obvious, but it appears you're too stubborn to catch on... or rather, you're unfamiliar with this feeling. this term. love."

bullseye. it was as though ratio had called him out completely. for once, the gambler was silent. here, he would try to make little comments here and there, some jokes there and wherever but... the man was actually silent.

"... what do you suggest i do, then?"

dr ratio leans in, resting both elbows on his knees, eyes fixated on the gambler's own pristine eyes.

"if you are comfortable with it, move at your own pace if you wish to pursue. this is ultimately your choice. you can pursue these feelings, or you may leave it. there is no right or wrong answer, here. this all depends on you and what you wish to do. love is about being vulnerable with each other. accepting each other at their lowest. being for one another. your lover is considered to be your number one companion, truthfully."

aventurine was quiet.

"what is your gambler's intuition?"

a sigh left aventurine's lips. he stood, flipping the coin in his hand, before showing the result of heads or tails.

"...i suppose i'll make a bet with myself. one that doesn't cost money or the finest of gold and jewelry."

the genius watched as the other male got up from his seat, retrieving his sunglasses from his expensive outfit, before placing them on. "i'll make a gamble, to be specific, about this."

"then i wish you the best of luck, aventurine."

months had past, and the two of you were already in a relationship. it had been months, but the man didn't dare to tell you, 'i love you' just yet. as a matter of fact, those words were terrifying for him. what if he lost you after he said that? what if something were to happen to you? he was terrified of saying it, as he wasn't ready yet.

dr. ratio was right—he was paranoid to the bone but hid it. yet, aventurine played a few cards and decided to gamble this relationship with you, to see if it could work out. and so far, everything was well.

you were understanding, kind, beautiful, patient... the perfect partner someone could ask for.

but it also felt undeserving.

did... he deserve this love? did he truly deserve to experience the harmony that his heart fluttered to? he began to doubt. then he spiraled into a panic.

he began to sleep restlessly at night, rendering himself vulnerable to nightmares and the instability of his mind.

... but you were there, throughout all of it.

his eyes shot open, the familiar warmth of your hand gently cupped at his left cheek. he had fallen asleep on the couch, reading a long text presented to him by his supervisor, which was mainly just work and business related things. he didn't realize he had fallen asleep, and at first was confused when he woke up.

his phone was placed securely on the table, and there was a blanket draped over him. the air conditioning was turned on for his comfort, and before him was a tray full of biscuits, tea... for him to savor in once he woke from his nightmare.

"are you... alright?" you asked. "you were having a bad dream."

his eyes traveled to your voice, finding your concerned expression, his palpitating heart now steadying at an easy rate. he began to breathe, his eyes softening.

you were here, at his most vulnerable state, concerned for his well-being. he was silent, but he immediately reeled you in for a gentle hug. he was reluctant, but he wanted to feel the rest of your warmth. your head was buried into his chest, and you could hear his heart slow down. he closed his eyes, calming down from his inner demons.

"...you're okay." you murmur, brushing the top of his hair with your hands. "i'm here for you."

you didn't know much about him at all, truth to be told. the man wasn't really comfortable sharing his past with you, yet. he was a locked chest, and in order to find the key to his past, you had to be patient. time was key, but whatever demons he was facing at night... he knew you would be there.

he had doubts, at first, and always believed that he'd always be alone.

but... you were a different story.

"...thank you," he whispers onto your ear, cradling you close to his chest, "for being here."

your gaze softens, and you were silent for a moment. this was the first time you've seen aventurine like this. so vulnerable, so... reliant on you. but you were okay. because everyone has their own weakness. not everyone was perfect, and you understood that.

"... don't thank me." you say, closing your eyes, taking in his scent as the two of you nuzzled up against each other on the couch, "please don't. it's my job—my duty, as your other half, to be here for you."

dr. ratio's words echoed into his brain, reminding him of what love truly is. being there for one another, no matter what.

"you haven't been here?"

months past, and aventurine is presenting a beautiful, scenic view of penacony for you. the night sky was phenomenal, and the beautiful sounds of crickets and late night critters were no more than music to your ears. you seat yourself at the bench, whilst the gambler was walking around, admiring the view... taking pictures, even.

"i haven't, but now i am." you say, flashing a smile.

aventurine took some time off today to take you out on a date. the man had more than enough sick and vacation leave to do this for you, and it's the first time where he actually used it.

he sits next to you, admiring the night sky, and the sight of you above all else.

"it's a beautiful sight. i come here when i want to... relax."

your gaze softens, and your hand comes towards his own. digits intertwine, and you murmur something, audible for your lover's ears.

"thank you for taking me here. to your safe place."

aventurine looks over to you, puzzled.

"... safe place, huh? didn't expect to... call it that. but i guess that's what you can say for this spot. i can feel at peace here." he nods slowly, looking back to the scenic view.

"... it's a spot where you can feel vulnerable and be okay with it," you say, instantly catching his attention, "and i want to thank you for trusting me to bringing me here. i really, really do appreciate it."

ratio's words echo through his mind once more, the pad of his thumb suddenly reaching over, gently lifting your chin. he leans in, granting you a subtle kiss, in which you've returned.

"... may... i be vulnerable, once again?"

he lowered his guard, his voice coming to a whisper.

"you... can always be vulnerable around me. i want to be your safe person." you respond, in a whisper.

"..." he was silent. "i love you."

it was the first time, too, that he said such a thing to you. such strong words that let your heart skip a few beats. your face comes to a faint, vermillion flush, but you were happy nonetheless. you smile, cupping each side of his face.

"i love you too."

[killerlookz]

Is It Really You? | Joost Klein

description: Based on the song Is It Really You? by Loathe (aka one of the most beautiful songs of all time i'm being so serious) Following a breakup with your long-term boyfriend, the man you were certain you would marry, a night with your best friend, Joost proves that love may lie elsewhere for you.

content: Joost Klein x f! reader, 18+ suggestive content (no smut), RPF, smoking, mention of drinking, angst, hurt/comfort, breakups, cheating, fluff, best friends to lovers(?).

word count: 3363

"Is it really you...? Let's search the sky for a while, you and I, collide like two stars for a while, you and I."

Your eyes burn as another bitter tear falls down your cheeks, the taste of salt grazing your quivering lips as the droplet drips off your chin. The early summer air was getting cooler as the sun had long been set, a small breeze stinging your tearful eyes as it blew past your face.

"Oh," The word drops painfully from the mouth of the man beside you, as if you had just broken his heart right then and there, "Oh, don't cry." The familiar voice of your best friend was of little comfort now.

You suck in a deep breath, shaky as your chest spasms, struggling to maintain composure. You gaze out at the city that surrounds you, bright and alive with a bustling nightlife, a nightlife you had found yourself so often partaking in. But tonight, as you sat on the roof of your apartment, you were merely an observer, far removed from the fun of the city.

"Five years, Joost." You turn to face the blonde next to you, "five, down the drain."

His face is pained, pink lips pulled downwards as his eyelids fall and eyebrows furrow, "Het spijt me." (I am sorry) He shakes his head.

The last three weeks had been nothing but sorries, to the point the phrase had begun to make you nauseous, your stomach churning as the condolence had left Joost's mouth. Everything about him told you that he actually meant it, but still- you couldn't bear to hear any more sorries.

"I thought I was going to marry him," You turn away from Joost, facing back to the skyline that surrounded you, observing the buildings, and the multitudes of colors that shone from their windows. Your chest ached, you didn't understand how someone you had loved so much and for so long could leave in an instant, seemingly so nonchalantly, with not so much as to even give you a face-to-face goodbye, "Fuck." You mutter, feeling a familiar anger begin to bubble inside you- what a fucking coward.

A trembling hand reaches for the pack of cigarettes that sits beside you, grabbing the warped cardboard, and pulling out another cigarette. Looking into the box, only one remained, had you not been so consumed by your emotions you probably would have felt bad smoking almost the entire pack, considering they weren't yours.

"There's one left," You mutter, tipping the box in Joost's direction, offering him the remaining cigarette, despite the entire pack having been his in the first place.

"I'm ok," He shakes his head, "It's yours."

A small smile pulls at your lips in response to the gesture, but you just cannot take that response,

"No," You push the open cardboard towards him, "Take it. Humor me please." You had hoped he would accept, and indulge you in your shared bad habit together.

Joost reluctantly takes the pack from you, slowly pulling out the single remaining cigarette, and placing it between his lips. You watch as he struggles with the lighter in his hand that is clearly on its last life. With a flick, he's finally able to produce a small, orange flame, just enough to light the end of the cigarette.

He passes the lighter to you, his fingertips lightly brushing your palms as he hands the small, black object over to you. His slight touch sends shivers down your spine, almost making you forget your unfortunate situation for a split second.

Tilting your head down, and using a cupped hand to shield you from the gentle breeze, you attempt to light the cigarette that hangs from your lips. Your finger swipes down the cool metal, but you're unable to produce a spark, the serrated metal wheel is unturning as it bores into your skin. You attempt a few more times, left only with your thumb sore from its rough movements against the hardness of the metal.

"Here," Joost says, clocking your lack of success with the lighter. He leans in towards you, touching the end of his cigarette to yours. You note the proximity between you, his face so close to yours. You can't help but take a moment to admire him, the way his blue eyes glimmer behind the lens of his glasses, how his hair is just the perfect amount of messy, and how the warm colored city lights highlight the angles of his face against the backdrop of night.

Your spark of admiration reminds you of simpler times, of younger years, spent pining over your best friend in all of your teenage awkwardness. You had spent most of your childhood with an insatiable crush on Joost, one that went absolutely nowhere. Minus that one time, the two of you shared a drunken kiss four years ago, but it had meant nothing other than the fact that you were angry at your then-boyfriend, and you had had far too much to drink.

Still, you remember it like it was yesterday, having found out just days prior your boyfriend, Christian, had been hooking up with his ex-girlfriend the whole year you had been together. If you had known then what you know now, you would have left him, but having been dumb and 21 the answer to your problems was fighting fire with fire.

You and Christian had been at a party thrown by a mutual friend, having not spoken to him since you had found out what he had done, you showed up to the party with Joost, who you had, subsequently spent the entire night with. The kiss had taken place after god only knows how many drinks, and a night spent dancing with Joost like he was your boyfriend. You and Joost had found yourselves on a couch in the living room, Christian staring dead at the pair of you from across the room, his eyes burning into you- it had felt as good of a time as ever, Heartless by The Weeknd boomed over the speakers, to give him a taste of his own medicine.

To make a short story even shorter, you and Joost had become the focal point of the party for the remaining length of the song, having had him pushed back on the couch as you laid straddled on top of him, lips locked in a furious kiss, wandering hands exploring each other's bodies in a way that hadn't been entirely appropriate for such a public setting.

Following a heated argument after that incident, you and Christian considered each other even, willing to move on with the relationship as if nothing had happened. Joost didn't feel quite the same, the two of them had been on rocky waters ever since then, which, he didn't mind, he was far from fond of the man you swore up and down you were going to marry one day.

Blinking a few times you return yourself to the present moment, watching as Joost's chest rises, sucking in a breath, stoking the flame of his own cigarette so he can light yours. You inhale as well, which finally allows your cigarette to light.

You smile to thank him, the cigarette still pressed between your lips. You place two fingers on either side of the cigarette, taking a proper drag, feeling a familiar warm prickling in your throat as the smoke enters your lungs.

You face away from Joost to exhale, grey smoke dancing around you as another gust of wind approaches.

"I just don't understand," You start, your voice beginning to waver as memories of the last five years you spent with Christian came back to you, "How could he?" You inhale once more, deeply, hoping that you can receive at least some vague headrush from the nicotine. Exhale. "After all the shit I put up with, he leaves me." You face back to Joost, a grimace forming on your face, "With a text."

You bite at the inside of your cheeks, attempting to suppress the way your lips quiver as a sob threatens to escape you.

Joost's head hangs to the side, sympathy spread across his face,

"I don't think there's anything to understand." He presses the cigarette in his hand up against his lips, taking a quick inhale before speaking again, "He's just a dick."

"Easy for you to say," You sigh, "You're biased, you never liked him."

"Yeah," Joost says, matter-of-factly, "He spent the first year of your relationship fucking his ex-girlfriend."

"I cheated too," You mumble, you had never quite forgiven yourself for that incident, no matter how perfect it had felt in the moment.

"We kissed once while we were drunk." He furrows his eyebrows to take another drag of his cigarette.

"Still cheating," You shrug, even if he did have a fair point, you having kissed Joost in pure spite didn't exactly equal a year's worth of hooking up with someone else, "I mean," You pause to take a drag of your cigarette, "If I was your girlfriend, would you want me kissing other guys- even if it was because you had done something too?"

"If you were my girlfriend I wouldn't have sex with anyone else in the first place."

"That's not my point." You shake your head

"But that's my point." He says in earnest.

You flick your eyes up to look at him to find him staring back at you, his gaze unwavering from where it meets yours. He was right and you shouldn't have let the relationship go on for as long as it did.

With a blink more tears are spilling out of your eyes, unable to hold back your cries much longer.

"I wasted five years of my life," The tears continue to pour down your cheeks, "Five years is a long time."

A small smile appears on Joost's face, a sign of encouragement,

"Someday being with someone for five years will feel like nothing," You watch as the end of his cigarette burns down with another drag, a puff of grey smoke exiting his mouth as he speaks again, his voice softening, "But I know it hurts now."

"Yeah," You concede, hanging your head. "It does."

"I know the last thing you want is the 'it gets better with time' speech, but i promise you, it will."

"I believe you." You cannot look at Joost as you take another drag from the cigarette between your fingers, continuing to stare at the concrete roof of your apartment building as the tears continue to stream down your face. Deep down you know he's right, that one day you'll be with someone for far longer than five years, but it was hard to imagine all of the grief you'd have to push yourself through before getting to that point, mourning the last five years of your life seemed like a daunting challenge ahead.

You push what remains of your cigarette into the concrete, watching as the small flame extinguishes with a small plume of smoke.

"Come here." Joost sighs, slinging an arm around your hunched-over body. Instinctively, your head falls to the side, resting against Joost's shoulder. Moments of affection had been scarce between the two of you since the incident at the party, you knew that part of you feared what sort of emotions would be brought if you let yourself get too close in physical proximity to him.

But now it didn't matter, you were more than receptive of a shoulder to cry on.

The pair of you sit in silence for a moment, both fixated on the dark sky that stretches around you in every direction. The stars are nothing but a faint twinkle tonight, much as they had been every night, something you had gotten used to since moving to the city.

Joost's palm rubs soft circles into your back, lulling your shaky breaths to a stable cadence. You feel heavy as you lay on Joost's shoulder, your eyes burning and your head aching from how much you had been crying.

You can't help but let your mind wander, mostly about the past, about your life before Christian. Tonight had reminded you of old times, of when it was just you and Joost, the pair of you attached at the hip. Neither of you had very many friends growing up, and while you could appreciate your expansive friend groups now, and how much your lives had changed since you were teens, you couldn't help but miss moments like this, moments where you had him all to yourself.

