#feminizing art DOES something to me

[fawnnpaws]

femming art what have u done to me...... completely demasculating him and then using his cock to make yourself cum I'm gonna go bonkers - his eyeshadow and mascara bleeding down his cheeks as you bounce in his lap hhhhhggughhgg

POPPY YEEWW GET ME

essentially making him a pretty doll for you to fuck aauurrr you do his makeup so pretty, pink blush and sparkly eyeshadow with lipstick to match, non-waterproof mascara that you bought specifically because you know it’ll run the second he gets teary eyed….. he’s such a crybaby you know it’ll be all over his pretty face almost as soon as it’s been put on. he wants to be good so bad, he lets you tie a pink ribbon bow around his neck and doesn’t complain when you take off the cute pink panties you’ve had on all day and tell him to put them on. how can he when he feels how damp they are with your slick, when he has proof of your arousal against his skin? his pretty cock drools all over them, his pre mixing with the essence of you until there’s a dark wet spot marring the baby pink fabric. his whole body flushes when you sit him down in front of your full length mirror with his back to your chest. you let your hands roam over his bare chest and stomach, the only thing covering him are your little panties, stretched taught against his straining dick. he tries not to look at himself but one of your hands grips his jaw and keeps his eyes forward.

“don’t be shy, baby, look how pretty you are.” you tell him, unashamedly groping his cock over the thin cotton with your other hand. “don’t you think i made you look pretty?”

he nods his head and his eyes nearly cross, but he keeps them focused for you. he has to be good. he needs you to tell him he’s good.

“say it for me, sweetheart. use your words like a big girl.”

“i- i’m pretty, you made me- made me look so pretty.” he’s getting lightheaded watching you touch him in the mirror. he squirms and tries to roll his hips into your hand. “fuck- fuckfuckfuck- can i have more? please? please! i’ll be so good- make you feel good!”

you lock eyes with him in the mirror and give him a smile that makes his stomach swoop. you shed the remainder of your clothes, then crawl around him and settle in his lap. he can feel the wetness from your bare pussy through his panties. “gonna make me feel good, huh? you gonna make me cum on this pretty angel dick?”

he looks up at you like you hung the moon and the stars just for him and you swear you see him start drooling. you pull his panties to the side and let his dick spring free. it bobs for just a moment before you’re lining yourself up and sinking down on it. poor art’s eyes roll back into his head so hard he thinks he might have blacked out for a moment. you waste no time chasing your own pleasure as you start bouncing yourself on him, the sound of your hips against his and his balls against your ass filling the room with a lewd plap plap plap plap. his breathing is uneven beneath you, a stream of little whimpers and choked out sobs are being ripped from his throat and tears are streaking down his face. his mascara runs in thick black lines down his pink cheeks and he’s leaning up to try to kiss you. you duck your head and bite his earlobe before you speak. “can’t kiss you, baby, we’ll ruin your pretty lipstick.”

he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and whines. he looks a mess. once pretty eyeshadow is now smeared and blends in with the ring of black melted mascara around his eyes, his cheeks are stained with remnants of highlighter darkened by thick black tear tracks and tears that are still falling.

“‘s already ruined! please please- kiss me, need you, ‘m ruined- you ruined me- please mommy-” his tears keep falling and his makeup keeps smearing, so you give him what he wants. you tongue his throat and he takes it eagerly, planting his feet on the floor to piston his hips up into you. even in his fucked out state, one of his hands finds your clit and it’s not long before he feels your pussy choking his dick as you crash over the edge.

“oh fuck yesyesyes— cum for mommy, babygirl, c’mon- give it to me, give it all to me,” you moan into his mouth and he follows your command, pumping you full of hot cum and clawing at your body to get you as close as possible. you stay intertwined and panting as you come down together. when his dick has softened you slide off of him, but stay hovering above his lap. you move the panties back over his dick and swipe two fingers inside of yourself to gather some of his cum, then sit back down on his lap to let the rest drip out and soak his panties even more. you grin and run your cum covered fingers over his lips. “there, new coat of lipstick for you, baby.”

his eyes flutter shut and he lets his body fall backwards, flat on the ground, as his dick kicks back to life and he says, “you’re fucking evil.”

he loves it though <33

[jrwiyuri]

My teacher said I should try making some of the symbolism in my art less obvious but like.. idk how? Or how that would benefit it?

[littleapplle]

let's make this bed get squeaky!

after an unexpected wanderer attack, you show rafayel how fun it is to be a girl. - 2.9k w. - not proofread.

cw.: fem!rafayel, very implied fem!reader (srry!!) feminization (if you squint), raf isn't a woman but does get turned into one temporarily, porn with a bit of plot, nipple play, worshipping (if you squint), face sitting, so cunnilingus, 69, scissoring? humping... something in between idk... kinda subby raf too... self indulgence. alot of that. i'm the pervert here.

note: this was vv inspired by this art by @.beechu-beechu !! one of my fav artists here on tumblr and twt, pls check their work out!! <3 as soon as i saw fem!raf my brain MELTED. also this was a bit rushed, sorryyy !!><

“Love, you don’t have to freak out! The Hunter Association will find a way to revert it in no time. Relax!” — To be honest, you were too calm about it.

“Relax!? How am i supposed to- Oh, my bodyguard failed to save me from this catastrophe and now i have to pay the price with my beautiful body!” Rafayel cries in response, his voice far too dramatic and feminine.

And what has really happened? Well, a few hours ago. you and your boyfriend went out for an outdoor date in the middle of a small forest in Linkon City so Rafayel could, maybe, find inspiration for his next work.

It just so happened that the area you both decided to visit was a dead zone, your hunter watch was malfunctioning and did not warn you the area had wanderers nearby. Luckily, you were still in your hunter uniform and armed so it should be no biggie. The wanderer, a small creature you’ve never seen in any of your missions, had its back covered in pinkish spores that once Rafayel shouted out for you, exploded on his face, making him cough for air.

Wanderer defeated and your lover safe, you’re left with an… unique form of Rafayel.

“...Rafayel?” You call out for him cautiously, worried for his safety while waving your way through a cloud of pink dust.

To a few choked coughs, your ears perk. You’re alone with Rafayel but it’s not his voice you hear. Or so you thought.

The mist slowly dissipates in the air, and you’re finally able to see more than just the shape of his body choking for air dramatically. With narrowed eyes and a hand covering your mouth and nose – still concerned the mysterious dust is toxic – you call out his name once more before a gasp escapes your throat.

“Rafayel…? Wha- what is wrong with you?!” Comes out a little too harsh but your shock is genuine. Was this caused by the wanderer? Offended, he is quick to frown and bite back. “Wow cutie, i get seriously attacked and the first thing you ask me is that? What a great bodyguard i have! How can i file a complaint?” 

“That’s not what i meant!-” You stutter, “Uhm…” struggling with your words and confusion bubbling in your system, you move your hands to your boobs, trying to move his gaze down to his chest. Oh. Oh. His blouse did feel a bit tighter after all.

“What the fuck?!” 

Yeah… you’re sure that he spooked every single animal in the little forest with his scream.

Back to the present, you find yourself back in Rafayel’s home, trying to convince your boyfriend that being transformed into a woman by a wanderer isn’t the end of the world and that yes, it is temporary. 

“Raf, you’re gonna be fine. I heard Tara say something about a new type of wanderer lurking around earlier this week. We’re gonna find a way to turn you back, m’kay? You assure with more confidence now that your confusion over the situation has dissipated completely.

To your words he — she — does not answer, too busy sulking while staring at his new face in the pocket mirror you carry in your bag. 

“Besides… you’re quite the pretty girl, raf.” The sweet giggle that escapes your lips makes him frown.

 “Can you quit bullying me? Those cheap journalists are never going to shut up if they see me like this!” Rafayel cries. “I wanted to have a nice day out with you. ow… can’t have a single normal day in this city.”

That makes your ears perk and your body scoots closer to his form on the couch. You rest your head on his shoulder after kissing his puffy cheek. “Aww! ‘S no biggie, baby. We can still have fun indoors. I’ll just have to show you how fun it is to be a girl.”

You spend the day doing things you’d already do with him while enjoying quality time together but with some additional goodies. His purple hair is so long now and even softer! You take your time brushing it, massaging your nails on the scalp before trying multiple hairstyles.

Pigtails, buns, fishtail braids, boxer braids, ponytails… oh, you’ve tried every. single. one. Which he can’t really complain about! Who doesn’t love having their hair played with?

Rafayel is already used to the next activity, so he doesn’t even bat an eye when you ask him where he placed the nail polishes you bought a few months ago. 

“Pick a color baby!” You chirp, holding the tiny bottles in your hands. 

He does just that. Picking a lilac shade and offering his cold hands to you, Rafayel scoots closer to you on the couch. “You’re enjoying this too much.” He points out.

For a moment, you don’t answer, busy with the tiny brush between your fingers and trying not to smudge the milky paint in his short nails. “Hmmm maybe i am.” You giggle, “Can you blame me though?” 

It’s his turn to not answer, he thinks he’d sound too petty if he did. Rafayel loves the pampering, and even though he’d rather drown in the deepest and darkest waters of his long forgotten home than to admit this right now, he’s obsessed with you showering him in affection. Nothing is new, you’re sweet as ever and like a sea sponge, he absorbs all he can happily. 

Rafayel isn’t an insecure man, especially with his body. He knows he was sculpted by the seas with care and passion, born with the body of a god, something worthy of unending worship. So you eyeing him up and down was never a problem, but now? Oh, he feels small, he wants to dig up a hole on the hot sand and stay there for eternity, accompanied by the sand crabs.

Shame is a feeling he’s no longer used to and hates the taste of, he notes.

Noticing his silence, you put the brush down to look at him. 

“You okay, raf?” Genuine, innocent concern. 

“It hurts.” Puffing his cheeks, he frowns and closes his eyes.

“What hurts? Are your wrists sore agai-” — “No! Not that.” Rafayel whines, peeking at you through his long(er) lashes.

“Well, i’m not in the mood to play guess with you, fishie.” Arching a brow at his dramatic discomfort, you chuckle as he whines once more, “Heavens- they’re sore!”

And you have to bite your lip to not burst into laughter. Having the pleasure of seeing Rafayel, usually confident and sharp with his words, blushing like a literal girl was truly a sight you’d never thought you had to see.

