#as part of the rite of passage into adulthood

[drdemonprince]

It’s true that America has one of the lowest voter turnout rates in the industrialized world, with only 62% of eligible adults turning up to the polls on a good year, and about 50% on a typical one. But if we really dive into the social science data, we can see that non-voters aren’t a bunch of nihilistic commie layabouts who’d prefer to die in a bridge collapse or of an untreated listeria infection than vote for someone who isn’t Vladimir Lenin. No, if we really study it carefully, we can see that the American electoral system has a series of unique features that easily account for why we find voting more cumbersome, confusing, and unrewarding than almost any other voters in the world.

Let’s take a look at the many reasons why Americans don’t vote:

1. We Have the Most Frequent Elections of Any Country

Most other democratic countries only hold major elections once every four or five years, with the occasional local election in between. This is in sharp contrast with the U.S., where we have some smattering of primaries, regional elections, state elections, ballot measures, midterm elections, and national elections basically every single year, often multiple times per year. We have elections more frequently than any other nation in the world — but just as swallowing mountains of vitamin C tablets doesn’t guarantee better health, voting more and harder hasn’t given us more democracy.

2. We Don’t Make Election Day a Holiday

The United States also does far less than most other democracies to facilitate its voters getting to the polls. In 22 countries, voting is legally mandated, and turnout is consequently very high; most countries instead make election day a national holiday, or hold elections on weekends. The United States, in contrast, typically holds elections on weekdays, during work hours, with minimal legal protections for employees whose only option to vote is on the clock.

3. We Make Registration as Hard as Possible

From Denmark, to Sweden, to Iceland, Belgium, and Iraq, all eligible voters in most democracies are automatically registered to vote upon reaching legal adulthood. Voting is typically regarded as a rite of passage one takes part in alongside their classmates and neighbors, made part of the natural flow of the country’s bureaucratic processes.

In the United States, in contrast, voter registration is a process that the individual must seek out — or more recently, be goaded into by their doctor. Here voting is not a communal event, it’s a personal choice, and failing to make the correct choice at the correct time can be penalized. In most other countries, there are no restrictions on when a voter can register, but in much of the United States, registering too early can mean you get stricken from the voter rolls by the time the election rolls around, and registering too late means you’re barred from voting at all.

4. We Make Voters Re-Register Far Too Often

In countries like Canada, Germany, and the Netherlands, voter registration updates automatically when a person moves. In the United State, any time a person changes addresses they must go out of their way to register to vote all over again. This policy disadvantages poorer and younger voters, who move frequently because of job and schooling changes, or landlords who have decided to farm black mold colonies in their kitchens.

Even if a voter does not change their address, in the United States it’s quite common for their registrations to be removed anyway— due to name changes, marriages, data breaches, or simply because the voter rolls from the previous election year have been purged to “prevent fraud” (read: eliminate Black, brown, poor, and left-leaning members from the electorate).

5. We Limit Access to Polling Places & Mail-in Ballots

In many countries, voters can show up to any number of polling places on election day, and showing identification is not always necessary. Here in the United States, the ability to vote is typically restricted to a single polling place. Voter ID laws have been used since before the Jim Crow era to make political participation more difficult for Black, brown, and impoverished voters, as well as for those for whom English is not their first language. Early and absentee voting options are also pretty firmly restricted. About a quarter of democracies worldwide rely on mail-in ballots to make voting more accessible for everyone; here, a mail-in ballot must be requested in advance.

All of these structural barriers help explain why just over 50% of non-voters in the United States are people of color, and a majority of non-voters have been repeatedly found to be impoverished and otherwise marginalized. But these populations don’t only feel excluded from the political process on a practical level: they also report feeling completely unrepresented by the available political options.

6. We Have the Longest, Most Expensive Campaign Seasons

Americans have some of the longest campaign seasons in the world, with Presidential elections lasting about 565 days on average. For reference, the UK’s campaign season is 139 days, Mexico’s is 147, and Canada’s is just 50. We also do not have publicly funded campaigns: our politicians rely upon donors almost entirely.

Because our elections are so frequent and our campaigns are so long and expensive, many American elected officials are in a nearly constant state of fundraising and campaigning. When you take into account the time devoted to organizing rallies, meeting with donors, courting lobbyists, knocking on doors, recording advertisements, and traveling the campaign trail, most federally elected politicians spend more time trying to win their seat than actually doing their jobs.

Imagine how much work you’d get done if you had to interview for your job every day. And now imagine that the person actually paying your wage didn’t want you to do that job at all:

7. Our Elected Officials Do Very Little

Elected officials who spend the majority of their hours campaigning and courting donors don’t have much time to get work done. Nor do they have much incentive to — in practice, their role is to represent the large corporations, weapons manufacturers, Silicon Valley start-ups, and investors who pay their bills, and serve as a stopgap when the public’s demands run afoul of those groups’ interests.

Perhaps that is why, as campaign seasons have gotten longer and more expensive and income inequality has grown more stark, our elected officials have become lean-out quiet quitters of historic proportions. The 118th Congress has so far been the least productive session on record, with only 82 laws having been passed in last two years out of the over 11,000 brought to the floor.

The Biden Administration has moved at a similarly glacial pace; aside from leaping for the phone when Israel calls requesting checking account transfers every two or three weeks, the executive-in-chief has done little but fumble at student loan relief and abortion protections, and bandied about banning TikTok.

The average age of American elected officials has been on a steady rise for some time now, with the obvious senility of figures like Biden, Mitch McConnell, and the late Diane Feinstein serving as the most obvious markers of the government’s stagnancy. Carting around a confused, ailing elderly person’s body around the halls of power like a decommissioned animatronic requires a depth of indifference to human suffering that few of us outside Washington can fathom. But more than that, it reflects a desperation for both parties to cling to what sources of influence and wealth they have. These aged figures are/were reliable simps for Blackstone, General Dynamics, Disney, and AIPAC, and their loyalty is worth far more than their cognitive capacity, or legislative productivity. Their job, in a very real sense, is to not do their job, and a beating-heart cadaver can do that just fine.

You can read the rest of the list for free (or have it narrated to you on the Substack app) at drdevonprice.substack.com!

[black-suns-rim]

My two cents on Dek

I know Dek is a hot topic in the yautja fandom right now. I'm seeing a lot of opinions on him and discussion about his appearance.

I dont care what people think, I'm really digging his look. He looks like a young yautja, a teen. He looks much younger than Chopper, Celtic, and Scar (who I consider more like young adults/older teens). The way that Dek's face is shaped could just be because of his young age and having not matured fully yet. Here's an example for what I mean

Dek could just belong to a species of yautja that has a different developmental stage (because I highly doubt he's part human like a lot of people have been saying about him, given how yautja canonically view humans). Plus, "first hunt, last chance" seems like Dek is going on his very first hunt, NOT CHIVA! (Chiva being what Scar, Celtic, and Chopper were doing in AVP; a ritual hunt as a rite of passage into adulthood) He could still be in the unblood rank, having not hunted anything before.

On top of that, it's confirmed he's a runt; much smaller than the others and wanting to probably prove himself to his clan and to his father. Him being a runt could also be the reason why he looks different.

Some commentary about his appearance

His bottom left tusk looks like it's chipped or has been broken in the past. Due to him being a runt, he has probably been bullied and has suffered from abuse from his peers.

His eyes are so uncanny, and I love it. It gives an unsettling vibe to his appearance

Bro's skin looks soft. This could also play into him being a teen/young. His lack of scars too

His armor looks like what you'd wear as someone who doesn't have much status. Like hand-me-down armor

Conclusion

Dek is a teenager going on his very first hunt for approval and acceptance. He's not half human; he's just young and a runt.

[toskarin]

what do you make of the accusation that some manga/anime/VNs only have a high school setting because that's viewed as being more marketable even if the high school parts add little to the story/characters/lore etc?

I mean to some extent that's the case, but it's also a silly exercise in what's called "overthinking it" from people who (assuming they're adults) should really know better

it's not something specific to japanese media. basically everywhere does this. it's just setting things in...

a developmental life stage that is pretty widely understood as an important rite of passage, experienced by most readers regardless of background, to the point where even being adults in a school feels like an echo of it

an experience that is relatable to teenagers, remembered by young adults, and often thought of as something older adults wish they could redo with the benefit of hindsight

a context where you can rotate a specific cast of characters through a specific cast of older characters who are understood to have a measure of power over them (read: teachers)

and maybe most crucially, the exact moment in time where someone is usually at the cusp of adulthood while still not having the right to self determination that comes with it, feeling more strongly the contradiction between the end of their childhood and the expectations of being an adult than ever before

so the actual answer is that there's so much stuff set in high school because teenagers make for easy protagonists in stories about most things. teenagers are just in situations fairly often

it turns out that people we fairly universally put in stressful rites of passage, during the stressful rite of passage stage of their lives, might end up being easy shorthand for experiencing stressful rites of passage!

[claramelooo]

CHECKMATE (1/20)

See? I'm here and you didn't even waited that much😋

I hope you can enjoy the first chapter!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: +18, angst and semi-public sex.

Pairing: Governor!Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Accepting the date with your friend Carol cost you more than you imagined.

Music recommendation:

Pawn

noun

1. a chess piece of the smallest size and least value. Each player has eight pawns at the start of a game.

Staring at the mirror for the sixth time, obsessively applying yet another layer of lipstick. You sighed—you still didn’t feel grown-up enough.

A little more mascara, even though your lashes were already heavy from previous coats.

But it didn’t matter.

You still weren’t pretty.

You weren’t worthy.

Checking your teeth, you spotted a smudge of lipstick on them. You exhaled sharply, grabbing your toothbrush to scrub away any imperfection.

You brushed a single tooth exactly twenty times.

Fuck.

The lipstick smudged.

You could feel hot tears prickling the corners of your eyes in frustration, as your reflection seemed only to highlight every flaw on your face.

You hated mirrors.

Three sharp knocks startled your muscles into tension.

“Bear, we’re gonna be late!” your roommate’s voice rang out—loud and impatient.

Bear. As if you were special. As if it were affection. But only when no one else was around.

It had been three months since you arrived in Washington. Three months of a new city, new university, new social codes you were still trying to decipher. And tonight would be your first off-campus party.

It felt like some kind of rite of passage into adulthood now.

This wasn’t Westview. Back there, the parties were small, familiar. The big city turned everything into a spectacle, and you didn’t want to be part of it—not even a little.

“Wow. You look… stunning!” Carol’s voice made you smile as you stepped out of the bathroom.

Carol Danvers.

Tall, blonde, with that air of someone who always knew what you were about to say before you said it. The girl of your dreams, your nightmares, your vices.

Having a crush on her wasn’t new. You had always liked them.

Girls.

But especially the tall, popular ones — and maybe, just maybe, the ones who were a little mean to you. But Carol… she’d always treated you differently. One night, she snuck into your room and kissed you.

And in that moment, you felt like the only one.

But you never were. And you knew that. Carol asked to keep things a secret, said it would be weird.

The ambiguity of that word haunted your nights, often stealing your sleep.

“Thanks,” you said, your cheeks flushing under her gaze.

She stepped closer. Close enough to cup your cheek in her hands, a sweet, innocent gesture. One that melted you inside, like everything she did.

“Okay!” She dropped her hand. “Here’s your ID! Don’t worry, it’s totally legit. A few dollars work miracles…” She smiled with her tongue between her teeth—mischievous, cocky.

You took the card from her hand.

“Melinda… Nox?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Amazing, right?” She beamed. “Tonight, you’re someone else. Give Melinda the chance you never gave yourself, Bear,” she whispered it with her lips close to your ear, planting a soft kiss behind it—warm enough to melt your common sense.

You tried to smile.

Pretended to believe her.

Pretended it didn’t hurt.

[...]

“Shit! Deep breath. If you keep staring at him like that, he’ll get suspicious,” your situationship said.

You were in line to enter Lux, an expensive bar in Seattle. You didn’t even know how you were going to pay for it.

Your thoughts spiraled toward the worst. They’ll find out. You’ll be expelled. Arrested. Or worse—you’ll be sent back to Westview.

To your mother.

Oh God.

The thought alone made you want to vomit.

“Carol, how are we even going to pay for this?” You looked at the people in line—it felt wrong.

You didn’t belong here.

“I’ve been working on a project,” she said cryptically, and before you could ask more, a very tall man said:

“ID!”

You handed him the fake ID, which he barely glanced at.

“Enjoy the party,” he returned the papers, leaving Carol confused.

“Excuse me, sir. You didn’t even look properly,” she said with a nervous laugh. “How can you be sure we’re not underage?”

Fuck. Carol. No!

She was being impulsive again.

“Are you?” he asked, peering over his glasses.

“No!” you both answered at once.

“Then enjoy. Next!” He turned back to the line.

Rolling your eyes, you pulled her by the arm.

“What were you thinking? Are you insane?” you hissed.