You had accepted a long time ago that you were probably never going to completely get over the crush you had on Joost. Not that it mattered much anyway, it seemed harmless, and it obviously hadn't inhibited you from finding love elsewhere. A puppy crush was all you had thought it had waned down to. Joost seemed to only get more attractive as he aged anyway, having truly grown into himself. Sometimes you couldn't believe the man he had matured into- proud was an understatement.

"Feeling any better?" He asks, his voice low as to not startle you as he breaks the silence.

"I don't know." You mumble, your voice threatening to crack once more and your mind is a mess with pure confusion as to what it was you were feeling. Your heart thumps in your chest at a volume that feels much louder than normal, pumping at a rate that seems much too fast for the situation you're in, "Can I ask you a weird question?"

"Sure" He chuckles, "Ask me whatever you want."

"Did you like it?" The question quickly slips from your lips.

"Like what?" He responds, clearly confused.

"Like," You begin to trail off, unsure if you want to clarify your question, "When we-uh kissed?"

The soft motions he draws against your back are suddenly halted, and it feels like the entire city has gone quiet, like time has stood still, Your heart drops straight into your stomach, fearing the outcome of his rigid bodily reaction.

"Y-yeah, yeah, I liked it." His voice becoming more confident as words progressed.

"I did too," It seemed useless now to wallow in the guilt you had felt about that situation, you liked it, "Do you think we could-" You cut yourself off, not sure of how to finish the question.

Joost places three fingers on your jaw, grabbing at your chin to pull your gaze up to him.

You look at Joost through tearful eyes, questioning how to make your next move. A few seconds of anxious silence pass between the two, breathing heavily.

Joost's fingers linger on your jaw as you feel him pull you closer ever-so-slightly, the two of you inching nearer to each other. Unable to wait any longer, you push yourself forward, at the same time, Joost seems to have had the same idea, the two of you colliding with a force you hadn't expected, which almost takes the breath straight from your lungs.

But you only wish to get closer as your lips clash against Joost's with a hunger you weren't used to. You couldn't remember the last time you had experienced a kiss with such passion, with such intent behind it.

Your hands find themselves tangled up in Joost's hair, threading through and pulling at the already messy strands. Joost's own hands are planted firmly on your body, one on the back of your neck and the other on your waist.

You began to slowly tip back, removing a hand from Joost's hair to maintain stability as you lowered your back to the concrete. Joost follows suit, not breaking the kiss as you pull him down with you.

He props himself up with a hand next to your head, using his other free hand to hold your cheek. You wrap both of your arms around his neck, attempting to pull him further down on top of you.

Joost's kisses soon leave your lips, soft lips trailing down your jaw and eventually your neck. Your chest rises, back arching as he connects with your throat, sucking softly. You let your head tip back onto the concrete, staring up at the sky as Joost continues.

Somehow the stars feel much brighter now, although you know that they aren't. But you're memorized by their faint twinkle in the heat of the moment, as your hands desperately grasp at Joost's hair, and your breathing begins to speed up.

Once more, you're overwhelmed, eyes damp once more as they well up with tears. You pinch your eyes closed, trying to force the droplets away, but it does nothing but push your salty tears down your face. It didn't feel so bad to cry now, not as Joost ghosts your neck with soft kisses, his hand dropping to draw reassuring circles on your hip with his thumb.

You arch your back, allowing Joost to wrap an arm under you, holding you tight. You whine as his teeth graze your neck, quickly soothing the small bite with his tongue. It's obvious Joost notices your response to the action, repeating it over a few more times, surely bursting some blood vessels along the way.

You recognized the sensation that was building inside of you, the way the muscles in your legs tightened and your abdomen strained, the paralyzing feeling of want terrorizing every nerve in your body. You bend your leg, pushing your hips forward. With your sudden movement, Joost's hand slips from behind your back to your thigh, his fingertips just below the hem of your pajama shorts. It's not quite where you want him.

A strangled, "Please," leaves your throat, causing Joost to hesitate, lifting his head from where it hung by your neck, his hand dropping from your thigh.

Pity is written all over his face as he looks down at you, fuck.

"I'm sorry," He shakes his head

"What?"

"We shouldn't-"

"No?" You choke, and it's like you could feel him slipping through your fingers, you clench your jaw, his name bitten into your tongue. You let your head fall to the side, the concrete is harsh, scraping against your cheek.

"Stop," You feel Joost's hand graze your arm, "Please look at me."

You can't bear to lift your head up, shame written all over your face. First your boyfriend now him.

"I don't mean to upset you, please, liefje, look at me."

His use of the phrase liefje making you immediately turn your head, confused.

"Don't call me that if you don't mean it." You frown

"I do mean it."

"Sure."

Joost lowers his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead,

"Believe me," He mumbles, his lips still resting against your hairline.

"Then why can't we go any further?" You wince at the words that come from your mouth.

"We will," He raises his head to look you in the eyes, "When you're ready."

"I am," You furrow your eyebrows, "I've known you for 15 years, I am more than ready."

Joost frowns, "You just got out of a five-year relationship."

"Do you think I'm using you as a rebound?"

"What-no," He shakes his head, "I just don't want to fuck up your healing process."

"What if you speed it up?" You ask, lifting your head from the concrete.

"And what if I make it worse?"

"You won't" You plead

"Not tonight." He sighs, dipping his head to place another kiss on your forehead, "Let me take you out first, we'll make it special."

A small smile grazes your lips, your heart warmed at his effort,

"I care about you, y/n, I don't want to just have sex with you because we're in the mood, okay?" He speaks earnestly, making your pulse quicken.

"Okay," You whisper, "Can you at least stay the night?"

"I'll stay as long as you want," he smiles, and a few moments of comfortable silence engulf you both before he speaks again, "You know I love you, right?" You're unsure of if it's platonic love, or something more, but it doesn't seem to matter now, the very simple fact that he loves you was all you could really focus on.

"I love you too." You're unsure of how you mean it either, knowing only that you love him. Just as you always had.

[moutainrusing]

pen pals

943 words, @wolfstarmicrofic

On the other side of town, there was a hospital, where children in need of long-term care spent their days and nights. On this side of town, there was a boarding school, where children in need of discipline spent their days and nights.

As an act of further discipline, the Headteacher, Professor McGonagall, had decided that the students of Diagon Academy should write a letter to a patient in Pomfrey’s Hospital, and forge a new friendship, become pen pals for life.

According to Sirius, she was delusional. But he still wrote a letter.

- - -

With his incredibly bony, stick-like, shaking fingers, Remus wrote a letter to someone in the rich, stuffy boarding school, who would apparently become his pen pal for life. (Unlikely.) Firstly, he was Remus. No one wanted to be his friend. Even if they weren’t in their right mind, he was a sick, frail loser, unable to do anything except stutter and sit in awkward silence.

Secondly, the people at Diagon Academy were judgemental snobs. Posh and pretentious and loaded. Why would he befriend that?

- - -

Minerva and Poppy sorted through the letters in companionable chatter, pairing a student with a patient in a match they hoped would lead to a long-lasting friendship.

Once the pairs had been made, the children could keep addressing letters to their pen pal; the school Prefects and hospital wardens would be able to deliver the letters by reading the name on the envelope, ensuring the children got the privacy they needed to open up to each other.

Minerva wanted the slightly troubled (okay, very troubled) students at her school to learn how to care for someone who didn’t live in their narrow-minded world, and Poppy wanted the minorly self-loathing (okay, very self-loathing) patients at her hospital to open up to the possibilities of the world around them. Together, the couple had come up with the idea of pen pals, and together, they wanted this to work so badly.

“I think we’ve found the perfect pair,” Minerva commented as she held Remus’s and Sirius’s letters side-by-side.

Poppy grinned. “I bet those two’ll end up more than friends.”

- - -

Dear pen pal (for life, apparently; I think the nurse may be barmy, but she’s well-intentioned and she’s my favourite and I want it to be known that I am doing this for her. So if I make an embarrassment of myself, it was for her. And I’ll never even get out of this hospital, so I don’t care if you think I’m weird.)

I’m supposed to write about myself. I’m fifteen. I’m a boy. I’ve been sick for as long as I can remember and I look like undercooked pastry. I like reading. There’s not a lot you can do in hospital. But you do get stickers. I’m actually fond of my sticker album. You get a sticker for every injection you take, and when I was younger, I used to get stickers for talking, because I was and am an anti-social freak. I’m really selling this.

Anyway, I’ve organised the pages of my sticker album because I have nothing better to do. There’s a page for leaves from deciduous trees, animals that specifically live in the savanna, fruits which are FRUITS and that includes tomatoes, and a lot of other fully sorted pages. This is my legacy. I might die any day but I still made this impact.

Look, if you’ve read this far, I’ll have to assume you’re as weird as I am.

Yours,

Remus Lupin

Sirius traced over the wobbly penmanship of his pen pal with a grin on his face. Remus was funny. And nice. Those seemed like such simple adjectives, but Sirius meant them to such an intense degree.

He got to writing back about how he was so much weirder than Remus. Although Remus must already know that from Sirius’s introductory letter.

- - -

Dear pen pal,

Minnie, our lovely Headteacher, and my future wife, even though she’s resistant to my charms at the moment (I don’t know why, I’m literally the hottest hunk of meat in this school I’m kidding sorry too soon) (also it may be because she’s gay and so am I) anyway, Minnie came up with the fanciful idea of pen pals. She really hopes this will mean something, and I don’t wanna let her down now, do I?

I mean, I also hope this means something because she has POISONED my brain with these delusional fantasies, and so has my best mate. James really believes this will benefit the country or something from the way he talks.

So, about myself. (It may seem I like talking about myself. I hate it. I’d rather show people who I am.) So, I’m not gonna talk about myself! I’m mysterious like that. Oh-so-interesting.

Like, yesterday, James and I put bouillon cubes into all the shower-heads and the boys ended up smelling like chicken broth (us included). It was fucking GROSS. And fucking awesome. Minnie immediately knew it was us though. My mystery works on everyone but her (another reason we’re soulmates, I should tell her).

LOTS OF LOVE

SIRIUS BLACK, EL AMOR DE TU VIDA

Remus actually snorted. He’d been worried, initially, to see ‘POISONED’ glaring at him in swirling cursive when he cast a cursory glance down the letter, but then he saw ‘THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE’ in Spanish, and found that Sirius was a hyperbolic little shit.

He proceeded to write a letter to tell him exactly that. Oh, and another prank idea, because why not? It wasn’t like he’d be suspected. Maybe he could help Sirius and James with an original idea that couldn’t possibly be pinned on them.

[kanmom51]

Hi! I love reading your posts so much so I would like to know your thoughts on this:

https://x.com/smol_kia/status/1550222383075586048?t=1QUT02cleCrXVULBEegSjw&s=19

I saw some of us on X thanking this person for manifesting the toothbrushing scene which was funny but at the same time i am super confused on how jikook really did exactly the same as the fan art (the plaid pyjamas especially)! Do you think this was purely coincidence or one of them saw it and went 'let's make this to reality'?

English is not my first language, so I'm sorry if my ask is all over the place :) love ya!

Let's start with the end here why don't we?

JM and JK are the real thing. They have a real actual relationship unlike the dreamt up needing to lean on made up fanart relationship that Tkks delude themselves JK and Tae have.

That is the starting point.

Jikook are the real deal. A real life long term loving couple. TKK are not. Not a couple. Friends yes. At times closer at times not so much, but always and only friends.

So, let's talk about that fanart. It's from 2022. 22 July 22 to be accurate. I am literally feeling sick to my stomach at the moment, but I will share the photo, cause I'm going to be making a point here.

*At least they kept the JM in place (although they probably are deluded as to it's meaning...).

So, why is the date so important, you may ask.

Because that is the day ITS Friendcation came out.

And guess what we got in that first episode of the show.

Only the four friendliest of friends in their matchy plaid pj's.

Basically what we had was TKK's in their hazed daydreams wishing that instead of Tae sleeping together with his squad, to which a one Jeon Jungkook does not belong no matter how much they want to twist it (same crew that left JK at the ski resort by himself while leaving together), instead of Tae waking up with Wooga and their match plaid pj's and brushing teeth together, it would be JK there with him.

Like I say, dream on.

That fanart of theirs, is a dream not a reality, and they can scream until they are blue in the face, it won't change the fact that the one brushing his teeth with JK at the moment is JM, not Tae, by choice. JK choice. JM's choice. They both wanted it. They both planned it. They both worked towards it. And they are both living it right now.

I find it kind of funny how TKKs keep on screaming that JM and JK's travels are for the camera, not genuine, all for the buck. If that was true, if Jikook were indeed the 'fanservice' couple for BH, if Jikook were a money maker as a unit for the company, how is it that this cash machine has never been properly utilized. It always amuses me to hear this from them all while most of Jikook's interactions are off camera, not for us to intentionally see. This one unit that has never come to fruition officially (until now, and there is a reason for that and a reason why we are getting more now, none of which are them being 'faked' for the camera in order to make money).

I love how they twist everything to fit a constant changing narrative. I actually don't know how they keep up with themselves. It would be so exhausting.

I saw Mina's tweets. Will not share them here. I will not give that hateful ***** a platform here. All I will say is that it must be so very hard for her right now. Reality is hitting and it's hitting hard. I guess it's a last hurrah, an attempt to cling to their fantasy. Basically acting like a belligerent child having a tantrum.

If I didn't loath her and her kind I would actually pity them. They are going to be so very miserable in the upcoming months. Not to mention after they are all back from the military.

I guess these weirdos need to be reminded that JM and JK's Tokyo trip back in 2017 was not for the cameras. A trip eternalized with JK's GCFT, a trip they could not stop talking about, a trip they continued to talk about in their book under the title Real love.

I won't remind them of just how fondly JK was talking about their trip and the show, nor will I bring up that shining sun of a smile he had when JM says he'll hug him later, cause you know, these are basically fans that have no interest in what the idol they supposedly love (yeah, no love there) says or feels. It's about what they, as fans, want to feel dreaming about buff JK the fuckboy, bad boy, man handler and his dainty weak boyfriend Tae (with their love hate toxic jealousy drama filled relationship).

Excuse me for a sec...

I also guess they need to be reminded that not all of JM and JK's time together was filmed, not all of it was for the cameras, as they love to put it. Not in NY, and definitley not in Tokyo 2023. Funny how two people that were working on enlisting together and got to fulfill their wishes and make sure that the 18 months of their military service they are inseparable, even if that means a tougher placement than if they enlisted separately, still wanted to go on these trips together. I think that by now any claim that this was forced on them - the trips, the show, the enlistment - have been long disproved.

And for a couple that the company are 'trying to push on us' it's really funny how silent they have been since their enlistment. But yeah, these people will continue to say what they want because otherwise their dreams are dead. Kind of like Larry's that still think those two are a thing.

You know what else that fanart comes after, btw?

Not only the ITS friendcation, but also after this:

JK directing LGO MV choosing the couples pj's, choosing to have JM walk out of the bathroom brushing his teeth JK waiting for him in the bedroom.