“Your boobs?-” — “Don’t say it like that!” You swear that the big and tall windows of his home could’ve shattered in an instant with his horrified scream. 

“Awww, babyyy! Don’t be shy! We’ve all been through that, ‘s just part of girlhood!” You poke his cheek, aiming to tease him just a little more. Leaning in closer, you sit on his plump thighs.

Oh and he looks so done. 

“Stop acting like i’m a woman!-” He basically cries out in embarrassment.

“Oh but you are!” Interrupting him, you continue, “And as your girlfriend, and girl best friend, i’ll help you with your girl problems, raffy-”

“I’ll spit bubbles on you!” Rafayel interrupts back and you finally break down laughing on his lap.

Rafayel swears to himself that he wants to bite your head off so you stop teasing him, he hates how he can feel the tip of his pale ears get warmer each second and something inside him growing hotter. He’d bury your face on hot sand right now and yet he doesn’t move you from his lap.

As your laughter settles and you breathe in to calm down, you place a kiss on his burning cheek. A silent apology. “Seriously though, you’ve turned out to be quite… busty!” You giggle but continue before he can throw a fit again, “Can i massage you baby? Would you let me do that f’you, raf?” Whispering against his cheek, you nuzzle the bridge of your nose on his skin.

He just nods, still frowning in shame and with eyes closed shut. 

Your fingers trace his collarbones in sickly light touches, hands snaking down to the foreign feeling on his chest. 

He shivers and twitches under you once your hands cup his tits through his white blouse, the absence of a bra making your touch feel a little too intimate for his already overwhelmed brain. Your fingers feel him in circular motions, gently applying pressure to where his nipples take place.

Rafayel squirms, throwing his head back and trying to hide his face in his long, purple hair. “You’re so responsive, baby.” You coo, purposefully brushing your thumbs on his nipples, which ignites a yelp from his tight throat. 

The sensitive pebbles grow hard not so long later, making themselves visible under his light shirt. He curses you in his mind, the innocent and sweet way you talk to him could get him going anytime. Rafayel bites his glossy lip hard. 

Fidgeting with the collar of his shirt, you give him your sweetest smile. “Your body hasn’t changed at all baby. You still melt down when you have your chest played with.” You lean in, closing the space between you two and press a kiss on his trembling lips. “The only difference here is that you’re the prettiest,” kiss, “most whiny,” another kiss, “and cutest girl i’ve ever laid my eyes on.” and a last peck to seal your words like a spell.

Your lips leave his but the phantom sensation of your mouth against his stays. Your lips find home on his jawline, placing featherlight kisses on the milky white skin. 

“Can i take this off, raf? I might need a more serious inspection if you’re sore like that, hm?” Pinched by your fingers, the first button of his blouse comes undone, exposing more of his cleavage. “Y-yes.” Is all Rafayel answers, not much more than a shy whisper.

And that is the only sign you need to keep going. Your hands work gently but still eager to finish the job and reveal what’s under the expensive fabric. He helps you with the sleeves, accepting his fate and that even if he tried to shy away and hide, you wouldn’t let him. And how could you? Not now. Not when his perfect, spotless skin is exposed to the cool air of the living room, the sea breeze guided inside by the open windows making his nipples react at the temperature and stand tall.

Your lips, never far from his neck, kiss down his collarbones and the fat of his tits. His reactions are exactly what you’d expect, low whines and nonstop squirming under your touch. With open mouthed kisses to his areola, a cute light brown you note, you’re quick to give his nipple a playful lick, igniting a squeak from him. 

“D-don’t- do that-!” Rafaye’sl protests are ignored by your ears, while your lips suck on the sensitive pebble, your fingers pinch the other one, rolling it gently yet teasingly between your thumb and index finger.

Pop! – Is the sound your mouth makes as you let go. “Fuck..”, you eye him with hunger, and even though his eyes are squeezed shut, he seems to notice by your silence. “Stop staring. You’re ridiculous.” Of course he has to try and bite back.

“Am i now?” You kiss the corner of his lips, interrupting any petty answer he was about to give you. “Shit- need you to sit on my face. Can you do that f’me, baby? Please?” 

Rafayel feels like a virgin again, the foreign, weird and achy feeling between his legs makes his brain foggy. He wants to say no and shy away, spit a thousand bubbles at your face as he promised but he just can’t.

Which doesn’t mean he won’t freak out anyway. 

“N-no! That isn’t even your thing- i’m like, twice your size-” Before he can continue his protests, you’re already lying on your back on the big couch of his living room. “Please? Jus�� wanna let my girlfriend know how good it feels, mhm?” It is your turn to whine, beg.

He stares at you in horror but the pathetic look you give him wins. He kicks his pants and boxers off but his judgemental stare doesn’t falter. You can’t help but moan at the sight of his new, bare body. 

Rafayel was surely the prettiest man you’ve ever laid your eyes on and now, prettiest woman too. He sits on your lap, facing you, testing the waters, hoping it’d be enough to quiet you down. “Closer, ‘fayel.” You urge.

This time he finally gives in with no complaints, shifting on your lap and closer to your shoulders. There, he turns on his back, hovering on top of your face before you grab his plush hips and push him down impatiently.

“A-ah!- don’t just do that-” He mewls.

You taste Rafayel before you can’t even see how wet he is. Spreading his ass with both hands, you pepper his cunt with eager kisses. He trembles at the new feeling, squirming and accidentally grinding against your lips, only igniting more whines to leave his pretty lips.

Your head spins at his sounds, brain mushy with how submissive you could get him to behave, at how fucking hot he sounds and how good he tastes. 

Finally diving in, your lips suck on his folds gently while your hands, once on his ass, help his hips move against you for more constant stimulation. 

“Fu-uck!- Dun stop. Please.” Rafayel squeals before a tiny lightbulb lightens up on his head.

Rafayel leans down, trembling on top of you as he pulls down your shorts just enough so he can have access to your panties. He doesn’t take it off, doesn’t have the patience to, only pulls them to the side and greets your awaiting pussy with a kiss. 

In this whole mess, you didn’t even realize how your arousal started to build up during this whole time. Too busy with Rafayel, looking at Rafayel, teasing Rafayel. You’re sure that he — she — is the siren that will drag you to the bottom of the sea with pretty mewls and then consume you. 

As he should, you think. You’d die happily.

To the kitten licks on your clit, you shiver, parting your legs open to help him. “Getting- mgh- bold now, baby? Thought you’d let me do all the work.” Muffled by the weight on top of you, you tease anyway.

You don’t give him much space to speak, wrapping your lips around his clit and sucking at  a steady pace. You’re not able to see his reaction but his mouth lets go of your cunt, his lashes tremble and close shut in pleasure. “Gonna cum, rafe? Oh- mgh- y’er such a sweet girl, raf.” You praise sweetly. 

Rafayel really tries to keep up with you but with his mushy brain, his head only rests against your thigh while he moans lowly. His clit throbs on your tongue thanks to your gentle words, you laugh mockingly under him. “Fuck- dun’ like when i call you pretty girl  but your body tells me otherwise, love. You don’t get much from lying here, raf.”

Shut up. Is what he really wants to tell you, maybe flick your forehead and say all the petty things he can think of. His thighs shake violently and with another loud and melodic cry, Rafayel cums. 

You keep going for a little longer, kissing his folds and clit and sweet affection before a strangled whine makes you pull away. 

He helps himself out of your face, sitting on the couch with his head resting on a blue pillow with the face of someone who just came back from pound town. Rafayel doesn’t bat an eye when you manhandle him closer to your body.

His lips find yours in an instant, kissing you with need, like he just came out of the ocean for the first time and his lungs aren’t used to the summer breeze on the beach. He sucks on your tongue, swiping his own on your under lip in a sloppy kiss.

You two fight for space on the couch, now feeling a bit cramped. Rafayel’s legs tangle on yours messily and he finds himself on your lap once again, grinding and humping against you like this is exactly where he was meant to be. Smiling on his mouth, you can’t help but tease him. 

“Insatiable much? Pretty girl can’t take her hands off me hm?” You chuckle but are quickly interrupted, moaning loudly when his clit accidentally bumps on yours, which Rafayel takes advantage of.

And you let him, your only guidance being the phantom touch of your hands on his waist. “You can’t really ever keep your mouth shut, can you?” He sighs, “Not near you, ever.” 

You’re quick to cum too, with hitched breath and hips buckling under his in search of more stimulation, any moans are silenced by his lips insistently glued to yours.

Noticing your body melting on the couch cushions, Rafayel lets himself relax on top of you, too. With a last kiss to your neck, he buries his face on your shoulder blade.

“I’ll file a report about what happened later, m’kay? Dun stress.” — “Hmmm.” Is all he’s able to answer while your free hand massages his scalp, slowly drifting him off to sleep.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ reblogs are very much appreciated. thank you for reading! (*´▽`*)

[p0orbaby]

magic 8 ball

summary: What starts as Leah crashing your pity pint spirals, predictably, into something far less wholesome and far more hands-on.

warnings: SMUT 18+, just general sex stuff so you know the drill

a/n: i was inspired, not sure by what, but here we are

word count: 2.5k

-

“I’m not having a breakdown,” you say, peeling the label off your beer with such deep concentration you forget you have to breathe to survive. “I’m having a perfectly rational response to the current state of the world. And also to my boss, who thinks ‘relevance’ is when a TikTok account reposts our gallery’s Instagram.”

Leah makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sigh, and slides onto the stool next to you as if she owns the place. She probably does. Or knows someone who does. She’s wearing a camel coat from The Row that looks like it’s never seen a hanger. Soft, fluid, draped like wealth. Her hair is up—one of those deliberately lazy ponytails that costs £80 at a salon and makes people call you effortless like it’s a compliment. She probably just didn’t bother sorting it after training.

She orders a double gin and tonic. Not with Bombay or Tanqueray or any of the pedestrian options available to people who wear polyester and say OOTD. She points, without looking, at a bottle of something artisanal. Something with botanicals. Something brewed by a man with a beard who lives in Hackney and forages moss recreationally while naked.

“You’re twitching,” she says, when the bartender walks away.

“I’m fine,” you reply, tight. “I’m absolutely fucking fine.”

You’re not. You’re vibrating with the same energy as a microwave that’s just been asked to reheat a bowl of leftover soggy chicken chow mein.