“Do you know how much those damn things cost? Too much not to be at least looked at!”

“Forget it, okay? We’re in. That’s what you wanted, right?” you softened your tone, trying to calm her.

“Yeah… yeah, whatever.” Her eyes scanned the bar, like she was looking for someone. “Don’t do that again, okay?” Carol warned, and you nodded, ashamed.

Normally, alcohol only amplified what you spent your life trying to suppress — the smothered affection, the unresolved longing, the neediness spilling through rehearsed smiles. And you knew that. Knew that two shots were enough to make you even more desperate than you already were when sober.

Carol probably thought you were unbearable. Too fragile, too dependent, waiting for a kind of love she never promised — and deep down, never intended to give.

You watched her walk away again, disappearing into the crowd, into the lights and noise. And still, even with the absence scraping at your chest, you didn’t follow.

You stayed.

Alone.

A sudden bump against your shoulder jolted you back like a harsh tug to the surface. Your body reacted before your mind: your lungs faltered, the air grew thinner, and everything around you felt both distant and overwhelming.

Panic was an old acquaintance, a silent visitor who always knew where it hurt.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clenched your fists like you were trying to hold the whole world inside them. You could feel the edge drawing near with the precision of a step in the dark.

But not tonight.

Not with this name.

Melinda wasn’t you. She didn’t shake. She didn’t break. She didn’t cry at fancy parties or beg for scraps of attention. Melinda wanted to live. To have fun. To feel something other than fear.

You raised your chin, fixed your smudged lipstick, and ordered some shots of tequila. Drank the first without breathing. The second burned, and you almost smiled.

The alcohol slid down warm, spreading through your body like an unwelcome hug — comforting and fake. But effective.

You looked around, your eyes wandering over silhouettes dancing under pulsing lights.Some laughed loudly. Others whispered before smiling drunkenly.

You wondered, as you always did, if they were happy. What was the story behind each of those figures? Did they also feel small sometimes? Did they watch, too?

Or were you the only one carrying this absurd desire to be seen, this ridiculous need for approval?

Another shot.

This time, a slower sip. The world seemed to dissolve into soft tones and disjointed rhythms. And then your eyes landed on someone.

A woman.

She was surrounded by voices, yet didn’t seem to belong there. She laughed naturally, but there was something rehearsed in it — something too practiced.

The kind of smile a powerful woman wears like a weapon.

You smiled too, without realizing it. A foolish, childish reflex.

Almost ridiculous.

And when you opened your eyes again, she was looking back.

Two blue eyes, intense — but from where you sat, the color shifted. Sometimes green, sometimes blue, deep, almost violet, like precious cold stones carved into a face too sculpted to be real — and you wanted to get closer. To find out the true color of the mysterious woman’s eyes.

She wasn’t smiling anymore. Just that raw and wild look.

Aimed at you.

Your heart skipped a beat. Shame came first, hot and treacherous. But it was quickly replaced by something more primal: curiosity. Fear. Fascination. You should have looked away. You knew that.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You were being devoured by that gaze. And somehow, you wanted it.

You wondered if she saw something in you too — or if she was just playing, like everyone else.

You laughed to yourself. What a stupid thought. A woman like that would never look at you...

Not really.

Not the way you wished she would.

You downed your last shot in one go, the taste burning your throat, your stomach, what was left of your judgment.

The world spun a little — but honestly, you didn’t care anymore. It was past 3 a.m., and the heat of the dance floor felt like it was choking you. Sweat glued the dress to your body like the fabric was punishing you for every misstep.

You needed air.

You got up with effort, ankles a bit unsteady, and pushed through the crowd. Shoulders bumped into yours like no one had time to acknowledge your existence. That was fine. You were used to going unnoticed.

The first door in sight was the emergency exit. Narrow. Empty. The cold concrete outside contrasted with the heat from inside, and you felt the thermal shock ripple across your skin, up your spine.

Seattle's lights blinked on the horizon like promises never meant for you.

The cold air froze the tip of your nose and bit at the bare skin of your arms, but still… it was better than the suffocation inside.

You leaned your back against the wall and sit on a concrete stool, lettting your head fall back, eyes fixed on a starless sky.

For a moment, you thought of your childhood summers back in Westview. Those days when the world was small and kind. When the sound of the ice cream truck’s bell was enough to make you run barefoot, lighthearted, laughing freely.

God, how you missed that.

When you were just a girl — and that was enough. When your father’s love was all you needed to fill the empty spaces. Before he died.

Before the world crumbled at five years old.

Since then, ice cream never tasted the same again.

Your mother never looked at you the same. Or maybe she never looked at you at all.

You were always the mistake.

The disappointment.

She said it with her eyes — and sometimes with harsh words — that you weren’t enough. That everything you did could have been better, prettier, more useful.

But she smiled at your brother with that pride that never belonged to you.

So when the letter from UW came, it was your chance. The chance to prove to her that you could. The chance to find your own path.

The chance to run.

A city where no one knew your flaws. Where you could be someone — anyone. But even here, you brought the same fucking broken pieces.

The same hunger that now made you accept Carol Danvers’ scraps like they were feasts. She kissed you in secret. Called you “mine” in a whisper, but never in public.

And still, you waited. Like a fool.

Because deep down, being with her hurt less than admitting that maybe no one would ever truly choose you.

You bit your lip, tasting the metallic sting of frustration. The alcohol made everything feel more distant. More confusing.

The truth was you didn’t know who you were or who you wanted to be.

You just knew that… maybe you needed a little love.

Was that too much to ask?

The door behind you creaked open.

You turned slowly — thinking it was some janitor asking you to leave.

But no.

It was her.

The woman with the mysterious eyes.

The feminine silhouette in front of you was imposing, exuding importance. Her long dark hair fell like a rope, framing a strong face — and yet, the redness in her cheeks — from the alcohol or the cold — gave a softness to such a harsh figure.

Your eyes locked for a while. Too long. But neither of you dared to look away.

You swallowed hard. Should you say something? Your lips trembled, parted to speak, but her voice came first — strong, rough:

“Are you alright?”

The question cut through the silence like a blade.

Her voice was firm, almost impersonal — but there was something there...

You nodded, a gesture too small to mean anything.

Of course you weren’t alright. But what could you say? That you were trying not to cry over a woman who didn’t know how to love? That the bitter taste of tequila still burned in your throat, but what really stung was the absence — of everything?

You looked away, pressing your shoulders against the cold wall behind you.

“Just needed some air,” you finally said, almost in a whisper, like the words were being swept away by the freezing wind between you.

She stepped closer with careful strides, sitting down beside you. Not too close, but close enough for you to feel the warmth of her body. And her perfume, too — something woody, discreet, sophisticated.

You knew she was special. Rich. Very rich. From the leather heels to the minimalist jewelry.

“I figured…” she said, drawing a breath with some care. Her head tilted slightly, like she was trying to steady her thoughts more than her steps. Her hands buried in the pockets of her cream-colored coat — expensive, heavy, pristine like her. “It’s crazy in there.”

Her voice, though touched by alcohol, still carried strength. But you noticed the subtle crack in her posture. Like a piece of porcelain that only fractures under the right light.

But the question circled her mind and refused to fade away. What was she doing here? Had she followed you? Had she come here just because of you?

"Why are you here?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Shit.

You didn’t want to sound rude to her—not at all.

She didn’t answer right away.

She just turned her face toward you—and there was something in her eyes that froze you in place. A contained glint, sharp, like wet steel under the moonlight. And now, up close, under the moonlight, you could tell. Her eyes held perfect shades between green and blue.

It was like saltwater meeting freshwater in a single gaze.

The woman was truly stunning.

Her jaw clenched, as if she were fighting her own words. Or the impulse to say them.

Your stomach turned. Chills ran down your spine, and it wasn’t just the cold.

It was her.

How could someone look so dangerous and so hypnotic at the same time?

"I don’t know," she finally said. The sincerity in her voice was a near-wounded whisper, and it caught you off guard. "I saw you leave. And... I came."

Silence returned, but now it was a different kind of silence.

Alive.

Dense.

You looked down for a moment, feeling your heart beat too loud in your chest. It was scary. Not her—not exactly. But what she awakened. 

The way she looked at you. Like she saw something even you couldn’t name. And still, she didn’t look away.

"I don’t usually do this," she continued, and there was something restrained in her voice. Almost self-directed anger.

And you understood. Fuck. How you did understand!

That feeling of doing something against your own instincts just because, for some inexplicable reason, you have to.

That stupid war between protecting yourself and letting go.

"Me neither," you confess with a laugh, still feeling her now-blue eyes cut through you. Your voice came out small, almost like a shared secret.

You felt naked under those eyes. Like every layer of you was being unfolded with unsettling precision.

She didn’t smile.

She only looked deeper, and for a moment, you had the impression she was going to say something. Reveal something.

But she stopped.

The blue-eyed woman seemed to be battling her own body. Her own impulsivity. As if every inch of the space between you had been measured, restrained, smothered by something she refused to name.

You could feel her breath. The woody scent of her perfume. You wanted to get closer.

She turned her head sharply, like it would stop her from doing something reckless. You noticed her jaw tightening, her hard swallow, and her hands—now out of her coat—clenching into fists.

She rose from the concrete bench, stumbling elegantly in her heels to face the city.

"You’re... different," she said, as if spitting out the word with difficulty.

And she didn’t sound like she meant it in the usual way people try to impress someone at a party. There was real weight behind it. As if that “difference” was dangerous—or worse: unacceptable.

Your eyebrows furrow.

"What do you mean?" you ask, standing up with some effort.

She hesitated. A small pout formed on her lips, as if annoyed that you had asked. Or that she didn’t know how to answer.

Her eyes drifted to your mouth. A subtle, restrained motion, but not fast enough to hide it.

You held your breath.

"I don’t know," she said, but it felt more like a confession. Her hard gaze stayed fixed on you, but there was something different now. Something raw. More... human. "But I despise it."

The words came out like poison caught in her throat—not necessarily to hurt you. But as if the mere idea of someone unraveling what she thought was solid was intolerable.

You swallowed hard, your heart beating so fast it hurt. You stood there, between impulse and fear, trying to figure out someone who seemed made of thorns and glass.

Too beautiful to touch without getting cut.

But maybe, getting cut would be worth it.

"Why?" you dared ask, your voice low. You were afraid of the answer, but more afraid of the silence.

She turned slightly, her eyes meeting yours with something close to fury—but it wasn’t at you.

It was at herself.

A clash of wills sewn by years of restraint. Everything about her was control, you realized that now. Every gesture, every word, every space between blinks was meticulously guarded.

Except here. Except now.

"Because I hate losing control."

The phrase hit you with the force of an intimate confession. Almost an apology, and at the same time, a warning.

The wind blew stronger at that moment, tossing her hair across her face. She didn’t brush it away. She stayed like that, partly hidden, as if she didn’t want you to see what her eyes were saying.

But you saw anyway.

"Maybe..." you began, not knowing exactly where you were going. "Maybe that’s not such a bad thing."

She laughed. Softly. Without humor. A bitter, restrained laugh, like you’d told a joke too cruel to be funny.

"You have no idea what you’re saying."

You stood up to face her. 

Now there was no space between you. Only tension. A magnetic, cursed field. Hot and cold at once.

Your eyes searched hers, and in them, you found a wound no one should’ve ever touched.

But you wanted to.

You wanted to enter that pain and know it like someone opening a forbidden book.

"Then tell me," you whispered. "Make me understand," you pleaded.

She was so still, she looked carved out of air.

"I can’t do that." Her voice broke, and it was the first time that had happened. She stood up. Stopped at the door to leave, to run. Run from you. "You should go back too. You’ll freeze out here in that outfit," she said without looking at you, still facing the door and holding the handle.

And she seemed to be waiting.

You studied the silhouette of the much older woman leaning against the door. She was undeniably elegant, and the heels made her seem even taller next to you.

Those eyes seemed so dominant, always in control.

And maybe you were the one who had to take the risk here. After all, she looked like someone who had much to lose.

You stepped closer.

Each step measured, deliberate, until you could hear her breath change. A subtle, trembling exhale, as if your nearness had broken something in her.

Carefully, your fingers touched her dark hair, sliding through the strands like someone caressing a secret.

She let out a soft sound through her mouth—a stifled noise, somewhere between a moan and a protest.

And you smiled.

She was trying to resist. But failing.

"Please..." you begged, your mouth so close to her skin your warm breath touched her.

She turned sharply. Her back against the iron door. Breathing fast and looking like she might kill you if she could.

But you were too far gone now to care about dying.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" she growled, her jaw tight, her breath short like she could barely stay on her feet.

You didn’t answer.

You just let your lips touch her neck. Slow kisses, warm, like promises you didn’t even know if you could keep.

"Please. Please. Please," you begged between the kisses, the words staining her skin like fever.