Fanart is art (not that some of the fanart out there would be considered art by myself, but you know, that's a personal taste, or distaste, and that btw includes some Jikook fanart as well). It can replicate or express reality but it can also be an outright fantasy.

In this case it's TKKs seeing the reality (Wooga and Jikook) and expressing fantasy (their ideas or wishes applied onto TKK), lol.

And now we have JM and JK on their trip wearing these couples pj's.

What a blow that must have been for TKKs. And this whole scrambling thing they are doing, that this is "the company" copying their fanart. Absolutely hilarious.

Jikook have shown us over the years that they love plaid. Not gonna add pics here cause there is no end to them. JK, JM alone, together, plaid is something they have been doing. Specifically? Not necessarily. But it's something they wear.

Jikook themselves have worn plaid pj's in the past for LGO MV (and the live as well - do I remind you guys of JK's joke about why he decided to have JM brushing his teeth?). Director JK. Their choice.

The fanart TKKs are squealing about was not an original piece of art that a TKKer came up with. They literally copied the pajamas worn by the Woogas in ITS Friendcation inserting JK into their fantasy.

If people would watch original content they would know that Jikook, both of them, tend not to wear pj's at home. Not around the house and not in bed. We saw JM in ITS 2. We saw JK in his bed live (in which I would love to remind TKKs how flirty and naughty he was with JM all while being half naked in bed, nagging JM to do a live with him, all his choice, all knowing that the company will not be happy with him, lol - still waiting for that Jikook live, you know from the company's "for the cameras" couple). Oh, and we also have the LV live. Yeah, that was an interesting one. Seeing that not only did we hear from JM and Hobi that JM walks around in his undies at home but that JK is in charge of the soundtrack... I guess while he's in his undies as well...(JM's reaction to Hobi's slip up was priceless). Point being that those two don't do clothes for sleep. But clearly they couldn't go 'au natural' for the show, so they chose to wear pj's.

And just like the other clothes that they chose to wear throughout their travels, that we will get to see in the show, they chose to wear these pj's.

Couple pj's.

This is not a photo shoot. This is them coming from home with their own clothes wearing what they want to wear, what they feel comfortable in. And they chose to wear those pj's knowing EXACTLY how it will be perceived.

And just like Wooga chose to wear the plaid pj's, which btw were all identical, like the rings they wear, probably as a symbol of their friendship, all while NO ONE ever dared to claim that they were dressed by stylists or forced into wearing them or that the creators of the show even suggested the idea to them, JM and JK chose to wear these pj's that are not identical but seem to be perceived as couple's pj's.

Pajamas sold out of course, the company's caption at the bottom being: "How about watching the show together in couple pajamas?"

Their choice.

Their decision.

Filming themselves brushing their teeth - their decision.

I want to make something clear here. They have said it and I will repeat it. This is not a scripted show. This is them travelling, experiencing, enjoying themselves (you cannot fake those smiles and giggles), filming themselves. That angle, the camera in the bathroom, that is a camera they placed there, they wanted us to see this just like JK wanted to show us JM brushing his teeth and coming out to him in the bedroom.

Do I remind you what happened when a camera was placed in a room when they didn't want us to see what they were up to?

This is not 2018 anymore. This is 2024 (well, filmed end of 2023, and may I just note that after the new contracts were signed, and I do think this is highly relevant as to what we are going to be getting in this show, what we will be allowed to see, the level of candor). No more hidden cameras in rooms (I think the company had realized that was a dangerous game they were playing at), and their artists control over what will be filmed and what not.

Their choices, their decisions, not some company executive. Them. The two of them.

I will end this by saying that I doubt that Jikook are even aware of this TKK fanart.

But if they were, then this wouldn't be them copying the fanart trying to create the illusion they are a couple.

No need for an illusion when you ARE the real deal.

If, by any chance, they were aware of the fanart then I would say that any connection to it would be them saying a big FUCK YOU to TKKs and their delusions.

But yeah, I do doubt they were even aware of this pic.

JK's search logarithm is Jimin based. Not TKK. So keep dreaming TKKs, cause not only are TKK not the thing you so very much want them to be, the thought of that thing, them as a couple, you as a fan group, your art and fantasies, all those aren't even a blip on JM and JK's radars.

[mothwingwritings]

WOW!!! I LOVED "The Innocent Act Of Dredging Up The Past", IT WAS VERY GOOD!

I wonder how Y/N reacted when she found out she was pregnant and how Fox allowed herself to keep the baby because he doesn't seem like someone who likes sharing attention.

Thank you so much darling!!! I am so glad you asked me this because I have been thinking about Ren as a father nonstop since that request. My brain has been full of many thoughts and opinions and I am happy to have an outlet for sharing lol. That being said, forgive my blathering. ^^;

(18+ and warnings for noncon, pregancy/baby birthing talk, incredibly unhealthy relationships, abuse, and being kidnapped/held against your will.)

Being impregnated by Ren would be absolutely dreadful for you, causing you to spiral into a pit of fear and despair the moment you miss a period or begin to feel queasy in the morning. With the signs starting to show, your brain comes to the instant conclusion that you are with child-his child, and it frightens you like nothing else before. At first you try and convince yourself nothing is wrong, that you are probably just late due to stress, and your upset stomach can be any number of things, it doesn’t necessarily mean you are pregnant. Any of your symptoms can be explained away by something else, so in an effort to try and maintain your sanity your brain churns out explanation after explanation, no matter how nonsensical they may be, in hopes of calming your rampant nerves by coming to some other resolution. A stream of constant lies and false reassurances play on repeat in your brain, forcing the thought that you may actually be a mother to the farthest reaches of your mind.

But the longer you wait and the more you dwell on it, the more you are faced with the inevitable. He never wears protection, you haven’t had access to birth control, and despite your warnings of it being a delicate time of month for you, his base instincts always won out in the end. There was nothing else this could be.

Faced with the reality of the situation, you were now tasked with the burden of sharing the news with Ren. You didn’t want to tell him, terrified of what his response would be, worried that he would somehow blame this all on you and hurt you because of it, quite possibly worse than he ever has before. But an even more horrifying concern than that is if the news actually pleases him. What if he wants to keep the baby? What if you were forced to carry this pregnancy to term while trapped in this grim environment, left to raise another human that shares half their dna with a man who has done nothing but cause you irrevocable damage?

No matter what the outcome, none of them are favorable.

But you didn’t have a choice, and you knew it was better to break it to Ren sooner rather than later, lest this whole nightmare become irreversible. In the event he saw things your way, you wanted this thing out of your body as soon as possible (though you loathed to consider what strings Ren would pull to achieve this, and what backwater procedure would be done to do so).

At first Ren brushes it off, not truly believing your concern. He’s had sex with you countless times without protection and just now you get pregnant? Seems suspicious, so he concludes you’re either overreacting or trying to get a rise out of him, potentially both, and that in and of itself riles him up. Are you telling him this as some kind of ploy? Are you using a false pregnancy as a means to get him to ease up on you a bit or as an attempt at escape? After all you had gone through together, after all the love he has lavished upon you by sharing his home, his life, his heart, with you… Would you really tell a lie like this?

He struggles with that possibility. Despite his inclination to feel otherwise, he has a hard time believing you would use a pregnancy scare for your own selfish benefit. You have always been a good girl, his good girl, and deep inside he knows this is not something that is within your nature to do, even if he does have some major doubts.

So, though he doesn’t truly believe your claims, he buys the pregnancy test more as a means to shut you up and prove a point than because he actually believes you. Needless to say, he ends up biting his tongue over that one.

When hit with the truth, his emotions are mixed. On one hand, he wants nothing to do with children or child rearing. He didn’t have to do much of a self-assessment to recognize he would be a shit father, and he never particularly wanted to be a father to begin with. His own upbringing wasn’t the best, he himself never really having a father figure that was worth a damn to guide him or show him any love or support. He had no parenting manual to go off of, and was sure that a culmination of having no positive family experience and maturing into the warped individual he had become led to no other conclusion than NOT being cut out for fatherhood in the slightest.

More than that however, the thought of sharing you, even with a life he helped create, really REALLY pissed him off. Thinking of all the nights you would be spending tending to the baby when you could instead be wrapped up in his arms, or all the attention and affection you will be giving some inept kid that could instead be going towards him, truly gets under his skin. He doesn’t WANT to share you. You’re HIS. And while a baby isn’t going to change that, he doesn’t want the needless competition to begin with.

But on the other hand, having a baby does have its appeal. It would be nice to bring a life into this world that loves him from the get-go, completely relying on him while being totally oblivious to all that has happened in the past. That sort of pure, blind love is hard to come by in this world, and the fact that he could obtain it so easily from a life he created with you, a human that has your blood running through its veins, is EXTREMELY appealing. And on top of that, you are sure to love the child whether its conception was wanted/planned or not. If you loved a child that was half his for the remainder of your life, would that not bind you to him for just as long? Though he didn’t doubt your loyalty (or his ability to keep you tied to him with no hope of escape), it would be a nice assurance to have in the rare event things did not end up going his way.

Once that thought enters his head, it’s over. No further thinking or future planning is required-he is going to be a father, and YOU are the beautiful mama! Congratulations! (Does he get off to you being pregnant? Did this pregnancy make Ren Hana realize he has a breeding kink??? Sources say yes and that’s your problem to deal with now. :))

♡

Holding his newborn for the first time, he has never been so nervous. Tears flood his eyes as he watches the small bundle squirming in his arms, his heart aching as they stare up at him with wide, pure, inquisitive eyes. He was no stranger to ending lives, but creating them? This was something entirely new, as exhilarating as it was scary. His smile grew as he stared at her small face, pleased that she looked so much like you. He could only hope that her personality would mirror yours as well.

♡

As time passes and the baby grows, you find out quick that Ren has a very ‘hands off’ way of parenting, which is to say he relies on you to do most of the work. And honestly, he feels that is fair. He’s the breadwinner who works hard to provide for you and the newborn, which leaves all other parental duties in your capable hands. You are left to be the child’s main caregiver, their guiding force to lead them through life, their teacher, confidante, and friend. It’s a daunting task, all residing solely on your shoulders.

Ren won’t readily admit it, but he much prefers it that way. All the abuse that he has suffered through from an early age, every heinous act of violence that has been carried out by his own hands (your wounds, included), all of it has turned him into something unrecognizable, something grotesque. Even if he wanted to have more of a presence in his child’s life, he knows he doesn’t deserve it. If he had too much sway in the kids development there’s a good chance they will grow up to be like him in some way or another, which would be a waste of all the love and hard work that you had put into raising them into being an upstanding person. Ren had made peace with who he had become, but that didn’t mean he wanted to keep a cycle that someone like Strade had begun going either.

So, the baby more or less becomes your soul responsibility, and god is that a burden for you. It’s bad enough that you have such little support from Ren to begin with, but the fact that this is YOUR first time being a parent as well makes it all so much worse. You have no idea what the hell you are doing, and with Ren making sure to keep you as isolated as possible you had no one else to turn to for help, either. It was just you and this brand new life with no one else to rely on, if you fucked up in even the smallest way it could be devastating to the baby. If your daughter got truly hurt, sick, or worse in your care, you didn’t know how you would live with the repercussions, let alone handle Ren’s reaction.

If your life with Ren hadn’t already made you a strung out, nervous, irritable wreck, being a mother certainly would. As she continues to grow, Ren refuses to discipline the child at all, not wanting in any way to appear like a ‘bad guy’ to your daughter. Given the circumstances, part of you is thankful for that (you honestly don’t know what you would do if he turned his ire towards her), but it also just makes things more difficult with you. You are already beyond stressed about trying to raise a child in this type of environment, having no united front and constantly butting heads makes raising her that much harder, especially when any kind of rule you attempt to establish can so easily be overridden by her father who has no remorse over the frustration this causes, nor care as to how his flippancy may affect your child’s development in the long run.

It’s also not lost on you that being the sole disciplinarian also paints you in a less than favorable manner in your child’s eyes, something you are sure Ren has thought about as well. Being the ‘strict’ parent means your child will be more likely to hide things from you, or seek out her father instead of you for support, approval, and advice. Given whom Ren was as a person, this thought didn’t sit particularly well with you.

All you can really hope and pray for is that somehow despite the lack of social interaction and outside influence she will grow up to be a decent human. Even maturing under the delusion that her father is a noble man, even if in some instances you have to make yourself the villain, as long as it helps her out in  the long run you’ll do everything you can to insure your daughter lives the best life she possibly can, whether her father helps you or not.

I think the REAL problems will begin when the child gets older. When she truly comes into herself and forms her own opinions, develops her own personality, and starts to forge her own way of life… It’s gonna be messy. :/ Your child’s autonomy is definitely going to be a point of contention for Ren in the future, and he won’t be so pleased if/when she catches on to his true nature and begins to rebel or straight up reject him. God forbid she tries and join forces with you or attempt to become your savior. It’s going to take a lot of cunning on her end to make it out unscathed.

Also, I kind of touched on it previously, but Ren would be incredibly horny the whole pregnancy. Not that he isn’t already incessantly slavering over you, something about seeing you round and full just makes him snap. Which is scary in its own right, Ren isn’t the most gentle of lovers to begin with and has a tendency to lose himself more often than naught, hurting you in the process. It’s a constant struggle to satiate him while protecting yourself and the unborn baby, best of luck to you! :D

(And he’ll definitely breastfeed from you. He’s gotta make sure you are producing enough for the baby, ya know? :))

[nitpickrider]

THIS is the part of all this that really chaps my ass. As much as I am loathe to use the term, its Mary Sue writing. The plot arranges everything so Nature Girl is always correct because the poor, innocent animals are always on her side in a way that is 100% human in its empathy and yet impossible to debate. This is not how animals work, this is a Disney level understanding of conservation. Animals don't have to be poor, scared, quivering Dickensian orphans to be worth protecting. And pretending it is so is an insult to our intelligence and the people who DO actually work to keep animals safe all over the world. X Men Unlimited Infinity 31

[kiame-sama]

what twst yanderes do you think could share? I think there are definitely several that could team up!