Leah squints. “Your eye does this thing when you’re on the brink of homicide. It’s cute, all things considered.”

You think about stabbing her with the cocktail stick that came with the complimentary olives you got when you ordered. Instead, you finish peeling the label. The bar is now covered in neat, sticky curls of Beck’s branding. You take a vicious sort of pride in it—like this bar owes you something and you’re slowly destroying it molecule by molecule.

“I had to explain post-conceptualism to a man who unironically collects Funko Pops today.”

“God.”

“He said, ‘So it’s like Banksy but sadder?’”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“And then he asked me if Damien Hirst invented fruit winders.”

Leah bites her lip to suppress a grin. You hate that she finds this funny.

“I’m in hell,” you say. “I live here now. It’s beige and the lighting’s fluorescent and all the curators wear Balenciaga in the wrong way.”

“There’s a wrong way to wear Balenciaga?”

“Yes. It’s when you do it with sincerity.”

Leah hums, amused. Her drink arrives. She picks it up like she’s in an advert for skincare. You hate her glass. It’s too clean. You hate how she sips, like the liquid is trying to earn her respect. You hate her in general, really. But it’s a specific, curated hate. The kind that comes with longing. Jealousy. Proximity.

“You’re not angry,” she says, “you’re heartbroken.”

“I am not heartbroken.”

“Fine,” she shrugs. “You’re artistically blue-balled.”

That, unfortunately, lands. You clench your jaw. You spent two months assembling an exhibit that got described as visually competent by someone whose own work consists of melting Barbie heads onto coat hooks. The only person who seemed to get it was a caretaker, and even he asked if it was “about feminism or something.”

Leah’s watching you with the sort of curiosity she usually reserves for rare mushrooms or political scandals. You feel exposed, like she’s mentally peeling your skin back to check for rot.

“I just—” You stop. You sip your beer. You stare at its froth like it insulted your mother. “I just want to make something that doesn’t immediately get filtered through someone else’s idiot-brand algorithm of what art is supposed to do. I don’t want it to do anything. I want it to exist. And I want that to be enough.”

There’s a pause. A proper silence. A respectful one.

Then Leah says, “Well. That’s depressing.”

You blink. “Do you ever have a normal human reaction?”

“I do,” she says, “just not to tantrums disguised as philosophies.”

You groan. Loudly. Obnoxiously. “Why are you here?”

She takes another sip, smacks her lips, says: “You texted me the words ‘I hope my body gets mistaken for a performance piece when I die.’ So I cleared my schedule.”

You rub your face. You did text that. You thought it was funny.

“You’re a masochist,” you mutter.

“You’re dramatic.”

You look up at her, eyes narrowed. “You think you’re better than me.”

Leah leans in, her face maddeningly calm. “Sweetheart. I know I am.”

You want to throw something at her. A pint glass. the chair you’re sitting on. Your entire unresolved emotional history. But instead you say, “Do you ever get tired of always being the most emotionally detached person in the room?”

She tilts her head. “Do you ever get tired of pretending your anger is intellectual when really you’re just sad and lonely and catastrophically underfucked?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“I am not underfucked.”

“I can see how tense your jaw is from here. It’s clenched like a Victorian child repressing her feelings about having to crawl up another chimney. Go home and look at yourself in the mirror. Tell me that’s the face of someone getting railed regularly.”

You want to die. You also want her to say it again, slowly, in private, with less clothing.

There’s a long, crackling pause. You both know it’s no longer about art.

Leah sets down her glass. She taps the rim once, twice. Rhythm. Precision. Her nails are short, square, coated in clear polish that you don’t normally notice but have now because you can’t look her in the eye. Then you catch yourself staring at her hands for too long and quickly look away.

She doesn’t comment. But you know she notices. Leah notices everything. She notices the hair tie on your wrist has snapped and been retied in a knot, twice. She notices you’ve stopped wearing mascara, which you used to call your “armour” in that stupid, performative way you used to talk about beauty like it was actually important. She notices the crack in your lip that won’t heal because you’ve been biting it every time you think too hard.

She says, eventually, almost to herself:

“Right. That’s enough tragic brooding. Come on.”

You glance at her sideways. “Come on what?”

She lifts her chin, shrugs like it’s obvious. “It’s time for the three F’s.”

You blink. “The what?”

“The three F’s,” she repeats, counting them off on one hand like she’s listing dinner party ingredients. “Food. Fucking. And… I haven’t decided on the third one. It’s usually ‘forgiveness’ but tonight it might change depending on my mood or how close you are to bursting into tears.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you having a stroke?”

Leah ignores this. She taps her temple. “It’s a system. A trifecta. A deeply spiritual practice.”

“Sounds like a religious cult run by Gordon Ramsay.”

She smirks. “Exactly. Chips first. Sex second. Existential clarity optional.”

You stare at her, arms folded. She’s smiling now, that crooked, smug half-smile that suggests she knows she’s funny, even when you want to shove her face into a vat of chip grease.

“You offering?” you ask, dry. “For the second F?”

Leah shrugs again. “No. I saw a homeless man outside and thought you two might hit it off.”

You snort, despite yourself. “You’re a bitch.”

She sips her drink like she’s just said something unremarkable and bureaucratic, like we’ll be closing early due to maintenance. She doesn’t look at you. You’re glad. You’re not ready for the look she gives you when she’s being sincere. It’s like being x-rayed.

Then she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Of course I’m offering. Don’t be daft.”

You freeze. A beat. Another.

“I thought I was a neurotic, emotionally volatile husk of a woman with a martyr complex and an inflated sense of artistic purpose.”

“You are,” she says. “But you’ve got a decent face and you’re good with your hands. So, you know. Swings and roundabouts.”

You scoff. And you’re trying really hard to stay calm because your doctor has informed you your concerningly high blood pressure is a direct correlation of your erratic emotions.

“What happened to chips first?”

“Oh, I still want chips. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since three and I’m craving something fried and disgusting. Preferably served by someone with a name badge and an attitude problem.”

You nod slowly. “That’s the most grounded thing you’ve said all night.”

“Thank you. I’m a woman of the people.”

She drains her gin and stands, smooth and sudden, like movement happens to her rather than from her. You watch the line of her coat shift across her hips and hate her a little more. In a nice way. A respectful way.

She glances back at you, already heading toward the door. “You coming, or are you going to sit here frowning into warm beer like the ghost of failed gallery interns past?”

You mutter something under your breath and follow. Of course you do. It’s Leah.

It’s always Leah.

-

“You’re making that face again.”

Leah’s looking at you from the other end of the bed—half undressed, half mocking, propped up on her elbow like some god-awful, lesbianised version of a Greek statue who knows exactly how fit she is.

You’re topless and regretting all your life choices. “What face?”

“The one that says, ‘this is a terrible idea but I’m already wet so fuck it.’”

She’s not wrong.

You shoot her a glare and yank your bra off in one not so smooth move. It slaps the floor with the exhausted whimper of cotton that’s held too many disappointing breasts over the years.

“God, you’re hot when you’re angry,” she says, and you want to laugh. Or hit her. Or sit on her face. All three feel valid.

“Shut up and lie down.”

She does. Immediately. The smugness fades slightly, replaced by something quieter. More concentrated. She watches you crawl over her like a lion stalking its prey. Or more realistically like you’re some slow-motion car crash she wants to get hit by.

You kiss her. Sloppy. Unapologetic. More tongue than technique. It’s not romantic. It’s hot. It’s urgent. It tastes like gin and old rage.

Somewhere between biting her lip and grinding down against her thigh, you lose track of how long you’ve been pretending not to want this. Leah’s skin is warm and annoyingly soft. Her bra’s still on. She’s still wearing her bra.

You reach for it, fumbling. “Why are these always like a NASA launch?”

She laughs into your neck. “You’ve never undressed another woman before, have you?”

“Only emotionally.”

You finally get the clasp and she shrugs out of it, tits bouncing slightly. You both pretend not to notice how your brain flatlines for a second. You’re supposed to be cool. You’re supposed to be in control.

But her nipples are hard and you’re throbbing and when she reaches between your legs without warning, you gasp—loud and unedited.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Warn a girl.”

“You’ve literally been grinding on my thigh for five minutes.”

“That’s different. That’s friendship.”

Leah slips her hand down your knickers. Finds you soaked. She hums like she’s impressed. Or smug. Probably both.

“Jesus, babe,” she says. “You’re soaked.”

You scoff. “Don’t call me babe. You sound like some weirdo on Love Island.”

“Fine. Darling?”

“Worse.”

“You’re tight when you’re annoyed,” she murmurs, and then pushes two fingers in. Just like that.

You moan. Too loudly. Your hips buck automatically.

“Oh, fuck—”

Leah grins like a wolf. She curls her fingers and your whole spine tries to fold in half.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she says, pumping slow, deliberate, unfair. “There. Right there. Don’t move.”

You immediately move. “Fuck, wait—fuck, there.”

She groans, her forehead pressed to yours. “You’re so annoying.”

You kiss her to shut her up and reach down between her legs. Her knickers are drenched too. You laugh.

“What?” she says, breath hitching.

“Nothing. Just didn’t know England’s golden girl got this wet.”

“I’m a footballer,” she pants, “not a cardinal.”

You pull her knickers aside, push two fingers in easily. She’s hot and slick and all kinds of fuckable. Her eyes roll back for a second. She grabs your arm, anchoring herself. Her nails dig in.

“Oh my god. Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t—don’t fucking stop.”

You thrust harder, matching her rhythm, both your hands moving now—sloppy and synchronised. Her hips are rolling. Yours too. There’s swearing. Lots of it. You’re both flushed and swearing and laughing in between grunts.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “Harder.”

You give it to her harder. You give it to her like a promise. Like revenge.

At one point you both reach for each other at the same time and bang foreheads. Loudly.

“Ow,” you groan, blinking.

She’s laughing. “This is the least elegant sex I’ve ever had.”

“Good,” you growl, sucking a bruise into her neck. “I’m not here to be elegant.”

You push her legs wider. You go lower.

“Wait—are you—oh fuck—”

You don’t bother answering. You just get your mouth on her. One long, filthy lick from her entrance to her clit and she arches like she’s being electrocuted.

“Jesus CHRIST,” she chokes. “You’ve done this before.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just moan into her cunt and keep going.

Her hand finds your hair and tugs. Not hard. Just enough to make you feel owned.