You lifted your face until it was level with hers. Your lips brushed against hers in an almost-kiss.

Burning. Cruel.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice so low it barely made a sound.

But she heard it.

The woman finally leaned in, ready to be kissed—but you pulled back.

Just enough for her to feel the absence.

Her blue eyes burned with something primal.

“Fuck,” she breathed.

And then she kissed you.

Like she was breaking a promise. Like she was diving off a cliff, not expecting to survive.

And it wasn’t gentle.

It was ravenous.

It was need, despair, fury.

The kind of kiss that shouldn’t happen, but it did.

And you knew—right there, with her back slammed against the cold metal door, lips crushing yours with a hunger that felt decades old—that nothing would ever make sense again.

Her mouth was hot, urgent, and her tongue claimed yours with such authority it made you moan into your own teeth.

She took control without asking, without waiting. Like she was quenching a thirst that had gone too long ignored.

Her hands—big, firm, experienced—grabbed your waist with such force that you lost your breath.

And you let her hold you.

Let her brand you.

It was insane to be there.

In an emergency hallway, in an uncomfortable position and the wind bit at your exposed skin.

But honestly? None of it mattered. Because the heat came from her. That tall, mature body carved by time.

She could’ve been your mother’s age.

And fuck, why did that make it even hotter?

The way she held you—like she already knew every path to pleasure before you even knew their names.

The way she kissed—without hesitation, without the impatient rush of someone just chasing release.

Nothing like Carol.

Your hands moved up her back, feeling the expensive fabric of her coat, then pushed it gently off her shoulders to reveal the heat her skin carried.

Your fingers moved on their own, hooking into the waistband of her linen pants.

She moaned against your mouth, a muffled sound, and a shiver ran through both of you.

She broke the kiss violently, her breath ragged, like she’d just run a marathon. 

“No,” she whispered, resting her forehead against yours. “I can’t...”

You whimpered at the sudden distance and pressed into her, needing to make sure she was real.

“Why not?” you whispered back.

“Because...” She inhaled, trying to think, to erase your scent and your kiss from her mind. “Because this is wrong.”

“This?” You smiled, dragging your tongue across your lips. “Well. You don’t have to do anything.” Your voice was soothing. “I can do it for you.”

You brought your lips back to her neck.

Yes. You’d do it. You’d do anything.

She melted under your touch, letting out a desperate moan as your hands traveled lower down her body.

“W-what are you going to do?”

“Shh... Just feel.”

You stole her lips again, this time taking the control that seemed meant only for her. You explored every curve, alternating between squeezing her waist and her ass.  

“Can I do this?” you asked, resting your hand over her panties, waiting for a reply.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She just nodded.

You smiled.

Unbelievable.

You slid to her clit, and she gasped. She looked so beautiful, so ready...

You moved your fingers in figure-eights, making her moan and grab the back of your neck.

Then, without warning, you slipped two fingers inside her, dragging a cry of pleasure from her lips.

“Fuck, it’s been so long,” she moaned, delirious.

You kept thrusting, fingertips massaging the soft flesh inside. She throbbed and clenched so tightly around you...

“More!”

You brought your thumb to her clit, stimulating both spots at once. You felt her legs tremble. “I can give you this,” you whispered into her ear, biting her sensitive earlobe. “I’m a good girl.”

And when you heard her moan loudly, you knew she was the kind that liked dirty talk.

You looked at her again.

Fuck! How is she this beautiful?

Cheeks flushed, spit escaping her lips, hair tangled in your fingers, one leg wrapped around your waist—the tip of her high heel digging into your back—while the other leg stayed grounded, giving her that precious balance she seemed to crave.

This time, she was the one who stole your lips. And the moan that escaped you was shameful. Her tongue moved wildly, like it was saying something.

She was going to come.

“God— I—” she cried, bouncing on your fingers.

With one final thrust, she came.

Watching those once-cruel, dominant eyes roll back in bliss was something you would tattoo into your memory, forever.

And when she opened them again, you saw two oceans—still shimmering with pleasure.

Your chest burned with pride. You could die happy.

But all that feeling was devoured by three words:

“This never happened.”

The words hung in the air like the toxic smoke flooding the city, seeping into you.

You needed a second to process. Then two. And on the third, your stomach turned.

Your blood boiled.

“What?” Your voice came out as a choked disbelief.

Agatha didn’t answer right away.

She just straightened her coat, then her hair, staring past you at the buildings like you were a mistake she needed to delete.

Like you weren’t worth her time.

“You heard me.” she said coldly. Sharply.

Her blue eyes locked on yours — and this time, there was nothing in them.

No desire.

No warmth.

Just a shadow of disdain.

You stepped forward. “Are you serious?” Your voice cracked midway, but you stood your ground.

She sighed, like she needed patience to deal with you — and that only made you angrier.

“It was a mistake,” she said, dry. “One I don’t intend to repeat.”

Your chest cracked.

You laughed. Bitterly.

“Of course. Because God forbid someone like you be seen with someone like me, right?”

“It’s not about that, girl.”

Girl.

Said like that.

Like you were too small to understand.

“No?” You stepped closer, so near you could see her spit on her own chin. “Then what is it? Your last name? Your reputation? Whoever you think you are!?”

She glared at you, like she wanted to reduce you to dust.

“It’s about you being nothing.”

Silence.

A bottomless void.

It hit like a punch to the chest. A blow full of condescension and venom.

You stepped back, tears welling in your eyes.

“Yeah. I’m nothing,” you nodded, smiling with eyes full of rage. “The nothing that made you moan like a desperate whore in a dark corner.”

Her jaw clenched. She took a deep breath, but said nothing.

“Don’t look at me like you’re better than me,” you went on, your voice shaking with fury and adrenaline. “You’re just a lonely woman fucking the void inside you with someone else’s fingers. And fuck, you liked it. Every second. So spare me the performance.”

“If I were you, I’d watch that tone.” she replied, tense—but not with the same fire.

You laughed again, bitter, haunted by the echo of that damned phrase.

“It’s about you being nothing.”

Like a low blow. Like a rejection letter.

Like Carol.

Your chest tightened in that familiar, cruel way. Because you already knew that taste: the taste of abandonment that comes right after the touch.

The touch that makes you feel wanted.

The touch that lies.

You pulled away like you'd been burned, as if every second there had started to scald you. Swallowed hard, ignoring the lump in your throat, the salty taste that threatened to spill from your eyes.

“Go fuck yourself,” you said, but your voice came out too soft to hurt.

You brushed past her, your body still hot, still trembling, but already feeling the cold swallowing you whole again.

You stormed out the emergency exit like fleeing from a fire — even if now, the fire was inside you.

The dawn air hit you like a slap — cold, harsh, indifferent.

You descended the emergency exit steps with heavy steps, feeling the concrete vibrate beneath the thin soles of your shoes, but it was like every step was a surrender.

As soon as you returned to the dance floor, you saw your “friend with benefits” grinding on some guy while his hands roamed her sculpted body.

Fuck this.

Fuck her.

Fuck all of them.

A retreat on the board.

A pawn.

The smallest piece. The most predictable. The one that only moves forward — and dies first.

You laughed again, alone, with that irony that rises from your gut. The bitter laugh of someone who realizes they were just a convenient move in someone else’s game.

Just a pawn advanced out of pure whim.

You stumbled outside, like a mistake hidden behind the scenes of a party that was far too expensive.

The wind whipped against your sweat-damp skin and unshed tears. And you swallowed hard again, throat tight, the acidic taste of humiliation rising like bile.

You thought of her.

A stranger — eyes sometimes blue, sometimes green, and always vivid.

Of her touch.

Of the rough fingers gripping your waist. The way she moaned greedily for more, even if only once.

The way she came with her face turned toward the sky, as if you were some kind of gift.

And even then… “You’re nothing.”

Fuck.

Why do those words hurt more than they should? Why does part of you want to go back, just to scream? Just to force her to admit that you gave her the best orgasm of her life?

But you didn’t go back.

You just clenched your fists, walking the dark streets like someone running from their own shadow. Like someone who finally understands that some people were made to move the pieces… and others were made to be moved.

And you swear to yourself — somewhere between the step and the regret — that next time, God, if there’s a next time, you’ll play the game before it plays you.

Because being a pawn is exhausting.

And you weren’t born to die in the first move.

~*~

UHhhh... Agatha's such a bitch... I'm sorry!! Y-Y

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @milfovers4

[cirruslush]

「fake rumours」

PART 1 ꩜

an enemies to lovers type of story

hamzahthefantastic x reader

mentions: ANGST, gentle choking , making out, pinning, no smut

The worst thing about Hamzah wasn’t the fact that he was infuriatingly perfect. It wasn’t the way he always seemed one step ahead, or how his stupid cocky smirk could make my blood boil in seconds. It wasn’t even the fact that, he always managed to look effortlessly cool while I was struggling to keep my temper in check.

No. The worst thing about him was that, somehow, he’d always be able to easily find his way back in my head, as if it was the road to home that you blindly know about.

-

-

Me and Hamzah have been friends for quite some time now, considering our parents were friends even before we were born.

His mom adored me as if I were her own, and would always call me over for dinner, or just to study n hangout with Hamzah since we had a lot of classes in common.

Senior year, finally. One of the most stressful and overwhelming grades for many, but also one of the most exciting as well.

On one hand, it’s your last year of high school, which means making memories with friends, and the anticipation of what’s next. There’s a sense of freedom, like you’re standing on the edge of something bigger. But at the same time, it can feel like a lot of pressure—college applications, final exams, and the weight of what comes after.

Fortunately for you, school and life have been “caressing” you almost, but it’s only March, and you didn’t want to jinx anything

The multi-day senior trip is coming up soon and your heart was beating out of your chest, preparing your clothes days before the trip and planning what to do with your friends at night was like preparing for your first summer vacation.

You and your friends had been counting down the days for what felt like forever—talking about who was rooming with who, which places you were going to visit, and, of course, the late-night shit you all were determined to pull off. This trip felt like a rite of passage, a celebration of everything you’d gone through together—years of awkward moments, shared laughs, inside jokes, and even the occasional fighting. But now, it was all coming to an end.

The reality of graduation creeping up was starting to feel more tangible, more real. You caught yourself staring out the window, wondering how it all passed so quickly. Wasn’t it just yesterday you were entering high school, full of nervous energy? Now, you were at the finish line, ready to take the plunge into adulthood.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed, pulling you out of your thoughts. It was a call from Hamzah. You hesitated for a moment before answering, his name lighting up the screen bringing a familiar comfort with it.

“Hey, what’s up?” you answered, trying to keep your tone casual, though you could hear your own excitement slipping through.

“Have you done packing up yet?” Hamzah’s voice came through, upbeat and teasing.

“Almost,” you replied, glancing at the half-packed suitcase on your bed. “Just getting the last few things together. You?”

“I’m done, finally.” He signed loudly, and you could practically picture him lounging on his bed, phone in hand, his usual laid-back tone in full effect.

“I’m glad. Would you like my mom to drive us to school tomorrow instead?” you said jumping out of your seat, going to the bathroom, to grab your toothbrush “If your mom’s okay with it, always.”

“Sure why not, I’ll text you in a bit.” he replied, and before you knew it, he had already hung up.

Hamzah’s been kinda weird lately. He keeps teasing you in someway, yet being more distant by the days. You thought maybe it was some type of romantic disappointment, or something had happened at home, but you didn’t want to stress him even more by asking, right before the trip at that.

*bzz* the phone buzzed once again, it was a message this time, by your girl best friend. You quickly jumped on your bed, unlocking it

ANNA

hello beautiful sunshine 💕 Actually i’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, but i couldn’t gather the courage to tell you in person. I think Hamzah’s been talking behind your back…I happen to have overheard a conversation he had today, at school with one of his friends, and he said something about you being too immature to him, and that he was planning on cutting u off. Sorry for not telling u earlier girl, did u 2 fight?

The thought twisted something deep in her chest. Hamzah? Your best friend since childhood? He would never, right? Nothing had real happened between you—at least that you remember of, but Anna had said it so casually, and now, it made sense why Hamzah had been distant the past few days.

It was finally the next morning. You really didn’t get any sleep—thinking about Anna’s text over and over again. You were so filled with rage.

Is he foreal? Why would he even call you last night if it he was planning to cut you off anyway..you quickly got inside the car, driving with your mom over to Hamzah’s place.

Once you picked him up, you didn’t even dare to look at him in the eye. No words were said by you, only your mom talking with Hamzah. Though, Hamzah was quick to notice “everything alright? Are you feeling sick or nervous because of the trip?” he asked, looking genuinely worried. How pathetic. you thought to yourself, was he fucking with you or playing with your feelings just before cutting you off—like a cat playing with a mouse before killing it? yeah sure, Fuck him. “No, i’m totally fine.” you outed sassily, with a mocking face for a second.

Hamzah decided not to talk back, thinking it was that time of the month for you, not wanting to argue first thing in the morning.