Warnings; Yandere Relationships, poly relationships, multi-yandere relationships, I already have way too many OC ideas with different backgrounds that fit with the different yandere groups,

~~~~~~~~

Full House: All Named Heartslabyul characters. Each of the card suits are represented (Ace- Hearts, Deuce- Spades, Trey- Clover/Clubs, Cater- Diamonds) and paired with the Queen card (Riddle- Hearts) you have a full-house in terms of poker.

Poisonous Beauty- Vil and Rook already seem to be in a mutually respectful and beneficial type relationship that pushes both to work on themselves and hold themselves accountable. Throw a darling in the mix and they will share beautifully.

Lion Tamer- Leona and Rook share a darling. The Lion and the Hunter both sharing a sweet little lamb between them. Leona has shown a certain level of respect for Rook and Rook already stalks Leona for the thrill of it.

Dragon's Hoard- All of Diasomnia's named characters. Main yandere is Malleus who insists darling is his mate. He is kind enough to share with his retainers and teacher, but darling is mainly Malleus' prize. Lilia is more of a mentor to the group but does enjoy a quick tryst now and again with darling, the most experienced of the group.

Monster Mash- Leona and Malleus. This only works because of darling, otherwise they will be fighting and wanting the other dead. Truly it is only because darling can tame and diffuse the tempers/prides of the monster men to actually get them to get along. Have a harder time sharing given their dislike for one another.

Sea Monsters- Azul and the Twins sharing a darling between the three of them. The twins already respect and listen to Azul, so Azul is giving them a 'bonus' by allowing this little triangle of sharing when it comes to darling and darling's time. The twins often switch between darling and Azul so both are protected at all times. Floyd likes spending more time with darling than Azul but that is because darling is more fun and squishy. Jade adores his time with darling but understands his skills are better suited for being around Azul. Azul will always set aside time to spend with darling and is happy to include the twins during this time.

Octo-charmer- Azul and Jamil. Both have an underhanded way to manipulate others and have a tendency to be patient enough for the long game. These two working together for a mutual darling would be rather dangerous and impossible to stand against. Both brilliant in their own right, they could share a darling with minimal bickering.

Hyena Charmer- Jamil and Ruggie. The Masquerade special at Nobel Bell College made it clear Jamil and Ruggie have a similar approach to handling situations so I think they could make a good partnership when it comes to sharing a darling.

King of Beasts- Leona and Ruggie. They already have a mutually beneficial relationship in how Ruggie mostly puts up with Leona's behavior and Leona in turn protects Ruggie as his second in command. They could share a darling, but Leona would still get the lion's share of the benefits.

Golden Sands- Jamil and Kalim. I am loathe to put them together given the fact that I feel Jamil deserves his own darling after years of dealing with Kalim, but Jamil and Kalim would make a good yandere pair. Darling would likely prefer Kalim's affections given Kalim is less likely to punish darling, but Jamil could also use Snake Charmer on Darling to make them prefer him instead.

Historic Cruelty- Divus and Mozus. Trein is much more patient and lenient with darling as he is in his 50s and he just wants a settled down beloved that he can spoil. Divus is more of the punishment/reward type for whenever their shared darling acts up or gets rowdy as he is in his late 20's/early 30's and is content to be a brat tamer. Both want to spoil darling and are willing to do their own thing to get the results they desire from their beloved.

Elder Fae- Lilia and Crowley. Both are older fae (I'm just assuming on Crowley's part given his features and age/temperament) and both are more eccentric when it comes to how they interact with the world. They could contentedly share a darling together given their attitudes and tempers. Lilia would actually be the main enforcer of rules despite his more exciteable temper as he still has that paternal experience and put his foot down on certain behavior. Alternatively, Lilia is also the one who spoils darling more due to Crowley being a penny-pincher more stringent on funds. The relationship is more focus on Lilia as far as actual relationships go and the frequent interruption from Crowley wanting attention. It works for the two Fae.

Father Crow's Staff- Platonic yandere team-up of the staff looking after Crowley's offspring. Divus is the father that stepped up when Crowley failed to be a good father. Trein is the adoptive grandfather. Sam is the adoptive older brother. Vargas is the adoptive fun uncle. Even the fire fairies and ghosts try to have a hand in protecting/raising Crowley's young. They will be raised in NRC given Crowley is Headmage and lives there most of the time. Probably more protective of a fem-aligned darling than masc-aligned given NRC is an all male school (minus darling) and that means the child needs to be protected even more from untoward students. Lilia is a constant problem as he frequently tries to adopt this little up-and-coming Fae child given how little Crowley actually parents them.

[drdemonprince]

Your post about "transitioning to escape gender but then there's more gender" has been rotating furiously in my mind since I saw it. When I first realized I was trans at age 15, I identified as agender, but I knew I wanted to go on T and get top surgery so I decided it would be simpler to tell everyone I was a trans man and that just kind of became the truth. Now 10 years later I'm sorta starting to feel like I wanna actually be agender again, but the idea of an identity shift like that at my current age is terrifying and idek who I'd tell, or how I'd do it, and I don't think I wanna stop using he/him exclusively, and I have no idea why I'm telling *you* this other than that I'm scared to talk to anyone I know about it because it feels like somehow admitting that I was wrong about the gender I fought like hell to become, even though i don't really think that's the case I think my sense of self might just be continuously evolving... but I just wanna say you talking about having a gender shift like once every several years is helping me process this rn and feel like I'm not faking anything now AND wasn't faking anything before.

Dog i am right there with you. As a kid I always thought gender was bullshit, the coercive nature of it disgusted and scared me and I rebelled against it the best that I could. I loathed being assigned to any gender category, I never identified as a "girl", but I didn't really identify with any other category either. Puberty terrified me (and of course, it does most young people, but it felt like it would only more deeply entrench the category that I was assigned to in other people's minds, it made it more difficult to escape). I had trans friends as a teen but it did not occur to me to transition because there was really no end goal that I wanted to head toward, I just knew what I wanted to avoid and not experience. I coped mostly by degendering my body with a fairly androgynous style and way of presenting myself to the word and mannerisms, but also by starving myself which was not so great, and not sustainable. I considered transness for myself, even trying on a friend's binder and presenting masculinely at certain queer events, but it seemed to me at the time like just another way in which to obsess over gender, a foolish coercive socially constructed thing that i was trying to avoid.

In my 20s, I learned more about nonbinary people and figured that explained things pretty well. I was enamored with the transition journeys of some other trans people, largely trans women more than trans masculine ones (with some trans-effeminate faggot boy exceptions), but I still didn't want to take on all the expense and uncertainty and hassle of navigating the medical system for myself. I didn't think that the pursuit of being happy merited taking on so many risks or fiddling with myself so much. I saw it as an extravagance I didn't deserve, I guess, and I also couldn't locate a target outcome that seemed desirable enough for me. I was still dealing with an eating disorder and recovering from some trauma and didn't really think about my life in the long term. I guess I still don't, haha, whoops.

Eventually I came out as nonbinary, and nobody really gave a shit. There is a lot of useless, solidarity-breaking discourse that happens online about essentially who is "more" oppressed, binary trans people or nonbinary people, and a lot of that fight amounts to the two groups shouting about the ways in which they annoy one another without there being any cogent analysis of power and where oppression comes from (let alone how much those two categories overlap).

But I will say that being a they/them was far more difficult than being a trans guy socially and institutionally, because your identity is completely illegible to every system around you. "binary" trans people struggle under this too, but i have found there are some immense benefits to having a socially and institutionally legible target gender. nobody would fucking actually they/them me. not anyone. not even other trans people and queer people. there were no public gendered spaces for me. there were no spaces for me. there was no way to move through the medical system, professional life, and other public institutions as a nonbinary person. i was still just a cis woman in everyone's eyes. including the people who claimed to support me. and it was massively frustrating.

and so i think ultimately, i took my frustrations with not being at all able to escape coerced gendering as a nonbinary person and combined that with the affinity i do feel for queer men and the general sense of misery i was still experiencing in my life and decided what the hell, i'll round myself up to being a trans guy. i upped my T dose, i dressed more masculinely, i eventually got a super masculine hair cut that really squared off my jawline and got me gendered correctly, and i started more consciously inhabiting queer men's spaces.

and it was pretty dope. for a while. i felt the rush of having gotten away with something. when people effortlessly gendered as male i felt freed at last from the pressure to be a woman. i was no longer being coerced into being something that i was not. i had escaped the enforced category so much that people couldn't even see the history of that category being pushed onto me. there was relief.

but then. as always happens. people made little comments about my handshake being too weak for a man. the hypermasc dudes at the leather bar rolled their eyes at me and all the other effeminate dudes swanning around the bar. the people who picked me up off the apps or at the sauna would always let it slip, eventually, that they had a lot of experience with trans guys, or had most recently been dating all trans guys, and it would make me feel like a stock character to them, yet another category into which all kinds of assumptions had been projected. a type not a person. a few people said my haircut made me look like i was in the military or described me as actually masculine, which was equally jarring because it was so incorrect. people tried to affirm me by saying i was such a dude, i was such a man, i was such a fag, i was such a gay bro, pawing all over me leaving the mark of all their assumptions and oversimplifications behind. i had tried to run away from gender and there i was just BASTING all the time in everybody's goddamn assumptions about gender. trans people didn't talk about it any less than cis people did, they were just as fucking confining to be around.

it honestly feels really dirty. when people try to affirm your gender constantly and can't stop talking about it, when people look past you and see only your body, your history, or the role they have typecast you in, when people use your body as an outlet for their own gender or sexuality explorations, when they keep trying to measure every single facet of existence up into being masculine or being feminine or being toppy or bottomy or any other gendered type, it's claustrophobic.

as a trans man i tried playing this whole gender game and the second i started winning i began to feel even more disgusted with myself. it wasn't a victory or an escape, it was a capitulation. exploring with my identity and presentation has brought positive things into my life and my health has gotten better as a result, and i've made wonderful friends who, like me, are disaffected by this coercive gendering system. so i don't regret any of that. but trying to make myself legible under the existing gendered system was a fool's fucking errand. i wish i hadnt done it to myself and i wish i hadnt had it pushed onto me. to be clear, it was cissexist, binarist society that forced it onto me; even when other queer people coated me in their gendered assumptions that is obviously a byproduct of societal conditioning, and it's conditioning that ive reinforced in my own behavior and outlook toward others plenty of times too. we all do it, and we are all wronged by the existing coercive gender system.

i dont even care how i fucking identify anymore and i have no intention of changing pronouns again or anything, i'm so bored of it, i just actually want off this fucking thing. im not interested in trying to make others understand what i am anymore or in who i am even being simply categorizable, i dont want to obsess anymore over how i am perceived or to attempt engineer my appearance and mannerisms to broadcast an identity to anyone. i dont even want to fuck anybody right now at all because im so sick of how much that's a gender pantomime for people. i want off this fuckin ride man im so done.

it's kind of freeing, to hit this point of complete gender apathy, and i think it is a pretty common stage of identity development for a lot of queer people who have explored multiple identities and roles over time. there is no category that i actually am, or that anyone is, there are just the frameworks that society has given us to work with to understand ourselves, and the ways in which we flatten who we are to be able to make sense of the world using those frameworks. but who i actually am is so much more contextual and mutable than all that. i am a different person in the classroom than i am on the train platform than i am in the bedroom than i am cuddling on the couch than i am when i'm working out than i am when curled up on the floor crying than i am at a big furry convention. who i am continues to change as new people come in and out of my life and age and change and my body alters and as the weather turns. who fuckin knows man it's nothing and everything. i want to let it just be

[drop-dead-dropout]

posting a kimharry oneshot here bc i'm too lazy to format it on ao3 rn but I'll reblog with the ao3 link later if I get around to it

so basically I was thinking about how kim is very my partner coded and I had this galaxy brain idea to write a fic where kim is asexual or uhhh. would grayace be the term? sorry idk but it's based on my partner I love him <3. also blink and you'll miss it trans harry but it's important to me that you know they're t4t in this lol. cw for suggestive (non-graphic discussions of sexuality and also it takes place Directly after them fucking), 1.3k words. (please be nice to me I've never posted fic on tumblr lol)

YOU — The air in your apartment is musty with the smell of sweat and sex. Your chest heaves with slightly strangled breaths, face burning with humiliation. You've always been a little (a lot) loose-lipped during orgasm—

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Especially an orgasm like that, holy shit, Kim—

YOU — But you've never, in living memory, said anything quite as ridiculously and unashamedly needy as the complete word-vomit that just exited your mouth a few seconds ago.

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Failure] — Honestly, you were a little out of it and the exact phrasing is already slipping your mind, but it was something along the lines of... What was it again?

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] — Oh my fucking Dei don't stop, Kim please I need you so bad, god I'm so desperate, shit, you drive me fucking crazy, pleasepleaseplease—

SAVOIR FAIRE — Yeah, no, I'm cutting you off right there. He's already about to spontaneously combust, you don't need to embarrass him even more.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — He asked. Besides, I'm not the one who dropped the ball there.

COMPOSURE — Sorry for that, Harry.

KIM KITSURAGI — Kim's hands rest on your chest, tracing circles just below your twin scars with his nimble fingers. "Is that... Really how it feels, to you?"

EMPATHY — It's a genuine question, and he's smiling with an infectious fondness. He's not upset, just curious. Your eagerness is fascinating to him. And cute.

HALF-LIGHT — What does he mean by that, though? Are we too needy? Is it not good for him? Does he hate us and want us to die forever—

VOLITION — No. Shut up. We already agreed you're not allowed to talk when Harry's alone with Kim, don't you remember?

HALF-LIGHT — But! Danger!

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Trivial: Success] — It's Kim. There is no danger here.

YOU — At a loss for anything else to say, you just nod, a bit dumbly. "I mean... Yeah. Is it, uh, not like that for you?"

COMPOSURE [Formidable: Failure] — You try to play the question off as a nonchalant, but you're not even close to being a good enough liar to hide the mild undercurrent of fear in your voice. Especially not from him. (Khm. Sorry again.)

KIM KITSURAGI — "No, not really. It's not you," he quickly adds, seeing the obvious and barely-held back self-loathing in your expression. "It's just the way I am, I suppose. I'm too old to question it now."

DRAMA [Heroic: Success] — He's not lying to spare your feelings, sire. This is truly just a facet of himself that's always been there.

RHETORIC [Challenging: Failure] — By the way, you distinctly recall hearing him talk about having had sex before. Quite a bit, in fact.

YOU — "But wait, I thought—"

KIM KITSURAGI — Already having anticipated this line of questioning, Kim laughs a bit under his breath. "It wasn't a lie; I never said I don't. Actually, sometimes that made it better— without all the messy urgency, I guess I seemed 'cool', to borrow your phrasing. And it's not like I didn't enjoy it, either." He shrugs. "It was just... Something to do. I never really understood the intensity."