She’s close. You can feel it. She starts talking like a woman possessed.

“Yes. There. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

You don’t. Of course you don’t. You flatten your tongue and she breaks.

She cums hard, loud, practically shaking, her thighs closing around your head like a vice.

When she collapses, she pulls you up, kisses you like she’ll die if she doesn’t, and flips you over. She doesn’t even hesitate. Her mouth is on you like it’s home. She licks you open, groaning like you’re her favourite meal and she’s been fasting.

“Oh fuck me,” you cry, gripping the headboard like it’s a lifeline.

She hums against your clit. You nearly black out.

“Yeah?” she says, lifting her head. “That good?”

You nod, dazed.

“Use your words.”

“More.”

“More what?”

“More Leah.”

She moans like that’s the final straw and fingers you hard, mouth locked around your clit as if it belongs there. You cum embarrassingly fast. Practically scream. Collapse against the pillow like a dramatic Victorian wife.

There’s a beat. Silence. Both panting.

Then:

“I think I saw god.”

Leah wipes her mouth and shrugs. “Tell her I said hi.”

You both dissolve into hysterical laughter, tangled up and sweaty and slightly horrified.

“So,” you say, catching your breath. “The verdict on the third F?”

She grins. “I think I'll stick with forgiveness. For all the shit we’re about to pretend didn’t just happen.”

You nod. “Fair.”

And then you kiss her again. Because honestly, what else are you going to do?

[isuggestforcefem]

Forcefem February story: Nicole saves Ethan

Part three - Nicole

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 -

It's sometimes said that art is a conversation of sorts, between the artist and the viewer. In that way, forced feminization is kind of like art, too. There's a conversational element to it. Femnization is in conversation with itself, and both subject and perpetrator are, with each other.

Of course, that's not literal. It's always best to keep the subject in the dark, have her powerless, guessing as to her fate, unable to fight back. That said, when Ethan chooses to put on the strange magical ring with no second guessing, it can be understood as "Please miss Nicole turn me into a girl!". Nicole chooses to understand it that way.

Of course, that's not what Ethan says. That's not what he would ever ask. He doesn't want it, will speak his mouth. He likes himself as he is. But as for all arts, it's important to look beyond the text. To see beyond the "boy"'s words. For each of Nicole's victims, she reminds herself that she must look at actions, that it is important to look beyond the posturing, and into your subject's heart. What does Ethan's heart say to Nicole? If Nicole listens, she can hear it, swaying, yearning to be something else. Something lesser.

Usually, prey would be more suspicious. Refuse her gift, or put it in a drawer and forget about it. Usually, they would put up a fight. This little resistance pushed Nicole to want to play with her food, so to speak.

There was a simple plot one could enact, here. A magic weaved itself around the boy, through the ring, an net of thinly weaved spells, which would soon be ready to enrapture his mind. Standard procedure, then, was to wait until he was ready, able to be entirely consumed by the powers Nicole wielded. Yet, the thrill of the hunt clouded Nicole's thought. She yearned for more. She knew more could be obtained.

The threads as they currently wove themselves were soft, easy to bend. It would be so simple to Nicole, to reach into the magic, and reshape it into something more thrilling. Yes, it felt to her like the finest of temptations, truly, a fruit of taste unparalleled. She had to seize it.

She had no choice but to act.

This morning felt to Nicole like she was upon the brink of something great. She could smell change, the tide of a new world in becoming in the air.

Having put on her most innocent face, she headed outside, towards the place Ethan usually found himself, in fresh mornings. The inn was empty, in the early hours, safe for a dying fire, and a lost boy. Gathering herself, she approached him like she was a frail bird. She had a face to keep up.

The boy turned to face her, his face shining with joy and surpise. "Nicole! I did not expect you here today," spoke the boy. Nicole smiled kindly. This was where it began, she could feel it. Her heart raced with anticipation, her lip let out the question. "Ethan, could you meet me at the clearing in an hour? I have something to confess." Nicole's face grew red with anticipation. Ethan flushed softly.

"Oh- of course!" answered the boy. This was it.

The stream was quiet, today. It had not rained in a while, though the clouds indicated this would not last. Nicole had been pacing for a moment, now. The boy was late. There was a worry and a doubt, in her mind, that her true intentions had been uncovered by the village. That she would have to run. That doubt made itself quiet, however. She was hardly in danger.

Her plan was trivial. She had thought it over a hundred times, in her pacing. The boy would arrive. Pretexting some thing -- anything at all -- she would touch her ring, send him to sleep. With the boy unable to resist, she would be free to cast her magic. Then, there was only to wake the boy, and send him back to the village, and watch the magic unravel.

The only question that remained was of the magic to use.

The first thing to enrapture her temptation was the thought of wrapping the magic around Ethan's brain, to snuff him of any independent thought. He would not even notice it, for as long as Nicole wished it so. She could then return him to the town as a sort of pawn, moving around on her whims.

On the same thought, she could allow him the inependence he so deeply craved, while editing his desires. Make him yearn for things brand new, with a strength unparalleled.

However, she could instead weave the spells around his body, and thus begin a swift reshaping of it, into that of a pretty little girl. He would be a girl by the end, no matter what happened. But she could make it happen faster, and begin today.

Finally, she could instead attune the boy's body to the ring's aspect, allowing Ethan to turn into an obedient, pretty, porcelain doll, to be commanded around.

Temptation gnawed at her.

[lune-redd]

Hello, it's Lelly.

As you may know, I have recently deactivated my Twitter account. A lot of people are speculating I left because I was being harassed for drawing my older depiction of Bubbles from The Powerpuff Girls as chubby. However... that's not the direct reason I left. In fact, I didn't really see much of the comments of folks on there getting riled up about it as I muted the tweet the morning I saw that it blew up. I was only merely aware of it all by being told about it from friends, with there being some other users on the site making other really fuckin' stupid comments about my art.

This does however lead into why I actually left Twitter, and it's because of Twitter's overall toxic nature. Overtime, I've really gotten sick of how absolutely revolting Twitter has become to experience. The site is basically built around dunk culture and doom scrolling. You know that one tweet of someone making an example of Twitter's utter stupidity by using pancakes and waffles as an example?

I bring this up because I think this fits my point about how Twitter has this thing of assuming the absolute worst about the most insignificant things, even the most innocuous. The "Bubbles obesity" comments weren't the only stupid comments that came out of that post. I also got a quote retweet that I was "forcefully feminizing Buttercup", even though the whole fucking point of that drawing was to depict a usually tough character in an unusual situation for her. I have also gotten stupid comments on other drawings though, like the one where Mitch pushes Buttercup down for trying to look taller than she is and I got called a misogynist for it, though I'm pretty sure that one was bait (Twitter users have a tough time figuring out what is and isn't bait, it's dunk culture that I'm about to talk about really doesn't help this).

The site's dunk culture is also really fuckin' bad. Quote retweets are a disease, as unlike Tumblr's reblog comments, quote retweets count as a different post. Someone disagrees with you? Show your audience how stupid they are on your page! Hey, are you trying not to see the most abhorrent racist statement imaginable? Well TOO BAD FUCK YOU here's a le epic own giving them all the attention in the world even though one of the most common internet rules are DON'T FEED THE FUCKIN' TROLLS YOU IDIOT. Oh hey, are you trying to explain how you prefer a certain artistic choice over another in something you like? Well you're a deranged ungrateful whiny nitpicker, get owned!

I've seen so many of my friends be belittled for simply discussing their artistic preferences of things they're passionate about. I had a friend who said he prefers the original Crash Bandicoot design over his redesigned look in Crash 4, and had legitimate reasons for why he felt that way (even if he didn't really explain them clearly), and he got dunked for it which made me mad. I'm sick and tired of it all. The reaction to my art is only a mere example of the shit I despise about that site.

I had been planning on leaving Twitter for quite some time, as my follower count was growing nearer and nearer to 10K. I had planned on leaving after 10K followers because that amount was wayyyy too fuckin big for me to handle. I'm a young and growing lad, and I felt it wouldn't be good for my mental sanity to handle all that, so I dipped. The amount of attention I've been getting is simultaneously both wonderful and extremely overwhelming. Even the explosion of new followers and asks on here is quite the load! (Seriously, calm the fuck down y'all) I am very grateful for all the supportive asks I've gotten even though I won't be able to answer them all, thank you all so very much.

tl;dr I didn't leave Twitter because I was being harassed or anything, but rather because of the site's overall toxic and belittling environment.

Adios.

-Lelly

[atanerrum]

super duper agree w ur post about vash getting overly sexual comments in a sometimes mega uncomfortable way and highkey i feel like it's almost always worse from people who see him as transmasc. obvi ppl are allowed to have their attraction towards characters and shit but sometimes i really wanna grab people and go hey. why are you obsessed w talking about knocking up a man just because he has a vagina. can you examine that for a moment just one moment fucking pleaaaase. and also when people are like "oh he's such a slut" it's like i see. you fell for the mask that the viewer is supposed to dismantle. like man he's deeply complex and hurting in a lot of ways and reducing him to just an object of sexual desire does him and his story such a massive fucking injustice

this is also something that grinds my gears. Fandom feminizing him. Though im literally the same and say the same things about him, and I genuinely think people can engage with media however they want, they don't have to do it the way I do, but it really can be so tiring. I'm trans masculine myself, but I don't view vash [and knives] as trans, me depicting him [them] with a vulva is more of a lore based preference (and kinda skewing towards an intersex condition) yet I interpret him this way exactly because I'm an androgynous person who happened to see themself in vash's narrative androgyny, like many other queer people. And I strive to possess this complex multifaceted gentle and passionate masculinity that he has. So seeing all the feminizing language and tendencies towards this character is disheartening. I love feminine men and playing with gender, but people who purposefully strip him of his masculine traits do it for the sake of femininity that is sexualized and degrading, reducing his character to yaoi tropes. Calling him a twink (which became a buzzword at this point), writing him in fanfics as sensitive and tiny and scrawny in tall hairy big-chested Wolfwood's embrace, like come on you guys. It's so hard sometimes to engage with other's trigun art because of this. Again, I don't wanna, as they say, yuck anyone's yum, but I also want to voice my opinion and have an open conversation, I know we all can find an understanding. Oh hey this is one of the core themes of trigun. trigun reference heyooooo

[befemininenow]

All those hormones, surgeries, document changes, and the rest of the pros and cons have paid off. All you see in the mirror is an alluring trans girl seductively painting her lips in front of her girlfriend. Gone are the days where you spent your life pleasing others and feeling miserable all the time, to the point of hating mirrors. In spite of all the hate you got for being yourself now, you're not backing down. You won, they lost, and you made that known by writing it in the bathroom mirror.