On the trip, you kept your distance from him, avoiding his gaze, and sitting with Anna and the others at meals. Hamzah tried talking to you, but every. single. time. you shut him down, quickly, turning your body and attention away. The quiet hurt in his eyes made your stomach twist, but you couldn’t shake the words Anna had said.

The days went by, and both of you didn’t speak a word. Not talking to Hamzah for more than a day, was actually very unfamiliar with you. All these years you’d be all over each other, even if you argued one of you would always make a move to apologise soon enough- but this wasn’t the case. You were being selfish, not backing out or falling for any traps after hearing what your best friend Anna had to tell you. After all, why would your best friend lie about something like that? It didn’t seem like she had something against him anyway.

So you want war? You’ll get it.

The rest of the year passed and Hamzah eventually stopped trying to talk to you. You didn’t care, or so you acted like that. It was nice having him cling onto you for a bit, but as soon as that stopped, he straight up became an asshole. He had a nasty, disgusted face everytime you’d cross paths and sometimes even tried tripping you or fell onto you by accident. Did he really hate you that much in the end? He broke you, really..

-

-

3 Years passed by, like days—calm like the river flow

The bass of the music thumped in your chest as you stumbled your way through the club, laughter and chatter blending into the rhythm. You’d had a bit to drink, enough to let loose, but not enough to completely lose yourself. You needed a break from the noise, so you made your way to the bathroom.

The moment you pushed the door open, the cool air hit your face, and you took a deep breath. You leaned against the sink, your reflection staring back at you—a slightly tipsy version of yourself, but still, you were fine. Just needed a minute.

You were trying to focus on getting yourself together when the door creaked open behind you. The sound of footsteps made you glance up, and then—him.

Hamzah

Your breath got caught in your throat. Of all places. Of all the nights. Why here? Was your luck really fucking testing you right now?

There he was, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, looking exactly the same as you remembered. His dark defined curls, his eyes still that deep shade of brown, that you once used to stare at and get lost in. Your pulse sped up, and your stomach twisted into knots, the alcohol in your system only amplifying everything.

He paused when he saw you, his expression unreadable, but you could feel the tension building in the small, dimly lit space between you. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

“You’re here..? What are you doing here?” You said your voice a little slurred, trying to play it cool but failing miserably. “Didn’t expect to see you in the ladies’ room.”

He laughed softly, the sound almost making you forget how you ended your whole friendship over a stupid girl. Almost. “Guess we’re both full of surprises,” he said, eyes flickering to the door as if he was about to leave.

But he didn’t move.

You took a small step back, feeling the weight of the situation sink in. Why was he just standing there? Why wasn’t he leaving?

“I’m, uh, i’ll see myself out then” you said, trying to walk past him, but he stepped forward, blocking your way.

“Actually, im glad i met you here.” he said, towering over you “Now that you have nowhere to go, don’t ya think you can give me a clear explanation.”

oh fuck me. That’s crazy..You thought to yourself.

Now that you were getting a closer look—He definitely got taller, his arms and face looked way more defined than before as well.. and his voice—that high pitched voice that you were used to, sounds a lot more manly now and definitely deeper too..Has he been smoking? Wait-no no NO. None of these mattered right now. You have a problem here and now, and unfortunately none of your friends to get you out of it this time.

“Well~ what are you talking about, im kinda dizzy to be honest.. think we can talk about this laterz maybe?” you giggled a lil bit, trying to act a bit more drunk, maybe you thought to yourself, maybe, he’d let you off the hook.

“I don’t see a reason to talk outside, pretty.”

The club was still loud outside, people shouting and laughing “and who knows, you just might try and run away again.”

Inside the bathroom, it felt like the world had gone silent. Just you and him, stuck in a moment neither of you had fully let go of.

You didn’t know how to respond. Your mind was foggy, you just stared into his dark coloured eyes.

Has he always been that hot or was it the alcohol smacking you right in the face right now? This is ridiculous. Why would you think like that about your childhood friend. Wait no it’s not me though, it’s definitely the alcohol, can’t be…Great, am i talking to myself now?

Out of nowhere—you got hit with the coldness of the tiles on the wall. Hamzah had pinned you down to the wall. You swallowed hard, your breath starting to get uneven as you try to quiet down your heart with it.

“are you communicating? Im talking to you this whole time, and you just, chose to ignore me again.” he said teasingly, pointing out the past.

Hamzah smirked, his gaze not leaving yours. There was a tense silence between you two, the kind that hung in the air, thick and unresolved. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t.

He took a step closer, closing the remaining space in between us, his presence overwhelming. “I’ve been thinking about you, y/n, A lot.”

Your heart pounded almost out of your chest. The alcohol coursing through your veins was blurring the lines between what was real and what you wanted. You should pull away, tell him to leave. But your body was betraying you, your mind too clouded to make the rational choice.

if you were to say you didn’t think of him everyday ever since you graduated either, then, you’d definitely be lying…But that’s another thing.

“Actually, you know what. No. You don’t get to talk to me like this—as if you really miss me, after being such an asshole to me in highschool.” his hand, with sudden, fast-yet gentle emotions, now wrapping your neck. Not squishing tight, only enough to show how mad he was.

Slowly, he brought his mouth to your ear “Me? Being the asshole? Right, as if I ignored you for no reason, first.” he said, softly.

Hamzah’s gaze fierce as a knife, he eyed you up and down, like a a snake observing it’s prey. And before you knew it, his lips were on yours, urgent and hungry. The kiss was passionate and rough. His hand found its way to your waist, pulling you closer, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to sink into him, to forget all the hurt and confusion.

You kissed him back, letting the heat build, drowning in the way he made you feel—alive, wanted, and reckless all at once. His hands moved to your hips, pressing you against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, and you let him, letting the past, and the bitterness fall away with every passing second.

The door behind you creaked slightly, but you didn’t care. The club, the noise, the people outside—it all seemed so far away. There was only him. Only the way his lips and tongue moved with yours, the way his hands held you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Are you sure about this?” he breathed against your lips, his voice thick with desire. He was holding back.

How did you end up like this? Were those feelings just, pend up anger? None of it mattered, you just wanted to feel the heat of the moment

You pulled him closer, your hands sliding into his curls, needing him, needing this, even if you didn’t quite understand why. “Yeah..” you whispered, the word falling out before you could stop it. You needed him to hear it. You needed him to know.

to be continued

────୨ৎ────

✎ a/n first time writing kinda nervous.. I think this may be kinda boring at first since i was yapping a lot. The original story was like 2 times this one but i had to rewrite it eventually 😭 there also may be some spelling errors or just some shit that don’t make sense but please bear with me since english is not my first language

[gatheringbones]

[“In the leather dyke erotica of Patrick Califia and Carol Queen, butch is both a sex toy to be played with and an identity to be fully realized. In these stories, women enjoy slicking back their hair or wearing steel-toed boots to assume a masculine swagger in bed. Queen’s The Leather Daddy and the Femme (1998) has one of the best forced-masculinization scenes I’ve ever encountered. A dyke is taken to a gay male sex party by her new leather daddy fuck buddy; dressed in boy drag, she gets to experience what it’s like to be used like a man by a group of men.

When it comes to hyperbutch symbolism, the leather daddy has long been the most recognizable icon of kinky gay male counterculture. Emerging post–World War II in American urban neighborhoods like SoMa in San Francisco and Manhattan’s meatpacking district, this form of queerness incorporated motorcycle gear like chaps and engineer boots with elements of militaristic uniforms. Immortalized in the art of Tom of Finland and Chuck Arnett, the leather daddy figure is all about bulging muscles and cruising eyes, hairy, confident, powerful.

Leathermen live in a fantasy world of masc-on-masc desire, butch archetypes like motorcycle rebels, sailors, cowboys, and so on cottaging each other in public bathrooms and parks. There’s a reason cosmina chose the leather daddy as her masc example of gender maximalism. But daddy isn’t just a look. In leather culture, “daddy” also means a nurturing dominant, distinguishable from a stricter “Master.” He is a key component of the queering of the family unit, where newly out gay people are guided through rites of passage into adulthood by elders. They learn how to be good lovers, good friends, and good community members, and to one day pass that knowledge along. This kinship has been a form of collective healing and redesign for people who had been excommunicated from their families of origin.

Femmes can be daddies too. There is a very special frisson inherent in a staunchly feminine person in high heels and bold lips who also wants to invoke everything daddy represents. Why, we might ask, would a femme daddy not want to identify simply as a leather mommy? Internalized misogyny may be at play, but I suspect it’s more about the exciting discordance of androgyny. Where a conventional ear experiences disharmony, kinky queers hear intentional instability. Queers are drawn to twists and inversions, to the unexpected, to putting things together that definitionally aren’t “supposed” to go together, to fucking holes (asses) you’re not supposed to fuck with parts of you that aren’t supposed to be meant for fucking (fists). The creation and assertion of the new archetype makes us feel safe that we get to define the terms by which people perceive us, are turned on by us, want to cruise us. The femme daddy archetype is intriguing because it both tells you plainly what it is and eludes your understanding: Which of the qualities of femme and daddy are going to overlap this time?”]

tina horn, from why are people into that? a cultural investigation of kink, 2024

[slytherinshua]

FLYING BICYCLES AND LOVESTRUCK MAGIC

genre. fluff. kiki's delivery service au-ish. a lil mutual pining. warnings. reader is basically kiki and sohee is basically tombo lol. some psychic magic mentioned. it's mostly just them being whipped for each other. osono cameo cause she's mvp fr. pairing. sohee x witch!reader. wc. 2.5k. a/n. the riize brainrot is SO REAL. idk why i felt sohee would fit the role of tombo so perfectly hes just sooo 💔💔 i love him guys 🥹

Sohee was 97.62436% sure that he was going crazy when he first saw you flying on a broomstick through the city. Of course, the other 2.37564% that had gone completely insane was fascinated, excited, and probably (definitely) head over heels in love.

He lived in a small town. One where the word went around like a whirlwind as soon as anyone new moved in. It was the most exciting thing that could happen for the residents there, especially when the newcomer happened to be a very pretty girl from a rich city. 

Most people would move out of the town when they reached 20 or so to discover themselves. Yet they always seemed to find their way back when they were a bit more settled. It was a rite of passage— a route to adulthood that almost everyone assumed the youth of the town would take. Sohee liked his town, though, and didn’t feel any need to move away. He had already discovered himself enough to know what he wanted to do with his life. 

There were exciting things to do that he doubted he would be able to do anywhere else. Visiting the town’s grandpa that ran the old antique shop, getting free candy from the young lady who ran the candy store after the old owner had passed away, seeing every new addition to the art gallery from the aspiring painters and sculptors in town. And, his favourite activity: investigating the old junk yard for spare parts to make his newest models.

Sohee liked to call himself an inventor. It felt spiffy and official. He showed off every new creation he pieced together with rusted tools and even rustier bits of metal like it was the next world-changing invention. He could spend hours in his dad’s old workshop working with nuts and bolts, seeing what the pieces could make once they came together.

He had been determined to make a flying vehicle for years now. After finding a beautiful old wind turbine in the junkyard when he was 14, he had started planning mock-ups for a bicycle. He would attach the turbine in front of it so that when you pedalled, the turbine spinned. The hope was that with enough inertia, you could eventually lift off the ground with it. He was skeptical that it would actually work, though.

He hadn’t officially talked to you yet. You had been in town for a couple days now, staying with the couple that ran the local bakery. Sohee thought you were absolutely beautiful from the moment he first saw you. He had been riding his bicycle past the bakery on his way to the carpenters to pick up some tools. One glance at you through the window had him abruptly pushing on the brakes, eyes going wide.

Maybe it was a bit of an exaggeration, but you looked like an angel. Or a goddess. Or a fairy. Sohee couldn’t decide which one, but he knew that you were the most stunning person he had ever seen. Since that day, he kept running into you in town, but his own nervousness had stopped him from talking to you properly. He had held a few conversations; enough to know your name and age, but clearly not enough to know that you could fly through the air.

Now, he was staring wide-eyed at the clouds, watching you soar just beneath them so effortlessly. He craned his head to watch you as long as he could before you disappeared behind the clock tower.

“Woah…” He whispered, jaw dropped in an awestruck expression. 

“She’s quite the girl, isn’t she?” 

Sohee turned to the side, nodding in agreement with what Osono, the bakery lady, had said.

“She’s amazing. Do you know how she does it?” He asked with a grin.

“Haven’t you heard by now, Sohee? She’s a witch! She chose our town to do her witch training.” Osono explained.

“That’s incredible! I didn’t even know witches actually existed! Do you know what she’s training in?!” Sohee felt like his brain was spinning at a speed incomprehensible to mankind. He kept thinking of more and more questions about you. He’d never seen anyone quite like you before, and the more he learned, the more intrigued he became.