SHIVERS [Legendary: Success] — A dozen miles and many years ago, two young men make out in a musty old apartment. "How are you always so— so unaffected," one says to the other with a breathy laugh. In a few months he will repeat these words with a much uglier tone, and they will be the last ones Kim ever hears from him.

EMPATHY [Heroic: Success] — For the record, he was not, in fact, "unaffected" by that particular heartbreak. Don't ever hurt him like that.

YOU — Before you can think better of it, you find yourself saying, "Is that bad?"

KIM KITSURAGI — A twitch in the corner of his mouth interrupts his relaxed grin for a moment. You almost want to mourn the loss. "I don't know, Harry, is it? Why do you think it would be?"

PAIN THRESHOLD — You've hurt him, idiot. We just told you not to do that.

YOU — "I-I mean— it's just—" Your teeth click audibly with how quickly you shut your own mouth. You really, really don't want to fuck this up.

HALF-LIGHT — Too late.

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] — HEY. Back in the corner, you.

YOU — Guys, please help me. I don't know anything about… Well, anything, really, but especially not this. How do I fix it? What do I say to make him feel better?

INLAND EMPIRE — You could start by actually answering his question, instead of rushing to apologize. Why do you think it would be bad? What about the concept is uncomfortable to you?

SUGGESTION [Medium: Success] — Kim feels safe with you, in the same way that you do with him. Be honest. He knows you didn't mean anything by it— the only way you could fuck this up is by not talking to him.

YOU — After a moment of pondering, you find the right words. Or maybe not the right words, but the ones that feel the most true: "I don't know. But I know I would be unhappy, if I was... Different to how I am now."

EMPATHY — Kim's eyes flash with a bit of surprise. But good surprise, like an old friend dropping by unexpectedly. The smile returns (yay!)— smaller, but softer, and almost giddy. It's not one you see on him often, a bit too unguarded and juvenile for his tastes. It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

KIM KITSURAGI — "So would I," he says simply.

DRAMA [Challenging: Success] — He means it.

YOU — "Oh." You blink two or three times. "Oh. Well that's good, then, right? That you're happy?"

PERCEPTION (HEARING) — Something about the almost childish sincerity in your voice must be funny to him, because he keeps doing that thing where he chuckles under his breath, and coughs to try to cover it.

PAIN THRESHOLD [Formidable: Failure] — He's laughing at you.

AUTHORITY [Trivial: Failure] — Exactly. He's mocking you, Harry, he thinks you're an idiot. Make him respect you—

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] — He's in love, you moron.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — As if on cue (or maybe your internal dialogue is just more easily observable from the outside than you thought), Kim leans forward and kisses you. For the first time, you notice how effective he is at responding to your reactions, like he's trying to find and wring out every last happy sigh and spark of oxytocin he could possibly give you.

INTERFACING [Medium: Success] — Because he likes this. He likes pressing all your buttons and seeing what they do, which ones work the best. (Almost all of them work, when it's him. Maybe a little too well.)

ENDURANCE — Hey, don't look at me like that! It's not my fault he doesn't play fair.

SAVOIR FAIRE — Exactly. How are we supposed to be cool in front of Kim? He's like, the coolest.

KIM KITSURAGI — "I love you," Kim whispers, his lips tickling against your collarbone.

SAVOIR FAIRE — See?! He even makes THAT sound cool, a thousand times cooler than when we say it, which is, like, every five seconds!!

EMPATHY — It's true that you're usually the one to say it first. For a time, he hardly said it at all— you learned not to take it personally. You certainly have your own baggage. But lately, it's been nice to watch as he gets a bit more comfortable.

EMPATHY [Formidable: Success] — The cuddling usually seems to help, in moments like this.

CONCEPTUALIZATION [Godly: Success] — After all, what is a hug but a way to hide your face?

YOU — You wind your arms tighter around him. "I love you, too, Kim." And you swear he must be able to feel the way your lungs glow.

EMPATHY — He does. Of course he does.

INLAND EMPIRE — For a moment, you think you can feel his, too.

SHIVERS [Legendary: Success] — SLEEP WELL, MY DARLINGS.

[salixsociety]

Yes, I Hate Wicca.

A hopefully comprehensive guide to all my strifes.

More often than I care to admit I find myself quarrelling with people over my seemingly baseless hate for all things popular and simple. I'm accused of being a pretentious traditionalist, of being a snob, even of being a white supremacist on grounds of talking about European culture as a replacement for conventional witchcraft. I will not deny that I am a touch snobby and pretentious - such is my biggest flaw - but I am not a white supremacist, and my loathing for many seemingly innocuous witchcraft practices is not for nothing. It is because I hate Wicca, and everything related to and derived from it, and I have good reason to. Today I would like to introduce you to every single reason I have to loathe Wicca passionately, so that I can hopefully defer future debate partners to this post instead of retyping the same arduous messages.

What is Wicca?

Per the r/Wicca subreddit:

Wicca is a neopagan religion based on ancient pagan beliefs. It's an earth-based religion that believes in a God and Goddess as representative of a greater pantheistic godhead. Wicca includes a system of ethics and teaches that we all are ultimately responsible for our own actions. We believe in gods. We believe in magic. We believe in multiple realities. We practice alone, or in groups. We practice witchcraft.

I chose the r/Wicca subreddit for my first primer because it's easy to accuse people of misrepresenting a faith if you do not allow the community to speak for itself on what their faith constitutes. As much as I hate Wicca, and do not think it is redeemable, I have no desire to be accused of letting my hate set the tone of my arguments against it. I don't want to give militant Wiccans leeway to claim that I speak on their behalf and therefore my points are wrong. The Wicca subreddit is a large community and often referred to by Wiccans, and it features this brief description of 'The Craft'. In any case, though Wicca nowadays is divided and will be described slightly differently by everybody you ask about it, the description provided by the subreddit is a pretty good example of common ground between all Wiccans. That description mostly matches up with how the average Wiccan would describe their faith. My personal description of what Wicca is would look slightly different. I would take care to note, for one, that Wicca is a form of Western Esotericism, more specifically Western Occultism. [1] I also find it important to note that whether or not Wicca is an earth religion, or nature religion, is of some debate, and not all consider it such. What is also subject of some variation across traditions and individuals is whether or not The Craft is pantheistic: some people accept the two gods of Wicca as figureheads for every pagan god in existence, others simply worship them as one single masculine god and one single feminine god. 'Witchcraft' is also a term that has no set definition - I can only assume that the mention of it on r/Wicca intends to broadly refer to most or all forms of magic accepted within Wicca.

Worth noting is that Wicca has spread very far beyond the confines of British Traditional Wicca (BTW), which are streams of Wicca that still adhere strongly to their roots. What is and is not Wicca is something that is of some debate among Wiccans themselves. That's why I think it is highly important to establish a few definitions that we'll be using for the rest of this post:

WICCA: I'll admit to using this term loosely. When I say 'Wicca' in this post I'll mainly be referring to the community of people who consider themselves Wiccans, i.e. the Wiccan religion. I may also use it to describe the broader influence of Wicca, however.

WICCA-DERIVED: I'll mostly use this term when I don't want to paint something as being inherently Wiccan, just related to or derived from it. Wiccan practices often escape the bounds of their respective culture and then grow into staples of various traditions that aren't meant to be Wiccan at all. When referring to such things I'll refer to them as derived from Wicca, or similar.

Wicca's Origins

To understand the history of Wicca we have to travel back a bit further than its founding: to the 16th and 17th century Witch Hunts in Europe. I have another post on this same blog detailing the relationship between Wicca and the Witch Trials, which I highly recommend reading to get a better understanding of the accusations of antisemitism I will be making shortly. At any rate: the witch trials happened across Europe and its colonies throughout the early modern period, after a time of much disaster. As I state in my other article:

Before the early Church turned its hateful eye to the concept of 'witches,' it was firmly on jews. Jews, alongside other heretics and oppressed minorities like the Rroma, were considered utterly worthy of damnation. They were seen as antagonistic to the Church, going against everything the Church stood for, and furthermore as misanthropic, greedy, unreliable enemies. They were the scapegoats for many disasters and indeed frequently accused of practicing magic or poisoncrafting to invoke these disasters on the 'Good Christian Folk'. Furthermore, and this may sound familiar to you, jews were accused of 'consorting with the devil' and murdering children in order to consume their blood to mock the Eucharist, often referred to as blood libel. It was often claimed that this (nonexistent!) practice was done on the Shabbat, alongside other practices twisting and mocking those done in Church on Sunday. The persecution of Jews in Medieval Europe was horrific and seemingly endless, having origins in antiquity and reaching a peak during the Crusades, and another when the Plague ran rampant. Jews were banished, forced to convert to Christianity or brutally murdered, not infrequently by burning or strangulation.

It is fairly easy to see, with some research and critical thought, that it wouldn't logically be real witches being murdered during the witch hunts. For starters, it's hard to believe that there were really people out there flying through the sky on brooms, to mythical locations, to dance naked under the full moon, have sex with the devil, and cannibalize children. There were of course those people who confessed to having done such things, but they were under threat of torture. Indeed, this archetype of the 'witch' has its origins in the Church's loathing for non-Christians and heretics. As Lily Climenhaga states [2]:

"Magic" acted as a description for individuals or groups who did not subscribe to the perceived societal norms of the medieval Christian community. Jews and heretics, the principle Others within Medieval Europe, existed outside of the societal norms and played an important role in the formation of the Christian perception of witches and witchcraft. Common elements existed between stories surrounding Jews, heretics, and witches. These beliefs created the preliminary conditions necessary for the mass persecution and intolerance toward witches and became inherent to the idea of the witch as the diabolical Other within Medieval Christian thought.

Furthermore, the stereotypical image of the witch is directly derived from hateful depictions of the marginalized. The conical, wide brimmed hat that we often see a cartoon witch depicted with actually comes from the conical hat known as a judenhut (jew hat), which was compulsory for many jews to wear in the Middle Ages. [3] Then there is of course the typical red or black hair, short and stocky figure, buckled shoes, large hooked nose, green skin, et cetera. All of this to say: It was not witches being hunted during the witchcraze. There is no such thing as a human person able to fly on broomsticks, cause storms at will, magically steal money from a distance, and curse someone to death with one glance. The medieval and early modern 'witch' is a mythical figure used to justify the persecution and eradication of the already marginalized. This idea is fairly commonly accepted now, as it should be, but it wasn't always.

In 1828, German lawyer and professor Karl Ernst Jarcke proposed the witch-cult hypothesis: a now discredited theory that the people persecuted and murdered during the witch trials were not marginalized innocents, but rather members of a pan-European pagan religion. He posited that this pagan witch-cult was older than Christianity, but had been driven underground by it, and only came to light when the accused of the witch trials confessed to witchcraft. This hypothesis was affirmed and adapted by other scholars throughout the 19th century but remained of moderate popularity at best, until 20th century Egyptologist Margaret Murray became one of its most avid proponents, incorporating it into many of her works. Most notably, she featured it in 1921's The Witch-Cult in Western Europe and 1933's The God of the Witches. [1] Murray's writing is the origin of many Wiccan motifs, such as the thirteen member coven, the Horned God (based on the works of James Frazer) and the cross-quarterly gathering. Furthermore, as a radical skeptic and rationalist, Murray wished to strip the witch-cult hypothesis of all supernatural notions. [4] She claimed that the secret society of witches were not Satanists but nature-worshippers, and that the gatherings were actually orgies, where a priest dressed in ritual skins and horns fornicated with all the gathered women. She also proposed that these rituals were actually benevolent fertility rituals for the good of the witches' communities, and there was little to no malevolent magic involved. She was also the one to introduce the idea that the people who confessed to curses and other malevolent magic were actually witches who had forgotten their own original intent, or had been misinterpreted by the court. [5] Murray herself [5]:

For centuries both before and after the Christian era, the witch was both honoured and loved. Whether man or woman, the witch was consulted by all, for relief in sickness, for counsel in trouble, or for foreknowledge of forthcoming events. They were at home in the courts of Kings [...] their mystical powers gave them the authority for discovering culprits, who then received the appropriate punishment.

These writings were a turning point for the associations of the word 'witch'. Prior to these hypotheses, 'witch' was a bad word, an insult even, reserved only for people - especially women - believed to have evil intentions and use spiritual methods not sanctioned by the Church for their own benefit. The use of the word 'witch' nowadays, as a self-imposed title for anybody using any magical means, can be traced back to this pivotal moment in time. While Murray did great PR for the nonexistent witch archetype, erasing the idea that their practices were Satanic and supernatural, she unfortunately did much harm to marginalized peoples by propagating the idea that it was not them being persecuted, but some mythical clan. Therein lies my first problem: Wicca minimizes the impact of what it calls the 'Burning Times' on marginalized peoples and instead adopts all this suffering for itself, painting the 'witch' as a marginalized, oppressed, and beloathed historical figure, when it's the very people who would've been doing the burning who founded, shaped, and maintain Wicca. In doing so, it also adopts various words, like Sabbat(h), which is a word unique to Judaism and has been weaponized against Judaism since the Middle Ages. Despite much criticism, even from Murray's contemporaries, she was invited to write a highly influential piece for the Encyclopaedia Brittanica in 1929. She used the opportunity to promote her hypothesis as fact, and it quickly grew so influential that according to Jacqueline Simpson, the ideas got to be "so entrenched in popular culture that they will probably never be uprooted." [4] But we haven't even gotten into when Wicca was actually founded, so let's get to that.

One of, if not the only contemporary fan of Margaret Murray's hypothesis, was Folklore Society fellow Gerald Gardner. He was an interesting and well-travelled man, having come from a wealthy family, growing up with nursemaids and a family firm. As a result of his illnesses (namely asthma) and constant travels abroad during childhood, he never received a formal education, nor did he attend school. Instead, through his travels and family acquaintances, he developed quite the interest in spirituality. At first he developed an interest in the Buddhist beliefs of the Singhalese natives on his tea plantation, later in British and Celtic folklore from his relatives the Surgenesons. In his biography, it is revealed that it is from these relatives that he learns that his grandfather, Joseph, was rumored to be a practicing witch. [6] Different accounts of Gardner's life had it that it was also rumored within his family that a Scottish ancestor of his had been burned as a witch in 1610. [7] A few years after this time with the Surgenesons, Gardner was initiated as an Apprentice Freemason in Ceylon. He quickly rose in the ranks, but eventually lost interest in the Masonic activities and resigned in 1911, presumably because he wanted to leave Ceylon. [6] After this he moved around Asia a fair bit more, taking a great interest in Indigenous beliefs there, and even participating in some of their tattoo and ritual traditions. During this time of travel, Gardner also decided to take the Shahada, the Muslim confession of faith and, technically, final step in the process of becoming Muslim; but Gardner never became a practicing Muslim, mostly using the Shahada as a means to gain trust from the locals in Malaya. [7] In 1927, Gardner's father's health deteriorated, and he went back to Britain to visit him. During this time in Britain he researched various spiritual and religious movements, namely Spiritualism and Mediumship, and he reported many spiritual encounters with whom he interpreted as deceased family members. [6] [7] He attended many Spiritualist churches and seances, and had a number of spiritual experiences that, according to his biographer, changed his interest from a purely amateur anthropological one to one of genuine personal belief. [6] He became re-involved with Freemasonry, and started taking a serious interest in magic. When he, after his retirement, officially moved back to Britain, he started pursuing magic there with some seriousness. He became involved in such things as nudism, and, in September 1937, he requested a Doctorate of Philosophy (Ph. D) from the Meta Collegiate Extension of the National Electronic Institute, an organization based in Nevada. This organization was widely known for providing illegitimate degrees and diplomas through mail order, for a fee. After this he began to introduce and style himself as 'Dr. Gardner' despite having no academically recognized qualifications. [7]