The party hasn't stopped; it's just getting started.

My very first post was about loving the girl in the mirror. To celebrate the one year milestone, I made a post about loving your feminine side. As a part of celebrating two years of captions, and to "finish" my 2D TG art caption "trilogy", I made this one: loving the woman out of you.

Even though this fabulous art is an extra pic from one of those forced feminization stories (something that may not resonate with some of you, I know), I really loved the art of this pic and it captures the seducing beauty of femininity. Of course, I captioned this pic with a twist and I loved the message of the caption since it goes well with the theme of the picture (even if it probably has nothing to do with the original).

Hope you love this caption and I'm happy you've been supportive of my captions from the beginning to now! I can't believe I actually hit two years now! If you loved the pic and want the original source, click on the highlighted links below. Thank you!

P.S. The art used for this pic does not belong to me. Digital art was created by DreamLN01 and commissioned by Nicegent42 for his story Girlfriend's Daughter. Original art used for the caption belongs to their perspective owners.

[girlfishes]

Hi, I was wondering what convinced you to believe in Radical Feminism?

This answer took way too long for me to write, and for that I’m sorry. I struggled a lot with writing this response, because I simply had too much to say. I started with trying to explain as much theory as I could and then I realized that I was basically writing a book which you didn’t ask for.

You asked not why radical feminism is correct or why it makes sense, but why I believe in it. I believe it can do for women what liberal feminism and queer theory are incapable of. Free us.

I do believe that many individual queer activists are genuine in their desire for human rights and freedoms. So why do I think the movement continues the patriarchy?

Modern liberals and their activists have become infatuated with subversion for its own sake. It’s fun to go against the grain. It’s sexy to be different and unexpected, to “queer the boundaries”. However queerness cannot stand on its own; it must be queer in relation to something. The word “queer” means strange, after all.

Subversion itself depends on the context in which it is preformed. And the context is patriarchy. Those who find such delight in the subversion will fight to uphold the backdrop in which their actions and identity remain subversive. In order to continue giving the finger to the establishment, the establishment must remain. In this way queer activism has a vested interest in upholding the patriarchy.

This kind of activism will always be futile, because subversion for its own sake has no end except for its own continuation.

When I say “this kind of activism” I mean activism that is focused on making aesthetic changes and statements instead of fighting for structural changes. This activism comes in the form of an intense focus on changing language, making art, and individual development and identity-making. None of these things are necessarily bad, and can even serve useful, but they are not sufficient for structural change.

While activists are operating solely on this aesthetic level, oppression continues in material ways. A female human being can change her pronouns or the clothes she wears and find a million different micro labels for herself and draw her own pride flag, but she will still be oppressed because of the body she has. Abortion bans will still exist. Rape still happens. Medical misogyny, period poverty, child marriage, and pornography still exist. Queer activists do all of the aesthetic and preformative activism and then pat themselves on the back as if they have changed anything outside of their own head.

Radical feminism focuses on the material world, and the real issues that physically affect billions of women everyday. We recognize that changing words does not change reality and we are willing and able to meet oppression where it finds us: in the physical world. We do not think “how can I be subversive within patriarchy”, but “how can we dismantle the patriarchy”. We don’t search to find a gender that makes sense for our personal experience because we recognize that gender itself only makes sense in the context of female subservience. We disavow cultural relativism. We have clear goals that don’t move and that we will know when they are achieved. We know what we want, and our goals still make sense outside of the context of patriarchy, because they are based on material outcomes for real women.

Queerness doesn’t exist if patriarchy doesn’t exist. But radical feminism stands apart from any cultural context. And that is why I believe in it.

[nikalaeva]

And yet Feyre is the High Lady?

I already wrote - I don't hate Feyre. In ACOTAR she was a little bit silly and smug, but good character.

If you are reading this, you know Prythian's rules. Not me or you or anyone else, but the author wrote it. Wives/mates of the High Lords have a title Lady of the Court.

Now the question is - if Rhysand is a true feminist, why didn't he change laws for his darling Feyre? Then he could have said to Helion: "It is now the LAW of the Night Court that High Lord's wife is his equal." "Because I love her" is not something to reason your political decisions with. And one more question - why should the other High Lords call Feyre High Lady? Rhysand's decision has no legal force even in the Night Court, much less outside of it.

Why does Feyre need to be a High Lady, for SJM Rhysand's pride? What exactly does Feyre want to do that can't be done without "High Lady" title? Does Feyre want to change some laws or introduce new ones? Does she want to change the social hierarchy, democratize society or, maybe, prepare it for an absolute monarchy? She is not interested (and does not understand anything) in politics at all, but the title is important for politics. I doubt very much people would want a ruler who is only interested in art - not finances, not diplomacy, not domestic and foreign trade.

Charity work is not main duty of ruler.

Being able to read and write is not enough to control the Court's tax system and fight poverty. Feyre's fans would probably agree that people with same level of education would plan the country's budget or, idk, calculate their salaries and pays.

Banning service for fairies of the CoN 'cause you don't like them personally is illegal - they are also citizens of the NC.

Refusing to communicate with one of the High Lords 'cause he is your toxic ex is blatant political illiteracy.

Feyre's feelings don't matter on political arena. And the meeting of the High Lords is such a scandal, which proved - Feyre's title is a "mask" of feminism, just a check mark for "girl boss" trope. There is nothing but incompetence under it.

Update: oh yeah, all of Feyre's achievements after getting title are belong to fighting/war. And while we see the High Lords fighting on the front lines, their main job is to govern and support society, the citizens in peacetime, not only fight villains.

[genderqueerdykes]

Idk if this is the right place to go but I'm not quite sure where else to put this. I'm very sorry if it's not the right place!

As a trans guy, I just have to wonder just how bad my luck is with trans women blogs and my general interaction with trans women IRL???

I'm stating it now that every single person can be an asshole. No matter their gender. I know I'm just having severely bad luck. Trans girls are forever my sisters and I'll back them up if I need to.

But also, why am I only encountering trans women who unironically want to put trans men and trans masculine people's heads on a spike.

I've close genderqueer friends but never managed to become friends with a trans girl yet (I know a few I'm acquainted with, as an art student in college - trans people of all shapes and sizes are a dime a dozen here) because at some point the fact they fundementally hate trans men comes out into the open. It's scary. Why are we in-fighting? Why does my sheer existence hurt you? The cousin of my crush is a trans girl, and she threw such a fit when she heard her cousin was going to go on a date with me. Not that it matters, relationship didn't work out (we're great friends) but I had never talked to this woman!! Ever!!!! My crush just relayed to me at the time that she did not like me because they told her I was a trans guy!!!!!!!

Trans men who hurt them obviously should be held accountable. They're pieces of shit. Again: every gender can be a fucking asshole. But why generalize? Why would you suddenly ostracize me if I revealed myself as a trans guy to you instead of a butch woman when we've had nothing but pleasant conversations up until now?

I feel like I'm being oversensitive, or that I'm making a big issue out of something so minimal. But why are we in-fighting? Why? Why, why why???

you're not being over sensitive, this is a genuine problem right now and it's affecting people in real time. what people don't seem to care about is that this deeply hurts and affects the people who are being ostrasized. which is something people should care about

you're not imagining things or anything like that and your experiences are very important to be discussed. it is quite literally "the right thing to do" or "cool" or whatever to shit on trans men right now. like currently, in 2024, almost 2025, we are seeing now more than ever, people who proudly hate trans men. this is transphobia. people NEED to care. you're not alone in feeling this way. even i feel this way, and i'm an intersex trans wo/man. i shouldn't have to feel this way, i'm literally a trans woman and i'm made to feel weary about other trans girls suddenly hating me when they find out i'm also a trans man because gender is complicated and being intersex is a complex experience

people will gladly openly hate on trans men. we are now the sacrificial lamb. we are now the punching bag. for a while people really hated cis gay men. like really hated them. the "im twinkphobic" shit was literal overt homophobia and nobody cared. everyone was on board with hating cis gay men for one reason or another. a lot of people were calling feminine cis gay men transmisogynistic, or transfem eggs. now things have shifted and its trans men who are the big problem.

rad feminism is taking over large parts of our community and people refuse to talk about it. people are happily rad fems, and a lot of trans girls identify as transradfems, which is just about as transphobic as you can get. it's never progressive to hate someone for their gender. ever. it's always transphobia. i don't know how so many trans girls got it in their heads that rad feminism just needed to accept trans women and trans women only for it to be a good ideology. i've said it before, but the unfortunate truth is a lot of trans women are desperate to feel validated in their womanhood, and some see man-hating "lesbian" women as the most "woman" thing you can be, as it's the "direct opposite" to being a man. trans women will gladly walk down this path for the sake of gender euphoria and attacking trans men because they're taking someone else's gender personally.

it doesn't matter if you don't see trans men as trans- we are. trans men are trans. transgender, transsexual, transvestites- doesn't matter. trans men get called trannies, too. trans men get misgendered. trans men face corrective rape. it's seriously not cool to see trans men as "copying" trans women, or whatever. i've seen people claim that trans men are really just masculine girls, and that it's okay for women to dress masculine so we should just do that instead. i've seen people say that trans men literally aren't trans because who would want to transition into manhood? i've heard people say that trans men just transition to hurt people. i've heard that trans men aren't "real" trans people and "Aren't trustworthy" sources of information on trans experiences

it's ridiculous. people are completely blinded to what the real problem is. the real problem is the queerphobes above us. i'm with you: why are we infighting like this again? what's the point? the entire point of the queer community is to accept people who step outside of the cisheternormative panopticon we've invented and enforced. it's such a broad array of people. not all experiences will be the same. manhood is desireable, just like womanhood. manhood is not inherently toxic. it's not something everyone wants to escape.

i sincerely hope people wake up and start realizing this is doing nothing but helping conservatives, terfs and transphobes. it's not helping other trans girls. some trans women are also trans men. intersex trans women exist. multigender trans women exist. genderfluid trans women exist. some trans women are also men and we're shooting everyone in the foot by behaving this way.

like do people not realize there are trans women who are also men? you're alienating all of these women with all this man hating. you're not just hurting cishet and trans men here: you're hurting every possible group of person. not every trans woman despises the concept of manhood. wanting to transition out of manhood doesn't mean you have to hate or condemn it. manhood being bad for you doesn't mean it's bad for everyone else

i hope you start to feel better soon. you are more than welcome to come back any time, it's really pervasive right now, but we have to stick together and challenge it when we see it. we have to remind ourselves that this is absolutely unhinged entitled behavior that doesn't reflect how trans men are treated in the real world and how we operate and function. it's shitty but fortunately there are lots of trans women who are allies to trans men. it's a very vocal minority that hate trans men that badly

[bullet-prooflove]

Feminism: David Hale x Reader (Feat: Jax Teller)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @hatersaremymotivators @bennykk @kelpies-shed

Companion piece to Graffiti, Crime Wave, Distraction & Art School

Jax thinks that he was in love with you. The problem is you were bad for the club which meant you were bad for him so he cut you loose. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do.