“She said she’s still figuring it out— but she’s interested in love readings. For now, she’s using her flying skills to help me and the town. She’s an excellent delivery girl!” Osono beamed.

“Love readings…?” Sohee pondered the idea on his way back home. The next day, he found himself at the town’s library, scanning through the small section on magic and witches with more focus than he had put to almost anything.

//

“Miss witch, I’d like to get a love reading!” He announced happily, swinging open the door to the bakery where you were seated at the counter, seconds away from falling asleep due to the lack of customers. You jerked up at the sound of Sohee, immediately knowing that it was him from his playful nickname for you— miss witch.

“Really!? You want one!?” You jumped up from your seat and rushed around the counter to be face to face with him. Sohee had become your first friend in town. After he had seen you fly that day, he discovered the key to talking to you without being awkward. You could fly and he wanted to fly. There was a perfect common interest.

You loved talking to Sohee. He was infinitely more interesting than the kids back at your old home, most of which were stuck up and rude. Sohee was bright and kind and full of imagination and dreams and inspiration. He never got bored of you talking about being a witch, and you never got bored of hearing about his new inventions. You had never clicked so well with someone before.

There was also the fact that he was the prettiest boy you’d ever seen. But that was… less important. You had a bad habit of crushing on boys without it ever going anywhere. You were determined not to repeat that disaster a sixth time.

“It would be my great honour to be your very first customer.” Sohee said dramatically, making you giggle with excitement. 

“Well, then, dear client, shall we go to my witch lair? I can’t perform the reading anywhere else.” You responded, matching his dramatics perfectly. He grinned and nodded and you grabbed his wrist to lead him upstairs.

“It’s a bit messy— give me a second!” You rushed around your small attic space that Osono had been so kind to let you stay in for free. You hurriedly put away the food that you had gotten for breakfast and shoved some odd trinkets under your bed so that they were hidden. Sohee just watched, his heart racing. He really needed to get that under control.

“Where’s my witching supplies- Aha! Here it is!” You held up a small purple box, bejewelled with gold ornaments. It looked ancient and rusty— exactly the type of artifact that Sohee loved.

You set down a thin blanket on the wooden floor before taking out the little baubles and setting them in the middle of the fabric. Sohee sat on one end, and you on the other. 

“Alright, mister… I have a series of questions, but for this to work, you must answer them completely honestly. If you lie even once, the whole thing will be messed up!” You had put on your mother’s joke witches had for fun. The sight made Sohee laugh, especially when you deepened your voice to sound old as you explained how things would work.

“I got it. I’ll tell only the truth.” Sohee promised.

“Once you answer all the questions, I’ll flip over this blank card. If everything works out, the name of the person you love the most will slowly appear before your eyes! Now… Are you ready?” You quirked an eyebrow, staring seriously at him even though on the inside you were about to burst with excitement. It was your dream to open your own love reading business. You just weren’t completely sure if you were good enough at it yet.

Sohee nodded eagerly, a mix of excitement and nervousness stewing inside of him. He wasn’t sure exactly what to expect, so he carefully followed along with what you did to make sure he didn’t mess anything up. You closed your eyes and he followed suit.

The questions you asked started out simple, without Sohee needing to deliberate before delivering the honest answer to you. But as they went on, they got more complex and more personal. Sohee had never doubted your abilities as a witch, but he hadn’t expected you to be able to see right through him.

“Last question…”

“Mhm?” Sohee could feel his stomach twist in nervousness, but he breathed steadily to try to calm his nerves.

“Do you believe yourself to be in love with someone at this current moment?” 

Sohee swallowed slowly, his mouth and throat feeling parched all of a sudden. He took his time to think through it, though the answer was almost painfully obvious. He had never been more in love in his entire life.

“Yes.” He finally answered with certainty, a slight burden lifting off his chest. It was almost as if he was confessing to you in a way— and though he didn’t say it directly, it still eased some of his anxiety. He opened his eyes hesitantly after answering to see your face scrunched in concentration.

“No way-” You opened your eyes as well, frowning in confusion and looking up to Sohee with a questioning gaze. “By any chance are you…?” 

“Huh?” Sohee blinked, confused at your actions. You shook your head quickly and stared down at the blank card.

“Are you ready?” 

“Yeah.” 

The air felt a little tense as you slowly flipped over the black card. You held your hand over it for a few seconds, shielding it from Sohee’s curious view. You lifted your hand carefully once you were sure it had worked and watched as the name slowly appeared on the card.

You sat in frozen shock once you read the name on the card, struggling to process what you had seen. Your name was displayed on the card, clearer than ever. There was no way that anyone could possibly mistake it or misread it, but you just couldn’t believe it.

“It- we- we must’ve messed it up somehow! There’s no way that’s- It must’ve got me confused, right!?” Sohee spluttered helplessly, his entire face a bright shade of red. Somehow in his calculations, he didn’t expect for the card to expose him that horrendously, right in front of you as well.

“I don’t think we did it wrong, though… Everything felt… right.” You said quietly. “Do you… like me?” You could barely get the words to come out of your throat. 

There were some parts of your magic that you still needed time to trust completely. Flying had always been easy in that aspect; you either flew or you didn’t. But when it came to love readings, you wondered how likely it was that your magic had gotten messed up. You liked to be whimsical and believe that your love readings could be completely accurate, but your confidence had never been as low as in this moment. 

However nervous you were feeling, it was a thousand times worse for Sohee. You had a small inkling of hope— hope that he would say yes. But for Sohee, he could only think of the possible rejection. Or the even worse possibility that this would tear apart your friendship.

“Yes…?” Sohee whispered out to you. You had never heard him this nervous or quiet before.

“Really? Are you sure?” You asked again, this time with a little more voice and hope surging in you. Sohee must have picked up on the hopeful tone, as he answered yes again, this time with more certainty. 

“Then the reading wasn’t wrong?! You actually like me?” Your hand clasped over your mouth before you could ramble anymore in your state of disbelief. 

“What about you? I mean… you probably don’t, right? But maybe…?” Sohee couldn’t help but be hopeful for your response, but he held himself back from being too expectant on the response he was dreaming for. 

“Do I like you back?! Of course I do- It wasn’t obvious before now?” You stuttered in disbelief.

“I mean- I hoped you did, but I couldn’t be sure.” Sohee clarified. The tension in the room had completely dissipated by now, and your smiles were slowly coming back as the reality settled in. 

“I’ve liked you since I moved here, I think. Didn’t you ever question why we kept running into each other before we became friends?” 

“No? I just thought it was a lucky coincidence.” Sohee admitted with a laugh.

“It was because whenever I spotted you biking around town, I’d land in a street nearby and pretend like I was always walking that way just to cross paths with you!” You corrected stubbornly. Now that it was clear that the feelings were mutual, you wanted him to know the effort that you went through to get closer to him.

“I also started going past the bakery on my way home. It added an extra 5 minutes to my route, but it was worth it to see you working through the glass window.” He scratched the back of his neck shyly, mirroring your smile when your eyes brightened at hearing his confession. 

“So… what now?” You questioned suddenly after a prolonged silence of both of you trying to stare at the other while simultaneously trying your best not to look obvious.

“Would you go out with me?” Sohee asked excitedly. “Oh shoot- I should’ve gotten flowers first. Wait here- I’ll be quick!” He stammered, rushing out of the room before you could stop him. He was gone only long enough for you to giggle in delight while you cleaned up the supplies you had laid out. Your witching skills had come in handy in the best of ways.

He was out of breath by the time he burst open the door again, but his eyes had never glimmered any brighter. He held a bouquet of pink and white roses, a little squished on one side from the rush he had been in. 

“You know you didn’t have to go buy these…” You bit back a smile, taking the pretty flowers from his hands.

“My mom always said the best way to charm a lady was with flowers.” He panted and grinned at you cheekily when you shot him a look. You smiled as you sniffed the sweet scent of the roses. Sohee was about to say something else, but you pulled him into a tight hug before he could start, the unexpected gesture knocking all words he had into another dimension.

“I really like you, Sohee.” You whispered, your smile twinkling as you rested your head on his shoulder. 

He took a second to get over the shock of you hugging him before he was wrapping his arms around your frame as well, mumbling back, “Me too.”

↳ riize taglist: @eternalgyu,, @kangtaehyunzzz,, @weird-bookworm,, @haecien

[teyamskxawng]

Rite of Passage

Lo'ak Sully x Fem!Omatikaya!Reader

The rundown: You and Lo'ak mutually agree to paint each other for your coming of age ceremony. Although you're both growing older, some things never change.

Warnings: language, Reader and Lo'ak being painfully oblivious, Reader swearing up and down that she hates Lo’ak’s hands but she really loves them, just lots of fluff and stupidity, characters are aged up

WC: 5.5k

A/N: This was my attempt at writing a light-hearted lil fic that I don’t feel obligated to stretch out into a series. It's basically word vomit idrk how I feel about it, but anyways!! Another one for the Lo’ak lovers (me) lol <333

The highly anticipated season had finally come around once again—the annual, collective moment in which the entire Omaticaya clan came together to celebrate the time-honored induction of their youth into the world of adulthood. Over the course of several grueling months, the young Na'vi had been put through their paces, overcoming demanding rites of passage and thus earning their coveted standing within the tribe.

The lively and uproarious ceremony was more than just a celebration. It signified a crucial stepping stone in the journey toward becoming accomplished members of the Na'vi society. And this year, Lo’ak found himself among those transitioning from childhood into adulthood, moving one step closer to joining the ranks of his higher-ups.

He’d finally be treated like an adult, he’d finally get to exercise free will outside of his parents' strict and demanding orders. He’d get to celebrate with all of his warrior friends and probably consume way more drinks than he should, but that was all part of the adventure. He’d be a free man, and he couldn’t fucking wait. 

But as thrilling as the entire experience was panning out to be, there was this nagging sensation at the back of his mind—something that clouded his thoughts like a veil of unease.

It was customary for each young Na’vi to be adorned with intricate body paint before attending the celebration—a powerful symbol that represented their transformation from childhood into adulthood. It was akin to casting off one’s previous life and stepping into a new, mature version of themselves.

Each unique design would act as a shroud, allowing the individual to leave behind their former innocence and emerge reborn, strong and prepared for all of life’s challenges.

While most of his peers had already secured mentors, close friends, or even lovers to skillfully adorn their bodies with intricately painted designs for the ceremony weeks before its commencement, Lo’ak had nothing. Despite all his accomplishments thus far, he’d yet to find someone to help him present himself in a manner conducive to the age-old tradition. Which was a big problem.

Lo’ak had been struggling with the idea of asking you to paint him for the upcoming ceremony for weeks on end. It was something that weighed heavily on his mind, but he just couldn’t figure out how to approach such a delicate yet meaningful conversation with you. Embarrassingly, he found himself losing sleep over it all, tossing and turning in his hammock, replaying scenarios in his head, trying to find the right words that didn't seem to exist.

You and Lo’ak shared practically every experience and milestone throughout your lives together. You went through the same rites of passage as Lo’ak to be welcomed into the tribe as warriors. Given your close bond, it was natural that Lo’ak would want to be the one to paint you for the ceremony as well. Unfortunately, just as with asking you, he stumbled when it came to bringing up the actual topic. It was going beyond the casual interaction of friends—this was a formal event, steeped in tradition and significance. The whole situation left him feeling overwhelmed with stress and anxiety. 

But still, Lo’ak understood the weight of the tradition: it was all about deep connections and honoring those who had played an essential role in your life. Last year, he recalled watching Kiri as she painted Neteyam for his coming-of-age ceremony. As per tradition, this year Neteyam painted Kiri, a symbol of their familial bond and reciprocal support. It made sense, but at the same time, there went two of his potential options. Tuk was way too young to know what she was doing, and it’d just be straight-up embarrassing to have to ask either of his parents to do it for him. That would defeat the purpose of the entire ceremony; he was supposed to be an adult now, no longer reliant on his parents.

There was no doubt in Lo’ak’s mind that you’d be the perfect partner for the adornment process. You weren’t just a passing acquaintance; you were one of Lo’ak’s closest friends. Your friendship was strong enough to withstand the toughest storms. But still, Lo'ak couldn't shake the feeling that asking to paint each other would somehow cross a line between friendship and something much more intimate. It’d be embarrassing. And what if you had chosen someone else already? What if it was some other guy? Lo’ak’s stomach dropped at the thought.

And now, as the day of the ceremony had arrived, Lo’ak found that he still hadn’t mustered up the courage to ask you about the painting ritual. His anxiety mounted as time slipped through his fingers like sand. He was so screwed.

As you approached the Sully family’s tent, the faint sound of metal slicing through the air caught your attention. A knot of unease tightened in your chest as you hesitantly pulled back the tent’s entrance, revealing Lo’ak sitting alone in the dimly lit space. He was cross-legged on the ground, wholly engrossed in spinning his dagger in circles on the floor, his quick fingers directing its every move. As used to his stupidly reckless behavior as you were from years of friendship, your eyes still narrowed at the sight. You swore he was two seconds away from slicing his finger off and bleeding out right there in front of you before the ceremony even began.