He started allowing spirituality to shape his life, such as when he bought land on his beloved Cyprus because he came to believe that he had actually lived on the island before, in a past life. He wrote a book referencing this as well, influenced by his dreams: his first novel, A Goddess Arrives, followed a British man in the 1930s who had, in a past life, been a bronze age Cypriot. [7] When World War II became an imminent threat, Gardner and his wife moved to Highcliffe, just south of the New Forest, to escape potential bombings. [7] He becomes involved with the Rosicrucian Order Crotona Fellowship, a magico-religious tradition in Western Esotericism. The Fellowship had been founded in 1920 by George Alexander Sullivan, based upon a blend of Rosicrucianism, Theosophy, Freemasonry and his own personal innovations. [7] It requires mentioning that Western Esotericism and all of its more modern traditions (Rosicrucianism, Theosophy, Anthroposophy, Freemasonry, Occultism, et cetera) are inseparable from white supremacy. This is something fairly well-recorded, if shrouded, and so complex I am hesitant to delve into it in great amounts of detail. It is, however, pivotal for the reader to understand that many of Western Esotericism's greatest thinkers from the Middle Ages onward were antisemites, racists, misogynists, colonialists, and even nazis. Western Esotericism also had a gigantic impact on 20th century race studies, and the idea that there was such a thing as a superior or aryan race. Defenders and fans of Western Esotericism are quick to point out that there are also many non-white thinkers in Western Esotericism that were pivotal to its formation, and I would never deny that. I am, however, denying that what Western Esotericism has turned into is productive. Having been founded upon the backs of indigenous and marginalized peoples, by appropriating their practices and denying their suffering, such as the appropriation of Kabbalah and the denial of the persecution of jews, shaped by men who were famously evil, such as Aleister Crowley, and used as pseudoscientific justification for some of mankind's greatest atrocities, I cannot stand with Western Esotericism. Ever. It is true that Western Esotericism has been the victim of white supremacy as well: Freemasons being persecuted and incarcerated as part of the 'jewish conspiracy' in Nazi Germany for example, but at the same time the connections between Esotericism and the nazi, half-Nordic, half-Hindu German Faith Movement cannot be denied. Folkish and Odinist 'traditions' find their roots in nazi occultism as well, as they sprang from the desire for a Pan-Germanic ethnic identity. These faiths persist to this day, attracting many different types of people and turning them into white supremacists or even neo-nazis.

Back to Gardner. During his time with the Rosicrucian Order he had also joined the Folklore society, where he published some works and became member of the governing council, where he was a distrusted man. He had also joined the Historical Association. [7] He ran into some quarrels and troubles with the Rosicrucian Order and found himself increasingly cynical of their practices, especially when Sullivan claimed that World War II would not come the very day before Britain declared war on Germany. [6] There was, however, a select group of people within the Order with whom he got along quite well. [7] Biographer Philip Heselton theorized upon who this group could be and claims they may have been Edith Woodford-Grimes, Susie Mason, her brother Ernie Mason, and their sister Rosetta Fudge, all of whom had originally come from Southampton before joining the Order in Highcliffe. Per Gardner himself: "unlike many of the others [in the Order], [they] had to earn their livings, were cheerful and optimistic and had a real interest in the occult". He was "really very fond of them", claiming he "would have gone through hell and high water even then for any of them." [6] It was these very people who took him to the house of a woman Gardner calls 'Old Dorothy' Clutterbuck, a wealthy local to the New Forest area. They, according to him, made him strip naked and take part in an initiation ritual, wherein he caught the words 'Wicca' and 'Wicce', which he recognized as the Old English words for witch. Though research by the likes of Hutton and Heselton shows that the New Forest Coven, as Gardner calls them, were likely only formed in the 1930s, Gardner took this experience as proof of the witch-cult hypotheses which he had learned about from Margaret Murray's writings. [7] Gardner spent a significant amount of time with them but only ever described one of their rituals in detail, one intended to ward off the Germans from coming to Britain. It is attested in both Bracelin's and Heselton's biographies. Gardner went on, after these events, to also become involved with druidry and be ordained as priest in the Ancient British Church, and he conducted some rituals according to the Lesser Key of Solomon with his nudist and occultist friends. [7] In 1947 Gardner was introduced to Aleister Crowley, a man of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn and the founding father of Thelema, a Western Occultist new religious movement. Crowley is one of those ubiquitous, evil figureheads in Western Esotericism that people prefer not to give too many words to. His history with occultism, racism, antisemitism, misogyny, and sexual abuse is too vast to summarize in one paragraph. Still, Thelema persists to this day, as do Crowley apologists. Crowley elevated Gardner to the IV° of Ordo Templi Orientis (O.T.O.) and issued a charter decreeing that Gardner could admit people into its Minerval degree. The charter was written in Gardner's handwriting and only signed by Crowley. [6] [7] [8] When Crowley passed away, Gardner appointed himself the leader of the O.T.O.. He would, however, lose interest in leading the O.T.O. within a few years. [7] During this time Gardner also travelled through America, especially in hopes of learning about Voodoo and Hoodoo. [7]

Gardner wished to spread his newly founded Wiccan religion, and wrote another work of fiction in order to do so. He described various Wiccan rituals in this book as 'High Magic' and based it heavily on the Solomonic Keys. He was also working on a scrapbook which he did not intend to publish, which he called 'Ye Bok of Ye Art Magical'. Therein he wrote down various Wiccan rituals and ceremonies, and this book would later form as the prototype for the Wiccan Book of Shadows, a term he himself coined. He claimed the book to be of ancient origins to his followers. During this time he also gained his first initiates, and the first covens were formed. [7] During this initial time of true organized religion, Gardner ran into several problems. People important to him left his faith due to his actions with the press, and he had quarrels with some members who recognized that many of his rituals and such had been adapted straight from Thelema. [4] In 1954, Gardner wrote arguably the most influential work on Wicca: Witchcraft Today. It was his first non-fiction work, and contained a preface by Margaret Murray, the woman who had popularized the witch-cult hypothesis on which Wicca was built. In this book, Gardner praised Murray's theories, and added some of his own: namely that the European belief in faeries was actually because of a hidden pygmy race living alongside mankind, and that the Knights Templar were actually initiates into The Craft. [7] After this, Gardner started cultivating larger scale attention for Wicca. He invited the press to write about his religion, and most of the tabloid articles produced painted him and his cult in a negative light. They were made out to be devil worshippers, cultists, et cetera. Nevertheless, Gardner persisted, and encouraged the press to write more. He thought the publicity, even if negative, would help prevent the 'Old Religion', as he called it, from dying out. [7] [8]

In 1960, Gardner's official biography, Gerald Gardner: Witch, was published. It was penned in its entirety by Gardner's friend Idries Shah, a Sufi mystic, but Shah used the name of one of Gardner's High Priests, Jack L. Bracelin, because he was wary of being associated with witchcraft. In 1963, Gardner visited Lebanon. On his way home, he had a heart attack on ship, en route to Tunisia. He was buried there, the funeral only attended by the ship's captain. [9] Many authors have speculated on Gardner's life since his passing. Though he was devoted to his only wife, Donna, it was claimed that Gardner spent many evenings 'cuddling up' to a young High Priestess named Dayonis. Biographer Philip Heselton claims that Gardner had a longterm affair with Edith Woodford-Grimes, nicknamed Dafo by Gardner. This theory was affirmed by Adrian Bott. [10] Gardner was one of, or possibly the first person to use what Wiccans know as a 'Craft name', a magical name used for magico-religious purposes in Wicca. Gardner was known as Scire by his followers. Reportedly, Wicca was not known as Wicca at the time of its initial development. Gardner often referred to his adherents as 'the Wica', but the religion was only ever referred to as 'Witchcraft', capital W.

In Wicca's founding lies my second problem with it. Wicca was founded by a white man, based on a combination of Western Esoteric notions and experiences, Spiritualism, Mediumship, appropriation of indigenous European, Asian and even American spirituality. It was built on a hypothesis that denies the suffering of marginalized peoples and claims it for nonmarginalized, white, privileged Europeans instead. It poses itself as something with roots in academics, while the founder had never enjoyed any form of education and possessed a fake PhD. It was influenced heavily by cults, occultists who are generally acknowledged to be terrible people, and pseudoscience. It claims to be ancient, but was founded in the 1900s. And, importantly, it contributes heavily to white supremacy through the idea of a pan-European cultural identity and pan-European pagan religion.

Wicca Today: Innocuous Propagation of White Supremacy

Wicca has grown exponentially since its founding, now being by far the largest pagan religion actively being practiced in the modern era. It has both organized covens and solitary adherents across the world, and most people who have access to the internet will have heard of Wicca once or twice. Wicca is, truly and undeniably, inescapable in pagan and magical spaces. It's easy, and common, for adherents to claim that Wicca is not what it once was. 'Yeah, the origins are bad, but that doesn't make the whole Craft bad,' is a favored argument against the idea that Wicca's origins make it inherently irredeemable. I disagree strongly with this, and always will; something that was built with bricks made of appropriation and lies can't be separated from those evils. If you took the appropriation out of Wicca, it would cease to be Wicca. Deconstructing Wicca would leave you with a blend of Freemasonry, Thelema, folk magic, Christianity, various Indigenous beliefs, Kabbalah, Occultism, and some misrepresented paganism. If you take the appropriation and harm out of Wicca, it simply ceases to exist. Nevertheless, many people think Wicca can be separated from its evil origins. That's why in this section of the article, I'd like to delve into why that is not true, and how Wicca continues to do harm in this day and age.

For starters, of course, Wicca has not ceased to be appropriative simply because time has passed. Rather, the appropriation gets increasingly less attention, until it becomes so integral to the Craft that people don't even notice or stop to think that it may have come from somewhere that never wanted it to be taken in the first place. A prime example, which I've already touched on very briefly, is the use of the word 'sabbat', in reference to 'Wiccan' holidays. As I wrote in my other post about this topic:

The very root of this word is the Hebrew ש־ב־ת (sh-b-t). It is the root word for many words pertaining to rest and not working (or more broadly: 'cessation'). This word evolved into שַׁבָּת (shabát), which translates to Saturday or weekly rest-day, normally. This word, also often spelled Shabbos from Ashkenazi Hebrew, travelled through various antique languages (Ancient Greek -> Latin -> Old French) directly to Middle English, where it became 'Sabat', and later Sabbath. While this word, in its travel through Europe, has influenced some words, you'll notice that it has also stayed one unique word, with a unique meaning: the Jewish Rest Day. The Sabbath, Shabbos, Sabbat, Shabat, et cetera, will always and has for most of its history been the word uniquely reserved for Saturday in Judaism. To those not very well read on Judaism, it may be helpful to know that Judaism is what is considered a closed practice. It is only permissible to practice Jewish religious tradition, and to a large extent, Jewish culture, if you are a Jewish convert. By extension, that should clue you in on the nature of the word and holiday of Shabbat.

This word, which should have stayed what it was meant to be, a word for the Jewish rest day, first became associated with the archetypal witch during the late Medieval period, when jews, and later witches, were accused of going to Sabbaths or Synagogues to perform evil rituals. Though there were attempts by the likes of Margaret Murray to claim that the word 'sabbat(h)' as used by 'witches' was not in any way related to Judaism, those claims have been strongly disputed. Murray claimed in her 1921 book The Witch-Cult in Western Europe that 'sabbat' actually came from Old French s'esbattre, meaning to frolic and amuse oneself. This theory has no proof, nor is it readily academically received or accepted. The word in conjunction with witchcraft is deeply hurtful to Judaism and jewish people across the globe, as it reminds them of the persecution they faced when their faith and culture was considered evil and worth being killed over. I highly recommend reading Why I Don't Call Them Sabbats, Why You Should Stop, and Other Thoughts on Problematic Aspects of Western Witchcraft by Nile Sorena for more thoughts on this topic, as well as Jews and the Witchcraze by Jewitches.

The Wheel of the Year, the cycle of yearly Wiccan holidays (the very ones referred to as 'sabbats', which I refuse to do and will not start doing), is just as appropriative as the use of the word sabbat, but, hilariously, it is also quite magically and religiously dysfunctional. The Wheel of the Year is a Wiccan invention, initially based on the works of James Frazer, Robert Graves and Margaret Murray, the latter of whom was a big proponent of the theory that 'witches' gathered on cross-quarterly days, something that is still a big motif in Wicca. These theories were adopted by neopaganism by Gardner's Bricket Wood Coven and the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids, a neo-Druidic group founded by Ross Nichols. Supposedly, these people harmonized the eight primarily holidays described by the former academics to create an easy-to-use calendar for neopagans in Britain. [11] In the 1970s, prolific Wiccan Aidan Kelly gave names to some of the previously unnamed Wiccan equinoxes (Mabon and Ostara) and the Wiccan summer solstice (Litha). [12] This leaves us with the contemporary wheel of the year, which looks like this:

There are many reasons I find the Wheel of the Year appropriative and dysfunctional. For starters, Wiccan lore claims that the spokes-on-a-wheel structure is borrowed from Celtic mythology, but there is no evidence that Celtic myth ever depicted the passing of time as a wheel. Nevertheless, there is no inherent problem with viewing the passing of time as a wheel; cycles are very important in paganism across Europe. More cumbersome than the supposedly ancient wheel structure, is the combination of pagan holidays from various only passively related cultures. Beltane (Bealtaine), Lughnasadh, Samhain, and Imbolc are Celtic; specifically Gaelic. They all work well in conjunction, and were historically celebrated by the same people(s) throughout their years. Yule is Germanic, being celebrated by the Norse, continental Germanic, and Anglo-Saxon peoples. It was not in any way historically related to the four primary Celtic festivals, and doesn't work in conjunction with them very well, as many things that made Yule significant to the Germanic peoples, were celebrated during Samhain by the Gaels. Mabon is a contrived festival, filling an autumnal gap. The Germanic peoples did not have a specialized holiday for the autumn equinox, nor did the Celts, so Wiccans filled this gap with a 'lesser Sabbat' in the 1960s, named 'Mabon' by Aidan Kelly in the 1970s. [12] It was named for Mabon ap Modron, a figure in Brythonic mythology. As Wicca is wont to do, it paints itself and its traditions as incredibly ancient and cultural, and Mabon is no exception to this rule. Wiccans generally paint Mabon as a 'Celtic harvest festival' filled with rich traditions of sacrifice and preparation for winter, but factually, nothing is less true. Mabon (ap Modron) as a deity has nothing whatsoever to do with the autumn equinox, and there is no solid record of consistent autumn equinox festivities as celebrated by the Celts (nor by the Germanic peoples, for that matter). Noteworthy also is that on top of this usage of the name of Mabon for an unrelated festival often being deemed appropriation by Welsh and other Gaelic people, additional offense is often taken to the likening of the 'Mabon' celebrations to Thanksgiving, as many leftist people involved in Celtic culture have no respect for, nor wish to be associated with, colonialism. Ostara is an almost equally contrived festival, based on a single attestation by a Christian in England, Bede, who claimed in his work The Reckoning of Time that there was an Anglo-Saxon goddess named Ēostre, to whom a spring feasts were dedicated during the month of Ēosturmōnaþ (modern April). Litha, too, finds its origins in Bede's The Reckoning of Time. Per Aidan Kelly himself:

Summer was also rather easy. The Saxon calendar described by Bede was lunisolar. It usually had twelve months, but in the third, fifth, and last month of an 8-year cycle, a 13th month was added to keep it (more or less) in sync with the solar years. The last and first months in the calendar were named Foreyule and Afteryule, respectively, and obviously framed the holiday of Yule. The sixth and seventh month were named Forelitha and Afterlitha; furthermore, when the thirteenth month was added, it went in between them, and the year was then called a Threelitha. Obviously, by analogy with Yule, the summer solstice must have been called Litha. (I later discovered that Tolkien had figured this out also.)

Now, there is nothing wrong with being inspired by various open, European cultures and using that inspiration to create something new. Traditions don't have to be centuries old to be valid. What makes this thing that Wicca does appropriation, is that it refuses to acknowledge its traditions as modern, and its inspirations as cultural. This started way back in its origins, when Murray popularized the witch-cult hypothesis and Gardner espoused it, and it survives into the modern day with Wiccans either refusing to admit or pointedly ignoring the fact that their traditions are modern and were established in the modern period.

Wicca also breeds tolerance for cultural (mis)appropriation. When one is not taught to feel any animosity toward appropriation like the use of the word 'sabbat(h)' outside of its original context, even when the usage of the word is of active detriment to the people to whom the word originally belonged, one will feel confident doing other, similar appropriation elsewhere as well. This is why you'll often notice that it is Wiccans, and people who practice Wiccan-derived practices, who end up appropriating such things as white sage, dreamcatchers, sound bowls, reiki, et cetera. Some of those things should never be used by people who are not native to the culture those things come from, such as white sage, which is not only strictly closed but also a severely endangered plant; others are open to foreigners, but should be treated with respect and acknowledged as belonging to a certain culture. Wiccans who readily appropriate such things are often unable or unwilling to provide substantial information on where those practices or items come from and why they should be within their rights to have them, except through arguments which minimize the cultural value of something. A great example of this is this famed argument: "white sage can't be closed, it's a plant. Plants belong to the earth, and the earth belongs to everyone. I should be allowed to use white sage." Ignoring the fact that white sage is endangered and white sage in stores is generally poached, which entirely negates the 'respecting the earth' aspect of that argument, this argument also diminishes the cultural importance of white sage to Native Americans.

A different reason that appropriation runs rampant in Wiccan communities is, actually, white supremacy. The goal of white supremacy is to homogenize the white race into a single white cultural and ethnic identity, so that all white people may band together and rule over the inferior races, as it were. People think that white supremacy has to be quite drastic, only recognizing it in such things as fascism and neo-nazism, but in actuality, white supremacy is propagated in many far more innocuous ways. The wish to eradicate minority languages, various conspiracy theories about aliens, many commonly accepted forms of pseudoscience, and many forms of cultural appropriation that are popular to this day are huge cultivators of white supremacy. Something does not need to explicitly state, or even have the intent or desire to create a homogenous white ethnic identity to further white supremacy. This topic is so vast and complex it is impossible to summarize in any effective way in this post, which is why I encourage all magical practitioners and pagans to see witchcraft as highly intersectional an do their research about white supremacy and other harmful ideologies that survive in western spirituality to this day. Folkism and Odinism are great examples of not explicitly, but undeniably white supremacist spiritual organizations that further white supremacy by attempting to create a universal Germanic (and then European) cultural and ethnic identity. Wicca also engages a lot with the idea of various pan-European identities. This is particularly visible in two ways: one, the idea that there is a pan-European witch-cult that has survived from prehistory into the modern age. Magic, throughout Europe, as well as paganism throughout Europe, is highly variable and culturally dependent. Though it follows many of the same themes, as it does mostly have its roots in Proto-Indo-European common origins, it is distinctly different. If Europe had one, shared, culture, our world would look very different. Indeed, Europe is just as culturally diverse as any other place, even if nowadays (thanks to white supremacy) that is harder to see. There is not and never has been one singular secret society of witches in Europe. Instead, folk magic, which is culturally and linguistically dependent, and extremely variable across Europe, has survived under the radar of the church into the modern era, and it is one of Europe's most beautiful assets when it comes to illustrating our cultural richness. The second way that Wicca propagates pan-European identities is through their dual divinity system. Wicca's divinities, the Great Horned God and the Triple Goddess, who both are also, in turn, appropriated from Gaulish and Celtic lore respectively, are often said to be a sort of figurehead for all pagan divinities and serve as a sort of shorthand way to worship them all, in a soft pantheist way. The Horned God or Lord, the divine masculine, represents all male pagan gods, and his counterpart represents all female pagan gods as the Divine Feminine. Now, pantheism is not inherently problematic, but when one tries to reduce every pagan divinity in existence, gods which all have wildly different cultural and historic backgrounds, to two deities, without even being so courteous as to make those deities liminal and featureless, I fear that does turn into a problem. No, it is not possible to worship every single pagan god in existence by paying respects to just two deities who are mostly modern inventions. Every deity and every religion, every culture, has distinct needs, requirements, and ways of paying respect, and attempting to reduce all of that to the idea that two gods can serve as a prism and replacement for all the gods which have ever existed is a major flaw to this religion as well as a serious indicator of a strong tie to white supremacy.

But there is another problem to the dual divinity system of Wicca, which is gender essentialism. On top of cultural variability being completely forsaken by this prism-pantheistic idea, it also completely fails to acknowledge that there are many deities across Europe and across the globe which do not conform to the gender binary. The abrahamic God Himself is a great example, but so is Loki, a deity who is oddly well-beloved by Wiccans despite the religion's bioessentialist nature. So are Hermaphroditus from Hellenic myth, various South American divinities, even deities in Tagalog lore. As a matter of fact, gender-neutral depictions of divinity have been found on Celtic gold. [13] Divinity itself, as a concept, has no gender. Rejecting the gender binary has also been crucial to magic and witchcraft across Europe, see for example crossdressing being a prerequisite to successful Seidhr practices, and the associations of men practicing seidhr with unmanliness and even homosexuality. [14] Rejecting the gender binary was a powerful act when it came to magical skill, as it furthered ones journey into the liminal and undefined, the strange and 'other', which is where all manner of magical creatures resided. In fact, the residents of the Otherworld, the Faeries themselves, are not too keen on gender binary. The Divine Male archetype of aggressor, protector, avenger and ruler is one that, in Faery Courts, is generally represented by the Queen, not the King. If there even is a King. I find this ironic, considering Wicca's desire to be closely associated with Celtic mythology and antiquity. The concept of Divine Femininity and Divine Masculinity is also directly contradictory to feminism. To attempt to reduce a woman to nothing but the soft, sensual, sagely, nurturing caretaker is undeniably misogynistic. The idea of a Divine Masculine, too, is antifeminist, though only in the sense that it is entirely patriarchal. Men are leaders, providers, and warriors, according to the gender essentialist archetypes that the Divine Feminine and Masculine reference. This is harmful to men, as well, because it places them in the position of needing to be manly and invulnerable at all times, much to the complaint of both men and women in the modern age. It is simply unproductive and anti-feminist, in a way that is hard to ignore. The bioessentialism of Wicca goes beyond just the Divine Masculine and Divine Feminine archetypes of their deities, however. There is a strong emphasis within Wicca on depictions of genitalia, and many Wiccan authors and figureheads draw comparisons between really any long object and a phallus, believing that everything in magic has to eventually circle back to fertility. Wands are phallic, athames are phallic. The average Wiccan supply store will have penis shaped candles, penis carvings of various crystals. Wicca propagates bioessentialism the likes of which are not seen in any other form of paganism, not even historic paganism. This attitude towards the nonconforming and emphasis on the gender and sex binary make many people feel excluded from Wicca. Trans people, nonbinary people, really any queer or gay person, of any sort, can experience Wicca as a hostile environment. Wiccans may argue that it isn't transphobic by saying that they are including both sexes and never intentionally exclude trans, gay and nonconforming individuals, but what they fail to realize is that the binary, any binary, is outdated. There are more than two gender identities, and there are more than two sexes. Intersex people can never feel included when the religion so heavily affirms that there is, or should be, only penis and vulva.

Furthermore, Gardner himself was a flagrant homophobe, and well-known for it. Lois Bourne, a High Priestess of the Bricket Wood Coven, Gardner's own coven, wrote this about him: [15]

Gerald was homophobic. He had a deep hatred and detestation of homosexuality, which he regarded as a disgusting perversion and a flagrant transgression of natural law ... "There are no homosexual witches, and it is not possible to be a homosexual and a witch" Gerald almost shouted. No one argued with him.

Wicca Tomorrow: Cultural Erasure and Loss

Admittedly, none of what I've said so far has truly captured my biggest, and primary, reason for hating Wicca as much as I do. Other than the fact that I myself am indigenous, and have felt the effects of white supremacy, cultural erasure, and homogenization of white peoples all my life, other than the fact that I am queer and in a gay relationship, other than the fact that I have family who were victims of the holocaust, other than the fact that I am, at my core, an intersectional, radical leftist - the thing I hate the most about Wicca is its potential. Not potential for greatness, mind. I hate Wicca's potential for destruction. I already get to witness it in action every day, and it strikes fear into my heart like nothing else.

I, personally, have always believed that the first antidote to white supremacy, in an ironic but poetic spin, is love for one's own culture. White supremacy, in an attempt to make the white man feel at home in his whiteness and like he has one thing (superiority) in common with all other white men, strips him from his local culture. He is forced to view himself as part of something great, something that spans all of Europe, or all of Germania, or what have you, and he is made to turn a blind eye to what he already has. Local culture. His language, more specifically even, his dialect. His mother's lilt, and his father's flowery cadence. His neighbors. Their celebrations, their cooking traditions. His city. Its architecture, its communal sites, its judicial system. His land. Its medicines, its foods, its magics. The animals upon it. His companions, his livestock, rarely even his foes. Everything a person truly needs is within walking distance when in nature. Every ecosystem is equipped with everything we could possibly need, from a varied diet, to our medicines, to our shelters, to our hygiene products, all the way to the very things that keep us in check. That is not coincidence: we were grown, woven fiber by fiber by that land, that soil, over thousands, millions, billions of years. We do not need the whole world, there is no reason to try to conquer it. But we want to colonize, and so we must make larger and larger teams, clans, armies, races. The man from Truthan must become Cornish, then Celtic, then English, then British, then European, then white, then better. He would have been better off, happier, had he stayed Cornish.

In the worldwide community of people who take an amateur and personal interest in magic and paganism, Wicca is white supremacy's most effective tool in stripping people of their local culture. Wicca did not become this by design; shoddy and evil though its origins may be, I do not think Wicca was created with the intention of homogenizing and radicalizing the white race. However, in the 1950s, when all cultural magic in Europe were flying low under the radar of the church, hiding in families, in villages, in cookbooks and journals, in visits to the local keening woman to cure the evil eye the neighbor gave your cow, Wicca was the first community, first organized religion, to wave a flag and loudly and proudly proclaim to be pagan, to be witches. To do magic. It was the first to associate itself with those labels and voluntarily take them on, to be known by them. Through this singular association with those terms, it became the first thing people thought of when they thought about magic. Because the magic of the common people, the folk magic, is never termed magic by the ones doing it. "This rowan stick in my windowsill against lightning? Magic? You mean that stuff those witches in London do?" Nowadays, as the first form of magic and paganism to go mainstream in Europe since Christianity's taking over, Wicca is ubiquitous when the amateur goes to research magic and paganism. When the internet came along, this became a bigger problem than it may already have been before the digital age. Now, when people are introduced to the concept of modern magic and paganism, when they go to research it, they will only find Wicca. Not for utter lack of sources on (other) cultural magic, on the contrary: there are plenty, but one needs to use specific key words to find them. More scientific, more academic, more secular. When one wants to research cultural and specific magic, one must assume the author does not believe himself, nor does he believe you do. Wicca, however, has resources that do assume the researcher is interested in practicing, which is yet another reason that people go to Wicca rather than something else. They won't find the folk magic, and if they do, it won't be as comprehensive, accessible, entertaining, and personable as Wicca. Wicca will always win, because it was never challenged in the first place. This has led to a huge disparity in the amount of people who know about and/or practice Wicca, and the amount of people who know about and/or practice folk magic and/or cultural paganism. And as Wicca gains more and more popularity, both because it was always set up for success by chance, and because it subtly purveys white supremacy in a way that most people do not even recognize, it will continue to smother cultural, traditional, and folk magic.

Wicca's Reach: Contemporary Magic

Many people who would not consider themselves, or do not identify as Wiccan, still get called that by me in an intentionally derivative way. Not usually to their faces, but when I am discussing reasons why I do not like Wicca, I find it hard to draw a substantial, or even relevant, line between people who identify as Wiccans, and people who do not identify as such but still, functionally, are. Due to Wicca's chokehold on the first several pages of Google when you look up most things pertaining to magic, most practitioners of magic are essentially Wiccan without the label. They do not associate with Wicca intentionally, but they have no idea how to access, or any awareness of the existence of folk magic resources, and so end up practicing the magic Wicca teaches. In witching communities, well-known Wiccan authors are considered staples to read, such as Scott Cunningham. Authors that do not call themselves Wiccan (anymore) but do promote the magic are just as popular, such as Arin Murphy-Hiscock and Nathan M. Hall. These authors all have the same fatal flaw, which makes them Wiccans and automatically unreliable in my eyes: they promote the very idea which Wicca all but created, that there is one, single, universal way to do magic. That you, a Hawai'i Native living on the Islands, will do the best magic you've ever done with this set of European herbs that do not grow on your own soil. With this set of half-baked, appropriative Laws and methods, contrived out of a mishmash of appropriated indigenous practices and European traditions; like the Threefold Law, which is nothing but a cheap and terrible misinterpretation of the Dharmic concept of Karma. Except Wicca doesn't call them that. It calls the herbs staples, essentials. It calls the half-baked rules Ardanes and Magical Theory. Nothing is more ironic to me than a supposed nature religion telling people to forsake the nature around them in favor of the 'universal subsitute' Rosemary (salvia rosmarinus), a plant they've never even seen in real life save for in the jar in their spice cabinet.