Your crime?

Feminism.

You don’t like the way the club treats it’s women and you’re vocal about it, not just to him but to others too. It gets Clay’s back up which is why his President tells him to put you in your place.

“A quick slap will knock that shit right out of her.”  Clay tells him as he puffs on his cigar.

But Jax, he could never raise a hand to you so he does something worse, something  irredeemable. He offers you out to the boys, he makes it clear you’re fair game, free for a fuck. He does it because he knows you’ll never stand for it, that you’ll be out of the door as soon as you realise he’s betrayed you.

“She’s a firecracker when you get her started, pull her hair, choke her a little and she’ll be the sweetest gash you’ll ever have.”

The words taste like poison on his tongue as he looks at you over by the bar, talking to one of the croweaters. You have no idea what’s coming.

It’s Tig that takes a run at you, that puts your hand on his cock and tells you he knows exactly what you like. You almost twist his balls off before giving Jax a look of complete contempt. That’s the night he comes home to find a five foot dick spray painted across the front of his house and David Hale tucking you into the back of a cruiser because a neighbour called the cops.

“Look, don’t charge her.” He tells Hale because he knows it’s shit like this that will get you kicked out of art school and he can’t stand to be the man that shatters your dreams. “I deserved this.”

“I have no doubt about that.” Hale tells him as he jots something down in his notebook before slipping it into his pocket. “I’m just surprised it hasn’t happened sooner.”

He doesn’t see you again for a couple of months after that and that’s the way he likes it. He knuckles down, focuses on the club, fucks every woman that crosses his path. That’s how he learns to forget you, if he’s buried in pussy he’s not thinking about the woman who isn’t occupying his bed.

He doesn’t expect to see you on Main Street, he doesn’t expect it to be with Hale. He’s heard rumours that the Deputy Chief is seeing someone, that he’s got some prep in his step. It isn’t until now that he realises it’s you.

The two of you are outside the ice cream shop, waiting for the queue to die down. Hale’s arm is around your shoulders, his lips by your ear as he whispers something into it. You tip your head back and laugh and that sound, Christ it feels like his heart is being ripped right out of his chest.

It gets worse because there’s love there, real love. He can see it as clear as day. It’s in the way your fingertips chase along Hale’s jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheek. When you kiss him, it’s with a tenderness that the two of you never had and that’s when Jax realises that he’s fucked up. The man you’re in love with, he’s determined to bring down SAMCRO and there’s no way in hell Jax can ever let that happen.

Love David? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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[amorbidcorvid]

Fibers in Fiction - A Silmarillion Writer’s Guide to Þerindë's Craft

It's the @silmarillionwritersguild's Meta Week, and I wanted to contribute my two special interests -- fiber art and Tolkien -- and my real world degree in Medieval European Women's History. So here's a essay with writing resources for Day 6 - apply real-world disciplines to Middle-earth.

Most of this I had sitting in the back of my head and do not have quality, academic sources for. Links are either to written or video resources, or to picture credits.

Intro

What is fiber art? My personal definition is the manipulation of some sort of fiber into something functional and/or beautiful. There are a few characters in Tolkien’s works that are associated with a fiber craft of some sort – Vairë the Weaver, Míriel Þerindë, and Arwen Undómiel come to mind the easiest. I've seen various fanworks that have Caranthir also be a needle-worker, but that's not canon the way these three women are. There's a lot to be said about the intersection between "women's work" and needlework and feminism, and Tolkien's inclusion of those patriarchal standards, but ... that's not this essay.

There’s a lot of methods and a lot of disciplines that can be put under the umbrella of fiber art. The purpose of this essay is to help fic writers expound on the process of a fiber craft using the correct terminology, gain an understanding of period(ish) appropriate tools/techniques, and the differences between some of the major forms of fiber arts.  

What is a fiber? 

Starting with the basics. A fiber is a material that is longer than it is wide and typically used in textiles or electronics. This is Tolkien’s world, we’re not worrying about electronics, so let’s turn to textile fibers. There are four main types of textile fibers: 

natural fibers - flax, hemp, cotton, jute

animal fibers - silk, wool, catgut (not made from cats), angora rabbit fur, goat hair (mohair, cashmere)

synthetic fibers. - polyester, acrylic, nylon, rayon

Metallic fibers - gold, silver, copper, mithril that have been formed into a very thin wire

Obviously, unless the Valar let Fëanor get into oil extraction, all those synthetic fibers are right out. Leatherwork does not count as a fiber art, since true leather is a processed animal skin. Cords can be cut from leather to act like string, but that’s not a true fiber. And don’t talk to me about pleather or vegan leather. That’s just plastic and it’s bad for the environment. 

Spin a Thread, Draw a Wire

For the three types of fiber that could be used in Arda, there are two methods to turn these materials into thread: drawing and spinning.

Drawing a wire: a small piece of metal is pulled through a device called a draw plate. A draw plate may have many holes through which the wire is pulled, each getting successively smaller and smaller until you reach the gauge (size) you desire. As you pull the wire through each smaller hole, the wire gets thinner and longer. Rinse and repeat until you have a wire of the desired thickness. If you’re combining a wire with some sort of flexible fiber (couching, weaving, etc, see below) it needs to be extremely thin in order to be flexible enough to bend with the fiber it’s attached to. 

You need a lubricant to ensure the wire doesn’t get stuck in the draw plate. Covering the wire in oil is a good way to go (this is called dry drawing. Wet drawing is when the draw plate and the wire are both submerged in oil as you work). Application of heat can make this process easier, but depending on the metal, you might not need very much. 

Gold, silver, and copper are all very soft metals in their purest form -- alloys will make them stronger, less malleable, and harder to draw. Mithril, given that it’s a fictional metal, I can’t confidently comment on, but it’s said to have been very malleable, so I would imagine that the same process for creating very thin wires would also work in the same way as it would for the other metals listed.

A spun thread is an assortment of individual fibers that have been twisted together to make a stronger unit. Natural, animal, and synthetic fibers can all be spun. 

Usually when we describe something as a thread, we’re talking about a spun fiber that is fine/thin and smooth enough for sewing or weaving applications. Spinning a thread involves taking a pile of washed and combed but loose fibers (a bundle of these is called a roving) and literally twisting it until it forms a thread. This can be done with a drop spindle or a spinning wheel. A drop spindle is the more mobile form of spinning, and simple enough that medieval families would often have children spin. With practice you could even do it while walking. Imagine, for a moment, Míriel Þerindë walking through Beleriand during the Great Journey, drop spindle in hand, making the thread she is known for. That’s some good stuff. I’m begging somebody to write this. 

Here’s some video tutorials on how to use a drop spindle and how to use a spinning wheel. I can’t explain it succinctly, and a visual is always a good tool. 

Plyed Threads Make a Yarn

Yarn is several threads counter-twisted around each other. Counter twisting is what holds the yarn’s structure. If the individual thread is twisted clockwise, the yarn must twist all those clockwise threads counterclockwise. The tension holds the shape of the yarn.

Yarns (usually made from an animal fiber like wool, goat, or angora) and twines (usually made from natural fibers like hemp or jute or cotton) are made the same way because they make the threads stronger and more durable than they would be as individual threads, but their material usually dictates how they’re used. Yarns are softer, better for knitting or crochet or weaving. Twines and cords tend to be rougher, better for securing things to other things, for outdoor use, or … you know. The things they do in Angband.

Weaving a fabric

So you’ve got your thread and/or yarn. Now what? Well, you can dye it now (see next section), you can start knitting a garment (you need good socks on the Helcaraxë), or you can start weaving a fabric. Fabric has two components, both made by individual threads in sequence. The warp is generally static, and the vertical thread in most diagrams, including the ones I’m including here. The weft is the thread that passes back and forth horizontally. You can have the weft go over/under/over/under like this diagram (this is called a plain weave) or you can have the weft skip over a number of warp threads to create a pattern or a texture (satin or twill or denim weaves skip warp threads). The pattern depends on which warp threads get lifted or lowered with each pass of the weft, which is typically attached to a shuttle that glides through the shed. 

Weaving requires a loom, but that loom can come in various form-factors. A backstrap loom maintains tension in the warp by the position of the weaver, who has a strap attached to the loom going around her back while she manipulates the weft in front of her. This was, and still is, commonly used in native South American communities.

Early medieval Europe typically used a warp-weighted loom, where the warp threads were tied to a loom weight that dangled off the back of the loom frame. This was replaced later with the horizontal loom, which included the invention of heddles (loops that lifted warp threads in sequence to make a shed (opening) so as to make a pattern) and treadles (foot pedals that control the heddles). 

Later, the horizontal loom gets mechanized, and somehow we got computer programs out of Jacquard looms. Fascinating, but not relevant here. 

One of my favorite types of weaving is tablet weaving, which instead of heddles or treadles to form the shed, uses square cards. Four threads go through the corners of the cards to form alternating sheds that can form complex patterns. Tablet weaving is great for decorative trim and edges. You can use a backstrap method, a warp weighted method, or an inkle loom to create tablet woven articles. This video is a gorgeous introduction, but a bit long. 