So much for his adulthood.

Lo’ak’s ears twitched, and his trance-like concentration suddenly broke as he sensed your presence, his focused expression softening as he turned his gaze to meet yours. Momentarily distracted from his dagger, he rose to greet you, meeting your eyes with a look of genuine confusion.

Lo’ak eyed you up and down before stating matter-of-factly, “You’re not painted for the ceremony yet?” He didn’t phrase it like a question—more like an observation. And that was a little unfair, because it wasn’t like he was dressed in his body paint either.

Feeling a tad defensive, you retorted, “Neither are you,” as you made your way deeper into the heart of the tent. As much as his words had sparked annoyance in you, a secret wave of relief washed over you as you realized that Lo’ak wasn’t ready for the ceremony either. That could mean good news: maybe he hadn’t found a partner for the painting ritual yet.

There was still hope.

For days, you’d been meaning to ask Lo’ak about the whole rite of passage painting thing, but every time an opportunity presented itself, you’d back out like a little bitch. You honestly didn’t even know why you hesitated. It shouldn’t have been difficult to approach him about it. Lo’ak had always been your closest friend—you’d trained together, learned to tame your ikran together, and even completed your Uniltaron one after the other. There was no doubt in your mind that he’d agree to be your partner for the significant culmination of everything you’d accomplished together. It was just that the entire ordeal of getting someone—a good friend or otherwise—to meticulously rub paint all over your body felt so… affectionate. You and Lo’ak weren’t affectionate. Just thinking about it made you feel like there was a cascade of woodsprites flurrying around in your stomach.

You shook your head, trying to get rid of those persistent thoughts, when Lo’ak’s voice invaded your musings.

“Yeah, I don’t know who’s gonna paint me. Haven’t had time to ask anyone yet,” he said nonchalantly while reaching down to retrieve and re-stow his dagger.

He was avoiding eye contact, his yellow eyes aimlessly darting around the tent. You found it hard not to roll your eyes at him because it was so obvious he was lying about being too busy. You’d literally just caught him goofing around with an entire weapon moments ago. However, it didn’t really come as a shock that Lo’ak hadn’t approached anyone about it yet. Social graces weren’t his strong suit, and mustering up the courage to ask anyone to play such a role in his rite of passage couldn’t have been easy for him.

But still. Either way, you made up your mind; it was clear that things needed to move forward somehow. Regardless of the situation and awkward challenges it presented, you couldn’t sit idly by anymore; both of you were running out of time, and it’d be stupid to continue dancing around the matter at hand.

Resolutely, you decided it was best just to be upfront about it and get the whole thing settled once and for all—for both of your sakes and for the sake of friendship. Maybe it wouldn’t be as awkward as it seemed.

“Okay. I’ll do you, and then you can do me,” you blurted out, the words tumbling from your lips without any real finesse. It was as if the sooner you could get those words out, the sooner you could escape the oncoming wave of embarrassment threatening to wash over you.

However, Lo’ak’s reaction caught you off guard.

His eyes widened in surprise and his eyebrows shot upward as he averted his gaze from yours. He couldn’t seem to look at you, his attention inexplicably drawn to an unremarkable spot on the ground near your feet. You scrunched your face up in confusion as you tried to make sense of his bizarre reaction. It wasn’t until you gave yourself a moment to process and then reprocess the words that had spilled from your lips, that you realized how they might have sounded to Lo’ak’s stupid teenage boy brain.

Trying to push away your own mortification and distract the both of you from the burning color that you were sure was spreading across your face, you acted on instinct, reaching over and smacking Lo’ak upside the back of his head. It was a necessary move to kill the dreadful silence that engulfed the tent.

“Ow! The fuck?” Lo’ak screeched, nursing the spot where you struck him as if he had genuinely been injured. He had always been overly dramatic.

“Just sit down,” you told him, trying your best to maintain a casual demeanor.

Despite the twinge of awkwardness still lingering in the air between both of you, you firmly gripped Lo’ak’s arm and pulled him back down into a sitting position on the floor. With Lo’ak seated and somewhat calmer now—even if he was still rubbing at the supposed wound on his head—you made your way deeper into the tent to rummage for the supplies needed for the body paint.

Jake and Neytiri were always well-prepared, making sure they had an ample supply of materials for when the time came to don their traditional war paint. Thanks to the countless hours you spent with the Sully children, navigating their tent was like second nature to you, and locating the necessary items was a breeze.

With a mortar and pestle full of bright white pigment in one hand and a bowl of water in the other, you re-approached Lo’ak, who was sitting patiently, waiting for your return. As you stood there, you studied Lo’ak’s face and allowed your gaze to wander down his frame, trying to visualize the patterns and symbols that’d complement his warrior spirit. Eventually, feeling inspired, you took your place in front of him.

Making yourself comfortable, you positioned yourself on your knees, making use of the extra bit of height, before you reached for the mortar and pestle and meticulously ground the white pigment into a fine powder. You drizzled in a small amount of water to create a smooth paste that would soon adorn Lo’ak’s face and body.

As you mixed the paste, your thoughts began to wander. Despite your focus on the task at hand, you couldn’t ignore Lo’ak’s piercing gaze. It seemed to bore right through you.

It still baffled you just how much Lo’ak had grown in such a short amount of time—it seemed almost sudden. For as long as you could remember, you and Lo’ak had been virtually the same height. There was even a brief period during your early childhood when you stood a bit taller than him, and you never let him forget it, teasing him about it every chance you got. But now? Things were so different.

It was like Lo’ak had shot up overnight. Not only was he growing taller by the day, but he was growing stronger as well. There was no denying the obvious changes in his physique. And it wasn’t like you were trying to notice the changes. It was impossible not to see the way his arms had filled out, the way his shoulders had broadened, the way in which even the slightest movement would cause the muscles in his stomach to ripple.

Just like they were at that very moment, as Lo’ak nervously shifted under your intense scrutiny, self-consciously crossing his arms over his chest.

Right, because you were definitely staring at him. You mentally chided yourself for letting your focus wander so far off course.

Swallowing hard, you turned your focus back to the task at hand. As you stirred the paint, pouring all your effort into getting the consistency just right, you tried to ignore the fact that the once-casual atmosphere between you and Lo’ak was now laced with an undeniable undercurrent of tension.

Out of nowhere, Lo’ak abruptly asked, “Is it gonna be cold?” His question caught your attention, and in a way, you were grateful for the sudden interruption. Your mind had been racing with thoughts of how you’d manage to paint any area below Lo’ak’s shoulders. But you decided to cross that bridge when you reached it.

“You tell me,” you quipped in response, placing the mortar filled with paint on the ground beside you. You dipped each of the fingers on your left hand into the paint, discovering that it was indeed really cold. You did the same with your right hand before lifting both sets of paint-covered fingers toward Lo’ak’s waiting face, wondering how the hell you were supposed to begin.

Truthfully, you hadn’t come up with any elaborate painting patterns or designs in preparation for the moment, which was somewhat concerning. The entire ceremony was meant to be personal and special, something that required contemplation and reflection for at least a few days before actually starting the painting process. Yet there you were, just 30 minutes away from the start of the ceremony, and not a single thought in your brain.

Despite your lack of planning, Lo’ak was calmly sitting right in front of you with his full trust placed squarely in your hands. So, without any further hesitation or delay, you decided to just dive in and let inspiration (and the trust of Eywa) guide your hands.

Taking a deep breath, you gently pressed your fingers to the edges of Lo’ak’s eyebrows before slowly trailing them across his forehead and then swooping them down along the bridge of his nose. You tried very hard not to laugh at the way Lo’ak flinched from the sensation of the cold paint touching his skin.

Momentarily, you took a step back to assess your progress and decided that it didn’t look half bad. The realization fueled your enthusiasm enough to continue painting. Coating your fingers in the paint once more, you continued to glide them confidently over the smooth contours of Lo’ak’s cheeks in swift strokes.

As you neared completion, you observed that all that remained unpainted on his face were his lips. They looked strangely bare. You weren’t really sure whether they were supposed to be painted or not. But the idea of touching Lo’ak’s lips, even just with your fingers, caused your heart to pound erratically within your chest. It was so bad that you were contemplating just backing out and moving on to the next part.

But just when you were about to give up and move on, unintentionally, your eyes met Lo’ak’s. It seemed as though he was reading your mind; he knew exactly what you were thinking as he studied you intently. There was no turning back; he had already noticed your hesitation.

Trying to maintain focus on the art and not let yourself become overwhelmed by how close you were seated across from Lo’ak proved challenging. You could practically feel the soft warmth of his exhaled breaths as they caressed your face. It made your spine tingle and caused goosebumps to rise across your arms.

“Close your mouth,” you ordered firmly, hoping to alleviate some of the tension in the air. He obeyed, immediately pressing his lips together with exaggerated swiftness. With a soft smile, you slowly raised both of your hands to his mouth. You gently placed two painted fingers on his mouth and traced them down his lips. From there, your fingers continued their journey along the curve of his jawline.

Taking another dip in the paint, you allowed your gaze to wander across the entirety of Lo’ak’s unpainted body. With your internal pep talk in place, you decided to just dive in. Maybe if you did it casually enough, everything would be fine. You softly nudged Lo’ak’s crossed arms apart with the backs of your hands. Your fingertips began their descent from the sides of his neck and moved deliberately across the broad expanse of his shoulders.

Silently reassuring yourself that it was nothing more than your overactive imagination when Lo’ak ever-so-slightly shivered under your touch, you diligently tried to make things move along as quickly as possible. Dipping your fingers into the paint once more, you adorned his shoulders with bold, white swirls that seemed to dance and move on their own.

Gradually moving further along his muscular form, you traced delicate lines that wrapped around each sculpted bulge of his biceps and along the contours of his forearms.

As your focus moved even lower, you took note of your favorite part of his body: Lo’ak’s uniquely impressive four-fingered hands. Upon reaching each digit one at a time, you spread long white lines down their length with seemingly natural precision. You let your instincts take over as you continued to create patterns and shapes on his skin, fully immersed in the fluidity of your motions.

You decided to save his chest for the very end, knowing just how awkward that part of the process was going to be—and truth be told, you really wanted to delay the moment for as long as possible. The silence within the tent was almost deafening, and you couldn’t help but send a silent prayer to Eywa, hoping with all your might that your hands would remain steady and not betray your mounting anxiety.

Dipping your fingers into the paint once more, you hesitantly approached Lo’ak’s chest. You were doing everything in your power to avoid making eye contact and ignore how tense his entire body was. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to steady your nerves, you quickly drew a series of intricate loops across each of his pectorals and then traced symmetrical lines down the center of his chest. Those lines continued, gracefully curving around the sides of his ribcage.

With every passing moment, it felt like the two of you were collectively holding your breath, neither wanting to break the fragile bubble of silence that had formed around you. 

Concerned for both your well-being and your sanity, you decided it’d be best to wrap up that part of the painting process as quickly as possible. It wasn’t until then that you finally allowed yourself to exhale. You exchanged an awkward glance with Lo’ak, silently affirming the palpable tension surrounding you.

“Okay. I’m done,” you announced, gently sliding the container of paint toward Lo’ak. You dipped your fingers into the nearby bowl of water, absentmindedly scrubbing away traces of the drying paint, which turned the water a cloudy shade of white. Your words acted like an instant wake-up call, abruptly jolting Lo’ak back to reality from his trance.

His focus had been so intense while you painted patterns across his chest that he inadvertently stopped breathing altogether. The sudden, sharp inhale that followed the sound of your voice served as evidence of that fact. That realization was enough to make you lose your own composure—just a tad.

You made a half-assed attempt at suppressing the grin that threatened to break past your lips, so you weren’t really surprised when Lo’ak extended his arm and slowly began to tug the bowl of paint toward him with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The seemingly innocent yet still very suspicious act instantly put you on high alert. All you could do was watch in horror as Lo’ak suddenly immersed his entire hand into the paint. Your eyes widened in fear as he slowly lifted his paint-covered hand and began to edge closer to you, moving the dripping monstrosity in the direction of your face.

“Wait. Lo’ak, wait!” you warned, frantically shaking your head in an attempt to dissuade him from what you already knew would be an outrageously idiotic plan.

A glob of paint dripped from his saturated hand onto the floor between the two of you. You warily watched its continued pooling descent, leaving a bright splatter of paint on the ground that Neytiri would definitely kill you both for making.

“Just trust me, y/n,” Lo’ak insisted, the stupid grin on his face somehow both charming and alarming at the same time. It was more of the latter. You absolutely didn’t trust him.

“Lo’ak. Don’t you dare...” you began, your voice wavering and your ears flattening against your skull in weary anticipation.