Nowadays, thanks to the omnipresence of Wicca, there is a whole new magical tradition, yet unnamed. It consists of all those secular practitioners of magic who do all of their research via resources actually pandering to practitioners, all those people who claim 'we are the daughters of the witches you couldn't burn', all those people who have never heard of or hardly ever think about magic that isn't 'witchcraft'. I like to refer to it as 'contemporary magic', or sometimes 'modern magic', in a context where the label contemporary could be cause for confusion. This 'modern magic' is that more-or-less universal, monotone, Wiccan derived, secular magic that most people would term 'witchcraft'. The magic you see on TikTok. The spell jar magic. The cord-cutting magic. The lemon hex magic. The 'spiritual but not religious' magic. The sound bowl and smoke cleanse magic. The light and love magic. The 'white' magic. Magick. This magic is not culture-less, not at all. It is its own culture, as it were, and not only that, most of the spells, rituals and rules it has have their origins in European culture. But this magic is, in a way, anti-culture. Colonial. It smothers and endangers local magic, more relevant magic, and spreads like wildfire because it is so easy to never have to research beyond Wicca. What makes this modern magic inherently harmful is that it, too, is appropriative. The resources that provide you with this magic, which like the religion that sprouted it, is a huge, sometimes dysfunctional and clashing mosaic of culture, do not actually inform you of the origins of any of the practices that they teach you. They teach you what to do, how to do it, what materials to use, et cetera, but they don't teach you where these rituals came from, why these plants had those associations, what culture sprang this curse. And contrary to popular belief, those things are crucial to magic. The cultures at hand deserve to be honored for what they've given, and every culture has the right to be preserved. Culture is important elsewhere, but it is fundamental to magic. Magic cannot exist without culture. Gods are nothing but a lens to view the world through, magic is nothing but a response to struggle in a language that every human shares: the language of wonder and learning. Magic, at its core, is nothing but humanity's ability to feel amazed, and learn from the elegant language the earth speaks to us. And it is propagated by our ability to speak, to share, to teach to one another. Mother to daughter, brother to sister, chieftain to peasant, wife to warrior. Carry this, eat that. Don't do this, don't go there. Wicca does not acknowledge this importance of culture, nor does it make any efforts to teach the practitioners of it and its derivatives what cultures it was built on and off of. That is the crux and definition of cultural appropriation.

Wicca will continue to spread. I think one of my toxic traits is that I resigned myself to this idea a long time ago, much like how many people resign themselves to the idea of white supremacy or climate change. I can't help but see Wicca and the damage it does as irreversible. Wicca occupies the first pages of any google search about magic, the first thought anyone has when you self-identify as a pagan or practitioner of magic. 'Witch' as a word is completely different than it once was, as is the word sabbat. It feels inescapable, and this weighs heavily on me as somebody whose culture, too, is growing lost in part due to the priority of Wicca over cultural magic. I started writing this post in hopes of getting out all my grievances with this tradition. Ten thousand words and a great many sources later, the wound Wicca carved into me when I realized people would choose it over the valuable cultural knowledge I have and want to preserve no longer throbs, it just aches emptily. If this post manages to change one person's mind on Wicca, it has done its job, and I can die happily. If this post motivates one person to look beyond Wicca and glance at the rich and wild world of cultural magic, especially their own culture, I'll spend eternity in the afterlife gloating.

If there was one thing I wanted the reader to take away from this post, it is not that they should hate Wicca and actively fight to eradicate it. It is that culture is beautiful. All cultures are beautiful. There is no such thing as 'white culture' and we should strive to dismantle that, but the way to do that is to acknowledge the real culture. British culture, English culture, Cornish culture. Low Saxon culture. Silesian culture. Yakutian culture. Tibetan culture. Qazaq culture. Yup'ik culture. Irish culture. Amazigh culture. Cree culture. Sámi culture. Maori culture. Aymaran culture. Muscogee culture. Zulu culture. Find what is rightfully yours, because no matter who or where you are, there is culture in your ancestry, and there is culture in your neighborhood. You are entitled to it like you are entitled to air and water. Learn about the plants that are native to your area. Learn about the medicines your peoples used when conventional medicine was not available to them. Learn about their faith before Christianity, learn about the way they thought the universe came to be and what made humans human. Eat cultural foods, both yours and not. Talk to your elders, and really listen to what they say. Try to remember the weird superstitions and turns of phrase you grew up with. I promise it's there, and I promise it's beautiful. I promise it will make you feel at home.

In the following weeks I will try my best to dedicate some posts to the beginnings of folk magic. How to get involved, where to look for resources, what makes a good resource, what keywords to use when searching, what to do when it feels like there's nothing out there for you, how to find which culture you are a part of. Until then, I will leave you with my sincerest gratitude for reading this ridiculously long complaint.

----------------------------

Doyle White, Ethan (2016). Wicca: History, Belief, and Community in Modern Pagan Witchcraft. Brighton: Sussex Academic Press. 

Climenhaga, L. (2012). Imagining the Witch: A Comparison between Fifteenth-Century Witches within Medieval Christian Thought and the Persecution of Jews and Heretics in the Middle Ages. Constellations, 3(2). 

“The Dehumanization and Demonization of the Medieval Jews.” Medieval Antisemitism?, by François Soyer, Arc Humanities Press, Leeds, 2019, pp. 45–66.

Simpson, Jacqueline (1994). Margaret Murray: Who Believed Her, and Why? Folklore, 105:1-2: 89-96.

Murray, Margaret Alice (1933). The God of the Witches. S. Low, Marston & Company, Limited.

Bracelin, Jack (1960). Gerald Gardner: Witch. Octagon.

Heselton, Philip (2012a). Witchfather: A Life of Gerald Gardner. Loughborough, Leicestershire: Thoth.

Valiente, Doreen (2007) [1989]. The Rebirth of Witchcraft. London: Robert Hale.

"Britain's chief witch dies at sea". News of the World. 23 February 1964. Archived from the original on 8 September 2018.

Heselton, Philip (2003). Gerald Gardner and the Cauldron of Inspiration: An Investigation Into the Sources of Gardnerian Witchcraft. Capall Bann.

Lamond, Frederic (2004), Fifty Years of Wicca, Sutton Mallet, England: Green Magic, pp. 16–17.

Kelly, Aidan. About Naming Ostara, Litha, and Mabon. Including Paganism. Patheos.

Ambiguous Deities on Celtic Gold, Numismatic News. February 27, 2023.

Price, Neil (2002). The Viking Way: Religion and War in Late Iron Age Scandinavia. Uppsala: Department of Archaeology and Ancient History, Uppsala University.

Bourne, Lois (2006). Dancing with Witches. London: Robert Hale. p. 38.

---- If you enjoy my work, please consider purchasing or commissioning some of my written resarch, ordering a reading, or commissioning my art. Click here to see the options. Thank you!

[targaryenluvs]

Kaz x Jesper x reader that doesn’t like being touched for long periods of time

Baby Steps

kaz x fem!reader x jesper

warnings: touch aversion, comfort?

a/n: i didn’t really know how to put this into a story so i decided to do headcannons, im sorry if this isn’t what you had in mind!

- There would be so much understanding from both of them in my opinion.

- Since Kaz himself has a strong aversion to touch he wouldn’t even be approaching you with touch anyway.

- Kaz would 100% be dumbfounded.

- He’d never encountered someone who shared his condition and he’d silently appreciate the fact that you’d never expect him to work on his aversion in order to be with you. That you’d never pressure him into anything or expect a lot in terms of physical intimacy.

- But you both shared the frustrations.

- When the other person is looking absolutely gorgeous beyond words and all you want to do is hug them, to play with their hair, kiss them etc. Having a hollow feeling inside when Jesper would be so overly affectionate when around everyone else but feel like he had to change how he acted when it came to the two of you.

- You never wanted him to change. Neither did Kaz. As much as he acts as if Jespers over the top self annoyed him, he more so envied him. Jesper never has to worry, he doesn’t need stupid gloves every day to keep him calm. He can drink and eat anything without feeling like the world is crushing down on him.

- He doesn’t look in the mirror and loathe.

- But what he hates most of all is that he can touch you. And Kaz can’t.

- You hadn’t had a traumatic background that had scarred you to the point of aversion and panic attacks.

- At times touch just became too much. Your senses would feel as if they were on fire. Like anything touching you felt as if bugs were crawling all over you. You could handle smaller things in smaller batches.

- It was nowhere near as intense as Kaz but it happened usually during the day. You’d be holding hands with Jesper and you’d suddenly drop his hand and walk with distance between the two of you.

- During the start of your relationship you hadn’t told either of them.

- So imagine Jespers surprise when you swatted his hand away whilst the three of you were in Kaz’s office.

-

“What was that for!” Jesper yelled as he cradled his hand. You frowned, “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.” Jesper tilted his head, “Is this for eating your chicken last night? I am sorry you know, but it smelt, amazing.” He dragged out.

“No that’s- you ate my food? I blamed Matthias! Poor guy was as red as the blood on Kaz’s cane.”

Kaz glimpsed down at his cane, he cleaned it everyday, not a speck of blood, poor analogy.

“It’s just, sometimes when I’m being touched, I have to pull away. I don’t know how to explain it but I just, sometimes it’s too much and I can’t handle it. I’m sorry if that disappoints you-”

“Don’t apologise for it. I don’t.”

You smiled gratefully at Kaz as he made eye contact with you. Jesper rested his hand by yours on the desk, “You don’t have to force anything. If you feel like pulling away, pull away. Thank you for telling us, I promise you don’t have to. Not like Kaz makes any effort to touch me, it’s been a long time.”

“Say one more word and I’ll tell her about Milo.”

Jesper gasped as he brought his hand to his heart, “I’m proud of Milo. Whatever makes you think I wouldn’t tell anyone about my baby?”

“Who’s Milo?”

“Milo is Jes’s-”

Jesper shot up from his seat and pointed accusingly at Kaz.

“Don’t you dare!”

-

As frustrating it was for Jesper to have not one, but two partners with aversions he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He loved you both and you’d work on your barriers together,

Baby Steps.

[aotearoa20]

correspondence and revelations shortly after Dagor Bragollach for @silmarillionepistolary

To, Caranthir Morifinwë Fëanorian Lord of the East

Dear cousin, it is with great sorrow which I greet you. The attacks of the Enemy took us all by surprise and I mourn the blow the loss of Thargelion will surely have on us all. Though I had never the chance to visit I had heard many great things of the eastern mountains, they were fair to behold, I am told, and I know that you loved it there. Still it gladdens me to hear that you and yours escaped for the most part unscathed. Know whatever aid and support we can spare is already on its way to you as you receive this letter.

I'm sure you know already that Celegorm and Curufin have taken up refuge among my people. You should know you they are well and whole. They, along with I, have sent letters detailing their arrival and stay. I have also sent some papers detailing preliminary adjustments to traderoutes and logistics for delivering aid among our people and allies. I am sure you have more than enough plans of your own and as always i defer to you judgement on such matters.

But all this aside I had another matter I wished to inform you of concerning one of the people of Haleth in Brethil. I have kept it to myself for some time but if anything has come from these last days is that none of us knows when doom will rear its head.

The Lady Haleth herself I met only a few times, when negotiating the terms of her people’s dwelling, and found her to be a woman of brusque and bright countenance. Indeed, when I learnt of her dealings with you I thought that the pair of you must have gotten on like a house on fire, else hated each other entirely. But I digress.

It was upon one of those meetings when I saw a child, I reckoned at the time, perhaps five by the count of Men often about her dwelling. No husband she ever spoke of nor did I ask. The child had her likeness and hearing of the tradgey that claimed the rest of her family, I thought perhaps his father had perished with her kin.

In truth, I thought little of it at all until some years ago, on a visit to the city of Menegroth, when I found a youth milling about the edges of the Girdle. It must have been two hundred years since I’d last seen him, the Haladin had since had two chieftains but the boy looked no older than twenty. He named himself a changeling in his own tongue and told me his father was one of the Eldar.

Erestor he called himself in Sindarin for though he’d lived among his people, at on the request of his mother had not taken her title. Instead he stayed as a counseler for his cousin and later his children and grandchildren. (The translation is a bit off I deem but he having learned more seems loath to correct it and resistant to advice) Either way, wishing to learn more of his father’s people and had come to Doriath to see if he may by his blood be permitted. I spoke with him a while and finding him genuine in his desire, brought him with me and vouched for him before Elu Thingol, the King.

Since then he visits the city every few summers and then returns to his people before the snows set in. He has had little trouble of it, for his mother’s features hide much of his fathers heritage and he is wont to pass through, drawing as little attention to himself as he can. But I found him curious and upon further investigation and despite his protests to the contrary, I am certain his father is Noldorin. In fact, on those rare occasions he does smiles without restrain cousin - were it not for his quiet temperament I know he did not inherit from his mother - I would have wondered if he was your own.

At any rate, considering the time and circumstances I first found him, it's likely it is that his father is among your people. I can think of any number of reasons such a thing would have been hidden from offical records but I truly doubt it could have happened without your knowledge. To the point, I thought, especially in the chaos of these days, you might pass on some news of the boy’s well being. I have had news from Brethil, written in the the his hand, they are well, if overwhelmed with refugees from Dor Lomin. But he is safe. Perhaps that might comfort his kin in Amon Ereb. And perhaps you could tell him that his child is a scholar in training. That he is happy, as much as any of us can be, and untouched by doom or darkness. May he remain so.

I hope I have not overstepped in my assumptions. Always I have hesitated in speaking on this subject. I just have with the loss of don't want to leave anything unsaid that ought to be.

That is all.

As I detailed before, i have sent ahead letters pertaining to more practical means. I have no doubt in your prompt reply. I wish you well, cousin. May Tilion watch your steps before the Dawn breaks.

Finrod Felagund King of Nargothrond

[pilferingapples]

Actually it's tumblr and i can ramble on about this as often and as much as I like and it's making me happy today, so :

A theatre poster presented itself, adorned with the title of a tragedy from the ancient repertory called classic: "Down with tragedy dear to the bourgeois!" cried Bahorel. And Marius heard Combeferre reply:-- "You are wrong, Bahorel. The bourgeoisie loves tragedy, and the bourgeoisie must be left at peace on that score. Bewigged tragedy has a reason for its existence, and I am not one of those who, by order of AEschylus, contest its right to existence. There are rough outlines in nature; there are, in creation, ready-made parodies; a beak which is not a beak, wings which are not wings, gills which are not gills, paws which are not paws, a cry of pain which arouses a desire to laugh, there is the duck. Now, since poultry exists by the side of the bird, I do not see why classic tragedy should not exist in the face of antique tragedy." (LM 3.4.3, Hapgood)

A vital note : " classic" tragedy means Neoclassical-- the old, formalized style of French plays , then still very much in control of the art scene. The Neoclassicals were the Dire Foes of the up and coming Romantic movement. So Bahorel's side of this is very direct: he's calling for the end of Neoclassical theater, like the scarlet Romantic theater kid he is. Combeferre is being more roundabout, but possibly even more insulting! The word Combeferre uses for " duck" is " canard" (because that's the French word for duck). But it was also the term for a certain kind of trashy pulp journal , especially ones claiming to be " true crime" type stories. " The Shocking Murder of So and So" kind of stuff.

So Combeferre is (a) equating the neoclassical repertoire, held up at the time as the pinnacle of classy good taste, to these cheap journals the Neoclassical fans would surely have loathed (or at least claimed to loathe; plenty were definitely buying them) , and (b) calling the Neoclassical repertoire the " poultry" in this summary-- something domesticated and made consumable and ridiculous , distorted out of shape with its original (c) saying it can't even do what it's supposed to do -- " a cry of pain which arouses a desire to laugh" is a big problem for a tragedy! So unlike Courfeyrac and Enjolras in the next passage, Bahorel and Combeferre aren't disagreeing; Bahorel has just gone " those fuckin' assholes" and Combeferre has responded by going all in on the WAYS they are assholes . This is Theater Nerd Solidarity XD

--It's also absurdly complicated, good grief, I don't blame Marius for being confused by this one at ALL :P