What about Vairë’s tapestries, I hear you cry out into the Void? See below :) 

Add a splash of color, become ungovernable 

Color! The world can create rainbows, and we’ve been trying to make thread to match for ages. Luckily you can make most colors with natural dyes. Purple is the hardest color to get with a natural dye, along with blacks; yellows and reds and browns are easiest.

You have to prepare your dye (usually taking some natural material (onion, cochineal insects, gallnuts, walnuts, marigold flowers, woad, madder, whatever you have) and your thread/yarn/fabric separately before combining them with heat. 

Prepping your dye depends on the material you’re using. Sometimes it’s just an overnight soak in a pot, sometimes it’s crushing beetle carcasses into a fine powder, sometimes it’s boiling. I leave it to you, friend, to research the exact color you’re looking to make with a natural dye and how to get that, but this chart might be a good start. 

Most thread/yarn/fabric needs a mordant. Mordant is a dye fixative. After all that work making the fabric, you don’t want that gorgeous Fëanorian red (madder root) to come out in the wash water, right? Mordants are acids that can be found naturally, either by processing some plant materials to create tannic acid (oak trees and oak galls) or oxalic acid (wood sorrels), or by working a chemical process using alum, chrome alum, or sodium chloride, or ammonia (stale urine was commonly used before modern chemical processes). Mordants stink to Angband and back, so historically dyers would be outside town or in their own district as to not offend everyone elses noses. 

You can get a richer, more saturated color by overdyeing – dying twice or even three times. Dyes are hard to color match; each batch is going to have its own variables (weather, temperature, concentration of the dye, concentration of the mordant, quality of the fiber, etc). 

I’ve found this website that goes into a lot more detail. I’m not affiliated with them, but it’s a good starting point.  

Tools

A non-exhaustive list of standard tools a fiber artist may use and material it could be/typically is made of: 

Thread, yarn, or fabric (described above)

Scissors/shears (metal)

Sharp sewing needle in various sizes (bone or metal)

Blunt needle in various sizes (sometimes called a tapestry needle, bone or metal)

Spindle (wood)

Loom in various sizes (wood, wire, thread)

Shuttle (wood)

Knitting needles (bone, wood, or metal)

Nalbinding needle (bone, metal) (nalbinding is a cousin of knitting and crochet, good for hats and socks)

Crochet hook (bone, metal, wood)

Bobbin (wood, bone)

Lace pins (metal)

Lace pillow (fabric)

Embroidery hoop (wood)

Embroidery frame (scroll frame, slate frame, wood)

Embroidery stand (wood, metal)

Thimble (leather, metal)

Fiber Crafts seen in the Legendarium 

Tapestry Weaving

Tapestry weaving is different than standard weaving, because the weft does not go across the entire length of the working area in a shuttle. Tapestry weaving typically uses many, many bobbins or needles of colored thread worked in a plain weave in small areas to make an image. In medieval Europe, tapestries would be used as a form of insulation, to keep the cold out, and as a status symbol. (All I’m saying is, give Himring more tapestries, and maybe the Ever-Cold fortress would be a bit more homey). Here’s this article from the Metropolitan Museum of Art about tapestries, and here’s a video about the making of large scale tapestries, which is the technique I imagine Vairë and Míriel use for the Halls.

Embroidery

Embroidery is the practice of taking individual colored threads (usually cotton, wool, or silk) and sewing them into a ground fabric to decorate that fabric with a design of some sort. There’s SO MANY ways to embroider things. Cross stitch, which is what your author started out doing, uses stitched squares on a grid to effectively make pixel art with thread. You can do blackwork (which doesn’t necessarily need a black thread) which makes a repeating pattern on a grid but doesn’t make squares. Or there’s more freeform embroidery which lots of people use for natural scenes (flowers especially) but can be used for portraits, landscapes, silly sayings – the world is your oyster. The Royal School of Needlework in the UK has a Stitch Bank which documents how to accomplish many, many, many kinds of stitches. 

I’m going to highlight a few stitches that absolutely should be in your writing toolkit if you are working with a character doing embroidery. I’m not going to describe every stitch, but knowing what a stitch is called is half the battle. Okay, maybe a quarter of it, you still have to either do it, or write a good description of doing it, which may be the other 3/4ths of the battle.

Satin Stitch - a good, all purpose filler. Made by stitching parallel lines of thread. Uses a lot of thread, since you should be bringing your needle up through the ground on the same side of the thing you’re trying to fill every time. 

Couching - another good, all purpose filler. Made by laying thread or wire flat on the ground fabric, then taking another thread (close in color or not, depends on the vibe) and stitching it down in place securely. This is the main filling stitch in the Bayeux Tapestry (not a true tapestry, it’s just a really big embroidery) and undoubtedly how Arwen made part of Aragorn’s banner with mithril wire. 

Straight stitch - makes a dashed line

Back stitch - makes a solid straight line

Stem stitch - makes a solid straight line that can easily curve

Chain stitch - good filler, makes interlocking loops

Daisy stitch - a chain stitch that doesn’t interlock the loops, but stitches down the loop so it doesn’t move. Makes good simple flowers

French knots - tiny filler, lots of good texture. Tiny knots made by wrapping the thread around your needle.

Stump work - 3D effects for ages. Want flowers or leaves to literally jump off the ground fabric? Stump work is your friend, and my personal nemesis. 

Conclusion

Knowing the terminology of a craft is integral to learning more about it, and writing it accurately. My hope with this resource is that you might have learned a new term or two, or gotten a few new resources to use in your writing. Even better if this is something you don’t know a lot about, or have never given much thought to, then I hope you’ve learned something valuable here. 

[narrativelysignificantturtleduck]

one thing that bugs me about atla's feminism is that it kind of does that thing where it encourages women to break roles but still treats the traditionally feminine thing as inferior. like women should learn to fight but there's no corrollary of men should learn to heal, even though that would fit really well with aang's struggle to maintain his peaceful values in a war-torn world. he'd love to learn water-healing! this is a spot where i could genuinely see a new adaptation improving the show, whether by adding an arc of aang learning or even just a background shot of men joining water-healing classes.

but natla somehow did this worse. when water-healing is first introduced in atla, it's as an impressive new power that great benders have, and it feels emotionally significant, as a metaphor for the ability to heal from the fire nation's damage or for being able to heal and forgive a friend who hurt you unintentionally. but in natla, katara gets bait-and-switched, thinks yagoda's just another waterbending master with more openings or something and is kinda interested in healing for .2 seconds before being pissed that that's all she's expected to do. healing is just a thing that waterbenders can do, a magic power, there's no meaning behind it. in the original, katara and the audience see water healing as a cool impressive ability before learning how it's perceived, and it's pakku who tells her that and pakku who she rages at, not yagoda. when she's kicked out of pakku's class and goes into yagoda's class she looks at all the women and girls in the class and we see some conflicted feelings on her face, like she wants to learn fighting but she doesn't want to be disrespectful to these kind women offering to teach her a sacred art of her culture. part of the injustice is that we the audience know water-healing is a great power and don't think it should be seen as lesser. pakku says women are forbidden from learning waterbending and then says that women learn to use their bending to heal - does he think that's not real bending? what an asshole!

and then katara's healing abilities are crucial to two of the show's biggest episodes. we see how wrong it is to treat it as a lesser ability. in fact, we consistantly see non-violent uses of bending (e.g. healing, seismic sense, lightning redirection) portrayed as incredible and special powers, because it's an anti-war show with a pacifist protagonist who ends up refusing to fight on the terms of his oppressors, who refuses to abandon his beliefs and give into violence. that's a major part of the show.

but in natla, all the women abandon the healing huts to fight in the battle - despite nothing showing that they've been trained in fighting, and as if healing doesn't matter on a goddamn battlefield. as if healing doesn't matter period. atla wasn't perfect on this front but at least it established that this non-violent and viewed-as-feminine ability was valuable and powerful and not something to be thrown aside for violence

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

To put an end to this topic, and since I don't enjoy being accused of having “sexist headcanons" or my theories being dismissed as "shipper's wishful thinking" with no basis in what "Tolkien wrote", I'll accept the challenge of the admin of that RoP blog to admit things.

I’ll only address points about the legendarium in this post. I won’t waste time arguing against the idea that the show will somehow retcon itself when, so far, Galadriel has the most fleshed out backstory of all the characters in the show.

Elves, Magic and Power:

I’ll let Tolkien give you the answers about these topics:

[...] Power" is an ominous and sinister word in all these tales, except as applied to the gods" (Tolkien Letter 131) "Their [Elves] 'magic' is Art, delivered from many of its human limitations: mor effortless, more quick, more complete (product, and vision in unflawed correspondence). And its object is Art not Power, sub-creation not domination and tyrannous re-forming of Creation. The 'Elves' are immortal, at least as far as this world goes: and hence are concerned rather with the griefs and burdens of deathlessness in time and change, than with death. The Enemy in successive forms is always 'naturally' concerned with sheer Domination, and so the Lord of magic and machines; but the problem: that this frightful evil can and does arise from an apparently good root, the desire to benefit the world and others — speedily and according to the benefactor's own plans - is a recurrent motive.His was a sub-creative Fall, and hence the Elves (the representatives of sub-creation par excellence) were peculiarly his enemies, and the special object of his desire and hate - and open to his deceits. Their Fall is into possessiveness and (to a less degree) into perversion of their art to power. (Tolkien Letter 131) "Galadriel's power is not divine" (Tolkien Letter 156)

OP says Galadriel “doesn't need any "power-boost" from Sauron nor would it make sense for him to give her some” and “there is no such thing as “Dark Galadriel” and never was” because this is a Peter Jackson invention. Expect, Galadriel, according to Tolkien himself, perverted her (Elven) Art to power in the legendarium. We don’t know how, but she did.

OP refuses to believe Galadriel is “merely” a warrior, she needs to be something more, too because “Galadriel was one of the Noldor, and that even in the show she's regarded with much respect and deference. It can't be ONLY because she's a good commander of armies.” OP is correct, Galadriel is Noldor nobility, she’s the daughter of former High King Finarfin. She’s also among one of the oldest Elves in the story (she’s older than the sun and the moon). She’s also the great-great aunt of Gil-galad. There is your explanation why she’s regarded with respect even by Adar (also an Elf), and many bow before her.