But Lo’ak was undeterred by your protests. They only motivated him further. Barely giving you enough time to shut your eyes and mouth, he guided his entire paint-coated hand onto your face. The combination of the cold paint and the warmth from his hand sent shivers down your spine. Instinctively, you pressed your hands on the ground beside you, every fiber of your being screaming for you to get up and run. Far, far away from him.

However, Lo’ak wasn’t about to let that happen so easily. Somehow anticipating your attempt to recoil away from him, he brought up his other hand to secure the back of your head, making sure that you weren’t going anywhere. You sputtered loudly at the sensation of being literally smothered, and of course, nothing on Pandora could’ve stopped Lo’ak from laughing uproariously at your suffering.

“Stop moving! You’re gonna ruin it,” Lo’ak tried to sternly warn you while unsuccessfully stifling his laughter. He clearly found it all very amusing.

You couldn’t fucking breathe. You tried to communicate as much to Lo’ak, but you were sure your words sounded like nothing more than a strangled garble of sounds.

Eventually, Lo’ak seemed to take pity on you and lifted his paint-covered hand away from your face. You instantly gasped for air, finally unencumbered by his prolonged attempt at suffocating you to death. However, your relief was short-lived as you tasted the bitter, acrid flavor of paint on your tongue.

“You got it in my mouth, dumbass!” You complained with a groan, making sure not to swallow anything. Your disdainful tone only seemed to delight Lo’ak further.

“No one told you to eat it,” Lo’ak retorted with a dismissive snort. He was walking that thin line between playful banter and genuine ire. You could seriously kill him.

You narrowed your eyes at the little shit in front of you and desperately tried to rid yourself of the unpleasant taste by frantically licking at your arm. You probably looked completely unhinged, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. Lo’ak made a face at your display, crinkling his nose in disgust.

Left with no other option, you did what any sane person who was minutes away from being welcomed into adulthood would do—stick your now paint-covered and saliva-slicked arm out toward Lo’ak’s incredulous face. His shock and horror at the development were priceless.

Lo’ak barely had time to react as you swiftly thrust your arm toward him, but his lightning-fast reflexes won out in the end. Always one step ahead, Lo’ak knew you and all of your little tricks too well. It was like he could read your mind. In the blink of an eye, he was already crossing half of the tent in a mad dash. He backed away from you with his hands raised defensively in front of him, like someone facing an untamed beast.

“Chill…we don’t have to do this,” Lo’ak cautiously pleaded with a slow shake of his head, his tone dripping in a mix of seriousness and amusement.

But you were undeterred. “Yes we do,” you deadpanned determinedly and slowly continued advancing on Lo’ak, coercing him to move toward the back of the tent. Your eyes never left his, maintaining a fierce stare as the situation continued to escalate.

Without warning, you lunged at him like a predator going for its prey, stretching your arm out in eager anticipation. It was so close—just inches away from Lo’ak’s face—but he was quick to react once more. He grabbed hold of your biceps with an iron grip, effectively stopping you in your tracks. You couldn’t help but hiss at him in frustration, feeling utterly defeated by the massive strength disparity between the two of you.

Lo’ak’s eyes locked onto yours for a split second before focusing on another target: your mouth. His expression changed from one of caution to sheer amusement as he caught sight of something peculiar—and apparently hilarious—about the sight.

His grin stretched ear to ear, nearly swallowing his entire face, as he blurted out, “Oh shit. Your entire tongue is white!”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks, and your eyes immediately widened with alarm. Because it definitely couldn’t be safe to consume paint. There could’ve been poison coursing through your veins at that very moment, making every passing second one closer to your tragic demise, all thanks to Lo’ak and his stupid hand. 

But despite your mounting panic, Lo'ak remained utterly unfazed. He obviously found the situation amusing, as evidenced by the way he wasn’t even trying to suppress his unbridled laughter.

“One night,” you vowed through gritted teeth, “I swear I’m going to sneak into your tent and cut every single braid off of your head in your sleep.” The more you thought about it, the more serious the idea became in your mind.

Lo’ak merely tilted his head, and an annoyingly attractive grin stretched across his face. “Oh, yeah?” He taunted, vehemently nodding his head along with what he knew was just another one of your faux threats. “And then what are you gonna do?”

As he spoke, Lo’ak tightened his grip on your arms—a bittersweet reminder that he was well aware you weren’t going to do shit to him in his sleep.

You eyed the unpainted underside of Lo’ak’s forearm, which rested directly in front of your face, and a childishly impulsive urge overwhelmed you. Without giving it much thought, you leaned in and licked a long, wet, white stripe along the length of his arm. The unexpected action elicited a shrieked “Bro!” from Lo’ak, who could only blink at the sight of your tongue, still pressed to his now-slobbery arm, in disbelief. You reveled in his reaction to your sudden move, despite how immature it might’ve been. He deserved it, and you had no regrets.

However, as fate would have it, the impromptu moment coincided precisely with the return of the entire Sully family to their home as they prepared for the upcoming ceremony. Jake and Neytiri led the way in, followed closely by Neteyam, Kiri, and Tuk. All of them. The five family members entered the tent one by one, each grinding to a halt as they caught sight of you and Lo’ak’s odd exchange in the far corner.

A few beats passed as everyone’s eyes darted back and forth between you two. The silence was palpable, and the tension continued to rise like an invisible fog that filled every corner of the tent. It finally dawned on you that it'd probably be a good idea to remove your tongue from Lo’ak’s arm.

Taking matters into your own hands—or, more accurately, your tongue—you gingerly began to distance yourself from Lo’ak. You took a cautious step sideways, followed by another one, making sure there was a healthy amount of space between you both. You hoped that would somewhat defuse the situation while also giving off the impression that nothing out of the ordinary had transpired—though it was clear you weren’t fooling anyone present.

The awkwardness still hung heavily in the air as each second felt like an eternity passing by. You could only imagine what thoughts and judgments must be running through everyone’s minds.

The silence in the tent was so profound that you could probably make out the gentle sound of a leaf falling from a tree outside if you really tried. The quiet was unsettling. It made your fingers itch. You found yourself tucking your hair behind your ears, trying to find some purpose for your idle hands instead of having them dangle awkwardly at your sides.

Opposite you, Kiri tried to conceal her knowing grin behind one of her hands. As to what she knew that you didn’t, you were utterly clueless. Regardless, you couldn’t help but feel unnerved by her expression. Similarly, Neteyam chewing on the inside of his cheek in an uncharacteristic effort to maintain his composure did little to alleviate your discomfort.

It wasn’t long before Tuk broke the silence with a question, curiosity twinkling in her eyes. “Is that a handprint on your face?” she innocently asked, pointing a tiny finger at what was definitely a handprint on your face.

Five sets of curious yellow eyes darted back and forth between your face, Lo’ak’s conspicuously stained white hand, and the matching white handprint wrapped entirely around your arm. Feeling their collective gaze upon you, you decided that you weren’t even going to try to talk your way out of the situation. “Yeah. It is.”

Without missing a beat, Neytiri swiftly turned her attention towards her youngest son as she hissed out his name: “Lo’ak.”

And thank Eywa for that. At least somebody had your back.

Lo’ak’s voice tended to reach an almost comical high-pitched tone whenever he was aware that he had done something wrong, and this occasion proved to be no exception. He glanced over at you with equal parts guilt and defensiveness in his wide eyes.

“It looks cool, though!” He insisted, trying to justify his actions. He waved his hand close to your face, as if the gesture held the power to magnify his point and erase any doubt you might have had. You squinted at the offending white hand hovering in front of your face before hastily swatting it away as if it were an annoying little bug.

Lo’ak grinned in delight at your visibly pissed-off demeanor, which only seemed to fuel his determination to get under your skin. He appeared to forget all about the looming presence of his entire family as he defiantly stuck his hand back in front of your face. And you were not about to let that happen again. You were probably going to have nightmares about his hand. Pivoting toward Lo’ak, you shoved him away from you, probably a little harder than necessary, judging by the way he stumbled a few steps to the side from the force of it all. But he was laughing as he re-straightened, not at all deterred by your outward hostility.

It was mostly feigned, anyway.

Neytiri watched the exchange between you two with amused exasperation, her eyes twinkling despite her best efforts to remain stern. She let out a soft ‘tsk’ as she shook her head, unable to fully suppress the tiny smile that crept onto her face. She reached down to gently grasp Tuk’s hand before leading the child further into the tent.

“Jesus,” Jake muttered as he pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly struggling to maintain what little patience he had left. Jake would always throw that foreign word around whenever you and Lo’ak were together, but you still had no idea what it actually meant. “Just—finish up, alright?” He threw an exasperated look toward you and Lo’ak. “No more shenanigans. We’re leaving in ten.”

“Yes sir,” Lo’ak mumbled, his expression a mixture of mischief and feigned seriousness. He waited until Jake and the rest of his family were out of earshot before turning back to you.

“It looks cool,” he said again, his face breaking into a genuine, broad smile as he stepped back to take in the masterpiece he had just created. He couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the intricate design of his handprint that adorned your face. Giving himself a little nod of satisfaction, he crouched down to pick up the paint once more, eager to continue where he had left off.

You couldn’t see your own face, of course. But secretly, you had to agree that it probably did look kind of cool. You’d never openly admit that to him, though. There was no need to inflate his ego any further. Still, deep down, you knew you'd be proudly sporting your best friend's four-fingered handprint at the coming-of-age ceremony that evening. To you, it symbolized the unbreakable bond you both shared.

From his seated position on the floor, Lo’ak’s eyes rose to your face, a single brow raising in amused confusion at your idle form. Dismissing his reaction with a shake of your head, you couldn't prevent the warm smile from stretching across your lips as you settled back down in front of Lo'ak.

end

[herinsectreflection]

But You're Just A Girl (Helpless)

The test that Buffy undergoes in this episode – in which she is stripped of her powers, locked inside a house, and forced to fight a mentally unstable vampire – is named in the script as The Cruciamentum. Giles describes it as “an archaic exercise in cruelty”, and it’s difficult to think of a description that could be more accurate.

The word Cruciamentum is an invented declension that roughly translates from Latin as “result of torture”. Quentin Travers – making his first appearance here as the Head of the Watcher’s Council – defends the practice as a necessary rite of passage, meant to make a Slayer stronger, but this reasoning falls apart under scrutiny The scenario is so heavily weighted against the Slayer, robbing her not only of her powers but the knowledge that she is being robbed at all, that it makes more sense to view the Cruciamentum not as a test, but as a method of control, designed to kill off Slayers that reach adulthood and so gain more independence from the Council. At the very least, it demonstrates the Council’s control over the Slayer, holding the implicit threat of taking away her powers again over her head for the rest of her life. As is the case with many unjust systems, the cruelty is the point.

The Cruciamentum is the Council’s most clear and obvious cruelty, but it is not by any means their only one. Cruelty is their origin story, as we see in Get It Done how they forcibly created the first Slayer through metaphorical rape. It is baked into the central idea of One Girl In All The World – a system which relies on the deaths of an infinite chain of young women. Its current setup, with one Watcher in the field and apparently dozens sitting safely away in England, leads to an inevitable cruelty of indifference that Giles calls out in this episode. There are cruelties of incompetence – failing to alert the field about the firing of Gwendolyn Post, sending the underqualified Wesley to Sunnydale. But perhaps their most impactful cruelty is also their most subtle. It came the moment that Buffy Summers, sitting outside her school in 1997, was called to be a Slayer. This act not only changed Buffy’s life, but caused an irreparable crack in her psyche. It splits her perceived self into two component parts – The Girl and The Slayer – twin selves that she spends seven seasons trying to reconcile.

Read More

[daftpatience]

Can I make a digitsona mayhaps 👉 👈

for sure!!

i'll clarify some deets for folks that might be interested:

digit isn't technically an open species in the traditional sense (he's sort of special being my shop mascot and all) but i don't mind either fanart or fansonas!

it's sort of basic courtesy rules - don't go selling merch of your digitsona or like make some award winning epic fantasy comic with them or something lol. aside from that go nuts!

design wise i do have some rules in my head for when i make other digit characters BUT since again they're not an open species in the traditional sense i don't care if you follow them or not! i'll put them here just in case anyone wants to use them or learn more digit lore!

creatures in digit's species are mimic/parasitic aliens! their appearance is affected by the genetic info their mom collected to produce them. (like those salamanders that steal other salamanders' genes) they're able to change shape and size, but they have a comfortable resting form that they default back to. this form can be affected by the environment they're in to help them adapt. they can live for thousands of years!

• the "helmet" is a must-have, but can be any colour and have any kind of "ears" or none at all. it is technically a removable part, but it is rare for these creatures to take them off as it's sort of symbiotic with them and necessary for them to communicate with one another and survive in space. it morphs along with them when they change shape or size. they're tasked with producing this part of their body as a rite of passage into adulthood! an adult without one is like a hermit crab without a shell (vulnerable and scared!)

digit's helmet-less appearance as an adult is a secret >:)

• most of them have wings and some sort of tail but these can vary in shape and appearance a lot. more or fewer limbs is also common! the tail/helmet/wings are able to change colour and sometimes do based on mood! generally the body is leucistic (lacking pigment). most of them have fur.