But many Tolkien fans didn’t appreciate the quiet power struggle between Galadriel and Gil-galad in Season 1, but to me it makes perfect sense. Galadriel should be Queen of the Noldor, but, as Tolkien explains in Letter 214, matriarchies “were regarded with repugnance, as things only done 'under the Shadow'.” She shouldn’t have this ambition, which is why that’s the overwhelming temptation Sauron gives her. He sees her as she wishes to be. And that’s why Galadriel needs to repress all her desires and ambitions in order to “fall in line” with the other Elves. I don’t know, maybe this is the “feminism” OP is looking for.

I see the word “power” being used very freely in this fandom, but “power” has a specific meaning in Tolkien legendarium. It’s connected to the Shadow, to Morgoth and to Sauron. Words have meaning in the lore. You can’t forget Tolkien was a Professor of English Language and Literature at Oxford.

OP very sarcastically says: “by this logic all the Elves are just random people who just happen to be immortal because none of them did any "Elves magic". Surely they need Sauron to teach Galadriel, so she can teach them...”

Actually, it was Sauron who taught the Elves magic, in the legendarium, because Elves don’t have “magic”. That’s the whole point behind the rings of power and the corruption of the Elves of Eregion.

"at Eregion great work began – and the Elves came their nearest to falling to 'magic' and machinery. With the aid of Sauron's lore they made Rings of Power ('power' is an ominous and sinister word in all these tales, except as applied to the gods). (Tolkien Letter 131)

Sauron, as Tolkien describes, is the "Lord of magic and machines"; and the "desire for Power, for making the will more quickly effective, [leads] to the Machine (or Magic)".

I see many still don't understand why the Three rings of power are not as "good" as they seem:

"A sort of second fall or at least 'error' of the Elves. There was nothing wrong essentially in their lingering against counsel, still sadly with the mortal lands of their old heroic deeds. But they wanted to have their cake without eating it. They wanted the peace and bliss and perfect memory of 'The West', and yet to remain on the ordinary earth where their prestige as the highest people, above wild Elves, dwarves, and Men, was greater than at the bottom of the hierarchy of Valinor. They thus became obsessed with 'fading', the mode in which the changes of time (the law of the world under the sun) was perceived by them. They became sad, and their art (shall we say) antiquarian, and their efforts all really a kind of embalming – even though they also retained the old motive of their kind, the adornment of earth, and the healing of its hurts. [...] But many of me Elves listened to Sauron. He was still fair in that early time, and his motives and those of the Elves seemed to go partly together: the healing of the desolate lands. Sauron found their weak point in suggesting that, helping one another, they could make Western Middle-earth as beautiful as Valinor. It was really a veiled attack on the gods, an incitement to try and make a separate independent paradise. Gil-galad repulsed all such overtures, as also did Elrond." Tolkien Letter 131

Galadriel resisting the One Ring:

“But if she was "dark", Galadriel would have not refused the One Ring.” Galadriel refusal to take the One ring is well-explained by Tolkien in his letters. It was an “overwhelming” temptation, because everyone knows the quote “i do not deny that my heart has greatly desired this” from the film adaptation. And in the book she tells Frodo she thought about having the One ring and what she would do with it, for “long years”. Her refusing the One ring was her final test to be pardoned by the Valar:

"The disappearance of the temptation of Galadriel is significant" (Tolkien Letter 210) "Galadriel's rejection of the temptation was founded upon previous thought and resolve." (Tolkien 246) "Galadriel was a penitent: in her youth a leader in the rebellion against the Valar (the angelic guardians). At the end of the First Age she proudly refused forgiveness or permission to return. She was pardoned because of her resistance to the final and overwhelming temptation to take the Ring for herself" (Tolkien Letter 320)

Giving Galadriel credit

OP compels me and others to “Just admit that Galadriel is very strong and always was, which Sauron recognized immediately, instead of doing that mental gymnastics for the sake of giving Sauron more credit than he deserves” because “Sauron recognized her as his equal: it can't be only because she's pretty with shiny hair!”

But OP is also underestimating and misunderstanding Galadriel’s character. OP doesn’t accept she can’t “only” be a mighty warrior. That’s not good enough for OP, nor their headcanons. No, she needs to have the same amount of “power” as the Ainur, which is virtually impossible in the legendarium. Not even Sauron himself can be as powerful as Morgoth or any other Vala (although he came close), because he’s a mere Maia.

Tolkien himself in his Letter 246 says only Gandalf could best Sauron in the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy: “only Gandalf might be expected to master him - being an emissary of the Powers and a creature of the same order, an immortal spirit taking a visible physical form.” Precisely because they are both Maiar, but while Sauron is the most powerful, Gandalf is the wisest of all Maiar. And at this time Galadriel already was at the peak of her “power”, sort to speak.

Sauron recognized Galadriel as his equal because, like Morfydd Clark said in one interview with Charlie, they share the same mindset, and look at things the same way. Not because they have equal “power” as OP is suggesting. Sauron underestimates Galadriel in 2x08 because he thought she would not be able to resist his temptation to her. But she did, and that's why she wins that fight. Because it's not a physical battle, it’s a spiritual one. Which is what OP doesn't understand.

In conclusion

The “root” of the problem here is not “what Tolkien wrote” nor a misunderstanding of the legendarium per say, because OP answers what their problem truly is:

“it kinda hurts to see Galadriel's skills in anything being constantly downplayed for propping up Sauron." “How is it so hard to understand that in 2025, most fans don't want to see the female protagonist of TROP artificially "powered up" by Sauron” “giving Sauron more credit than he deserves. Because it's what it is about, isn't it?” “It's tiring (to say the least) to see great characters being so often erased from the narrative for the sake of propping up Sauron.”

Yes, OP we get you are a diehard Galadriel fan and, to put it mildly, you don’t like Sauron’s character that much.

Although I would argue you created your own version of Galadriel, but that proud and shameless Galadriel we saw in Season 1 is exactly what she'll have to contain moving foward. Her character arc in Tolkien legendarium is very much "anti-feminist", actually. She'll have to bury her true nature alongside her darkest desires, which is why she gets pardoned by the Valar at the end. Ironically, “Dark Galadriel” happening would be the most feminist scenario for her character. 

Your argument is “as Sauron himself would say, you think too much of him!”, while you think too little. Your headcanon is that Galadriel is more powerful than she actually is, as in having “power”. When that’s not the point of why she’s wins against Sauron’s temptations, or even what his true purpose is in the story. It’s a theological conflict.

Sauron giving her part of his power would be her greatest temptation yet, actually. And if he did give her power, she accepted it. Because free will is a major theme in Tolkien legendarium. She already accepted being connected to him because Ósanwë has already been introduced to Galadriel’s plot in 2x08, by Sauron (and after he stabs her with the crown). OP is either pretending it didn’t or doesn’t know what Ósanwë is. And this is what Dr. Corey Olsen will explain to the fandom if “blood binding theory” proves correct.

This right here is probably the most important exchange in Galadriel’s plot in “Rings of Power”. This scene gives you her entire character arc in the legendarium. This is a conflict present in every character; a choice between good and evil, light and dark, God (Eru and the Valar) and the Devil (Morgoth and his “satanic satellite” Sauron).

I see PJ “inventions” mentioned quite a lot in these posts, while being used to somewhat prove how “powerful” Galadriel is. And this a contrived argument, because it seems to me, OP wants to have their cake and eat it, too. They want to prove Galadriel is “powerful” while using “Elf Witch Galadriel” but then calling it a Peter Jackson fabrication the next minute (the same with Arwen).

Pick your battles, OP. Because this doesn’t make any sense. You either support Peter Jackson choices or you don’t. You say Peter Jackson choices are not based in anything Tolkien wrote, so why are you using them to make points? “If she was dark, she wouldn't have cast Sauron out with the light of Earendil, she would have tapped in the dark powers she supposedly got from Sauron”. Or even about Arwen: “She doesn't need a conspiracy theory to be true to be able to kick the Nazgul's ass and to summon the waters that protect Rivendell.”

“Most fans” also didn’t want for many plots to happen in RoP, but they did, because we are not the ones writing the show. But I don’t let “what I want” and “what I don’t want” blind me when I’m theorizing about the show, which is the mistake many make. Otherwise my theories would be very different. And quoting OP “Because it's what it is about, isn't it?”, you don’t like it, and you don’t want it.

[sokkastyles]

One of the more popular takes I hear about the live action ATLA is that Katara doesn’t have her fire. Is that true? I don’t trust this fandom and their takes. They decontextualize their takes, react to headlines, don’t read and barely understand the og show as is. Like I heard them complaining about the new toph news and they said her main thing is that she’s not feminine and I’m like? HUH. Toph rejects infantilization, she’s infantilized bc of her disability, not femininity. She has no problem being dressed up, she just so happens to be tomboy. Her story is about her disability and the real question to me is, can the girl act well enough to portray this character?

As someone who has sense, what is the truth?

Toph doesn't like to be dressed up, but as I said in my other post, it's more complex than that, and you're right that it's about being infantalized. Like I do want to make it clear that I hate it when people feminize Toph in fan art, something I see often which feels fetishistic, but I don't think that's the same thing as an actress in an adaptation saying the character will be "slightly" more feminine.

As for Katara, yes and no. I do think the live action misses a lot of the magic of the original show. And in general I hate unnecessary live action adaptations, and Netflix's atla is largely unnecessary. But I also hate reactionaries and a lot of the hate I see is just patently ridiculous. The Katara stuff is another example.

Katara's character doesn't stand out the way she does in the original show. She's fine, but just fine. However, accusations that the show deliberately removed her fire are just silly and frankly, insulting to the actress in a way I'm not comfortable with.

You also have to remember, once again, that all of these characters were originally cartoons. I love Katara's righteous anger, but in the original, it is often played for laughs. Part of Katara's character is a joke about how she's a feminist buzzkill. People tend to look at the original show and say that it's more progressive than it is, and Katara's character is one of those things, and the things I as an adult love about her character are also the things that a lot of kids (who, remember, are the target audience) hate about her, because those things are mocked by the show. Just like the show makes a joke out of Toph being a tomboy or Suki being a warrior. The way I've seen people describe live action Suki "lusting" after Sokka is just...something else, let me tell you. Guess a woman can't be in a relationship with a man unless she teaches him how to respect her first, amirite? God forbid she just like him and assume respect will be given anyway, instead of giving him a relationship as a reward for respecting her. The live action spends less time on Sokka learning to respect Suki but also answers the question of why Suki likes Sokka better than the original does.