• adults generally sit at around housecat size, but much smaller and bigger ones exist! there's a superstition that one as big as the moon is out there somewhere.

• their eyes/face can look like anything - see tamagotchi for inspiration. (digit's family may look like the standard for the species but they're just similar to each other!)

• they can be named anything (doesn't have to end in -git, this is the naming convention for digit's relatives!) generally i stick to cute and short names ^u^

digit (and later pigit) came to earth to make friends and eat food, and ended up deciding to try and grant the wishes of people they meet! being a parasitic species it's in their nature to get attached to other creatures (although in this case it's emotionally) and they try really hard to cheer people up. (imagine a magical girl sidekick animal that was sort of unhelpful and stupid. thats digit)

[black-suns-rim]

Ethereal Star AU - Lore

Some of the lore of this AU is based off the lore that was provided in "the art of sky" art book (which wasn't much, but I'm still taking it and going with it)

Story Lore

For many centuries beyond count, the soul flames (also known as embers) and the people of the sky kingdom lived harmoniously together. The people worshiped the sacred flames and made temples of light dedicated to their ancestral flames. These temples guided the sacred flames into the holy place where all would be cleansed and sent back out into the world as a clean and pure blank slate. This balance of death and rebirth was held as a holy ritual for many centuries...

It was foretold by an oracle that a child would rise up from the four sacred elemental trials and unite the scattered territories and realms, ruling over them as their king who would bring new technologies beyond imagination. But the oracle didn't forsee what the king would become until it was too late... Before the rise of the king, though, the oracle built a vault of knowledge to safe keep all knowledge so it wouldn't be lost to time.

The last prophecy the oracle foretold before the cataclysm was that children born of the sacrificed soul flame would come down from the stars and return the kingdom from the darkness it fell into, but the oracle never saw when that would happen...

Culture Lore

The elemental trials are a ritualistic rite of passage for adulthood. Each trial represents life's obstacles and what needs to be learned/overcome. One week of the ritual is dedicated to learning the trials. Half a week is spent going through the trials, while the other half are celebrations and ceremonies. Two weeks in total are spent for this ritual. Regardless if one "fails" a trial or completes all four (which is extremely rare), there is a spiritual "death" and "rebirth" that happens. The Overseer (prophecy guide) aids in this spiritual rebirth through a process only he can preform due to how delicate it is.

Prepubescent children are referred to as “young embers,” while teens are referred to as “young flames.” Adults who are not related to teens or children often refer to them with these titles to be formal. An informal way to refer to children and teens is just by calling them kids, or children. Guardians/caretakers of children/teens that aren’t theirs will sometimes call them “my young ember” or “my young flame”

Though there are feminine and masculine aspects in their culture, gender itself isn’t made a big part of their culture. Pronouns in their culture are based on appearance rather than their biological sex. If appearance is confusing or unclear, neutral pronouns are used.

Prophets, realm leader (Elders), oracles, shaman, priests and priestesses are highly respected in their culture. Oracles and shaman have the highest respect out of all the titles due to their abilities and enlightened nature.

Magic is only taught to the gifted and naturally inclined. Those with magic abilities become either prophets, oracles, shaman, priests or priestesses. Realm leaders usually fall into one of those categories. Magic users

The people worship soul flames and the mega constellation, known as the “Mega Bird,” believed to be their creator and Goddess. Soul flames are believed to be the living essence of their world. Souls of the once living and future souls of those not yet born. A soul flame is believed to be in every living thing. Soul flames are also referred to as “embers” or “light.”

Respect is a huge part of their culture. Those who are older than one’s self, they are shown respect even if they don’t deserve it. Honor is also a huge part of their culture, especially with warriors and protectors.

[ravandfriendsxiv]

For the library ask meme: how about Action #1 and Young Adult #2 for any of your OCs?

Thanks @ellorgast! I gave both to Lone Snowdrop for you :3

Action and Adventure #1: Is your OC particularly "heroic"? What does that word mean to them? Have they always seen it as something to aspire to - or perhaps as a fate to be avoided?

When Lone Snowdrop was younger, her heroes were those who helped amidst the chaos of war. While many looked towards the freedom fighters of Gyr Abania as heroes, she looked towards the helpers. She took up the fight after a particularly horrific clash with Garlean soldiers rendered her best friend incapable of fighting, and she promised to continue in her stead. Lone Snowdrop doesn't consider herself heroic, but it's how many would describe her-- her heart is true and focused on helping those that may fall through the cracks unseen, and she cares deeply for the suffering of those around her.

Young Adult and Children 2: Does your OC come from a culture where there are rituals or celebrations to mark the transition from childhood to adulthood?

Lone Snowdrop grew up in a place that got torn apart by political turmoil and violence early enough that she never got to have the rituals or celebrations she otherwise would have. One that would've been significant to her is a close-knit communal dance that her tribe held to celebrate a young woman's transition from childhood to adulthood. Her loved ones would've written and read letters to her about their hopes for her future, and basically thrown a big party that ends with them dancing in circles around her while she switches partners. She may not admit it out loud (even to herself) but sometimes, she feels a bitter alienation and sadness for not having gone through any rites of passage at all. She doesn't quite know who she is, even with her homeland liberated, and some part of her is still searching for that answer.

[the-starry-seas]

I have another Tusken OC 👀 His name is R'Esahmab

His mother died in childbirth, leaving him to be raised by a single father, G'Hufthirat. His father was an stronomer, whose love for the stars was second only to his love for his family. R'Esahmab's first memory is of being held by his father, who was pointing out a rare lineup of planets in the night sky. It was his dream to someday see the stars for himself, by travelling among them, but he had allowed that dream to slip away to focus on his son.

R'Esahmab inherited his father's love for space, and insisted that they leave Tatooine someday, to wander the stars instead of sand. Their plans were vague, half-formed, as G'Hufthirat wanted to wait until R'Esahmab finished his rites of adulthood and became a full member of the clan.

These hopes were destroyed when G'Hufthirat was kidnapped. As Tuskens so rarely left Tatooine, they were considered a rare and exotic addition to slavers' collections. R'Esahmab stormed off toward the spaceport but was fortunately tracked down by his clan before too long and brought back home. As an adult, he realised they'd saved his life by not letting a ten-year-old boy rage about with a loaded rifle, but part of him never forgave them for stopping him.

With his father gone, he was raised by his extended family. He perfected his marksmanship with his father's rifle, and honoured what he thought was his father's final wish - that R'Esahmab become a man among his people, instead of among the stars. On his last night on Tatooine, he restrung his mother's wedding necklace. Coral beads that had been passed down from mother to daughter since there were oceans, they were the most important thing of hers that he could take with him.

He found passage offworld with a mercenary crew that needed an extra man. Huttese was their only shared language at first, but the head of the crew was kind enough to use their own credits to provied R'Esahmab with a simple vocoder mask, which translated his Tusken speech into Basic. While he was waiting for their departure, a lost loth-cat kitten wandered up to him, begging for attention. He had no luck finding her an owner, so he tucked her into his bag and took her with him, and named her S'Abharkin.

The pair of them wandered through the galaxy for nearly a decade as R'Esahmab searched for any trace of his father. In the process, he became entangled in the drama of the Republic's fight against the Empire, shocking those on Tatooine who received the news. A Tusken was not only a spacefarer, but a hero?

Connections to the Republic had its own use to him. Republic spies were happy to help him in his goal, and he was finally able to find his father, who had been enslaved as a gladiator by a minor Hutt lord. The Hutt in question had no desire to cross a being who had brought so much destruction across the galaxy, and was happy to relinquish a single slave to ensure their own safety.

Finally - and tearfully - reunited, the father-son duo set off to fulfill their dream of seeing the stars. R'Esahmab's ship took them to the far reaches of the galaxy. The birth of a star, moons colliding, the heart of a metorite shower.

And then, they went home.

Their family was shocked to see them both alive, and welcomed them with open arms. R'Esahmab might be a hero of the Republic, but far more importantly, he brought back his father. The pair settled in their old home with S'Abharkin, and reunited with their banthas, left in the care of G'Hufthirat's sister after their respective departures. While they weren't done seeing the stars, they agreed that the setting of the twin suns was most beautiful from the ground.

[cheecats]

For the Divers, all of them seem to have scars on their necks, is that a marker to show they're part of the Divers or is it just for a fun design to represent gills?

Good eye! Yes, all of them have four scars on either side of their neck (eight in total) to represent gills. Captain Otodus marks each of them once they're approx. 12-18 months old and has them bathe the fresh wounds in salt water as a rite of passage into adulthood within the family. If the member flinches at all during the process, the ceremony is held off for a moon... which is fine, but the Divers tend to pick at each other for showing weakness. So, you can look forward to a month of enduring your sibling's on your ass for flinching for a second 😔

[tsunflowers]

ok, I'm done with femdom island here's two more things that happened in it

the guy gets put in solitary confinement for not wanting to have sex with a teenage girl as part of her rite of passage into adulthood but later he realizes that he was wrong and he does have sex with her

the thing he considers to be "the final debasement" that makes him realize rape is bad is being on the receiving end of anal sex with another man

this book is so dumb bc the author clearly does understand the ways that societal misogyny is easy for men to ignore bc it benefits them but it harms women deeply. but she doesn't know how to make any interesting commentary by turning that on its head. like when the teen tries to fuck him he's appalled bc he sees her as a child and he's not a pedo. but if you wanted to say something about society you could make his reaction be more about the shock he feels that his intentions towards her were purely platonic but she had been seeing him as a sex object the whole time, and maybe that would make him reflect on how he viewed women as sex objects before coming to femdom island. then the thing where anal is more upsetting to him than anything else is crazy bc like why did you even write a society where women are in charge if you think that only a man can put another man in his place

ahhh that's why the worldbuilding is so bad

what's the antidote?! fucking teenage girls?!

this book at least passed the bar of allowing trans women into the female supremacist society but then immediately tripped and ate shit by having the only trans woman also be the only woman we see enact physical violence and also saying trans women have to live on the fringes of the society for years before they get to count as women

this book sucks tbh. there's someone from the sydney morning herald quoted comparing it to le guin and I think they should be fired for saying that. DONT read "the fortress" by sa jones

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Dam project threatens Indigenous rituals, hunting areas, and even gravesites in the Tenharim Marmelos Indigenous Land

InfoAmazonia and BdF visited the territory to understand the views of the indigenous people about the construction

Once a year, dozens of indigenous people from the Tenharim Marmelos Indigenous Land (IL), in the municipalities of Humaitá and Manicoré, Amazonas state, leave their villages on an expedition towards the southern end of their territory, where the headwaters of the Branco, Preto and Marmelos rivers are located. 

The group spends up to 20 days in the forest and returns with game and fish that provide food for all participants of the Mbotawa festival, held in July. The celebration gathers the population of the eleven villages in the territory, as well as guests from other indigenous groups of the Kawahiva branch.

Up to 500 people take part in the festival to experience, together, the rites of the Tenharim – weddings; the ritual of young women, which marks young Indigenous women’s passage into adulthood; and the ritual of the dead, in which the memory of the deceased is revered.

“When we organize this party, we involve the entire territory. Women, children, young people and the elderly. It is a time for older people to pass on traditional knowledge, our culture and traditions to youth,” explains Daiane Tenharim, head of the Tenharim Morõgwitá Indigenous People Association (Apitem).

The expedition goes to the most preserved part of the territory, which the Indigenous people call “the market.” They do not hunt or fish in that area during the year, precisely to have a “stock” to which they can resort for the July festival. The area has been inhabited by the Tenharim since before they had contact with non-indigenous people. It is the site of the ancient village Aeguera, after which a stream connected to the Preto River is named.

Being an area of virgin forest, isolated indigenous groups also circulate there, recognized as Kawahiva relatives by the Tenharim. They are identified by the National Foundation of Indigenous Peoples (FUNAI) as the Kaidjuwa isolated group, but their registration has not yet been confirmed by the General Coordination of Isolated and Newly Contacted Indians (CGIIRC), a FUNAI branch. That is what effectively guarantees the measures to protect their circulation area, since confirmation suspends all economic activities as well as contact with non-Indigenous people by restricting use of the area.  

It is also in that area that the construction of the Tabajara Dam is planned, a 37-square mile (97-sq. km) reservoir in Machadinho d’Oeste, Rondônia state. The project has been under discussion for 17 years and, as revealed by InfoAmazonia and Brasil de Fato, it should reach nine Indigenous lands (ILs), including isolated peoples. The Tenharim Marmelos is the closest IL to the project.

Continue reading.